Good vibrations must be emanating from the Supermoon.
To help beat the post-election funk some of us are experiencing, No BS Brass Band had scheduled an early show at Plan 9 Records. I made sure to arrive early enough to look for a CD I wanted and before most of the crowd wedged itself into the store.
"Hi, y'all," trombonist Reggie Pace said after the first rousing number. "We want the world to be a great place and this is how we do it."
The crowd steadily grew both inside and along the sidewalk outside as the band played through their set - Aha's "Take On Me" and the requisite "RVA All Day" - and people danced in place.
In between grooving, I wound up sharing my clementine with the toddler being held by her mother next to me. Once she saw what I had, she'd hold out a fat little hand so I could deposit a segment into it (and once in the pocket of her smock, much to her delight) until my fruit was no more.
Her Mom thanked me profusely, but if you can't share your citrus with a babe-in-arms, you're not really trying to make the world a great place, now are you?
The exuberant show ended with Reggie and a lot of us holding up peace signs in the air and hugging each other. Outside on the sidewalk, I paused to talk to friends, hearing the same refrain repeatedly: "I needed that. We needed that."
I was far from the only one at Plan 9 who was then headed down the block to the Byrd to see Jim Jarmusch's new documentary about Iggy Pop and the Stooges, "Gimme Danger" at its sole Richmond screening.
As I'd anticipated, there were scads of friends in the near-capacity crowd and, by some miracle, a favorite couple ended up right next to me shortly before Mike of the James River Film Society spoke.
He said that they'd been trying to get Jarmusch to speak at the James River Film Festival for years, first sending him Virginia peanuts and another year, Virginia bourbon. always with an invitation to come. So far he's only sent thank you postcards, but hope springs eternal.
"No luck yet, but we'll keep working on it," he shared.
I'm a sucker for a good documentary (much less one screened in Surround Sound with a roomful of music lovers) and tonight's delivered with fun facts, rare performance footage and lots of Iggy aka Jim talking about his memories of the past 50 years.
Fact: he was originally inspired by Clarabelle on "Howdy Doody" and Soupy Sales because both characters did anything they wanted to do and that appealed to him.
After starting his musical life as a drummer, he got tired of looking at butts and took over front man duties. When the band added a sax player, he told him he wanted him to sound like Maceo Parker on acid.
I learned we share a similarity when he mentioned his attraction to people who "are in their adulthood who haven't lost their childhood." The kind of person who invented the stage dive when they were opening for Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention ("The best band, in my opinion, we'd opened for at that point").
He spoke about their "big brother band," MC5 and how he remembers when they were just a cover band. There was a show poster with the Stooges and Bob Seeger on the same bill, a seemingly unlikely pairing except for their shared hometown.
What was truly amazing to see was the evolution of his stage performance, which is to say that somehow, he's still performing the acrobatic and contortionist moves he was at 20, still bare-chested (although not bleeding) and nimble as few 70-year olds could even imagine being.
Mostly, the fascinating documentary made a case for Iggy's statement to Dinah Shore on her '70s talk show when she asked about his main accomplishment.
"I helped wipe out the '60s," he said without irony and Jarmusch's film assembled all the vintage footage and interviews to prove it.
Leaving the Byrd, I couldn't help but thank the organizer who'd made sure this film came to Richmond, making for a stellar way to cap off this tumultuous week.
Things were even higher pitched when I arrived at intermission at the Firehouse Theater for the Glapcocks (hilarious anti-awards the theatrical community hands itself) and was greeted by the recent winner of the "most animalistic" award, her glowing green trophy in hand.
More crazy awards followed and after "Most Ghost," co-host Matt (along with leggy co-host Maggie) acknowledged, "We really should sell tickets to the night we come up with all these crazy categories. It's an open bar event." That much was easy to believe and would undoubtedly be well worth the price of admission.
Once awards had been given out, we moved on to a theater kid's favorite event: the theater mannequin challenge. The entire room was instructed to form tableaux with others so that a 360-degree video could be shot of all of us frozen into a mid-action pose.
Don't ask me why. I'm not and never was a theater kid.
"This side of the room looks kind of dead," Annie, the videographer announced, pointing at my side of the room, so, with no shame at all, I turned around and engaged the guy behind me.
I'm here to tell you it was challenging for this non-actor to stare into someone's eyes for the minute-plus it takes to shoot a roomful of people and finally get to me.
The rest of the evening was devoted to singing, at least in the style of the Ghostlight After Parties of old, when actors get up and sing a favorite show tune to a pianist sight-reading the music.
Turns out Ian, whose eyes I'd stared into, had a fabulous voice, while co-host Matt proclaimed another Matt "dreamy" (and simulated oral sex with his microphone to demonstrate just how dreamy) while he sang "I'd Rather Be Sailing."
Kelsey accompanied herself on ukulele to "She Used to Be Mine" from "Waitress, the Musical," crushing the room with her talent.
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone but she used to be mine
A few people attempted a group version of "One Day More," but there were a lot of forgotten lyrics and tepid singing (except for the impressive Ian behind me, who asked rhetorically, "How does no one know these words?") when our host Matt walked back in, saying, "What happened? I leave for five minutes!"
For the traditional singalong finale, we tried Toto's "Africa," but that didn't go so well (and why should millennials know a 40-year old pop song word for word?), so the evening closed out with the always reliable "Season of Love" instead.
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In 525,600 minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
Gorgeous voices knew every nuance of this tune and they were singing in the aisle before it ended with a sustained note. There was no way not to feel the love at the Glapcocks tonight.
As far as this whole Sunday night went, I needed that. We needed that.
Showing posts with label no bs brass band. Show all posts
Showing posts with label no bs brass band. Show all posts
Monday, November 14, 2016
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Celebrate RVA All Night
If I was going to get back in the game after three unprecedented nights off due to woeful retching, I figured I might as well go big.
And nothing in town was bigger tonight than the Gallery 5 tenth anniversary party. For someone like me who's been a supporter since the beginning and a neighbor for nine years, I couldn't very well miss it.
On arrival, it was still fairly civilized with plenty of people but enough space to move around comfortably, so I took advantage of that.
Upstairs was the birthday cake, a fantastical creation by G5 co-founder Amanda and a beaut of baking genius. Besides a layer resembling the red and gold stage downstairs, the four layer cake even had a layer simulating the water-stained walls in the upstairs art gallery. I found musician Prabir critiquing the top layer which was frosted like one of the four P.A. systems the gallery has fried over the years.
Puppet-maker Lilly told me about her new puppet shop on Hull Street and introduced me to the man who owns the Manchester wizard shop a few doors down. A former writer, he recognized my name from past bylines, such a treat to hear from a stranger because no one looks at bylines.
My favorite J-Ward neighbor husband was there, but sans his lovely wife who was under the weather at their flat across the street. I told him about the Dar Williams show I'd seen because I knew he'd be interested.
Downstairs, the floor was packed for Lobo Marino's set, no surprise given the feel-good vibes they put out. When they sing "Celebrate," you can tell they mean it.
Back upstairs, I took a moment to sign the giant pages that will go into the time capsule to be opened in 2025 before catching the always astounding Dave Watkins' set in the acoustically lovely gallery.
On the walls were large format photographs of memorable events from the past ten years, including friend P.J.'s killer overhead shot of the singer from Monotonix astride a drum surrounded by adoring fans.
The galleries were being to swell with people by then so I headed outside to catch some of the fire performers' set, as always marveling at how they effortlessly fling and swing flames within inches of their bodies (and hair!) without so much as blinking an eye.
Lilly and her puppeteers were staging a "no fracking" performance and eventually moved in on the fire performers for a group piece.
On my way back in, things had gotten crowded enough that the doorman was allowing one person in for every one that came out, a sure sign it would be my last trip out.
Spotting people with cake, I hurried upstairs to score a piece and a good thing, too, since they were already down to the last layer. Fortunately it was my favorite: chocolate cake with white icing. I savored my slice while chatting with a favorite music critic about the upcoming Hooray for the Riff Raff show I'm seeing later this month.
"They're the best band I've seen in years," she said. "I'm telling everyone to see them now. Her voice live will blow you away." Good to hear since tickets are already purchased.
In the downstairs gallery were large folio books full of ten years' worth of posters advertising Gallery 5 shows and events. I began from the beginning looking to see how many of them I recalled or attended - "Beautiful Boxer," "Disrobed 2," "Chicago 10," lots of them - before coming across my personal favorite.
It was the "I Dream of a Richmond" exhibit in January 2008 and it was significant for me because I had a photograph in that show so my name was listed on the poster along with those of real photographers. I have a copy of it framed at home but it's not the same as seeing it laid out in Gallery 5 for the whole world to see.
The crowd was diverse. I saw loads of new faces and plenty of people such as me who've been G5 regulars for a decade. T-shirts ran the gamut, too. "Death Metal," "The Beatles: Magical Mystery Tour," "Selfie, Paris," and a Springsteen tour shirt.
When I got near the bar in the back, I spotted Pete the former bartender and teased him that of course he'd be there tonight. Yep, he said he'd taken off from Metzger to attend. "I built this bar," he said with pride, knocking on it hard.
I caught the end of the burlesque show, enough to hear Deanna Danger rhapsodizing about the last performer and her attributes and then turning the floor over to...herself ("Did she just introduce herself?" the guy in front of me asked. Sure did) for a fabulous finale that took everything off except pasties and a g-string.
Lest you think I was only there for titillation, I did pause to sign a "Down to the Wire" petition to encourage Dominion Power to reconsider plans to put 295' power lines across the James River at Jamestown.
Jamestown, for crying out loud! How do we explain that to the busloads of 4th graders who go there on Social Studies field trips to learn about the founding of our country? There were no power lines in 1607, people.
Then in marched nine of the No BS Brass band guys and the party shifted into overdrive. Setting up just in front of the stage, they began their assault of horns and drums with drummer Lance yelling, "Yo, yo, yo, happy birthday Gallery 5!" and launching into "Happy Birthday."
From there, it was straight into "RVA All Day" and the three trombonists were sliding their horns over the heads of the dancers directly in front of them. "Take on Me" had the room singing along and "Thriller" left everyone in a heap.
Cake maker and co-founder Amanda, right up front for it all, nailed it when she yelled out, "Best birthday band ever!"
Already mostly set up on the stage were the Awesome Few, a band I'd heard good things about but had not yet seen. "We're the Awesome Few and this is a red hot f*cking night!" the singer yelled out. Who knew we'd have a 70-degree night for all this?
Their wall of guitar sound was loud enough to send all my DJ and musician friends scurrying for their ear plugs while I foolishly allowed mine to take the pain. The songwriting was good, with much pointed commentary about music and radio. I liked them even if my ears did bleed a bit.
Midway through their set, the scientist came in and we hadn't seen each other in months. Where you been, stranger?
"Holed up, riding bikes, shooting cheap guns," he summed up before proudly pointing at his bicycle jersey emblazoned with "Richmond" across the chest. Asked his thoughts on the big bike race coming here in September, he said he was "cautiously optimistic." Aren't we all?
