From the Exquisite to the Exuberant

The entire evening was brought to me by the city's department of multicultural affairs. If we had one.

But it might as well have been because it began with the Scott Clark 4tet at VCU's Singelton Center performing the premiere of Scott's composition, "Bury My Heart."

And the drums relive what once was...

I'd first heard part of the piece back in January 2013 at a show at For Instance Gallery. Then Scott had said he'd been so moved, first by reading Dee Brown's "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and then when he was touring the country with Matthew White and seeing the places in the book, that he'd begun writing music about it all.

That germ of an idea had continued to grow until it was now a full blown composition with separate movements and before beginning, he specifically asked the audience to hold their applause until the end.

I knew I had the perfect seat when I sat down because I was right behind Doug Richards, the man who shaped VCU's Jazz Studies program. The 4tet came out nattily attired, Scott unbuttoned his suit jacket and the piece took off.

In a perfect world, I would have the vocabulary to describe what I heard as Scott and his group - Bob on trumpet, Jason on sax and Cameron on bass - played this dynamic piece of moving music, but I don't.

Through the emotional music you heard the spirit of Native American culture and the violence against them. Scott's drumming had a rhythmic urgency that played out in his handling of the brushes and mallets against every part of the drums possible.

It was both a celebration of and a lament for Scott's native American ancestry and I doubt anyone in the room will soon forget what they heard tonight.

Standing ovation well deserved.

Then for something completely different and just as multi-cultural, I went to see a nine-piece Japanese band, Osaka Monaurail, do their tribute to the music of James Brown.

And lest you think they're a flash in the pan, they've been doing this for 22 years, touring Asia and Europe. This is their first American tour.

Plenty of people had come out to see this oddity, so I had the chance to chat with a former neighbor, a DJ, a guitarist, the record store owner and the woman I'd met at Amuse who keeps showing up everywhere I go.

Even better, there were lots of people at Strange Matter for the first time, including my old neighbor who said she hadn't been in this building since the '70s.

The band strode through the crowd in matching shiny black suits, took the stage and proceeded to show us how Japan has been doing JB for two decades.

It was pretty impressive. Whether because they're Japanese (one friend's theory) or because of their long time playing together, they were all crack musicians and really, really tight.

As expected (and hoped for) there was a whole lot of synchronized dancing onstage, not to mention a lot of trumpet twirling between notes.

"We're Osaka Monaurail and there will be no Japanese music tonight!" the lead singer promised. "You wouldn't like it if we played it! Or would you?" The crowd wanted it, he obliged off key and they went back to what they do best.

The audience went back to dancing. I was up against the bar with all the tall people in front of me, but I managed anyway.

It wasn't all James Brown stuff, either, because they did "Get Ready" and probably other stuff I should have recognized and didn't. Mostly it was just great fun, high energy and dancable as it could be.

"Twenty two years, still working hard, still splitting my pants," the lead singer shouted before doing the classic "Funky Chicken" and whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

Somewhere the godfather of soul had to be smiling down on Richmond at that. And probably thinking, what in the hell?

One Cure for Love

Walk alone (you already heard about that). Work alone (two deadlines). Eat alone (Garnett's, but at least the cook was wearing a navy captain's hat and I walked into "This Must Be the Place" playing on the stereo).

After a while, all that alone gets old.

That's when you call up a friend and ask if they'll come out and play with you.

And if they're someone who knows you well and wants to make you happy, they woo you with Pinotage Rose and fresh figs.

Driving over to pick up my date, I saw a horse drawn carriage pulling a smiling couple up Robinson Street toward Monument Avenue.

Both of the carriage drivers wore top hats and tuxes. The couple were making goo-goo eyes at each other.

Must be love.

The crowd at Dogwood Dell was small but mighty when we arrived with our contraband Riebeek Rose, a bag of figs freshly plucked off Friend's backyard fig tree and chairs.

We were there to see "Spite Marriage," a 1929 silent comedy with the handsome Buster Keaton. The kicker was that live music was being provided by Ben Miller, he of Ghost Light after party fame and a ridiculously talented pianist.

