It's always a challenge settling back in after vacation.
Oh, I don't mean the conscious un-vacationing part - the loads of laundry, the putting away of beach gear, the housecleaning to restore some order, the grocery shopping - I mean the adaptation to life back in the city after a week of endless reading and napping, the soothing sound of the ocean, of all leisure all the time.
Sound of brakes screeching.
That meant after a full day attending to the minutiae of life, there was no walking on the beach or sitting on the porch swing transfixed by the surf to cap it off.
Come on, Karen, make lemonade out of lemons here.
So what didn't I have at the beach? A good foreign film (and, yes, Canada counts), that was it, so it was off to the Westhampton Theater I went to see "The Grand Seduction." Me and six other people, so it wasn't a big crowd needing to be seduced.
Set in a former fishing village in Newfoundland, the sweet story of a harbor community trying to woo a young doctor to their remote location so they can qualify to have a much-needed factory built and provide jobs for the town's out of work former fishermen, unfolded gently and engagingly.
How the town seduces him is the funny part - tapping his phone to learn about his passion for jazz, his dead father and favorite food (which the town restaurant then duplicates) - and even leaving money around for him to happen upon because "finding money makes people happy."
It's true. While I was in the ocean last week, I looked up to see a $10 bill floating by and nabbed it, feeling inordinately pleased with my find. The good doctor was no different.
One of the funniest lines came when the doctor shows up at the home of the town's eligible, young postmistress. "I've been drinking," he says.
"Just what every girl wants to hear when she opens her door to a man at night," she deadpans before closing the door in his face.
My kind of humor.
The movie was charming, chock full of stunning island landscapes with a cast of wonderfully oddball characters such as you'd expect in such a remote location, a gentle reminder that seduction isn't always about sex.
Not that there's anything wrong with seduction when it is about sex.
Not ready to go home after the movie, I went instead to Balliceaux for the RVA Big Band, immediately running into a bartender friend, who, like me, was wondering how our mutual friends seem to be on vacation every other week (currently they're in Aruba).
In the back room, the big band was getting set up and tuning, so I took a table near where a sax player was unpacking his instrument. He said hello and smiled.
Shouldn't you be up there blowing? I inquired of him.
"There will be a lot of blowing tonight," he said with a grin. "You may even feel a breeze." I was okay with that. Maybe a brass breeze could substitute for the absent sea breeze.
Sitting in with the band tonight were three horn players from Charlottesville, including the guy I'd just met, and after introducing them, the band leader said, "They grow some really green grass there." Non-sequitur or inside information?
The first song began with nothing but the upright bass and within seconds, everyone in the room was snapping their fingers along with the beat, a very good start.
From there, they did some testifying, swung hard and took the band in just about every direction they could as the crowd continued to grow. One group of eight or so pretty young things arrived, all sundress-clad, pulled out their phones and shot footage of the band briefly before exiting, stage right.
At the end of the first set, I got up to leave and was stopped by the music-loving science writer I'd met there a few months ago.
"I was just coming over to join you at your table," he explained. "I was getting tired of standing. Do you have to go already?"
Actually, yes, I do. You see, I had some surprisingly early nights - 10:25 one night!- while I was at the beach and my body hasn't fully adjusted back to RVA time.
Give it a few days and it'll be there. But for now, the ocean is still sorely missed.
Showing posts with label rva big band. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rva big band. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Like Liquid Poetry in Motion
What began as a fairly low key and casual birthday celebration ended up as a bartending tour de force.
A friend was celebrating her birthday at Balliceaux so her paramour sent out invitations to the select few, tempting all with, "Mr. Bobby Kruger will be manning the bar that night just in case you want a tasty cocktail."
I didn't but I did want to see my friends, so I RSVP'd yes.
The reply? "Please try and refrain from planning 3 events that night so you can actually spend some time. Worst case, arrive a bit late but don't leave at like 8:30 p.m. and give me some lame excuse."
This is one bossy host.
So I cleared the decks, not difficult on Christmas Eve eve, and showed up promptly at 7:10 to celebrate.
Bobby was prepared for our party, having devised several cocktails for the evening using the birthday girl's favorite flavors, but he'd also kept me in mind knowing that I'm not a cocktail drinker.
Thus tonight became my introduction to mezcal with Del Maguey Chichicapa mezcal, enjoyed neat and recommended by Bobby as vegetal and slightly sweet.
For a woman whose only spirit is tequila, mezcal is not much of a leap and yet I found it to be a spicier flavor profile than tequila and more complex.
My friend the host reminded me that we'd met at this very bar and, being a numbers guy, even know when - three years, six months and eleven days ago.
Yea, he's that guy.
At the party were several of the couple's friends whom I'd met at his birthday party a couple of years ago, along with a mutual bartender friend who very recently moved back from Colorado.
Early on in the evening, there was a lot of drink tasting as Bobby made new cocktails for someone in our group and they were passed around for consideration and comment.
It was a recipe for sharing germs, not that anyone cared.
Bobby admitted most were so new they hadn't been named, but a blueberry miso got a lot of thumbs up and a frothy cardamon cocktail with balsamic had the birthday girl licking the bottom of her coupe, always a good sign.
Me, I just stuck with more Chichicapa, sharing sips with those interested.
The birthday girl took some ribbing about her new haircut, a proud father talked about how different his small children were, another bartender friend showed up and a couple announced that they intended to finish three bottles of champagne by noon on Christmas day.
Before long, members of the RVA big band began showing up and setting up in the back while our party mowed through multiple plates of finger foods like charcuterie and cheese, tandoori fried cauliflower, truffle fries, garlic edamame hummus with pita and fried oysters.
Next thing we knew, Balliceaux was packed and while we were taking up the front bar and the area right around it, soon Bobby was inundated with people wanting to drink.
The funniest moment came when a duo asked for a cocktail and a certain beer. "You know that beer is smokey, right?" he asked. "Judging by the look on your face, that's not going to work for you."
It didn't and she got a National Bohemian instead.
From the back, the strains of "Santa Baby" could be heard over the roar of people talking and asking for drinks.
The beauty in having arrived so early was that we'd established a beach head and enjoyed our space at the bar even while all hell was breaking loose around us as people continued to stream in.
It was like the holiday floodgates had opened and everyone had made a beeline for Balliceaux.
Since I knew from previous holidays that things get crazy at Balliceaux, I wasn't the least shocked at the mob scene that was developing, but my friends were amazed by it.
Considering how many places are closed tonight, where do you expect the pretty people to go and be seen before the drudgery of forced family fun begins?
Things finally got so crazy that Bobby had to stop making craft cocktails, limiting his service to beer, wine and basics like highballs and shots.
Finally, my friend, a former bartender at Amuse, couldn't stand it any longer and asked Bobby if he needed help.
The grateful look on his face said it all.
With two people back there, they plowed through the crowd more quickly than before, although people kept arriving at an alarming rate.
When it became clear that more help was needed, we lost another in our party, this time a former bartender from Acacia, who rolled up his sleeves and started washing and polishing glasses between pouring beers like the Sweet Baby Jesus chocolate peanut butter porter.
Granted, one of the earlier cocktails had been referred to as "banana nut bread in a glass," but isn't that a bit much for a beer?
By the time the three pros were all behind the bar together, things finally began to settle down as everyone got served quickly and efficiently and our party watched our two friends (and former party guests) pick up the slack when their rightful place was on our side of the bar.
Of course, none of the customers realized what had just happened, but I'm sure to Bobby it felt like a Christmas miracle.
My slightly loopy host probably thought the miracle was that I stayed all night.
That's my guess because for the first time in three years, six months and eleven days of friendship, he kissed my cheek when I went to leave.
I can't wait to remind him that now he's that guy.
A friend was celebrating her birthday at Balliceaux so her paramour sent out invitations to the select few, tempting all with, "Mr. Bobby Kruger will be manning the bar that night just in case you want a tasty cocktail."
I didn't but I did want to see my friends, so I RSVP'd yes.
The reply? "Please try and refrain from planning 3 events that night so you can actually spend some time. Worst case, arrive a bit late but don't leave at like 8:30 p.m. and give me some lame excuse."
This is one bossy host.
So I cleared the decks, not difficult on Christmas Eve eve, and showed up promptly at 7:10 to celebrate.
Bobby was prepared for our party, having devised several cocktails for the evening using the birthday girl's favorite flavors, but he'd also kept me in mind knowing that I'm not a cocktail drinker.
Thus tonight became my introduction to mezcal with Del Maguey Chichicapa mezcal, enjoyed neat and recommended by Bobby as vegetal and slightly sweet.
For a woman whose only spirit is tequila, mezcal is not much of a leap and yet I found it to be a spicier flavor profile than tequila and more complex.
My friend the host reminded me that we'd met at this very bar and, being a numbers guy, even know when - three years, six months and eleven days ago.
Yea, he's that guy.
At the party were several of the couple's friends whom I'd met at his birthday party a couple of years ago, along with a mutual bartender friend who very recently moved back from Colorado.
Early on in the evening, there was a lot of drink tasting as Bobby made new cocktails for someone in our group and they were passed around for consideration and comment.
It was a recipe for sharing germs, not that anyone cared.
Bobby admitted most were so new they hadn't been named, but a blueberry miso got a lot of thumbs up and a frothy cardamon cocktail with balsamic had the birthday girl licking the bottom of her coupe, always a good sign.
Me, I just stuck with more Chichicapa, sharing sips with those interested.
The birthday girl took some ribbing about her new haircut, a proud father talked about how different his small children were, another bartender friend showed up and a couple announced that they intended to finish three bottles of champagne by noon on Christmas day.
Before long, members of the RVA big band began showing up and setting up in the back while our party mowed through multiple plates of finger foods like charcuterie and cheese, tandoori fried cauliflower, truffle fries, garlic edamame hummus with pita and fried oysters.
Next thing we knew, Balliceaux was packed and while we were taking up the front bar and the area right around it, soon Bobby was inundated with people wanting to drink.
The funniest moment came when a duo asked for a cocktail and a certain beer. "You know that beer is smokey, right?" he asked. "Judging by the look on your face, that's not going to work for you."
It didn't and she got a National Bohemian instead.
From the back, the strains of "Santa Baby" could be heard over the roar of people talking and asking for drinks.
The beauty in having arrived so early was that we'd established a beach head and enjoyed our space at the bar even while all hell was breaking loose around us as people continued to stream in.
It was like the holiday floodgates had opened and everyone had made a beeline for Balliceaux.
Since I knew from previous holidays that things get crazy at Balliceaux, I wasn't the least shocked at the mob scene that was developing, but my friends were amazed by it.
Considering how many places are closed tonight, where do you expect the pretty people to go and be seen before the drudgery of forced family fun begins?
Things finally got so crazy that Bobby had to stop making craft cocktails, limiting his service to beer, wine and basics like highballs and shots.
Finally, my friend, a former bartender at Amuse, couldn't stand it any longer and asked Bobby if he needed help.
The grateful look on his face said it all.
With two people back there, they plowed through the crowd more quickly than before, although people kept arriving at an alarming rate.
When it became clear that more help was needed, we lost another in our party, this time a former bartender from Acacia, who rolled up his sleeves and started washing and polishing glasses between pouring beers like the Sweet Baby Jesus chocolate peanut butter porter.
Granted, one of the earlier cocktails had been referred to as "banana nut bread in a glass," but isn't that a bit much for a beer?
By the time the three pros were all behind the bar together, things finally began to settle down as everyone got served quickly and efficiently and our party watched our two friends (and former party guests) pick up the slack when their rightful place was on our side of the bar.
Of course, none of the customers realized what had just happened, but I'm sure to Bobby it felt like a Christmas miracle.
My slightly loopy host probably thought the miracle was that I stayed all night.
That's my guess because for the first time in three years, six months and eleven days of friendship, he kissed my cheek when I went to leave.
I can't wait to remind him that now he's that guy.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Calling All Friends
When it rains, it pours.
Weeks ago, a girlfriend had asked me to join her for the Ideas in Food dinner at Heritage.
Five courses and the chance to sit around, eat and drink for hours like we used to before her life turned upside down? Count me in.
Then I got home today to a phone message from a friend in Boston, saying he'd be in Richmond tonight and wanting to hang out.
A talented guy who befriended me three years while in town on business and has been known to e-mail from all over the world saying he's just read my blog or experienced something funny he wants to share with me? Yes, please.
Oh, if only I'd gotten a good night's sleep last night, but, alas, my body's infrequent caffeine intake and a mega-Coke a few hours before bedtime had left me unable to get to sleep until dawn.
It's nights like this you push through on pure adrenaline.
Heritage was just starting to fill up when we arrived to claim our corner booth and begin catching up on the good stuff.
With glasses of a Barbera blend and our Gemini motor mouths set on non-stop, we dove right into the juiciest stories we had as an array of food runners brought us course after course.
The Lexington-bred beef heart tartare was suggested to be finger food, so we wrapped it in rice crepes and talked about people with negative energy.
Ramen with pepperoni, octopus and wakame noodles tasted like pizza, making our Barbera the perfect pairing as I heard about her outing to Charlottesville.
A provolone tuille with caraway seeds covered brussels sprouts, thousand island dressing and a broth that brought the pastrami flavor home while I shared my recent winery visits and an unexpected Michael Shaps intersection.
Ginger and tamarind-crusted lamb shoulder sat atop yellow mustard gnocchi and lamb heart ragu, a deeply rich and earthy sauce that had my friend requesting that I not tell her what things were.
The final sweet course was chocolate layer cake with coconut cream cheese, dulce de leche and walnut brittle ice cream (my least favorite part of the dish), and one last opportunity to give advice to each other.
We had so much to talk about that even after our second glass of wine we weren't ready to leave but with people standing waiting for a table, it seemed rude to linger.
But even leaving was protracted as I chatted up Chef Lee about the crowd, talked J-Ward with my neighborhood record store owner, said hello to a guy I see at shows everywhere and heard about an irate restaurant owner who accused me of being an artist.
If he thought that was an insult, he was sadly mistaken.
Leaving with my autographed copy of "Maximum Flavor: Recipes That Will Change the Way You Cook" (unlikely since I cook as rarely as possible), Friend and I made plans for our next get-together away from the madding crowds and said good-night.
Quick, on to Lemaire to meet my Bostonian with the broad accent (one he thinks he doesn't have but does).
You'd think after not having seen someone for three years that there'd be some readjustment, but we just sort of picked up where we'd left off.
He's in town on business, but his business is an interesting one because he fabricates signs and exhibition pieces for museums, which quite naturally led to art talk.
It doesn't hurt that he's also a painter, so we were soon discussing the Turner exhibition we'd both seen at the National Gallery a few years ago.
While I only have memories of that exhibit, he took it to the next level, naming some of his hand-brewed beers after some of Turner's paintings, so "Death on a Pale Horse" becomes "Death on a Pale Ale."
He's clever that way. When he's not brewing beer, he's making his own potato vodka and showed me photographs of his home still.
I've always had a soft spot for guys who can make things and fix things.
Over a glass of 2011 Klee Pinot Noir, we caught up on each other's lives, meaning I heard about the younger women he's seeing and he heard about my recent dating escapades.
When we left there, it was to grab a burger for him at Pie before crossing the street to Balliceaux.
There were three girls at Pie's bar and while they were busy doing shots of tequila and drinking Blue Hawaiis, apparently they were eavesdropping, too.
Finally, the one on the end admitted as much and wanted to ask us a question.
"Are you two on your first date?" No, we explained, we were friends getting reacquainted after three years. Why had she thought that?
"You totally seem like friends who are finally starting to date each other," she said assuredly. Nope, try again.
Perhaps our dynamic was unique enough as to be inscrutable. In any case, we had places to be.
Given the years since we'd last seen each other, he didn't want to sit in the back room for fear the RVA Big Band would drown out our conversation, so we became the only occupants of the front bar, where Bobby K. was barkeeping.
It worked out well because we could talk about mezcal, Free Run Wine Merchants and chefs who can't pair wine because they don't drink it.
With the music coming from the back at a perfect volume to continue our chat, he told me about his trip to Copenhagen, the van Gogh exhibit he'd seen and the crooked tower that caused its builder to kill himself when he couldn't right it.
With, I might add, photographs to illustrate it all. So satisfying.
We watched as several members of the big band came up to the bar to get mind erasers during intermission. I didn't know this layered shot, but my friend did, leading to a comparison with Bobby about layered versus mixed.
Frankly, I wouldn't think you'd want your mind erased when playing music with sixteen other musicians, but what do I know?
While sipping my Espolon, local bass legend Matt Gold walked by and stopped to rehash the magnificent Richmond Symphony/Kate Lindsey show the other night.
After introducing the two, he moved on to the back and my friend showed me pictures of the hand-crafted bass he recently made, pictures he should probably have pulled out when Matt was there since he'd have a far greater appreciation for such a thing than I possibly could.
Someone who can make a bass, now that's an artist.
We finally decided to call it quits because he has an early-morning meeting, but it was a little bittersweet because for all we know, it'll be another three years before we meet up again.
Driving him back to his hotel, he said, "Don't take this wrong, but I admire your brain."
What else can a person do but grin like an idiot with a compliment like that, even from a non-date?
