I bought my ticket to see David Byrne a lifetime ago.
And by lifetime, I mean February 11, which might as well be the same thing considering the seismic shifts in my world since that long ago day.
I can't tell one from the other
Did I find you or you find me?
There was a time, before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be, where I'll be
When tickets for his May show at the Anthem in D.C. went on sale, I'd passed on going because of the venue. But when a Merriweather Post Pavilion date was added, I jumped on board despite the steep price (for me anyway).
MPP was the site of my second-ever concert - Carol King - back in 1972 or '73 and the thought of seeing as iconic a performer as David Byrne at Merriweather on a July night was irresistible, even if I did have to cross state lines and go solo.
As fate would have it, I didn't go by myself. As fortune would have it, I picked the right show to return to Merriweather for. No doubt about it, 2018 has been my year.
I'm just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I'm dead
First of all, the evening weather was glorious, not too hot or humid. We arrived when the gates opened and had our choice of great views. Then there was the benefit of the show not being sold out. Our chairs may have skirted the blanket laid down by a happy hippie-ish couple to our right named Tom and Karen, but everyone had breathing room.
Not necessarily a bad thing when an occasional whiff of weed wafted by.
It wasn't even dark when English poet and singer Benjamin Clementine took a seat on a stool in front of a piano and began singing and playing in an intense way that was poetic, moving and quite beautiful. Nina Simone came to mind. I sensed immediately that he'd been chosen by Byrne to open, no doubt for his incredibly distinctive voice and talent.
Let's just say it was an impressive start to a stunning evening of music, choreography and theater.
The less we say about it, the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground, head in the sky
It's okay, I know nothing's wrong
Byrne, not to mention that magnificent head of hair he's got, began the show alone onstage, sitting at a table and holding a model of a brain while singing "Here" off the new album "American Utopia," which all ticket buyers were sent as part of the deal. Right off the bat, it seemed like an appropriately intellectual and musical way to set the tone for a man known for his art school roots.
But where it got truly wondrous was when a dozen people, musicians and singers all in identical suits, joined him, each of the musicians with their instrument strapped to their body like a drum line or marching band. It was an incredible amount of sound they produced while a duo sang backup and danced the most difficult moves.
We drift in and out
Oh! Sing into my mouth
Out of all those kinds of peoiple
You got a face with a view
Every song was fully choreographed, with Byrne dancing along with his cadre of musicians and singers (loads of drums and percussion, natch, but it was the strapped-on keyboard that was the most impressive when being played), whether it was one of the kickass new songs like "Everybody's Coming to My House" or one of the Talking Heads songs that set the crowd off into a frenzy.
Where he made time stand still for me was in playing "Naive Melody," a song I hadn't dared to hope I'd hear and one that sounded transcendent sung into the soft night air. It was while he was singing "Burning Down the House" and the middle-aged crowd was losing their minds that the all but full moon finally rose above the tree line like a benediction on the show below.
Oh! I got plenty of time
Oh! You got light in your eyes
When they did "Blind," Byrne played guitar while a bright light focused on the performers caused shadows to be cast against the background. Byrne's shadow looked enormous compared to the others, reaching almost to the stage's rafters, in the same way that his giant suit used to make him stand out back in the Talking Heads days. It was like having a Balinese shadow puppet show, except with real people.
The final encore was Janelle Monae's "Hell You Talmbout," with drums backing the names of black people killed by police and the admonishment, "Say his name." It was incredibly powerful way to end the evening.
I come home
She lifted up her wings
I guess that this must be the place
I don't recall how I felt after Carol King finished performing, but I know that I won't soon forget how I felt when Bryne and company took their final bow. Standing under that bright moon with my favorite person next to me, I knew we'd seen something wondrous, something that would have been worth a 3 1/2 hour drive alone for.
Lucky me, I got to share it with someone who was not only as wowed as I was, but who's willing to make it up as we go along. In fact, cruising home on Route 301, that's how we ended up at Captain Billy's Crabhouse on the Potomac having a late waterside lunch. Crabs, shrimp and hushpuppies (not to mention Homes' favorite crab and vegetable soup) go down mighty easy watching sea birds vie for pole perches and reveling in the passing of time together.
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money, always for love
Cover up and say goodnight, say goodnight
This is where I'll be. Where I'll be happily.
Showing posts with label pope's creek. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pope's creek. Show all posts
Sunday, July 29, 2018
Friday, August 26, 2016
If I Was a Drink
When planning an all day adventure, it's essential to pick a partner open to following your lead to create the perfect storm.