By that point, the last three days of infirmity were beginning to wear on me, so I decided to head out. On the way out the door, I passed Landon, lead singer of the next band, White Laces, a band so good it's still impressive no matter how many times I see them.
I was just out of steam after three days of barfing.
Right behind him was another music buddy and he looked at me in shock. "Not leaving, are you?" Sadly, yes. Not because I want to miss White Laces, but because this is one of those rare times when my body gets to overrule my love of music.
It's enough to know that a few blocks away in Jackson Ward, one of my favorite local bands is playing music I love for the masses. I may not be there to enjoy it this time, but I have blissed out at Gallery 5 for ten solid years.
I dream of a Richmond where places like Gallery 5 continue to offer all kinds of things to all kinds of people.
And when they open that time capsule in 2025, you know I'll be there.
And nothing in town was bigger tonight than the Gallery 5 tenth anniversary party. For someone like me who's been a supporter since the beginning and a neighbor for nine years, I couldn't very well miss it.
On arrival, it was still fairly civilized with plenty of people but enough space to move around comfortably, so I took advantage of that.
Upstairs was the birthday cake, a fantastical creation by G5 co-founder Amanda and a beaut of baking genius. Besides a layer resembling the red and gold stage downstairs, the four layer cake even had a layer simulating the water-stained walls in the upstairs art gallery. I found musician Prabir critiquing the top layer which was frosted like one of the four P.A. systems the gallery has fried over the years.
Puppet-maker Lilly told me about her new puppet shop on Hull Street and introduced me to the man who owns the Manchester wizard shop a few doors down. A former writer, he recognized my name from past bylines, such a treat to hear from a stranger because no one looks at bylines.
My favorite J-Ward neighbor husband was there, but sans his lovely wife who was under the weather at their flat across the street. I told him about the Dar Williams show I'd seen because I knew he'd be interested.
Downstairs, the floor was packed for Lobo Marino's set, no surprise given the feel-good vibes they put out. When they sing "Celebrate," you can tell they mean it.
Back upstairs, I took a moment to sign the giant pages that will go into the time capsule to be opened in 2025 before catching the always astounding Dave Watkins' set in the acoustically lovely gallery.
On the walls were large format photographs of memorable events from the past ten years, including friend P.J.'s killer overhead shot of the singer from Monotonix astride a drum surrounded by adoring fans.
The galleries were being to swell with people by then so I headed outside to catch some of the fire performers' set, as always marveling at how they effortlessly fling and swing flames within inches of their bodies (and hair!) without so much as blinking an eye.
Lilly and her puppeteers were staging a "no fracking" performance and eventually moved in on the fire performers for a group piece.
On my way back in, things had gotten crowded enough that the doorman was allowing one person in for every one that came out, a sure sign it would be my last trip out.
Spotting people with cake, I hurried upstairs to score a piece and a good thing, too, since they were already down to the last layer. Fortunately it was my favorite: chocolate cake with white icing. I savored my slice while chatting with a favorite music critic about the upcoming Hooray for the Riff Raff show I'm seeing later this month.
"They're the best band I've seen in years," she said. "I'm telling everyone to see them now. Her voice live will blow you away." Good to hear since tickets are already purchased.
In the downstairs gallery were large folio books full of ten years' worth of posters advertising Gallery 5 shows and events. I began from the beginning looking to see how many of them I recalled or attended - "Beautiful Boxer," "Disrobed 2," "Chicago 10," lots of them - before coming across my personal favorite.
It was the "I Dream of a Richmond" exhibit in January 2008 and it was significant for me because I had a photograph in that show so my name was listed on the poster along with those of real photographers. I have a copy of it framed at home but it's not the same as seeing it laid out in Gallery 5 for the whole world to see.
The crowd was diverse. I saw loads of new faces and plenty of people such as me who've been G5 regulars for a decade. T-shirts ran the gamut, too. "Death Metal," "The Beatles: Magical Mystery Tour," "Selfie, Paris," and a Springsteen tour shirt.
When I got near the bar in the back, I spotted Pete the former bartender and teased him that of course he'd be there tonight. Yep, he said he'd taken off from Metzger to attend. "I built this bar," he said with pride, knocking on it hard.
I caught the end of the burlesque show, enough to hear Deanna Danger rhapsodizing about the last performer and her attributes and then turning the floor over to...herself ("Did she just introduce herself?" the guy in front of me asked. Sure did) for a fabulous finale that took everything off except pasties and a g-string.
Lest you think I was only there for titillation, I did pause to sign a "Down to the Wire" petition to encourage Dominion Power to reconsider plans to put 295' power lines across the James River at Jamestown.
Jamestown, for crying out loud! How do we explain that to the busloads of 4th graders who go there on Social Studies field trips to learn about the founding of our country? There were no power lines in 1607, people.
Then in marched nine of the No BS Brass band guys and the party shifted into overdrive. Setting up just in front of the stage, they began their assault of horns and drums with drummer Lance yelling, "Yo, yo, yo, happy birthday Gallery 5!" and launching into "Happy Birthday."
From there, it was straight into "RVA All Day" and the three trombonists were sliding their horns over the heads of the dancers directly in front of them. "Take on Me" had the room singing along and "Thriller" left everyone in a heap.
Cake maker and co-founder Amanda, right up front for it all, nailed it when she yelled out, "Best birthday band ever!"
Already mostly set up on the stage were the Awesome Few, a band I'd heard good things about but had not yet seen. "We're the Awesome Few and this is a red hot f*cking night!" the singer yelled out. Who knew we'd have a 70-degree night for all this?
Their wall of guitar sound was loud enough to send all my DJ and musician friends scurrying for their ear plugs while I foolishly allowed mine to take the pain. The songwriting was good, with much pointed commentary about music and radio. I liked them even if my ears did bleed a bit.
Midway through their set, the scientist came in and we hadn't seen each other in months. Where you been, stranger?
"Holed up, riding bikes, shooting cheap guns," he summed up before proudly pointing at his bicycle jersey emblazoned with "Richmond" across the chest. Asked his thoughts on the big bike race coming here in September, he said he was "cautiously optimistic." Aren't we all?
By that point, the last three days of infirmity were beginning to wear on me, so I decided to head out. On the way out the door, I passed Landon, lead singer of the next band, White Laces, a band so good it's still impressive no matter how many times I see them.
I was just out of steam after three days of barfing.
Right behind him was another music buddy and he looked at me in shock. "Not leaving, are you?" Sadly, yes. Not because I want to miss White Laces, but because this is one of those rare times when my body gets to overrule my love of music.
It's enough to know that a few blocks away in Jackson Ward, one of my favorite local bands is playing music I love for the masses. I may not be there to enjoy it this time, but I have blissed out at Gallery 5 for ten solid years.
I dream of a Richmond where places like Gallery 5 continue to offer all kinds of things to all kinds of people.
And when they open that time capsule in 2025, you know I'll be there.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
All About That Drum and Horns
I am nothing if not a devoted fan.
Back in 2007, I saw a fairly new 11-piece group called No BS Brass Band and fell in love with their ten horns and a drummer audio onslaught. A webcast producer at the time, I wasted no time in inviting them into the studio to play for a show.
My rationale was purely selfish; I wanted to see them in what amounted to a private show for me and my staff. From there, it snowballed and I rarely missed an opportunity to catch them playing where ever that might be, including a street corner downtown during lunch hour.
When their first album came out, they thanked me in the liner notes, not that I realized it. It was years later when someone pointed it out to me. The irony was that they were thanking me when I was the one grateful not only for their music but their enthusiasm for the Richmond scene.
But if someone as musically illiterate as me could spot their massive talent and overall good vibes, it was inevitable that the rest of the world would follow. Performances at the Kennedy Center, Lincoln Center and NPR's Tiny Desk Concert series proved it.
So there was no way I was missing their performance with the Richmond Symphony at Center Stage tonight.
A $10 ticket in the next to last row of the nosebleed section was all I could afford, but history had proven to me that the sound of No BS reaches the rafters and beyond. If I needed further proof, it was in the attendants at the theater offering patrons complimentary ear plugs, the first time I've experienced that at the symphony.
"Do I need them?" one geezer-looking man asked. "Well, it's going to be a little loud," the attendant explained tentatively. He took a pair for himself and another for his wife. I kept on walking.
Once in my seat, I saw two little old ladies with stiff helmet hairdos who looked to be straight off the Cedarfield bus trying to rip open their cellophane wrappers. I'm willing to bet it was their first ear plug experience, but they were there. You go, girls.
Around me, seats were being taken by what I can only assume to be No BS fans because they certainly didn't look like the usual symphony crowd. If the goal tonight was expanding the audience base, mission accomplished.
The lights darkened, conductor Steven Smith came out, lifted his baton and music began. When drummer Lance walked onstage, cheering began followed by the sounds of ten brass musicians playing just offstage and then walking on playing "Jalapenos on the Side."
Not going to lie, there was a thrilling frisson in the air, an excitement that rippled through the fan base in the crowd.
"I feel like I'm overdressed," the conductor joked about the more casual attire of No BS before returning to the podium and leaving center stage to them.
"All right, y'all, how you feeling?" trombonist/vocalist Bryan hollered to the hopped up crowd before singing "Runaround," a song that caused some of the oldsters to look worried. Oh, no, Mabel, what kind of music is this anyway? You could just see the concern on their faces.
"Infamous," written by trumpet player Marcus got an MGM-sounding start from the symphony before No BS took over and it tore it up the way Marcus had intended it to sound. You haven't lived till you've seen Stefan wailing on that tuba.
Maybe because they knew they were playing to a lot of fans, but we were treated to a song they've never put on an album, "Get Slow," which writer Bryan described as, "A song about when you think you know what life is supposed to be or who it's supposed to be with and then life says whoa! Slow down!"
I think we've all had our get slow moments and anyone who says they haven't is lying.
Many of the novice members of the audience were flummoxed by trombonist Reggie's six-movement suite, "The Ballad of Eagle Claw," randomly clapping throughout. He explained that the piece had been inspired by a martial arts movie he described as insane and recommended it highly for those who like such things.
Beginning with just Lance and Reggie onstage in front of the symphony, the rest of the band eventually came out to join them, leading us on a cinematic-sounding journey that mimicked a villain, a centipede and much fighting. You know, insane stuff.
No surprise, the band that excels as ambassadors of and cheerleaders for Richmond closed out their set with the anthemic "RVA All Day!" with Reggie instructing the boisterous crowd, "Y'all know this. Feel free to sing along!" Even better, they did a call and response on the chorus. They sang, "RV," we sang "A!" They sang, "All," we sang "day!"
It was one big No BS love fest, unfortunately with no room for dancing, but a memorable moment nonetheless.
I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was still a bit disappointed when the lights came up for intermission and many of the younger attendees bolted for the door. Sure, they'd come for No BS, but apparently they're unaware of Karen's three-song rule for shows.
Many is the time I've gone to see an opening band with no interest in seeing the headliner. Even so, I make myself stay for three songs so I can at least have an opinion about them instead of a presumption. When I went to see Muse, I had zero interest in My Chemical Romance, but I gave them three songs before bolting for the door. Fair is fair.