Dead tired or not, sometimes it's great to get poured on.
Weeks ago, a girlfriend had asked me to join her for the Ideas in Food dinner at Heritage.
Five courses and the chance to sit around, eat and drink for hours like we used to before her life turned upside down? Count me in.
Then I got home today to a phone message from a friend in Boston, saying he'd be in Richmond tonight and wanting to hang out.
A talented guy who befriended me three years while in town on business and has been known to e-mail from all over the world saying he's just read my blog or experienced something funny he wants to share with me? Yes, please.
Oh, if only I'd gotten a good night's sleep last night, but, alas, my body's infrequent caffeine intake and a mega-Coke a few hours before bedtime had left me unable to get to sleep until dawn.
It's nights like this you push through on pure adrenaline.
Heritage was just starting to fill up when we arrived to claim our corner booth and begin catching up on the good stuff.
With glasses of a Barbera blend and our Gemini motor mouths set on non-stop, we dove right into the juiciest stories we had as an array of food runners brought us course after course.
The Lexington-bred beef heart tartare was suggested to be finger food, so we wrapped it in rice crepes and talked about people with negative energy.
Ramen with pepperoni, octopus and wakame noodles tasted like pizza, making our Barbera the perfect pairing as I heard about her outing to Charlottesville.
A provolone tuille with caraway seeds covered brussels sprouts, thousand island dressing and a broth that brought the pastrami flavor home while I shared my recent winery visits and an unexpected Michael Shaps intersection.
Ginger and tamarind-crusted lamb shoulder sat atop yellow mustard gnocchi and lamb heart ragu, a deeply rich and earthy sauce that had my friend requesting that I not tell her what things were.
The final sweet course was chocolate layer cake with coconut cream cheese, dulce de leche and walnut brittle ice cream (my least favorite part of the dish), and one last opportunity to give advice to each other.
We had so much to talk about that even after our second glass of wine we weren't ready to leave but with people standing waiting for a table, it seemed rude to linger.
But even leaving was protracted as I chatted up Chef Lee about the crowd, talked J-Ward with my neighborhood record store owner, said hello to a guy I see at shows everywhere and heard about an irate restaurant owner who accused me of being an artist.
If he thought that was an insult, he was sadly mistaken.
Leaving with my autographed copy of "Maximum Flavor: Recipes That Will Change the Way You Cook" (unlikely since I cook as rarely as possible), Friend and I made plans for our next get-together away from the madding crowds and said good-night.
Quick, on to Lemaire to meet my Bostonian with the broad accent (one he thinks he doesn't have but does).
You'd think after not having seen someone for three years that there'd be some readjustment, but we just sort of picked up where we'd left off.
He's in town on business, but his business is an interesting one because he fabricates signs and exhibition pieces for museums, which quite naturally led to art talk.
It doesn't hurt that he's also a painter, so we were soon discussing the Turner exhibition we'd both seen at the National Gallery a few years ago.
While I only have memories of that exhibit, he took it to the next level, naming some of his hand-brewed beers after some of Turner's paintings, so "Death on a Pale Horse" becomes "Death on a Pale Ale."
He's clever that way. When he's not brewing beer, he's making his own potato vodka and showed me photographs of his home still.
I've always had a soft spot for guys who can make things and fix things.
Over a glass of 2011 Klee Pinot Noir, we caught up on each other's lives, meaning I heard about the younger women he's seeing and he heard about my recent dating escapades.
When we left there, it was to grab a burger for him at Pie before crossing the street to Balliceaux.
There were three girls at Pie's bar and while they were busy doing shots of tequila and drinking Blue Hawaiis, apparently they were eavesdropping, too.
Finally, the one on the end admitted as much and wanted to ask us a question.
"Are you two on your first date?" No, we explained, we were friends getting reacquainted after three years. Why had she thought that?
"You totally seem like friends who are finally starting to date each other," she said assuredly. Nope, try again.
Perhaps our dynamic was unique enough as to be inscrutable. In any case, we had places to be.
Given the years since we'd last seen each other, he didn't want to sit in the back room for fear the RVA Big Band would drown out our conversation, so we became the only occupants of the front bar, where Bobby K. was barkeeping.
It worked out well because we could talk about mezcal, Free Run Wine Merchants and chefs who can't pair wine because they don't drink it.
With the music coming from the back at a perfect volume to continue our chat, he told me about his trip to Copenhagen, the van Gogh exhibit he'd seen and the crooked tower that caused its builder to kill himself when he couldn't right it.
With, I might add, photographs to illustrate it all. So satisfying.
We watched as several members of the big band came up to the bar to get mind erasers during intermission. I didn't know this layered shot, but my friend did, leading to a comparison with Bobby about layered versus mixed.
Frankly, I wouldn't think you'd want your mind erased when playing music with sixteen other musicians, but what do I know?
While sipping my Espolon, local bass legend Matt Gold walked by and stopped to rehash the magnificent Richmond Symphony/Kate Lindsey show the other night.
After introducing the two, he moved on to the back and my friend showed me pictures of the hand-crafted bass he recently made, pictures he should probably have pulled out when Matt was there since he'd have a far greater appreciation for such a thing than I possibly could.
Someone who can make a bass, now that's an artist.
We finally decided to call it quits because he has an early-morning meeting, but it was a little bittersweet because for all we know, it'll be another three years before we meet up again.
Driving him back to his hotel, he said, "Don't take this wrong, but I admire your brain."
What else can a person do but grin like an idiot with a compliment like that, even from a non-date?
Dead tired or not, sometimes it's great to get poured on.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Big Booty Judy, My One and Only Love
If pressed to confess, I could.
But my confessions wouldn't be revolutionary and that was tonight's theme at Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux.
So my night began with revolutionary confessions.
I found a seat, had a Cazadores brought to me and then a friend found the seat next to me, providing unexpected company.
He'd just come from Hopscotch, a music festival I've never been to, so I wanted to hear all his stories.
Thurston Moore hanging out like a regular person, Kurt Vile not impressing, a show in a WPA-built amphitheater, it was all interesting to me.
Then it was show time.
Host Colin kicked off the storytelling with the saga of a gay classmate in high school.
The story made a huge arc, from sitting at the cool kids' cafeteria table to years later trying to wash the friend's poop out of sheets and clothing.
"Hopefully, my story won't be as shitty as that one was," joked Paul, the second storyteller.
His humor continued as he told us, "I lettered in filming football games."
After several examples of how hard it was to be gay in southern Virginia, he shared how he'd come out to his Mom in the dark after watching Saturday Night Live with her.
Actually, it would have made a great SNL skit.
Sylvia took the stage saying, "I'm out of my comfort zone" and talking about how she never fit into any of the traditional "boxes" life offered.
She went on to share how after she kept beating a boy playing softball, he'd called her queer.
When she asked her Dad what "queer" meant, he'd told her, "That's a man who squats to pee," thus reassuring her she wasn't queer.
It wasn't until years later that she met a woman and realized, "I'm just gay. It was the first box I ever fit in."
Hermalinda's story began with her falling in love with her best friend and imagining dry-humping her in the back of her convertible.
She also made a hilarious reference to the only gay person she knew at that point, her P.E. teacher, Big Booty Judy, whom she did not aspire to look like.
The audience cracked up when she talked about her first sex with a boy.
"Afterwards, I couldn't figure out why, on god's green earth, anyone would want to do that."
The story that knocked the socks off the crowded room, "How I Got My Name," came from Ed, a paramedic.
He told of the thrill of bringing people back to life and also of how understaffed and overworked they were.
Responding to a call, he found a man in what he diagnosed as cardiac arrest, giving him the appropriate drugs for the heart, but to no avail.
Sadly, when they got him to the hospital, the doctor told him the man had bleeding from his brain, not cardiac trouble.
His mistake.
"Anyone here ever kill someone?" Ed asked of us. "Yea, I thought I'd be alone on that one."
He spoke of his fatigue and over-confidence in treating the man and the room was absolutely silent listening.
He now has several non-profits and donates 80% of what he makes to them, his way of making reparations.
Once again, Secretly Y'All had delivered a story that hit the audience right in the solar plexus.
It was difficult to hear and riveting at the same time.
Intermission followed, a good thing because people needed to get a drink and talk to each other after that.
I had a fascinating talk with a woman about the issues raised by Ed's story and how sometimes things are just destined to happen and nobody really causes them, it was just time.
That's a concept I understand and I shared with her a devastating story from my own life, confirming her theory.
After the break, we heard from the attendees who'd put their name in the hat to share a story based on the theme.
One was about keeping information from your family (in this case, Mom and dad were both P.E. teachers. "So they can't control the volume of their voices") and how that works both ways.
Another began, "I love women so much" and devolved ("To quote a painting...") into a guilt trip during a blue moon.
The final revolutionary confession of the night involved a straight (but not narrow) woman trying to work for LGBT causes without really having any sense of the bigger picture.
All in all, it was another superb night of stories we never should have been privy to, as only Secretly Y'All can deliver.
Waiting for the RVA Big band to set up, I chatted with the kind of friends who wanted to discuss why it is that when you finally head to the loo at a party, inevitably a boring person starts talking to you, delaying your relief.
Somehow that segued into David Crosby and Steve McQueen and their unworthiness due to hitting women.
There are only so many places you can go from there and one of us left and the rest of us sat down for some music.
Trumpet player extraordinaire Rex Richardson was playing with the big band tonight and as a long-time fan of his, I wanted to see that.
I've been to many of his performances at VCU and wanted to hear him play in a larger group than I'd had a chance to before.
There were a couple of times when he was soloing that the trumpet player next to him just stood there smiling and shaking his head, clearly impressed.
But the entire band was sounding good tonight, and I was especially enjoying "My One and Only Love," a long-time favorite of mine.
The John Coltrane/Johnny Hartmann version is my favorite, but I'm just happy to hear it live, even as an instrumental.
After the song ended, the trombone player with the curly red hair went on to sing a few lines of the song, showing off to the musician next to him.
You fill my eager heart with such desire
Every kiss you give sets my soul on fire
I give myself in sweet surrender
My one and only love
He was no Johnny Hartmann, but it was still pretty wonderful to hear.
To quote a painting, an evening of poignant stories and big band music puts me squarely in my comfort zone.
But my confessions wouldn't be revolutionary and that was tonight's theme at Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux.
So my night began with revolutionary confessions.
I found a seat, had a Cazadores brought to me and then a friend found the seat next to me, providing unexpected company.
He'd just come from Hopscotch, a music festival I've never been to, so I wanted to hear all his stories.
Thurston Moore hanging out like a regular person, Kurt Vile not impressing, a show in a WPA-built amphitheater, it was all interesting to me.
Then it was show time.
Host Colin kicked off the storytelling with the saga of a gay classmate in high school.
The story made a huge arc, from sitting at the cool kids' cafeteria table to years later trying to wash the friend's poop out of sheets and clothing.
"Hopefully, my story won't be as shitty as that one was," joked Paul, the second storyteller.
His humor continued as he told us, "I lettered in filming football games."
After several examples of how hard it was to be gay in southern Virginia, he shared how he'd come out to his Mom in the dark after watching Saturday Night Live with her.
Actually, it would have made a great SNL skit.
Sylvia took the stage saying, "I'm out of my comfort zone" and talking about how she never fit into any of the traditional "boxes" life offered.
She went on to share how after she kept beating a boy playing softball, he'd called her queer.
When she asked her Dad what "queer" meant, he'd told her, "That's a man who squats to pee," thus reassuring her she wasn't queer.
It wasn't until years later that she met a woman and realized, "I'm just gay. It was the first box I ever fit in."
Hermalinda's story began with her falling in love with her best friend and imagining dry-humping her in the back of her convertible.
She also made a hilarious reference to the only gay person she knew at that point, her P.E. teacher, Big Booty Judy, whom she did not aspire to look like.
The audience cracked up when she talked about her first sex with a boy.
"Afterwards, I couldn't figure out why, on god's green earth, anyone would want to do that."
The story that knocked the socks off the crowded room, "How I Got My Name," came from Ed, a paramedic.
He told of the thrill of bringing people back to life and also of how understaffed and overworked they were.
Responding to a call, he found a man in what he diagnosed as cardiac arrest, giving him the appropriate drugs for the heart, but to no avail.
Sadly, when they got him to the hospital, the doctor told him the man had bleeding from his brain, not cardiac trouble.
His mistake.
"Anyone here ever kill someone?" Ed asked of us. "Yea, I thought I'd be alone on that one."
He spoke of his fatigue and over-confidence in treating the man and the room was absolutely silent listening.
He now has several non-profits and donates 80% of what he makes to them, his way of making reparations.
Once again, Secretly Y'All had delivered a story that hit the audience right in the solar plexus.
It was difficult to hear and riveting at the same time.
Intermission followed, a good thing because people needed to get a drink and talk to each other after that.
I had a fascinating talk with a woman about the issues raised by Ed's story and how sometimes things are just destined to happen and nobody really causes them, it was just time.
That's a concept I understand and I shared with her a devastating story from my own life, confirming her theory.
After the break, we heard from the attendees who'd put their name in the hat to share a story based on the theme.
One was about keeping information from your family (in this case, Mom and dad were both P.E. teachers. "So they can't control the volume of their voices") and how that works both ways.
Another began, "I love women so much" and devolved ("To quote a painting...") into a guilt trip during a blue moon.
The final revolutionary confession of the night involved a straight (but not narrow) woman trying to work for LGBT causes without really having any sense of the bigger picture.
All in all, it was another superb night of stories we never should have been privy to, as only Secretly Y'All can deliver.
Waiting for the RVA Big band to set up, I chatted with the kind of friends who wanted to discuss why it is that when you finally head to the loo at a party, inevitably a boring person starts talking to you, delaying your relief.
Somehow that segued into David Crosby and Steve McQueen and their unworthiness due to hitting women.
There are only so many places you can go from there and one of us left and the rest of us sat down for some music.
Trumpet player extraordinaire Rex Richardson was playing with the big band tonight and as a long-time fan of his, I wanted to see that.
I've been to many of his performances at VCU and wanted to hear him play in a larger group than I'd had a chance to before.
There were a couple of times when he was soloing that the trumpet player next to him just stood there smiling and shaking his head, clearly impressed.
But the entire band was sounding good tonight, and I was especially enjoying "My One and Only Love," a long-time favorite of mine.
The John Coltrane/Johnny Hartmann version is my favorite, but I'm just happy to hear it live, even as an instrumental.
After the song ended, the trombone player with the curly red hair went on to sing a few lines of the song, showing off to the musician next to him.
You fill my eager heart with such desire
Every kiss you give sets my soul on fire
I give myself in sweet surrender
My one and only love
He was no Johnny Hartmann, but it was still pretty wonderful to hear.
To quote a painting, an evening of poignant stories and big band music puts me squarely in my comfort zone.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Wings and Fables
Some places you fit in, some places you don't.
I thought I'd try the revamped Mint Gastropub to see what it had to offer on a Monday evening.
Three children spread over two tables and a smattering of other occupied tables, it seemed.
Arriving just moments after happy hour was ending, the bartender graciously agreed to give me my Tiamo Pinot Grigio at the discounted rate.
Truth be told, it was only $1 off and it was only two minutes past happy hour, but it was a nice gesture.
It was pretty obvious that the couple next to me had arrived in plenty of time to avail themselves of cheap drinks.
He looked moderately loopy but she was over the top, leaning against the bar with her head in her hands, eyes closed and trying hard to listen to what he was saying.
I think he was putting on the full-court press, so I tried not to look.
Instead I switched my attention to the menu, looking to see what the new chef had come up with.
Since he's apparently a famous TV chef, not that I'd know since I have no TV, I was curious.
That and the fact that painted big on the outside of the restaurant was, "Mint Gastropub by Malcolm Mitchell."
No ego there.
I decided on the Mexican barbecue chicken wings with chipotle dipping sauce, checking first with the bartender to see if he recommended them.
"It's just the fat part of the drumstick, not the wing part," he explained. "But they're really good."
He was right, the drumettes were tasty- fat, smoky and medium-hot with green onion shavings over them.
As I was sucking my chicken bones, I found myself enjoying the music, a mix of indie artists like Grizzly Bear, Walk the Moon and Empire of the Sun.
It had to be Pandora, but I also had to know the starting point, so I asked.
Foster the People. Ouch.
Thankfully, the end results surpassed the starting point.
Wings and wine consumed, I left the children and drunks behind for greener pastures.
Tonight was the second installment of the Mingus Awareness Project and I knew I'd be right at home there.
Walking into Balliceaux, I was happy to see guest mixologist Bobby Kruger behind the front bar and stopped for a hug and a hello.
Paying the cover to support those with ALS, the whole point of the project, I got as far as the back stairs before the mass of humanity stopped me cold.
The Brian Jones quartet had just started playing and the joint was packed.
It turned out to be an excellent perch because I was four feet from drummer Brian Jones, as authoritative a drummer as this town has ever seen and a blast to watch.
Before long, Reggie of No BS Brass band, who'd performed last night, was standing next to me and pointed out that Jamal Millner was playing guitar and, as he said, "killin' it!"
He made his way down closer, next the drum kit and his own drummer, Lance, while I stayed put.