We took our place one row behind Ben, who was outfitted in a tuxedo t-shirt, and spread out our picnic blanket.

The Pinotage Rose was lovely, well-chilled and boasting flavors of cherries and strawberries, a treat from someone who knew my taste.

The film soon began while I dove into the fresh figs, devouring three within the first ten minutes of the film.

Call me a fig pig.

Ben had thoughtfully chosen the perfect music for the story of a lowly pants presser who falls in love with a Broadway star.

"Dixieland," "When the Saints Go Marching In," he had all the corny bases covered.

The story centered around a simple man who worshiped an actress in a play about life on a plantation.

Every southern cliche was trotted out - "A scratch is nothing to a southern gentleman" - as our heroine fought off northern soldiers while pining for her true southern love.

Of course, the northern soldier was evil - "Remember, gal, there's only one way to save him"- sending her beau off to the barn to be shot.

The movie had its lessons, too, such as, "There's only one cure for love: marriage and suicide," a rather dire reaction to attraction if you ask me, but then, I'm a northerner.

Ben kept us entertained with the appropriate songs: "We're in the Money" when our hero marries the actress and a personal favorite, "Shall We Dance?" when the newlyweds celebrate at Cafe la Boheme," a hangout "for actors and those with money."

We watched our heroine resort to a drunken fit of jealousy when her man takes up with another, younger woman and heard the archaic command, "Douse the lights."

When's the last time you heard anyone use the verb "douse"? Exactly.

During the scene on the yacht when Keaton tries to woo the actress, Ben played Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer," to great effect.

Fortunately for fans of romance, the object of her affection comes to his senses, telling the actress, "You should have known that woman meant nothing to me. I love you, dear."

I'm still waiting for a man to refer to me as "dear."

Things got dramatic when the action switched to the ship and the boiler caught fire ("Save me! Save me, dear!") and the weather turned bad ("A squall!" - another terrific, underused word), forcing our hero to hang from masts, put out fires and bail water.

Never fear, he not only squelched all the problems aboard ship (mainly by hitting every man with a bottle over the head and knocking him out) but won our heroine's heart.

The end.

I've seen my fair share of silent movies, but few as romantic as this gem. Add in the moon moving from tree to tree over the Dell and it turned out to be a lovely way to spend an evening sipping Pinotage.

After dropping off my companion, I soldiered on alone to Commercial Taphouse to hear the Scott Clark 4-tet.

Everyone I know in the local jazz world is concerned that now that Commercial has been bought by An of Mekong, the sublime evenings of jazz will be history.

I hope that's not true, but in case it is, I didn't want to miss hearing one of my favorite local jazz groups perform for what may be the last time there.

Unexpectedly, I found several friends - a guitarist, a trombonist, a teacher, a songbird - although I was discouraged to hear they no longer carry any decent tequilas.

Sorry, I don't want to have to drink wine while listening to jazz. I will, but I don't want to. Not a good sign, friends.

From Mingus ("Weird Nightmare") to Scott Clark originals ("Plum"), it was an evening of killer jazz riffs, the quartet as tight and on point as I've ever heard them.

So the evening ends alone, but only after some superb entertainment.

Still waiting for someone to ask, "Shall we dance?"

Word Games

Pay too much attention to the French Film Festival and you'll miss the great Spring snow.

Hell, I missed even knowing it was coming.

On the other hand, "Le Prenom," a film essentially about a dinner party-long war of words and revelations, was delicious.

But a movie about food requires food so my FFF girlfriend and I made a pit stop at Secco for sandwiches.

I don't know which of us was happier, she with her curried egg salad with crispy onions or me with my house bacon, Gouda, spinach and whole grain mustard.

If nothing else, the aroma of our lunch eaten in the close quarters of the Byrd seats must have had our neighbors drooling.

And then there was the comedy of words we watched.

Is naming a baby Adolf or even Adolphe wrong? Do friends have the right to pass judgment on your children's names? Is a 26-year old age difference between a man and woman understandable when the women is your mother? Is it okay to take credit for killing a dog when you didn't actually do it? Why are French men so charming and thoughtless at the same time?