First, I need someone willing to knock off a quick five miles walking along the river, not to mention someone eager to climb rocks, remove shoes and cool down in one of the James' many natural Jacuzzis situated between rocks and created by the rushing water fed by nearby falls.
Someone who agrees that the second a snake is spotted - even a five inch one- it's time to move on.
Second, it's essential I have someone willing to cross state lines to eat lunch, and by lunch, I mean eat crabs until we can't eat anymore.
After a brief and soul-sucking stretch on I-95, we took Route 301 up past Fort A.P. Hill, through Port Royal and Dahlgren and landed in downtown Pope's Creek, Maryland at Captain Billy's Crabhouse.
And unlike my visit there last June, this time we ate outside on the deck overlooking the Potomac River and the bridge that had brought us there. Five other tables were occupied when we arrived and we outlasted them all, including a couple who sat down after us, only to rethink their decision and move indoors.
Amateurs.
Everything about being there was ideal - the jet skis buzzing by with rooster tails arcing behind them, the noisy birds atop almost every post on the nearby docks, the especially white clouds in the sky - including our 22-year old waitress, Brittney, who's lived in that area her entire life, making her skittish about moving to Short Pump to live with her boyfriend.
She's tempted only because then she'd have access to Olive Garden and the Cheesecake Factory. Honestly, we wanted to kidnap her and bring her back to Richmond with us, if only to show her (cue music) a whole, new world.
Instead, we ordered crabs, steamed shrimp and coleslaw and began the slow process of eating a lunch that would take a couple of hours to finish satisfactorily.
Although we differed on a few points - I don't use malt vinegar or a knife and we remove the smallest legs at different points in the process - both of us grew up being home-schooled by our elders in Advanced Crab Eating for Connoisseurs.
Few attain our level of mastery.
The afternoon passed in a haze of claw cracking, view admiring (and a bit of boat envy when a couple set out in the boat we'd been hearing bang against the dock since we sat down) and contentment, with just enough of a breeze to keep flies away.
Only the music - modern country with an occasional classic rock artist like Steve Miller or '90s throwback such as 311 - could have used some improvement, although I was having such a wonderful time I found myself somehow sucked in by a Brad Paisley song.
If she was a drink, she'd be single barrel bourbon on ice
Smooth, with a kick, a chill and a burn all at the same time
She's Sunday drive meets high speed chase
She ain't just a song, she's the whole mixtape
I can't say if I'd have even noticed the song if I hadn't been so happily eating crabs on the river on a summer's day, or perhaps southern Maryland is just a place where such a song fits.
By the time we bid Brittney farewell, the early dining crowd was beginning to arrive, our hands still reeked of crabs despite multiple washings and we knew our clothes were more than a tad ripe.
Not ashamed to admit more than a couple hunks of crab landed in my bra and on the chair next to me once my hands and mouth got going.
The drive back down 301 was relatively uneventful except for when it was highly dramatic, but my partner in crime called for reinforcements and Super Bruno not only saved the day, but teased her about her crabby breath before sending us on our way.
Third, and perhaps most importantly because it would be at this point (8 hours into our adventure) that most people would falter, I require someone who sees the value in a completely unique experience, even if it is after a long day and situated 35 miles in a different direction.
And that's after we got home, cleaned up and changed. Coincidentally, we'd both chosen flowered dresses for our rendezvous in Goochland.
Lickinghole Creek Brewery was positively packed when we drove up its dusty, red clay-covered driveway to join the throngs there for pick-your-own sunflowers. Okay, probably just as many were there for beer, given the lines.
But we were there to gather armfuls of free flowers with which to brighten up our city apartments and remind us of a fabulous day.
Walking towards the fields, we saw an artist busy at his easel capturing all the yellow flowers nodding around him and passed scores of people clutching bouquets of sunflowers.
Pegging us for new arrivals, a woman advised, "Go to the back rows!"
The sum total of my experience working in fields harvesting involved picking strawberries, which, I'm here to tell you, bears little resemblance to cutting flowers taller than me.
Unlike low-growing berries, sunflower fields are tall and dense and once you hack your way through fields of squash and melons to get to them, it's sticky hot, even just before sunset.
Which is not to say that being surrounded by so many flowers under puffy, pink-tinged clouds as dusk settled in wasn't worth every drop of sweat that rolled down the back (and front) of my sunflower-printed dress, because it was.
But so is having a partner who thinks a day that begins on the rocks, moves out of state and ends in a field is just as wonderful as I do.
Brad would say she's the whole mixtape.