It was true about Jamal but the other guitarist, Adam Larrabee, whom I'd seen before, was doing his usual fret magic, too.
This was some serious guitar talent, not to mention the stellar Russell Pharr on upright bass.
The evocative "African Flower" was hands-down my favorite of what they played, moving and sensual at the same time.
Between songs, Brian, who'd organized the two-night event, said, "Thanks to No BS for playing last night," and gestured to Reggie and lance standing a couple of feet away. "They're the vultures over my shoulder."
After asking if anyone "has the chart for "Canon," the group launched into "Canon," for their last song, with Brian wryly observing, "It'll become apparent why this is called that."
Oh, it did.
When their all-too-short set ended, a lot of people headed outside, whether for smokes or air, I don't know, but I used the opportunity to get off the stairs and find a place to hang for the RVA Big band's upcoming set.
I immediately ran into a jazz lover, followed by a big band fan, followed by a friend I'd last seen coming out of a bathroom stall in Wanchese, North Carolina.
So everybody was there.
I was thrilled to see that Brian Jones was going to drum for the big band, a first, and that C-ville trumpeter John D'Earth was looming large in the back row.
Bandleader Ricky did his usual plug, reminding people, "I want you guys to clap or dance or whatever you want. You don't have to just watch."
Taking the 17-piece through Mingus classics like "Go Train," the band rose to the occasion, imbuing every song with an energy that would have made Mingus proud.
When they did "Fables of Taurus," at one point the band began doing a chorus of "ahs" and after "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," an audience member shouted out, "That shit is sick!"
Quite the jazz compliment.
When they got to "Moanin'" the crowd started interjecting "uhs," then people started clapping and before long, No BS drummer Lance was full on dancing as he continued to hover over drummer Brian's shoulder.
I don't think Lance could stop his feet.
Nor would Mingus or Ricky have wanted him to.
The rest of us were just bopping and swaying in place.
Oh,yea, I fit in much better here.
I thought I'd try the revamped Mint Gastropub to see what it had to offer on a Monday evening.
Three children spread over two tables and a smattering of other occupied tables, it seemed.
Arriving just moments after happy hour was ending, the bartender graciously agreed to give me my Tiamo Pinot Grigio at the discounted rate.
Truth be told, it was only $1 off and it was only two minutes past happy hour, but it was a nice gesture.
It was pretty obvious that the couple next to me had arrived in plenty of time to avail themselves of cheap drinks.
He looked moderately loopy but she was over the top, leaning against the bar with her head in her hands, eyes closed and trying hard to listen to what he was saying.
I think he was putting on the full-court press, so I tried not to look.
Instead I switched my attention to the menu, looking to see what the new chef had come up with.
Since he's apparently a famous TV chef, not that I'd know since I have no TV, I was curious.
That and the fact that painted big on the outside of the restaurant was, "Mint Gastropub by Malcolm Mitchell."
No ego there.
I decided on the Mexican barbecue chicken wings with chipotle dipping sauce, checking first with the bartender to see if he recommended them.
"It's just the fat part of the drumstick, not the wing part," he explained. "But they're really good."
He was right, the drumettes were tasty- fat, smoky and medium-hot with green onion shavings over them.
As I was sucking my chicken bones, I found myself enjoying the music, a mix of indie artists like Grizzly Bear, Walk the Moon and Empire of the Sun.
It had to be Pandora, but I also had to know the starting point, so I asked.
Foster the People. Ouch.
Thankfully, the end results surpassed the starting point.
Wings and wine consumed, I left the children and drunks behind for greener pastures.
Tonight was the second installment of the Mingus Awareness Project and I knew I'd be right at home there.
Walking into Balliceaux, I was happy to see guest mixologist Bobby Kruger behind the front bar and stopped for a hug and a hello.
Paying the cover to support those with ALS, the whole point of the project, I got as far as the back stairs before the mass of humanity stopped me cold.
The Brian Jones quartet had just started playing and the joint was packed.
It turned out to be an excellent perch because I was four feet from drummer Brian Jones, as authoritative a drummer as this town has ever seen and a blast to watch.
Before long, Reggie of No BS Brass band, who'd performed last night, was standing next to me and pointed out that Jamal Millner was playing guitar and, as he said, "killin' it!"
He made his way down closer, next the drum kit and his own drummer, Lance, while I stayed put.
It was true about Jamal but the other guitarist, Adam Larrabee, whom I'd seen before, was doing his usual fret magic, too.
This was some serious guitar talent, not to mention the stellar Russell Pharr on upright bass.
The evocative "African Flower" was hands-down my favorite of what they played, moving and sensual at the same time.
Between songs, Brian, who'd organized the two-night event, said, "Thanks to No BS for playing last night," and gestured to Reggie and lance standing a couple of feet away. "They're the vultures over my shoulder."
After asking if anyone "has the chart for "Canon," the group launched into "Canon," for their last song, with Brian wryly observing, "It'll become apparent why this is called that."
Oh, it did.
When their all-too-short set ended, a lot of people headed outside, whether for smokes or air, I don't know, but I used the opportunity to get off the stairs and find a place to hang for the RVA Big band's upcoming set.
I immediately ran into a jazz lover, followed by a big band fan, followed by a friend I'd last seen coming out of a bathroom stall in Wanchese, North Carolina.
So everybody was there.
I was thrilled to see that Brian Jones was going to drum for the big band, a first, and that C-ville trumpeter John D'Earth was looming large in the back row.
Bandleader Ricky did his usual plug, reminding people, "I want you guys to clap or dance or whatever you want. You don't have to just watch."
Taking the 17-piece through Mingus classics like "Go Train," the band rose to the occasion, imbuing every song with an energy that would have made Mingus proud.
When they did "Fables of Taurus," at one point the band began doing a chorus of "ahs" and after "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," an audience member shouted out, "That shit is sick!"
Quite the jazz compliment.
When they got to "Moanin'" the crowd started interjecting "uhs," then people started clapping and before long, No BS drummer Lance was full on dancing as he continued to hover over drummer Brian's shoulder.
I don't think Lance could stop his feet.
Nor would Mingus or Ricky have wanted him to.
The rest of us were just bopping and swaying in place.
Oh,yea, I fit in much better here.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Rainy Nights and Mondays
Portland we're not.
And yet it took me three tries before the rain let up enough to venture to the car and then on to Secco.
Unexpectedly, there I found every table taken and half the bar, too.
It may have been a rainy Monday night, but people wanted to be o-u-t.
They were down to only one French Rose, La Grange Tiphaine, a pale salmon-colored delight with hints of strawberries, which I happily took from my server Kenneth (not his real name, nor did he resemble a Kenneth, which I told him, much to his disappointment).
As the rain tapered off now that I was safely inside, I ordered Montasio cheese crackers with late summer tomato jam, an exemplary sweet/salty tease to get me started.
As luck would have it, a friend arrived and asked if she could join me.
I assumed it was a rhetorical question.
Since we hadn't chatted for a while, I got to hear about her boyfriend's new position, the first two times she was sexually harassed at work and her current read, "At the Mouth of the River of Bees," a book recommended to her by the guy who lived in my apartment before I did.
Barely one degree of separation in this town.
Over a salad of field greens, pistachios, chevre and lemon/thyme dressing, I told her one of my first sexual harassment stories, which involved a DJ, a slap on the ass and a misguided compliment.
Not long after, two women came in, took seats at the end of the bar and jumped into the conversation, inexplicably yielding all kinds of info about their family and past.
That their parents had been only 15 and 16 when they'd married.
That their grandfather, an alcoholic, had thrown his wife down the stairs when he found out she was pregnant.
That they think their grandmother eventually murdered their grandfather, although it was referred to as "pneumonia."
Best line of the night came from the younger sister.
"She was a mistake and I was a regret," she explained perfectly seriously.
Friend and I howled at that.
I left the three of them to more libations and headed down to Balliceaux for an evening of Count Basie and Duke Ellington.
Just as I arrived, the RVA Big Band took off with Sir Duke's "East St. Louis Toodle-oo," so I watched and listened from the steps near the kitchen so as not to interrupt their flow.
During the applause, I slipped in, finding wall space under the kitchen for Basie's "Corner Pocket" and "Jive at Five" and Ellington's "Cotton Tail."
By that point, the band was in full swing and a fellow jazz lover observed that several of the songs being played tonight were from the '30s and must have sounded very exotic to the middle class white people hearing them back then.
At least they would have been dressed to go out. What I was noticing tonight was the dress code.
Many's the time I've gone to hear the Big Band and seen people dressed up nicely in the audience, especially the women in pretty dresses and heels.
Tonight it was mostly short shorts and sandals on the women and guys in longer shorts.
Glamour was noticeably absent, except for in the music.
"Ko-Ko" had the bandleader trading his sax for a clarinet while "Moten Swing" actually got a couple up and swing-dancing to it in that way that made everyone in the room envy their skills.
During the break, a few people left but mostly a whole lot more people arrived (coincidentally, mostly in shorts), making the room very full with a 17-piece band and standing room only for latecomers.
Basie's "Magic Flea" kicked off the second half but it was "Nobody's Perfect" that had one of the sax players pulling out a flute for a couple of notes at the end of the song, making him and the audience grin at the unlikely ending.
No big band night should be complete without "Take the A-Train" and mine wasn't till we heard it, all swinging sophistication and confident musicians.
You can't go wrong with Basie and Ellington on a warm, wet Monday night.
No mistakes, no regrets.
And yet it took me three tries before the rain let up enough to venture to the car and then on to Secco.
Unexpectedly, there I found every table taken and half the bar, too.
It may have been a rainy Monday night, but people wanted to be o-u-t.
They were down to only one French Rose, La Grange Tiphaine, a pale salmon-colored delight with hints of strawberries, which I happily took from my server Kenneth (not his real name, nor did he resemble a Kenneth, which I told him, much to his disappointment).
As the rain tapered off now that I was safely inside, I ordered Montasio cheese crackers with late summer tomato jam, an exemplary sweet/salty tease to get me started.
As luck would have it, a friend arrived and asked if she could join me.
I assumed it was a rhetorical question.
Since we hadn't chatted for a while, I got to hear about her boyfriend's new position, the first two times she was sexually harassed at work and her current read, "At the Mouth of the River of Bees," a book recommended to her by the guy who lived in my apartment before I did.
Barely one degree of separation in this town.
Over a salad of field greens, pistachios, chevre and lemon/thyme dressing, I told her one of my first sexual harassment stories, which involved a DJ, a slap on the ass and a misguided compliment.
Not long after, two women came in, took seats at the end of the bar and jumped into the conversation, inexplicably yielding all kinds of info about their family and past.
That their parents had been only 15 and 16 when they'd married.
That their grandfather, an alcoholic, had thrown his wife down the stairs when he found out she was pregnant.
That they think their grandmother eventually murdered their grandfather, although it was referred to as "pneumonia."
Best line of the night came from the younger sister.
"She was a mistake and I was a regret," she explained perfectly seriously.
Friend and I howled at that.
I left the three of them to more libations and headed down to Balliceaux for an evening of Count Basie and Duke Ellington.
Just as I arrived, the RVA Big Band took off with Sir Duke's "East St. Louis Toodle-oo," so I watched and listened from the steps near the kitchen so as not to interrupt their flow.
During the applause, I slipped in, finding wall space under the kitchen for Basie's "Corner Pocket" and "Jive at Five" and Ellington's "Cotton Tail."
By that point, the band was in full swing and a fellow jazz lover observed that several of the songs being played tonight were from the '30s and must have sounded very exotic to the middle class white people hearing them back then.
At least they would have been dressed to go out. What I was noticing tonight was the dress code.
Many's the time I've gone to hear the Big Band and seen people dressed up nicely in the audience, especially the women in pretty dresses and heels.
Tonight it was mostly short shorts and sandals on the women and guys in longer shorts.
Glamour was noticeably absent, except for in the music.
"Ko-Ko" had the bandleader trading his sax for a clarinet while "Moten Swing" actually got a couple up and swing-dancing to it in that way that made everyone in the room envy their skills.
During the break, a few people left but mostly a whole lot more people arrived (coincidentally, mostly in shorts), making the room very full with a 17-piece band and standing room only for latecomers.
Basie's "Magic Flea" kicked off the second half but it was "Nobody's Perfect" that had one of the sax players pulling out a flute for a couple of notes at the end of the song, making him and the audience grin at the unlikely ending.
No big band night should be complete without "Take the A-Train" and mine wasn't till we heard it, all swinging sophistication and confident musicians.
You can't go wrong with Basie and Ellington on a warm, wet Monday night.
No mistakes, no regrets.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Goomah-ya
Sometimes a week gets off to a slow start and all my looking for something to do yields nada.
Fortuitously, there are always the old Monday standbys, Stuzzi and RVA Big Band.
Because they're so reliably there to kick off the week, Monday in and Monday out, it's easy to take them for granted, like a dogged but annoying always freind when you're bored.
But after spending indiscriminately all weekend, there's a lot of appeal to a $2 margarita pizza.
Another thrifty type and I arrived late in the game to find only two seats free at the bar and Katherine Hepburn in "Summertime" playing on the screens.
The scenes of Venice in 1955 were fascinating, with far fewer tourists and far fewer signs of modernity.
Once our pizzas were ordered, we fell into conversation with a nearby man, who'd apparently had enough wine to open up about his love life.
He told us about the three women he's currently seeing, explaining that each one fulfilled a different need in him.
Specifically, he mentioned how important sexual chemistry was and why it sometimes necessitates a partner just for that.
"She's like a goomah," one of the three Italians said, with another chiming in, "Like a mistress."
I said it sounded like a booty call to me, someone you just wanted to have sex with.
Suddenly the woman sitting behind us, who'd introduced us to her Italian boyfriend earlier, spun around in her stool, grinning.
"It sounds like an ex-girlfriend," she said, making the international symbol for texting.
All at once is was a free-for-all on the laws of attraction and mating in general, especially at middle age.
The woman told us how in high school, she lived with her Dad, with him on the third floor and her on the first.
"That way, I couldn't ask him who's car was parked in front of the house because I really didn't want to know," she confessed.
That must have made for some enlightening teen years.
Pizza and wine gone, we wanted a sweet finish to the meal, ordering the Italian doughnuts, excuse me, zeppole with Nutella/mascarpone.
The cinnamon sugar on the outside gave way to a dense interior, a bit heavier than it probably should have been, but still quite tasty.
One by one the others got going, the one couple inciting jealousy in the rest of us when they said they were leaving for five weeks in Italy tomorrow.
Sigh.
Five weeks! She looked positively giddy at the prospect, while for him, it was just going home to Mama in Piedmonte.
We left soon after to go to Balliceaux and hear the RVA Big Band for the first time in ages.
They were swinging hard when we walked in and found seats on the back banquette with a clear view of the 17 musicians.
The beauty of the RVA Big Band is simple moments, like when the drummer takes off on an extended solo, giving the bass player time to grab his PBR and take a couple of long pulls on it before anything further is expected of him.
We were late, so their set ended not long after, giving me time to say hello to some of my favorite people, friends I hadn't expected to see there tonight.
One was celebrating her birthday, happily loopy and looking radiant in a long, blue dress.
Her best line: "Yea, but I'm a lazy hippie."
Yea, but aren't we all?
When one of the trumpet players came down to talk to the couple next to me, I couldn't help but overhear him tell them about how the band practices.
"There's not exactly practice," he admitted. "We get a list of the music we're going to play the day before and that's how we know what to practice."
The couple looked surprised and I felt the same, although I have to assume that at a certain level of musicianship, if you all know your parts, it's bound to come together.
And it did so most sublimely on Johnny Mercer's "Skylark," a song that had me imagining a man smoking at a window, looking out on the nighttime urban skyline and thinking of a woman.
Since I didn't recognize it, I turned to the guy sitting next to me (because he looked like a musician) and asked what it was.
He not only told me the name and composer, but that its lyrics reflected Mercer's longing for Judy Garland, with whom he'd had an affair.
So here we were back to unavoidable sexual chemistry and longing for a woman you can't have.
Just another reliably good Monday night in the city.
Fortuitously, there are always the old Monday standbys, Stuzzi and RVA Big Band.
Because they're so reliably there to kick off the week, Monday in and Monday out, it's easy to take them for granted, like a dogged but annoying always freind when you're bored.
But after spending indiscriminately all weekend, there's a lot of appeal to a $2 margarita pizza.
Another thrifty type and I arrived late in the game to find only two seats free at the bar and Katherine Hepburn in "Summertime" playing on the screens.
The scenes of Venice in 1955 were fascinating, with far fewer tourists and far fewer signs of modernity.
Once our pizzas were ordered, we fell into conversation with a nearby man, who'd apparently had enough wine to open up about his love life.
He told us about the three women he's currently seeing, explaining that each one fulfilled a different need in him.
Specifically, he mentioned how important sexual chemistry was and why it sometimes necessitates a partner just for that.
"She's like a goomah," one of the three Italians said, with another chiming in, "Like a mistress."
I said it sounded like a booty call to me, someone you just wanted to have sex with.
Suddenly the woman sitting behind us, who'd introduced us to her Italian boyfriend earlier, spun around in her stool, grinning.
