Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together. ~ Anais Nin
I was at Strange Matter in January 2010 before they even had their liquor license, for cryin' out loud.
Fact is, I've seen all kinds of movies there, despite it being a music venue, a lot of them the kind that I couldn't have seen anywhere else.
That first night, it was for "All Tomorrow's Parties," about the music festival curated by other musicians. That was followed by the bike messenger documentary "Pedal" in March that year, then in April, the documentaries "American Hardcore" about that whole scene and "Festival Express" about musicians on tour via train across Canada in 1970.
I not only enjoyed every single movie I saw there, I learned something from each, too.
But it wasn't all music and bikes, because I laughed along to "Raising Arizona" (not for the first time) and that holiday classic, "Santa Conquers the Martians." And it was there that I saw the James Bond parody, "Our Man Flint," for the first time. Add in John Waters' "Polyester" and David Lynch's "Blue Velvet" and "Wild at Heart" and you get some idea of the range that S'Matter showed.
I don't want to brag, but I saw the Monkee's magum opus "Head" there, putting up with the non-stop mindless commentary from the peanut gallery at the bar, people whose parents hadn't even met when "Head" was made.
But of course, it was mostly about the bands I saw there and there were some stellar ones.
I saw Real Estate on a humid, sweltering night, leaving with my dress as wet as my hair.
Some bands I enjoyed seeing there so much that I saw them again the next time they came back through, like Strand of Oaks, Wild Nothing, Speedy Ortiz. Sometimes once isn't enough.
Music fan that I am, I saw some bands simply because I had a free night and knew of the band, like the Man Man show in 2014.
Other times, it was a fellow music lover's recommendation, online or in person, that got me there, like with Kane Strang, Pylon Reenactment Society, Taco Cat and David Bazan of Pedro the Lion.
I went for local boy-made-good Matt White, but also because he was playing with the Rosebuds' Howard Ivans and I'm a big Rosebuds fan. When I needed a neo-'80s fix, I went to see Cold Cave and Drab Majesty and wallowed in the reverb. For pure indie pop, I couldn't resist the Love Language, NOLA's Generationals and dancing to Beach Fossils before everyone knew who they were.
For an early show by Kurt Vile, I stood on the back of a banquette in a room so hot and sticky that I feared I might pass out (I didn't). Once, for an Italian fix, I went to see Sultans, a group of passionate Italians thrilled to be touring the U.S. and meeting American girls.
Over the years, I went to some of their annual shows, like the yearly Food Fights where groups of restaurant staffers formed a band for a night and competed against each other to win the audience's approval. A couple of Halloweens, I attended the Night of the Living Dead bands show, an extravaganza of cover bands of bands with at least one deceased member.
And don't get me started on all the local bands I've seen there over the years because there have been too many to recount.
I've been to many a sold out show where my foresight in snagging a ticket ensured I got in while I knew many people who didn't, but I've also been to shows where I was one of 20 people the band was playing to and I felt like Richmond was representing poorly.
In almost every case, I walked to S'Matter, but on the one occasion I didn't (I had uncharacteristically driven there because my hired mouth and I had come from the West End), I came out at 1:45 a.m. to find my car had been towed. Luckily, I also ran into a musician friend who lives in J-Ward and we walked home together, not because walking alone was an issue - I'd done it scores of times - but because I needed someone to listen to me beat myself up about my stupidity.
And now the news has come that Strange Matter is closing, so they're doing a series of farewell shows. There was no way I wasn't going to one to say goodbye to a place that has been a constant in my musical and film life since the day it opened.
Walking in, the doorman hugged the couple in front of me because tonight was their fourth night coming in for a farewell show. I paid my money, got a wristband and saved my hugs for friends.
Almost at once, I got a hug from the woman I'd met at this very venue, back during what she called Janet-palooza, when she was celebrating her fortieth birthday by going to a show every night for a month.
Seeing her there tonight brought things full circle.
Next was the trumpet player who was playing in one of tonight's bands, then the Chucks-wearing friend who used to complain that going out required too much work. Even he had apparently realized that sometimes you just have to make the effort. The writer who lived in my apartment before I did was there and we talked about all the great films he'd screened as part of RVA Movie Club, many of which I'd been there for. Later I got a greeting from the music teacher and the volunteer coordinator.
All the cool kids were out tonight.
When I spoke to the DJ whom I'd seen at the Byrd for "La Dolce Vita," then at the Hof for the debut of Trey Pollard's "Antiphones" album and again tonight, it was by complimenting him on his range.
Technically, I suppose he could say the same of me.
DJing between band sets was the owner of my local record store where I had first heard tonight's headliner, the Ar-kaics, back in 2013. My, how time flies. As always, he looked happy to be spinning 45s for the crowd in between enjoying the show.
Also on the bill were Weird Tears, who when they hailed from Philly considered S'Matter one of their favorite venues, the nine-piece Piranha-Rama (three horns, two back-up singers), Christi with their pastiche of girl group and hardcore and, finally, the garage band sounding Ar-kaics.
Appropriately sadcore song title considering the reason for tonight's show? Weird Tears' second song, "I Don't Deserve to Be Happy Tonight."
Before their set, I'd chatted with the lead singer of Piranha-Rama, giving her props for her cute red coat with a fake fur collar. She admitted she'd found it at For the Love of Jesus Thrift on southside and had debated long and hard about spending $14 on the coat before sucking it up and forking over the money.
Years later, she realizes it was a brilliant purchase.
Besides, what could I say, standing there in a thrift store wool dress, military-style jacket and pleather-collared sweater, none of which cost more than $4?
It's an additional shame that S'Matter is closing since they'd updated the bathrooms to be unisex with a sign on the former men's room reading, "This bathroom has one stall and no gender." It also had no line, unlike the one that read, "This bathroom has two stalls and no gender," so guess which one I used?
You got it, the one with the two urinals.
In what I can only consider the most fitting tribute to S'Matter, we were barely into the second band's set when I realized how ungodly warm it was in there and began shedding layers. Janet had already removed her jacket and taken it outside to stow away under her scooter seat. All around me, guys were doffing their knit skull caps and wiping sweat off their heads.
Being a regular at S'Matter teaches you quickly that their temperature regulatory system is non-existent and it will be hot and miserable in there once the bands start playing, whether it is August or December. The only difference is that it's not humid inside during the winter months.
Still, that's part of its charm. You don't go to a venue like S'Matter expecting all the comforts of home, you go to hear music played from a stage a few feet from your face. And maybe to dance, which I began doing from the first song Weird Tears played.
But it wasn't all gloom and doom tonight because just today, a couple of local musicians started a Go Fund Me page to try to raise enough money to take over the venue. My writer friend said that they'd already raised $4K this afternoon, with a goal of $150K, in hopes they can keep it from falling into the hands of VCU and further gentrifying that block.
Godspeed, guys, I hope you pull it off.
Because, after all, that building has been a music venue since before I came to Richmond in 1986. I know I went to it when it was the Nancy Raygun, but even before then, it was Twisters and Back Door, I've been told.
What's a city without a small, gritty venue like Strange Matter? Especially one I can walk to. Too soon? Too selfish? The way I see it, music fans deserve to be happy on any given night.
Most importantly, Richmond needs a place where our separate body parts can melt together.
Or maybe that's just me.
Showing posts with label strange matter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strange matter. Show all posts
Friday, December 7, 2018
Monday, March 13, 2017
Don't Even Think
Sundays are a marathon, not a sprint.
It took asking five people to join my hired mouth for brunch before I was successful, the effort pretty much encompassing the shank of the afternoon but also leaving us utterly stuffed. I don't think there's any question that Richmond's first Black Restaurant Week has been a resounding success.
By that point, I had half an hour before Mac was showing up to walk with me to Movieland to see "Get Out," a feat we'd attempted Tuesday at 7 only to be told they were sold out until 10.
Today's 4:30 show was about 95% full and that's with a screening almost every hour. You make me proud, Richmond.
People who know me well had warned me about how difficult a movie like this would be for someone like me (that means someone who avoids suspense, thrillers and horror films), but everything I'd read made it crystal clear that this was a movie white people needed to see, if only to be completely unsettled.
You don't even know.
The best part was that the audience reacted as one, united in their reactions to not only the skulduggery of the bad guys, but the blatant racism of supposedly "nice" characters. That we had to watch the inevitable bad choices of people in horror movies - why does anyone go outside alone in the middle of the night? - only allowed us to cheer loudly together when evil got its comeuppance.