Talk buzzed around me about No BS's performance during intermission. Several people mentioned that it had been almost impossible to hear the strings over the horns of No BS.
"You don't realize how much like a symphony they sound by themselves till you hear them play with a symphony," one guy said. Exactly why I'd felt sure my cheap seat would serve me just fine.
The second half of the program began with the conductor saying, "Happy Mardi Gras, guys! Now, straight from New Orleans, here's Dukes of Dixieland."
Granted, it's a little over two weeks until Mardi Gras, but there was no way a band whose home base is the Steamboat Natchez wasn't going to flaunt its NOLA jazz roots and they did with not one but two Mardi Gras medleys.
A finely tuned entertainment machine, albeit one with solid musical chops, they were swinging that music every which way.
The trumpet player sang and provided the polished patter. The pianist (who had his back to us so we could watch him play) stood on his bench to play with his hands and one foot on the high keys. The bass player opened his mouth to sing and turned out to be a ringer for Louis Armstrong's gravely rasp.
The classic "It's a Wonderful World," done as an instrumental, got cheers from the first few notes for its instant familiarity. While all three horns soloed on the extended arrangement, the clarinetist's was the sweetest and most moving.
When it came time for the drummer's solo, he moved from behind his kit, drumming on everything he encountered: microphone stands, the floor, even the upright bass the bass player was playing.
Impressive as that was, they took it to a new level when the drummer grabbed the bass to play it and the bassist took the mic to begin singing "All About That (Upright) Bass."
It was probably the most perfect moment of their entire set because it was so unexpected. Then the drummer returned to his soloing.
For the big finale, No BS returned to the stage to join the Dukes of Dixieland for "When the Saints Go Marching In," trading off solos and each band playing separately and together while the symphony swelled behind them.
Unlike his fellow musicians, though, bandleader Reggie was playing triangle (of which he is a master) instead of trombone, eventually trading it for tambourine as the three musical entities wound up for a slam bang finish
In the screaming standing ovation that followed, it didn't matter that some misguided fans had already left. The faithful remained, the first-timers were rewarded and we all got a showstopper of a finale that left little doubt that No BS is the real deal.
They help make RVA all day a wonderful world. Any idiot could have seen that from the start. Oh, wait, I did.
Back in 2007, I saw a fairly new 11-piece group called No BS Brass Band and fell in love with their ten horns and a drummer audio onslaught. A webcast producer at the time, I wasted no time in inviting them into the studio to play for a show.
My rationale was purely selfish; I wanted to see them in what amounted to a private show for me and my staff. From there, it snowballed and I rarely missed an opportunity to catch them playing where ever that might be, including a street corner downtown during lunch hour.
When their first album came out, they thanked me in the liner notes, not that I realized it. It was years later when someone pointed it out to me. The irony was that they were thanking me when I was the one grateful not only for their music but their enthusiasm for the Richmond scene.
But if someone as musically illiterate as me could spot their massive talent and overall good vibes, it was inevitable that the rest of the world would follow. Performances at the Kennedy Center, Lincoln Center and NPR's Tiny Desk Concert series proved it.
So there was no way I was missing their performance with the Richmond Symphony at Center Stage tonight.
A $10 ticket in the next to last row of the nosebleed section was all I could afford, but history had proven to me that the sound of No BS reaches the rafters and beyond. If I needed further proof, it was in the attendants at the theater offering patrons complimentary ear plugs, the first time I've experienced that at the symphony.
"Do I need them?" one geezer-looking man asked. "Well, it's going to be a little loud," the attendant explained tentatively. He took a pair for himself and another for his wife. I kept on walking.
Once in my seat, I saw two little old ladies with stiff helmet hairdos who looked to be straight off the Cedarfield bus trying to rip open their cellophane wrappers. I'm willing to bet it was their first ear plug experience, but they were there. You go, girls.
Around me, seats were being taken by what I can only assume to be No BS fans because they certainly didn't look like the usual symphony crowd. If the goal tonight was expanding the audience base, mission accomplished.
The lights darkened, conductor Steven Smith came out, lifted his baton and music began. When drummer Lance walked onstage, cheering began followed by the sounds of ten brass musicians playing just offstage and then walking on playing "Jalapenos on the Side."
Not going to lie, there was a thrilling frisson in the air, an excitement that rippled through the fan base in the crowd.
"I feel like I'm overdressed," the conductor joked about the more casual attire of No BS before returning to the podium and leaving center stage to them.
"All right, y'all, how you feeling?" trombonist/vocalist Bryan hollered to the hopped up crowd before singing "Runaround," a song that caused some of the oldsters to look worried. Oh, no, Mabel, what kind of music is this anyway? You could just see the concern on their faces.
"Infamous," written by trumpet player Marcus got an MGM-sounding start from the symphony before No BS took over and it tore it up the way Marcus had intended it to sound. You haven't lived till you've seen Stefan wailing on that tuba.
Maybe because they knew they were playing to a lot of fans, but we were treated to a song they've never put on an album, "Get Slow," which writer Bryan described as, "A song about when you think you know what life is supposed to be or who it's supposed to be with and then life says whoa! Slow down!"
I think we've all had our get slow moments and anyone who says they haven't is lying.
Many of the novice members of the audience were flummoxed by trombonist Reggie's six-movement suite, "The Ballad of Eagle Claw," randomly clapping throughout. He explained that the piece had been inspired by a martial arts movie he described as insane and recommended it highly for those who like such things.
Beginning with just Lance and Reggie onstage in front of the symphony, the rest of the band eventually came out to join them, leading us on a cinematic-sounding journey that mimicked a villain, a centipede and much fighting. You know, insane stuff.
No surprise, the band that excels as ambassadors of and cheerleaders for Richmond closed out their set with the anthemic "RVA All Day!" with Reggie instructing the boisterous crowd, "Y'all know this. Feel free to sing along!" Even better, they did a call and response on the chorus. They sang, "RV," we sang "A!" They sang, "All," we sang "day!"
It was one big No BS love fest, unfortunately with no room for dancing, but a memorable moment nonetheless.
I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was still a bit disappointed when the lights came up for intermission and many of the younger attendees bolted for the door. Sure, they'd come for No BS, but apparently they're unaware of Karen's three-song rule for shows.
Many is the time I've gone to see an opening band with no interest in seeing the headliner. Even so, I make myself stay for three songs so I can at least have an opinion about them instead of a presumption. When I went to see Muse, I had zero interest in My Chemical Romance, but I gave them three songs before bolting for the door. Fair is fair.
Talk buzzed around me about No BS's performance during intermission. Several people mentioned that it had been almost impossible to hear the strings over the horns of No BS.
"You don't realize how much like a symphony they sound by themselves till you hear them play with a symphony," one guy said. Exactly why I'd felt sure my cheap seat would serve me just fine.
The second half of the program began with the conductor saying, "Happy Mardi Gras, guys! Now, straight from New Orleans, here's Dukes of Dixieland."
Granted, it's a little over two weeks until Mardi Gras, but there was no way a band whose home base is the Steamboat Natchez wasn't going to flaunt its NOLA jazz roots and they did with not one but two Mardi Gras medleys.
A finely tuned entertainment machine, albeit one with solid musical chops, they were swinging that music every which way.
The trumpet player sang and provided the polished patter. The pianist (who had his back to us so we could watch him play) stood on his bench to play with his hands and one foot on the high keys. The bass player opened his mouth to sing and turned out to be a ringer for Louis Armstrong's gravely rasp.
The classic "It's a Wonderful World," done as an instrumental, got cheers from the first few notes for its instant familiarity. While all three horns soloed on the extended arrangement, the clarinetist's was the sweetest and most moving.
When it came time for the drummer's solo, he moved from behind his kit, drumming on everything he encountered: microphone stands, the floor, even the upright bass the bass player was playing.
Impressive as that was, they took it to a new level when the drummer grabbed the bass to play it and the bassist took the mic to begin singing "All About That (Upright) Bass."
It was probably the most perfect moment of their entire set because it was so unexpected. Then the drummer returned to his soloing.
For the big finale, No BS returned to the stage to join the Dukes of Dixieland for "When the Saints Go Marching In," trading off solos and each band playing separately and together while the symphony swelled behind them.
Unlike his fellow musicians, though, bandleader Reggie was playing triangle (of which he is a master) instead of trombone, eventually trading it for tambourine as the three musical entities wound up for a slam bang finish
In the screaming standing ovation that followed, it didn't matter that some misguided fans had already left. The faithful remained, the first-timers were rewarded and we all got a showstopper of a finale that left little doubt that No BS is the real deal.
They help make RVA all day a wonderful world. Any idiot could have seen that from the start. Oh, wait, I did.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Just Like Heaven with Chandeliers
It's not about the bands, it's about the momentous occasion.
Richmond now has a mid-sized venue, something it's been sorely lacking, and tonight was opening night.
When a friend inquired if I was going to the new Broadberry tonight, I asked the same of him. Nope. "I am, among other things, registering my disapproval of them being so goddamn predictable in their booking," he wrote.
Here's the thing, my friend. What matters about the Broadberry is not what bands play the night they open their doors.
What matters is all the bands that can now play Richmond because we have a venue the right size to attract their audience and fill so they don't skip over Richmond and go to Charlottesville.
So quit yer bitching.
After feeding my hired mouth, that's where I went, happily finding loads of familiar music lovers there.
The music writer offered me some of her candied bacon and observed, "All our people are here.". The theater lover complained that he hadn't seen me since Hardywood back in January. Then there was the bass player saying, "My goal is to get Karen to grin." Plus the dimpled drummer, the multi-instrument playing physicist, the lovely hospitality manager. All my people.
And to a person, they all said they were there to celebrate that we have a new venue.
The former Nu nightclub means that the new Broadberry retains far more glitz than your average venue. Four massive chandeliers hang along one wall and the lighting system over the stage is worthy of a drag queen's catwalk.
There were tables and chairs, already filed with seated people, all along the length of the extensive bar with a pit up front for those who wanted to stand to see, hear and dance to the music.
And, perhaps most impressively, there were people of all ages there, a far broader age range than a Camel or Strange Matter show. A really good sign.
While talking to Goldrush's handsome bass player, bandleader Prabir came by, set lists in hand. When I tried to look at them, Mr. Bass insisted that the songs be a surprise.
'There are no surprises in a Goldrush set," Prabir corrected him, a statement I can agree with, having first seen them back in 2009.
The band took the stage and after the first number, "The Exit Song,"Prabir proclaimed, "That's the first song ever played at the Broadberry." As a girl near me noted, the sound was good.
"Anyone bummed about missing the lunar eclipse Monday?" science geek Prabir asked of the noisy room. "We 're going to play a song that says f*ck the clouds!" and played "Pale Blue Dots."
After playing "Roll One," he finished by entreating the audience, "Roll one more, folks. Let's legalize that shit. Let's also legalize critical thinking."
Let's. It's statements like that that and that he uses phrases like "your kith and your kin" in his lyrics that make him a Richmond treasure.
