I didn't need a whole lot tonight versus embracing the random. All good.
You see, the last two nights in Delaplane with my sisters had taken their toll. Friday night I'd gotten about six hours' sleep and last night no more than five. Fact is, I'm a nine hour a night myself type. So while I wanted to go out, it wasn't going to take much to satisfy me.
The Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5 was ideal: a four-block walk, it lasts less than an hour, I never tire of the combination of a silent film with live, improvised music.
While tonight's crowd was nowhere near as large as the Halloween show had been, the Sunday crowd held plenty of friends. The globe-trotting couple who just put a contract on a farm. The tireless musician whom I hadn't seen in ages and his lovely date. The former co-worker on a rare night out. The Hat in his leather jacket.
Tonight's band was the Richmanian Ramblers, an apt choice as we began with a Lithuanian/Romanian silent short film, "Lullabye." It was even more intricate than that because host Jameson explained that there's a good chance Charlie Chaplin was of Romanian descent, born at a gypsy camp and taken under by English parents who saw his potential as a member of their traveling circus.
Boy, it sure is harder to exploit your children these days than it was 100 years ago.
The 1919 film "Sunnyside" had all the usual Charlie Chaplin tropes: plenty of slapstick, just enough pathos, a down and out character. Charlie's character herded cows (of course losing them), was tickled awake by a quartet of nymphs with daisy chains (an early dream sequence), got kicked in the butt almost constantly and climbed in and out of windows as if they were doors.
He also fell in love (the title card read, "And now, the romance"), tried unsuccessfully to woo and eventually got the girl. As a bonus, I could geek out on language since one of the title cards used the word forenoon - "the whole forenoon nearly gone" - which you never see anymore. What more could I want out of a 29-minute film?
The Ramblers did an ace job of pairing their Romanian gypsy songs with appropriate scenes (during one scene with goats, the song had sheep bleating sounds) to enhance the experience of watching. Accordion music flowed freely.
Afterwards, a friend suggested getting a drink at Saison because she still had a babysitter's services, so with the Man About Town in tow, we walked over. The bar stools were occupied, so we made do with a table to support their cleverly named cocktails: the Nimble Kitten Parade.
Our trio made an interesting group since never before in the history of mankind had the three of us done anything together. You could chalk it up to silent movies making for strange bedfellows or you could say three smart people who'd just seen a tasty film/music performance wanted to keep talking.
And topics? Everything was fair game: seeing the mayor drunk and acting like a fat cat, "gentle" gentrification, rebuilding the Diamond and memories of Gaston and Isabelle. After so much dealing with sisters this weekend, it was just great to have conversation with non-family.
Before long, a friend came over to the table to say hello, bringing with her tales of her latest art work (nude snowflakes and dollar bill portraits) and what her three-year plan is. I admire a woman with a plan.
After a couple of hours, the friend with the babysitter had her Cinderella moment, suddenly realizing she needed to be home shortly. We three walked a block together before going our separate ways, me home to bed after a long weekend.
One way to look at my evening is that I ended up with way more than I needed tonight. Another would be that there wasn't a single thing I didn't want. Random wins every time.
Showing posts with label richmanian ramblers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label richmanian ramblers. Show all posts
Monday, November 10, 2014
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves
Estrogen was rampant. There were three female-fronted bands on the bill tonight.
Once the hired mouth and I'd taken care of business, it was on to the Camel for music. I was so thrilled at the prospect of all those women singing that I'd brought presents for each.
A quick trip to For the Love of Chocolate and I'd scored three mounds of ecstasy to present to Christina, Antonia and Laura, all of whom seemed tickled with the surprise.
Just a little reward for having girl parts, ladies.
Waiting for Yeni Nostalji to take the stage, I chatted with friends and a guy I didn't know. When my friend realized he and I hadn't been introduced, she did so, leading to a discussion of how sometimes people are familiar simply because you've seen them at a bunch of shows and not because you've ever met them.
"We need something like speed dating for people who go to shows," she suggested, although she wasn't talking about dating. Speed friending, perhaps?
A favorite couple arrived and joined me, as excited as I was about the impending evening of women.
I mentioned that I'd briefly heard an all-female band playing "Radar Love" yesterday at Broad Appetit and how every middle aged man there had been grinning and singing along.
Judging by the grin on my middle-aged friend's face as I shared this story, I felt safe in assuming if he'd have been doing the same.
"Well, I don't know all the words, but yea," he admitted, going on to say that it was a smart song to cover. Clearly.
But he also brought up an important point, which is that it'll be a great day when so many female-fronted bands isn't seen as a big deal. Neko Case just very publicly made that same point.
Agreed, but we're a long way from that at the moment.
Yeni Nostalji took the stage while it was still broad daylight outside and the lovely Christina was a vision in a red shirt, black skirt, gold belt and fabulous gold earrings made by our friend Sarah.
With Jeff on keys, Evrim on guitar and vocals and Christina on vocals, they spun their Turkish web over the crowd.
"The world is turning, everything is turning, except you back to me," Christina translated before a sad song.
Guitarist Tim Harding joined the group for the smooth, almost samba-sounding "Promise, Darling, Promise" with Christina and Evrim trading lead vocals until they almost broke our hearts with how beautiful the sound was.
Afterwards, Evrim mentioned how happy he was to be part of Richmond's music community and Christina shared that they had a Facebook page.
"Or you could call 1-800-YENI-NOSTALJI," Jeff said to major laughter.
When Christina said that their last song was an invitation to clink glasses and hold someone dear close, Evrim clarified, "It's a tearjerker. We don't have a word in Turkish for tearjerking."
At that point, musicians Nate and Jonathan pulled their chairs together and put their arms around each other, a truly funny moment.
As soon as they finished playing, a gardener friend came over and instructed me to join him and his girlfriend at the bar for some conversation.
He was full of restaurant gossip and piss and vinegar and midway through our chat, a drummer friend came by to say hello.
Both of us were getting a kick out of the bill of foreign-sung music tonight, and he admitted to wanting to start a Jamaican band, which somehow led to him suggesting that I form a band.
When I explained that my role is as an audience member because I have zero musical talent, he insisted that my years of show-going qualified me to be onstage.
I could stand there and let a band play around me, I said and he loved that idea. "That would be so cool!" he insisted.
Even better, he thought I could curate a band, choose all the players I wanted and see what happens. Now there's an idea.
Making it back to my seat just as Miramar - bass, drums, keys and singer with maracas -got started, drummer Rei explained the next song was about how love is as elusive as champagne in a crystal glass that breaks.
"That's us, lifting spirits since 2007," cracked singer Laura saying that all their songs were sad.
A song Rei described as a conversation between a man and his heart set to a tango beat had Laura explaining that the song was super-sexist. And we're surprised about this from Argentina?
Before an original song with music by their very talented and female keyboard player Marlysse, Rei told a story of his mother giving him a poem so touching he teared up and asked whose it was.
Turns out his Mom had been writing poetry for years. "Have we met?" he asked her before using the poem as lyrics for Marlysse's music.
A Greek ex-wife had inspired the song "Maybe I Love You," and Laura quipped, "By the way, Rei's Mom's song is our only happy song we sing. And now it's back to real life."
True perhaps, but sadness sounded exquisitely beautiful, as on "Lost in Love" where Laura (who joked, "More suffering!") sang the first half in Portuguese and Rei the second in Spanish and an audience member called out, "Cool!" and she responded "Cool is right!"
Don't mess with a female-fronted band, son.
After their set, I did some more mingling, hearing about how well a friend's love life is going, enjoying the story of a first-time babysitter feeding potato chips to his charge and congratulating a musician friend on her recently completed Kickstarter campaign.
Last up were the Richmanian Ramblers doing their inspired kind of gypsy music about tolls and ferries, farm animals and drinking goggles.
Singer Antonia had stylishly coordinated her ensemble and hair ribbon with her accordion for a symphony in red, black and white.
A couple of my friends had never heard them before despite bassist Nate being a neighbor so they were blown away by Antonia's voice and the pleasures of clapping to tavern music on many of the songs.
With two violinists, a clarinetist, a percussionist, guitarist, bassist, accordion player and Antonia, it was a big, full sound to entertain the still good-sized crowd that had hung around on a Monday night.
An awful lot of people said something to me about what a terrific bill it was.
Some raved about how it was our own little folk fest with Turkish, Latin and Romanian music played while others marveled at the power of the women at the center of these bands.
And actually, not just at the center singing. Miramar had a fabulous female piano player and the Ramblers had a female violinist and percussionist, bringing their estrogen count to three.
I didn't bring nearly enough chocolates to gift my people.
Already, someone has posted online saying, "What a great night! Thank you all so much! I hope you make this happen again sometime soon."
Maybe if it happened often enough, it wouldn't seem like such a big deal to get so much girl power onstage in one night.
Nah, I'm pretty sure it was every bit as amazing a night of music as everyone in the room listening thought it was.
I'm thinking For the Love of Chocolate needs to sponsor their tour.
Taking Will's advice, I'll just stand on stage and listen.
Once the hired mouth and I'd taken care of business, it was on to the Camel for music. I was so thrilled at the prospect of all those women singing that I'd brought presents for each.
A quick trip to For the Love of Chocolate and I'd scored three mounds of ecstasy to present to Christina, Antonia and Laura, all of whom seemed tickled with the surprise.
Just a little reward for having girl parts, ladies.
Waiting for Yeni Nostalji to take the stage, I chatted with friends and a guy I didn't know. When my friend realized he and I hadn't been introduced, she did so, leading to a discussion of how sometimes people are familiar simply because you've seen them at a bunch of shows and not because you've ever met them.
"We need something like speed dating for people who go to shows," she suggested, although she wasn't talking about dating. Speed friending, perhaps?
A favorite couple arrived and joined me, as excited as I was about the impending evening of women.
I mentioned that I'd briefly heard an all-female band playing "Radar Love" yesterday at Broad Appetit and how every middle aged man there had been grinning and singing along.
Judging by the grin on my middle-aged friend's face as I shared this story, I felt safe in assuming if he'd have been doing the same.
"Well, I don't know all the words, but yea," he admitted, going on to say that it was a smart song to cover. Clearly.
But he also brought up an important point, which is that it'll be a great day when so many female-fronted bands isn't seen as a big deal. Neko Case just very publicly made that same point.
Agreed, but we're a long way from that at the moment.
Yeni Nostalji took the stage while it was still broad daylight outside and the lovely Christina was a vision in a red shirt, black skirt, gold belt and fabulous gold earrings made by our friend Sarah.
With Jeff on keys, Evrim on guitar and vocals and Christina on vocals, they spun their Turkish web over the crowd.
"The world is turning, everything is turning, except you back to me," Christina translated before a sad song.
Guitarist Tim Harding joined the group for the smooth, almost samba-sounding "Promise, Darling, Promise" with Christina and Evrim trading lead vocals until they almost broke our hearts with how beautiful the sound was.
Afterwards, Evrim mentioned how happy he was to be part of Richmond's music community and Christina shared that they had a Facebook page.
"Or you could call 1-800-YENI-NOSTALJI," Jeff said to major laughter.
When Christina said that their last song was an invitation to clink glasses and hold someone dear close, Evrim clarified, "It's a tearjerker. We don't have a word in Turkish for tearjerking."
At that point, musicians Nate and Jonathan pulled their chairs together and put their arms around each other, a truly funny moment.
As soon as they finished playing, a gardener friend came over and instructed me to join him and his girlfriend at the bar for some conversation.