And yet, near the end when carnage is everywhere and a siren is heard, there was collective breath-holding by the entire audience for fear that whatever law enforcement showed up would misconstrue the situation and our young black, male hero would pay the price.
Happily, art did not imitate life.
Kudos to first time director Jordan Peele for instead going comedic. But that he so seamlessly blends genres and still manages to make some biting social critiques all but guarantees he's a director worth knowing and one we'll see much more from.
Walking out of the theater a little after 7 to blue skies and sunshine felt like a March gift, yet I heard a woman complaining to her companions, "I don't care about later light. I hate losing an hour of sleep! Give me my hour back."
Perhaps that lost hour of sleep is what made her crabby. I know I hate to miss any of my nightly 9 hours.
We had dinner - entrees of homey wonton soup and chicken and broccoli in brown sauce, with limeades - at My Noodle & Bar, comfortably ensconced in the very last tree-house booth, the electric fireplace flickering away nearby. Sure, real is preferable but warmth is warmth, even if it's fake fire when it's 30 degrees outside.
In the booth next to us, a young woman referred to the man she was talking to repeatedly as Benjamin. When they got up to leave, she apologized, saying she'd forgotten his name was really Brandon. He smiled politely, but you know he noticed every time.
Mac dropped me home with just enough time to change clothes and walk over to Strange Matter for a show where $1 of every ticket was going to Planned Parenthood, meaning I could listen to live music and support the cause. Win/win.
Opener Grass Panther was set up and just starting to play on the floor in front of the stage when I got there. Since crowds tend to be smaller for the opening band, I always enjoy it when a band is playing at eye level like that.
Most of their songs have a fierce energy to them, but for one, singer Michael suggested we slow dance with someone "or make a new friend," but I contented myself with swaying in place. Even that seemed unusual for Grass Panther.
I'd expected to see more familiar faces than I did, but a few represented: the prof, the ad man, the roadie, the guitarist, with someone attributing the small numbers in general to Spring Break just winding down. All I know is that walking over tonight, I'd seen scads more people than I've been seeing lately on campus.
Louisville's Twin Limb was a psychedelic dream pop trio: singer/accordion player, drummer/singer (both female) and a guy on guitar with a decidedly post-punk bent, which probably sounds far less compelling than they actually were.
Most obvious about their sound was a languid Beach House-like quality, but the accordionist had a voice that echoed that of Johnette Napolitano of Concrete Blond, all wail and beauty and when she and the drummer harmonized or traded vocals back and forth, it was nothing short of exquisite.
It occurred to me that this was the kind of talented, quirky band that would have played Balliceaux before it closed and everyone there would've known they were seeing something extraordinary. Tonight's mostly male crowd certainly seemed entranced.
After their set, a guy came up to me and asked if the band that had just played was Strand of Oaks. Nope, I told him and he went away looking perplexed.
A friend came over to chat about headliner Strand of Oaks and it turned out we'd both seen the band on their 2015 tour, me at S'Matter and he in Italy at a free festival. On a beach. With the XX. Doesn't seem fair to me.
Since we'd both last seen the band, leader Timothy had gotten his marriage together and stopped being so miserable about life, resulting in a new sound on his latest album, which probably explains why he led with "Radio Kids" from it.
After he finished singing it, he exhorted the crowd to come closer. "What's all this about?" he said, circling his hand over empty space near the stage. "Come on up here. I got no one to sing to." So we all moved so he could sing "Shut-in." Telling the drummer he had a good beat, he launched into the driving rhythm of "Heal" and it was like the '70s all over again.
Between songs he expressed appreciation for Green Panther, corrected himself to Grass Panther and said they didn't seem like the kind of precious band who'd get upset over a mistake.
"And Twin Limb, man! They should be playing opera halls or the halls of Valhalla! That's a cheap ticket getting to see them. We're still a $10 ticket, but you got all that, too. Richmond, you're lucky!" You know it, man.
By the time they played the anthemic "Goshen '97," it was midnight and the marathon was over. My only regret was that it hadn't been on a beach in Italy.
Bet I could have made a new friend there.
It took asking five people to join my hired mouth for brunch before I was successful, the effort pretty much encompassing the shank of the afternoon but also leaving us utterly stuffed. I don't think there's any question that Richmond's first Black Restaurant Week has been a resounding success.
By that point, I had half an hour before Mac was showing up to walk with me to Movieland to see "Get Out," a feat we'd attempted Tuesday at 7 only to be told they were sold out until 10.
Today's 4:30 show was about 95% full and that's with a screening almost every hour. You make me proud, Richmond.
People who know me well had warned me about how difficult a movie like this would be for someone like me (that means someone who avoids suspense, thrillers and horror films), but everything I'd read made it crystal clear that this was a movie white people needed to see, if only to be completely unsettled.
You don't even know.
The best part was that the audience reacted as one, united in their reactions to not only the skulduggery of the bad guys, but the blatant racism of supposedly "nice" characters. That we had to watch the inevitable bad choices of people in horror movies - why does anyone go outside alone in the middle of the night? - only allowed us to cheer loudly together when evil got its comeuppance.
And yet, near the end when carnage is everywhere and a siren is heard, there was collective breath-holding by the entire audience for fear that whatever law enforcement showed up would misconstrue the situation and our young black, male hero would pay the price.
Happily, art did not imitate life.
Kudos to first time director Jordan Peele for instead going comedic. But that he so seamlessly blends genres and still manages to make some biting social critiques all but guarantees he's a director worth knowing and one we'll see much more from.
Walking out of the theater a little after 7 to blue skies and sunshine felt like a March gift, yet I heard a woman complaining to her companions, "I don't care about later light. I hate losing an hour of sleep! Give me my hour back."
Perhaps that lost hour of sleep is what made her crabby. I know I hate to miss any of my nightly 9 hours.
We had dinner - entrees of homey wonton soup and chicken and broccoli in brown sauce, with limeades - at My Noodle & Bar, comfortably ensconced in the very last tree-house booth, the electric fireplace flickering away nearby. Sure, real is preferable but warmth is warmth, even if it's fake fire when it's 30 degrees outside.
In the booth next to us, a young woman referred to the man she was talking to repeatedly as Benjamin. When they got up to leave, she apologized, saying she'd forgotten his name was really Brandon. He smiled politely, but you know he noticed every time.
Mac dropped me home with just enough time to change clothes and walk over to Strange Matter for a show where $1 of every ticket was going to Planned Parenthood, meaning I could listen to live music and support the cause. Win/win.
Opener Grass Panther was set up and just starting to play on the floor in front of the stage when I got there. Since crowds tend to be smaller for the opening band, I always enjoy it when a band is playing at eye level like that.
Most of their songs have a fierce energy to them, but for one, singer Michael suggested we slow dance with someone "or make a new friend," but I contented myself with swaying in place. Even that seemed unusual for Grass Panther.
I'd expected to see more familiar faces than I did, but a few represented: the prof, the ad man, the roadie, the guitarist, with someone attributing the small numbers in general to Spring Break just winding down. All I know is that walking over tonight, I'd seen scads more people than I've been seeing lately on campus.
Louisville's Twin Limb was a psychedelic dream pop trio: singer/accordion player, drummer/singer (both female) and a guy on guitar with a decidedly post-punk bent, which probably sounds far less compelling than they actually were.
Most obvious about their sound was a languid Beach House-like quality, but the accordionist had a voice that echoed that of Johnette Napolitano of Concrete Blond, all wail and beauty and when she and the drummer harmonized or traded vocals back and forth, it was nothing short of exquisite.
It occurred to me that this was the kind of talented, quirky band that would have played Balliceaux before it closed and everyone there would've known they were seeing something extraordinary. Tonight's mostly male crowd certainly seemed entranced.
After their set, a guy came up to me and asked if the band that had just played was Strand of Oaks. Nope, I told him and he went away looking perplexed.
A friend came over to chat about headliner Strand of Oaks and it turned out we'd both seen the band on their 2015 tour, me at S'Matter and he in Italy at a free festival. On a beach. With the XX. Doesn't seem fair to me.
Since we'd both last seen the band, leader Timothy had gotten his marriage together and stopped being so miserable about life, resulting in a new sound on his latest album, which probably explains why he led with "Radio Kids" from it.