Afterwards, we stretched our legs before the next movie, the historical drama "Therese Desqueyroux."

But the wait was endless as the French delegation of actors and directors got introduced, followed by the UR and VCU interns who'd helped with the FFF, followed by a reading, followed by endless boredom at being stuck in uncomfortable seats for far too long.

Rather than suffer in silence, we slid out (getting a thumbs-up from a French friend sitting two seats away) for a stop at Amour and some Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace rose and a trio sampler of a Dutch egg, crispy on the outside and soft-cooked inside, sherried crabmeat and a decadent foie gras.

But the issue of the moment was where had all this snow come from while we were stuck inside?

We had no clue, but a charming and erudite law type from Jamaica joined us at the bar, followed by Carytown's newest restaurant owner and his smiling bartender, so we got a little company to tell about our recent film-watching, among other things.

On the table were such hot topics as children's books, Scrabble and men who remember women's birthdays.

By that time, Carytown was a ghost town, so I left the film-lover to go get a music-lover and find some jazz.

We found it at Commercial Taphouse where the Scott Clark 4-Tet was in full swing.

Honestly, we were just grateful that everyone hadn't closed down for the snowy evening, so getting to hear one of my favorite jazz drummers was icing on the cake.

Taking the only unoccupied table, the one in the back under the big (read: cold) front window, we had a mostly decent view of one of Richmond's best quartets.

Friends came in, musicians all, saying they were going to give the music six minutes and if they didn't like it, go build a snowman on the grounds of the VMFA.

An hour later, they were still there.

Maybe it was because drummer Scott and bassist Cameron (who was also celebrating his birthday come midnight) with occasional horns from Bob and Jason, were playing some of the pieces from the work he wrote based on his reading of "Bury Me at Wounded Knee."

I'd first heard the work back in January at a show he'd done at For Instance Gallery and I recognized the aching, tribal quality of the music as soon as he began playing it.

I don't know how someone couldn't be caught up in such moving music.

And since one of the friends who'd come in was a drummer, I wasn't the least surprised when their six minutes lasted indefinitely.

During the break, Scott came over and we talked about composer John Cage and the tribute to him, the Musicircus, I had attended and he'd played in the other night at UR.

Naturally the weather came up and he admitted that he was only too happy to come out and play on this snowy night.

"What else was I going to do?" he asked rhetorically.

My sentiments exactly.

Into the Groove

Fig and Pig.

I've decided that'll be the name of my autobiography. Pretty catchy, huh?

Don't be impressed. It's not original.

Nor did I know when I asked a friend to meet me at the food truck court at the Historical Society what a lot of food three people could consume.

After walking the parking lot to scope out our choices, I decided on Pizza Tonight, as did my friend's friend.

I augmented the white pizza (white sauce and Irish cheddar, which added a certain tang) with sausage while she insisted on the fig and pig, a special of Gorgonzola, prosciutto and fig preserves.

Sweet and salty: absolutely divine.

About to place my order, the girl said to me, "Hey, Karen! I always see you at shows. I've never actually seen you in daylight."

I hope I didn't disappoint.

Meanwhile, my friend scored a softshell sandwich and we got three Asian tacos from the Boka truck: beef, pork and chicken.

We took our feast to the furthermost picnic table spot under the shade of magnolia trees dropping petals and near a clump of four-foot orange lilies.

Then we dove in.

"I forgot what a hearty appetite you have," friend observed as I inhaled.

Just as we were finishing, we noticed the Mr. Softee truck had arrived, but were too full to attempt it.

Instead I shared with my friends some of the chocolate cookies with caramel topping I'd baked for the Listening Room and said my goodbyes.

"Tap your foot a couple of times for me," I was instructed as my friends left for a meeting.

Glad to.

At the Firehouse, I added my cookies to the dessert table where they didn't have a chance of being the star.

Front and center was a plate of pre-release Dixie Donuts.

Hot damn!