He was full of restaurant gossip and piss and vinegar and midway through our chat, a drummer friend came by to say hello.
Both of us were getting a kick out of the bill of foreign-sung music tonight, and he admitted to wanting to start a Jamaican band, which somehow led to him suggesting that I form a band.
When I explained that my role is as an audience member because I have zero musical talent, he insisted that my years of show-going qualified me to be onstage.
I could stand there and let a band play around me, I said and he loved that idea. "That would be so cool!" he insisted.
Even better, he thought I could curate a band, choose all the players I wanted and see what happens. Now there's an idea.
Making it back to my seat just as Miramar - bass, drums, keys and singer with maracas -got started, drummer Rei explained the next song was about how love is as elusive as champagne in a crystal glass that breaks.
"That's us, lifting spirits since 2007," cracked singer Laura saying that all their songs were sad.
A song Rei described as a conversation between a man and his heart set to a tango beat had Laura explaining that the song was super-sexist. And we're surprised about this from Argentina?
Before an original song with music by their very talented and female keyboard player Marlysse, Rei told a story of his mother giving him a poem so touching he teared up and asked whose it was.
Turns out his Mom had been writing poetry for years. "Have we met?" he asked her before using the poem as lyrics for Marlysse's music.
A Greek ex-wife had inspired the song "Maybe I Love You," and Laura quipped, "By the way, Rei's Mom's song is our only happy song we sing. And now it's back to real life."
True perhaps, but sadness sounded exquisitely beautiful, as on "Lost in Love" where Laura (who joked, "More suffering!") sang the first half in Portuguese and Rei the second in Spanish and an audience member called out, "Cool!" and she responded "Cool is right!"
Don't mess with a female-fronted band, son.
After their set, I did some more mingling, hearing about how well a friend's love life is going, enjoying the story of a first-time babysitter feeding potato chips to his charge and congratulating a musician friend on her recently completed Kickstarter campaign.
Last up were the Richmanian Ramblers doing their inspired kind of gypsy music about tolls and ferries, farm animals and drinking goggles.
Singer Antonia had stylishly coordinated her ensemble and hair ribbon with her accordion for a symphony in red, black and white.
A couple of my friends had never heard them before despite bassist Nate being a neighbor so they were blown away by Antonia's voice and the pleasures of clapping to tavern music on many of the songs.
With two violinists, a clarinetist, a percussionist, guitarist, bassist, accordion player and Antonia, it was a big, full sound to entertain the still good-sized crowd that had hung around on a Monday night.
An awful lot of people said something to me about what a terrific bill it was.
Some raved about how it was our own little folk fest with Turkish, Latin and Romanian music played while others marveled at the power of the women at the center of these bands.
And actually, not just at the center singing. Miramar had a fabulous female piano player and the Ramblers had a female violinist and percussionist, bringing their estrogen count to three.
I didn't bring nearly enough chocolates to gift my people.
Already, someone has posted online saying, "What a great night! Thank you all so much! I hope you make this happen again sometime soon."
Maybe if it happened often enough, it wouldn't seem like such a big deal to get so much girl power onstage in one night.
Nah, I'm pretty sure it was every bit as amazing a night of music as everyone in the room listening thought it was.
I'm thinking For the Love of Chocolate needs to sponsor their tour.
Taking Will's advice, I'll just stand on stage and listen.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Better Off Alive
I really couldn't have asked for more interesting men to spend my day with.
After a sunny, music-filled road trip to the northern neck, I wound up at the studio of a man named Jim who makes guitars for a living. And not just any guitars, but ones that start at $6,000 and go up.
Even better, the first thing he wanted to know was if I'd eaten lunch yet. So not only was I going to spend the next couple hours hearing about these one of a kind instruments he crafts, but he was going to feed me, too.
Score.
We walked to The Corner, which wasn't really on a true corner, at least not the kind we have in the city, but we were far from anything urban-like, so I let it slide.
It was everything you'd expect from a river restaurant, from the tiki bar on the front porch to the pool table and dart board in the back room.
When I asked what he recommended, he said his wife thought their crabcake the best in the state, so I ordered it, at least up until he asked for a Jim burger.
Both the server and I wanted to know what this off-menu item was and found out: burger with double cheese, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Also known as a Karen burger.
Let's just say I changed my order.
We did a good part of the interview there, allowing for bad jokes and segues into the unlikeliest of topics - the sex lives of parents (my fault), men who can fix anything (both he and his father) and the causes of E.D. (he brought that one up) - but always coming back to his love of being a luthier.
After another hour back in his studio admiring these works of art he makes by hand (ever seen a harp-guitar replica? I have...now), it was time for me to hit the road again.
Instructing me to "drive safe," I did my best, ending up at Good Luck Cellars where the next man I was interviewing was out on his tractor plowing rows for the new batch of vines to be planted next week.
You have to admire a man who handles a tractor well.
His wife and I strolled down toward where he was working while a car pulling into the tasting room parking lot let out a wolf whistle in our direction.
As she put it, "I'll take it." That made two of us.
Once he'd joined us and washed his hands of the terroir, the two of us headed up to the cupola with a 360-degree view of the rolling land, various plantings and multiple houses for the pack of winery dogs, all rescued hounds (be still, my heart) to chat.
A former orthopedic surgeon who bought the property ten years ago and now lives there full-time, I sensed the passion he'd once put into medicine now transferred to the farming life.
It was fascinating listening to him wax poetic about the shift to a rural life, the learning curve of farming and winemaking (helped considerably by the consultants he brought in) and his enthusiasm for becoming part of the northern neck community.
His passion for his new life was all over his face when he took me down into the cellar, where with a beatific smile on his face, he said, "This is my heaven."
Mine followed as he handed me pours from the tanks as we made our way around the huge room, glasses in hand before making it into the barrel room.
You see, this is what is called "research" in my business and is part of why I'm willing to be a dirt poor freelance writer.
By the time I waved goodbye to the grape farmers, I was barely able to make it back to the big city in time to catch tonight's music panel discussion at Candela Gallery.
It's part of this weekend's "The Great Busk Event," three days of focusing on street performance, in tribute to Jackson Ward's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson.
See: statue at Leigh and Adams streets.
I'd figured I'd miss the beginning of it all, but walked in to find everyone still in full-on mingle mode and stopped to chat with a favorite Americana musician who was noticeably hatless because he's decided to grow out his hair. The neighborhood fabricator, whom I seem to run into everywhere now, was there, as was the photographer I met at the ladies' arm wrestling night who's also turning up wherever I do.
Eventually we took seats so the panel could begin enlightening us.
Here's the first fun fact I learned: busk is Spanish for "to seek." And, sure, buskers seek money in the hat laying on the sidewalk, but they seek much more than that, as we heard from the panelists.
WRIR DJ Carlito moderated a panel of musicians, some of whom busk and some who never have, on the subject of folk music and where they pull their influences from.
Answers were all over the place, with many coming from outside the U.S., places like France, Spain, Romania, Egypt and Chile.
Accordionist Barry cited a Jewish cantor and Richmond's Tobacco parade of yesteryear, with the Armstrong and Walker marching bands recalled as the best musicians in town.
Laney of Lobo Marino, said that her band's extensive travels informed their music, meaning every album showed different influences. "We're modern gypsies," she explained.
Salsa pianist Marlysse talked about the difficulty of busking when your instrument is so large and you haven't mastered the accordion.
After a grazing break, we gathered for music from our panel.
Herschel did his idol, Randy Newman's "Better Off Dead" accompanied by his baritone ukulele, making sure we knew he has the only baritone uke in town and even name checking another uke player who claims hers is a baritone. Not so, he said.
The Richmanian Ramblers' Nate played his Czechoslovakian upright bass to demonstrate the difference between desperation and longing in Romanian gypsy music, playing a couple of songs to prove his point. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows were nowhere to be found in his music.
DJ Mikemetic talked about the art of DJ'ing and the challenge of trying to get people to dance to music they've never heard before.
Barry, the accordion player, and Khalima, a belly dancer, began with an improvisational piece before doing an 800-year old song called "Surrender," an eventuality if you'd seen Khalima's stunning dancing.
Midway through the song, Nate picked up his bass and began playing along, providing some deep, rhythmic notes to the performance.
Last up was Laney, who did a traditional Hindu call and response chant with musical partner Jameson sitting in his seat next to me before soloing on one of their original spirituals, the jubilant "Celebrate," a song impossible to tire of, no matter how many times I hear it.
The time has come for us to celebrate, celebrate
For all we are, we can not hesitate, hesitate
Who's got time to hesitate when there are luthiers to lunch with, winemakers to sip with and buskers to entertain me?
Like them, for me it's all about the seeking.
After a sunny, music-filled road trip to the northern neck, I wound up at the studio of a man named Jim who makes guitars for a living. And not just any guitars, but ones that start at $6,000 and go up.
Even better, the first thing he wanted to know was if I'd eaten lunch yet. So not only was I going to spend the next couple hours hearing about these one of a kind instruments he crafts, but he was going to feed me, too.
Score.
We walked to The Corner, which wasn't really on a true corner, at least not the kind we have in the city, but we were far from anything urban-like, so I let it slide.
It was everything you'd expect from a river restaurant, from the tiki bar on the front porch to the pool table and dart board in the back room.
When I asked what he recommended, he said his wife thought their crabcake the best in the state, so I ordered it, at least up until he asked for a Jim burger.
Both the server and I wanted to know what this off-menu item was and found out: burger with double cheese, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Also known as a Karen burger.
Let's just say I changed my order.
We did a good part of the interview there, allowing for bad jokes and segues into the unlikeliest of topics - the sex lives of parents (my fault), men who can fix anything (both he and his father) and the causes of E.D. (he brought that one up) - but always coming back to his love of being a luthier.
After another hour back in his studio admiring these works of art he makes by hand (ever seen a harp-guitar replica? I have...now), it was time for me to hit the road again.
Instructing me to "drive safe," I did my best, ending up at Good Luck Cellars where the next man I was interviewing was out on his tractor plowing rows for the new batch of vines to be planted next week.
You have to admire a man who handles a tractor well.
His wife and I strolled down toward where he was working while a car pulling into the tasting room parking lot let out a wolf whistle in our direction.
As she put it, "I'll take it." That made two of us.
Once he'd joined us and washed his hands of the terroir, the two of us headed up to the cupola with a 360-degree view of the rolling land, various plantings and multiple houses for the pack of winery dogs, all rescued hounds (be still, my heart) to chat.
A former orthopedic surgeon who bought the property ten years ago and now lives there full-time, I sensed the passion he'd once put into medicine now transferred to the farming life.
It was fascinating listening to him wax poetic about the shift to a rural life, the learning curve of farming and winemaking (helped considerably by the consultants he brought in) and his enthusiasm for becoming part of the northern neck community.
His passion for his new life was all over his face when he took me down into the cellar, where with a beatific smile on his face, he said, "This is my heaven."
Mine followed as he handed me pours from the tanks as we made our way around the huge room, glasses in hand before making it into the barrel room.
You see, this is what is called "research" in my business and is part of why I'm willing to be a dirt poor freelance writer.
By the time I waved goodbye to the grape farmers, I was barely able to make it back to the big city in time to catch tonight's music panel discussion at Candela Gallery.
It's part of this weekend's "The Great Busk Event," three days of focusing on street performance, in tribute to Jackson Ward's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson.