After he finished singing it, he exhorted the crowd to come closer. "What's all this about?" he said, circling his hand over empty space near the stage. "Come on up here. I got no one to sing to." So we all moved so he could sing "Shut-in." Telling the drummer he had a good beat, he launched into the driving rhythm of "Heal" and it was like the '70s all over again.
Between songs he expressed appreciation for Green Panther, corrected himself to Grass Panther and said they didn't seem like the kind of precious band who'd get upset over a mistake.
"And Twin Limb, man! They should be playing opera halls or the halls of Valhalla! That's a cheap ticket getting to see them. We're still a $10 ticket, but you got all that, too. Richmond, you're lucky!" You know it, man.
By the time they played the anthemic "Goshen '97," it was midnight and the marathon was over. My only regret was that it hadn't been on a beach in Italy.
Bet I could have made a new friend there.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Will Use Legs for Music
It should be noted that I only go to shows with sentient beings.
P: HEY! Who wants to go with me to this show Saturday? Fo' freeeee?
K: Hey, are you still looking for a companion for the show?
P: Well, X was the first to respond affirmatively, but I will ditch him. Yea, let's go!
K: I don't want to supplant your first choice! Are you sure?
P: Yeah, I'll take care of it.
K: Gee, thanks! But if X takes a turn for the worst for any reason, I'll go straight to the police and tell 'em what you said.
P: The fact is, he's a fine gentleman but he ain't got your gams!
K: Thanks for noticing!
P: I am a sentient being.
We met at my house to walk over to Strange Matter together, a route that allowed him to point out the house in Carver where he lived in the '90s when the neighborhood was much rougher. Not counting the student population, it's almost civilized now and the housing stock is certainly in far better shape.
He'd been wary about walking, convinced we'd freeze, but it didn't take long before he allowed that he'd been wrong. Regaling him with tales from my earlier walk to the river today, he was especially taken with the story of the two boys in the hammock.
"That sounds like you could have made it up," he said without conveying if he thought I had. That's what happens when you're out as much as I am, I told him.
The proof was in the pudding as soon as the first one-woman act, Ghost Piss from NYC (aka River), took the stage, and began lighting candles and incense on her scarf-draped keyboard stand. "Hey, you guys! I used to live here but not for a while now. I came down for a pap smear and got an offer to do this show, so here I am."
I rest my case.
My friend turns around grinning and says, "That's going in the blog. You don't have to make this stuff up, it comes to you." Open yourself up to the universe and it'll envelop you like a shroud, I kid you not.
"I never expected to play this next song in public because it's so personal, but in light of recent circumstances, I'll play it for you guys. Don't judge," she said of a song with the lyric, "Sixty days since I last bled."
She was right, the topic was impeccably timed.
Also pulling from life, in the next song she sang, "Don't ghost me," but what surprised me was my friend sharing that she was second local artist he knew of to use that phrase. We didn't ghost in my day, so I can't relate. She called another song a public service announcement ("So listen up!"), singing, "I want a man who brushes his teeth," and then dedicating it "to all the crust punks who don't brush their teeth."
From behind me, I heard a guy say, "Brush your teeth. No one's gonna do it for you."
When she used the word celibate, my fellow language geek cringed, pointing out that what she meant was chaste, but also acknowledging how often lately the words are used interchangeably.
"But language evolves," he said not sounding entirely convinced. "If literally no longer means literally, that ship has sailed." An appreciation for the finer points of language has always been one of our commonalities. I never have to worry that his messages will be anything less than grammatically sound, correctly spelled and clever, always clever.
During the break, a girl came up to tell me she loved my hair. When I told her I cut it myself, she said she wanted to do the same but lacked the nerve. Like the wise older sister, I assured her it's not tough.
DJ Skirt provided the tunes and I saw two different guys come up and nod appreciatively at him for whatever song he was playing at the moment. After a hip hop song was followed by Nirvana, one of the nodders came over to ask Skirt what in the world he was trying to do.
"Play Nirvana," he said, shrugging. Boom.
After a ridiculously long break to build tension, Dazeases (aka London) came out, dropped her skirt on the stage and opened her set in her bra and panties, her standard M.O. After the first song about unbreakable hearts and before "Baby," she asked that the lights be turned down. "They're too bright for me."
With her torch singer voice, alluring dance moves and distinctive attire, she cut quite a figure prowling the low-lit and smokey stage. She was one part seductress, one part rejector and one part judge for desiring her in the first place.
Before a particularly meaningful song, she tried unsuccessfully for some time to get the room to stop talking and listen to her, even mentioning that she was black in a predominantly white venue, but even calling people out didn't work.
"I don't make these songs for capitalism," she said. "This is about existential dread. I don't care what they sound like, I want you to hear the message."
Once it was break time, I talked to a photographer friend about why he'd broken his hibernation to come out and see Negative Gemini (aka Lindsey), the next act. A huge fan of Lindsey's voice, he'd been bummed when she moved to Queens two years ago and hadn't kept up with her development. Tonight he was thrilled to hear whatever her new sound was.
Although I knew the name, somehow I'd never seen Negative Gemini in all the bazillion shows I've seen in the past decades, yet I also knew absolutely that between the name and that it was electronica, I'd probably love it.
One song in and the room was a strobe light-lit dance party with a swirling light show behind and Lindsey dancing to every song when she wasn't playing keys. Already I was kicking myself for not having scene her before.
"I need to catch my breath," she panted after one exuberant song that had her almost trampling instruments. "This guitar's not safe from me!"
Toward the end, she asked for all the lights to be turned off "except the pretty ones," then she wanted the light show stopped, asking, "Will you kill the projector?" Finally, with no beats or tones playing and no lights flashing, she picked up her guitar.
"This is for my sister," she said and with only the guitar for accompaniment and a pale violet haze of light, began languidly singing Mazzy Star's "Fade Into You" like it was 1994 again.
I want to hold the hand inside you
I want to take a breath that's true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth
Fade into you
Strange you never knew
What sentient being - celibate, chaste or otherwise - wouldn't want to finish up a Saturday night dance party so hauntingly?
P: HEY! Who wants to go with me to this show Saturday? Fo' freeeee?
K: Hey, are you still looking for a companion for the show?
P: Well, X was the first to respond affirmatively, but I will ditch him. Yea, let's go!
K: I don't want to supplant your first choice! Are you sure?
P: Yeah, I'll take care of it.
K: Gee, thanks! But if X takes a turn for the worst for any reason, I'll go straight to the police and tell 'em what you said.
P: The fact is, he's a fine gentleman but he ain't got your gams!
K: Thanks for noticing!
P: I am a sentient being.
We met at my house to walk over to Strange Matter together, a route that allowed him to point out the house in Carver where he lived in the '90s when the neighborhood was much rougher. Not counting the student population, it's almost civilized now and the housing stock is certainly in far better shape.
He'd been wary about walking, convinced we'd freeze, but it didn't take long before he allowed that he'd been wrong. Regaling him with tales from my earlier walk to the river today, he was especially taken with the story of the two boys in the hammock.
"That sounds like you could have made it up," he said without conveying if he thought I had. That's what happens when you're out as much as I am, I told him.
The proof was in the pudding as soon as the first one-woman act, Ghost Piss from NYC (aka River), took the stage, and began lighting candles and incense on her scarf-draped keyboard stand. "Hey, you guys! I used to live here but not for a while now. I came down for a pap smear and got an offer to do this show, so here I am."
I rest my case.
My friend turns around grinning and says, "That's going in the blog. You don't have to make this stuff up, it comes to you." Open yourself up to the universe and it'll envelop you like a shroud, I kid you not.
"I never expected to play this next song in public because it's so personal, but in light of recent circumstances, I'll play it for you guys. Don't judge," she said of a song with the lyric, "Sixty days since I last bled."
She was right, the topic was impeccably timed.
Also pulling from life, in the next song she sang, "Don't ghost me," but what surprised me was my friend sharing that she was second local artist he knew of to use that phrase. We didn't ghost in my day, so I can't relate. She called another song a public service announcement ("So listen up!"), singing, "I want a man who brushes his teeth," and then dedicating it "to all the crust punks who don't brush their teeth."
From behind me, I heard a guy say, "Brush your teeth. No one's gonna do it for you."
When she used the word celibate, my fellow language geek cringed, pointing out that what she meant was chaste, but also acknowledging how often lately the words are used interchangeably.