These were cake doughnuts (my favorite kind) of the German chocolate variety with a dark chocolate icing and a coconut and nut mixture atop each one.

A discussion ensued about the desirability of a doughnut over a cookie; for me, that's no contest. I'll take doughnuts every time.

All the guys said that cookies rated higher, so maybe it's a gender thing.

I chatted with the Man About Town who refused to believe I had been spotted at RVA Beer Fest in shorts because there was no photographic documentation.

I brought in a Beer Betty as a witness to corroborate.

Tonight's Listening Room was curated by Antonia and was all jazz, making for a change from the usual folkier sounding bands.

The stage benefited from the set for "Dessa Rose," currently playing at Firehouse.

Loosely-woven burlap draped the stairs, hung from the ceiling and gave a rustic vibe to everything.

When long-absent/recently married emcee Chris got up to do the introduction of Near Earth Objects, he mentioned that the drummer was also in a band he's in.

"I don't know how I feel about that," he observed wryly. "I'm not going to say they're better than us."

The three-piece (bass, drums, keyboard) added in a guitarist and flutist (the only female) for several songs, including some from their album "Manual for Self Hypnosis."

I especially liked one furious flute solo, all bent legs and arched back, where she channeled Ian Anderson.

After the break, we were treated to a drum-off with Scotts.

Near Earth Object's drummer Scott began by winding up a music box, leading into trading licks with Scott #2 of the Scott Clark 4-Tet, the next band up.

They challenged each other, they teased each other and afterwards, Scott Clark said, "Thanks for bearing with us on that. It's not often you get two drum sets up on stage."

It was the ideal lead-in for the Scott Clark 4-Tet, although I'm biased because Scott is my favorite local jazz drummer.

They played old (Fred Anderson's "Little Fox Run") as well as new.

"Clockwise," was introduced as "The hit. The radio-friendly version. For any of you who watch early morning TV, this is the song we sang on Channel 6 Tuesday."

They closed with three short pieces, part of a work-in-progress, a suite based on "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee."

Both the drums and bass had a definite Native American sound to them and the piece swelled with horns.

When they finished, a friend noted, "In the parlance, that was epic."

Agreed.

Gathering up my plate, now completely devoid of cookies (no doubt due to those with Y chromosomes), I left to meet a friend for a drink.

I found him waiting in the warm rain at a closed Fanhouse, so we walked over to Avalon.

He told me that during a recent discussion of why people drink tequila he'd brought my name up as an example of someone who sips it.

Gasp! I was told that amazement ensured on the part of his friends.

Wisely, I refrained from telling him that I'd even been known to sip it in daylight.

The bartender, who likes to refer to himself as my longest running stalker, greeted us, supplied the Hornitos and kept the music going.

Delightfully, all the music came from cassette tapes tonight because he was tired of the bar's CDs.

What that means is that we had the distinct pleasure of hearing "Like a Virgin" and "Seven and the Ragged Tiger" on cassette tonight.

Not to mention the pleasure of watching him have to turn the tape over halfway through.

As my charming friend noted, "Music used to be so much more interactive with tapes and records."

He schooled me on gramophones, his new passion for '20s-era singers and why his breakfast cereal has to be kept in "the hidden cabinet."

We talked a lot about making the expected choices versus doing what feeds your soul. About Led Zeppelin and pop music. About knowing what you want.

During a discussion of indulging yourself, he pointed out, "You eat whatever you want, though."

I do. And what I frequently want is pig (what my third sister calls "the magical beast").

Hence the title-to-be.

Look for it at your local bookstore.

I promise there'll be bacon at the in-store readings.

It's All About What Follows What

We have a consensus, ladies and gentlemen; we are glad the holidays are over.

It's about time to get back to the business of going out and having a good time for no reason other than that it's Sunday night.

That's the spirit that landed us at Secco with a small crowd of like-minded people tonight.

With an Italian-speaking server, tales of Perugia and a leaning in that direction already, it was more or less a foregone conclusion that we would end up with an Italian wine.