See: statue at Leigh and Adams streets.
I'd figured I'd miss the beginning of it all, but walked in to find everyone still in full-on mingle mode and stopped to chat with a favorite Americana musician who was noticeably hatless because he's decided to grow out his hair. The neighborhood fabricator, whom I seem to run into everywhere now, was there, as was the photographer I met at the ladies' arm wrestling night who's also turning up wherever I do.
Eventually we took seats so the panel could begin enlightening us.
Here's the first fun fact I learned: busk is Spanish for "to seek." And, sure, buskers seek money in the hat laying on the sidewalk, but they seek much more than that, as we heard from the panelists.
WRIR DJ Carlito moderated a panel of musicians, some of whom busk and some who never have, on the subject of folk music and where they pull their influences from.
Answers were all over the place, with many coming from outside the U.S., places like France, Spain, Romania, Egypt and Chile.
Accordionist Barry cited a Jewish cantor and Richmond's Tobacco parade of yesteryear, with the Armstrong and Walker marching bands recalled as the best musicians in town.
Laney of Lobo Marino, said that her band's extensive travels informed their music, meaning every album showed different influences. "We're modern gypsies," she explained.
Salsa pianist Marlysse talked about the difficulty of busking when your instrument is so large and you haven't mastered the accordion.
After a grazing break, we gathered for music from our panel.
Herschel did his idol, Randy Newman's "Better Off Dead" accompanied by his baritone ukulele, making sure we knew he has the only baritone uke in town and even name checking another uke player who claims hers is a baritone. Not so, he said.
The Richmanian Ramblers' Nate played his Czechoslovakian upright bass to demonstrate the difference between desperation and longing in Romanian gypsy music, playing a couple of songs to prove his point. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows were nowhere to be found in his music.
DJ Mikemetic talked about the art of DJ'ing and the challenge of trying to get people to dance to music they've never heard before.
Barry, the accordion player, and Khalima, a belly dancer, began with an improvisational piece before doing an 800-year old song called "Surrender," an eventuality if you'd seen Khalima's stunning dancing.
Midway through the song, Nate picked up his bass and began playing along, providing some deep, rhythmic notes to the performance.
Last up was Laney, who did a traditional Hindu call and response chant with musical partner Jameson sitting in his seat next to me before soloing on one of their original spirituals, the jubilant "Celebrate," a song impossible to tire of, no matter how many times I hear it.
The time has come for us to celebrate, celebrate
For all we are, we can not hesitate, hesitate
Who's got time to hesitate when there are luthiers to lunch with, winemakers to sip with and buskers to entertain me?
Like them, for me it's all about the seeking.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Guerrilla Gypsy Music
It was the grand finale of my four-week foray into tactical urbanism.
For the last of the meetings dedicated to "The Ephemeral Plan: Brook Road," the hardworking cadre of neighbors, local workers and city officials was treated to food from Max's on Broad.
Country pate, olive tapenade and salumi with grilled bread, roast beef sliders, cheese, flat bread and fruit were laid out in abundance before tonight's conclusion-drawing began.
Eating with half my favorite J-Ward couple, the other half being home and under the weather, I heard about their recent trip to snow country featuring cross country skiing and moonshine, although not at the same time. At least I'm pretty sure.
After three weeks of brainstorming, sketching, site trips and endless discussion, all the groups' suggestions had been synthesized into one simple plan for small scale, temporary interventions to reshape and improve the triangle at Brook and Broad Streets.
Many, but not all, of my group's bright ideas made it onto the final design: closing Brook Road at Broad with large planters, using the closed-off street for public tables and chairs, adding a colorful triangular crosswalk to make it safer and easier to cross Adams and Brook and painting a bright circle to delineate an area for public speaking.
But it was in the discussion that ensued that some of the design was refined to a point closer to what it needs to be, at least in my opinion as a nearly eight-year resident of Jackson Ward.
The people who made it to the fourth session are, like me, committed to being part of the movement that changes the look and function of that gateway to our neighborhood, so much so that at the end one woman raised her hand and asked point blank, "Okay, what do we need to do now to start making some of this happen?"
Answer: bypass some of the legal rigmarole and go guerrilla on the changes. Paint the circle and see what happens. Do the crosswalks in colorful chalk or tempera paint before a first Friday art walk and then count the people who use it.
Short story? Go Gandhi and be the change you want to see in theworld 'hood.
In doing so, we'll be instruments of my favorite new term, tactical urbanism, changing how an area is perceived or currently works.
If any area could use a change in both, it's our little triangle. Now we just have ti figure out how we can paint a three-way intersection without being run over in the process.
But that's a problem for another week, so after bidding farewell to all the new neighbors I've met over the past month, I took my hired mouth to meet a friend and have some grub.
It wasn't difficult to talk him into joining me, either, because he's had some major goings-on in his life lately and desperately needed a distraction.
I can be the queen of diversions or so I've been told.
Once I finished the work portion of the night, I talked him into making tracks for Balliceaux because if I was sure of anything, it was that a) he never makes time to go out for music and b) he'd never heard Romanian gypsy music live.
We took care of two birds with one stone by finding seats moments before the Richmanian Ramblers began their set.
I don't care how much you have on your mind or how many things are weighing on your shoulders, it's practically impossible to refrain from tapping your feet or fingers once the tavern music of Romania starts playing.
Every song's a drinking song, every song has a call to the crowd to toast or dance or somehow participate in the shared revelry, whether it's a song about not paying the ferryman, how wine tastes or dancing with too many partners.
It doesn't hurt that the band's sound is rich, combining clarinet, upright bass, accordions, violin, drum, tambourine and guitar for rollicking melodies that finally got a couple up and dancing around the room by the last song.
I probably should have grabbed my friend, clapped a hand on his shoulder and started dancing him around the room to make him forget all about the present craziness in his life. Or more likely, make him laugh hysterically at my attempted gypsy dance moves.
See: Stevie Nicks.
What's a little personal embarrassment when ensuring a friend has a fun night when he needs it most?
For the last of the meetings dedicated to "The Ephemeral Plan: Brook Road," the hardworking cadre of neighbors, local workers and city officials was treated to food from Max's on Broad.
Country pate, olive tapenade and salumi with grilled bread, roast beef sliders, cheese, flat bread and fruit were laid out in abundance before tonight's conclusion-drawing began.
Eating with half my favorite J-Ward couple, the other half being home and under the weather, I heard about their recent trip to snow country featuring cross country skiing and moonshine, although not at the same time. At least I'm pretty sure.
After three weeks of brainstorming, sketching, site trips and endless discussion, all the groups' suggestions had been synthesized into one simple plan for small scale, temporary interventions to reshape and improve the triangle at Brook and Broad Streets.
Many, but not all, of my group's bright ideas made it onto the final design: closing Brook Road at Broad with large planters, using the closed-off street for public tables and chairs, adding a colorful triangular crosswalk to make it safer and easier to cross Adams and Brook and painting a bright circle to delineate an area for public speaking.
But it was in the discussion that ensued that some of the design was refined to a point closer to what it needs to be, at least in my opinion as a nearly eight-year resident of Jackson Ward.
The people who made it to the fourth session are, like me, committed to being part of the movement that changes the look and function of that gateway to our neighborhood, so much so that at the end one woman raised her hand and asked point blank, "Okay, what do we need to do now to start making some of this happen?"
Answer: bypass some of the legal rigmarole and go guerrilla on the changes. Paint the circle and see what happens. Do the crosswalks in colorful chalk or tempera paint before a first Friday art walk and then count the people who use it.
Short story? Go Gandhi and be the change you want to see in the
In doing so, we'll be instruments of my favorite new term, tactical urbanism, changing how an area is perceived or currently works.
If any area could use a change in both, it's our little triangle. Now we just have ti figure out how we can paint a three-way intersection without being run over in the process.
But that's a problem for another week, so after bidding farewell to all the new neighbors I've met over the past month, I took my hired mouth to meet a friend and have some grub.
It wasn't difficult to talk him into joining me, either, because he's had some major goings-on in his life lately and desperately needed a distraction.
I can be the queen of diversions or so I've been told.
Once I finished the work portion of the night, I talked him into making tracks for Balliceaux because if I was sure of anything, it was that a) he never makes time to go out for music and b) he'd never heard Romanian gypsy music live.
We took care of two birds with one stone by finding seats moments before the Richmanian Ramblers began their set.
I don't care how much you have on your mind or how many things are weighing on your shoulders, it's practically impossible to refrain from tapping your feet or fingers once the tavern music of Romania starts playing.
Every song's a drinking song, every song has a call to the crowd to toast or dance or somehow participate in the shared revelry, whether it's a song about not paying the ferryman, how wine tastes or dancing with too many partners.
It doesn't hurt that the band's sound is rich, combining clarinet, upright bass, accordions, violin, drum, tambourine and guitar for rollicking melodies that finally got a couple up and dancing around the room by the last song.
I probably should have grabbed my friend, clapped a hand on his shoulder and started dancing him around the room to make him forget all about the present craziness in his life. Or more likely, make him laugh hysterically at my attempted gypsy dance moves.
See: Stevie Nicks.
What's a little personal embarrassment when ensuring a friend has a fun night when he needs it most?
Monday, February 3, 2014
Gypsies, Tramps and Cheese
Ipanema said it first. "You know what this Superbowl needs? More tambourine."
As luck would have it, the Richmanian Ramblers were playing there tonight, thus giving some of us somewhere to go that didn't involve a screen but promised a tambourine.
The band had doubled in size since I'd first seen them, now up to eight musicians, with singer Antonia looking devastatingly beautiful in a black dress with red belt, red earrings and red scarf on her head.
The miracle of it was that all eight of them were somehow able to fit in that tiny front space to which bands are relegated for the monthly Live at Ipanema show.
Perhaps it was the absence of amps.
And while I have seen the Ramblers many times, I've also discovered some really interesting bands for the first time through this stellar series.
It was a small but mighty crowd (with a few jerseys worn) who came out for Romanian folk music set to multiple accordions, upright bass, clarinet, drum/tambourine, guitar and two violins.
Frankly, after a weekend spent in my own company, I'd come not just for the music but for some conversation with whomever I found.
I empathized with the sax player whose car had been towed last night not long after I saw him driving down Broad Street at 12:30 a.m. and chatted with the musical couple who'd just come from performing at a folk mass to a small, Superbowl-ravaged congregation.
It was while I was eating a slice of red velvet cake, or at least all the parts directly attached to the icing, that the band decided to introduce themselves, noting that they'd chosen "ramblers" as part of their name because, according to bassist Nate, "It was the cheesiest name we could have picked.'
Beginning with a wedding song, they moved on to a Croatian song about having dinner with your sweetheart, although not a particularly fancy one given the meal: potatoes, brown bread and scallion.
Nate said that they'd added Croatian and Serbian songs to their repertoire to make things harder on himself and Antonia when they sang.
Well done, sir. 'Cause singing Romanian wasn't hard enough.
We heard a song about how wine tastes better when you drink with attractive people and bad when drinking with ugly ones, necessitating Antonia saying, "My wine tastes good!"
Drinking must be a common theme in eastern Europe, because we then heard, "Little Bottle" with Nate shouting "ha ha!" periodically and a Serbian dancing song where the singer's partners have a different name with every verse.
"I wouldn't be cool with that," Antonia stated for the record.
There was a song about crossing the river, not on the ferry, but on your girlfriend's back ("Which is kind of awesome," she enthused) and one she described as kind of like that song, "I'd Do Anything for Love But I Won't Do That," except in Romanian.