"But language evolves," he said not sounding entirely convinced. "If literally no longer means literally, that ship has sailed." An appreciation for the finer points of language has always been one of our commonalities. I never have to worry that his messages will be anything less than grammatically sound, correctly spelled and clever, always clever.
During the break, a girl came up to tell me she loved my hair. When I told her I cut it myself, she said she wanted to do the same but lacked the nerve. Like the wise older sister, I assured her it's not tough.
DJ Skirt provided the tunes and I saw two different guys come up and nod appreciatively at him for whatever song he was playing at the moment. After a hip hop song was followed by Nirvana, one of the nodders came over to ask Skirt what in the world he was trying to do.
"Play Nirvana," he said, shrugging. Boom.
After a ridiculously long break to build tension, Dazeases (aka London) came out, dropped her skirt on the stage and opened her set in her bra and panties, her standard M.O. After the first song about unbreakable hearts and before "Baby," she asked that the lights be turned down. "They're too bright for me."
With her torch singer voice, alluring dance moves and distinctive attire, she cut quite a figure prowling the low-lit and smokey stage. She was one part seductress, one part rejector and one part judge for desiring her in the first place.
Before a particularly meaningful song, she tried unsuccessfully for some time to get the room to stop talking and listen to her, even mentioning that she was black in a predominantly white venue, but even calling people out didn't work.
"I don't make these songs for capitalism," she said. "This is about existential dread. I don't care what they sound like, I want you to hear the message."
Once it was break time, I talked to a photographer friend about why he'd broken his hibernation to come out and see Negative Gemini (aka Lindsey), the next act. A huge fan of Lindsey's voice, he'd been bummed when she moved to Queens two years ago and hadn't kept up with her development. Tonight he was thrilled to hear whatever her new sound was.
Although I knew the name, somehow I'd never seen Negative Gemini in all the bazillion shows I've seen in the past decades, yet I also knew absolutely that between the name and that it was electronica, I'd probably love it.
One song in and the room was a strobe light-lit dance party with a swirling light show behind and Lindsey dancing to every song when she wasn't playing keys. Already I was kicking myself for not having scene her before.
"I need to catch my breath," she panted after one exuberant song that had her almost trampling instruments. "This guitar's not safe from me!"
Toward the end, she asked for all the lights to be turned off "except the pretty ones," then she wanted the light show stopped, asking, "Will you kill the projector?" Finally, with no beats or tones playing and no lights flashing, she picked up her guitar.
"This is for my sister," she said and with only the guitar for accompaniment and a pale violet haze of light, began languidly singing Mazzy Star's "Fade Into You" like it was 1994 again.
I want to hold the hand inside you
I want to take a breath that's true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth
Fade into you
Strange you never knew
What sentient being - celibate, chaste or otherwise - wouldn't want to finish up a Saturday night dance party so hauntingly?
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
When Toasters Didn't Pop
I don't want to brag, but I pulled tonight out of my ass.
Oh, I had a plan - Mac and I had a plan - involving going to Movieland to finally see "Get Out," the problem being when we walked in at 7, all showings of said film were sold out until 10, a great problem for a theater to have.
We weren't the only people to groan and get out of line when the sold out status was announced, but in the name of due diligence, we briefly checked to see if anything else worth seeing was playing (it wasn't). There, standing on the sidewalk peering into the lobby, that's when I had the brainstorm.
Mac said it was 7:08 and we were on the Boulevard. Calculating the odds and deciding that we could make it to the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen by 7:30ish, I hustled her to the car.
At 7:32, we walked into the theater for a live radio show just as the director was teaching the audience how to clap (double time so it sounds like more people) and pointing out the green "applause" light. We'd done it.
A mere 24 minutes earlier, we'd been disappointed and without plans and here we were sitting back to watch and listen as the On the Air Radio Players cast took on "The Day the Earth Stood Still," complete with commercials for Lux Soap throughout and electric guitar accompaniment.
It was an especially satisfying play setting for me because it took place in Washington, D.C. (a woman muses, "There's nothing strange about Washington"). The space alien has taken a room at 1615 M Street, N.W. (6 blocks from where I lived) with forays to Arlington Cemetery and the Lincoln Memorial.
When the spacecraft lands on earth with a humanoid-looking spaceman and a robot on board, their mission is to warn the earth people how not to destroy their planet (say, that sounds like a timely message), so the spaceman asks for all the world's leaders to be gathered to hear his warning.
He wants to try words first before resorting lastly to "violent action," which, when asked to define, he describes as "leveling Manhattan." There's a bit of uncomfortable foreshadowing.
But he's told that it isn't feasible to gather world leaders to talk "in lieu of the suspicions and tensions in our world today" (and this was written in 1954), which puzzles him because the population of his planet has learned to live without stupidity ("Don't give up on any freedoms except the right to act irresponsibly").
Of all the unlikely outcomes, we'd wound up at a 60+ year old radio play with a lot of uncanny resemblances to present day. And never mind that we'd done it at the last possible moment.
After Mac dropped me at home, I walked over to Strange Matter in the warm night air for music, the streets uncharacteristically unpopulated because VCU is on spring break.
Not so Strange Matter where I immediately had company from the the scooter queen, another rabid music fan who wasn't about to miss seeing New Zealand's Kane Strang on a Tuesday night. Before long, a couple of other music enthusiasts I know showed up.
Last time I'd seen her had been at Laura Lee's and she'd been severely hungover and in desperate need of a cheeseburger. Tonight we discussed how every element of a cheeseburger - grease, meat, bun, fat, cheese - is designed to address every aspect of the aftereffects of over-indulgence, note for note. The science of drinking, so to speak.
Opening was Opin, the band that formed from the ashes of longtime local shoegaze faves White Laces' demise and a band clearly striving to be as different from rock guitar-focused as possible.
At one point, I leaned over to my friend and whispered that I was hearing an '80s song I couldn't quite recall the name of. Which was fine by me, since I'd liked that sound the first time around.
"Yea, it's like Wild Nothing meets '80s movie soundtrack," she laughed. "Keys with a side of keys." That was the big difference: how keyboard-based the songs were and how limited and restrained singer Landis' guitar parts were, so very different (yet appealing) from White Laces.
And, yet, on the very last song, there was an extended guitar part that allowed Landis to shred to his heart's content before giving way to the knobs, synths and keyboards that have supplanted its starring role.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Landis said near the end of their set. "We're Opin and this is our second show." Like any project he's involved in, you'd never know they weren't rehearsed to the nth degree. All I know is, I'll be back for more Opin.
Between sets, I met a guy who was a huge fan of the next band, Young Scum, and although I told him I'd seen them before, he proceeded to share how wonderful they were with me. Said he hears the Smiths in their sound but was particularly focused on how strange it is that the bass player stands front and center onstage while the singer/guitarist stands to the right.
But, of course, the real charm of Young Scum is their tender age. In fact, a WRIR woman friend commented that the band is so cute she thinks they should all line up across the front of the stage to play, the better for us to admire their, ahem, youth. "Even the drummer!" she insisted.
I don't know about all that. As long as they keep the jangley guitars and full-on power pop sound, I'm good. It's a bit like Real Estate's dueling guitar sound with low-key front man Chris delivering musical observations while not breaking a sweat.
"It's been fun. It's been good," Chris said before the last song. "It's been short." Some things aren't meant to last, my young friend.
For the New Zealanders (Dunedin, actually), I moved closer to the stage with a small gaggle of friends, the better to take in the main reason all of us were there.
Looking like New Wave-meets-Harry Potter, Kane also took up an odd positioning, standing to the far left of the stage and facing his bandmates rather than the audience. The entire band couldn't have been much older than Young Scum (if they were at all) but their music was far more indie idiosyncratic.
Early on in their set, Kane proved he, like so many millennials, is in love with the analog world, as demonstrated when he began repeating a lyric phrase 5 or 6 times, sounding for all the world like a record skipping. I've heard other bands (say, Tame Impala) do the same and I'm always struck by how they're fascinated by recreating glitches.
For that matter, I heard lots of reverb-soaked Interpol bass and guitar lines in the band's song, not a complaint since I was a huge fan of the source material, too. Because I knew that the album they're touring behind was essentially a bedroom project of Kane's (hello Wild Nothing, hi, Tame Impala), I also got a sense that his bandmates (all lean as jaguars) were still learning their parts.
"He looks 20 when he's talking," the scooter queen observed. "But 40 when he's singing." He also showed his enthusiasm for performance by standing on tip-toe to sing, as if reaching toward the crowd to deliver the music.