The Benotto Monferrato Rosso "Nebieul" came with a promise on the menu that it would make any Italophile grin (it did).

Since I'd come with a Secco newbie, we tasted around the menu so he could get an idea of the pleasures of the talented kitchen.

The fried Barcat oysters with a pickled ramp creme fraiche were to die for. The subtle brininess of the oysters under the perfectly fried breading should be on every oyster-lover's must-eat list.

The sweetbreads with roasted fingerling potatoes and sauerkraut  enticed even the non-gland eater among us who had only memories of his mother eating such things.

He was just as satisfied with the house-made gnocchi with lamb ragout and preserved lemon, a dish I'd had and knew to be a perfect balance of flavors

Our first and last course came on the slate (I heard a customer ask, "How many slates do you have anyway?") with Brillat Savarin, a butter bomb, the luscious Hayley Hazen Bleu and melt-in-your-mouth Bresaola, a meat I could eat all night.

As we ate, a DJ friend came in for a beer and joined another guy. Before long, he was showing off his latest library book find: a book last checked out in 1928.

I am enough of a book geek to find that absolutely fascinating. From the little we saw of the text, the flowery language was of the kind rapidly fading ever since 1928.

Our loss, in my opinion.

Once sated with food and wine, we moved on to music at Commercial Taphouse, listening to the Scott Clark 4-tet from a window seat up front.

We'd have sat down closer since my companion had never heard them before, but every seat in the place was taken when we arrived, a fact which didn't surprise me since I know how good these guys are.

Ever since they stole the show at RVA JazzFest, I try to see them whenever possible.

Drummer Scott Clark never fails to impress with his impeccably controlled yet energetic playing and with trumpet, sax and bass filling out his compositions, we just sat back and took it all in.

They played several new pieces tonight, with "Clockwise" probably my favorite.

Although much of the crowd faded before midnight, we stayed until the end, happy to be hearing live jazz to end our weekend.

Forget small talk and holiday soirees, give me a terrific meal and a little night music.

Or as someone said last night, it's like hearing the Smiths followed by Belle and Sebastian.

You not only have to understand the why of that, but bring chemistry to the mix, too.

Any night of the week.

Le Jazz Hot

How to cheer up a photographer friend who's down in the dumps about a recent break-up (in three easy steps):

1. Admire a print of a Picasso nude of a woman's backside on the wall of Avalon during dinner.
2. Mention that since it may be your best angle, you wish you had such an image of yourself.
3. Watch his face break into all smiles as he enthusiastically says, "We could get started on that right now! Forget about JazzFest!"

Voila! Dumps momentarily forgotten. We'd just finished eating and were admiring all the Picasso reproductions covering the restaurant's walls.

I'd had the baby bok choy salad with braised squid, grilled onion, pine nuts, apples and horseradish vinaigrette, easily one of the most unusual salad combos I've ever had. But I like unusual and I liked this salad. My friend had enjoyed the grilled Cesar with white anchovies and roasted garlic (although not roasted quite enough, he said).

We followed that with pure heaven: grilled Sausagecraft lamb sausage with fennel, apple and red onion compote. My devotion to Sausagecraft's mastery of ground meat only grew stronger with the lamb version, enhanced by the compote, but mouth-watering on its own, too.

Given my friend's state, I let him choose dessert and although he almost went with the apple fritters with vanilla ice cream, we ended up with the boca negro, a flourless chocolate torte. The three slices were almost more than we could finish. Almost.

I invited him to join me at RVA JazzFest, but he declined and I warned him that he'd be sorry. I can't wait to rub it in next time I see him that he made the wrong call.

Arriving in time to get the seat of my choice (second row center), I was immediately befriended by a music-lover (and budding guitarist; at middle age, he's taking lessons from Trey Pollard) named John who, in the course of conversation about our dated names (when's the last time you met a 20-year old Karen or John?), under guessed my age by a decade, making me his devoted servant..

He wasn't perfect, though, because he also said he doesn't make the effort to get out often enough to hear music. He asked if I'd heard any of tonight's bands and I raved about the Scott Clark 4-tet, the only one of the three I'd seen before.