The beauty of the additional musicians was a much fuller sound and more voices for the choruses and inevitable sha-shas and ha-has that seem to run through gypsy music, no matter what the language.
I'd have to say my favorite element was the clarinet, a slithering, sinuous woodwind that wound its way through the other instruments to give the songs a distinctive gypsy sound.
And don't even get me started on the tambourine, the saving grace on Superbowl Sunday.
With only five songs left, Nate explained, "All of these songs have been danced to at some point in the song's history, so you might as well get started on that now."
Sad to say, no dancing commenced.
A song about a young and old man arguing that death was the only cure for life was enlivened by the discovery that the cure for life comes in a bottle. "Let's drink to that!" Nate said and glasses were raised throughout the bar.
After a dirty counting song and the title song of their album, "World, Sister, World" about the cruelness of the world ("Not coolness," Antonia clarified) they ended with a dancing song that still failed to get the crowd dancing.
But it did get them hollering for one more song and the Richmanian Ramblers obliged with a song about a dowry, which may be a romantic topic in Romania because the guy near me put his arm around his girlfriend and cooed, "What about our dowry?"
A smart man would have had her up and dancing five songs ago. Or perhaps that's what they were going to do when they left.
The rest of us happily made do with tambourine instead of pigskin.
Not only was I cool with that, I say let's drink to that. Spoken like a true gypsy.
As luck would have it, the Richmanian Ramblers were playing there tonight, thus giving some of us somewhere to go that didn't involve a screen but promised a tambourine.
The band had doubled in size since I'd first seen them, now up to eight musicians, with singer Antonia looking devastatingly beautiful in a black dress with red belt, red earrings and red scarf on her head.
The miracle of it was that all eight of them were somehow able to fit in that tiny front space to which bands are relegated for the monthly Live at Ipanema show.
Perhaps it was the absence of amps.
And while I have seen the Ramblers many times, I've also discovered some really interesting bands for the first time through this stellar series.
It was a small but mighty crowd (with a few jerseys worn) who came out for Romanian folk music set to multiple accordions, upright bass, clarinet, drum/tambourine, guitar and two violins.
Frankly, after a weekend spent in my own company, I'd come not just for the music but for some conversation with whomever I found.
I empathized with the sax player whose car had been towed last night not long after I saw him driving down Broad Street at 12:30 a.m. and chatted with the musical couple who'd just come from performing at a folk mass to a small, Superbowl-ravaged congregation.
It was while I was eating a slice of red velvet cake, or at least all the parts directly attached to the icing, that the band decided to introduce themselves, noting that they'd chosen "ramblers" as part of their name because, according to bassist Nate, "It was the cheesiest name we could have picked.'
Beginning with a wedding song, they moved on to a Croatian song about having dinner with your sweetheart, although not a particularly fancy one given the meal: potatoes, brown bread and scallion.
Nate said that they'd added Croatian and Serbian songs to their repertoire to make things harder on himself and Antonia when they sang.
Well done, sir. 'Cause singing Romanian wasn't hard enough.
We heard a song about how wine tastes better when you drink with attractive people and bad when drinking with ugly ones, necessitating Antonia saying, "My wine tastes good!"
Drinking must be a common theme in eastern Europe, because we then heard, "Little Bottle" with Nate shouting "ha ha!" periodically and a Serbian dancing song where the singer's partners have a different name with every verse.
"I wouldn't be cool with that," Antonia stated for the record.
There was a song about crossing the river, not on the ferry, but on your girlfriend's back ("Which is kind of awesome," she enthused) and one she described as kind of like that song, "I'd Do Anything for Love But I Won't Do That," except in Romanian.
The beauty of the additional musicians was a much fuller sound and more voices for the choruses and inevitable sha-shas and ha-has that seem to run through gypsy music, no matter what the language.
I'd have to say my favorite element was the clarinet, a slithering, sinuous woodwind that wound its way through the other instruments to give the songs a distinctive gypsy sound.
And don't even get me started on the tambourine, the saving grace on Superbowl Sunday.
With only five songs left, Nate explained, "All of these songs have been danced to at some point in the song's history, so you might as well get started on that now."
Sad to say, no dancing commenced.
A song about a young and old man arguing that death was the only cure for life was enlivened by the discovery that the cure for life comes in a bottle. "Let's drink to that!" Nate said and glasses were raised throughout the bar.
After a dirty counting song and the title song of their album, "World, Sister, World" about the cruelness of the world ("Not coolness," Antonia clarified) they ended with a dancing song that still failed to get the crowd dancing.
But it did get them hollering for one more song and the Richmanian Ramblers obliged with a song about a dowry, which may be a romantic topic in Romania because the guy near me put his arm around his girlfriend and cooed, "What about our dowry?"
A smart man would have had her up and dancing five songs ago. Or perhaps that's what they were going to do when they left.
The rest of us happily made do with tambourine instead of pigskin.
Not only was I cool with that, I say let's drink to that. Spoken like a true gypsy.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Getting the Party Started
I may have missed the cute boys, but at least I'm back at the business of real life.
A friend wanted to meet for dinner, so she picked me up in her warm car and we took the scenic route to Tio Pablo.
I say scenic because we drove by the work-in-progress Jackson Commons that has the neighbors' panties in a wad.
It pays to stay up on what's going on in the neighborhood.
Further east, we found rock star parking in front of Julep and moseyed down the block for Mexican.
Our purpose was twofold: to enjoy a gluten-free meal (a necessity for her) and to introduce her to the world of tequila.
As it turned out, for the second time in two days, I also introduced her to tongue.
We began with Espolon, my new favorite well-priced tequila, and moved on to tongue tacos, carnitas and an array of sides.
Guacamole, grilled onions, nopales and black beans provided more side dishes than we could finish.
I watched her take a solitary bite of tongue to gauge the taste (our bartender had described it as "pot roast" and that's not far off) before devouring the whole taco.
Another tongue convert. My chest swelled with pride.
The music was awesome, ranging from "What's Going On" to a Spanish version of "Be My Baby," and all played at a volume that, as she said, kept others from overhearing us.
Conversely, I liked that it was loud enough to add to the overall vibe so we didn't have to listen to other people's chatter.
At one point, we were deep in a discussion of the local food scene, how simple men are and how tweeting sucks the life out of a person.
Being a confirmed non-tweeter, I wouldn't know.
Suddenly her eyes widened as someone walked by and before I could formulate a thought, she said, "I think Yoda just walked by."
Not true, although the tiny man did have a certain wizened look.
Once my friend had conquered the nuances of smoky Espolon Reposado, we decided to try a second tequila to further broaden her horizons.
"86 Cazadores," the bartender told the staff moments before I tried to order one for us to share.
We settled for Hornitos Reposado, which my friend found greener and with a livelier mid-palate taste.
I was just pleased that she was finding tequila to be up her alley, although there's no telling where that might lead us in the future.
We concluded our gabfest with tres leches cake because they offered a gluten-free version which thrilled my friend no end.
Me, I was just happy about the icing.
By the time our conversation wound down, it was us and one table by the door and the bartender was bored enough to be going on smoke breaks in between telling us how she liked to alternate good tequila with white zinfandel.
You can't buy that kind of entertainment.
One thing the tequila had done to the first-timer was finish her off for the night, so she deposited me at home and I promptly went out for music.
And thank goodness we're far enough out of the holiday season that music was even an option.
Balliceaux was hosting the Richmanian Ramblers, our local purveyors of Romanian gypsy music, with Allison Self also playing.
I walked in to find a couple of good friends holding court up front, but I moved on to the back for music, sure they'd follow.
There was a stop at the front bar, where the barkeep introduced me to a handsome man with an accent, saying, "I don't know how you two haven't met before."
I guess because I don't force myself on absolutely everyone.
Lead singer Antonia is in the last month of her pregnancy, so I was surprised she was even willing to do a Ramblers show, but there she was, looking fit and fab in a non-maternity dress stretched over her perfect little baby-laden body.
Everyone must have realized that this was our last chance for gypsy music for a while because I found friends and strangers galore in back.
The photographer (using his phone rather than a camera tonight), the favorite musical couple just back from a six-month tour, the horn player switching places with me because the tallest man in the room decided to stand right in front of me, the bluegrass king, assorted Listening Room regulars.
Taking the stage, the band introduced themselves, saying, "We're the Richmanian Ramblers and we're going to play for the next 42 minutes for you."
They kept their word, moving from drinking song to toll bridge song to dowry song.
A guy came up and stood next to me at one point, leaning over to say, "I feel like people should be dancing."
It was true; with tavern music of this caliber, we should all be dancing, but sadly, no one was.
I say sadly because far too many of them were chatting over the sound of Antonia's exquisite voice singing in Romanian.
It was easily the most inattentive Ramblers audience I've yet to experience.
I'm going to cut them some slack and guess that they were just glad that they were out at a show and not still home with relatives.
But that meant they missed when the band did the "sheep love song," which Antonia defended as "not dirty" when it began with a few bars of "Mary Had a Little lamb."
Leader Nate finished by saying that he didn't know when the band could play again because Antonia's bedtime was now 8:45.
Quickly, she corrected him, reminding him that he'd wanted to schedule a show for January 28th, or roughly her due date.
Men, her look seemed to say, are such simple creatures.
During the break, I found my road tripping friend, hearing his stories from their recent tour.
We covered Chincoteague, quirky small towns, sleeping naked and nudist with shoes and socks on, all before Allison Self took the stage.
Wearing a black dress and tan cowboy boots, she proceeded to dominate the room with her big voice.
There were all the usual suspects - Carter Family, "Your Cheatin'Heart," Loretta Lynn, "Don't Come Home A-Drinkin' with Lovin' on Your Mind" as well as original material.
At one point, two thirds of the band Arise, Sweet Donkey! was onstage when Laney of Lobo Marino came up to join her former bandmate Allison for a couple of songs.
"Three years ago, this was your accordion solo," Allison told Laney mid-song.
We did at least get some harmonizing from the two before the set ended, always a real pleasure given how beautiful the two voices sound together.
And maybe that's all I needed, to hear some music to feel like things are finally righting themselves after the holiday.
When I got home, it was to a message from a girlfriend, saying, "I know it's last minute, but I'm having aget-together at Gallery 5 tonight, so come out! It's over by 11, free booze, cute guys. Wear a mini-skirt!"
That's a hell of an invitation, but I was a bit late to consider it.
Although I was already dressed perfectly for it.
Fortunately, the season has restarted, so there'll be other offers.
About damn time.
A friend wanted to meet for dinner, so she picked me up in her warm car and we took the scenic route to Tio Pablo.
I say scenic because we drove by the work-in-progress Jackson Commons that has the neighbors' panties in a wad.
It pays to stay up on what's going on in the neighborhood.
Further east, we found rock star parking in front of Julep and moseyed down the block for Mexican.
Our purpose was twofold: to enjoy a gluten-free meal (a necessity for her) and to introduce her to the world of tequila.
As it turned out, for the second time in two days, I also introduced her to tongue.
We began with Espolon, my new favorite well-priced tequila, and moved on to tongue tacos, carnitas and an array of sides.
Guacamole, grilled onions, nopales and black beans provided more side dishes than we could finish.
I watched her take a solitary bite of tongue to gauge the taste (our bartender had described it as "pot roast" and that's not far off) before devouring the whole taco.