Despite little between song banter or outward charisma, there was no doubt that Kane was having a ball sharing his offbeat songs with a wider audience. Like the two bands that preceded his, the music set a distinctive vibe - driving, but chill and always with something to convey - that carried the crowd along happily.
Before the next to last song, he gestured vaguely and said, "Oh, I forgot. I'm Kane and this is my band."
Duh. The kiwis were the reason we were all there on a Tuesday night. And except for the trek to Glen Allen first, I didn't have to go out in the wops to enjoy it.
Oh, I had a plan - Mac and I had a plan - involving going to Movieland to finally see "Get Out," the problem being when we walked in at 7, all showings of said film were sold out until 10, a great problem for a theater to have.
We weren't the only people to groan and get out of line when the sold out status was announced, but in the name of due diligence, we briefly checked to see if anything else worth seeing was playing (it wasn't). There, standing on the sidewalk peering into the lobby, that's when I had the brainstorm.
Mac said it was 7:08 and we were on the Boulevard. Calculating the odds and deciding that we could make it to the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen by 7:30ish, I hustled her to the car.
At 7:32, we walked into the theater for a live radio show just as the director was teaching the audience how to clap (double time so it sounds like more people) and pointing out the green "applause" light. We'd done it.
A mere 24 minutes earlier, we'd been disappointed and without plans and here we were sitting back to watch and listen as the On the Air Radio Players cast took on "The Day the Earth Stood Still," complete with commercials for Lux Soap throughout and electric guitar accompaniment.
It was an especially satisfying play setting for me because it took place in Washington, D.C. (a woman muses, "There's nothing strange about Washington"). The space alien has taken a room at 1615 M Street, N.W. (6 blocks from where I lived) with forays to Arlington Cemetery and the Lincoln Memorial.
When the spacecraft lands on earth with a humanoid-looking spaceman and a robot on board, their mission is to warn the earth people how not to destroy their planet (say, that sounds like a timely message), so the spaceman asks for all the world's leaders to be gathered to hear his warning.
He wants to try words first before resorting lastly to "violent action," which, when asked to define, he describes as "leveling Manhattan." There's a bit of uncomfortable foreshadowing.
But he's told that it isn't feasible to gather world leaders to talk "in lieu of the suspicions and tensions in our world today" (and this was written in 1954), which puzzles him because the population of his planet has learned to live without stupidity ("Don't give up on any freedoms except the right to act irresponsibly").
Of all the unlikely outcomes, we'd wound up at a 60+ year old radio play with a lot of uncanny resemblances to present day. And never mind that we'd done it at the last possible moment.
After Mac dropped me at home, I walked over to Strange Matter in the warm night air for music, the streets uncharacteristically unpopulated because VCU is on spring break.
Not so Strange Matter where I immediately had company from the the scooter queen, another rabid music fan who wasn't about to miss seeing New Zealand's Kane Strang on a Tuesday night. Before long, a couple of other music enthusiasts I know showed up.
Last time I'd seen her had been at Laura Lee's and she'd been severely hungover and in desperate need of a cheeseburger. Tonight we discussed how every element of a cheeseburger - grease, meat, bun, fat, cheese - is designed to address every aspect of the aftereffects of over-indulgence, note for note. The science of drinking, so to speak.
Opening was Opin, the band that formed from the ashes of longtime local shoegaze faves White Laces' demise and a band clearly striving to be as different from rock guitar-focused as possible.
At one point, I leaned over to my friend and whispered that I was hearing an '80s song I couldn't quite recall the name of. Which was fine by me, since I'd liked that sound the first time around.
"Yea, it's like Wild Nothing meets '80s movie soundtrack," she laughed. "Keys with a side of keys." That was the big difference: how keyboard-based the songs were and how limited and restrained singer Landis' guitar parts were, so very different (yet appealing) from White Laces.
And, yet, on the very last song, there was an extended guitar part that allowed Landis to shred to his heart's content before giving way to the knobs, synths and keyboards that have supplanted its starring role.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Landis said near the end of their set. "We're Opin and this is our second show." Like any project he's involved in, you'd never know they weren't rehearsed to the nth degree. All I know is, I'll be back for more Opin.
Between sets, I met a guy who was a huge fan of the next band, Young Scum, and although I told him I'd seen them before, he proceeded to share how wonderful they were with me. Said he hears the Smiths in their sound but was particularly focused on how strange it is that the bass player stands front and center onstage while the singer/guitarist stands to the right.
But, of course, the real charm of Young Scum is their tender age. In fact, a WRIR woman friend commented that the band is so cute she thinks they should all line up across the front of the stage to play, the better for us to admire their, ahem, youth. "Even the drummer!" she insisted.
I don't know about all that. As long as they keep the jangley guitars and full-on power pop sound, I'm good. It's a bit like Real Estate's dueling guitar sound with low-key front man Chris delivering musical observations while not breaking a sweat.
"It's been fun. It's been good," Chris said before the last song. "It's been short." Some things aren't meant to last, my young friend.
For the New Zealanders (Dunedin, actually), I moved closer to the stage with a small gaggle of friends, the better to take in the main reason all of us were there.
Looking like New Wave-meets-Harry Potter, Kane also took up an odd positioning, standing to the far left of the stage and facing his bandmates rather than the audience. The entire band couldn't have been much older than Young Scum (if they were at all) but their music was far more indie idiosyncratic.
Early on in their set, Kane proved he, like so many millennials, is in love with the analog world, as demonstrated when he began repeating a lyric phrase 5 or 6 times, sounding for all the world like a record skipping. I've heard other bands (say, Tame Impala) do the same and I'm always struck by how they're fascinated by recreating glitches.
For that matter, I heard lots of reverb-soaked Interpol bass and guitar lines in the band's song, not a complaint since I was a huge fan of the source material, too. Because I knew that the album they're touring behind was essentially a bedroom project of Kane's (hello Wild Nothing, hi, Tame Impala), I also got a sense that his bandmates (all lean as jaguars) were still learning their parts.
"He looks 20 when he's talking," the scooter queen observed. "But 40 when he's singing." He also showed his enthusiasm for performance by standing on tip-toe to sing, as if reaching toward the crowd to deliver the music.
Despite little between song banter or outward charisma, there was no doubt that Kane was having a ball sharing his offbeat songs with a wider audience. Like the two bands that preceded his, the music set a distinctive vibe - driving, but chill and always with something to convey - that carried the crowd along happily.
Before the next to last song, he gestured vaguely and said, "Oh, I forgot. I'm Kane and this is my band."
Duh. The kiwis were the reason we were all there on a Tuesday night. And except for the trek to Glen Allen first, I didn't have to go out in the wops to enjoy it.
Friday, January 27, 2017
Cherish the Light Years
Director of Vibe, now there's a job I could excel at.
In many ways, I suppose I already am my own director of vibe - I do, after all, curate everything about my life from music played to routes taken to gathering a group that has come to be known as "my people" - but only now am I learning that there are restaurants who hire such a person.
Joe Blow
Director of Vibe
Such a business card could open doors.
As director of my personal vibe, rather than getting upset or worried when a lunch date is tardy, I embrace a make-the-most-of-it vibe, planting myself on the sunny front porch of the house and taking in the 65-degree air while the sunshine warms me to the bone.
How better to chat with passersby and await his eventual arrival?
Once he does and we're strolling through a wildly windy Jackson Ward to Mama J's, the vibe shifts to familiar and teasing because while this is the second time we've met up in 11 days, prior to that it had been a year and a half. This is partly attributable to him living across state lines (sounds almost dangerous, right?), but also to some adjustments in his personal life.
When he mentions having just seen a good friend of mine, I joke that he's gone from one opinionated woman to another. "Oh, you're way more opinionated than she is," he assures me before clarifying that strong women hold all the appeal, a sentiment I appreciate hearing.
We're a most unlikely pair at Mama J's because it's his maiden voyage and I've been dozens of times but neither fact compromises our pleasure vibe as we swoon over Mama's incomparable fried catfish, pork chops both fried and baked, the signature seafood pasta salad and collard greens that spark a debate.
I find the greens positively perfect in flavor and texture, as always, while he's not ready to concede that fact. Granted he's a long-time food writer, but I've had these greens plenty and I've compared them to others so I know they're standouts.
He tries to explain that for him, there are three sub-categories of greens: traditional long-cooked with pig, contemporary interpretations that lean toward crisp and vinegary and a variation he calls "modern southern" that falls somewhere in between.