Scott Clark's 4-tet (drums, sax, trumpet and bass) took off burning down the house and never stopped. Scott himself was on fire and the crowd was immediately engaged. Scott's original material, like the amazing "Saucy Pink," bracketed a piece by Fred Anderson and a tribute Scott had written about Anderson after his death last year.

With a fierce set list, the group could do no wrong tonight as they all played ferociously and beautifully. Scott's arms were a blur most of the show, as I discovered when I tried to take some pictures of him with his parents' camera (they were sitting in the row behind me with a blocked view of him).

But their performance was perhaps best summed up in the moment when a drop of sweat ran down bassist Cameron Ralston's nose, hung there for a moment shining from the street light behind him and then dropped onto his instrument. The Scott Clark 4-tet melted everything and everyone in the room.

Old New Things was a sextet of guitar/pedal steel, banjo,drums,sax/bass clarinet, trumpet and bass. They began with a Trey Pollard piece called "Americana" and it was an apt description of a lot of their sound. Banjo player Adam Larabee's piece "Dead Times" was a big crowd favorite for its exotic scales and  intricate composition.

A 16th century chamber music piece once arranged by Bach had been re-arranged last summer for this group; surely it was the first time anyone in the room had heard a Bach piece with banjo and pedal steel. But then they also did one by free jazz saxophonist Albert Ayler, also not a likely candidate for the banjo.

My only complaint with their set was the audience's inability to hear the banjo and, frequently, the guitar or lap steel. The horns dominated and the strings were lost in the mix, a shame since they were the unique part of the group's sound. Hopefully that will be corrected in future performances.

Headlining was NYC's Harris Eisenstadt and Canada Day and they had a rough start when feedback would not go away, showing itself during the first part of a four-part work called "Ombudsman," much to the vibes player's obvious consternation.

Finally after one gigantic squawk that stopped the music for a split second and made all the musicians visibly jump in reaction, they opted out of monitor usage and the show sounded much better from then on.

Two different people told me that they thought it was the best RVA Jazzfest ever and I'd be inclined to agree (and that's certainly what I'll tell my friend). My music-loving seatmate turned to me at the end and gave me his assessment. "You were right about the first band. They should have headlined!"

We can always brag that we saw them when they were just the opener at JazzFest 2011. Too bad my friend didn't join me. In addition to awesome music, he'd have gotten some amazing photographs.

But at least now I know how to cheer him up.

Just Slide Off Your Stool, Pal

Question: What's the best time to do a post-mortem of Folk Fest weekend?
Answer: At a Monday night jazz show at The Camel.

Tonight's Scott Clark 4-Tet show (with the Marcus Tenney Trio opening) offered up a house full of musicians, all of whom were eager to share whom they'd seen and how they'd liked them. I was happy to hear everyone's opinions and compare notes.

Consensus: Parking was a bitch but the music absolutely ruled. Need I add that the Persians came up yet again?

When I'd arrived, the door guy had teased me about being back so soon (48 hours after my last visit) and how I'm there so often because The Camel has the best music in town. While that isn't always true, they are the most reliable spot for great music on off nights and tonight was another perfect example of that.

Five bucks bought some of the best local jazz talent playing right now as well as some of the most original composing coming out of RVA. I'm a huge fan of Scott Clark's drumming (see bands Ilad and/or Glows in the Dark) and low-key persona; but when he lets loose on the drums, he becomes anything but.

But not quite like the completely drunk guy at the bar whom I mistakenly sat down next to. He's the same one who often attends shows there and does the fist pumping and off-beat dancing inches away from the band.

Looking at me bleary-eyed, he asked, "Do you need a drink?" to which I answered, "No, I don't need a drink."

He gave me the hairy eyeball and to punish me, I guess, said, "Good, then you're not getting one," and turned his back on me, shortly before beginning his slow slide out of the stool. "Better pay," he mumbled to the bartender. "You already did, Ace," Dave informed him. "Twice."

Trumpet, sax, upright bass and drums. If it's Monday, it must be jazz.