Another tongue convert. My chest swelled with pride.
The music was awesome, ranging from "What's Going On" to a Spanish version of "Be My Baby," and all played at a volume that, as she said, kept others from overhearing us.
Conversely, I liked that it was loud enough to add to the overall vibe so we didn't have to listen to other people's chatter.
At one point, we were deep in a discussion of the local food scene, how simple men are and how tweeting sucks the life out of a person.
Being a confirmed non-tweeter, I wouldn't know.
Suddenly her eyes widened as someone walked by and before I could formulate a thought, she said, "I think Yoda just walked by."
Not true, although the tiny man did have a certain wizened look.
Once my friend had conquered the nuances of smoky Espolon Reposado, we decided to try a second tequila to further broaden her horizons.
"86 Cazadores," the bartender told the staff moments before I tried to order one for us to share.
We settled for Hornitos Reposado, which my friend found greener and with a livelier mid-palate taste.
I was just pleased that she was finding tequila to be up her alley, although there's no telling where that might lead us in the future.
We concluded our gabfest with tres leches cake because they offered a gluten-free version which thrilled my friend no end.
Me, I was just happy about the icing.
By the time our conversation wound down, it was us and one table by the door and the bartender was bored enough to be going on smoke breaks in between telling us how she liked to alternate good tequila with white zinfandel.
You can't buy that kind of entertainment.
One thing the tequila had done to the first-timer was finish her off for the night, so she deposited me at home and I promptly went out for music.
And thank goodness we're far enough out of the holiday season that music was even an option.
Balliceaux was hosting the Richmanian Ramblers, our local purveyors of Romanian gypsy music, with Allison Self also playing.
I walked in to find a couple of good friends holding court up front, but I moved on to the back for music, sure they'd follow.
There was a stop at the front bar, where the barkeep introduced me to a handsome man with an accent, saying, "I don't know how you two haven't met before."
I guess because I don't force myself on absolutely everyone.
Lead singer Antonia is in the last month of her pregnancy, so I was surprised she was even willing to do a Ramblers show, but there she was, looking fit and fab in a non-maternity dress stretched over her perfect little baby-laden body.
Everyone must have realized that this was our last chance for gypsy music for a while because I found friends and strangers galore in back.
The photographer (using his phone rather than a camera tonight), the favorite musical couple just back from a six-month tour, the horn player switching places with me because the tallest man in the room decided to stand right in front of me, the bluegrass king, assorted Listening Room regulars.
Taking the stage, the band introduced themselves, saying, "We're the Richmanian Ramblers and we're going to play for the next 42 minutes for you."
They kept their word, moving from drinking song to toll bridge song to dowry song.
A guy came up and stood next to me at one point, leaning over to say, "I feel like people should be dancing."
It was true; with tavern music of this caliber, we should all be dancing, but sadly, no one was.
I say sadly because far too many of them were chatting over the sound of Antonia's exquisite voice singing in Romanian.
It was easily the most inattentive Ramblers audience I've yet to experience.
I'm going to cut them some slack and guess that they were just glad that they were out at a show and not still home with relatives.
But that meant they missed when the band did the "sheep love song," which Antonia defended as "not dirty" when it began with a few bars of "Mary Had a Little lamb."
Leader Nate finished by saying that he didn't know when the band could play again because Antonia's bedtime was now 8:45.
Quickly, she corrected him, reminding him that he'd wanted to schedule a show for January 28th, or roughly her due date.
Men, her look seemed to say, are such simple creatures.
During the break, I found my road tripping friend, hearing his stories from their recent tour.
We covered Chincoteague, quirky small towns, sleeping naked and nudist with shoes and socks on, all before Allison Self took the stage.
Wearing a black dress and tan cowboy boots, she proceeded to dominate the room with her big voice.
There were all the usual suspects - Carter Family, "Your Cheatin'Heart," Loretta Lynn, "Don't Come Home A-Drinkin' with Lovin' on Your Mind" as well as original material.
At one point, two thirds of the band Arise, Sweet Donkey! was onstage when Laney of Lobo Marino came up to join her former bandmate Allison for a couple of songs.
"Three years ago, this was your accordion solo," Allison told Laney mid-song.
We did at least get some harmonizing from the two before the set ended, always a real pleasure given how beautiful the two voices sound together.
And maybe that's all I needed, to hear some music to feel like things are finally righting themselves after the holiday.
When I got home, it was to a message from a girlfriend, saying, "I know it's last minute, but I'm having aget-together at Gallery 5 tonight, so come out! It's over by 11, free booze, cute guys. Wear a mini-skirt!"
That's a hell of an invitation, but I was a bit late to consider it.
Although I was already dressed perfectly for it.
Fortunately, the season has restarted, so there'll be other offers.
About damn time.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Proof in the Pudding
Apparently some people have a crises of music.
As in, a friend mentioned how his friend wanted to meet up to discuss his latest issue.
The problem? Not job woes. Not a relationship faux pas. No alarming diagnosis.
His friend is convinced that Richmond's music scene is dying.
"Go out with me for one night and I'll prove you wrong," my friend told the disillusioned one.
And tonight would have been a perfect example of the diversity of local music there for the taking.
First up, the Listening Room, where cardigan-wearing Jonathan did emcee duties, rambled a bit and then said, "Here they come and here I go."
Corny, maybe but as a friend observed as he walked off, "Jonathan may be about to become a father but he has all the makings of a grandfather."
The "they" he'd mentioned were the Black Brothers, as in Black like the VCU music building, and a quartet of guitar, drums, bass and trumpet.
Their sound was southern, bluesy and, unlike most Listening Room sets, fully electric with drums.
We don't often get drummer face-making at the Listening Room, but we did tonight, except when he had a drumstick in his mouth.
For that matter, we don't often see a pair of loafers or an argyle sweater on the Listening Room stage, either.
As if that weren't different enough, the room was darkened and there were two turntables on stage, both with lights under glass spinning on them for the grooviest of light shows.
We heard "80 Grams," a song about Heath Ledger, "Holding Back," a new song they'd never played live and a dedication to the guitarist's mom on her birthday.
Just when I'd been lulled into listening to them like another indie band, the horn would come in or the drummer would start playing around and I'd remember, oh, yea, there are jazz nerds present.
When they finished, they said they had t-shirts and one CD for sale ("It's $100," the guitarist teased).
So, Exhibit A -southern blues with horn.
At the start of the second set, host Jonathan broke the bad news: he and wife Antonia will be less involved with the Listening Room for a while because of their upcoming spawn's arrival.
I think I saw Antonia tear up when he said it and, frankly, I felt the same.
But even misty, the mom-to-be looked fabulous with a red scarf in her hair, dangling red earrings and a beautiful blue flouncy skirt that qualified her for the queen of the gypsies.
Those two have been the bedrock of the L.R. evenings and their presence will be missed, even if it's only temporary.
And then for something completely different, the Richmanian Ramblers played.
The good people who bring us Romanian gypsy music for two violins, clarinet, upright bass, accordion and acoustic guitar came to sing about drinking, sheep and dancing.
"The next song is a dance song," bassist Nate warned us. "But you guys are sitting, so that won't work."
Vocalist Antonia piped up with, "But it's the Listening Room, so you can't talk, but you can dance. Quietly."
For the record, I saw no dancing, despite the song's call to move our bodies.
And here's another thing I never expected to hear at the L.R. "Here's a song about a terrible dowry."
After having seen them multiple times, I know my favorite tune is what's affectionately called "the sheep love song."
In it, a shepherdess and her shepherd boyfriend call to each other across the hills and I love their emotive call and response (not that I understand Romanian, but I get their intent).
I knew there were a lot of first-timers at the L.R. tonight and I love what a diverse program they experienced on their initial visit.
Okay, Exhibit B - Romanian gypsy music.
After the Listening Room, I headed to the Nile to meet a friend for the Malhombre show.
Why more music after two interesting bands?
Because Malhombre's melancholy rock with occasional forays into French pop is too irresistible not to introduce to a musician friend.
And more stylish than you can imagine, with the singer in cream-colored boots and the drummer in amazing plaid pants.
The duo began by saying, "How do you like our projections? It's our honeymoon pictures from Paris and Rome."
All kidding aside, the views projected showed ruins, Citroens and a definite sense of places other than Laurel Street.
Tonight's set was particularly civilized, with the twenty or so people there seated in chairs and raptly paying attention to singer/guitarist Blasco and his partner Giustino, working up a righteous sweat on the drums.
There was a song in French, a momentous song ("I wanna be in tune for this song cause it's important") and lots of major chords ("He plays all major chords," my musician friend observed. "Just when I think he's going to go all sad, he sounds happy.").
Naturally with the French involved, there was a song about being drunk and in love.
"At the same time!" interjected Giustino.
"I don't know if I've ever been love sober," cracked Blasco.
He passed his hat, telling the audience, "If any of you want to contribute to our life, you can." We did.
When they tried to end, the crowd called for more.
To top off a fine set, they played a "relationship song from the man's point of view."
Who knew there was such a thing?
Alright, Exhibit C - melancholy French pop/rock.
The music scene here has dried up? Seriously?
I'd say the crises is among those sitting at home while horns blow, sheep make love and major chords abound.
Call me crises-less.
As in, a friend mentioned how his friend wanted to meet up to discuss his latest issue.
The problem? Not job woes. Not a relationship faux pas. No alarming diagnosis.
His friend is convinced that Richmond's music scene is dying.
"Go out with me for one night and I'll prove you wrong," my friend told the disillusioned one.
And tonight would have been a perfect example of the diversity of local music there for the taking.
First up, the Listening Room, where cardigan-wearing Jonathan did emcee duties, rambled a bit and then said, "Here they come and here I go."
Corny, maybe but as a friend observed as he walked off, "Jonathan may be about to become a father but he has all the makings of a grandfather."
The "they" he'd mentioned were the Black Brothers, as in Black like the VCU music building, and a quartet of guitar, drums, bass and trumpet.
Their sound was southern, bluesy and, unlike most Listening Room sets, fully electric with drums.
We don't often get drummer face-making at the Listening Room, but we did tonight, except when he had a drumstick in his mouth.
For that matter, we don't often see a pair of loafers or an argyle sweater on the Listening Room stage, either.
As if that weren't different enough, the room was darkened and there were two turntables on stage, both with lights under glass spinning on them for the grooviest of light shows.
We heard "80 Grams," a song about Heath Ledger, "Holding Back," a new song they'd never played live and a dedication to the guitarist's mom on her birthday.
Just when I'd been lulled into listening to them like another indie band, the horn would come in or the drummer would start playing around and I'd remember, oh, yea, there are jazz nerds present.
When they finished, they said they had t-shirts and one CD for sale ("It's $100," the guitarist teased).
So, Exhibit A -southern blues with horn.
At the start of the second set, host Jonathan broke the bad news: he and wife Antonia will be less involved with the Listening Room for a while because of their upcoming spawn's arrival.
I think I saw Antonia tear up when he said it and, frankly, I felt the same.
But even misty, the mom-to-be looked fabulous with a red scarf in her hair, dangling red earrings and a beautiful blue flouncy skirt that qualified her for the queen of the gypsies.
Those two have been the bedrock of the L.R. evenings and their presence will be missed, even if it's only temporary.
And then for something completely different, the Richmanian Ramblers played.
The good people who bring us Romanian gypsy music for two violins, clarinet, upright bass, accordion and acoustic guitar came to sing about drinking, sheep and dancing.