When their set finished, a musician friend walked by and we talked about his upcoming outdoor music series starting up again in a few weeks.
I went to a bunch of them last summer in Scuffletown park and this summer he's expanding the series to all kinds of things, not just music. Ah, the pleasures of outdoor performance.
Prabir wandered by after that, complaining that there weren't enough girls at the show. I pointed out a few within easy reach.
"That one has Daddy issues, that one has three exes, that one can't even pronounce my name," he said, eliminating them all. I suggested he eliminate anyone who didn't understand the phrase "kith and kin" but he told me not to be hasty.
A friend I rarely get to see was sitting at the bar and called me over, surprising me by telling me how much he liked my writing. "I love reading you because you make me feel like I'm there," he said. "All the details you include, the way you talk about what you saw and heard makes it so real." I could have kissed him.
Instead I thanked him and told him I was going back up closer to the stage. "Of course you are," he said grinning.
Black Girls took the stage next, a far more assured band than when I first saw them at Sprout in February 2011.
Just back from a tour of the southeast, with tonight's show being the final night of the tour, the singer asked, "Hey, Richmond, we've been on tour. What's new? Nothing? Cool!" and then launched into a tight set no doubt honed by this recent set of dates.
Two guitarists, bassist, drummer, keyboards and singer, they were all sweating by the third song. Their influences are interesting, shot through with '60s soul, Steely Dan, '70s rock and somehow making it all sound dirty. Snuff rock, they call it.
"Time to get a little looser," the singer called out, hoisting his plastic cup of red wine. "If we don't start now, the night will be over before you know it." Dancing in place began in earnest at this point.
The crowd was thick by now, at least up near the stage where I was and a very short friend and I were continuously being bumped into and stepped on.
A guy with a gorgeous red beard and piercing blue eyes came by me twice, the second time looking me right in the eye and saying, "I just came by to step on your toes again."
Do what you have to do, my friend.
Finally after a string of upbeat songs that had some people all but pogo-ing, the band slowed it down, bringing in a trombone and trumpet for a song I'd have slow danced to if I'd had a date.
They couldn't leave us there, though, so there were two more upbeat danceable songs, including one where one of the guitarists got down into the crowd ("If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"), getting everyone all aflutter.
During the second break, a blogger I'd met a while back joined me, leading to some satisfying music talk about the evolution of soul music, the sheer amount of information available on the liner notes of older albums and the pleasures of flipping through record bins, even if, like me, you don't have a turntable.
Describing his record buying habit as "being so far down the hole, he can't see daylight." he was excited about finding an original Supremes album recently. Needless to say, he was bowled over when I mentioned still having all my old Supremes albums.
Soon after, No BS assembled onstage, minus Reggie Pace who's out of town and whose smiling face and enormous energy were missed and David Hood who was apparently quite sick tonight. Of tonight's bands, this is the one I've been following the longest - since 2007.
Drummer Lance Koehler took charge, instructing the crowd, "We need that rumpus to be shaking!" and taking off with enough brass to ensure that that happened in short order.
One girl, perched on table, danced with every part of her body while sitting down. Most of us just danced in place as Bryan Hooten took the mic and rapped the next song.
"This is like heaven," Lance yelled. "We have chandeliers, we have beer! Here's to the Broadberry!"
It's a toast worth making. We've entered a new stage of Richmond's music scene and it's exciting to think of what's to come.
Tonight wasn't about predictability, it was about celebrating all the bands who will play there in the future.
You can be sure I'll be there with all my kith, getting my toes stepped on and enjoying every moment.
Richmond now has a mid-sized venue, something it's been sorely lacking, and tonight was opening night.
When a friend inquired if I was going to the new Broadberry tonight, I asked the same of him. Nope. "I am, among other things, registering my disapproval of them being so goddamn predictable in their booking," he wrote.
Here's the thing, my friend. What matters about the Broadberry is not what bands play the night they open their doors.
What matters is all the bands that can now play Richmond because we have a venue the right size to attract their audience and fill so they don't skip over Richmond and go to Charlottesville.
So quit yer bitching.
After feeding my hired mouth, that's where I went, happily finding loads of familiar music lovers there.
The music writer offered me some of her candied bacon and observed, "All our people are here.". The theater lover complained that he hadn't seen me since Hardywood back in January. Then there was the bass player saying, "My goal is to get Karen to grin." Plus the dimpled drummer, the multi-instrument playing physicist, the lovely hospitality manager. All my people.
And to a person, they all said they were there to celebrate that we have a new venue.
The former Nu nightclub means that the new Broadberry retains far more glitz than your average venue. Four massive chandeliers hang along one wall and the lighting system over the stage is worthy of a drag queen's catwalk.
There were tables and chairs, already filed with seated people, all along the length of the extensive bar with a pit up front for those who wanted to stand to see, hear and dance to the music.
And, perhaps most impressively, there were people of all ages there, a far broader age range than a Camel or Strange Matter show. A really good sign.
While talking to Goldrush's handsome bass player, bandleader Prabir came by, set lists in hand. When I tried to look at them, Mr. Bass insisted that the songs be a surprise.
'There are no surprises in a Goldrush set," Prabir corrected him, a statement I can agree with, having first seen them back in 2009.
The band took the stage and after the first number, "The Exit Song,"Prabir proclaimed, "That's the first song ever played at the Broadberry." As a girl near me noted, the sound was good.
"Anyone bummed about missing the lunar eclipse Monday?" science geek Prabir asked of the noisy room. "We 're going to play a song that says f*ck the clouds!" and played "Pale Blue Dots."
After playing "Roll One," he finished by entreating the audience, "Roll one more, folks. Let's legalize that shit. Let's also legalize critical thinking."
Let's. It's statements like that that and that he uses phrases like "your kith and your kin" in his lyrics that make him a Richmond treasure.
When their set finished, a musician friend walked by and we talked about his upcoming outdoor music series starting up again in a few weeks.
I went to a bunch of them last summer in Scuffletown park and this summer he's expanding the series to all kinds of things, not just music. Ah, the pleasures of outdoor performance.
Prabir wandered by after that, complaining that there weren't enough girls at the show. I pointed out a few within easy reach.
"That one has Daddy issues, that one has three exes, that one can't even pronounce my name," he said, eliminating them all. I suggested he eliminate anyone who didn't understand the phrase "kith and kin" but he told me not to be hasty.
A friend I rarely get to see was sitting at the bar and called me over, surprising me by telling me how much he liked my writing. "I love reading you because you make me feel like I'm there," he said. "All the details you include, the way you talk about what you saw and heard makes it so real." I could have kissed him.
Instead I thanked him and told him I was going back up closer to the stage. "Of course you are," he said grinning.
Black Girls took the stage next, a far more assured band than when I first saw them at Sprout in February 2011.
Just back from a tour of the southeast, with tonight's show being the final night of the tour, the singer asked, "Hey, Richmond, we've been on tour. What's new? Nothing? Cool!" and then launched into a tight set no doubt honed by this recent set of dates.
Two guitarists, bassist, drummer, keyboards and singer, they were all sweating by the third song. Their influences are interesting, shot through with '60s soul, Steely Dan, '70s rock and somehow making it all sound dirty. Snuff rock, they call it.
"Time to get a little looser," the singer called out, hoisting his plastic cup of red wine. "If we don't start now, the night will be over before you know it." Dancing in place began in earnest at this point.
The crowd was thick by now, at least up near the stage where I was and a very short friend and I were continuously being bumped into and stepped on.
A guy with a gorgeous red beard and piercing blue eyes came by me twice, the second time looking me right in the eye and saying, "I just came by to step on your toes again."
Do what you have to do, my friend.
Finally after a string of upbeat songs that had some people all but pogo-ing, the band slowed it down, bringing in a trombone and trumpet for a song I'd have slow danced to if I'd had a date.
They couldn't leave us there, though, so there were two more upbeat danceable songs, including one where one of the guitarists got down into the crowd ("If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"), getting everyone all aflutter.
During the second break, a blogger I'd met a while back joined me, leading to some satisfying music talk about the evolution of soul music, the sheer amount of information available on the liner notes of older albums and the pleasures of flipping through record bins, even if, like me, you don't have a turntable.
Describing his record buying habit as "being so far down the hole, he can't see daylight." he was excited about finding an original Supremes album recently. Needless to say, he was bowled over when I mentioned still having all my old Supremes albums.
Soon after, No BS assembled onstage, minus Reggie Pace who's out of town and whose smiling face and enormous energy were missed and David Hood who was apparently quite sick tonight. Of tonight's bands, this is the one I've been following the longest - since 2007.
Drummer Lance Koehler took charge, instructing the crowd, "We need that rumpus to be shaking!" and taking off with enough brass to ensure that that happened in short order.
One girl, perched on table, danced with every part of her body while sitting down. Most of us just danced in place as Bryan Hooten took the mic and rapped the next song.
"This is like heaven," Lance yelled. "We have chandeliers, we have beer! Here's to the Broadberry!"
It's a toast worth making. We've entered a new stage of Richmond's music scene and it's exciting to think of what's to come.
Tonight wasn't about predictability, it was about celebrating all the bands who will play there in the future.
You can be sure I'll be there with all my kith, getting my toes stepped on and enjoying every moment.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Music for a Cause
It was my third benefit in as many days, but truly, I was the beneficiary.
Tonight's philanthropic endeavor was the Mingus Awareness Project at Balliceaux, which provides support for people with ALS, the disease that killed jazz composer Charles Mingus at an incredibly young 56.
Since it also claimed my Richmond grandmother, I feel strongly about donating to the cause.
On the bill tonight were the Jason Jenkins Quartet plus No BS Brass Band, so a full night of serious talent.
But unlike my last two nights of benefit music, tonight's was more of a jazz crowd and that's a horse of a different color.
At tonight's show, the man next to me pours his can of PBR into a glass to drink it.
A glass? I wanted to laugh out loud.
I run into a nerdy friend who has brought a book with him to the show (!) and leave our chat with a recommendation for a must-read biography ("Tonight at Noon: A Love Story").
Readers "R" us.
When two girls sit down in the booth where I'm sitting, one informs me it's her first time here since the place was Bogart's.
How is that possible, I ask her incredulously?
Drummer and organizer Brian Jones kicks things off by introducing the Jason Jenkins quartet featuring trumpet wunderkind Victor Haskins.
As the band starts swinging, people continue to arrive, no doubt surprised at the timely start of a jazz show.
Their set is short and tight and an attentive audience eats it up.
As No BS Brass band sets up, I look around the room, noticing that it's not entirely the usual No BS crowd.
Maybe it's the Mingus part that confused regular fans or maybe it's that it's a Sunday night show starting after 10:30, but let's just say it was a far more adult crowd than many I've seen at No BS shows over the past six years.
"This is our tribute to Mingus," announced trombonist Reggie Pace after putting on his white headband, which always indicates that he means business.
Their set began with a monologue via megaphone courtesy of Chris Bopst on the subject of god, Cuccinelli and vaginas as trombonist Bryan Hooten wailed away on Mingus' "Nostalgia in Times Square."