"It sounds like an ex-girlfriend," she said, making the international symbol for texting.
All at once is was a free-for-all on the laws of attraction and mating in general, especially at middle age.
The woman told us how in high school, she lived with her Dad, with him on the third floor and her on the first.
"That way, I couldn't ask him who's car was parked in front of the house because I really didn't want to know," she confessed.
That must have made for some enlightening teen years.
Pizza and wine gone, we wanted a sweet finish to the meal, ordering the Italian doughnuts, excuse me, zeppole with Nutella/mascarpone.
The cinnamon sugar on the outside gave way to a dense interior, a bit heavier than it probably should have been, but still quite tasty.
One by one the others got going, the one couple inciting jealousy in the rest of us when they said they were leaving for five weeks in Italy tomorrow.
Sigh.
Five weeks! She looked positively giddy at the prospect, while for him, it was just going home to Mama in Piedmonte.
We left soon after to go to Balliceaux and hear the RVA Big Band for the first time in ages.
They were swinging hard when we walked in and found seats on the back banquette with a clear view of the 17 musicians.
The beauty of the RVA Big Band is simple moments, like when the drummer takes off on an extended solo, giving the bass player time to grab his PBR and take a couple of long pulls on it before anything further is expected of him.
We were late, so their set ended not long after, giving me time to say hello to some of my favorite people, friends I hadn't expected to see there tonight.
One was celebrating her birthday, happily loopy and looking radiant in a long, blue dress.
Her best line: "Yea, but I'm a lazy hippie."
Yea, but aren't we all?
When one of the trumpet players came down to talk to the couple next to me, I couldn't help but overhear him tell them about how the band practices.
"There's not exactly practice," he admitted. "We get a list of the music we're going to play the day before and that's how we know what to practice."
The couple looked surprised and I felt the same, although I have to assume that at a certain level of musicianship, if you all know your parts, it's bound to come together.
And it did so most sublimely on Johnny Mercer's "Skylark," a song that had me imagining a man smoking at a window, looking out on the nighttime urban skyline and thinking of a woman.
Since I didn't recognize it, I turned to the guy sitting next to me (because he looked like a musician) and asked what it was.
He not only told me the name and composer, but that its lyrics reflected Mercer's longing for Judy Garland, with whom he'd had an affair.
So here we were back to unavoidable sexual chemistry and longing for a woman you can't have.
Just another reliably good Monday night in the city.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Blue Monday Averted
"Geez, Where is everyone? I guess it's Superbowl hangover day..."
So wrote a local restaurant friend upon arriving at work tonight. A quick check of my Facebook events was explicit: No events for today.
So just because everyone else watches a game the night before, nothing happens today? Unacceptable.
I considered and decided against going to UR to hear Schubert's "Winterreisse" performed. It wasn't that a cycle of 24 poems set to music wasn't appealing; rather, it was the themes of abject loneliness, longing for death and glimpses of delusional hope that seemed less than appealing to start the week.
So instead, I decided on Secco for dinner before going to see the RVA big band. Walking in, it was clear that my friend had been right. The place had seats to spare.
As it turned out, things got busier before long as a 2009 Domaine de la Grume Brouilly "Grains de Sable" went down easily and all but begged for food. Tonight's special made that easy enough: braised pork short ribs were piled high on a polenta cake over butternut squash puree with vadouvan, a French curry blend that gave the dish an unexpected kick.
This is one I'd like to see make it on to the winter menu.
Someone nearby came back from the bathroom, commenting, "The kitchen staff is debating different Shakespeare re-enactors." That's my kind of kitchen.
Next came rye gnocchi, shredded pastrami, sauerkraut and Gruyere-whole grain mustard sauce, along with some obvious expectations. And that was the surprise.
If the clear presumption was some sort of deconstructed pastrami on rye, I wasn't feeling it. If, instead, the assumption was a savory combination of pillowy and distinctively stronger-flavored potato pasta with succulent meat and tangy kraut bound lightly in cheese and mustard, it was spot on.
I overheard a girl tell her date that she'd had a happy childhood and that she'd known at the time that it was a happy childhood. "That's because my Mom is, well, perfect," she explained, smiling nervously. "My Dad, though, he's kind of a mess."
Run, Forest, run. That's a girl fraught with peril, I warn you.
Back at our end of the bar, we ordered more of the delicious gamay blend we'd been drinking and a cheese plate. Pierre Robert, a French triple cream that was better than butter, Barlotta, an Italian with fresh cream notes and a lingering finish and Spanish Garrotxa, mainly because it had been virtually extinct until the '80s.
It's tough to do better than Secco's cheese selection.
And while there are nights when cheese is the perfect finish, tonight wasn't one of them. No, tonight I needed chocolate and that meant chocolate budino with rosemary whipped cream.
While enjoying that, I shared with the staff my recent fact-finding mission across the street. Walking past the restaurant-to-be on the corner across from Secco a few days ago, I'd seen a man inside the construction fence about to go in the door.
Are you ever gong to finish that place, I'd called to him, genuinely curious. It seems like the former Glass and Powder has been a work-in-progress for eons. A stricken look crossed his face. "This project has humbled us," he said.
Well, that much was clear. And at least I gave the staff a good laugh.
After having made short work of the budino, it was off to Balliceaux for the RVA big band.
Walking in shortly after they'd begun playing, I was happy to count all seventeen musicians in place. There was a shout-out to a guy in the audience who'd just gotten his Sargent's stripes today.
That might seem unlikely, but I knew the bandleader was an army guy, so that seemed to likely be the connection. With a glass of Barbera and seats at the back banquette, we settled in for a night of all Mingus.
Mingus is the default on nights where they have a lot of substitute players because apparently any good jazz player worth his salt knows Mingus. During the first set, one of the trumpet players stood up saying he was going to tell us a story about the group's bandleader, a sax player.
He claimed that the sax player, a long-time military man, had failed his promotion board and was being kicked out of the army.
"I'll tell you a story," the bandleader said, rising from his front-row position with the band and launching into a tale of being a VCU student when his roommate kicked him out. Next thing he knew, his horns and bird were missing.
Accusations were made, counter accusations thrown out and eventually a policeman came and he ended up in jail. And who does a jailed jazz student call with his one phone call but his jazz studies professor?
From there, the band played Mingus' "Nostalgia in Times Square," before bidding farewell to the new Sargent who must have had to be in bed early and left at intermission. Too many rules in the army, son.
The second set was a mix of swinging and slower (although there was no dancing tonight) before the bandleader said, "So we're going to play one more song for you. It's called "G String."
That was a joke; it was Mingus' "GG Train" and it closed out the evening. Even at the set's end, there was still a decent crowd in the room.
Don't tell me there's nothing happening on the day after the big game...or any day. I will prove you wrong.
So wrote a local restaurant friend upon arriving at work tonight. A quick check of my Facebook events was explicit: No events for today.
So just because everyone else watches a game the night before, nothing happens today? Unacceptable.
I considered and decided against going to UR to hear Schubert's "Winterreisse" performed. It wasn't that a cycle of 24 poems set to music wasn't appealing; rather, it was the themes of abject loneliness, longing for death and glimpses of delusional hope that seemed less than appealing to start the week.
So instead, I decided on Secco for dinner before going to see the RVA big band. Walking in, it was clear that my friend had been right. The place had seats to spare.
As it turned out, things got busier before long as a 2009 Domaine de la Grume Brouilly "Grains de Sable" went down easily and all but begged for food. Tonight's special made that easy enough: braised pork short ribs were piled high on a polenta cake over butternut squash puree with vadouvan, a French curry blend that gave the dish an unexpected kick.
This is one I'd like to see make it on to the winter menu.
Someone nearby came back from the bathroom, commenting, "The kitchen staff is debating different Shakespeare re-enactors." That's my kind of kitchen.
Next came rye gnocchi, shredded pastrami, sauerkraut and Gruyere-whole grain mustard sauce, along with some obvious expectations. And that was the surprise.
If the clear presumption was some sort of deconstructed pastrami on rye, I wasn't feeling it. If, instead, the assumption was a savory combination of pillowy and distinctively stronger-flavored potato pasta with succulent meat and tangy kraut bound lightly in cheese and mustard, it was spot on.
I overheard a girl tell her date that she'd had a happy childhood and that she'd known at the time that it was a happy childhood. "That's because my Mom is, well, perfect," she explained, smiling nervously. "My Dad, though, he's kind of a mess."
Run, Forest, run. That's a girl fraught with peril, I warn you.
Back at our end of the bar, we ordered more of the delicious gamay blend we'd been drinking and a cheese plate. Pierre Robert, a French triple cream that was better than butter, Barlotta, an Italian with fresh cream notes and a lingering finish and Spanish Garrotxa, mainly because it had been virtually extinct until the '80s.
It's tough to do better than Secco's cheese selection.
And while there are nights when cheese is the perfect finish, tonight wasn't one of them. No, tonight I needed chocolate and that meant chocolate budino with rosemary whipped cream.
While enjoying that, I shared with the staff my recent fact-finding mission across the street. Walking past the restaurant-to-be on the corner across from Secco a few days ago, I'd seen a man inside the construction fence about to go in the door.
Are you ever gong to finish that place, I'd called to him, genuinely curious. It seems like the former Glass and Powder has been a work-in-progress for eons. A stricken look crossed his face. "This project has humbled us," he said.
Well, that much was clear. And at least I gave the staff a good laugh.
After having made short work of the budino, it was off to Balliceaux for the RVA big band.
Walking in shortly after they'd begun playing, I was happy to count all seventeen musicians in place. There was a shout-out to a guy in the audience who'd just gotten his Sargent's stripes today.
That might seem unlikely, but I knew the bandleader was an army guy, so that seemed to likely be the connection. With a glass of Barbera and seats at the back banquette, we settled in for a night of all Mingus.
Mingus is the default on nights where they have a lot of substitute players because apparently any good jazz player worth his salt knows Mingus. During the first set, one of the trumpet players stood up saying he was going to tell us a story about the group's bandleader, a sax player.
He claimed that the sax player, a long-time military man, had failed his promotion board and was being kicked out of the army.
"I'll tell you a story," the bandleader said, rising from his front-row position with the band and launching into a tale of being a VCU student when his roommate kicked him out. Next thing he knew, his horns and bird were missing.
Accusations were made, counter accusations thrown out and eventually a policeman came and he ended up in jail. And who does a jailed jazz student call with his one phone call but his jazz studies professor?
From there, the band played Mingus' "Nostalgia in Times Square," before bidding farewell to the new Sargent who must have had to be in bed early and left at intermission. Too many rules in the army, son.
The second set was a mix of swinging and slower (although there was no dancing tonight) before the bandleader said, "So we're going to play one more song for you. It's called "G String."
That was a joke; it was Mingus' "GG Train" and it closed out the evening. Even at the set's end, there was still a decent crowd in the room.
Don't tell me there's nothing happening on the day after the big game...or any day. I will prove you wrong.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Swinging in the Rain
Never let it be said that rain keeps me at home.
Or anything else for that matter.
The soggy night began at Stuzzi with a seat at the bar in front of the pizza oven.
Playing on the nearby screen was "Marriage, Italian Style," and as much as I hate screens in restaurants, watching the magnificent Sophia Loren and the handsome Marcello Mastroianni romp through '60s-era Italy was surprisingly appealing.
The plan was to have a glass of Chianti and a margherita pizza and be done with it.
But things seldom work out the way you expect them to and my fellow pizza lover and I ended up with pasta fagioli, especially satisfying for the prosciutto and mussels.
I had to admit, I was also curious about the Steven Spielberg Zoone, a spicy Asian-based sauce (I know, right?) served over fried calamari.
After a taste, I could see why the director had ordered it delivered to him so many times while he was filming in Richmond.
The owner came over to check if we were putting grated Parmesan on our pizza (we had) and to remind us that that wasn't the Neapolitan way.
I felt no shame since I have not a drop of Italian blood, but he laughed and admitted to doing the same.
"Don't worry, my father puts cheese on his linguine and clam sauce," he said, eyebrows raised in horror. "They shoot you for that in Italy."
Seems a little harsh.
Next we tried what he called cheese triangles, but what were really Mozzarella in Carrozza, little grilled sandwiches of Mozzarella, prosciutto and basil and tasty on their own or with a touch of Spielberg's sauce on them.
So much for sticking to a simple little supper of pizza and grape.
Next up was my first Limoncello cream, which seemed more like a dessert with its sweet creaminess than a digestivo like regular Limoncello, but I managed to down it nonetheless.
That didn't prevent having dessert, something the chalkboard called "strawberry tiramisu in a glass."
It was sort of a deconstructed tiramisu with Grappa-soaked ladyfingers and strawberry cream with whipped cream on top.
Surprisingly, the Grappa was an ideal counterpoint to the sweetness of the strawberries, and obscenely alcoholic.
Note to self: refrain from over-indulging while watching a gorgeous 30-year old physical specimen like Sophia Loren while gorging to avoid self-flagellation.
So, yes, I was in a food coma by the time I got to Balliceaux.
The 17-piece RVA Big Band, with two members in knit caps and on in a trucker cap, was still getting situated when we slid into a booth.
"Thanks for bearing the rain," the bandleader said in greeting. "You're a small but mighty audience."
And we were, all eighteen of us, but the number grew as they began to play.
The usual cadre of young girls in sexy dresses was notably absent tonight, no doubt unwilling to risk their cute shoes or straightened hair, even for the sake of swinging music.
The first set was dedicated to more classic stuff, pieces like "My One and Only Love," while the second set jumped forward in time and momentum.
I suspected as much when, after the break, the bass player benched his upright and strapped on his electric bass, the better to make contorted bass player faces.
If you've ever paid attention to bass players, you know the ones I'm talking about.
It was during that set that the keyboard player and drummer got a workout, to songs like Steely Dan's "Kid Charlemagne."
Before we knew it, the bandleader announced the last song, "so we can all get out of here."
Which wasn't really necessary because it was pouring even harder by that point.
Truth is, the small and mighty among us could have sat there indefinitely had they been willing to play on.
But never let it be said that the rain keeps me from leaving, either.
No weather wimp here.
Or anything else for that matter.
The soggy night began at Stuzzi with a seat at the bar in front of the pizza oven.
Playing on the nearby screen was "Marriage, Italian Style," and as much as I hate screens in restaurants, watching the magnificent Sophia Loren and the handsome Marcello Mastroianni romp through '60s-era Italy was surprisingly appealing.
The plan was to have a glass of Chianti and a margherita pizza and be done with it.
But things seldom work out the way you expect them to and my fellow pizza lover and I ended up with pasta fagioli, especially satisfying for the prosciutto and mussels.
I had to admit, I was also curious about the Steven Spielberg Zoone, a spicy Asian-based sauce (I know, right?) served over fried calamari.
After a taste, I could see why the director had ordered it delivered to him so many times while he was filming in Richmond.
The owner came over to check if we were putting grated Parmesan on our pizza (we had) and to remind us that that wasn't the Neapolitan way.
I felt no shame since I have not a drop of Italian blood, but he laughed and admitted to doing the same.
"Don't worry, my father puts cheese on his linguine and clam sauce," he said, eyebrows raised in horror. "They shoot you for that in Italy."
Seems a little harsh.
Next we tried what he called cheese triangles, but what were really Mozzarella in Carrozza, little grilled sandwiches of Mozzarella, prosciutto and basil and tasty on their own or with a touch of Spielberg's sauce on them.
So much for sticking to a simple little supper of pizza and grape.
Next up was my first Limoncello cream, which seemed more like a dessert with its sweet creaminess than a digestivo like regular Limoncello, but I managed to down it nonetheless.
That didn't prevent having dessert, something the chalkboard called "strawberry tiramisu in a glass."
It was sort of a deconstructed tiramisu with Grappa-soaked ladyfingers and strawberry cream with whipped cream on top.
Surprisingly, the Grappa was an ideal counterpoint to the sweetness of the strawberries, and obscenely alcoholic.
Note to self: refrain from over-indulging while watching a gorgeous 30-year old physical specimen like Sophia Loren while gorging to avoid self-flagellation.
So, yes, I was in a food coma by the time I got to Balliceaux.
The 17-piece RVA Big Band, with two members in knit caps and on in a trucker cap, was still getting situated when we slid into a booth.
"Thanks for bearing the rain," the bandleader said in greeting. "You're a small but mighty audience."
And we were, all eighteen of us, but the number grew as they began to play.
The usual cadre of young girls in sexy dresses was notably absent tonight, no doubt unwilling to risk their cute shoes or straightened hair, even for the sake of swinging music.
The first set was dedicated to more classic stuff, pieces like "My One and Only Love," while the second set jumped forward in time and momentum.
I suspected as much when, after the break, the bass player benched his upright and strapped on his electric bass, the better to make contorted bass player faces.
If you've ever paid attention to bass players, you know the ones I'm talking about.
It was during that set that the keyboard player and drummer got a workout, to songs like Steely Dan's "Kid Charlemagne."
Before we knew it, the bandleader announced the last song, "so we can all get out of here."
Which wasn't really necessary because it was pouring even harder by that point.