"The next song is a dance song," bassist Nate warned us. "But you guys are sitting, so that won't work."
Vocalist Antonia piped up with, "But it's the Listening Room, so you can't talk, but you can dance. Quietly."
For the record, I saw no dancing, despite the song's call to move our bodies.
And here's another thing I never expected to hear at the L.R. "Here's a song about a terrible dowry."
After having seen them multiple times, I know my favorite tune is what's affectionately called "the sheep love song."
In it, a shepherdess and her shepherd boyfriend call to each other across the hills and I love their emotive call and response (not that I understand Romanian, but I get their intent).
I knew there were a lot of first-timers at the L.R. tonight and I love what a diverse program they experienced on their initial visit.
Okay, Exhibit B - Romanian gypsy music.
After the Listening Room, I headed to the Nile to meet a friend for the Malhombre show.
Why more music after two interesting bands?
Because Malhombre's melancholy rock with occasional forays into French pop is too irresistible not to introduce to a musician friend.
And more stylish than you can imagine, with the singer in cream-colored boots and the drummer in amazing plaid pants.
The duo began by saying, "How do you like our projections? It's our honeymoon pictures from Paris and Rome."
All kidding aside, the views projected showed ruins, Citroens and a definite sense of places other than Laurel Street.
Tonight's set was particularly civilized, with the twenty or so people there seated in chairs and raptly paying attention to singer/guitarist Blasco and his partner Giustino, working up a righteous sweat on the drums.
There was a song in French, a momentous song ("I wanna be in tune for this song cause it's important") and lots of major chords ("He plays all major chords," my musician friend observed. "Just when I think he's going to go all sad, he sounds happy.").
Naturally with the French involved, there was a song about being drunk and in love.
"At the same time!" interjected Giustino.
"I don't know if I've ever been love sober," cracked Blasco.
He passed his hat, telling the audience, "If any of you want to contribute to our life, you can." We did.
When they tried to end, the crowd called for more.
To top off a fine set, they played a "relationship song from the man's point of view."
Who knew there was such a thing?
Alright, Exhibit C - melancholy French pop/rock.
The music scene here has dried up? Seriously?
I'd say the crises is among those sitting at home while horns blow, sheep make love and major chords abound.
Call me crises-less.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Politics, Poetry and Pub Music
Starting at church apparently leads me down the path to vaudeville.
Tonight the Virginia Historical Society presented its 20th annual J. Harvie Wilkinson, Jr. lecture by journalist Juan Williams at First Baptist church.
Last time I'd been there had been for "South Pacific," a romance but also a story of racial prejudice.
Tonight's offering was less musical, but had a lot to do with his book "Eyes on the Prize: America's Civil Rights Years 1956-65."
Different mediums, similar topics.
The actual topic was "Virginia and the Characteristics of American Leadership," a platform from which Williams shared all kinds of interesting stories.
First he cracked wise, though. "As someone who writes books about history, I am just happy that all of you showed up. And I'm happy to speak in any venue where Charles Krauthammer can't interrupt me."
He went on to observe, "You are an older, mostly white audience. Many younger people don't know the history of the civil rights movement like this audience."
Isn't that the truth?
I would make a similar analogy that many younger women don't know the history of the women's movement.
But enough of my soapbox.
He told anecdotes of having afternoon tea with Thurgood Marshall after the judge had returned his phone call only to have the Washington Post's receptionist think it was a prank call.
After Marshall called back, speaking to publisher Katherine Graham and editor Ben Bradlee, Williams eventually made contact and set up the meeting.
He talked mostly about how ordinary Virginians had stood on principle despite not always having the law on their side.
"It's a time of tremendous change in Virginia," he told us. "There's a pride in what's possible."
I couldn't have put it any better myself.
Forsaking history for poetry, I went to meet a fiend at the Grace Street Theater for poet Katherine Larson, winner of the VCU Levis Reading Award.
Before he arrived, I chatted up a woman a few seats away, noting about the students in the theater, "They look like babies, don't they?"
"Yes, they do. I can't believe I ever looked that young, " she agreed. "But you look like a baby, too."
Presently my friend arrived so I didn't have to talk to a woman with vision issues any more.
"I've never seen this many people at a poetry reading," he observed looking around.
It was an unusually large poetry crowd, I'd agree.
A large-scale painting of Larry Levis stood by the stage in honor of the VCU poet for whom the prize is named.
Larson read her poetry not from her book, "Radical Symmetry," but from sheets of paper, saying, "I'm still not used to the way my poems look in the book."
She didn't have a strong reading voice and I wondered if everyone in the room could always hear her.
Because of her work as a scientist, there was sometimes a noticeably logical/observational side to her poetry.
And some of it was just beautiful phrasing.
In "Low Tide, Evening" she writes, "She is suddenly aware of her desire for him across the table."
"Love at 32 Degrees" was part of a long-form poem with some very scientific references as well as the evocative, "As white and quiet as a woman's slip on wooden floorboards."
I was struck by "Every time I make love for love's sake alone, I betray you," a turn of phrase I'm still chewing on.
She dedicated her last poem "Risk" to her husband, at home with their teething baby, and it provided my favorite line of the reading.
"You haven't much time. Risk it all."
Advice for the ages.
Poetry yielded to conversation and then music at Balliceaux.
Over an unnamed drink created by the bartender for him, my friend told me of his latest dating adventure as we waited for entry to the back room.
We agreed that sometimes it's better to focus on what someone brings to the relationship and not on what they don't bring.
Finally admitted to the back, we were joined by a third, making two musicians and me for an eclectic night of music.
First up were the Richmanian Ramblers, those masters of gypsy-flavored Romanian music.
They'd even brought lyric sheets for those of us who wanted to sing along in Romanian.
It could also be called "pub music" (in fact, it said that on the Facebook invitation) and it wasn't long before one of my two musicians noted, "I wish all music made me feel this good."
How can you not feel good with songs of sheep and drinking?
The combination of upright bass, accordion, clarinet, violin and guitar doing folks songs both profound and hilarious impressed both my first-timer companions.
Listening to Antonia's exquisite voice and Jason's clarinet, the two dominant sounds of the group, is enough to make a person want to start dancing Romanian-style, hands clasped on each other's shoulders.
Their set was too short, but even so I knew it was way past Antonia's bedtime, so I understood.
The Two Man Gentlemen Band took the stage with banter, enthusiasm and a whole lot of outstanding musicianship.
Oh, yes, and seersucker suits.
According to a friend I talked to during the break who'd already seen them, "They're the real deal."
With only upright bass and tenor guitar, they made, as they pointed out, enough sound to be two and a half men ("Would you believe it's just two guys up here?").
My bass-playing friend attributed that to the multitude of notes coming from the bass player's flying fingers, saying, "That's the charmer."
The guitar player on my other side was just as impressed with what the guitar player did with only four strings.
Me, I just loved their oddball lyrics, things like, "I love you but your feet's too big."
There was a song about reefer and one about how they liked to party with girls.
Another was about pig ("My girl tastes like pork chops"), after which Andy, the guitar player inquired, "You girls didn't appreciate that?"
Sure we did.
"You make me swoon when you cross the room" got a background chorus of ahhs that made the song for me.
A swing dancing couple got right up front and tore up the floor as the band got looser.
"Chocolate Milk," as good a song topic as any I guess, got an a cappella treatment at one point.
By the time their set was winding down, everyone was a fan of their retro vaudeville swinging sound and they knew it.
"We're the only authorized dealer of two-man music," they told us, tongues firmly in cheeks.
Before the final song, "Fancy Beer," Andy asked of the crowd, "Do you want the big finish with the John Mellencamp flourish and the samurai finish?"
We did, resulting in leg kicks and overblown arm gestures befitting the close of a show that had won over everyone in the room, including the musician to my right who'd stayed only because of how impressive the band's musical chops were.
By the end, he was hooting and hollering with the rest of the room, including my friend the bass player, who kept thanking me for bringing him out to see two such wonderful bands.
The way I see it, we haven't much time.
Better to be out risking it all with history, poetry, gypsy music and vaudeville while we can.
Let us not forget, it's all about the pride of what's possible.
Tonight the Virginia Historical Society presented its 20th annual J. Harvie Wilkinson, Jr. lecture by journalist Juan Williams at First Baptist church.
Last time I'd been there had been for "South Pacific," a romance but also a story of racial prejudice.
Tonight's offering was less musical, but had a lot to do with his book "Eyes on the Prize: America's Civil Rights Years 1956-65."
Different mediums, similar topics.
The actual topic was "Virginia and the Characteristics of American Leadership," a platform from which Williams shared all kinds of interesting stories.
First he cracked wise, though. "As someone who writes books about history, I am just happy that all of you showed up. And I'm happy to speak in any venue where Charles Krauthammer can't interrupt me."
He went on to observe, "You are an older, mostly white audience. Many younger people don't know the history of the civil rights movement like this audience."
Isn't that the truth?
I would make a similar analogy that many younger women don't know the history of the women's movement.
But enough of my soapbox.
He told anecdotes of having afternoon tea with Thurgood Marshall after the judge had returned his phone call only to have the Washington Post's receptionist think it was a prank call.
After Marshall called back, speaking to publisher Katherine Graham and editor Ben Bradlee, Williams eventually made contact and set up the meeting.
He talked mostly about how ordinary Virginians had stood on principle despite not always having the law on their side.
"It's a time of tremendous change in Virginia," he told us. "There's a pride in what's possible."
I couldn't have put it any better myself.
Forsaking history for poetry, I went to meet a fiend at the Grace Street Theater for poet Katherine Larson, winner of the VCU Levis Reading Award.
Before he arrived, I chatted up a woman a few seats away, noting about the students in the theater, "They look like babies, don't they?"
"Yes, they do. I can't believe I ever looked that young, " she agreed. "But you look like a baby, too."
Presently my friend arrived so I didn't have to talk to a woman with vision issues any more.
"I've never seen this many people at a poetry reading," he observed looking around.
It was an unusually large poetry crowd, I'd agree.
A large-scale painting of Larry Levis stood by the stage in honor of the VCU poet for whom the prize is named.
Larson read her poetry not from her book, "Radical Symmetry," but from sheets of paper, saying, "I'm still not used to the way my poems look in the book."
She didn't have a strong reading voice and I wondered if everyone in the room could always hear her.
Because of her work as a scientist, there was sometimes a noticeably logical/observational side to her poetry.
And some of it was just beautiful phrasing.
In "Low Tide, Evening" she writes, "She is suddenly aware of her desire for him across the table."
"Love at 32 Degrees" was part of a long-form poem with some very scientific references as well as the evocative, "As white and quiet as a woman's slip on wooden floorboards."
I was struck by "Every time I make love for love's sake alone, I betray you," a turn of phrase I'm still chewing on.
She dedicated her last poem "Risk" to her husband, at home with their teething baby, and it provided my favorite line of the reading.
"You haven't much time. Risk it all."
Advice for the ages.
Poetry yielded to conversation and then music at Balliceaux.
Over an unnamed drink created by the bartender for him, my friend told me of his latest dating adventure as we waited for entry to the back room.
We agreed that sometimes it's better to focus on what someone brings to the relationship and not on what they don't bring.
Finally admitted to the back, we were joined by a third, making two musicians and me for an eclectic night of music.
First up were the Richmanian Ramblers, those masters of gypsy-flavored Romanian music.
They'd even brought lyric sheets for those of us who wanted to sing along in Romanian.