Not sure who was more in their element, Hooten blowing or Bopst ranting.
On "Jelly Roll," Reggie tore it up on tambourine, causing the guy near me to wonder, "How anyone can not move to this music is beyond me."
Looking around, I saw Brian Jones, who'll be playing tomorrow night for the second installment of the MAP, standing near the front, grooving in place and smiling widely.
No doubt that was in part due to Lance's drumming (with what sounded like the thickest of drumsticks) as he competed with all those horns to be heard.
Playing all the Mingus songs on No BS' album "Fight Song," Reggie made sure the crowd knew who had arranged and soloed on each one.
A little Marcus here, a little Taylor there, a bit of Bryan here...
It didn't matter which song they played - "Better Git Hit in Your Soul," "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," "Girl of My Dreams," the band took turns sharing the spotlight and wowing the rabid crowd.
There might not have been as much dancing as at a typical No BS show, but the energy of a roomful of Mingus/No BS fans is not to be taken lightly either.
As a friend and jazz-lover had told me earlier, "I'm not very good with money and I only had $5 in my pocket, but this is where I came to spend it tonight."
I could say the same...for the sake of my grandmother and the great Mingus.
Tonight's philanthropic endeavor was the Mingus Awareness Project at Balliceaux, which provides support for people with ALS, the disease that killed jazz composer Charles Mingus at an incredibly young 56.
Since it also claimed my Richmond grandmother, I feel strongly about donating to the cause.
On the bill tonight were the Jason Jenkins Quartet plus No BS Brass Band, so a full night of serious talent.
But unlike my last two nights of benefit music, tonight's was more of a jazz crowd and that's a horse of a different color.
At tonight's show, the man next to me pours his can of PBR into a glass to drink it.
A glass? I wanted to laugh out loud.
I run into a nerdy friend who has brought a book with him to the show (!) and leave our chat with a recommendation for a must-read biography ("Tonight at Noon: A Love Story").
Readers "R" us.
When two girls sit down in the booth where I'm sitting, one informs me it's her first time here since the place was Bogart's.
How is that possible, I ask her incredulously?
Drummer and organizer Brian Jones kicks things off by introducing the Jason Jenkins quartet featuring trumpet wunderkind Victor Haskins.
As the band starts swinging, people continue to arrive, no doubt surprised at the timely start of a jazz show.
Their set is short and tight and an attentive audience eats it up.
As No BS Brass band sets up, I look around the room, noticing that it's not entirely the usual No BS crowd.
Maybe it's the Mingus part that confused regular fans or maybe it's that it's a Sunday night show starting after 10:30, but let's just say it was a far more adult crowd than many I've seen at No BS shows over the past six years.
"This is our tribute to Mingus," announced trombonist Reggie Pace after putting on his white headband, which always indicates that he means business.
Their set began with a monologue via megaphone courtesy of Chris Bopst on the subject of god, Cuccinelli and vaginas as trombonist Bryan Hooten wailed away on Mingus' "Nostalgia in Times Square."
Not sure who was more in their element, Hooten blowing or Bopst ranting.
On "Jelly Roll," Reggie tore it up on tambourine, causing the guy near me to wonder, "How anyone can not move to this music is beyond me."
Looking around, I saw Brian Jones, who'll be playing tomorrow night for the second installment of the MAP, standing near the front, grooving in place and smiling widely.
No doubt that was in part due to Lance's drumming (with what sounded like the thickest of drumsticks) as he competed with all those horns to be heard.
Playing all the Mingus songs on No BS' album "Fight Song," Reggie made sure the crowd knew who had arranged and soloed on each one.
A little Marcus here, a little Taylor there, a bit of Bryan here...
It didn't matter which song they played - "Better Git Hit in Your Soul," "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," "Girl of My Dreams," the band took turns sharing the spotlight and wowing the rabid crowd.
There might not have been as much dancing as at a typical No BS show, but the energy of a roomful of Mingus/No BS fans is not to be taken lightly either.
As a friend and jazz-lover had told me earlier, "I'm not very good with money and I only had $5 in my pocket, but this is where I came to spend it tonight."
I could say the same...for the sake of my grandmother and the great Mingus.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
They Long to Be Close to You
My companion needed a laugh.
Conveniently, Steady Sounds just around the corner was hosting the Midnight Suggestion #15, an evening of comedy.
They were all first-timers and they were there to answer the question, why do birds suddenly appear?
They longed to make jokes under an impossibly low ceiling upstairs at a record store.
We found seats on the sofa not long before Ian got up to amuse us.
That was accomplished with his deadpan delivery and by ending every joke with, "What's the deal with that?"
He had a habit of turning the mic side to side in between jokes, as if to point out how quiet it was.
One of his funniest rants was about Billy Ray Cyrus, apparently a man of excesses, pimping out his daughter.
"That's it," he announced when he was done and sat back down.
Chris lives in Church Hill, so he began with a story about walking the neighborhood with a grapefruit and a knife to cut it with, the problem being once the grapefruit was gone, the knife was not a good thing to have on the Hill.
Everyone likes to laugh at neighborhood stereotypes.
He riffed on working in a frame shop and hearing offbeat requests.
Like the woman who brought in a bunch of odd pictures to frame and said they represented the years of molestation she'd suffered at her brother's hands.
"Do you have frames that would work for that?" she inquired of Chris.
I don't know how he kept a straight face.
From there he went to "automobile erotic asphyxiation" and to the first time he masturbated, April 25, 2002.
Claiming that he remembers only because he was watching a Lisa "Left Eye" Lopez video, the memory was all the more poignant because that was the day Lisa died.
I don't know how he ever masturbated again.
Next up was Josh, who was taller than the ceiling so he did his bit with his head cocked to the side.
He began by telling us he was a Taurus and that he thought star-reading was a bunch of crap.
It's why I didn't shout out that I'm a Gemini.
Calling himself an alt-comedian, he said the Midnight Suggestion was the show for alt-comedians to play.
I laughed when he told us he was human, meaning "we use tools like spoons..for the primary purpose of getting fat."
He tried to convince us he wasn't a word person, but that he liked word math, a way of arranging words.
Werewolf doctor. Doctor Werewolf. Bird cop. Cop bird. Two completely different things.
Cop cop went on indefinitely.
He assured us that OK Cupid is a terrible idea.
"You're asking to be rejected by a whole new generation of women," he lamented.
Cracking on himself a lot, he said he was too fat and had no courting experience, but then who in his generation does?
I bet he was glad to end his set just so he could straighten up again.
Walking out of Steady Sounds, the night was so warm and soft after the recent chillier nights, I was glad I had more to do.
And if I hadn't, I would have found something.
NO BS was playing at Balliceaux, it had been months since I'd last seen them and I knew someone who had never seen them at all.
It was time to join the sweaty masses.
The DJ led up to their arrival on stage by playing the "Rocky" theme, I kid you not.
Now, I've been going to NO BS shows since 2007 and I've seen them grow and develop as a band and as a stage presence, so I know what to expect.
People are going to dance. The horns are going to be stellar. There will be megaphones.
But besides all that, I got some nice surprises tonight.
Trombonist Brian sang. The trumpet section danced (mostly) in unison. And there was lots of new material.
In fact, during intermission, Reggie of NO BS and I got to talking and I admitted it had been many months.
"Oh, wow," he sailed, "Then lots of this should be new to you then."
Did I mention Brian sang, the trumpeters danced and there were some crazy good new songs I hadn't heard before?
And where else, I ask you, can you hear live sousaphone in Richmond?
And as always, the people watching was excellent, with my companion and I trying to figure out when the girl just barely contained by her green, strapless sequined dress (and red Chucks) was going to come out of it.
The second set began with an extended take on "Happy Birthday," but I honestly couldn't tell you whose birthday it was.
Not that it mattered.
That's the pleasure of NO BS; there's usually a good beat that'll ensure your backside moves.
The funny part was how the crowd reacted during solo and/or when more improvisational parts came in.
Phones came out, talking resumed and they acted like the band was on break.
Only when the beat kicked back in did they shut up.
Everybody dance now.
It's the only way the birds will suddenly appear.
Conveniently, Steady Sounds just around the corner was hosting the Midnight Suggestion #15, an evening of comedy.
They were all first-timers and they were there to answer the question, why do birds suddenly appear?
They longed to make jokes under an impossibly low ceiling upstairs at a record store.
We found seats on the sofa not long before Ian got up to amuse us.
That was accomplished with his deadpan delivery and by ending every joke with, "What's the deal with that?"
He had a habit of turning the mic side to side in between jokes, as if to point out how quiet it was.
One of his funniest rants was about Billy Ray Cyrus, apparently a man of excesses, pimping out his daughter.
"That's it," he announced when he was done and sat back down.
Chris lives in Church Hill, so he began with a story about walking the neighborhood with a grapefruit and a knife to cut it with, the problem being once the grapefruit was gone, the knife was not a good thing to have on the Hill.
Everyone likes to laugh at neighborhood stereotypes.
He riffed on working in a frame shop and hearing offbeat requests.
Like the woman who brought in a bunch of odd pictures to frame and said they represented the years of molestation she'd suffered at her brother's hands.
"Do you have frames that would work for that?" she inquired of Chris.
I don't know how he kept a straight face.
From there he went to "automobile erotic asphyxiation" and to the first time he masturbated, April 25, 2002.
Claiming that he remembers only because he was watching a Lisa "Left Eye" Lopez video, the memory was all the more poignant because that was the day Lisa died.
I don't know how he ever masturbated again.
Next up was Josh, who was taller than the ceiling so he did his bit with his head cocked to the side.
He began by telling us he was a Taurus and that he thought star-reading was a bunch of crap.
It's why I didn't shout out that I'm a Gemini.
Calling himself an alt-comedian, he said the Midnight Suggestion was the show for alt-comedians to play.
I laughed when he told us he was human, meaning "we use tools like spoons..for the primary purpose of getting fat."
He tried to convince us he wasn't a word person, but that he liked word math, a way of arranging words.
Werewolf doctor. Doctor Werewolf. Bird cop. Cop bird. Two completely different things.
Cop cop went on indefinitely.
He assured us that OK Cupid is a terrible idea.
"You're asking to be rejected by a whole new generation of women," he lamented.
Cracking on himself a lot, he said he was too fat and had no courting experience, but then who in his generation does?
I bet he was glad to end his set just so he could straighten up again.
Walking out of Steady Sounds, the night was so warm and soft after the recent chillier nights, I was glad I had more to do.
And if I hadn't, I would have found something.
NO BS was playing at Balliceaux, it had been months since I'd last seen them and I knew someone who had never seen them at all.
It was time to join the sweaty masses.
The DJ led up to their arrival on stage by playing the "Rocky" theme, I kid you not.
Now, I've been going to NO BS shows since 2007 and I've seen them grow and develop as a band and as a stage presence, so I know what to expect.
People are going to dance. The horns are going to be stellar. There will be megaphones.
But besides all that, I got some nice surprises tonight.
Trombonist Brian sang. The trumpet section danced (mostly) in unison. And there was lots of new material.