Truth is, the small and mighty among us could have sat there indefinitely had they been willing to play on.
But never let it be said that the rain keeps me from leaving, either.
No weather wimp here.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Beams Sing and My Music Shine*
Who would have expected Balliceaux to deliver the merriest of Christmas evenings?
To start, Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story mixed things up this month. Instead of the usual array of storytellers, we got a reader in front of a video fireplace.
Writer Mark Mobley did an anti-war poem, Allen Ginsberg's "Wichita Vortex Sutra," and surely I wasn't the only one thrilled to be hearing the Beat's poetry read aloud. The thrill didn't stop there because he also did some John Donne and Ben Johnson before I was introduced to George Herbert* via his poem, "Christmas."
Be still my heart.
Mobley continued with some original material, including "Refresher Course," inspired by a friend who told him he hadn't cried in twenty years and "I, Claus" about his time as a Santa at Greenbriar Mall.
But he set the tone for the rest of the evening reading "A Visit from St. Nicholas," including the 1912 edition introduction. Just as I thought it couldn't get any better, he pulled out one of my favorite Christmas poems. And for possibly the first time in my life, "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" was read aloud to me.
I can't begin to describe what a singular pleasure it was to hear words that I had only read before.
Mobley, a fine reader, got squeaky and high for Cindy Lou Who and deep and menacing for the grinch. Once the grinch (he, himself) had carved the roast beast, it was music time.
Chairs were brought in, musicians arrived and the RVA Big Band began their usual Monday night gig, but this time devoted to the holidays.
"Let It Snow!" came out swinging before vocalist Terra Allen came out in a seasonal green dress, impossibly high heels and belted out "Santa Baby" like nobody's business. The keyboard player got props on a jazzy "Jingle Bells" when the bandleader told us he'd only gotten the music two days ago.
Terra came back to do B.B. King's classic "Merry Christmas, Baby," which had the cocktail dress set behind us dancing in their banquette. It also found dimunitive Terra bent over, challenging the drummer, "Come on!"
"Blue Christmas" gave us some nice solo work on the horns. But it was when she took on "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" that time stood still.
I have been to Balliceaux for many shows and heard many kinds of music, but I have never felt a moment as magical as during that song. The multi-colored light-strewn branch that always hangs over the stage had never twinkled so brightly. The lighting had never been so softly dim. The crowd had never been so raptly silent.
And, oh, the band was note-perfect. And certainly no one since 1944-era Judy Garland had ever bent the notes quite so expressively.
I only wish the song could have gone on 'till Christmas.
Instead, they wrapped up the set with "O Tannenbaum," which began by sounding very traditional and morphed into something absolutely swinging. The good-sized crowd gave the band the applause they deserved after such a set that both defined and redefined an evening of Christmas music.
But it was B.B.'s lyrics that best summed up how I felt as I clapped.
I haven't had a drink this evening, baby
But I'm all lit up like a Christmas tree
Many thanks, Balliceaux, for a positively perfect Christmas present.
Consider this my thank you note.
To start, Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story mixed things up this month. Instead of the usual array of storytellers, we got a reader in front of a video fireplace.
Writer Mark Mobley did an anti-war poem, Allen Ginsberg's "Wichita Vortex Sutra," and surely I wasn't the only one thrilled to be hearing the Beat's poetry read aloud. The thrill didn't stop there because he also did some John Donne and Ben Johnson before I was introduced to George Herbert* via his poem, "Christmas."
Be still my heart.
Mobley continued with some original material, including "Refresher Course," inspired by a friend who told him he hadn't cried in twenty years and "I, Claus" about his time as a Santa at Greenbriar Mall.
But he set the tone for the rest of the evening reading "A Visit from St. Nicholas," including the 1912 edition introduction. Just as I thought it couldn't get any better, he pulled out one of my favorite Christmas poems. And for possibly the first time in my life, "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" was read aloud to me.
I can't begin to describe what a singular pleasure it was to hear words that I had only read before.
Mobley, a fine reader, got squeaky and high for Cindy Lou Who and deep and menacing for the grinch. Once the grinch (he, himself) had carved the roast beast, it was music time.
Chairs were brought in, musicians arrived and the RVA Big Band began their usual Monday night gig, but this time devoted to the holidays.
"Let It Snow!" came out swinging before vocalist Terra Allen came out in a seasonal green dress, impossibly high heels and belted out "Santa Baby" like nobody's business. The keyboard player got props on a jazzy "Jingle Bells" when the bandleader told us he'd only gotten the music two days ago.
Terra came back to do B.B. King's classic "Merry Christmas, Baby," which had the cocktail dress set behind us dancing in their banquette. It also found dimunitive Terra bent over, challenging the drummer, "Come on!"
"Blue Christmas" gave us some nice solo work on the horns. But it was when she took on "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" that time stood still.
I have been to Balliceaux for many shows and heard many kinds of music, but I have never felt a moment as magical as during that song. The multi-colored light-strewn branch that always hangs over the stage had never twinkled so brightly. The lighting had never been so softly dim. The crowd had never been so raptly silent.
And, oh, the band was note-perfect. And certainly no one since 1944-era Judy Garland had ever bent the notes quite so expressively.
I only wish the song could have gone on 'till Christmas.
Instead, they wrapped up the set with "O Tannenbaum," which began by sounding very traditional and morphed into something absolutely swinging. The good-sized crowd gave the band the applause they deserved after such a set that both defined and redefined an evening of Christmas music.
But it was B.B.'s lyrics that best summed up how I felt as I clapped.
I haven't had a drink this evening, baby
But I'm all lit up like a Christmas tree
Many thanks, Balliceaux, for a positively perfect Christmas present.
Consider this my thank you note.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Keep Calm and Carry On
There can never be too many things to do on a Monday night.
So when I discover at 5:00 that there's an interesting-sounding show at 6:00, I do what any red-blooded music lover would.
I looked up their Bandcamp page and listened online.
And then headed down to Globehopper for Brooklyn's The Sky Captains of Industry.
And you know what we got? Crosby, Stills and Nash for the 21st century.
Three stellar voices, two guitars and a bass, drop-dead harmonies and some of the funniest, most literate lyrics sung around here lately.
The songs I'd heard online had been a full band, but honestly, I liked their drum-less versions even better.
In addition to the band's repertoire, we also heard some solo work by the guys, including Jasper's "High Strung Poets," a song that made me wish I knew one.
"Dog Eat Dog," with its memorable lyric, "They got dog eat dog kind of faces" got our attention while the scant crowd carried on.
And by that, I mean there was one girl on a laptop, one on her phone pretending to study and one who alternated between his phone and his laptop.
I was embarrassed for Richmond.
It's hard to convey the innate pleasure of "Love Shark," but maybe the lyrics will help: "Love shark, I still feel your bite, It keeps me up at night."
Their beautifully (and different) melodious voices were shown to advantage on "Atomic Red," before bass player Don played guitar and did his song "Out Like a Lamb" with its memorable "Could been worse, Coulda been struck in a tree."
"This is our only song about alchemy," guitarist E.W, said about the song "Alchemist," singing, "Please turn my lead heart to gold."
Yes, all the lead hearts should be turned to gold and it would be a better world, wouldn't it?
Guitarist Jasper did another song so like Darden Smith as to give me flashbacks to 1992.
The trio had such great chemistry on top of their musical chops that I kept wishing the place was packed.
Fortunately, a few more people straggled in over the course of their set, but the place should have been packed throughout.
One guy who did stop by was Justin with whom they claimed they'd played in various permutations.
He hugged E.W. before bassist Don teased, "I don't get a hug? I wore my cardigan for you!"
And he had (very dashingly) and it was over a black t-shirt saying, "Keep Calm and Carry On."
Them's words to live by.
As the evening progressed, just as I thought I'd decided which voice was my favorite or which musician's playing got my ear, they'd do another song and someone else would sing and my favorite would change.
Jasper and E.W. did "99-Cent Dream," a song about not having a job, a car or a girl with Justin singing background vocals.
Let's just say the lyrics involved looking for a job sweeping sand off the beach.
Someone near me indicated a desire to get that job, too.
"Rocket City" was the purest form of bubblegum pop, foreshadowing the high-pitched "Crocodile Rock"-like "la, la, la, la, la, las" that inevitably came.
It was so satisfying when they did come that I almost wanted a cigarette.
Their last song got off to a memorable start when guitarist Jasper assumed a caballero-like pose against the nearby wall and bassist Don took on vocals.
Jasper's pose allowed him to look soulful while soloing against the wall.
"Come on, climb aboard, We're headed to the stars."
It was beautiful. Their voices would have knocked the socks off any number of folky singers I know in RVA.
I only hope they come back so more people hear about the show in time to check out their layered voices, fine musicianship and clever songwriting.
Or if they want to come back and play another practically private show for me, I'm okay with that, too.
It just seems like a waste given how much people I know would like these guys.
That said, it was all over by 8:00, so we moved across town to Stuzzi for $2 pizza night.
There is no better deal in town than that true Neapolitan-style pizza baked in 90 seconds.
Washed down with Montepulciano and the owner's opinions on the NYC and RVA dining scenes, it was just right after wine and folk at a coffee shop.
Dessert was zuppa Inglaise, with rum-soaked cake and enough cream to make up for the absence of chocolate.
To bookend the evening, we left Stuzzi for Balliceaux and the RVA Big Band's weekly gig.
Surprisingly, when we arrived only 14 of the 17 musicians were playing.
Sure, they sounded good, but what was up?
Before long, the tiny woman who plays baritone sax showed up and took her place at the end of the front row of saxes.
Before long, a familiar face sauntered in and the bandleader announced, "Bryan Hooten has arrived."
The trombonist took a seat in the second row, found his place and eventually added his well-honed chops to the mix.
It was a good crowd tonight, maybe four dozen at its peak, but a lot of enthusiasm and attention from the crowd.
At one point, the guy next to me and I struck up a chat and he turned out to be a singer for Virginia Opera, in town for a performance.
We agreed that we were hearing some swingin' music tonight, albeit from the back banquette.
But with sixteen instruments playing (they remained guitar-less all night), there's a lot of sound washing over you and that's what we were there for.
But then, I'd climbed aboard and headed to the stars hours earlier.
You're knocking my socks off here, Monday. Keep it up.
So when I discover at 5:00 that there's an interesting-sounding show at 6:00, I do what any red-blooded music lover would.
I looked up their Bandcamp page and listened online.
And then headed down to Globehopper for Brooklyn's The Sky Captains of Industry.
And you know what we got? Crosby, Stills and Nash for the 21st century.
Three stellar voices, two guitars and a bass, drop-dead harmonies and some of the funniest, most literate lyrics sung around here lately.
The songs I'd heard online had been a full band, but honestly, I liked their drum-less versions even better.
In addition to the band's repertoire, we also heard some solo work by the guys, including Jasper's "High Strung Poets," a song that made me wish I knew one.
"Dog Eat Dog," with its memorable lyric, "They got dog eat dog kind of faces" got our attention while the scant crowd carried on.
And by that, I mean there was one girl on a laptop, one on her phone pretending to study and one who alternated between his phone and his laptop.
I was embarrassed for Richmond.
It's hard to convey the innate pleasure of "Love Shark," but maybe the lyrics will help: "Love shark, I still feel your bite, It keeps me up at night."
Their beautifully (and different) melodious voices were shown to advantage on "Atomic Red," before bass player Don played guitar and did his song "Out Like a Lamb" with its memorable "Could been worse, Coulda been struck in a tree."
"This is our only song about alchemy," guitarist E.W, said about the song "Alchemist," singing, "Please turn my lead heart to gold."
Yes, all the lead hearts should be turned to gold and it would be a better world, wouldn't it?
Guitarist Jasper did another song so like Darden Smith as to give me flashbacks to 1992.
The trio had such great chemistry on top of their musical chops that I kept wishing the place was packed.
Fortunately, a few more people straggled in over the course of their set, but the place should have been packed throughout.
One guy who did stop by was Justin with whom they claimed they'd played in various permutations.
He hugged E.W. before bassist Don teased, "I don't get a hug? I wore my cardigan for you!"
And he had (very dashingly) and it was over a black t-shirt saying, "Keep Calm and Carry On."
Them's words to live by.
As the evening progressed, just as I thought I'd decided which voice was my favorite or which musician's playing got my ear, they'd do another song and someone else would sing and my favorite would change.
Jasper and E.W. did "99-Cent Dream," a song about not having a job, a car or a girl with Justin singing background vocals.
Let's just say the lyrics involved looking for a job sweeping sand off the beach.
Someone near me indicated a desire to get that job, too.
"Rocket City" was the purest form of bubblegum pop, foreshadowing the high-pitched "Crocodile Rock"-like "la, la, la, la, la, las" that inevitably came.
It was so satisfying when they did come that I almost wanted a cigarette.
Their last song got off to a memorable start when guitarist Jasper assumed a caballero-like pose against the nearby wall and bassist Don took on vocals.
Jasper's pose allowed him to look soulful while soloing against the wall.
"Come on, climb aboard, We're headed to the stars."
It was beautiful. Their voices would have knocked the socks off any number of folky singers I know in RVA.
I only hope they come back so more people hear about the show in time to check out their layered voices, fine musicianship and clever songwriting.
Or if they want to come back and play another practically private show for me, I'm okay with that, too.
It just seems like a waste given how much people I know would like these guys.
That said, it was all over by 8:00, so we moved across town to Stuzzi for $2 pizza night.
There is no better deal in town than that true Neapolitan-style pizza baked in 90 seconds.
Washed down with Montepulciano and the owner's opinions on the NYC and RVA dining scenes, it was just right after wine and folk at a coffee shop.
Dessert was zuppa Inglaise, with rum-soaked cake and enough cream to make up for the absence of chocolate.
To bookend the evening, we left Stuzzi for Balliceaux and the RVA Big Band's weekly gig.
Surprisingly, when we arrived only 14 of the 17 musicians were playing.
Sure, they sounded good, but what was up?
Before long, the tiny woman who plays baritone sax showed up and took her place at the end of the front row of saxes.
Before long, a familiar face sauntered in and the bandleader announced, "Bryan Hooten has arrived."
The trombonist took a seat in the second row, found his place and eventually added his well-honed chops to the mix.
It was a good crowd tonight, maybe four dozen at its peak, but a lot of enthusiasm and attention from the crowd.
At one point, the guy next to me and I struck up a chat and he turned out to be a singer for Virginia Opera, in town for a performance.
We agreed that we were hearing some swingin' music tonight, albeit from the back banquette.
But with sixteen instruments playing (they remained guitar-less all night), there's a lot of sound washing over you and that's what we were there for.
But then, I'd climbed aboard and headed to the stars hours earlier.
You're knocking my socks off here, Monday. Keep it up.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Last in Line
Don't mess with people's Lincoln.
Arriving at the god-forsaken Short Pump multiplex, we found a line snaking outside into the cold night air.
We dutifully joined it, becoming part of the throng clamoring to see "Lincoln" with its cast of locals (Matt! Brandon! Thomas!) and Richmond locales.
Fifteen minutes in line and we got the bad news. A manager came out and with a sweep of his hand informed us that we would not be getting into the theater tonight.
Naturally, I ignored him and stayed in line hoping his guestimation of theater capacity was off somewhat.
Once we made it inside (and past the security guard checking for weapons and recording devices), we continued to inch forward.
Once we got within reach of the door to the theater, a manager stepped forward and cut off the line.
We were the last two people admitted.
Let's just say the foursome behind us was none too pleased.
Our late admittance meant we had front row seats, so Abe and Mary were all up in our grill, but it was a small price to pay.
Truth be told, I enjoyed the movie more than I had anticipated.
Sure, that was partly my interest in scanning for familiar faces and locations, but also the story of the man rather than just the historic events, captured me.
As played by a magnificent Daniel Day Lewis, Lincoln was a wholly compelling and complex man led by his conscience even when doing so risked his personal popularity.
Often, his humor made me laugh out loud, even when delivered so quietly and nonchalantly.
"You think the word won't get around in Washington?" he asks of a cabinet member.
The pacing of the film was slow and deliberate in that way that used to be standard for movie-making before our collective attention spans required endless quick cuts and short takes.
While my companion found it a bit tedious, I appreciated the time Spielberg allowed for characters to react and scenes to unfold.
In fact, I'd go so far as to compare Spielberg's intent in making "Lincoln" to that of Aaron Copland's "Lincoln Portrait."
I think Spielberg, like Copland, intended this movie to serve as his lasting tribute to a great man, incorporating various elements of who he was for the ages.
Like "Portrait," the film used Lincoln's actual words (speeches, letters) as well as period music and details to evoke a unique personality determined to pass the thirteenth amendment.
But the essence of the man was there, too - the endless storytelling to illustrate an example, the patience with his unstable wife Mary, the humor and humanity he never lost.
Needless to say, the audience was a devoted one, even cheering at the credits and many lingering until the last one rolled.
Personally, I make a point to see so few big-budget Hollywood movies, but this one was worth breaking my rule for.
Leaving the 19th century behind, we made a beeline back to the city so I could breathe again and to Balliceaux for music.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band and I felt right at home when I walked into a Marcus Tenney sax solo to greet me.