First, I need someone willing to knock off a quick five miles walking along the river, not to mention someone eager to climb rocks, remove shoes and cool down in one of the James' many natural Jacuzzis situated between rocks and created by the rushing water fed by nearby falls.
Someone who agrees that the second a snake is spotted - even a five inch one- it's time to move on.
Second, it's essential I have someone willing to cross state lines to eat lunch, and by lunch, I mean eat crabs until we can't eat anymore.
After a brief and soul-sucking stretch on I-95, we took Route 301 up past Fort A.P. Hill, through Port Royal and Dahlgren and landed in downtown Pope's Creek, Maryland at Captain Billy's Crabhouse.
And unlike my visit there last June, this time we ate outside on the deck overlooking the Potomac River and the bridge that had brought us there. Five other tables were occupied when we arrived and we outlasted them all, including a couple who sat down after us, only to rethink their decision and move indoors.
Amateurs.
Everything about being there was ideal - the jet skis buzzing by with rooster tails arcing behind them, the noisy birds atop almost every post on the nearby docks, the especially white clouds in the sky - including our 22-year old waitress, Brittney, who's lived in that area her entire life, making her skittish about moving to Short Pump to live with her boyfriend.
She's tempted only because then she'd have access to Olive Garden and the Cheesecake Factory. Honestly, we wanted to kidnap her and bring her back to Richmond with us, if only to show her (cue music) a whole, new world.
Instead, we ordered crabs, steamed shrimp and coleslaw and began the slow process of eating a lunch that would take a couple of hours to finish satisfactorily.
Although we differed on a few points - I don't use malt vinegar or a knife and we remove the smallest legs at different points in the process - both of us grew up being home-schooled by our elders in Advanced Crab Eating for Connoisseurs.
Few attain our level of mastery.
The afternoon passed in a haze of claw cracking, view admiring (and a bit of boat envy when a couple set out in the boat we'd been hearing bang against the dock since we sat down) and contentment, with just enough of a breeze to keep flies away.
Only the music - modern country with an occasional classic rock artist like Steve Miller or '90s throwback such as 311 - could have used some improvement, although I was having such a wonderful time I found myself somehow sucked in by a Brad Paisley song.
If she was a drink, she'd be single barrel bourbon on ice
Smooth, with a kick, a chill and a burn all at the same time
She's Sunday drive meets high speed chase
She ain't just a song, she's the whole mixtape
I can't say if I'd have even noticed the song if I hadn't been so happily eating crabs on the river on a summer's day, or perhaps southern Maryland is just a place where such a song fits.
By the time we bid Brittney farewell, the early dining crowd was beginning to arrive, our hands still reeked of crabs despite multiple washings and we knew our clothes were more than a tad ripe.
Not ashamed to admit more than a couple hunks of crab landed in my bra and on the chair next to me once my hands and mouth got going.
The drive back down 301 was relatively uneventful except for when it was highly dramatic, but my partner in crime called for reinforcements and Super Bruno not only saved the day, but teased her about her crabby breath before sending us on our way.
Third, and perhaps most importantly because it would be at this point (8 hours into our adventure) that most people would falter, I require someone who sees the value in a completely unique experience, even if it is after a long day and situated 35 miles in a different direction.
And that's after we got home, cleaned up and changed. Coincidentally, we'd both chosen flowered dresses for our rendezvous in Goochland.
Lickinghole Creek Brewery was positively packed when we drove up its dusty, red clay-covered driveway to join the throngs there for pick-your-own sunflowers. Okay, probably just as many were there for beer, given the lines.
But we were there to gather armfuls of free flowers with which to brighten up our city apartments and remind us of a fabulous day.
Walking towards the fields, we saw an artist busy at his easel capturing all the yellow flowers nodding around him and passed scores of people clutching bouquets of sunflowers.
Pegging us for new arrivals, a woman advised, "Go to the back rows!"
The sum total of my experience working in fields harvesting involved picking strawberries, which, I'm here to tell you, bears little resemblance to cutting flowers taller than me.
Unlike low-growing berries, sunflower fields are tall and dense and once you hack your way through fields of squash and melons to get to them, it's sticky hot, even just before sunset.
Which is not to say that being surrounded by so many flowers under puffy, pink-tinged clouds as dusk settled in wasn't worth every drop of sweat that rolled down the back (and front) of my sunflower-printed dress, because it was.
But so is having a partner who thinks a day that begins on the rocks, moves out of state and ends in a field is just as wonderful as I do.
Brad would say she's the whole mixtape.
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