In fact, during intermission, Reggie of NO BS and I got to talking and I admitted it had been many months.
"Oh, wow," he sailed, "Then lots of this should be new to you then."
Did I mention Brian sang, the trumpeters danced and there were some crazy good new songs I hadn't heard before?
And where else, I ask you, can you hear live sousaphone in Richmond?
And as always, the people watching was excellent, with my companion and I trying to figure out when the girl just barely contained by her green, strapless sequined dress (and red Chucks) was going to come out of it.
The second set began with an extended take on "Happy Birthday," but I honestly couldn't tell you whose birthday it was.
Not that it mattered.
That's the pleasure of NO BS; there's usually a good beat that'll ensure your backside moves.
The funny part was how the crowd reacted during solo and/or when more improvisational parts came in.
Phones came out, talking resumed and they acted like the band was on break.
Only when the beat kicked back in did they shut up.
Everybody dance now.
It's the only way the birds will suddenly appear.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Waylaid at the Wait Station
Attractive older Asian man: You have on very nice socks.
Me: (figuring out he means my tights) Um, thanks.
AOAM: (Slipping a Werther's Original candy into my hand) Are they warm or just fancy?
Me: They're both.
AOAM: Very good.
This is how I was greeted as I walked into the VMFA's Pauley Center for the lecture "The Search for King Midas: Recent Discoveries at Gordion (Turkey)."
So I found a seat (the lecture was sold out), popped the candy in my mouth and waited for Professor Andrew Goldman to share the story of his long-time excavation in search of information about the king with the golden touch.
Excavations have been going on at this site in Turkey since long before Goldman's, one as early as 1950, but since archeology is an imperfect science, there's still no conclusive proof of King Midas' existence, despite myths and hypotheses. End of lesson.
From science to literature, my next stop was the VCU Visiting Writers' series and this week poet David Rivard was reading.
He was introduced as a poet whose words careen across the page brilliantly. Since his last two readings were canceled due to snow, tonight was his official book launch and first reading from his newest book Sugartown.
And, being a poet, he perversely began with the last poem in the book, "Lightening with Stag in its Glare," which covered a wide range of subject matter, as is apparently his preference when writing. In other words, he explained, look at things one way and then turn and look at them from another angle.
Introducing the poem "Coffeehouse, Eastern Standard Time." he admitted that "one of the things I love is eavesdropping on other people's comments." Amen, brother. In fact, the first ten lines of the poem were a direct transcript of an overheard conversation.
He had a rushed way of reading, but that may be due to what has been termed his "irregular and speedy poetry."
In response to being labeled as such, he spent a summer writing poetry in a loose pentameter. It was interesting hearing him read that after the hurried free verse he'd started with.
Sitting in front of me was a woman who had brought with her Rivard's new book, which she used to follow him word for word when he was reading. She didn't look at him while he was reading, she followed along in the book. I don't want to judge, but why come to a reading if not to enjoy being read to?
So much deep thought had made me hungry, so I decided on Six Burner, not sure what to expect. The last time I was in on a Thursday night at 9:15, the place was dead and the kitchen closed. Considering I was hungry, that wasn't going to work tonight.
Instead, I walked into a madhouse with not a free stool in sight and almost every table taken. The hostess was kind enough to insist that I stay and found me a seat at the far end of the bar, actually at the wait station ("I'm just going to move these glasses...").
Singer Fanny Mallonee was singing her vintage country heart out, covering everything from Patsy Cline to old cowboy song classics. It was definitely different than anything I'd heard in Six Burner before, but the crowd was way into it.
Thirsty, I began with the Warwick Pinotage because it's a grape I can never get enough of as I looked around the room to see if there were any familiar faces (a few, as it turned out, including a friend who recently got unexpectedly dumped and wanted advice from me about dealing with it. You talking to me?).
I ordered the mixed green salad with goat cheese, roasted beets, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette to buy me some time while I looked at the menu. Perfectly dressed, this classic combo tempered my appetite while I chatted up the owners who were enjoying dinner next to me.
When Josh asked what I wanted next, I said I was leaning towards the southern-fried sweetbreads with mole sauce.
"They're not very popular," he informed me. "People are afraid of them, especially when I tell them what they are." That's twice this week I've heard tales of people "afraid" of menu items. What gives?
The sweetbreads were wonderful fried in a crispy breading and artfully arranged over a large swirl of mole. I ate them with no fear and more pinotage.
Since I was sitting at the wait station of a very busy restaurant, it was inevitable that people would end up next to me in their attempts to get libations.
One such person was a guy in a fisherman's sweater who got extra points because his was a cardigan and not every guy can pull off a cardigan. I assumed he was there just to get a drink, but soon learned he was also there to chat me up.
He used that old line about us having met before, except that he cited the place and circumstance and I realized we had met and talked before. Honestly, everyone is better at remembering faces than me.
We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in J-Ward and we know some of the same neighbors. I even remembered seeing him in Abner Clay Park on several occasions. It's such a small world in Richmond.
An invitation was extended (and declined for tonight; I had plans), information exchanged and flattering things said. I'm still working on getting the hang of this, but I'm doing much better, if I do say so myself. And he told me where he was going to be tonight, just in case I changed my mind.
Balliceaux was my last stop because No BS were playing and although I'd technically been at their last show, I never saw them and only sporadically heard them.
The crowds were far more manageable tonight and I was actually able to make it into the back room to see the band, hear them up close and feel the heat of the sweaty bodies around me. And isn't that the whole point of going to a No BS show in the first place?
I mean, sure, I do go for Lance's stellar drumming and the harmonies of so many horns, but it's that room full of energy that gives their shows that indefinable something that keeps the faithful coming back every few weeks.
As a bonus, one of my favorite musician couples were there making the scene, so I had built-in company. I stayed for one set and then headed out through the front room (Interpol's "Lief Erikson" blaring beautifully from the front stereo as I made my way, so I walked slowly) to go.
I briefly considered making one last stop to admire the sweater, but decided against it. I'm not quite that good at all this yet.
Practice, Karen, practice.
Me: (figuring out he means my tights) Um, thanks.
AOAM: (Slipping a Werther's Original candy into my hand) Are they warm or just fancy?
Me: They're both.
AOAM: Very good.
This is how I was greeted as I walked into the VMFA's Pauley Center for the lecture "The Search for King Midas: Recent Discoveries at Gordion (Turkey)."
So I found a seat (the lecture was sold out), popped the candy in my mouth and waited for Professor Andrew Goldman to share the story of his long-time excavation in search of information about the king with the golden touch.
Excavations have been going on at this site in Turkey since long before Goldman's, one as early as 1950, but since archeology is an imperfect science, there's still no conclusive proof of King Midas' existence, despite myths and hypotheses. End of lesson.
From science to literature, my next stop was the VCU Visiting Writers' series and this week poet David Rivard was reading.
He was introduced as a poet whose words careen across the page brilliantly. Since his last two readings were canceled due to snow, tonight was his official book launch and first reading from his newest book Sugartown.
And, being a poet, he perversely began with the last poem in the book, "Lightening with Stag in its Glare," which covered a wide range of subject matter, as is apparently his preference when writing. In other words, he explained, look at things one way and then turn and look at them from another angle.
Introducing the poem "Coffeehouse, Eastern Standard Time." he admitted that "one of the things I love is eavesdropping on other people's comments." Amen, brother. In fact, the first ten lines of the poem were a direct transcript of an overheard conversation.
He had a rushed way of reading, but that may be due to what has been termed his "irregular and speedy poetry."
In response to being labeled as such, he spent a summer writing poetry in a loose pentameter. It was interesting hearing him read that after the hurried free verse he'd started with.
Sitting in front of me was a woman who had brought with her Rivard's new book, which she used to follow him word for word when he was reading. She didn't look at him while he was reading, she followed along in the book. I don't want to judge, but why come to a reading if not to enjoy being read to?
So much deep thought had made me hungry, so I decided on Six Burner, not sure what to expect. The last time I was in on a Thursday night at 9:15, the place was dead and the kitchen closed. Considering I was hungry, that wasn't going to work tonight.
Instead, I walked into a madhouse with not a free stool in sight and almost every table taken. The hostess was kind enough to insist that I stay and found me a seat at the far end of the bar, actually at the wait station ("I'm just going to move these glasses...").
Singer Fanny Mallonee was singing her vintage country heart out, covering everything from Patsy Cline to old cowboy song classics. It was definitely different than anything I'd heard in Six Burner before, but the crowd was way into it.
Thirsty, I began with the Warwick Pinotage because it's a grape I can never get enough of as I looked around the room to see if there were any familiar faces (a few, as it turned out, including a friend who recently got unexpectedly dumped and wanted advice from me about dealing with it. You talking to me?).
I ordered the mixed green salad with goat cheese, roasted beets, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette to buy me some time while I looked at the menu. Perfectly dressed, this classic combo tempered my appetite while I chatted up the owners who were enjoying dinner next to me.
When Josh asked what I wanted next, I said I was leaning towards the southern-fried sweetbreads with mole sauce.
"They're not very popular," he informed me. "People are afraid of them, especially when I tell them what they are." That's twice this week I've heard tales of people "afraid" of menu items. What gives?
The sweetbreads were wonderful fried in a crispy breading and artfully arranged over a large swirl of mole. I ate them with no fear and more pinotage.
Since I was sitting at the wait station of a very busy restaurant, it was inevitable that people would end up next to me in their attempts to get libations.
One such person was a guy in a fisherman's sweater who got extra points because his was a cardigan and not every guy can pull off a cardigan. I assumed he was there just to get a drink, but soon learned he was also there to chat me up.
He used that old line about us having met before, except that he cited the place and circumstance and I realized we had met and talked before. Honestly, everyone is better at remembering faces than me.
We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in J-Ward and we know some of the same neighbors. I even remembered seeing him in Abner Clay Park on several occasions. It's such a small world in Richmond.
An invitation was extended (and declined for tonight; I had plans), information exchanged and flattering things said. I'm still working on getting the hang of this, but I'm doing much better, if I do say so myself. And he told me where he was going to be tonight, just in case I changed my mind.
Balliceaux was my last stop because No BS were playing and although I'd technically been at their last show, I never saw them and only sporadically heard them.
The crowds were far more manageable tonight and I was actually able to make it into the back room to see the band, hear them up close and feel the heat of the sweaty bodies around me. And isn't that the whole point of going to a No BS show in the first place?
I mean, sure, I do go for Lance's stellar drumming and the harmonies of so many horns, but it's that room full of energy that gives their shows that indefinable something that keeps the faithful coming back every few weeks.
As a bonus, one of my favorite musician couples were there making the scene, so I had built-in company. I stayed for one set and then headed out through the front room (Interpol's "Lief Erikson" blaring beautifully from the front stereo as I made my way, so I walked slowly) to go.
I briefly considered making one last stop to admire the sweater, but decided against it. I'm not quite that good at all this yet.
Practice, Karen, practice.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Digging the Accents
Go to two stellar shows, one cool, one hot and you will meet charming, handsome men from other countries. I know this only because I went and I did.