There were some changes in the lineup tonight, significantly, Bryan Hooten on trombone for the first time with these guys.
From my original perch on the stairs, I moved to the bar for the next couple of songs before taking a seat on the back banquette.
Three vantage points, three different ways to hear and experience the music. All good.
After being promised by the bandleader, "We're going to take a break, exactly ten minutes and we'll be back," a break of 20 minutes followed.
When they returned, the first song began with a baritone sax, always played by the only female member of the band, and she was wailing hard to the delight of the guys in the band.
In fact, Marcus Tenney, sitting next to her, was clearly so impressed that he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of her playing from a foot away.
He put down his phone and picked up his sax as the rest of the band joined her before coming back around to a second sax solo and the musicians hootin' and hollerin' their approval as she wound down.
Another song began with the deep notes of the upright bass to which finger snapping was added and eventually a musician opened his PBR on the off beat just to be clever.
This time, Hooten had a solo and Tenney turned around in his chair to shoot him, too.
Finally, it was that unfortunate time.
"We've got one more song," the bandleader announced. "We're going to have 15 soloists on this one!"
From the ranks I heard another musician say, "Oh, man, we had 14 on that last one."
And so what? It's the collaborative nature of the RVA Big Band that makes it such a compelling draw week after week.
Some weeks, the music selections are far more traditional and others you get some way-out choices that show how jazz was developing.
But you always get superb musicianship and 16 or 17 guys making beautiful noise in Balliceaux's back room.
It wasn't quite Copland, but it sure was swingin'.
To paraphrase Mr. Lincoln, "I don't know how word hasn't gotten around in Richmond."
Arriving at the god-forsaken Short Pump multiplex, we found a line snaking outside into the cold night air.
We dutifully joined it, becoming part of the throng clamoring to see "Lincoln" with its cast of locals (Matt! Brandon! Thomas!) and Richmond locales.
Fifteen minutes in line and we got the bad news. A manager came out and with a sweep of his hand informed us that we would not be getting into the theater tonight.
Naturally, I ignored him and stayed in line hoping his guestimation of theater capacity was off somewhat.
Once we made it inside (and past the security guard checking for weapons and recording devices), we continued to inch forward.
Once we got within reach of the door to the theater, a manager stepped forward and cut off the line.
We were the last two people admitted.
Let's just say the foursome behind us was none too pleased.
Our late admittance meant we had front row seats, so Abe and Mary were all up in our grill, but it was a small price to pay.
Truth be told, I enjoyed the movie more than I had anticipated.
Sure, that was partly my interest in scanning for familiar faces and locations, but also the story of the man rather than just the historic events, captured me.
As played by a magnificent Daniel Day Lewis, Lincoln was a wholly compelling and complex man led by his conscience even when doing so risked his personal popularity.
Often, his humor made me laugh out loud, even when delivered so quietly and nonchalantly.
"You think the word won't get around in Washington?" he asks of a cabinet member.
The pacing of the film was slow and deliberate in that way that used to be standard for movie-making before our collective attention spans required endless quick cuts and short takes.
While my companion found it a bit tedious, I appreciated the time Spielberg allowed for characters to react and scenes to unfold.
In fact, I'd go so far as to compare Spielberg's intent in making "Lincoln" to that of Aaron Copland's "Lincoln Portrait."
I think Spielberg, like Copland, intended this movie to serve as his lasting tribute to a great man, incorporating various elements of who he was for the ages.
Like "Portrait," the film used Lincoln's actual words (speeches, letters) as well as period music and details to evoke a unique personality determined to pass the thirteenth amendment.
But the essence of the man was there, too - the endless storytelling to illustrate an example, the patience with his unstable wife Mary, the humor and humanity he never lost.
Needless to say, the audience was a devoted one, even cheering at the credits and many lingering until the last one rolled.
Personally, I make a point to see so few big-budget Hollywood movies, but this one was worth breaking my rule for.
Leaving the 19th century behind, we made a beeline back to the city so I could breathe again and to Balliceaux for music.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band and I felt right at home when I walked into a Marcus Tenney sax solo to greet me.
There were some changes in the lineup tonight, significantly, Bryan Hooten on trombone for the first time with these guys.
From my original perch on the stairs, I moved to the bar for the next couple of songs before taking a seat on the back banquette.
Three vantage points, three different ways to hear and experience the music. All good.
After being promised by the bandleader, "We're going to take a break, exactly ten minutes and we'll be back," a break of 20 minutes followed.
When they returned, the first song began with a baritone sax, always played by the only female member of the band, and she was wailing hard to the delight of the guys in the band.
In fact, Marcus Tenney, sitting next to her, was clearly so impressed that he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of her playing from a foot away.
He put down his phone and picked up his sax as the rest of the band joined her before coming back around to a second sax solo and the musicians hootin' and hollerin' their approval as she wound down.
Another song began with the deep notes of the upright bass to which finger snapping was added and eventually a musician opened his PBR on the off beat just to be clever.
This time, Hooten had a solo and Tenney turned around in his chair to shoot him, too.
Finally, it was that unfortunate time.
"We've got one more song," the bandleader announced. "We're going to have 15 soloists on this one!"
From the ranks I heard another musician say, "Oh, man, we had 14 on that last one."
And so what? It's the collaborative nature of the RVA Big Band that makes it such a compelling draw week after week.
Some weeks, the music selections are far more traditional and others you get some way-out choices that show how jazz was developing.
But you always get superb musicianship and 16 or 17 guys making beautiful noise in Balliceaux's back room.
It wasn't quite Copland, but it sure was swingin'.
To paraphrase Mr. Lincoln, "I don't know how word hasn't gotten around in Richmond."
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Live Carp and Missing Kittens, Oh My!
Sometimes you just have to go with what you know.
I know that the only time I like to go to Stella's is for Meze Ora.
The later afternoon means no crowds, $10 carafes of wine (today's was Kourtaki White) and a selection of $4 food.
After complimenting our bartender on her recent Belle magazine cover, we enjoyed fig and goat cheese crostini (sweet and salty, yum!), Greek sausage (with skin so crispy and chewy), roasted beets (with enough garlic to ensure no one else would come near us) and prawns with skordalia (the addicting potato, garlic and lemon puree).
We made out exit stage right just as the dinner crowd began to arrive.
I know that I will laugh hard and hear at least one awe-inspiring story at Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux.
We arrived in time to order dessert before the stories began.
Cinnamon churros came with a mug of thick espresso-flavored sweetened cream and the combination was to die for.
We dipped and then we drank that cream.
With a bottle of Roncier Pinot Noir to keep our thirst slaked for the next five hours, we took front row seats.
Tonight's theme was "Origins," so I was expecting stories of beginnings.
We began with the tale of a guy who found out late that his mother wasn't really his mother and packed a bag to go start a new life.
There was Kendall, a guy with "veritas" tattooed on his arm, who'd suffered through a Pentecostal upbringing and all that entailed as far as finding his own beliefs.
My vote for funniest story of the evening went to "RPCT One."
So you know, RCPT means "random people camping together" and the first one happened in June 2000 for a guy and his friends after high school graduation.
Part of the charm of the story was their 17-year old ignorance, doing things like hiking up Old Rag Mountain with no food or camping supplies.
"There was a point where our trip became 'Deliverance," he deadpanned to much laughter.
And while the bulk of his story was about that first year, he mentioned successive years, too..
Best line: "There were people having sex on a pile of Christian DVDs."
"My Life as a Barge" was about a couple of wanna-be hippies moving to Richmond in the '80s when she got pregnant.
The description of her unlikely midwife was laugh-out-loud worthy - "From the West end, drove a Volvo and had a cute blond bob."
Best line: "It involved a live carp for eating after the delivery."
The last storyteller before the intermission was Lanie, owner of Balliceaux and one of the people who'd gotten Secretly Y'All off the ground in RVA.
She talked of her reluctance to share with a large group ("I'm fine with talking to 3 or 5 people") and praised the value of vulnerability.
I agreed with her completely when she said that storytelling provides a critical resonance that's getting hard to find in a screen-based world.
Best lines: "Stories are data with souls."
The break kicked off with the whistling theme to "Andy of Mayberry" playing, perhaps to remind us of simpler times when storytelling was less of an event and more of a regular activity.
One thing was clear, though, people want to hear stories. And tonight was the second anniversary of S.Y.
When Secretly Y'All began two years ago, the crowds were scant and tonight they were bursting the seams of the back room, many sitting on the floor or standing.
The storytellers after the intermission, unlike those beforehand, are chosen from a hat and anyone in the crowd can put their name in to share a themed story.
Tonight we got a couple of long-time regulars sharing.
Artist Chris Milk was the first name called tonight and he shuffled onstage to talk about his childhood, looking especially handsome in glasses I'd never seen him wear before.
His parents had split shortly after his birth ("I don't think it was my fault") and he recalled a childhood of sharing his time between two homes.
He got many laughs in talking about his brother's threats to him, eventually ending by exhorting the crowd to keep family close.
Best line: I've lived in Richmond most of my life, thank god!"
Colin, one of S.Y.'s organizers, got his name called next and he told a story called, "Daddy was a Baptist but He Didn't Have Balls."
The Daddy in question was that of his high school prom date who did not want his little girl dating, as he put it, someone with "awful white boy dreds."
But Daddy didn't tell Colin he couldn't take his daughter to prom, Mom did, although Colin managed to talk her into letting him anyway.
Colin -1, Daddy - 0
There was a story called "When Jesus Came" about the storyteller and his sister walking into the woods to entertain themselves in the Ozarks.
When they returned, their mother was ironing and the kittens were missing.
I got the sense that bad things had happened to the kittens in their absence.
And then we came to the kind of story that defines why I go to Secretly Y'All.
"Coming to America" was told by an Hungarian immigrant in flawless English.
The young man told of his family's restless moves from Hungary to Germany (while his Mom was pregnant with him) to LA to Houston to Virginia to Florida and back to Virginia.
He spoke of his citizenship ceremony at age 17 and seeing other immigrants frantically studying for the test.
His gratitude to have ended up here ("where everything is possible') was palpable and I couldn't resist thanking him for sharing after the event ended.
Hearing a stranger's heartfelt story of how his life as an immigrant unfolded is something I'd never have experienced if not for Secretly Y'All.
Case closed.
I know that I will have a swinging good time when I hear the RVA Big Band.
After a walk around the block while S.Y. broke down and the 17-piece big band set up, we took our bottle of wine and set up camp in the back banquette.
Some people from S.Y. lingered and others arrived especially for the big band.
Amid too much shouting, the big band's leader asked, "Hey, you guys wanna hear music?" which I took to mean, "Be quiet."
They started with a Japanese composer, a perfect intro to an eclectic evening's music.
By the second song, a couple was dancing.
I saw a former Floyd Avenue neighbor looking very dapper in a white jacket and jeans, barely containing his urge to shake his groove thing.
Later he came back to join us sitting on top of the back of the banquette.
"I've had a dirty old man crush on the baritone sax player for years now," he joked.
It's true, it's tough to resist the tiniest woman playing the largest sax and the largest man playing the smallest sax.
We heard a composition by the alto sax player, a piece that showed the influences of the past 40 years that could be woven into the big band sound.
In this case, it sounded like psychedelic big band with a guitar solo that would have stopped a '70s prog-rocker in his tracks.
As many times as I've seen the RVA big band, never had they sounded together or better than tonight.
The drummer was new and stellar, but also, the drummer, keyboard player and guitarist were now situated on the far left of the brass instead of buried behind them and the sound difference was startling.
"You might want to grab someone you love for the next song," the bandleader told us. "This is 'My One and Only."
And while no one grabbed me, there were some couples dancing during the achingly beautiful love song.
The band did a kick-ass take on Steely Dan's "Aja," taking it in new and different directions that swung hard.
Although the crowd had dwindled by the end (it was a school night, after all), the band played no less enthusiastically for the smaller crowd than it had for the packed chatterers.
A musician friend had come tonight for the first time and I was eager to hear his take on the band.
"Didn't you see my reactions?" he asked, grinning goofily. I had and he'd been having a ball, I could tell. "They make me want to go home and start practicing so I can put my name on the list to play."
Translation: he thought they were as amazing as I did, only he knew what he was talking about.
And when all was said and done and we walked out into the crisp night air, I'd heard all kinds of stories from strangers that I had no business hearing.
But as long as they tell, I will go listen. And with any luck, stay and swing afterwards.
I know that the only time I like to go to Stella's is for Meze Ora.
The later afternoon means no crowds, $10 carafes of wine (today's was Kourtaki White) and a selection of $4 food.
After complimenting our bartender on her recent Belle magazine cover, we enjoyed fig and goat cheese crostini (sweet and salty, yum!), Greek sausage (with skin so crispy and chewy), roasted beets (with enough garlic to ensure no one else would come near us) and prawns with skordalia (the addicting potato, garlic and lemon puree).
We made out exit stage right just as the dinner crowd began to arrive.
I know that I will laugh hard and hear at least one awe-inspiring story at Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux.
We arrived in time to order dessert before the stories began.
Cinnamon churros came with a mug of thick espresso-flavored sweetened cream and the combination was to die for.
We dipped and then we drank that cream.
With a bottle of Roncier Pinot Noir to keep our thirst slaked for the next five hours, we took front row seats.
Tonight's theme was "Origins," so I was expecting stories of beginnings.
We began with the tale of a guy who found out late that his mother wasn't really his mother and packed a bag to go start a new life.
There was Kendall, a guy with "veritas" tattooed on his arm, who'd suffered through a Pentecostal upbringing and all that entailed as far as finding his own beliefs.
My vote for funniest story of the evening went to "RPCT One."
So you know, RCPT means "random people camping together" and the first one happened in June 2000 for a guy and his friends after high school graduation.
Part of the charm of the story was their 17-year old ignorance, doing things like hiking up Old Rag Mountain with no food or camping supplies.
"There was a point where our trip became 'Deliverance," he deadpanned to much laughter.
And while the bulk of his story was about that first year, he mentioned successive years, too..
Best line: "There were people having sex on a pile of Christian DVDs."
"My Life as a Barge" was about a couple of wanna-be hippies moving to Richmond in the '80s when she got pregnant.
The description of her unlikely midwife was laugh-out-loud worthy - "From the West end, drove a Volvo and had a cute blond bob."
Best line: "It involved a live carp for eating after the delivery."
The last storyteller before the intermission was Lanie, owner of Balliceaux and one of the people who'd gotten Secretly Y'All off the ground in RVA.
She talked of her reluctance to share with a large group ("I'm fine with talking to 3 or 5 people") and praised the value of vulnerability.
I agreed with her completely when she said that storytelling provides a critical resonance that's getting hard to find in a screen-based world.
Best lines: "Stories are data with souls."
The break kicked off with the whistling theme to "Andy of Mayberry" playing, perhaps to remind us of simpler times when storytelling was less of an event and more of a regular activity.
One thing was clear, though, people want to hear stories. And tonight was the second anniversary of S.Y.
When Secretly Y'All began two years ago, the crowds were scant and tonight they were bursting the seams of the back room, many sitting on the floor or standing.
The storytellers after the intermission, unlike those beforehand, are chosen from a hat and anyone in the crowd can put their name in to share a themed story.
Tonight we got a couple of long-time regulars sharing.
Artist Chris Milk was the first name called tonight and he shuffled onstage to talk about his childhood, looking especially handsome in glasses I'd never seen him wear before.
His parents had split shortly after his birth ("I don't think it was my fault") and he recalled a childhood of sharing his time between two homes.
He got many laughs in talking about his brother's threats to him, eventually ending by exhorting the crowd to keep family close.
Best line: I've lived in Richmond most of my life, thank god!"
Colin, one of S.Y.'s organizers, got his name called next and he told a story called, "Daddy was a Baptist but He Didn't Have Balls."
The Daddy in question was that of his high school prom date who did not want his little girl dating, as he put it, someone with "awful white boy dreds."
But Daddy didn't tell Colin he couldn't take his daughter to prom, Mom did, although Colin managed to talk her into letting him anyway.
Colin -1, Daddy - 0
There was a story called "When Jesus Came" about the storyteller and his sister walking into the woods to entertain themselves in the Ozarks.
When they returned, their mother was ironing and the kittens were missing.
I got the sense that bad things had happened to the kittens in their absence.
And then we came to the kind of story that defines why I go to Secretly Y'All.
"Coming to America" was told by an Hungarian immigrant in flawless English.
The young man told of his family's restless moves from Hungary to Germany (while his Mom was pregnant with him) to LA to Houston to Virginia to Florida and back to Virginia.
He spoke of his citizenship ceremony at age 17 and seeing other immigrants frantically studying for the test.
His gratitude to have ended up here ("where everything is possible') was palpable and I couldn't resist thanking him for sharing after the event ended.
Hearing a stranger's heartfelt story of how his life as an immigrant unfolded is something I'd never have experienced if not for Secretly Y'All.
Case closed.
I know that I will have a swinging good time when I hear the RVA Big Band.
After a walk around the block while S.Y. broke down and the 17-piece big band set up, we took our bottle of wine and set up camp in the back banquette.
Some people from S.Y. lingered and others arrived especially for the big band.
