Not gonna lie, I like a man with range.
And that Scott Wichmann has range to spare. It's been so long I can't even remember when I first saw him onstage and though I've seen him dozens of times since, he never fails to dazzle, chewing scenery and singing with a voice that belies his height.
He'd dubbed his show tonight at Richmond Triangle Players "Leave Them Wanting Less" and with a three piece combo backing him up (including the always stellar Scott Clark on drums), he pretty much succeeded, although I'm pretty sure the devoted crowd would have stayed as long as he was willing to sing.
My seat was in the second row, off to the side, making for a fine view that included a canoodling couple in front of me and easy proximity to theater friends in the row behind.
Appearing from the back of the theater, Scott bounded to the stage and started right in with Van Morrison's "Moondance," singing, snapping his fingers and reminding us that it was a marvelous night to listen to him, too.
It immediately became clear that all his song choices had personal reasons behind them. His first date with his wife had been to see "Muppets Most Wanted," so he did "I Can Get You What You Want" and then bragged he'd already gotten her the dog and the ice cream cone and he was working on the moon.
No indication whether he intended to lasso or acquire it otherwise.
In 2003, he'd gotten a message from a director saying he had the perfect role for him ("It's probably Hamlet," he cracked), which turned out to be the lead in "Batboy, the Musical." Before singing a song from it, he quipped, "The play ran during Isabel when people didn't have power, but Firehouse was on a good grid so people came for the air conditioning and it sold out!"
I remember that production because my then-boyfriend suggested we go, only to find out it was sold out. As a consolation prize, he took me to see it while we were in London, which was pretty wonderful, albeit absent Scott.
There was a Mel Torme (one of his heroes, along with Sinatra and Bobby Darin) arrangement of a song from "The Nutty Professor" and a sweet tribute to his wife who's been away for a while ("Don't Dream of Anybody But Me") and tonight was sitting in the back.
"I love the feeling of being in the middle of the Great American songbook," he enthused to a roomful of people feeling the same without having to do any of the work.
Then he moved into hilarious mode for a couple songs, beginning with the favorite song of an older friend called "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park," complete with skipping and tossing out poisonous bits to the birds as he sang about strychnine and arsenic. In a nod to the fact that he was performing on the set of "The Santaland Diaries," next came a holiday classic he first heard as a 15-year old listening to Dr. Demento on the radio.
Whip me, Santa Claus
Spank me, Santa Claus
Don't worry if my flesh be seared
I should be harshly punished
For being bad all year
Choosing the correction is solely up to you
But I would like a reddened butt
Do what you have to do
Periodically as he sang, he'd face the drummer and raise his coat jacket enough to provide easy access to his backside. The audience roared. For "You've Got a Lot to See" from "Family Guy," he had us laughing so hard some of us missed lyrics.
The PC age has moved the bar
A word like "redneck" is a step too far
The proper term is "country music star"
You've got a lot to see
That's a big part of the Wichmann charm: he doesn't just sing anything, he acts and sings everything. Midway through the American standard "Skylark" when the pianist began a solo, Scott sat down on the floor and gazed at him raptly.
During intermission, I chatted with fellow theater regulars about the trend toward plays without intermissions, musing about the causes for it. Someone posited that it's an attempt to woo younger audiences with shorter attention spans, another complained that it hurt bar sales.
I was introduced to a woman, a devoted beer drinker, who'd just recently started drinking cocktails. Tonight was her first Cosmo ("I'm buzzed," she admitted when asked if she'd liked it) and her plan for next time was to have a Blue Lagoon. You've got to admire a woman with a plan.
Scott came back swinging with "Settle for Me," from a TV series I'd never even heard of (not that that's saying much) and using all his acting ability to sell it.
Settle for me
Darling, just settle for me
I think you'll have to agree
We make quite a pair
I know I'm only second place in this game
But like 2% milk or seitan beef
I almost taste the same
Then he got all serious on us, saying there's so much tumult and bad stuff happening in the world, so it was a good thing that we'd come out to hear some music and be with people. Just as we were buying into his solemnity, he launched into "From Russia With Love," ending by turning in profile and crouching with an imaginary gun. The crowd about lost it.
That song took us on a tangent about the Columbia Record and Tape Club where you'd send them a penny and get 13 records or tapes and then be indebted to them for the rest of your life. After scoring a penny from his Mom, one of young Scott's 13 records had been a selection of James Bond movie themes.
"So while the other kids were out playing football or baseball, I was singing Nancy Sinatra's "You Only Live Twice" in my backyard. That led me to where I am today," he joked, but probably everyone in the room was grateful for that penny.
As a proud member of the Navy Reserve, he dedicated "I'll Be Seeing You (In All the Old Familiar Places)" to his retiring commanding officer and everyone in the Greatest Generation who'd won the war at home.
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
"I'm So Lucky To Be Me" went to "all the people who come up to me in the grocery store and say, hey, I saw you in that play or, hey, I thought you were taller! This song is about how you make me feel."
The song he sang for his estranged biological father who died this summer left him in tears, so he moved right into one about driving to Cape Cod, tying it into his Massachusetts childhood. The satirical "Entering Marion" managed to combine a road trip with enough sexual innuendo about townships to be full-on comedy.
Explaining that there were two basic truths - he would never play Alexander Hamilton on Broadway and we would never get tickets to see it, so as a matter of public service, he was going to perform "My Shot" and play all the characters.
Of course he nailed, right down to the distinctive accents and mannerisms of each of the participants and the show ended. At least until the standing ovation dictated that he return for an encore.
Turns out his last role in high school had been against actress Elizabeth Banks, so he took his next song from that. "This song is my personal musical statement," he said and began singing "The Impossible Dream." Goosebumps.
Classic songs, unlikely songs, hysterical songs and moving songs and not one pigeon harmed in the making of this song fest. Who could ask for anything more?
As for wanting less, I don't know that anyone left with a reddened butt, but I didn't check, either.
Showing posts with label scott clark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scott clark. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
Thursday, April 14, 2016
It's Alive
Pink is the color of love and happiness.
I gleaned this, not by spending close to two hours in the love and happiness room at Quirk Hotel, but by listening to a Ted talk (as in Ted Ukrop was talking) about the hotel's restoration and renovation, a talk punctuated by the clinking glasses of the cocktail party vibe in the room and a fire alarm.
Given the blase age we live in, it was hardly surprising that, mid-talk, when the excruciatingly loud alarm began sounding, not a soul moved. In fact, a well-dressed guy turned and said to no one in particular, "Funny how no one's making a move to leave."
Funny? It took some time for the Modern Richmond crowd to begrudgingly accept that there was the possibility that the hotel above us was in dire straits and begin shuffling up the stairs, through the smoky lobby and outside.