Starting at the VMFA for the Jazz Cafe, I found a nearly full room and no available tables, which wasn't the least bit surprising because the Brian Jones Quartet was playing. As many times as I've seen Jones play and in as many configurations as I've seen, he never ceases to impress.
Tonight's stellar show was courtesy of Jones on drums, J.C. Kuhl on tenor sax, Daniel Clarke on keys and Randall Pharr on upright bass.
I love watching these guys play; Pharr is always smiling, unlike a lot of oh-so serious bass players, Clarke's delight is tangible and they tend to crack up when one or the other of them goes off on a particularly colorful improvisation.
I propped myself up on a wall near the band, but it wasn't long before a nearby couple offered me one of the spare chairs at their table. They also invited the guy standing next to me but he bowed out saying, "I can't. I'm holding up the wall." Not sure, but I think he was afraid I'd bite.
My new-found seat afforded me a close-up view of the band, who whipped through a varied repertoire, including Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis' "Blue in Green," the classic "Bye, Bye, Blackbird" and the surprising "Eleanor Rigby."
Jones came over to say hello during one of the breaks and I commented that in all the times I've seen him play, this was the first time I'd seen him in a button-down shirt. "I can clean up," he laughed. And well, I might add, admiring his all-black ensemble.
They did three sets for the devoted crowd. When the bewitching hour of 9:00 rolled around, Jones said, "We're going to play one more. Not sure what it's going to be, though."
By the time they finished, the museum was closed and the security people couldn't usher us out quickly enough.
It was a short drive to Balliceaux for No BS Brass Band's show and I mercifully arrived before the hordes. Taking up a seat at the front bar, I ordered the chai-infused chocolate pate and a Zin blend and settled in to discuss the bartender's recent visit to DC and Zatinya.
As the No BS musicians began to straggle in, I was about to move my headquarters to the back room when I felt a tap on the shoulder and my favorite Brazilian chef appeared.
In all the years I've known him, I've never once run into him out at night, so I couldn't have been more surprised...or pleased with the company.
He asked what I was drinking, ordered two more and we began a spirited discussion of going out versus staying in. Eventually his lovely wife arrived, followed closely by all kinds of interesting friends to whom she introduced me.
I met a scientist-type from Colombia, a Spaniard recently relocated from NYC and a host of other characters, almost all of whom had recently read my piece in Style. It was an interesting starting point for conversation with strangers.
In what seemed to be almost a violation of fire code, people continued to arrive and I quickly realized how lucky I was to be ensconced on a bar stool and off the beaten path.
The people around me were constant targets for the moving crowds, being jostled and knocked into at every turn.
One thing that soon became apparent was how many of the attendees were first-timers. I heard an awful lot of people say, "I heard these shows are amazing" or "These guys are supposed to be great" as they made their way to the back room.
By the time No BS finally started playing, I knew there was no way I was going to join the masses in the back room, much as I would have liked a view of the band playing.
More than a few people I knew tried it, only to come back shaking their heads in amazement at the sheer mass of humanity sweating back there. One guy came back glistening with sweat and saying, "I need water!"
I didn't even try. I had a host of interesting conversationalists to choose from; a guy told me about his non-fiction writing classes, another about his acclimation to RVA, one had just opened an online store, a photographer wanted to buy me a drink, and another told me about the light shows he designs for his drumming friend. I chatted with three different restaurant owners. All compelling enough discussions to justify staying put.
The down side was that it wasn't always easy to hear the No BS show, but since the stairs were packed with people, there wasn't much I could do about it. Luckily I periodically got an earful, so I didn't feel like I was missing out completely.
Besides, the party (and it was a party) going on up front was amazing; lots of smart people, witty conversation, mingling and requests for my card. I went for music and got social intercourse.
No complaints from this camp.
Starting at the VMFA for the Jazz Cafe, I found a nearly full room and no available tables, which wasn't the least bit surprising because the Brian Jones Quartet was playing. As many times as I've seen Jones play and in as many configurations as I've seen, he never ceases to impress.
Tonight's stellar show was courtesy of Jones on drums, J.C. Kuhl on tenor sax, Daniel Clarke on keys and Randall Pharr on upright bass.
I love watching these guys play; Pharr is always smiling, unlike a lot of oh-so serious bass players, Clarke's delight is tangible and they tend to crack up when one or the other of them goes off on a particularly colorful improvisation.
I propped myself up on a wall near the band, but it wasn't long before a nearby couple offered me one of the spare chairs at their table. They also invited the guy standing next to me but he bowed out saying, "I can't. I'm holding up the wall." Not sure, but I think he was afraid I'd bite.
My new-found seat afforded me a close-up view of the band, who whipped through a varied repertoire, including Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis' "Blue in Green," the classic "Bye, Bye, Blackbird" and the surprising "Eleanor Rigby."
Jones came over to say hello during one of the breaks and I commented that in all the times I've seen him play, this was the first time I'd seen him in a button-down shirt. "I can clean up," he laughed. And well, I might add, admiring his all-black ensemble.
They did three sets for the devoted crowd. When the bewitching hour of 9:00 rolled around, Jones said, "We're going to play one more. Not sure what it's going to be, though."
By the time they finished, the museum was closed and the security people couldn't usher us out quickly enough.
It was a short drive to Balliceaux for No BS Brass Band's show and I mercifully arrived before the hordes. Taking up a seat at the front bar, I ordered the chai-infused chocolate pate and a Zin blend and settled in to discuss the bartender's recent visit to DC and Zatinya.
As the No BS musicians began to straggle in, I was about to move my headquarters to the back room when I felt a tap on the shoulder and my favorite Brazilian chef appeared.
In all the years I've known him, I've never once run into him out at night, so I couldn't have been more surprised...or pleased with the company.
He asked what I was drinking, ordered two more and we began a spirited discussion of going out versus staying in. Eventually his lovely wife arrived, followed closely by all kinds of interesting friends to whom she introduced me.
I met a scientist-type from Colombia, a Spaniard recently relocated from NYC and a host of other characters, almost all of whom had recently read my piece in Style. It was an interesting starting point for conversation with strangers.
In what seemed to be almost a violation of fire code, people continued to arrive and I quickly realized how lucky I was to be ensconced on a bar stool and off the beaten path.
The people around me were constant targets for the moving crowds, being jostled and knocked into at every turn.
One thing that soon became apparent was how many of the attendees were first-timers. I heard an awful lot of people say, "I heard these shows are amazing" or "These guys are supposed to be great" as they made their way to the back room.
By the time No BS finally started playing, I knew there was no way I was going to join the masses in the back room, much as I would have liked a view of the band playing.
More than a few people I knew tried it, only to come back shaking their heads in amazement at the sheer mass of humanity sweating back there. One guy came back glistening with sweat and saying, "I need water!"
I didn't even try. I had a host of interesting conversationalists to choose from; a guy told me about his non-fiction writing classes, another about his acclimation to RVA, one had just opened an online store, a photographer wanted to buy me a drink, and another told me about the light shows he designs for his drumming friend. I chatted with three different restaurant owners. All compelling enough discussions to justify staying put.
The down side was that it wasn't always easy to hear the No BS show, but since the stairs were packed with people, there wasn't much I could do about it. Luckily I periodically got an earful, so I didn't feel like I was missing out completely.
Besides, the party (and it was a party) going on up front was amazing; lots of smart people, witty conversation, mingling and requests for my card. I went for music and got social intercourse.
No complaints from this camp.
Friday, November 12, 2010
"The Banquette is on Fire"
When you have a picky eater for a friend, sadly it severely limits your restaurant choices. Knowing this, it's just easier to choose a place I know she likes and avoid the dozens of others she doesn't. That's how we ended up at Bouchon yet again.
Which isn't a bad thing because I always get hugged and kissed by the bartender and chef there so my evening always starts right. For that matter, it always ends right, although I never know quite what that ending will be. Witness tonight.
My friend had suggested dinner so that we could update each other. Seriously, those were the words she used (I know, it sounds like a corporate memo). She arrived first because of my online music chatting and was already sipping her wine when I slid into the stool next to her (that would be after the hugging and kissing).
As usual, the bargain-priced bar menu proved irresistible and we ordered from it. I had the soup (cream of asparagus), salad (chef's house salad) and onion tart with olives (my sweet and salty fix).
After far too much discussion (I told you she was picky) she got the coq au vin with potato gratin and a side of fries. She would be my starch-loving friend who thinks there can never be too many potatoes at a meal.
The soup was a cream lover's dream, the salad assuaged my guilt about the soup and the tart is a perennial favorite of mine. Her coq au vin was falling-off-the-bone wonderful (I got all the pearl onions since she doesn't care for them) and the fries never disappoint. Unlike her, I can stop at one potato dish at any given meal, so I can't speak to the gratin.
My friend shared the latest developments in her love life and I shared my momentous news. She at least had a novel reaction; she high-fived me and said she couldn't be more surprised. I think my friends are more pumped about the news than I am.
The serious fun began after dinner when a neighborhood regular and native Virginian dropped by the bar after a church social (there was so much I could have done with that...but I refrained).
I'd met him before at the very same bar several months ago since he lives mere blocks away ("Which building?" "The shorter one." "Do you have a short building complex?" "No, because I'm tall." What?!)
The conversation was moving along swimmingly when my friend decided we should switch to a Q and A format to all get to know each other better. It was no problem for me because I love interrogating people. Friend may have been a bit overly enthusiastic about pointing out compatibilities (clearly she as still reeling from my news).
At one point, the chef came up and told us about an amorous couple up front in the restaurant. Not long after, someone else came back and said to him, "Really? Right there on the banquette?"
A glance or two in the mirror reflected a couple very much into each other and not their food, if you get my drift. Right there on the banquette. The chef summed it up best (see above).
The irony of our ogling was that the couple decided to end their affectionate dinner by moving to the bar, so we ended up with the charming company of both a Russian and Belarus immigrant, madly in love with each other. They'd met on a trans-Atlantic flight and she'd flown in to RVA to visit him while he's on business here.
Their presence led to some provocative discussion of the merits of this country, the duty of immigrants (besides the two of them, Francis and Olivier are both French immigrants), whether or not a monarchy should be returned in Russia (the Russian voted no, the native Virginian yes) and what the U.S. offers an outsider, both good and bad (money and success/conservatism and Puritanical ways).
I loved hearing the opinions of immigrants about their motivations for coming here and the resulting impressions compared to expectations once they were here. After a good bit of political, cultural and historical debate, the girl from Belarus ("Really, you've heard of my country?") took it down to brass tacks.
"So what does an American man look for in a woman?" she asked the native Virginian, seriously putting him on the spot. I have to admit that my friend and I were more than a little curious ourselves (I won't divulge his response but my friend gave him credit for a fine answer).
We broke camp shortly thereafter, the other customers having left over an hour earlier. I high-tailed it to Balliceaux to catch the second half of No BS Brass band's second set. Walking in the door towards the back room, three different friends warned me of what a zoo it was back there.
I'd known it would be and would have been surprised if it hadn't been. Those guys are capable of amazing energy and that's a big draw for music fans. As the bartender said to me, "But it's always like this for them." True that.
