From the Congo to Boston

The best thing about being back from the beach is that I can put my brain back into gear again. That meant starting at the Anderson Gallery for the panel discussion on "Collecting African Music," something I have no intention of doing but every desire to learn more about.

The discussion was yet another tie-in to the current South African shows, specifically Siemon Allen's record collection at the Anderson. Besides the collector, Bill Lupoletti and David Noyes of WRIR were on the panel to add their music geek perspectives.

The talk was interesting, what with two DJs and the collector himself. The first point of contention was Paul Simon's Graceland. It seemed that while the DJs liked the African rhythms of it, Paul Simon not so much.

On the other hand, Simon's controversial decision to ignore the cultural boycott against performing with South African musicians got widespread approval since it allowed South African musicians to be heard at a time when it was not the norm.

Bill said that, "The album opened a market. It was a synthesis of what Simon did before as well as the South African music that inspired him." He saw this as positive, as did the others.

One thing the talk made clear was that it is no longer possible to just go to your local record store and find the latest in African (or world) music. The Internet and e-Bay have replaced the record store as the places to procure the latest, mainly because there are fewer independent distributors than there used to be.

Bill said, "World music is a term nobody likes and everybody uses," because it means so little. But WRIR's Congolese program gets listeners from all over the world because it is the only broadcast program of Congolese music in the entire country. There goes that WRIR, making us proud again.

The takeaway from the panel was Siemon Allen's directive, "Don't let the collection become an end into itself." Hoarders of music help no one but themselves.

By the end of the talk, it had been a long time since the herring roe breakfast, so I went on over to the Belvidere at Broad for dinner and perhaps some company and ended up with both.

Tonight's soup was vegetarian onion soup gratin, fortunately not vegan, so it had a lovely cheese layer melted on top. Vegetable stock works beautifully instead of beef stock and I am here to attest to that.

Next up was the golden and red beet salad with Maytag Bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens. After that filling soup course (necessary due to the damp coolness of all this rain), I filled up quickly on the beet course.

My neighbors at the bar were business associates in town from Boston and while she didn't last long (8:12), he stayed and chatted for four hours, unexpectedly providing great company with all kinds of literary leanings. How often can a stranger show you e-mails referencing Yeats, Keats and Nirvana?

His extensive travels, his long-time concert-going habit (King Crimson and Devotchka? Damn.)and his sarcasm made him a worthy conversational partner and I was thrilled to have lucked onto someone so interesting and willing to chat up a stranger.

By the time we got ready to leave, the only other person at the bar was using a yellow highlighter to annotate his non-fiction book on love (he was a masseuse and a nutritionist). I wished him luck at book-learning about love.

I dropped the Bostonian (like me, a lapsed Irish-Catholic) at the Doubletree and made my way home in the pouring rain.

Although I like beach rain so much better (lots warmer and I can still hear the ocean), there's nothing like getting home and back into the swing of things.

I can do this. I can do this.

Not a Fan of the Randy Type

My evening began with an artistic South African who was followed by a randy American. Guess which one I enjoyed more?

The Anderson Gallery was hosting a walkabout with Siemon Allen, the force behind Imaging South Africa: Collection Projects by Siemon Allen.

I'd been impressed by the exhibit when I first saw it, here, so I was especially interested in hearing the artist speak about it.

As were the dozens of other people who showed up; this walkabout, which had to be confined to one gallery because of the sheer size of the audience, was surprisingly well-attended.

He explained in his lilting accent that the South African newspaper article collection demonstrated the image constructed by external sources, whereas the stamp collection reflected the South African image constructed internally (stamps as government propaganda, essentially).

I was fascinated to hear that his South African record collection began with a $2 find at the old Diversity Thrift store.

But it wasn't so much the records that had captured him, but the liner notes.

The wall of mostly singer Miriam Makeba albums contained harsh critiques of the apartheid policies of the former South African government, in some cases comparing it to that of Nazi Germany.

These were liner notes as political statement for sure.

Allen, a native South African who lives here now, would like to see the record collection eventually go back to South Africa.

The stamp piece, massive as it is, has already been purchased by a collector in Johannesburg.

Allen acknowledged that he has been building an archive of lost information for his homeland, a country still struggling with its international identity.

So while it didn't turn out to be much of a walkabout due to sheer numbers, the talk itself was fascinating.

I only hope that the exhibit gets the wide audience that it deserves while it is in RVA.

Stop number two was Secco and although it started badly, it ended well.

I'd barely found a bar stool when a guy came in and asked if the one next to me was taken.

I had to admit that it was not and the newcomer couldn't have looked more pleased (or predatory).

Moments later owner Julia appeared and asked me to come with her.

Turns out that the new arrival was the same one with whom she'd tangled and chronicled their conversation on Facebook just a couple of weeks ago.

Knowing he was arrogant, ignorant and obnoxious from her own experience, she was doing a rescue mission on me.

He was also the same guy we had seen hitting on the heavily botoxed woman we referred to as The Joker a while back.

Apparently he's a regular at Secco because of the high percentage of women who hang out there.

Yuck.