We never got any explanation, but the moment the alarm ceased, we dutifully filed back in to hear more about how Quirk came to be from Ted and the architect. Like how they researched old photos at the Valentine to see what the lobby originally looked like back when the Italianate building was a toney department store.
How the second floor windows on the east side are original and high up on the walls, in the Italian style, so steps were added to access the views. How flooring from the building next door was used to fashion cabinets, closets and counters. How you can see the racetrack and the Diamond from the rooftop bar because it's the tallest building in the area.
Our ultimate goal was going upstairs to see a room and a loft suite, both with fabulous windows, local artisan-made ice buckets and Virginia art in every room and hallway. Since the rooms cost $200 and $400 a night respectively, it'll likely be my last look at them.
Chatting with a stranger about where I lived and how I liked it (J-Ward, love it) because she's considering a move to the city, she asks, apropos of nothing, "Do you work?"
I think this is about the oddest question you could ask an able-bodied person over 18 and under 65. Do I work? Do I need to pay for shelter and transportation? Do I have living expenses? What the hell?
Yes, I work.
I also eat, both for hire, for pleasure and for sustenance, meaning my next stop was dinner at Lucy's with my favorite walker.
Ensconced at the bar with "On the Town" playing silently on the screen, I licked a bowl of bacon and lentil soup clean and followed it with a fried Brussels sprout and mesclun salad jazzed up with goat cheese and red onions while my companion found religion with Lucy's incomparable cheeseburger.
Shortly, in came the chef and barkeep of Metzger, waiting to meet friends, but happy to share the plans for their new Scott's Addition restaurant in the meantime. While it certainly sounds like it's going to be fun, I can't help but wonder about the wisdom of this mass stampede to such a small and impossibly trendy neighborhood.
Or perhaps I'm secretly envious that more business owners don't consider some of the empty buildings in Jackson Ward when looking for real estate.
But no matter. In front of us was flourless chocolate cake dripping with real whipped cream on a plate squiggled with caramel sauce, so my attention was diverted to more important things like maintaining my daily chocolate quota.
That quota, in fact, had been the subject of discussion earlier today while I was out on my walkabout.
"I see you're still out here strutting every day," says the business owner whose shop I'd passed for years, at least until construction fences forced me to the opposite side of the street.
He felt comfortable giving me a hard time because we'd officially met and chatted at a nearby restaurant I was reviewing when he'd spotted me in non-walking attire. I reminded him that I strut so I can abuse chocolate and put off looking my age.
"I need to get back to the gym more often,:" he said, picking up the gauntlet and running with it before tossing me a delightful compliment (coincidentally, the third reason I walk).
Chocolate needs met for the time, I bade my companion farewell and set out for UR and the annual Musicircus,a tribute to composer John Cage. Since the first one I attended back at the old Chop Suey Books in 2007, I've been devoted to the one-hour cacophony of sound.
Wandering through the concert hall, I was a bit surprised at the small crowd, but there hadn't been much press or even social media about it, so it wasn't entirely surprising. In hallways and practice rooms, the crowd happened on all kinds of music and musicians.
A four-piece fado group, the singer's lovely voice shaping the words of Portuguese longing. A guy playing acoustic guitar and singing the stirring "This Land is Your Land." A piano and drum combo perfectly in sync. Gamelan musicians. A killer guitarist playing lap steel. A familiar sax player, eyes closed, wailing alone in a room.
One of the most unique sound contributors was The Hat, reading from his unfinished novel, using his best actorly voices and hand gestures for dramatic effect.
My only complaint was that the whole point of the Musicircus is the blending of all the disparate music being made, but with such a large building, even the sound of 50+ musicians didn't always reach to the next performer.
It was only when I ran into the jazz critic that I was clued in to the additional musicians playing their hearts out in the basement. Down I went, only to be rewarded with the best bleeding of sound by far.
Just outside a stairwell were three members of No BS - Lance using nothing but a mic'd cymbal and a xylophone, Marcus and Reggie blowing horns - making a disproportionately large sound for three people.
Two favorites - Scott and Cameron - whom I'd seen recently in separate outfits were reunited (and it feels so good) and playing with trumpeter Bob. A noise group turned knobs and produced sound so loud it scared some people off. A guy playing a keyboard with earbuds in seemed to be in his own world.
Walking in on Brian and Pinson, both drummers except tonight Brian - the event's organizer all these years - was playing piano (what?), a favorite gallerist arched an eyebrow and leaned in, saying, "I see your blog is back alive."
Now there was an unexpected compliment. You just never know what instruments people play or who might be paying attention to your blog, do you?
Fittingly, my final stop was a large room with an eight-piece (guitar, bass, drums, congas, trumpet, piano, two saxes) rocking out to the point that the two guys listening were head banging while the grooviest of light shows swirled red, green and yellow on the ceiling and walls.
Needless to say, their raucous sound was bleeding out and down hallways in a manner that had to have had John Cage smiling, wherever he and partner Merce are right now.
With any luck, they're in a place with walls painted in Benjamin Moore's "Love and Happiness Pink," coincidentally, the color of half the rooms at Quirk Hotel.
If only painting it made it so. We strutting types figure that love and happiness are where you find them.
I gleaned this, not by spending close to two hours in the love and happiness room at Quirk Hotel, but by listening to a Ted talk (as in Ted Ukrop was talking) about the hotel's restoration and renovation, a talk punctuated by the clinking glasses of the cocktail party vibe in the room and a fire alarm.
Given the blase age we live in, it was hardly surprising that, mid-talk, when the excruciatingly loud alarm began sounding, not a soul moved. In fact, a well-dressed guy turned and said to no one in particular, "Funny how no one's making a move to leave."
Funny? It took some time for the Modern Richmond crowd to begrudgingly accept that there was the possibility that the hotel above us was in dire straits and begin shuffling up the stairs, through the smoky lobby and outside.
We never got any explanation, but the moment the alarm ceased, we dutifully filed back in to hear more about how Quirk came to be from Ted and the architect. Like how they researched old photos at the Valentine to see what the lobby originally looked like back when the Italianate building was a toney department store.
How the second floor windows on the east side are original and high up on the walls, in the Italian style, so steps were added to access the views. How flooring from the building next door was used to fashion cabinets, closets and counters. How you can see the racetrack and the Diamond from the rooftop bar because it's the tallest building in the area.
Our ultimate goal was going upstairs to see a room and a loft suite, both with fabulous windows, local artisan-made ice buckets and Virginia art in every room and hallway. Since the rooms cost $200 and $400 a night respectively, it'll likely be my last look at them.
Chatting with a stranger about where I lived and how I liked it (J-Ward, love it) because she's considering a move to the city, she asks, apropos of nothing, "Do you work?"