In the warm and packed back room, I saw several friends ("You again?" He and I are living the same life, I swear)) and ran into a guy I'd met previously ("Didn't we talk at 27 when Mirimar played?" Yes, but how in the world did you remember me?).
Best of all, I did not miss their cover of "Take on Me," always a crowd pleaser that gets the audience seriously dancing.
Were it not for my smug and high-fiving friends, I might be considering it for my new theme song.
Which isn't a bad thing because I always get hugged and kissed by the bartender and chef there so my evening always starts right. For that matter, it always ends right, although I never know quite what that ending will be. Witness tonight.
My friend had suggested dinner so that we could update each other. Seriously, those were the words she used (I know, it sounds like a corporate memo). She arrived first because of my online music chatting and was already sipping her wine when I slid into the stool next to her (that would be after the hugging and kissing).
As usual, the bargain-priced bar menu proved irresistible and we ordered from it. I had the soup (cream of asparagus), salad (chef's house salad) and onion tart with olives (my sweet and salty fix).
After far too much discussion (I told you she was picky) she got the coq au vin with potato gratin and a side of fries. She would be my starch-loving friend who thinks there can never be too many potatoes at a meal.
The soup was a cream lover's dream, the salad assuaged my guilt about the soup and the tart is a perennial favorite of mine. Her coq au vin was falling-off-the-bone wonderful (I got all the pearl onions since she doesn't care for them) and the fries never disappoint. Unlike her, I can stop at one potato dish at any given meal, so I can't speak to the gratin.
My friend shared the latest developments in her love life and I shared my momentous news. She at least had a novel reaction; she high-fived me and said she couldn't be more surprised. I think my friends are more pumped about the news than I am.
The serious fun began after dinner when a neighborhood regular and native Virginian dropped by the bar after a church social (there was so much I could have done with that...but I refrained).
I'd met him before at the very same bar several months ago since he lives mere blocks away ("Which building?" "The shorter one." "Do you have a short building complex?" "No, because I'm tall." What?!)
The conversation was moving along swimmingly when my friend decided we should switch to a Q and A format to all get to know each other better. It was no problem for me because I love interrogating people. Friend may have been a bit overly enthusiastic about pointing out compatibilities (clearly she as still reeling from my news).
At one point, the chef came up and told us about an amorous couple up front in the restaurant. Not long after, someone else came back and said to him, "Really? Right there on the banquette?"
A glance or two in the mirror reflected a couple very much into each other and not their food, if you get my drift. Right there on the banquette. The chef summed it up best (see above).
The irony of our ogling was that the couple decided to end their affectionate dinner by moving to the bar, so we ended up with the charming company of both a Russian and Belarus immigrant, madly in love with each other. They'd met on a trans-Atlantic flight and she'd flown in to RVA to visit him while he's on business here.
Their presence led to some provocative discussion of the merits of this country, the duty of immigrants (besides the two of them, Francis and Olivier are both French immigrants), whether or not a monarchy should be returned in Russia (the Russian voted no, the native Virginian yes) and what the U.S. offers an outsider, both good and bad (money and success/conservatism and Puritanical ways).
I loved hearing the opinions of immigrants about their motivations for coming here and the resulting impressions compared to expectations once they were here. After a good bit of political, cultural and historical debate, the girl from Belarus ("Really, you've heard of my country?") took it down to brass tacks.
"So what does an American man look for in a woman?" she asked the native Virginian, seriously putting him on the spot. I have to admit that my friend and I were more than a little curious ourselves (I won't divulge his response but my friend gave him credit for a fine answer).
We broke camp shortly thereafter, the other customers having left over an hour earlier. I high-tailed it to Balliceaux to catch the second half of No BS Brass band's second set. Walking in the door towards the back room, three different friends warned me of what a zoo it was back there.
I'd known it would be and would have been surprised if it hadn't been. Those guys are capable of amazing energy and that's a big draw for music fans. As the bartender said to me, "But it's always like this for them." True that.
In the warm and packed back room, I saw several friends ("You again?" He and I are living the same life, I swear)) and ran into a guy I'd met previously ("Didn't we talk at 27 when Mirimar played?" Yes, but how in the world did you remember me?).
Best of all, I did not miss their cover of "Take on Me," always a crowd pleaser that gets the audience seriously dancing.
Were it not for my smug and high-fiving friends, I might be considering it for my new theme song.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Take on Me (and the Heat)
"So glad it's summer, but damn! It's hot up here," drummer Lance Koehler told the crowd at the Camel tonight, not that it was news to anyone in the crowded, overheated room. There were so many sweaty bodies jammed in there tonight, but poor Lance was trapped on a three-sided stage behind eight other musicians, all blowing hard, so I have to assume that it was even worse for him than the rest of us. And, let me tell you, the rest of us were hot.
But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.
From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.
Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.
I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.
But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.
Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.
And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.
It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."
And by all means, take me on.
But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.
From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.
Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.
I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.
But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.
Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.
And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.
It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."
And by all means, take me on.
Friday, March 19, 2010
One Fine Day: Dishing, Fishing and Hotel X
I sold out again, only this time for a different reason (does that make it any better?).
A good friend wanted to meet for drinks at Can Can, but I'd just had lunch there yesterday.
Before I could even protest, though, she enticed me by saying she wanted me to meet a friend of hers whom she described as a "foodie" and who also happens to be a dining critic.
Okay, maybe I can repeat a location just this one last time.
It was a beautiful Friday, all the doors and windows were open and people just kept arriving.
Meanwhile we ordered carafes of Corbieres and a cheese plate (a triple creme, a mild bleu and a goat) and started telling each other what we knew.
It worked out well because we knew a lot of the same restaurant people and each of us had different details about them.
She told me a delicious story about a place she had intended to review but the experience was so off-putting that she told her editor, "You don't want me to do this review."
We discussed which restaurants consistently do things right and which have a habit of inconsistency.
The importance of quality front-of-the house management drew anecdotes from us both.
Only other commitments prevented us from doing this kind of talking all night.
Naturally, wine god Bob Talcott came over to say hello (and told me how great my magenta tights were; he mentioned something about blushing if he said more) and discuss the weather.
"This is going to turn out to be the finest day of the year," he proclaimed. It certainly ought to be in the running we agreed.
Afterwards, I went to Plant Zero to be part of the 17th Annual James River Film Fest and experience "Georges Melies Meets Hotel X."
It was a lot like the Silent Music Revival events, with a band accompanying a silent film.
I've seen some of Melies' films before (he made over 500) and he's known as the father of special effects.
Originally a magician, he was one of the first to use time-lapse, dissolves and multiple exposures, thereby translating his magic tricks onto the screen.
We saw three shorts tonight and one longer feature, The Impossible Voyage.
Besides its length, it stood out for the hand tinting, which must have been a laborious process back at the turn of the 20th century...cell by cell by cell.
Hotel X did a superior job at intently watching the film and reacting to it musically. I've seen a lot of these silent film/live music shows and this were easily one of the very best I've seen.
It helped that the band had multiple percussionists given all the clamorous goings-on in the films. Later, when asked why the band had chosen these in particular, they said it was because three were short and only one was long; I don't doubt that live musical improv to a film would be challenging.
After the screening, James River Film Fest t-shirts were distributed to the band as a thank-you for their superlative performance.
One of the drummers and a personal favorite of mine, Lance Koehler (also of No BS Brass Band) draped his over his snare drum and played it that way for the two songs the band did after the films.
Eventually Hotel X's groove became too much for some members of the audience, who began to dance in the areas around the movie screen, totally into it.
Driving back into the city across the Mayo Bridge, I think I got confirmation about Bob's assessment of the weather today.
There were a couple of guys, one leaning over the bridge and one comfortably seated in a folding chair, fishing off the bridge.
They had their bait buckets, they had their coolers, they had their back-up rods and at 10:30 on a March evening, they were still out there enjoying this weather.
The wine god may have been right about this fine day, but these gentlemen seemed to be putting in their vote for it as a fine night, too.
I'm willing to bet that the sliver of a moon in the clear sky wasn't hurting the mood any either.
A good friend wanted to meet for drinks at Can Can, but I'd just had lunch there yesterday.
Before I could even protest, though, she enticed me by saying she wanted me to meet a friend of hers whom she described as a "foodie" and who also happens to be a dining critic.
Okay, maybe I can repeat a location just this one last time.
It was a beautiful Friday, all the doors and windows were open and people just kept arriving.
Meanwhile we ordered carafes of Corbieres and a cheese plate (a triple creme, a mild bleu and a goat) and started telling each other what we knew.
It worked out well because we knew a lot of the same restaurant people and each of us had different details about them.
She told me a delicious story about a place she had intended to review but the experience was so off-putting that she told her editor, "You don't want me to do this review."
We discussed which restaurants consistently do things right and which have a habit of inconsistency.
The importance of quality front-of-the house management drew anecdotes from us both.
Only other commitments prevented us from doing this kind of talking all night.
Naturally, wine god Bob Talcott came over to say hello (and told me how great my magenta tights were; he mentioned something about blushing if he said more) and discuss the weather.
"This is going to turn out to be the finest day of the year," he proclaimed. It certainly ought to be in the running we agreed.
Afterwards, I went to Plant Zero to be part of the 17th Annual James River Film Fest and experience "Georges Melies Meets Hotel X."
It was a lot like the Silent Music Revival events, with a band accompanying a silent film.
I've seen some of Melies' films before (he made over 500) and he's known as the father of special effects.
Originally a magician, he was one of the first to use time-lapse, dissolves and multiple exposures, thereby translating his magic tricks onto the screen.
We saw three shorts tonight and one longer feature, The Impossible Voyage.
Besides its length, it stood out for the hand tinting, which must have been a laborious process back at the turn of the 20th century...cell by cell by cell.
Hotel X did a superior job at intently watching the film and reacting to it musically. I've seen a lot of these silent film/live music shows and this were easily one of the very best I've seen.
It helped that the band had multiple percussionists given all the clamorous goings-on in the films. Later, when asked why the band had chosen these in particular, they said it was because three were short and only one was long; I don't doubt that live musical improv to a film would be challenging.
After the screening, James River Film Fest t-shirts were distributed to the band as a thank-you for their superlative performance.
One of the drummers and a personal favorite of mine, Lance Koehler (also of No BS Brass Band) draped his over his snare drum and played it that way for the two songs the band did after the films.
Eventually Hotel X's groove became too much for some members of the audience, who began to dance in the areas around the movie screen, totally into it.
Driving back into the city across the Mayo Bridge, I think I got confirmation about Bob's assessment of the weather today.
There were a couple of guys, one leaning over the bridge and one comfortably seated in a folding chair, fishing off the bridge.
They had their bait buckets, they had their coolers, they had their back-up rods and at 10:30 on a March evening, they were still out there enjoying this weather.
The wine god may have been right about this fine day, but these gentlemen seemed to be putting in their vote for it as a fine night, too.
I'm willing to bet that the sliver of a moon in the clear sky wasn't hurting the mood any either.
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