But I was spirited away to the front couch and saved from inane conversation with Randy (yes, that really was his name), whom I later learned had saved my stool indefinitely in hopes that I'd return.

Both a customer and a server said he told them that he was holding my stool "until death" or I returned, whichever came first.

Finally the honest Amanda just told him, "Look, she's not coming back. She's with friends up front," and he tossed back his wine and left.

That's what friends are for.

I had the pleasure of drinking a new wine not yet on the list, the P'Tit Rouquin (carrot-topped kid or little redhead, neither of which describes me but both sound a lot like Julia), an organic and bio-dynamic table red grown on 60-year old Gamay vines. Very nice.

Later I had the chevre salad (in a nod to my filling lunch) and a hunk of Camembert (recommended to complement my wine by my server Matt, who also pointed out that "Whenever you come, so do the 11-year olds," referring to the extreme youth of the bar crowd tonight).

I bypassed the pork rilletes that have just been added to the menu, so I'll probably want to try them next visit.

Of course, coming back for pig puts me at risk of Randy showing up again, in which case I'll have to try to redirect his attention to the 11-year olds.

I can't always a count on somebody saving me from unwanted advances.

And it's been a long time since I've experienced a wanted advance.

Don't Check Me for Ticks

Just when I'm ready to get discouraged about doing so much alone, I have an evening where I run into friends all night long. It may not be as good as a partner's company, but it was great to have the unexpected conversation almost everywhere I went.

And I went all over tonight. I began at the Visual Arts center for the other part of Darkroom: Photography and New Media in South Africa since 1950. This show had more contemporary photographs than the VMFA show, but was just as compelling.

The photo of 15-year old Lawrence Matjee after being assaulted and detained by the Security Police was heartbreaking. The unsmiling boy stares into the camera shirtless and with haunting eyes, both his arms in casts up to his armpits. Tragic.

Another photo shows eight young people running from a smokey blast during the political unrest in Soweto in the late 70s. Of the eight, only two have their feet on the ground. The other six are running so hard that both feet are in the air at the moment the shutter closed. It took my breath away.

In contrast to that is the image from 1952, Private Golf Lesson showing a couple in Sophiatown with their bodies curved around each other as he shows her how to make a shot. Their matching berets are seen against the background of the township's simple homes sloping up a hill.

If I'd been smart, I'd have taken the trolley from there instead of driving to the Anderson Gallery where I encountered a traffic accident (one car was up on the sidewalk of the Pollak Building), a street festival (one lane closed on Franklin on the first weekend of school? Lunacy) and non-existent parking. Luckily the exhibit was worth it.

Imaging South Africa: Collection Projects by Siemon Allen showed various collections of the South African artist, including relevant newspapers, 50,000 stamps and countless records. All three were meant to address the complex nature of South African identity.

Naturally the record and record label collections (two separate entities) gave me the most pleasure. The signature image for Darkroom is of singer Miriam Makeba and the record collection showcased primarily her records, in some cases duplicate copies, some autographed, some in other languages. I was surprised at how many records were on familiar American labels.

I ran into a friend who raved about the stamps (he's a biologist who pointed to a mole on a guy's neck and said, "Thought it was a tick." So stop thinking.) and a couple I have been running into everywhere lately ("Him: "Yea, but I like that."), who asked me about my later destinations, anticipating seeing me there.

I recommended to all three that they check out the accompanying VMFA and Visual Arts Center shows for a fuller sense of the South African experience, not to mention some outstanding photographs.

Afterwards, I strolled into Bistro 27 for a bite to eat, only to discover one of my very favorite couples, so I pulled up a chair to their bar table and joined them. After sharing some of their beef carpaccio, I had the deep fried sweetbreads over mushroom ragout and it was such a treat. Both of them tried it and agreed that this was sweetbreads done right. It's all about texture, as Carlos says.

I had such a good time chatting with them about a wide variety of topics (hangovers, the new Lulus's, birthday party plans, dressing faux pas) that I barely had time to pay my respects to the staff, always a favorite part of my evening at 27. I promised to be back soon to worship at their altars.

Lastly I made it to Balliceaux for Photosynthesizers and while I may not normally be much of a hip-hop fan, there is something about these guys doing live hip-hop that I knew from previous shows I loved. Two voices, male and female, with a live band and they had the audience enthralled (even the bad dancers who couldn't seem to find the beat).

And here I ran into loads of friends: the wild woman entrepreneur, the farmer and his harem, the restaurant owner and his chef, the trumpet player and his beloved, resulting in as much conversation as I could handle in between sets.

Eventually I took a seat at the bar, not to escape chatting with friends, but to talk to one of my favorite bartenders and to meet the random strangers stopping by for drinks. It's amazing how friendly people can be if they think you can get the bartender's attention. Or even just to kill time until it's their turn.

One guy kept asking if he could buy me another tequila and my bartending friend kept subtly shaking his head no at me, as if to underscore what I already knew: not my type, so don't let him get friendly. It's nice to have someone looking out for a girl when she's on her own.

And wouldn't you just know it was a restaurant owner tossing out the non-stop compliments and drink offers? Big sigh.

I see a lot of couple dating in my future.