I think this is about the oddest question you could ask an able-bodied person over 18 and under 65. Do I work? Do I need to pay for shelter and transportation? Do I have living expenses? What the hell?
Yes, I work.
I also eat, both for hire, for pleasure and for sustenance, meaning my next stop was dinner at Lucy's with my favorite walker.
Ensconced at the bar with "On the Town" playing silently on the screen, I licked a bowl of bacon and lentil soup clean and followed it with a fried Brussels sprout and mesclun salad jazzed up with goat cheese and red onions while my companion found religion with Lucy's incomparable cheeseburger.
Shortly, in came the chef and barkeep of Metzger, waiting to meet friends, but happy to share the plans for their new Scott's Addition restaurant in the meantime. While it certainly sounds like it's going to be fun, I can't help but wonder about the wisdom of this mass stampede to such a small and impossibly trendy neighborhood.
Or perhaps I'm secretly envious that more business owners don't consider some of the empty buildings in Jackson Ward when looking for real estate.
But no matter. In front of us was flourless chocolate cake dripping with real whipped cream on a plate squiggled with caramel sauce, so my attention was diverted to more important things like maintaining my daily chocolate quota.
That quota, in fact, had been the subject of discussion earlier today while I was out on my walkabout.
"I see you're still out here strutting every day," says the business owner whose shop I'd passed for years, at least until construction fences forced me to the opposite side of the street.
He felt comfortable giving me a hard time because we'd officially met and chatted at a nearby restaurant I was reviewing when he'd spotted me in non-walking attire. I reminded him that I strut so I can abuse chocolate and put off looking my age.
"I need to get back to the gym more often,:" he said, picking up the gauntlet and running with it before tossing me a delightful compliment (coincidentally, the third reason I walk).
Chocolate needs met for the time, I bade my companion farewell and set out for UR and the annual Musicircus,a tribute to composer John Cage. Since the first one I attended back at the old Chop Suey Books in 2007, I've been devoted to the one-hour cacophony of sound.
Wandering through the concert hall, I was a bit surprised at the small crowd, but there hadn't been much press or even social media about it, so it wasn't entirely surprising. In hallways and practice rooms, the crowd happened on all kinds of music and musicians.
A four-piece fado group, the singer's lovely voice shaping the words of Portuguese longing. A guy playing acoustic guitar and singing the stirring "This Land is Your Land." A piano and drum combo perfectly in sync. Gamelan musicians. A killer guitarist playing lap steel. A familiar sax player, eyes closed, wailing alone in a room.
One of the most unique sound contributors was The Hat, reading from his unfinished novel, using his best actorly voices and hand gestures for dramatic effect.
My only complaint was that the whole point of the Musicircus is the blending of all the disparate music being made, but with such a large building, even the sound of 50+ musicians didn't always reach to the next performer.
It was only when I ran into the jazz critic that I was clued in to the additional musicians playing their hearts out in the basement. Down I went, only to be rewarded with the best bleeding of sound by far.
Just outside a stairwell were three members of No BS - Lance using nothing but a mic'd cymbal and a xylophone, Marcus and Reggie blowing horns - making a disproportionately large sound for three people.
Two favorites - Scott and Cameron - whom I'd seen recently in separate outfits were reunited (and it feels so good) and playing with trumpeter Bob. A noise group turned knobs and produced sound so loud it scared some people off. A guy playing a keyboard with earbuds in seemed to be in his own world.
Walking in on Brian and Pinson, both drummers except tonight Brian - the event's organizer all these years - was playing piano (what?), a favorite gallerist arched an eyebrow and leaned in, saying, "I see your blog is back alive."
Now there was an unexpected compliment. You just never know what instruments people play or who might be paying attention to your blog, do you?
Fittingly, my final stop was a large room with an eight-piece (guitar, bass, drums, congas, trumpet, piano, two saxes) rocking out to the point that the two guys listening were head banging while the grooviest of light shows swirled red, green and yellow on the ceiling and walls.
Needless to say, their raucous sound was bleeding out and down hallways in a manner that had to have had John Cage smiling, wherever he and partner Merce are right now.
With any luck, they're in a place with walls painted in Benjamin Moore's "Love and Happiness Pink," coincidentally, the color of half the rooms at Quirk Hotel.
If only painting it made it so. We strutting types figure that love and happiness are where you find them.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Cage Match
Some of us live in urban bohemia and some of us grew up in suburban bohemia.
The latter would be Slash Coleman, who came to the Library of Virginia tonight for a reading (actually a retelling) from his new book, "The Bohemian Love Diaries."
Three years ago, I spent Valentine's night with Slash and a bunch of other singles at Crossroads Art, listening to him and a few guests share stories about how the course of true love never does run smooth, a fact of which I was well aware at that time.
Tonight's reading drew a lively crowd, several of whom told me they were intrigued by the book's title.
After chatting with a woman about industrial farming and (no kidding) circumcision during the wine and cheese reception, Slash took center stage in a full beard and ripped jeans to bring us up to date on his life.
And while usually his stories have a humorous side, this one involved him getting a collapsed lung that eventually required surgery to re-inflate and causing him to cancel the rest of his book tour speaking engagements,
Well, except for this one because, here's the thing: Slash grew up in Chester, a word he humorously pronounced all evening long the way the locals do.
Showing us the book cover, we saw a picture of Slash when he was about eight, back when his artist father used to load up the family for monthly trips to Alaska to find an artists' colony.
Except they rarely got any farther than Fredericksburg.
Tonight's talk was about being raised by an eccentric family and his failed love relationships as a result of coming out of all that eccentricity.
He showed us an Italian version of the book with the title changed to "Love with a High Fever," a title he didn't think was any better than his.
I don't know about that.
Sharing the story of his parents' meeting at the tea room at Miller & Rhoads, we heard that Dad, a sculptor, had been a sign painter for M & R and Mom was French and a student at RPI. Along the way, he threw in that Grandpa danced at the Moulin Rouge and Grandma was a watercolor painter.
On his parents' first date, he showed up in a stolen car with a case of Manischewitz wine and a plan to win her heart. Instead he drank it all and passed out and she walked home alone to her dorm.
Disastrous as it sounds, he invited her to Passover for their second date, but they ended up eloping before the second date.
Slash recalled an early interest in sports that was of no consequence to his artistic parents. The closest to sporty they got was when his Dad organized a softball game between the Freaks, a bunch of sculptors, and the Pigs, a team of Richmond police officers.
Begging his mother to let him play baseball, she responded that he would be paralyzed and said no, but he eventually found an old glove in his Dad's studio and signed up for the team himself.
Sharing tales of gymnastics, wrestling and being brought home to his mother after sports injuries, he waxed poetic about Coach Walt, a man who wore Brut by Faberge and had a white person Afro.