Potato, patahto, let's just call them delicious and move on to just as important a topic: how sweet a corn muffin should be. The two of us could do this all day and night. Despite having grown up in the same county, not all our flavor profiles would overlap on a Venn diagram
A good Mama's vibe necessarily includes a fat slice of homemade cake and my visitor chooses buttercream, but the cake itself is as dense as a pound cake and the buttercream a half inch thick, so we barely make a dent in it. Now he's got a souvenir of our afternoon, not that I expect it'll last long.
Our conversation has a lot to do with the differences in Washington and Richmond, with our relaxed vibe and extensive yet accessible and affordable scene posing an even greater allure for him now that he's less encumbered by situation. Being the saleswoman for the city I am, I wasn't the least bit shy about extending the welcome vibe to the point of discussing neighborhoods he should consider and why.
Despite my lack of cheerleading chops, I am a spirited booster rooting for everyone to consider a move here.
Walking back along Clay Street, we see what the mighty wind has wrought in our absence: much scattered debris and branches down everywhere, including what looks like half a tree atop a car. I come home to a message from a friend," This wind is no joke. I feel like god is trying to communicate something."
Some of us are hoping they're just winds of change.
I have only to do an excruciating interview with a space cadet (so many platitudes, so little to say) before curating my next vibe with a favorite girlfriend I haven't seen since early December. Walking over to Saison Market, she regales me with a gory tale of how since we last met, she sliced her finger using a mandolin to make scalloped potatoes and wound up with five stitches.
But we've come to talk blood and guts of a different sort.
We've come for opinion swapping and updates on each other's lives, accompanied by a bit of wine, fried Brussels sprouts with goat cheese, fennel and coriander (too much cheese, I opine, while she insist she's never uttered those words because such a thing is impossible) and meaty pastrami spare ribs over a vinegary red slaw.
Alternating seems to be the best way to cover the past seven weeks efficiently, so we volley back and forth - the Women's March in D.C., my trip to California, watercolor classes, plays seen, the appeal of new friends, dealing with old friends, welcome and unwelcome visitors, life, love and chocolate.
The vibe is convivial and familiar with an '80s soundtrack of the Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen and Split Enz. She and I have traded in these types of in-depth conversations for two decades now and it's become increasingly essential that we keep each other abreast of where the bodies are buried.
Somebody will need to know.
Before we can get to dessert, her beloved texts that they are still without power at home so he wants to meet her for dinner at Joe's Inn in Bon Air. Just like that, our outing winds down with the expectation that it will resume next week exactly where it left off.
If only all relationships worked that way. If we stop here, then we begin exactly here next time, with no period of reacquaintance necessary. Such tactics result in getting to the buried secrets so much more naturally.
Little was required from me to direct the vibe for the rest of the evening because company and location mostly did the job for me. I'd bought a ticket to see Cold Cave at Strange Matter back before Christmas and only a couple of days ago spontaneously invited a fellow music lover to join me for some deliciously millennial neo-'80s.
No, really, that's how I sold it to him. And he bit.
By design, I suggested Ipanema for a pre-show glass because the dim, low-ceilinged room is an ideal place to start the conversational ball rolling, not that that's been an issue at our meet-ups. Rapport came easily from the first.
Arriving first and snagging a prime seat at the head of the bar, I overhear the two young women behind me discussing life.
I'm so glad I'm in a relationship again. I'm a shit show when I'm single, out of control! I need to know I'm in a relationship to behave.
So much I could offer there. But before I could whirl around and share some older woman experience on that subject, a friend stopped by to say hello and share that he and his girlfriend had split up, a fact I hadn't known. Asking if it was mutual, he grimaced. "Well, look at her and look at me, so, no, not really. It's best for her, though and we're still friends."
My words were probably inadequate, as they tend to be when someone is clearly still hurting, but it was then that my friend showed up, shifting the vibe from casual social empathy to the pleasures of pre-music sipping and banter among a crowd full of others headed to the same dark place.
We walked into Strange Matter - the handwritten yellow sign on the door screamed "sold out!!" - where he took one look at the crowd and decided he was dressed wrong. But honestly, did he have anything suitable for watching L.A.'s Drab Majesty, a two-piece led by an androgynous singer in a space-age tunic with shocking Warhol-like white hair and kabuki-style make-up with black points above and below his eyes?
I'm not sure he did. Suspecting as much, I hadn't even tried.
The band's sound was equal parts Flock of Seagulls and New Order with liberal sprinkles of Goth darkness and played at a volume that probably should have had me reaching for the ear plugs in my bag, but didn't. What it did have me doing was moving in place non-stop, wishing there'd been room to really dance.
With no effort on my part beyond a ticket purchase, here I was part of a solid retro '80s vibe that spoke to an entire decade of music I'd loved the first time around.
Standing behind me, my friend leaned in and whispered, "How did you hear about this show?" Pshaw. My people know that at any given time, I often have the dirt on, if not the most compelling stuff going on, certainly something worth experiencing. That said, I also have a bad tendency to just make plans to go alone when I could be more mindful of inviting company to join me.
Cold Cave, the reason for the evening, came out and took the volume down just a notch, but kept us solidly in the '80s groove with leader Wesley's darkwave take on synth pop performed against a backdrop of changing images, words ("People are poison") and pulsating light shows.
Coming from a hardcore background as he does (and which you could feel in his black leather-jacketed quasi-menacing performance style), we could have heard far more nods to Nine Inch Nails than we did, but mainly it was Depeche Mode and Joy Division influences front and center as they sucked in the electronica and goth-loving crowd.
On a night where the temperature had been steadily plummeting since I'd walked in shorts this morning, S'Matter still managed to wind up a sweaty, hot mess before Drab Majesty had even finished their set.
I marvel at how a venue can be stifling hot in both summer and the dead of winter. First I shed my coat, then my scarf, then my outermost shirt, yet still I glowed. And it's not like I run hot or anything 'cause it's gotta be stinkin' hot before you see me start disrobing.
The show wound down at a reasonable enough hour to settle in again at Ipanema, where the bartender welcomed us back by pouring more wine, while others from the show straggled in and we dove down the conversational hole.
By that point in my evening, the vibe once again established itself based solely on fine company and the cozy setting so truthfully, there wouldn't have been much a director of vibe could do to improve either.
Correcting a matter of semantics, perhaps, but who's up to to clarifying definitions at 1:30 a.m.? Even opinionated women have been known to get caught up when good vibes abide.
In many ways, I suppose I already am my own director of vibe - I do, after all, curate everything about my life from music played to routes taken to gathering a group that has come to be known as "my people" - but only now am I learning that there are restaurants who hire such a person.
Joe Blow
Director of Vibe
Such a business card could open doors.
As director of my personal vibe, rather than getting upset or worried when a lunch date is tardy, I embrace a make-the-most-of-it vibe, planting myself on the sunny front porch of the house and taking in the 65-degree air while the sunshine warms me to the bone.
How better to chat with passersby and await his eventual arrival?
Once he does and we're strolling through a wildly windy Jackson Ward to Mama J's, the vibe shifts to familiar and teasing because while this is the second time we've met up in 11 days, prior to that it had been a year and a half. This is partly attributable to him living across state lines (sounds almost dangerous, right?), but also to some adjustments in his personal life.
When he mentions having just seen a good friend of mine, I joke that he's gone from one opinionated woman to another. "Oh, you're way more opinionated than she is," he assures me before clarifying that strong women hold all the appeal, a sentiment I appreciate hearing.
We're a most unlikely pair at Mama J's because it's his maiden voyage and I've been dozens of times but neither fact compromises our pleasure vibe as we swoon over Mama's incomparable fried catfish, pork chops both fried and baked, the signature seafood pasta salad and collard greens that spark a debate.
I find the greens positively perfect in flavor and texture, as always, while he's not ready to concede that fact. Granted he's a long-time food writer, but I've had these greens plenty and I've compared them to others so I know they're standouts.
He tries to explain that for him, there are three sub-categories of greens: traditional long-cooked with pig, contemporary interpretations that lean toward crisp and vinegary and a variation he calls "modern southern" that falls somewhere in between.