It could also be called "pub music" (in fact, it said that on the Facebook invitation) and it wasn't long before one of my two musicians noted, "I wish all music made me feel this good."
How can you not feel good with songs of sheep and drinking?
The combination of upright bass, accordion, clarinet, violin and guitar doing folks songs both profound and hilarious impressed both my first-timer companions.
Listening to Antonia's exquisite voice and Jason's clarinet, the two dominant sounds of the group, is enough to make a person want to start dancing Romanian-style, hands clasped on each other's shoulders.
Their set was too short, but even so I knew it was way past Antonia's bedtime, so I understood.
The Two Man Gentlemen Band took the stage with banter, enthusiasm and a whole lot of outstanding musicianship.
Oh, yes, and seersucker suits.
According to a friend I talked to during the break who'd already seen them, "They're the real deal."
With only upright bass and tenor guitar, they made, as they pointed out, enough sound to be two and a half men ("Would you believe it's just two guys up here?").
My bass-playing friend attributed that to the multitude of notes coming from the bass player's flying fingers, saying, "That's the charmer."
The guitar player on my other side was just as impressed with what the guitar player did with only four strings.
Me, I just loved their oddball lyrics, things like, "I love you but your feet's too big."
There was a song about reefer and one about how they liked to party with girls.
Another was about pig ("My girl tastes like pork chops"), after which Andy, the guitar player inquired, "You girls didn't appreciate that?"
Sure we did.
"You make me swoon when you cross the room" got a background chorus of ahhs that made the song for me.
A swing dancing couple got right up front and tore up the floor as the band got looser.
"Chocolate Milk," as good a song topic as any I guess, got an a cappella treatment at one point.
By the time their set was winding down, everyone was a fan of their retro vaudeville swinging sound and they knew it.
"We're the only authorized dealer of two-man music," they told us, tongues firmly in cheeks.
Before the final song, "Fancy Beer," Andy asked of the crowd, "Do you want the big finish with the John Mellencamp flourish and the samurai finish?"
We did, resulting in leg kicks and overblown arm gestures befitting the close of a show that had won over everyone in the room, including the musician to my right who'd stayed only because of how impressive the band's musical chops were.
By the end, he was hooting and hollering with the rest of the room, including my friend the bass player, who kept thanking me for bringing him out to see two such wonderful bands.
The way I see it, we haven't much time.
Better to be out risking it all with history, poetry, gypsy music and vaudeville while we can.
Let us not forget, it's all about the pride of what's possible.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Playing the Field Every Night
It's a good night when a guy hugs an album.
My plans got scrambled early on when an out-of-town friend called to say she was in Richmond and thirsty. That led to a rendezvous at Rowland, where she walked in with a gash in her leg that looked like it had a story behind it.
It did.
She was just back from a trip to Greece where she'd had the best french fries in her extensive travels (the potatoes were less than five days out of the ground), she'd stayed in a hotel built into the side of a cliff overlooking the sea (the rooms were essentially caves) and she'd gone on a motorbike ride that ended badly.
From what I heard, her beloved's limbs looked even worse because they were now infected. We drowned her wounds in bottles of Mumm Brut Prestige while nibbling on plates of pork carnitas spring rolls with tomatillo sauce.
While the Mumm didn't entirely stop the pain, it seemed to be less noticeable, said she. Such is the beauty of bubbles, said I.
Meanwhile, a woman at the table behind us made a mustache and beard out of her long hair, much to the amusement of her dining companion. Strangers as entertainment.
Because we hadn't seen each other in almost two months, we gabbed right up until I had to leave for Balliceaux. On the bill tonight were Rattlemouth, who were already playing for a bustling crowd when I arrived.
Since I'd seen them before, I knew to expect a world beat sound, dancey in a hypnotic kind of way and with lots of Ethiopian grooves. They delivered all that in the second half of the set which I saw, including their last song, a popular Ethiopian one, described as known to anyone in that country.
Since I know no one there, I can't confirm that.
The Richmanian Ramblers were the stars of the night because it was their CD release show. The first thing I noticed was that there were more ramblers than the last time I'd seen them.
Five had become seven.
Both the clarinet and violin had doubled to two each with the addition of bandleader Nate's dad on violin and the ubiquitous Jason Scott on clarinet (and also as head cheerleader). For the uninitiated, the Ramblers play gypsy-influenced Romanian folk music which is both beautiful and hilarious.
Vocalist Antonia (yes, she of the Speckled Bird and The Bird and her Consort) introduced the first song, saying, "This song is about the worst dowry ever." Can't say I recall the last song I heard about a dowry, good or bad.
It was during the second song about crossing a river and not wanting to pay the toll that I saw a guy in a Smiths t-shirt shush some nearby chatterers. It was a futile gesture. Too many in the crowd tonight were talking non-stop.
And, yes, it's a bar so people will talk but I'd have thought that once they heard the sound of haunting gypsy music, it would abate. I was dreaming.
A dance song followed and the crowd was exhorted to do so and Nate's Mom was the first to take to the floor doing steps that clearly looked traditional. A couple of girls joined in, but Mom had the moves.
Clarinetist Jason was a hard-working guy tonight, leading singalongs and playing beautiful,extended parts to weave the gypsy sound throughout the room.
Later he told me he was just trying to get drunk and have a good time with the crowd. Well done, sir.
In an odd coincidence, Nate, who'd never heard Rattlemouth before tonight, said he knew one of its members because he'd once bought worms from him. "He's a worm enthusiast," Nate explained. Now there's a phrase you don't often hear.
The highlight was a song about a girl in a field pining for a sheep and her beloved (she's knitting him a sweater) and contained sheep sounds, courtesy of Antonia.
If you've ever heard her vox saw, you'd expect that a woman who can emulate a saw would have no trouble at all doing a sheep. She didn't.
I especially enjoyed watching guitarist Clifton play tambourine with his feet. Talent apparently excludes no limb.
They closed with "World, Sister, World," the title track from their new CD but I had to strain to hear over the talkers, sadly including some of the musicians in the room. Bad form, guys, real bad form.
I ran into the poet who said nice things about my form and my friend and admitted that she'd been hungover all day. Ah, the pleasures of summer when school is out.
After saying goodnight to her, I got myself to Ipanema, where it was the final night for the Blood Brothers. And while I've no doubt that something will rise from the ashes of the fabulous Blood Brothers (Blood Blisters was suggested), it won't be the unique dynamic duo of the Blood Brothers themselves.
Duane, the hatted member of the duo, is decamping RVA for Brooklyn, so it was my last chance to hear these two long time friends spin vintage vinyl from the '60s and '70s together.
I always hear a lot of great music and I rarely recognize most of it, but that's the point: to hear great old music I haven't already heard a zillion times. But, like any good DJs, they always toss in a few crowd pleasers just to show they can.
Hence Archie Bell and the Drells doing "Tighten Up" and Patti Smith doing "Because the Night." I was busy talking to Blood Brother Jamie when I heard Duane play the Rolling Stones' "Tumblin' Dice."
Surprised, I told Jamie that wasn't something I'd expected to hear Duane play. "Yea, I brought "Street Fighting Man, but that's not gonna happen now," he grinned.
Blood Brothers never duplicate.
And sometimes they like a novelty, like "Li'l Red Riding Hood," with the lyric, "Li'l Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good, You're everything a big, bad wolf could want." Try selling that line, Justin Bieber.
I was introduced to a guy who told me about the "butt fries" he'd had at the State Fair (pork butt over fries with fake cheese sauce...blech), I saw a sous chef I've known for years who invited me to a dinner on his new picnic table so he could read about himself in my blog and, as usual, I got hugged repeatedly by a member of Team Sex.
But that couldn't beat Jamie coming over to sit next to me on the bench clutching a copy of the "Nilsson Schmilsson" album with a goofy grin on his face. Yes, Nilsson still makes us smile in delight.
I even saw Duane dance with his lovely wife late in the night (when she was obviously tired) and by dance, I mean he held her up while her feet swung in the air. It was adorable.
At the end of the night, I bade a fond farewell to the Brooklyn-bound, having rolled through meeting a scabbed friend, straining to hear Romanian gypsy music and socializing to the sounds of the sixties before heading back to J-Ward.
Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider
You can be my partner in crime
But baby I can't stay
You got to roll me and call me the tumblin'
Roll me and call me the tumblin' dice
Rank outsider? Purely in the mind of the beholder.
My plans got scrambled early on when an out-of-town friend called to say she was in Richmond and thirsty. That led to a rendezvous at Rowland, where she walked in with a gash in her leg that looked like it had a story behind it.
It did.
She was just back from a trip to Greece where she'd had the best french fries in her extensive travels (the potatoes were less than five days out of the ground), she'd stayed in a hotel built into the side of a cliff overlooking the sea (the rooms were essentially caves) and she'd gone on a motorbike ride that ended badly.
From what I heard, her beloved's limbs looked even worse because they were now infected. We drowned her wounds in bottles of Mumm Brut Prestige while nibbling on plates of pork carnitas spring rolls with tomatillo sauce.
While the Mumm didn't entirely stop the pain, it seemed to be less noticeable, said she. Such is the beauty of bubbles, said I.
Meanwhile, a woman at the table behind us made a mustache and beard out of her long hair, much to the amusement of her dining companion. Strangers as entertainment.
Because we hadn't seen each other in almost two months, we gabbed right up until I had to leave for Balliceaux. On the bill tonight were Rattlemouth, who were already playing for a bustling crowd when I arrived.
Since I'd seen them before, I knew to expect a world beat sound, dancey in a hypnotic kind of way and with lots of Ethiopian grooves. They delivered all that in the second half of the set which I saw, including their last song, a popular Ethiopian one, described as known to anyone in that country.
Since I know no one there, I can't confirm that.
The Richmanian Ramblers were the stars of the night because it was their CD release show. The first thing I noticed was that there were more ramblers than the last time I'd seen them.
Five had become seven.
Both the clarinet and violin had doubled to two each with the addition of bandleader Nate's dad on violin and the ubiquitous Jason Scott on clarinet (and also as head cheerleader). For the uninitiated, the Ramblers play gypsy-influenced Romanian folk music which is both beautiful and hilarious.
Vocalist Antonia (yes, she of the Speckled Bird and The Bird and her Consort) introduced the first song, saying, "This song is about the worst dowry ever." Can't say I recall the last song I heard about a dowry, good or bad.
It was during the second song about crossing a river and not wanting to pay the toll that I saw a guy in a Smiths t-shirt shush some nearby chatterers. It was a futile gesture. Too many in the crowd tonight were talking non-stop.
And, yes, it's a bar so people will talk but I'd have thought that once they heard the sound of haunting gypsy music, it would abate. I was dreaming.
A dance song followed and the crowd was exhorted to do so and Nate's Mom was the first to take to the floor doing steps that clearly looked traditional. A couple of girls joined in, but Mom had the moves.
Clarinetist Jason was a hard-working guy tonight, leading singalongs and playing beautiful,extended parts to weave the gypsy sound throughout the room.
Later he told me he was just trying to get drunk and have a good time with the crowd. Well done, sir.
In an odd coincidence, Nate, who'd never heard Rattlemouth before tonight, said he knew one of its members because he'd once bought worms from him. "He's a worm enthusiast," Nate explained. Now there's a phrase you don't often hear.
The highlight was a song about a girl in a field pining for a sheep and her beloved (she's knitting him a sweater) and contained sheep sounds, courtesy of Antonia.