It's a pretty vivid visual.
He recalled fondly the period when his father sold roadkill sculptures to support the family. It gets pretty odd here because while the head was from one animal and the legs from another, the body was always made of bread.
Yup, you read right.
So one of his pieces might have the head of a turtle, the legs of a lizard and a pumpernickel body. And when pieces didn't sell after a while, they were retired to the backyard as ornamentation, at least until the bread rotted or was eaten.
I'd say that's pretty bohemian.
In any case, the book is being shopped around as a TV series and who knows, a series could show up on TV about a boy from Chester who came from a family of six Leo women and eight artists.
During the Q & A, Slash said he prefers to read non-fiction because, "I'm interested in how people put their truths together."
Exactly the way I feel about non-fiction and no doubt part of the reason that people read my blog every day.
Or maybe they're eager to read about my love with a high fever exploits, who knows?
Truth telling aside, next on my plate was the annual musicircus at UR, the one hour beautiful cacophony of musicians playing whatever they choose.
Don't ask me, composer John Cage thought it up and I just participate every year.
The musicircus got a late start because the eighth blackbird show ran over, so it was almost 9 when the sirens went off and everyone began playing.
Wandering down hallways, up and down staircases, into practice and classrooms, the milling crowd had myriad options for what kind of music with which to begin.
Since so many people were gathered on the first floor, my fellow Cage lover and I sprinted upstairs in an attempt to beat the masses.
Brian Jones, an organizer of the annual event, had assembled a percussion ensemble that included jazz drummer extraordinaire Scott Clark on tambourine.
Perched on an upholstered chair with two girls on couches for an audience was harmonica player Andrew Ali, whom I've seen play with Allison Self and lately, Josh Small. Tonight he was flying solo, singing and blowing his best blues.
Improv troupe the Johnsons (from Richmond Comedy Coalition) had wedged themselves into a hallway and were hilariously making up stuff with every word that came out of their mouths.
For sheer effect, it was tough to beat Kill Vonnegut, a punk quintet playing under black lights to a rapt audience.
For something completely different, the Family Band looked impossibly young and clean cut, with not a whisker of facial hair in the bunch, belting out Fountains of Wayne's "Stacey's Mom." I think they were all about 8 when it came out.
Tucked into a small room was Monk's Playground, where I recognized Larri Branch on piano, Brian Cruse on upright bass and the female sax player from RVA Big Band. As to which Monk song they were playing, I couldn't tell you.
I spotted David Roberts, whom I recognized from Classical Incarnations, playing piano alone in a room but couldn't hear him over the din, so I stepped in.
Turning, he invited me to look at his score, where I saw the title "Vexations" and the composer, Eric Satie, and an instruction at the top to play the theme 840 times.
David said that Cage had once done it and it had taken him 18 hours. Since the musicircus only lasts one hour, that wasn't happening tonight, but I was curious if repeating the same page of music was vexing him yet.
"A little, yes," he admitted with a smile, but I gave him the award for most Cage-appropriate music choice.
Coming down a stairwell, we happened on a sitar and a moment later the young woman who played it arrived, sitting on the floor to play. It was easily the handsomest instrument of the evening.
And purchased online, of course.
Tucked into a classroom with staffs drawn on the white board were guitarists Scott Burton and Matt White with another musician between them turning knobs and adjusting the effects of their playing to an ambient guitar wall of sound.
Alistair Calhoun took home the prize for smallest guitar, using reverb effects and finger picking to entice me to linger and listen.
DJ Carlito spun world music heavy on the middle east and even getting people to start dancing in the hallway. Pianist David Eslek was playing Lennon's "Imagine."
Downstairs we found the Josh Bearman group, a lot of whom seemed to be the Hot Seats, playing their spot-on old time and bluegrass music.
The gamelan orchestra had a Balinese shadow puppet play on film playing over their instruments, an ideal accompaniment to the lyrical music.
Near the door, Dave Watkins grabbed people's attention coming and going with his electric dulcitar and endless looping to create the sound of a quartet or even quintet.
Because he's Dave, he kept playing long after other musicians had stopped (or even left), treating the lingerers to a sonic finale that blew minds. But then, he's Dave Watkins, so he always delivers the grandiose.
Every year I say it because every year it's true.
Richmond is incredibly fortunate that we have a musicircus put on every year, with dozens of musicians both new to their craft and long-standing, playing their hearts out for free for one hour.
I saw so many people I know taking it all in. There were musicians playing and musicians as guests. Students experiencing it for the first time. Even a few little children in headphones.
Heads full and ears happy, the musicircus beats even Barnum & Bailey for sheer delight in the experience. Plus, no animals are harmed in the making of the musicircus.
That's how I'm putting today's truth together, ladies and germs. Make of it what you will.
Should you have any questions, you can find me in New Bohemia...or thereabouts. Possibly with a high fever.
The latter would be Slash Coleman, who came to the Library of Virginia tonight for a reading (actually a retelling) from his new book, "The Bohemian Love Diaries."
Three years ago, I spent Valentine's night with Slash and a bunch of other singles at Crossroads Art, listening to him and a few guests share stories about how the course of true love never does run smooth, a fact of which I was well aware at that time.
Tonight's reading drew a lively crowd, several of whom told me they were intrigued by the book's title.
After chatting with a woman about industrial farming and (no kidding) circumcision during the wine and cheese reception, Slash took center stage in a full beard and ripped jeans to bring us up to date on his life.
And while usually his stories have a humorous side, this one involved him getting a collapsed lung that eventually required surgery to re-inflate and causing him to cancel the rest of his book tour speaking engagements,
Well, except for this one because, here's the thing: Slash grew up in Chester, a word he humorously pronounced all evening long the way the locals do.
Showing us the book cover, we saw a picture of Slash when he was about eight, back when his artist father used to load up the family for monthly trips to Alaska to find an artists' colony.
Except they rarely got any farther than Fredericksburg.
Tonight's talk was about being raised by an eccentric family and his failed love relationships as a result of coming out of all that eccentricity.
He showed us an Italian version of the book with the title changed to "Love with a High Fever," a title he didn't think was any better than his.
I don't know about that.
Sharing the story of his parents' meeting at the tea room at Miller & Rhoads, we heard that Dad, a sculptor, had been a sign painter for M & R and Mom was French and a student at RPI. Along the way, he threw in that Grandpa danced at the Moulin Rouge and Grandma was a watercolor painter.
On his parents' first date, he showed up in a stolen car with a case of Manischewitz wine and a plan to win her heart. Instead he drank it all and passed out and she walked home alone to her dorm.
Disastrous as it sounds, he invited her to Passover for their second date, but they ended up eloping before the second date.