Potato, patahto, let's just call them delicious and move on to just as important a topic: how sweet a corn muffin should be. The two of us could do this all day and night. Despite having grown up in the same county, not all our flavor profiles would overlap on a Venn diagram
A good Mama's vibe necessarily includes a fat slice of homemade cake and my visitor chooses buttercream, but the cake itself is as dense as a pound cake and the buttercream a half inch thick, so we barely make a dent in it. Now he's got a souvenir of our afternoon, not that I expect it'll last long.
Our conversation has a lot to do with the differences in Washington and Richmond, with our relaxed vibe and extensive yet accessible and affordable scene posing an even greater allure for him now that he's less encumbered by situation. Being the saleswoman for the city I am, I wasn't the least bit shy about extending the welcome vibe to the point of discussing neighborhoods he should consider and why.
Despite my lack of cheerleading chops, I am a spirited booster rooting for everyone to consider a move here.
Walking back along Clay Street, we see what the mighty wind has wrought in our absence: much scattered debris and branches down everywhere, including what looks like half a tree atop a car. I come home to a message from a friend," This wind is no joke. I feel like god is trying to communicate something."
Some of us are hoping they're just winds of change.
I have only to do an excruciating interview with a space cadet (so many platitudes, so little to say) before curating my next vibe with a favorite girlfriend I haven't seen since early December. Walking over to Saison Market, she regales me with a gory tale of how since we last met, she sliced her finger using a mandolin to make scalloped potatoes and wound up with five stitches.
But we've come to talk blood and guts of a different sort.
We've come for opinion swapping and updates on each other's lives, accompanied by a bit of wine, fried Brussels sprouts with goat cheese, fennel and coriander (too much cheese, I opine, while she insist she's never uttered those words because such a thing is impossible) and meaty pastrami spare ribs over a vinegary red slaw.
Alternating seems to be the best way to cover the past seven weeks efficiently, so we volley back and forth - the Women's March in D.C., my trip to California, watercolor classes, plays seen, the appeal of new friends, dealing with old friends, welcome and unwelcome visitors, life, love and chocolate.
The vibe is convivial and familiar with an '80s soundtrack of the Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen and Split Enz. She and I have traded in these types of in-depth conversations for two decades now and it's become increasingly essential that we keep each other abreast of where the bodies are buried.
Somebody will need to know.
Before we can get to dessert, her beloved texts that they are still without power at home so he wants to meet her for dinner at Joe's Inn in Bon Air. Just like that, our outing winds down with the expectation that it will resume next week exactly where it left off.
If only all relationships worked that way. If we stop here, then we begin exactly here next time, with no period of reacquaintance necessary. Such tactics result in getting to the buried secrets so much more naturally.
Little was required from me to direct the vibe for the rest of the evening because company and location mostly did the job for me. I'd bought a ticket to see Cold Cave at Strange Matter back before Christmas and only a couple of days ago spontaneously invited a fellow music lover to join me for some deliciously millennial neo-'80s.
No, really, that's how I sold it to him. And he bit.
By design, I suggested Ipanema for a pre-show glass because the dim, low-ceilinged room is an ideal place to start the conversational ball rolling, not that that's been an issue at our meet-ups. Rapport came easily from the first.
Arriving first and snagging a prime seat at the head of the bar, I overhear the two young women behind me discussing life.
I'm so glad I'm in a relationship again. I'm a shit show when I'm single, out of control! I need to know I'm in a relationship to behave.
So much I could offer there. But before I could whirl around and share some older woman experience on that subject, a friend stopped by to say hello and share that he and his girlfriend had split up, a fact I hadn't known. Asking if it was mutual, he grimaced. "Well, look at her and look at me, so, no, not really. It's best for her, though and we're still friends."
My words were probably inadequate, as they tend to be when someone is clearly still hurting, but it was then that my friend showed up, shifting the vibe from casual social empathy to the pleasures of pre-music sipping and banter among a crowd full of others headed to the same dark place.
We walked into Strange Matter - the handwritten yellow sign on the door screamed "sold out!!" - where he took one look at the crowd and decided he was dressed wrong. But honestly, did he have anything suitable for watching L.A.'s Drab Majesty, a two-piece led by an androgynous singer in a space-age tunic with shocking Warhol-like white hair and kabuki-style make-up with black points above and below his eyes?
I'm not sure he did. Suspecting as much, I hadn't even tried.
The band's sound was equal parts Flock of Seagulls and New Order with liberal sprinkles of Goth darkness and played at a volume that probably should have had me reaching for the ear plugs in my bag, but didn't. What it did have me doing was moving in place non-stop, wishing there'd been room to really dance.
With no effort on my part beyond a ticket purchase, here I was part of a solid retro '80s vibe that spoke to an entire decade of music I'd loved the first time around.
Standing behind me, my friend leaned in and whispered, "How did you hear about this show?" Pshaw. My people know that at any given time, I often have the dirt on, if not the most compelling stuff going on, certainly something worth experiencing. That said, I also have a bad tendency to just make plans to go alone when I could be more mindful of inviting company to join me.
Cold Cave, the reason for the evening, came out and took the volume down just a notch, but kept us solidly in the '80s groove with leader Wesley's darkwave take on synth pop performed against a backdrop of changing images, words ("People are poison") and pulsating light shows.
Coming from a hardcore background as he does (and which you could feel in his black leather-jacketed quasi-menacing performance style), we could have heard far more nods to Nine Inch Nails than we did, but mainly it was Depeche Mode and Joy Division influences front and center as they sucked in the electronica and goth-loving crowd.
On a night where the temperature had been steadily plummeting since I'd walked in shorts this morning, S'Matter still managed to wind up a sweaty, hot mess before Drab Majesty had even finished their set.
I marvel at how a venue can be stifling hot in both summer and the dead of winter. First I shed my coat, then my scarf, then my outermost shirt, yet still I glowed. And it's not like I run hot or anything 'cause it's gotta be stinkin' hot before you see me start disrobing.
The show wound down at a reasonable enough hour to settle in again at Ipanema, where the bartender welcomed us back by pouring more wine, while others from the show straggled in and we dove down the conversational hole.
By that point in my evening, the vibe once again established itself based solely on fine company and the cozy setting so truthfully, there wouldn't have been much a director of vibe could do to improve either.
Correcting a matter of semantics, perhaps, but who's up to to clarifying definitions at 1:30 a.m.? Even opinionated women have been known to get caught up when good vibes abide.
Monday, November 14, 2016
Don't Laugh, It Could Happen
And in further post-election news, Film Roasters came through like a champ.
Given that it was Monday and still pouring down rain, I could've stayed in. Except why would I do that when I could walk half a mile, snag a sandwich, see a John Carpenter film and listen to Film Roasters mock it mercilessly?
Apparently not everyone was willing to trudge through all-day puddles for the same, meaning I had little competition for bar stools when I got to Strange Matter in time to overhear the bartender ask the one guy at the bar how he was.
"As well as can be expected for this week," he sighed, signaling his willingness to engage in political talk once I'd ordered my BLAT on wheat with slaw. Turns out he went to school in Arlington with Mike Pence's kids, although he assured me they were pretty normal people.
From there, we took off on a 20-minute analysis of the campaign and election, with a new arrival joining the fray when she sat down. All three of us looked up when the smell of burning began singeing our nose hairs, only to learn from the bartender that she'd just turned on the venue's heat for the fist time this Fall.
"Just burning off the Summer dust," one of the owners said nonchalantly and I couldn't complain since I'd finally broken down and turned mine on today, too. There's definitely a smell to first time use.
I managed to finish my sandwich moments before the screening of John Carpenter's "They Live" got started. As is usually the case with these events, I'd not only never seen the movie, but I hadn't even heard of it.
Still, I have a musician friend who worships at the altar of John Carpenter, as much for his quirky films as for the fact that he writes his own music for them, so I felt sure I could count on a good time and a fine A/V experience.
The pre-show trivia question was about Roddy Piper's real name (Roderick), which was my first clue that the wrestler was in the film, much less that he'd acted in a legit movie back in '88.
Just another gaping hole in my cultural literacy filled tonight.
Film Roasters had chosen the perfect post-election movie because this one was all about dismantling the sleeping middle class, except with an epic 5 1/2 minute alley fight scene I closed my eyes for most of.
So far as I could tell, the film followed a drifter who finds out that humans are being controlled by wearing special sunglasses that not only reveal which people are aliens and which still human, but also give them messages to obey (prompting cracks about Shepard Fairey), spend, consume and, worst of all, marry and procreate when they have them on.