Amid too much shouting, the big band's leader asked, "Hey, you guys wanna hear music?" which I took to mean, "Be quiet."
They started with a Japanese composer, a perfect intro to an eclectic evening's music.
By the second song, a couple was dancing.
I saw a former Floyd Avenue neighbor looking very dapper in a white jacket and jeans, barely containing his urge to shake his groove thing.
Later he came back to join us sitting on top of the back of the banquette.
"I've had a dirty old man crush on the baritone sax player for years now," he joked.
It's true, it's tough to resist the tiniest woman playing the largest sax and the largest man playing the smallest sax.
We heard a composition by the alto sax player, a piece that showed the influences of the past 40 years that could be woven into the big band sound.
In this case, it sounded like psychedelic big band with a guitar solo that would have stopped a '70s prog-rocker in his tracks.
As many times as I've seen the RVA big band, never had they sounded together or better than tonight.
The drummer was new and stellar, but also, the drummer, keyboard player and guitarist were now situated on the far left of the brass instead of buried behind them and the sound difference was startling.
"You might want to grab someone you love for the next song," the bandleader told us. "This is 'My One and Only."
And while no one grabbed me, there were some couples dancing during the achingly beautiful love song.
The band did a kick-ass take on Steely Dan's "Aja," taking it in new and different directions that swung hard.
Although the crowd had dwindled by the end (it was a school night, after all), the band played no less enthusiastically for the smaller crowd than it had for the packed chatterers.
A musician friend had come tonight for the first time and I was eager to hear his take on the band.
"Didn't you see my reactions?" he asked, grinning goofily. I had and he'd been having a ball, I could tell. "They make me want to go home and start practicing so I can put my name on the list to play."
Translation: he thought they were as amazing as I did, only he knew what he was talking about.
And when all was said and done and we walked out into the crisp night air, I'd heard all kinds of stories from strangers that I had no business hearing.
But as long as they tell, I will go listen. And with any luck, stay and swing afterwards.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Of Tingas, Ties and Trains
When shall we do something, a friend inquires.
I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.
What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.
Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.
I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."
He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.
If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.
Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.
I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.
Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.
Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.
I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.
By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.
Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.
When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."
My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."
His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.
With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.
No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.
On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.
I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.
With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.
He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.
We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.
And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.
About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.
This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.
We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.
When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.
After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.
There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.
A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.
The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.
"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.
The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.
The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."
Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.
Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?
I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.
What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.
Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.
I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."
He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.
If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.
Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.
I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.
Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.
Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.
I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.
By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.
Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.
When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."
My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."
His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.
With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.
No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.
On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.
I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.
With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.
He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.
We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.
And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.
About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.
This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.
We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.
When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.
After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.
There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.
A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.
The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.
"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.
The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.
The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."
Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.
Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Sir Duke-era Dating
Say it's the late '40s.
You want to take your date out for an evening she'll appreciate without breaking the bank.
Probably you find a good, reasonably-priced restaurant to take her to.
If you're particularly clever, you go to some place like Garnett's, where they have a date night special every night from 6-9:00.
You impress your date with a lovely summer, easy-drinking wine like Gabriele Rause Vin de Gris, which just happens to be part of the date night package.
Both of you choose an entree to enjoy while you listen to appropriately literate, hook-laden music from Jason Collett, he of the uber-talented collective Broken Social Scene.
Needless, to say, your date is enchanted.
You finish the meal with the black and white cake with coffee frosting
It's the kind of frosting that is more fat than sugar, but since it's just after the war years, everyone's still in the habit of not over-using luxuries like sugar.
You linger, finishing the wine until the moon is fully high in the sky.
Wisely, you'd already planned to walk to your next stop, Ballcieaux for the RVA Big Band.
Because, let's face it, the war's over and it's time to celebrate.
Dancing cheek to cheek with a woman is a pleasure you lived without for too long.
You steer your date to the back banquette, which you share with another couple sitting very close.
The bandleader informs the crowd that it's the bass sax player's birthday (she looks impossibly young no matter what her age) and one of the trombone players' last nights with the big band.
Suddenly, you and your date are sharing not just swing music, but a couple of special occasions.
Does she sit a little closer because of it?
All around you, other tables are eating, drinking and watching the band.
This is the norm at a club with a live band in the late '40s.
The bandleader dedicates the next piece to Doug Richards, a local musician who also teaches in the VCU Jazz Studies program.
In all likelihood, most of the musicians in the big band have studied under him at one time or another.
He is the eminence gris. albeit a toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, head-bobbing one in a bar stool.
"This is Far East Suite," the bandleader says. "Doug Richards made sure I heard it a long time before I would have otherwise."
You realize that if your date is not impressed by this exquisite Duke Ellington composition, she's not worthy anyway.
As luck has it, she swoons over it, her legs keeping time with the music.
By the time you walk the five blocks back to the car, you feel certain she'll say yes to another date.
She does, as surely as the Allies beat the enemy.
It's good to be dating circa 1946.
Easy and with a swing beat.
You want to take your date out for an evening she'll appreciate without breaking the bank.
Probably you find a good, reasonably-priced restaurant to take her to.
If you're particularly clever, you go to some place like Garnett's, where they have a date night special every night from 6-9:00.
You impress your date with a lovely summer, easy-drinking wine like Gabriele Rause Vin de Gris, which just happens to be part of the date night package.
Both of you choose an entree to enjoy while you listen to appropriately literate, hook-laden music from Jason Collett, he of the uber-talented collective Broken Social Scene.
Needless, to say, your date is enchanted.
You finish the meal with the black and white cake with coffee frosting
It's the kind of frosting that is more fat than sugar, but since it's just after the war years, everyone's still in the habit of not over-using luxuries like sugar.
You linger, finishing the wine until the moon is fully high in the sky.
Wisely, you'd already planned to walk to your next stop, Ballcieaux for the RVA Big Band.
Because, let's face it, the war's over and it's time to celebrate.
Dancing cheek to cheek with a woman is a pleasure you lived without for too long.
You steer your date to the back banquette, which you share with another couple sitting very close.
The bandleader informs the crowd that it's the bass sax player's birthday (she looks impossibly young no matter what her age) and one of the trombone players' last nights with the big band.
Suddenly, you and your date are sharing not just swing music, but a couple of special occasions.
Does she sit a little closer because of it?
All around you, other tables are eating, drinking and watching the band.
This is the norm at a club with a live band in the late '40s.
The bandleader dedicates the next piece to Doug Richards, a local musician who also teaches in the VCU Jazz Studies program.
In all likelihood, most of the musicians in the big band have studied under him at one time or another.
He is the eminence gris. albeit a toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, head-bobbing one in a bar stool.
"This is Far East Suite," the bandleader says. "Doug Richards made sure I heard it a long time before I would have otherwise."
You realize that if your date is not impressed by this exquisite Duke Ellington composition, she's not worthy anyway.
As luck has it, she swoons over it, her legs keeping time with the music.
By the time you walk the five blocks back to the car, you feel certain she'll say yes to another date.
She does, as surely as the Allies beat the enemy.
It's good to be dating circa 1946.
Easy and with a swing beat.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Grab My Alto Sax and I'm Back on the Road
First rule of Karen's storm plan: Always go out.
After this afternoon's horizontal rain, epic wind and subsequent power outages (although not here in J-Ward), the only concession made to Mother Nature's fury was checking with the restaurant where I was meeting friends to ensure they still had power.
They did and even more importantly, my friend Holmes had made reservations for us.
And while a normal Monday night at Six Burner might not require a reservation, tonight was no ordinary Monday night.
The place was packed with lost souls trying to escape their powerless homes. In fact, the couple we were meeting was among them.
So the joint was mobbed.
Our quartet wrapped itself around the corner of the bar so as to be able to both see and hear each other.
Naturally, everyone had arrived at the same moment, so the staff was scrambling to keep up with drink and food orders for so many hungry/thirsty patrons at once.
It didn't matter to us because we had the right attitude and nothing but time. Oh, yes, and Prosecco.
But it also meant that the trio of raw oysters was 86'd by 7:30, minutes after we arrived. So it wasn't going to be a local oyster night.
And since Six Burner recently switched to an all-small-plate menu, it also meant that whatever we ordered came out as it was ready.
We started with sugar snaps, English cucumber, and watermelon radish in Jean Marc citron vinegar, finding it as crunchy and satisfying as when we'd sampled it on opening night.
That was followed by one of tonight's specials, roasted King Mackerel with fiddleheads and baby carrots in an Asian-inspired sauce.
There's nothing like fiddleheads when you can get them.
By the time our panzanella salad of tomatoes,feta, mint and olives arrived, we were too full and it was boxed up to go.
Holmes was explaining that if his power didn't return, he was going to have a freezer party tomorrow night and cook up its contents.
All I heard was lobster tails before I agreed to be a guest should that happen.
When it came time for dessert, nothing on the sweet menu was calling our name, so we opted for dessert at Balliceaux, our next stop.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band night.
Lombardy was pretty dark when we arrived, but the chalkboard in front said, "We are open!" and we waltzed through the wide-open front doors.
But wait.
While there were a few of the overhead lights on, for the most part the place was candlelit.
As in, they had no power, either.
Waling toward us was a red-haired musician, instrument case in hand, talking into his phone. "So there's no gig," he informed the other end.
But they had a big cooler and a willing barkeep, so we agreed to stay put and make the best of it, even without dessert.
The cocktail list was limited because many of the needed ingredients were in the pitch-black back room and thus inaccessible.
But our group is a flexible one and Negronis and Old Old Fashioneds (New Old Fashioneds wouldn't do) took care of the group's needs.
It was as lovely a night weather-wise as anyone could have hoped for inside.
The wide-open front doors allowed the breeze to move through and escape through the big, open windows over the stairs.
"Man, I hope my house feels this breezy when I get home," Holmes observed.
I knew mine would; I'd made sure to leave every window open.
As we sat there talking about what constitutes pop music and how Italian words must be pronounced with passion, in walked another musician toting his case.
When he was informed that there was no show tonight, he looked surprised.
Turns out he wasn't part of the usual 17-piece but a visiting musician from Hartford, Connecticut in town for the evening.
As long as he was here, he'd hoped to stop by and sit in before he leaves for a three-month flute/sax gig aboard a Holland cruise ship to Alaska.
Not surprisingly, he looked a little bummed when he heard.
And that's when I kicked into storm mode.
"But it would be awesome if you'd play your sax for us anyway," I said in my most earnest voice.
When the devoted music fan in me takes over, she is as sincere as they come.
He smiled, ordered a drink and considered.
"I'll buy you a drink if you do," Holmes said, sweetening the pot, but Pete the sax player was already taking his instrument out and moistening the reed.
With nary an acknowledgement, he launched into Coltrane's "Mr. P.C."
I know that only because I had no shame about asking him what he played after each song.
There was a song called "Dig" (he said it had been done by Miles Davis) as well as Charlie Parker's "Scrapple for the Apple."
Despite the ingrates chattering around him, I savored every note from the impromptu performance.
He eventually settled into a slow burn of the jazz standard, "Body and Soul," much to the delight of Holmes' beloved.
"When's the last time you heard this live?" I asked mischievously as she swooned over the music.
"Never!" she exclaimed wide-eyed and clearly thrilled.
And why not?
We were sitting in a candlelit bar in a darkened neighborhood with a lovely breeze blowing over us while a visiting sax player serenaded us with vintage jazz.
My companion turned to me grinning.
"This kind of thing only happens when I'm with you," he said as if reluctant to state the obvious.
Correction: this kind of thing only happens when you ask for what you want.
I tell you I mean it
I'm all for you
Body and soul
That's the second rule of Karen's storm plan.
After this afternoon's horizontal rain, epic wind and subsequent power outages (although not here in J-Ward), the only concession made to Mother Nature's fury was checking with the restaurant where I was meeting friends to ensure they still had power.
They did and even more importantly, my friend Holmes had made reservations for us.
And while a normal Monday night at Six Burner might not require a reservation, tonight was no ordinary Monday night.
The place was packed with lost souls trying to escape their powerless homes. In fact, the couple we were meeting was among them.
So the joint was mobbed.
Our quartet wrapped itself around the corner of the bar so as to be able to both see and hear each other.
Naturally, everyone had arrived at the same moment, so the staff was scrambling to keep up with drink and food orders for so many hungry/thirsty patrons at once.
It didn't matter to us because we had the right attitude and nothing but time. Oh, yes, and Prosecco.
But it also meant that the trio of raw oysters was 86'd by 7:30, minutes after we arrived. So it wasn't going to be a local oyster night.
And since Six Burner recently switched to an all-small-plate menu, it also meant that whatever we ordered came out as it was ready.
We started with sugar snaps, English cucumber, and watermelon radish in Jean Marc citron vinegar, finding it as crunchy and satisfying as when we'd sampled it on opening night.
That was followed by one of tonight's specials, roasted King Mackerel with fiddleheads and baby carrots in an Asian-inspired sauce.
There's nothing like fiddleheads when you can get them.
By the time our panzanella salad of tomatoes,feta, mint and olives arrived, we were too full and it was boxed up to go.
Holmes was explaining that if his power didn't return, he was going to have a freezer party tomorrow night and cook up its contents.
All I heard was lobster tails before I agreed to be a guest should that happen.
When it came time for dessert, nothing on the sweet menu was calling our name, so we opted for dessert at Balliceaux, our next stop.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band night.
Lombardy was pretty dark when we arrived, but the chalkboard in front said, "We are open!" and we waltzed through the wide-open front doors.
But wait.
While there were a few of the overhead lights on, for the most part the place was candlelit.
As in, they had no power, either.
Waling toward us was a red-haired musician, instrument case in hand, talking into his phone. "So there's no gig," he informed the other end.
But they had a big cooler and a willing barkeep, so we agreed to stay put and make the best of it, even without dessert.
The cocktail list was limited because many of the needed ingredients were in the pitch-black back room and thus inaccessible.
But our group is a flexible one and Negronis and Old Old Fashioneds (New Old Fashioneds wouldn't do) took care of the group's needs.
It was as lovely a night weather-wise as anyone could have hoped for inside.
The wide-open front doors allowed the breeze to move through and escape through the big, open windows over the stairs.
"Man, I hope my house feels this breezy when I get home," Holmes observed.
I knew mine would; I'd made sure to leave every window open.
As we sat there talking about what constitutes pop music and how Italian words must be pronounced with passion, in walked another musician toting his case.
When he was informed that there was no show tonight, he looked surprised.
Turns out he wasn't part of the usual 17-piece but a visiting musician from Hartford, Connecticut in town for the evening.
As long as he was here, he'd hoped to stop by and sit in before he leaves for a three-month flute/sax gig aboard a Holland cruise ship to Alaska.
Not surprisingly, he looked a little bummed when he heard.
And that's when I kicked into storm mode.
"But it would be awesome if you'd play your sax for us anyway," I said in my most earnest voice.
When the devoted music fan in me takes over, she is as sincere as they come.
He smiled, ordered a drink and considered.
"I'll buy you a drink if you do," Holmes said, sweetening the pot, but Pete the sax player was already taking his instrument out and moistening the reed.
With nary an acknowledgement, he launched into Coltrane's "Mr. P.C."
I know that only because I had no shame about asking him what he played after each song.
There was a song called "Dig" (he said it had been done by Miles Davis) as well as Charlie Parker's "Scrapple for the Apple."
Despite the ingrates chattering around him, I savored every note from the impromptu performance.
He eventually settled into a slow burn of the jazz standard, "Body and Soul," much to the delight of Holmes' beloved.
"When's the last time you heard this live?" I asked mischievously as she swooned over the music.
"Never!" she exclaimed wide-eyed and clearly thrilled.
And why not?
We were sitting in a candlelit bar in a darkened neighborhood with a lovely breeze blowing over us while a visiting sax player serenaded us with vintage jazz.
My companion turned to me grinning.
"This kind of thing only happens when I'm with you," he said as if reluctant to state the obvious.
Correction: this kind of thing only happens when you ask for what you want.
I tell you I mean it
I'm all for you
Body and soul
That's the second rule of Karen's storm plan.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Kicking It Old School
It could have been an evening from another era.
Beginning at Garnett's for dinner, our foursome wrapped itself around the end of the bar for dinner.
The low-key Garnett's vibe belies the pleasing little wine list and on a cool June night, it feels like a place my parents could have frequented.
All around us couples are having dinner while '50s music plays and people eat simple, affordable food.
I kept it basic with Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and the farmer's salad of romaine, apple, cheddar, bacon and creamy sesame dressing.
No doubt it would have seemed like a very exotic salad back when that lunch counter was first built into that space.
Tonight it just seemed like a classic trifecta of flavors.
The four of us ate and chatted about the oddest assortment of things: a former dance club in the Bottom, the importance of an audience and revisiting old haunts.
As two of the group prepared to leave, two more friends came in for wine and dessert, conveniently the course we were about to enjoy ourselves.
Yellow cake with strawberry filling and strawberry frosting did the trick while listening to their travel plans.
Sure, in 1957 you could do Europe on $5 a day (and there was a guidebook to prove it) but these days the cost is a tad higher, as my friends are discovering.
Their company was an unexpected treat and when we all said goodnight, two of us made our way to Balliceaux.