Slash recalled an early interest in sports that was of no consequence to his artistic parents. The closest to sporty they got was when his Dad organized a softball game between the Freaks, a bunch of sculptors, and the Pigs, a team of Richmond police officers.
Begging his mother to let him play baseball, she responded that he would be paralyzed and said no, but he eventually found an old glove in his Dad's studio and signed up for the team himself.
Sharing tales of gymnastics, wrestling and being brought home to his mother after sports injuries, he waxed poetic about Coach Walt, a man who wore Brut by Faberge and had a white person Afro.
It's a pretty vivid visual.
He recalled fondly the period when his father sold roadkill sculptures to support the family. It gets pretty odd here because while the head was from one animal and the legs from another, the body was always made of bread.
Yup, you read right.
So one of his pieces might have the head of a turtle, the legs of a lizard and a pumpernickel body. And when pieces didn't sell after a while, they were retired to the backyard as ornamentation, at least until the bread rotted or was eaten.
I'd say that's pretty bohemian.
In any case, the book is being shopped around as a TV series and who knows, a series could show up on TV about a boy from Chester who came from a family of six Leo women and eight artists.
During the Q & A, Slash said he prefers to read non-fiction because, "I'm interested in how people put their truths together."
Exactly the way I feel about non-fiction and no doubt part of the reason that people read my blog every day.
Or maybe they're eager to read about my love with a high fever exploits, who knows?
Truth telling aside, next on my plate was the annual musicircus at UR, the one hour beautiful cacophony of musicians playing whatever they choose.
Don't ask me, composer John Cage thought it up and I just participate every year.
The musicircus got a late start because the eighth blackbird show ran over, so it was almost 9 when the sirens went off and everyone began playing.
Wandering down hallways, up and down staircases, into practice and classrooms, the milling crowd had myriad options for what kind of music with which to begin.
Since so many people were gathered on the first floor, my fellow Cage lover and I sprinted upstairs in an attempt to beat the masses.
Brian Jones, an organizer of the annual event, had assembled a percussion ensemble that included jazz drummer extraordinaire Scott Clark on tambourine.
Perched on an upholstered chair with two girls on couches for an audience was harmonica player Andrew Ali, whom I've seen play with Allison Self and lately, Josh Small. Tonight he was flying solo, singing and blowing his best blues.
Improv troupe the Johnsons (from Richmond Comedy Coalition) had wedged themselves into a hallway and were hilariously making up stuff with every word that came out of their mouths.
For sheer effect, it was tough to beat Kill Vonnegut, a punk quintet playing under black lights to a rapt audience.
For something completely different, the Family Band looked impossibly young and clean cut, with not a whisker of facial hair in the bunch, belting out Fountains of Wayne's "Stacey's Mom." I think they were all about 8 when it came out.
Tucked into a small room was Monk's Playground, where I recognized Larri Branch on piano, Brian Cruse on upright bass and the female sax player from RVA Big Band. As to which Monk song they were playing, I couldn't tell you.
I spotted David Roberts, whom I recognized from Classical Incarnations, playing piano alone in a room but couldn't hear him over the din, so I stepped in.
Turning, he invited me to look at his score, where I saw the title "Vexations" and the composer, Eric Satie, and an instruction at the top to play the theme 840 times.
David said that Cage had once done it and it had taken him 18 hours. Since the musicircus only lasts one hour, that wasn't happening tonight, but I was curious if repeating the same page of music was vexing him yet.
"A little, yes," he admitted with a smile, but I gave him the award for most Cage-appropriate music choice.
Coming down a stairwell, we happened on a sitar and a moment later the young woman who played it arrived, sitting on the floor to play. It was easily the handsomest instrument of the evening.
And purchased online, of course.
Tucked into a classroom with staffs drawn on the white board were guitarists Scott Burton and Matt White with another musician between them turning knobs and adjusting the effects of their playing to an ambient guitar wall of sound.
Alistair Calhoun took home the prize for smallest guitar, using reverb effects and finger picking to entice me to linger and listen.
DJ Carlito spun world music heavy on the middle east and even getting people to start dancing in the hallway. Pianist David Eslek was playing Lennon's "Imagine."
Downstairs we found the Josh Bearman group, a lot of whom seemed to be the Hot Seats, playing their spot-on old time and bluegrass music.
The gamelan orchestra had a Balinese shadow puppet play on film playing over their instruments, an ideal accompaniment to the lyrical music.
Near the door, Dave Watkins grabbed people's attention coming and going with his electric dulcitar and endless looping to create the sound of a quartet or even quintet.
Because he's Dave, he kept playing long after other musicians had stopped (or even left), treating the lingerers to a sonic finale that blew minds. But then, he's Dave Watkins, so he always delivers the grandiose.
Every year I say it because every year it's true.
Richmond is incredibly fortunate that we have a musicircus put on every year, with dozens of musicians both new to their craft and long-standing, playing their hearts out for free for one hour.
I saw so many people I know taking it all in. There were musicians playing and musicians as guests. Students experiencing it for the first time. Even a few little children in headphones.
Heads full and ears happy, the musicircus beats even Barnum & Bailey for sheer delight in the experience. Plus, no animals are harmed in the making of the musicircus.
That's how I'm putting today's truth together, ladies and germs. Make of it what you will.
Should you have any questions, you can find me in New Bohemia...or thereabouts. Possibly with a high fever.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Big Love Comes Home
There's a lot to be said for delayed gratification.
When I bought my ticket back on October 10th for the Matt White show tonight at Strange Matter, I knew I'd be in for an impressive night of music.
Even expecting a knock-out, I wasn't prepared for what a memorable night it was.
I arrived promptly at 9 because the word was "Sounds at 9." Okay, not 9 per se, but not long after, either.
Making my way to the bar, I found myself next to a guy who said hello and introduced himself.
He'd come in to pay his tab from last night and now was curious about what was going on tonight.
I explained who the magnificently-maned Matt White was, about his Spacebomb studio and house band, then he explained that he was just back from Yogaville and had his dog in his car and was now really sorry he couldn't stay.
Not long after, with no introduction, Matt and his band -all very familiar faces since I've been seeing them play in myriad configurations for years now- plus the Rosebuds' Howard Ivans walked out of the kitchen and through the crowd to reach the stage.
Explaining that he'd been doing some songs with the Spacebomb guys, he began singing the new material over some of the funkiest R & B grooves being made by white boys today.
He even thanked the crowd for coming out early, although the pleasure was all ours and a guy I knew who didn't show up until just after 10 missed a simply superb set by coming late, a fact I may have pointed out.
It was all so retro-soul with Ivans' terrific voice and it was irresistibly danceable.
After several kick-ass original songs, Ivans said, "I'm going to do a Robert Palmer song, if that's okay."