If you've ever heard her vox saw, you'd expect that a woman who can emulate a saw would have no trouble at all doing a sheep. She didn't.
I especially enjoyed watching guitarist Clifton play tambourine with his feet. Talent apparently excludes no limb.
They closed with "World, Sister, World," the title track from their new CD but I had to strain to hear over the talkers, sadly including some of the musicians in the room. Bad form, guys, real bad form.
I ran into the poet who said nice things about my form and my friend and admitted that she'd been hungover all day. Ah, the pleasures of summer when school is out.
After saying goodnight to her, I got myself to Ipanema, where it was the final night for the Blood Brothers. And while I've no doubt that something will rise from the ashes of the fabulous Blood Brothers (Blood Blisters was suggested), it won't be the unique dynamic duo of the Blood Brothers themselves.
Duane, the hatted member of the duo, is decamping RVA for Brooklyn, so it was my last chance to hear these two long time friends spin vintage vinyl from the '60s and '70s together.
I always hear a lot of great music and I rarely recognize most of it, but that's the point: to hear great old music I haven't already heard a zillion times. But, like any good DJs, they always toss in a few crowd pleasers just to show they can.
Hence Archie Bell and the Drells doing "Tighten Up" and Patti Smith doing "Because the Night." I was busy talking to Blood Brother Jamie when I heard Duane play the Rolling Stones' "Tumblin' Dice."
Surprised, I told Jamie that wasn't something I'd expected to hear Duane play. "Yea, I brought "Street Fighting Man, but that's not gonna happen now," he grinned.
Blood Brothers never duplicate.
And sometimes they like a novelty, like "Li'l Red Riding Hood," with the lyric, "Li'l Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good, You're everything a big, bad wolf could want." Try selling that line, Justin Bieber.
I was introduced to a guy who told me about the "butt fries" he'd had at the State Fair (pork butt over fries with fake cheese sauce...blech), I saw a sous chef I've known for years who invited me to a dinner on his new picnic table so he could read about himself in my blog and, as usual, I got hugged repeatedly by a member of Team Sex.
But that couldn't beat Jamie coming over to sit next to me on the bench clutching a copy of the "Nilsson Schmilsson" album with a goofy grin on his face. Yes, Nilsson still makes us smile in delight.
I even saw Duane dance with his lovely wife late in the night (when she was obviously tired) and by dance, I mean he held her up while her feet swung in the air. It was adorable.
At the end of the night, I bade a fond farewell to the Brooklyn-bound, having rolled through meeting a scabbed friend, straining to hear Romanian gypsy music and socializing to the sounds of the sixties before heading back to J-Ward.
Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider
You can be my partner in crime
But baby I can't stay
You got to roll me and call me the tumblin'
Roll me and call me the tumblin' dice
Rank outsider? Purely in the mind of the beholder.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Keeping Up is the Easy Part
The Friday evening exploration began on 17th Street and moved eastward with only one quick detour to the other side of the street.
New, old, old, new, old, new.
At C'est le Vin, there were a bevy of wines to be sampled and a familiar yet new consulting chef, Jannequin Bennett, debuting their new menu.
Chilled beet gazpacho with goat cheese mousse and celery made a non-beet eater swoon.Catalan chicken bruschetta, salt cod salad and pork belly over white beans hinted at what new taste delights await the wine drinker.
A third generation chocolatier, Kelly (as in Chocolates By) taught by her grandmother, a former chocolatier for Wanamaker's in Philly, seduced us with exquisite pieces of Petit Syrah in dark chocolate.
There were sixteen wines to be savored and after working our way through, we chose the Spanish bubbles of Eudaid Massana Noya "Familia" Brut Cava and the 2009 Pied de Perdrix (named for the 1,000-year old Partridge Foot vine, a distant cousin of Malbec) to leave with us.
Yum, yum.
A detour across the street took us to Main Street Station so the transplant could see its renovated magnificence.
The large-format photographs of the building flooded by Hurricane Camille or with the tables set in the dining cars couldn't compare to one of WWII soldiers kissing their girls goodbye, they inside the train and the girls outside.
Kisses were exchanged through the train windows and, for many girls, their feet left the ground, dangling above the edge of the track.
It was kissing as levitation method.
Leaving the train station, we set out up the hill to Globehopper for gypsy music by the Richmanian Ramblers, music both profound and hilarious.
The lovely Antonia Vassar and Nate Matthews on upright bass had an assemblage of talented musicians (including Clifton of Ilad and Moonbees and Jessica of the Jungle Beat) and a clarinetist who wrapped his woodwind around all those strings and hauntingly brought forth the gypsy spirit to the Bottom.
"Great is wine and tasteful as well
When you drink it with handsome people
But if you drink it with ugly people
The wine gets stuck in your throat."
Conversations with the accordion player on the topics of beauty, kindness and curating finished out the evening there
Continuing our eastward assault, we joined the throngs at Eric Schindler Gallery for "A Land of Strangers," Mary Chiaramonte's new show of acrylic works on birch panels,
The artist, herself a twin, used her paint to convey a sense of mystery, of other worldliness. It is a show of the surreal and the very real
"High Tide" showed a dark-haired girl floating in the water her hair fanning out around her, clutching a fish.
My favorite, "The Nameless" was entirely surreal: a woman in a dress stands in a field of blues and greens, her blond hair and the house on fire she holds providing a vibrant yellow cast against the cooler colors.
Discussing "The Sleepwalking," an image of a muscular-armed girl with a long torso and short, stocky legs in a bathroom, a French friend observed, "We call that a low rider."
Do we? Because I don't.
Schindler Gallery is busy. I run into the orchid guy, the cheese whiz, the woman who has poured me absinthe, the collector of old telephones.
Keeping with the neighborhood theme, and because we have been non-stop busy since the tapas at C'est le Vin, we end up at Aziza's on Main.
The bar is empty, waiting for our arrival, and glasses of Paololeo Promitivo di Manduria deliver a peppery nose and flavors of dark plum.
A favorite waitress shows off her "predator" look, sporting a leopard print top, a crouching tiger brooch on her shoulder and necklaces of various snarling beasts.
It's Friday night, so things should be a bit wild.
My time is spent sucking the marrow out of brick oven roasted bones (as I tend to do with my evenings, I am told) with grilled bread and pickled turnips.
My dining partner goes with seared fluke with wild mushrooms, gnocchi and basil lemon butter. The bites he shares with me are moist and buttery with an irresistibly crispy edge.
Because it is his first time at Aziza's, I stealthily order the cream puff so that he can experience it
He is properly bowled over, first by its size and then by its classic dark chocolate, cream and pastry one-two-three punch.
Sometimes you have let the pro do the ordering for you.
At our final stop, the wine was a 2002 Ravenswood Vintner's Blend Merlot, everything an insipid Merlot is not: full, soft and delectable.
Music comes in the form of "September" with a bossa nova beat. It's Ultra Funk time.
And the conversation? I say it's not a real question if you're just giving someone a hard time.
"World, world, sister world
World, world, sister world
When will I have enough of you?
When I give up bread for Lent
And the glass will give up on me
Maybe then I'll have enough of you."
Romanian gypsy music, truly profound and hilarious.
Just the way I want to live my life.
New, old, old, new, old, new.
At C'est le Vin, there were a bevy of wines to be sampled and a familiar yet new consulting chef, Jannequin Bennett, debuting their new menu.
Chilled beet gazpacho with goat cheese mousse and celery made a non-beet eater swoon.Catalan chicken bruschetta, salt cod salad and pork belly over white beans hinted at what new taste delights await the wine drinker.
A third generation chocolatier, Kelly (as in Chocolates By) taught by her grandmother, a former chocolatier for Wanamaker's in Philly, seduced us with exquisite pieces of Petit Syrah in dark chocolate.
There were sixteen wines to be savored and after working our way through, we chose the Spanish bubbles of Eudaid Massana Noya "Familia" Brut Cava and the 2009 Pied de Perdrix (named for the 1,000-year old Partridge Foot vine, a distant cousin of Malbec) to leave with us.
Yum, yum.
A detour across the street took us to Main Street Station so the transplant could see its renovated magnificence.
The large-format photographs of the building flooded by Hurricane Camille or with the tables set in the dining cars couldn't compare to one of WWII soldiers kissing their girls goodbye, they inside the train and the girls outside.
Kisses were exchanged through the train windows and, for many girls, their feet left the ground, dangling above the edge of the track.
It was kissing as levitation method.
Leaving the train station, we set out up the hill to Globehopper for gypsy music by the Richmanian Ramblers, music both profound and hilarious.
The lovely Antonia Vassar and Nate Matthews on upright bass had an assemblage of talented musicians (including Clifton of Ilad and Moonbees and Jessica of the Jungle Beat) and a clarinetist who wrapped his woodwind around all those strings and hauntingly brought forth the gypsy spirit to the Bottom.
"Great is wine and tasteful as well
When you drink it with handsome people
But if you drink it with ugly people
The wine gets stuck in your throat."
Conversations with the accordion player on the topics of beauty, kindness and curating finished out the evening there
Continuing our eastward assault, we joined the throngs at Eric Schindler Gallery for "A Land of Strangers," Mary Chiaramonte's new show of acrylic works on birch panels,
The artist, herself a twin, used her paint to convey a sense of mystery, of other worldliness. It is a show of the surreal and the very real
"High Tide" showed a dark-haired girl floating in the water her hair fanning out around her, clutching a fish.
My favorite, "The Nameless" was entirely surreal: a woman in a dress stands in a field of blues and greens, her blond hair and the house on fire she holds providing a vibrant yellow cast against the cooler colors.
Discussing "The Sleepwalking," an image of a muscular-armed girl with a long torso and short, stocky legs in a bathroom, a French friend observed, "We call that a low rider."
Do we? Because I don't.
Schindler Gallery is busy. I run into the orchid guy, the cheese whiz, the woman who has poured me absinthe, the collector of old telephones.
Keeping with the neighborhood theme, and because we have been non-stop busy since the tapas at C'est le Vin, we end up at Aziza's on Main.
The bar is empty, waiting for our arrival, and glasses of Paololeo Promitivo di Manduria deliver a peppery nose and flavors of dark plum.
A favorite waitress shows off her "predator" look, sporting a leopard print top, a crouching tiger brooch on her shoulder and necklaces of various snarling beasts.
It's Friday night, so things should be a bit wild.
My time is spent sucking the marrow out of brick oven roasted bones (as I tend to do with my evenings, I am told) with grilled bread and pickled turnips.
My dining partner goes with seared fluke with wild mushrooms, gnocchi and basil lemon butter. The bites he shares with me are moist and buttery with an irresistibly crispy edge.
Because it is his first time at Aziza's, I stealthily order the cream puff so that he can experience it
He is properly bowled over, first by its size and then by its classic dark chocolate, cream and pastry one-two-three punch.
Sometimes you have let the pro do the ordering for you.
At our final stop, the wine was a 2002 Ravenswood Vintner's Blend Merlot, everything an insipid Merlot is not: full, soft and delectable.
Music comes in the form of "September" with a bossa nova beat. It's Ultra Funk time.
And the conversation? I say it's not a real question if you're just giving someone a hard time.
"World, world, sister world
World, world, sister world
When will I have enough of you?
When I give up bread for Lent
And the glass will give up on me
Maybe then I'll have enough of you."
Romanian gypsy music, truly profound and hilarious.
Just the way I want to live my life.
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