The RVA Big Band was in full swing but we managed to score a booth in between songs.
It was the best seat I've ever had for the big band, ideal for hearing the huge sound ("a sea of sound," a companion noted) of seventeen instruments.
Most songs aren't introduced, but one melody was immediately recognizable. I just couldn't place it.
From what I was sure was a standard, the bandleader went on to say, "I'm going to introduce this one," as they segued into "The Jazz Police," the bass player switching to an electric.
The variety is always part of the appeal.
From the vantage point of the booth, we had a sweeping view of the room and the crowd seems to grow steadily larger every time I'm there.
There was a definite look to tonight's crowd; the women especially were looking very stylish, some almost retro in backless and strapless dresses.
Dare I say "Mad Men"-like?
Despite the enhanced wardrobe, the prevailing beverage of choice in the room for both musicians and patrons was cans of PBR.
I have to appreciate a room that caters to a big band-loving, can-swilling crowd.
A couple came over and asked f they could sit in the other side of our booth and we invited them in.
He could tell she wasn't enjoying herself and when he finally said, "We'll listen to just one more," she rolled her eyes and responded, "Whatever you want."
But then a funny thing happened. She started getting into it and when he picked up his phone to leave, she shook her head no.
A convert had been made to Team RVA Big Band.
During the break, I set off to find out what the name of the song I'd recognized was.
I asked a sax player who had no idea what he'd just played.
I moved on to a second sax player. He, too, was clueless, even after shuffling through the music on his stand.
Alright, boys, if you can't help me, step out of the way and let me ask someone who can.
A woman.
Approaching the slender woman who plays alto sax, I inquired of her what I'd heard and not been able to name.
"My One and Only Love," she informed me.
Of course!
I knew it from a favorite jazz record, "John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman," just the kind of song men would have once used to woo women back in the days of lunch counters like Garnett's and big bands playing local clubs.
And as many times as I've played the record, I'd never heard it live until my favorite seventeen-piece neatly took care of that tonight.
Simple pleasures, mid-century-style. With a PBR chaser.
Beginning at Garnett's for dinner, our foursome wrapped itself around the end of the bar for dinner.
The low-key Garnett's vibe belies the pleasing little wine list and on a cool June night, it feels like a place my parents could have frequented.
All around us couples are having dinner while '50s music plays and people eat simple, affordable food.
I kept it basic with Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and the farmer's salad of romaine, apple, cheddar, bacon and creamy sesame dressing.
No doubt it would have seemed like a very exotic salad back when that lunch counter was first built into that space.
Tonight it just seemed like a classic trifecta of flavors.
The four of us ate and chatted about the oddest assortment of things: a former dance club in the Bottom, the importance of an audience and revisiting old haunts.
As two of the group prepared to leave, two more friends came in for wine and dessert, conveniently the course we were about to enjoy ourselves.
Yellow cake with strawberry filling and strawberry frosting did the trick while listening to their travel plans.
Sure, in 1957 you could do Europe on $5 a day (and there was a guidebook to prove it) but these days the cost is a tad higher, as my friends are discovering.
Their company was an unexpected treat and when we all said goodnight, two of us made our way to Balliceaux.
The RVA Big Band was in full swing but we managed to score a booth in between songs.
It was the best seat I've ever had for the big band, ideal for hearing the huge sound ("a sea of sound," a companion noted) of seventeen instruments.
Most songs aren't introduced, but one melody was immediately recognizable. I just couldn't place it.
From what I was sure was a standard, the bandleader went on to say, "I'm going to introduce this one," as they segued into "The Jazz Police," the bass player switching to an electric.
The variety is always part of the appeal.
From the vantage point of the booth, we had a sweeping view of the room and the crowd seems to grow steadily larger every time I'm there.
There was a definite look to tonight's crowd; the women especially were looking very stylish, some almost retro in backless and strapless dresses.
Dare I say "Mad Men"-like?
Despite the enhanced wardrobe, the prevailing beverage of choice in the room for both musicians and patrons was cans of PBR.
I have to appreciate a room that caters to a big band-loving, can-swilling crowd.
A couple came over and asked f they could sit in the other side of our booth and we invited them in.
He could tell she wasn't enjoying herself and when he finally said, "We'll listen to just one more," she rolled her eyes and responded, "Whatever you want."
But then a funny thing happened. She started getting into it and when he picked up his phone to leave, she shook her head no.
A convert had been made to Team RVA Big Band.
During the break, I set off to find out what the name of the song I'd recognized was.
I asked a sax player who had no idea what he'd just played.
I moved on to a second sax player. He, too, was clueless, even after shuffling through the music on his stand.
Alright, boys, if you can't help me, step out of the way and let me ask someone who can.
A woman.
Approaching the slender woman who plays alto sax, I inquired of her what I'd heard and not been able to name.
"My One and Only Love," she informed me.
Of course!
I knew it from a favorite jazz record, "John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman," just the kind of song men would have once used to woo women back in the days of lunch counters like Garnett's and big bands playing local clubs.
And as many times as I've played the record, I'd never heard it live until my favorite seventeen-piece neatly took care of that tonight.
Simple pleasures, mid-century-style. With a PBR chaser.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Can't Ski, Can't Dive
It's like shooting fish in a barrel.
I mean, they make it so easy. Park once, party twice.
By reporting to Balliceaux, multiple itches were scratched.
Walking in, I was delighted to see the poet, who was enjoying dinner with a friend.
She may or may not have referred to me as her cultural conscience, but I'm hoping she meant it in a good way.
In the back room, Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story was fast filling up. Tonight's theme was "Work: Boss stories"
Sure, I had a boss/work story if I was the public storytelling type.
It happened back when I was working at a radio station.
It involved a promotion, the suggestion of illegal activities, my introduction to tequila and being kissed in an elevator as part of the interview process.
No details forthcoming, but let's just say I got the job.
Others had their own stories. We heard about "Rationalization Girl" (we've all had one) being beaten out by Reality Girl.
One storyteller prefaced her story with, "I'm very hire-able," to preclude any misconceptions. Later, she had an existential crisis.
Local music writer Shannon Cleary's story was about how it sucks to be a teenager, but my laugh-out-loud moment came in a reference to AFI ("I'm pretty sure I knew that was A Fire Inside").
A story of splinter-gathering in one's rear end yielded, "My boyfriend tried to get the splinters out. But he's a carpenter so that didn't work out."
A woman who was 22 in 1974 and making less than $2.25 an hour told of her boss wanting to play "Midnight Scrabble."
So that's what they were calling it in the '70s.
A former music critic shared how his appreciation for Mark Knopfler got him a job. Another time, a James Brown imitation did not result in him being hired.
He talked about "before Alley McBeal, before the whole Al Green resurgence" when he saw Reverend Green and a few notes in, the woman sitting next to him had clutched his thigh in rapture.
"Excuse me, I just had to touch a man." she said, echoing the kind of passion I recall when I saw him a year and a half ago, here.
After intermission and running into the recluse and meeting his main squeeze, three more storytellers shared their stories of depression, seduction and, last but certainly not least, Sea World of Ohio.
Because besides San Diego and Florida,where would you expect them to expand their empire?
The storyteller explained, "They wanted the slutty girls for water skiers. I got to be a pearl diver."
Kind of says it all, doesn't it?
By the end of an evening with Secretly Y'All, I've always heard things I couldn't have imagined, didn't need to hear or I had no business hearing.
That's why I love it.
Even better, it was followed by RVA Big band playing, meaning that with no effort other than scoring some Monferrato "Bricco de Conte" Barbera and a slice of chocolate cream pie, seats were in place for the next show.
It's my third time seeing RVA Big Band and I saw a few different faces, keeping it fresh and no doubt giving others an out when they need it.
Marcus Tenney, whom I'd seen just Saturday with The New Belgians, was here playing as usual.
On his first sax solo he had his hood up but by his second and third, it had been shoved back.
Playing swing is hot work.
Finding two completely different things to do in the same room is easy as pie.
Chocolate cream, that is.
Proof positive, with a barrel like that, any idiot can do it.
I mean, they make it so easy. Park once, party twice.
By reporting to Balliceaux, multiple itches were scratched.
Walking in, I was delighted to see the poet, who was enjoying dinner with a friend.
She may or may not have referred to me as her cultural conscience, but I'm hoping she meant it in a good way.
In the back room, Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story was fast filling up. Tonight's theme was "Work: Boss stories"
Sure, I had a boss/work story if I was the public storytelling type.
It happened back when I was working at a radio station.
It involved a promotion, the suggestion of illegal activities, my introduction to tequila and being kissed in an elevator as part of the interview process.
No details forthcoming, but let's just say I got the job.
Others had their own stories. We heard about "Rationalization Girl" (we've all had one) being beaten out by Reality Girl.
One storyteller prefaced her story with, "I'm very hire-able," to preclude any misconceptions. Later, she had an existential crisis.
Local music writer Shannon Cleary's story was about how it sucks to be a teenager, but my laugh-out-loud moment came in a reference to AFI ("I'm pretty sure I knew that was A Fire Inside").
A story of splinter-gathering in one's rear end yielded, "My boyfriend tried to get the splinters out. But he's a carpenter so that didn't work out."
A woman who was 22 in 1974 and making less than $2.25 an hour told of her boss wanting to play "Midnight Scrabble."
So that's what they were calling it in the '70s.
A former music critic shared how his appreciation for Mark Knopfler got him a job. Another time, a James Brown imitation did not result in him being hired.
He talked about "before Alley McBeal, before the whole Al Green resurgence" when he saw Reverend Green and a few notes in, the woman sitting next to him had clutched his thigh in rapture.
"Excuse me, I just had to touch a man." she said, echoing the kind of passion I recall when I saw him a year and a half ago, here.
After intermission and running into the recluse and meeting his main squeeze, three more storytellers shared their stories of depression, seduction and, last but certainly not least, Sea World of Ohio.
Because besides San Diego and Florida,where would you expect them to expand their empire?
The storyteller explained, "They wanted the slutty girls for water skiers. I got to be a pearl diver."
Kind of says it all, doesn't it?
By the end of an evening with Secretly Y'All, I've always heard things I couldn't have imagined, didn't need to hear or I had no business hearing.
That's why I love it.
Even better, it was followed by RVA Big band playing, meaning that with no effort other than scoring some Monferrato "Bricco de Conte" Barbera and a slice of chocolate cream pie, seats were in place for the next show.
It's my third time seeing RVA Big Band and I saw a few different faces, keeping it fresh and no doubt giving others an out when they need it.
Marcus Tenney, whom I'd seen just Saturday with The New Belgians, was here playing as usual.
On his first sax solo he had his hood up but by his second and third, it had been shoved back.
Playing swing is hot work.
Finding two completely different things to do in the same room is easy as pie.
Chocolate cream, that is.
Proof positive, with a barrel like that, any idiot can do it.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Rhetorical Question
To-do list: eat, drink, music.
The bonuses: new restaurant, waterfront sipping, dessert to live musical accompaniment.
Not being "The Avenues" sort, it was my first trip to the Continental.
Of course given the weather, all the outside tables were taken, but the bar was empty and the door was open.
That's my kind of air conditioning. If you have to have a/c on (and I refuse), you'd better open the windows and doors.
But that's just me.
Jottings:
Liked the lighted globes, reminisced over the hand crank ice crushers (like my parents had on their bar way back when) and enjoyed friendly service.
Couldn't stand all the TV screens or the screaming children, but then that's just me.
And it was to be a short stopover anyway.
It was a quick glass of wine with a friend who recently moved away; still, I managed to taste the Mexican corn on the cob (lime butter and cumin, hold the cheese) and the kielbasa corn dogs.
What I tasted made me think the place will be a weighted counter-balance to Blue Goat.
Leaving there, I went to meet my dinner partner who was insisting we have a drink outside.
That's a dicey one for me because there aren't a lot of places that have them and on a 91-degree day in April, they're bound to be popular.
And, let's be honest, there are some I just don't need to go, regardless of its al fresco offerings.
Everyone has their deal breakers, whether you're talking restaurants or romance.
Companion had the brilliant idea to have a glass of wine at Current down on the canal.
Okay, it wasn't a river view, but it was tranquil, lovely and it was water.
The air temperature was so body-suited as to be imperceptible.
Could have been anything, but it felt like absolutely nothing.
Even our server agreed that it was something to be savored.
We sat there sipping until after the sun was down before walking over to City Dogs.
Dogs and milkshakes make for my kind of meal sometimes.
I was none too happy to hear that they were completely out of ice cream so no milkshakes would be forthcoming.
Somehow (and I'm trying not to judge here), they were surprised at being slammed by all the crowds who came down for RVA Street Art Festival.
Surprised?
We settled for root beer. Thirty seconds later we learned that they were out of that, too.
It would be so easy to go off on a tangential rant about one hand not knowing what the other is doing (rule #1, people is that art brings crowds), but I hate to state the obvious.
And it was dollar dog night.
You'd think two reasonably astute adults would have been tempted by the deal dogs but I went with the Tennessee slaw dog (yes, again) and my hot dog-disparaging friend went with bratwurst and sauerkraut.
After the loss of our shakes, we consoled ourselves with onion rings.
Which meant that dessert would have to be elsewhere.
Since we were in the mood for a seventeen-piece, we headed to Balliceaux to satisfy a sweet tooth and hear some swinging music.
It was almost scripted.
We waltzed in to the front bar, ordered Campari and tequila (no, no, not in the same glass) and a slice of chocolate almond cream pie.
The real treat? Eating it to the swinging sounds of the RVA Big Band, coming from the back.
After polishing off the variation on a childhood classic, we headed to the back room so that we could hear and see the band.
There really is a unique pleasure to hearing a big band.
It's not hard to see why it was the kind of music the country needed during the 30s and 40s.
So many instruments playing at once! All that brass! The drummer keeping everyone anchored.
And every song swinging in some way.
It got some hips swinging, too, when a couple got up to dance in the center of the room.
I'm not the dancing sort, so I stayed put.
Mentally checking off everything on my to-do list.
How easy was that?
The bonuses: new restaurant, waterfront sipping, dessert to live musical accompaniment.
Not being "The Avenues" sort, it was my first trip to the Continental.
Of course given the weather, all the outside tables were taken, but the bar was empty and the door was open.
That's my kind of air conditioning. If you have to have a/c on (and I refuse), you'd better open the windows and doors.
But that's just me.
Jottings:
Liked the lighted globes, reminisced over the hand crank ice crushers (like my parents had on their bar way back when) and enjoyed friendly service.
Couldn't stand all the TV screens or the screaming children, but then that's just me.
And it was to be a short stopover anyway.
It was a quick glass of wine with a friend who recently moved away; still, I managed to taste the Mexican corn on the cob (lime butter and cumin, hold the cheese) and the kielbasa corn dogs.
What I tasted made me think the place will be a weighted counter-balance to Blue Goat.
Leaving there, I went to meet my dinner partner who was insisting we have a drink outside.
That's a dicey one for me because there aren't a lot of places that have them and on a 91-degree day in April, they're bound to be popular.
And, let's be honest, there are some I just don't need to go, regardless of its al fresco offerings.
Everyone has their deal breakers, whether you're talking restaurants or romance.
Companion had the brilliant idea to have a glass of wine at Current down on the canal.
Okay, it wasn't a river view, but it was tranquil, lovely and it was water.
The air temperature was so body-suited as to be imperceptible.
Could have been anything, but it felt like absolutely nothing.
Even our server agreed that it was something to be savored.
We sat there sipping until after the sun was down before walking over to City Dogs.
Dogs and milkshakes make for my kind of meal sometimes.
I was none too happy to hear that they were completely out of ice cream so no milkshakes would be forthcoming.
Somehow (and I'm trying not to judge here), they were surprised at being slammed by all the crowds who came down for RVA Street Art Festival.
Surprised?
We settled for root beer. Thirty seconds later we learned that they were out of that, too.
It would be so easy to go off on a tangential rant about one hand not knowing what the other is doing (rule #1, people is that art brings crowds), but I hate to state the obvious.
And it was dollar dog night.
You'd think two reasonably astute adults would have been tempted by the deal dogs but I went with the Tennessee slaw dog (yes, again) and my hot dog-disparaging friend went with bratwurst and sauerkraut.
After the loss of our shakes, we consoled ourselves with onion rings.
Which meant that dessert would have to be elsewhere.
Since we were in the mood for a seventeen-piece, we headed to Balliceaux to satisfy a sweet tooth and hear some swinging music.
It was almost scripted.
We waltzed in to the front bar, ordered Campari and tequila (no, no, not in the same glass) and a slice of chocolate almond cream pie.
The real treat? Eating it to the swinging sounds of the RVA Big Band, coming from the back.
After polishing off the variation on a childhood classic, we headed to the back room so that we could hear and see the band.
There really is a unique pleasure to hearing a big band.
It's not hard to see why it was the kind of music the country needed during the 30s and 40s.
So many instruments playing at once! All that brass! The drummer keeping everyone anchored.
And every song swinging in some way.
It got some hips swinging, too, when a couple got up to dance in the center of the room.
I'm not the dancing sort, so I stayed put.
Mentally checking off everything on my to-do list.
How easy was that?
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