Okay? I can't think of a more appropriate white boy to cover and "You Are in My System" benefited from the air tight rhythm and horn sections.
"You're listening to the best band in America," Ivans said, stating what Richmond music-lovers already know.
His set wound down far too quickly and suddenly we were at the last two songs.
One was a slow burner, the kind of song you want someone to slow- dance with to it and the last one, "Red Face Boy," was a barn-burner.
My dance party-loving friend looked at me, grinning ear to ear, "I feel like I should be doing the hustle," he enthused after the first few beats.
He was spot on; the silken groove was made to boogie to and there weren't many people resisting it, whether full-on dancing or grooving in place.
After the set ended, trumpeter Bob Miller walked by and said hello. Telling him how much I'd loved what they'd played, he expressed regret that they'd only had a half dozen chances to play with Ivans on tour.
"I'd love to play these songs more," he admitted, showing his true-blue soul side.
Strange Matter got more crowded during the break and by the time Matt, Cameron, Scott, Pinson, Gabe, Bob, Trey and Bryan returned, the feel-good energy in the room was palpable.
Hometown boy puts out record with local band, makes year-end best of lists, tours US and Europe (100-plus shows this year, Matt said) and finally comes back to play for long-time fans.
"It's good to be home," Matt said sounding quite sincere.
It was good to be hearing the band Paste, Pitchfork and practically every other musical tastemaker had raved as emerging fully formed.
Of note was that guitarist Trey Pollard was sometimes playing pedal steel, notable mainly because I'd seen him play it at the Listening Room back in April 2010 when he'd first been learning it.
Then, he'd told me it took every ounce of concentration he had to play it and tonight it appeared to be an extension of him, much the way his guitar is.
During one song, dapperly-hatted bassist Cameron and leader Matt showed off their best Motown-like dance moves, playing and turning in unison to face stage right and left, mirroring each other.
Title track "Big Love" got its rhythmic hand claps courtesy of the horn section, with Bryan and Bob using the instruments they were born with. Likewise, Cameron and Gabe did double duty singing back-up.
It's hard to convey just how tight these guys are and how full their soul-meets-Muscle-Shoals sound is, but their obvious pleasure in playing together was readily apparent.
"This show tonight is important," Matt said between songs. "This is a special music community and a great artistic community. You might miss it if you don't stop and appreciate it. This is a special place. We've done 122 shows this year and I talk up Richmond in every city we play, send love back here. That's because it's real. Special things happen here."
He said that since it was the end of the mini-tour with Howard, and they were at home, there was no reason not to play every song they had, including new material off the recent EP.
With percussionist Scott Clark double-fisting tambourines while grinning like he was having the time of his life, they did just that.
Matt explained that the next song was very quiet. "I'm just telling you that in other cities, I stare at people to make them shut up for this song. You can't do that in your home town, it's rude. But if you want to wrap up your conversations so you can hear it..."
I'm embarrassed to say that some people went right on blathering and shouting drunkenly while the rest of us shut up so we could hear the beautifully quiet song.
We got the two-song warning because, Matt said, it would be awkward to do an encore since there was no place to go or wait.
Not that this crowd wouldn't have willingly waited for more deep grooves and blaring horns.
But as he pointed out, when a seven-song record unexpectedly takes off and you start touring, it's a limited repertoire you have to pull from.
The beauty was that it's also a very satisfyingly danceable one and by the end of the show, the room-filling chorus made for the feeling of a tent revival.
Richmond-style, of course.
Best of all, these guys are representing us all over the globe, making this town look as good as some of us already know it is.
No delay in gratification there.
When I bought my ticket back on October 10th for the Matt White show tonight at Strange Matter, I knew I'd be in for an impressive night of music.
Even expecting a knock-out, I wasn't prepared for what a memorable night it was.
I arrived promptly at 9 because the word was "Sounds at 9." Okay, not 9 per se, but not long after, either.
Making my way to the bar, I found myself next to a guy who said hello and introduced himself.
He'd come in to pay his tab from last night and now was curious about what was going on tonight.
I explained who the magnificently-maned Matt White was, about his Spacebomb studio and house band, then he explained that he was just back from Yogaville and had his dog in his car and was now really sorry he couldn't stay.
Not long after, with no introduction, Matt and his band -all very familiar faces since I've been seeing them play in myriad configurations for years now- plus the Rosebuds' Howard Ivans walked out of the kitchen and through the crowd to reach the stage.
Explaining that he'd been doing some songs with the Spacebomb guys, he began singing the new material over some of the funkiest R & B grooves being made by white boys today.
He even thanked the crowd for coming out early, although the pleasure was all ours and a guy I knew who didn't show up until just after 10 missed a simply superb set by coming late, a fact I may have pointed out.
It was all so retro-soul with Ivans' terrific voice and it was irresistibly danceable.
After several kick-ass original songs, Ivans said, "I'm going to do a Robert Palmer song, if that's okay."
Okay? I can't think of a more appropriate white boy to cover and "You Are in My System" benefited from the air tight rhythm and horn sections.
"You're listening to the best band in America," Ivans said, stating what Richmond music-lovers already know.
His set wound down far too quickly and suddenly we were at the last two songs.
One was a slow burner, the kind of song you want someone to slow- dance with to it and the last one, "Red Face Boy," was a barn-burner.
My dance party-loving friend looked at me, grinning ear to ear, "I feel like I should be doing the hustle," he enthused after the first few beats.
He was spot on; the silken groove was made to boogie to and there weren't many people resisting it, whether full-on dancing or grooving in place.
After the set ended, trumpeter Bob Miller walked by and said hello. Telling him how much I'd loved what they'd played, he expressed regret that they'd only had a half dozen chances to play with Ivans on tour.
"I'd love to play these songs more," he admitted, showing his true-blue soul side.
Strange Matter got more crowded during the break and by the time Matt, Cameron, Scott, Pinson, Gabe, Bob, Trey and Bryan returned, the feel-good energy in the room was palpable.
Hometown boy puts out record with local band, makes year-end best of lists, tours US and Europe (100-plus shows this year, Matt said) and finally comes back to play for long-time fans.
"It's good to be home," Matt said sounding quite sincere.
It was good to be hearing the band Paste, Pitchfork and practically every other musical tastemaker had raved as emerging fully formed.
Of note was that guitarist Trey Pollard was sometimes playing pedal steel, notable mainly because I'd seen him play it at the Listening Room back in April 2010 when he'd first been learning it.
Then, he'd told me it took every ounce of concentration he had to play it and tonight it appeared to be an extension of him, much the way his guitar is.
During one song, dapperly-hatted bassist Cameron and leader Matt showed off their best Motown-like dance moves, playing and turning in unison to face stage right and left, mirroring each other.
Title track "Big Love" got its rhythmic hand claps courtesy of the horn section, with Bryan and Bob using the instruments they were born with. Likewise, Cameron and Gabe did double duty singing back-up.
It's hard to convey just how tight these guys are and how full their soul-meets-Muscle-Shoals sound is, but their obvious pleasure in playing together was readily apparent.
"This show tonight is important," Matt said between songs. "This is a special music community and a great artistic community. You might miss it if you don't stop and appreciate it. This is a special place. We've done 122 shows this year and I talk up Richmond in every city we play, send love back here. That's because it's real. Special things happen here."
He said that since it was the end of the mini-tour with Howard, and they were at home, there was no reason not to play every song they had, including new material off the recent EP.
With percussionist Scott Clark double-fisting tambourines while grinning like he was having the time of his life, they did just that.
Matt explained that the next song was very quiet. "I'm just telling you that in other cities, I stare at people to make them shut up for this song. You can't do that in your home town, it's rude. But if you want to wrap up your conversations so you can hear it..."
I'm embarrassed to say that some people went right on blathering and shouting drunkenly while the rest of us shut up so we could hear the beautifully quiet song.
We got the two-song warning because, Matt said, it would be awkward to do an encore since there was no place to go or wait.
Not that this crowd wouldn't have willingly waited for more deep grooves and blaring horns.
But as he pointed out, when a seven-song record unexpectedly takes off and you start touring, it's a limited repertoire you have to pull from.
The beauty was that it's also a very satisfyingly danceable one and by the end of the show, the room-filling chorus made for the feeling of a tent revival.
Richmond-style, of course.
Best of all, these guys are representing us all over the globe, making this town look as good as some of us already know it is.
No delay in gratification there.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Bittersweet and Solo
Familiar faces, different places.
To start, it was like a mini-artwalk, with Candela Gallery having an opening and artist's talk on this damp Friday evening.
The show, "Bittersweet on Bostwick Lane" featured work by photographer Susan Worsham, a name I didn't recognize, but a face I did.
I'd met her years ago at Zeus Gallery Cafe and we'd talked about photography; later, I'd seen her at photography shows and always enjoyed her positivity.
But until I saw her smiling face tonight, I hadn't made the connection.
The show comes from Susan's life experiences which include the deaths of her parents and her brother's suicide.
Interestingly enough, the works highlight beauty as much as decay and death.
And not all are photographs.
One called "Watercolor" is a collection of antique veterinary slides, with samples of things like rabbit tongue, eye of pig and human testicle included.
Others relate to her family's former neighbor Margaret, a former biology teacher, who was an integral part of her childhood.
Margaret's presence is felt throughout the exhibition, in her microscope and handmade bread doily, in a large-scale photograph of her under Susan's mother's favorite camellia tree and in a piece of bread she baked which Susan let go moldy before photographing.
Even better, Susan recorded Margaret reminiscing and an hour-long recording of her memories and stories plays in Candela as you look at the photographs.
It's tempting to just sit down and listen to the wisdom of this wizened woman.
My vote for most disturbing photograph goes to "Snakes on My Childhood Bed," where a snake lounges next to a picture of Susan's mother on her wedding day.
It became even more meaningful when, during Susan's talk, she said that as a child, her mother had always assured her, "There's never going to be any snakes in your room."
Her mother couldn't have foreseen that a multiple-snake owner would eventually own the house or that Susan and her boyfriend would one day knock on that door and ask to see her childhood home.
On the other hand, clearly it provided inspiration for the artist.
Susan was an engaging speaker, sharing all kinds of stories about the idyllic beauty of her childhood on the UR campus and the sadness that came out of that lovely start in life.
Bittersweet it was.
Music followed with the RVA Solo show at For Instance Gallery, a place I'd never been.
But the faces I knew well.
A winding stair took me to the cozy gallery with art hung everywhere on the walls and three long windows fronting Cary Street downtown.
As things got set up, one of the musicians turned off the lights, leaving only a few colored bulbs from a lamp on and asked of the crowd which they preferred, dark or light.
I was the first to vote for dim, justifying the red, blue and yellow lamp lights as "groovy" and so the show went on sans overhead lighting.
It pays to be a big mouth sometimes.
Organizer Scott Clark soon stood up, announcing, "We're dedicated to starting shows on times and seven minutes late isn't too bad."
What followed was a succession of some of Richmond's best and brightest jazz musicians.
First trombonist Bryan Hooten played and since I'd never heard solo trombone, I was surprised to hear his sharp intakes of breath between blows.
He played an untitled piece, said, "Solo trombone is hard work,"took a big gulp of water and did an improvised number.
He then proceeded to empty his instrument.
"It's just condensed water," he grinned. "Contrary to popular belief, it's not spit, it's really just condensed water."
I believe him because I want to.
As he was playing a cello sonata he'd transcribed by his favorite composer, Gyorgy Ligeti, I couldn't help but admire the night view from the windows.
In each, a tree was foreground to a building across the street, all silhouetted against the misty gray sky as Bryan's trombone made beautiful noise.
Cameron Ralston and his bass were up second and he began with what is usually an exercise to warm up, but what he referred to as "D Plus."
His bow arced and jumped around creating noises I couldn't begin to see him make, but then I'm a musical idiot.
Finishing, he admitted, "That opens up all kinds of creative doors."
How could it not?
Next he did an original piece he'd written while on tour (with our own Matthew White) when he'd heard about the Connecticut shootings.
"I imagined it for piano and bass originally, but seeing as how I'm the only one up here, I'll do it myself."
It was an achingly beautiful piece and after finishing, he changed gears, saying, "Let's do something fun. This is an Ornette Coleman tune called "The Sphinx."
And it was fun, as evidenced by his twitching leg and even his right hand, which became a blur as he tore through the piece.
Drummer Scott Clark took center stage next, saying that he and Cameron had been talking for years about doing a solo show and it had taken this long to make it happen.
That it was finally happening was a fact for which every music-lover in the room was eternally grateful, I'm sure.
Scott mentioned that he'd been reading "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and writing off of the book and that it had become more meaningful as he'd toured parts of the country recently that the book had touched on.
"Seeing those places was profound. I don't know whether that will come through in my playing the drums, but just enjoy."
It did come through and I can't say how except that the improvised piece had a rhythmic urgency that played out in his handling of the brushes, mallets and bells.
Toward the end, he began reading a poem he had written about the Native American experience and it was truly a magical moment to hear him drumming and sharing his words simultaneously.
"And the drums relive what once was," he intoned beautifully.
At that moment, I felt privileged to be hearing his heartfelt playing and reading with the night sky behind him in this little second-floor gallery with only a handful of people.
Guitarist Scott Burton replaced the first Scott doing new solo material he was debuting.
As many times as I've seen Scott play in various incarnations, it may have also been the first time I'd ever heard him play an acoustic guitar.
We heard "Staircase" and "Interiors" before he said,"I'm going to play "I Believe" by a band called Tears for Fears."
His cover was exquisite and you could almost hear the people in the room holding their breath for every note.
Afterwards, he grinned and said, "Tears for Fears, yea!"
Yea, indeed.
Things got heavier for "Underwater," followed by "Scaffolding" and "The Lizard" and every time he locked into a groove, I noticed both Scott Clark and Cameron bobbing their heads in the front row.
And why not? I believe, right along with Tears for Fears.
I believe that Richmond is a place where talented musicians share their music in intimate galleries on misty winter nights.
Sculptors come. Music teachers come. Frenchmen come. And of course other musicians come.
But so should everyone who needs proof that this town has got it going on.
It may even make you believe.
To start, it was like a mini-artwalk, with Candela Gallery having an opening and artist's talk on this damp Friday evening.
The show, "Bittersweet on Bostwick Lane" featured work by photographer Susan Worsham, a name I didn't recognize, but a face I did.
I'd met her years ago at Zeus Gallery Cafe and we'd talked about photography; later, I'd seen her at photography shows and always enjoyed her positivity.
But until I saw her smiling face tonight, I hadn't made the connection.
The show comes from Susan's life experiences which include the deaths of her parents and her brother's suicide.
Interestingly enough, the works highlight beauty as much as decay and death.
And not all are photographs.
One called "Watercolor" is a collection of antique veterinary slides, with samples of things like rabbit tongue, eye of pig and human testicle included.
Others relate to her family's former neighbor Margaret, a former biology teacher, who was an integral part of her childhood.
Margaret's presence is felt throughout the exhibition, in her microscope and handmade bread doily, in a large-scale photograph of her under Susan's mother's favorite camellia tree and in a piece of bread she baked which Susan let go moldy before photographing.
Even better, Susan recorded Margaret reminiscing and an hour-long recording of her memories and stories plays in Candela as you look at the photographs.
It's tempting to just sit down and listen to the wisdom of this wizened woman.
My vote for most disturbing photograph goes to "Snakes on My Childhood Bed," where a snake lounges next to a picture of Susan's mother on her wedding day.
It became even more meaningful when, during Susan's talk, she said that as a child, her mother had always assured her, "There's never going to be any snakes in your room."
Her mother couldn't have foreseen that a multiple-snake owner would eventually own the house or that Susan and her boyfriend would one day knock on that door and ask to see her childhood home.
On the other hand, clearly it provided inspiration for the artist.
Susan was an engaging speaker, sharing all kinds of stories about the idyllic beauty of her childhood on the UR campus and the sadness that came out of that lovely start in life.
Bittersweet it was.
Music followed with the RVA Solo show at For Instance Gallery, a place I'd never been.
But the faces I knew well.
A winding stair took me to the cozy gallery with art hung everywhere on the walls and three long windows fronting Cary Street downtown.
As things got set up, one of the musicians turned off the lights, leaving only a few colored bulbs from a lamp on and asked of the crowd which they preferred, dark or light.
I was the first to vote for dim, justifying the red, blue and yellow lamp lights as "groovy" and so the show went on sans overhead lighting.
It pays to be a big mouth sometimes.
Organizer Scott Clark soon stood up, announcing, "We're dedicated to starting shows on times and seven minutes late isn't too bad."
What followed was a succession of some of Richmond's best and brightest jazz musicians.
First trombonist Bryan Hooten played and since I'd never heard solo trombone, I was surprised to hear his sharp intakes of breath between blows.
He played an untitled piece, said, "Solo trombone is hard work,"took a big gulp of water and did an improvised number.
He then proceeded to empty his instrument.
"It's just condensed water," he grinned. "Contrary to popular belief, it's not spit, it's really just condensed water."
I believe him because I want to.
As he was playing a cello sonata he'd transcribed by his favorite composer, Gyorgy Ligeti, I couldn't help but admire the night view from the windows.
In each, a tree was foreground to a building across the street, all silhouetted against the misty gray sky as Bryan's trombone made beautiful noise.
Cameron Ralston and his bass were up second and he began with what is usually an exercise to warm up, but what he referred to as "D Plus."
His bow arced and jumped around creating noises I couldn't begin to see him make, but then I'm a musical idiot.
Finishing, he admitted, "That opens up all kinds of creative doors."
How could it not?
Next he did an original piece he'd written while on tour (with our own Matthew White) when he'd heard about the Connecticut shootings.
"I imagined it for piano and bass originally, but seeing as how I'm the only one up here, I'll do it myself."
It was an achingly beautiful piece and after finishing, he changed gears, saying, "Let's do something fun. This is an Ornette Coleman tune called "The Sphinx."
And it was fun, as evidenced by his twitching leg and even his right hand, which became a blur as he tore through the piece.
Drummer Scott Clark took center stage next, saying that he and Cameron had been talking for years about doing a solo show and it had taken this long to make it happen.
That it was finally happening was a fact for which every music-lover in the room was eternally grateful, I'm sure.
Scott mentioned that he'd been reading "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and writing off of the book and that it had become more meaningful as he'd toured parts of the country recently that the book had touched on.
"Seeing those places was profound. I don't know whether that will come through in my playing the drums, but just enjoy."
It did come through and I can't say how except that the improvised piece had a rhythmic urgency that played out in his handling of the brushes, mallets and bells.
Toward the end, he began reading a poem he had written about the Native American experience and it was truly a magical moment to hear him drumming and sharing his words simultaneously.
"And the drums relive what once was," he intoned beautifully.
At that moment, I felt privileged to be hearing his heartfelt playing and reading with the night sky behind him in this little second-floor gallery with only a handful of people.
Guitarist Scott Burton replaced the first Scott doing new solo material he was debuting.
As many times as I've seen Scott play in various incarnations, it may have also been the first time I'd ever heard him play an acoustic guitar.
We heard "Staircase" and "Interiors" before he said,"I'm going to play "I Believe" by a band called Tears for Fears."
His cover was exquisite and you could almost hear the people in the room holding their breath for every note.
Afterwards, he grinned and said, "Tears for Fears, yea!"
Yea, indeed.
Things got heavier for "Underwater," followed by "Scaffolding" and "The Lizard" and every time he locked into a groove, I noticed both Scott Clark and Cameron bobbing their heads in the front row.
And why not? I believe, right along with Tears for Fears.
I believe that Richmond is a place where talented musicians share their music in intimate galleries on misty winter nights.
Sculptors come. Music teachers come. Frenchmen come. And of course other musicians come.
But so should everyone who needs proof that this town has got it going on.
It may even make you believe.
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