On the way to figuring this out, Roddy takes a job working construction ("Look, they're building a Trump hotel!"), which requires being shirtless like the other guys, causing the Film Roasters guys to comment, "Hey, this is a construction site, not a Playgirl shoot," a particularly apt remark given the film's era.
That was far from the only Trump commentary the guys made ("Meanwhile, on Trump TV...") or even political snark because when we see "They live, we sleep" written on a wall, one guy quips, "That was Hillary's campaign slogan".
Wrestling jokes also abounded (when a guy starts playing the harmonica, Film Roasters joked, "Come and listen to my story 'bout a guy named Hulk Hogan") because they could.
As our hero searches through boxes for the transformative sunglasses, "We'll find that plot around here somewhere!" and when the vaguely familiar face of an extra appeared onscreen, "Hey, is that the kid from "Dawson's Creek?"
Don't ask me. What's "Dawson's Creek?"
As funny and apt as the two Film Roasters guy were, nothing could top John Carpenter's original dialog when our hero stated his mission.
"I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass and I'm all out of bubblegum," Roddy says, shotgun and pistol in hand.
As I already knew from past Film Roasters events, these guys have very limited tolerance for the pacing of pre-21st century movies, whining, "They do everything in this movie too slow!" and any time a character had more than two sentences to say, they'd respond with a yawn and, "Is there a part two to this story?"
When the film referenced the "human power elite," they translated it to, "Republicans!" like it was a dirty word. Wait...
"They Live" ended with Roddy's partner being killed by the pretty girl, so he kills her and shoots out the broadcasting dish that's been brainwashing the masses only moments before the aliens hovering in a helicopter shoot him.
And you know what our hero does as a final gesture? He gives the aliens the finger, that's what, because he knows he's destroyed their means of communication and now humans can see the aliens in their midst without the evil sunglasses.
Success and final satisfaction!
You'd think that would be enough for Carpenter, but, oh, no, there's one more scene, this one with a naked girl having sex cowgirl-style with...an alien, whom she can now see for who he actually is. Film over.
"That's really how it ends!" one of the Film Roasters guys said in amazement.
As the small crowd gathered up their stuff to leave and tonight's metal/punk/crust band began bringing in their instruments for the later show, the other Film Roaster called out merrily.
"Happy post-election, everyone!" Funny, not funny.
Given that it was Monday and still pouring down rain, I could've stayed in. Except why would I do that when I could walk half a mile, snag a sandwich, see a John Carpenter film and listen to Film Roasters mock it mercilessly?
Apparently not everyone was willing to trudge through all-day puddles for the same, meaning I had little competition for bar stools when I got to Strange Matter in time to overhear the bartender ask the one guy at the bar how he was.
"As well as can be expected for this week," he sighed, signaling his willingness to engage in political talk once I'd ordered my BLAT on wheat with slaw. Turns out he went to school in Arlington with Mike Pence's kids, although he assured me they were pretty normal people.
From there, we took off on a 20-minute analysis of the campaign and election, with a new arrival joining the fray when she sat down. All three of us looked up when the smell of burning began singeing our nose hairs, only to learn from the bartender that she'd just turned on the venue's heat for the fist time this Fall.
"Just burning off the Summer dust," one of the owners said nonchalantly and I couldn't complain since I'd finally broken down and turned mine on today, too. There's definitely a smell to first time use.
I managed to finish my sandwich moments before the screening of John Carpenter's "They Live" got started. As is usually the case with these events, I'd not only never seen the movie, but I hadn't even heard of it.
Still, I have a musician friend who worships at the altar of John Carpenter, as much for his quirky films as for the fact that he writes his own music for them, so I felt sure I could count on a good time and a fine A/V experience.
The pre-show trivia question was about Roddy Piper's real name (Roderick), which was my first clue that the wrestler was in the film, much less that he'd acted in a legit movie back in '88.
Just another gaping hole in my cultural literacy filled tonight.
Film Roasters had chosen the perfect post-election movie because this one was all about dismantling the sleeping middle class, except with an epic 5 1/2 minute alley fight scene I closed my eyes for most of.
So far as I could tell, the film followed a drifter who finds out that humans are being controlled by wearing special sunglasses that not only reveal which people are aliens and which still human, but also give them messages to obey (prompting cracks about Shepard Fairey), spend, consume and, worst of all, marry and procreate when they have them on.
On the way to figuring this out, Roddy takes a job working construction ("Look, they're building a Trump hotel!"), which requires being shirtless like the other guys, causing the Film Roasters guys to comment, "Hey, this is a construction site, not a Playgirl shoot," a particularly apt remark given the film's era.
That was far from the only Trump commentary the guys made ("Meanwhile, on Trump TV...") or even political snark because when we see "They live, we sleep" written on a wall, one guy quips, "That was Hillary's campaign slogan".
Wrestling jokes also abounded (when a guy starts playing the harmonica, Film Roasters joked, "Come and listen to my story 'bout a guy named Hulk Hogan") because they could.
As our hero searches through boxes for the transformative sunglasses, "We'll find that plot around here somewhere!" and when the vaguely familiar face of an extra appeared onscreen, "Hey, is that the kid from "Dawson's Creek?"
Don't ask me. What's "Dawson's Creek?"
As funny and apt as the two Film Roasters guy were, nothing could top John Carpenter's original dialog when our hero stated his mission.
"I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass and I'm all out of bubblegum," Roddy says, shotgun and pistol in hand.
As I already knew from past Film Roasters events, these guys have very limited tolerance for the pacing of pre-21st century movies, whining, "They do everything in this movie too slow!" and any time a character had more than two sentences to say, they'd respond with a yawn and, "Is there a part two to this story?"
When the film referenced the "human power elite," they translated it to, "Republicans!" like it was a dirty word. Wait...
"They Live" ended with Roddy's partner being killed by the pretty girl, so he kills her and shoots out the broadcasting dish that's been brainwashing the masses only moments before the aliens hovering in a helicopter shoot him.
And you know what our hero does as a final gesture? He gives the aliens the finger, that's what, because he knows he's destroyed their means of communication and now humans can see the aliens in their midst without the evil sunglasses.
Success and final satisfaction!
You'd think that would be enough for Carpenter, but, oh, no, there's one more scene, this one with a naked girl having sex cowgirl-style with...an alien, whom she can now see for who he actually is. Film over.
"That's really how it ends!" one of the Film Roasters guys said in amazement.
As the small crowd gathered up their stuff to leave and tonight's metal/punk/crust band began bringing in their instruments for the later show, the other Film Roaster called out merrily.
"Happy post-election, everyone!" Funny, not funny.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Dance the Night Away
You know what this world needs? More female-fronted bands, that's what.
Proof positive presented itself tonight with three bands at Strange Matter representing Richmond, Denver and Athens, Georgia and a wildly enthusiastic, albeit not as large as it should've been, Wednesday crowd.
Do you remember twenty first night of September?
Before you go cold like December
All you saw was a cloudy day...
Greeting me first were a couple of guitarists lamenting Richmond's tardiness to shows, something they said they didn't see when touring other east coast cities. In those magical places, if doors were at 8 and music at 9, people began arriving shortly after 8 and were fully in place when the first band took the stage.
Mind you, they were telling me this at 8:45 when I was among the very few non-band members in the room. But they also mentioned the absence of simple amenities for bands - rooms to stow gear and change, food - basically just good hospitality.
The kind of thing I would never know, being a non-musician.
I heard about opening band Positive No's tradition of pre-show Jagermeisters and when I wondered aloud about the choice of shots, got testimonials.
Matt recalled a night when his stomach was badly upset just before their set and the Jager calmed it (well, it is a digestif) and Kenny told of a night he was flat out beat, yet felt completely energized afterward.
It's hard to argue with the restorative powers of a good shot, no?
Tracy, the queen bee of Positive No, came over looking fabulous, as always, in a brightly colored tunic and make-up that would have done the mod era proud, and the best smile in the room. Her energy glowed.
The good news was she had a friend in town from Seattle, a musicologist she called him, and she wanted to introduce us because she thought we'd hit it off conversationally. Conversation, we agreed, could be bested only by sex and even better when they go hand in hand.
Positive No's set was partly bittersweet because it was bassist Matt's last show with the band, meaning I had to drink in as much of his excellent playing as possible, while appreciating the visual of his curtain of hair obscuring his face when he really got going.
Luckily, I can continue to revel in Kenny's killer guitar playing.
The band's pop strength is catchy hooks, fuzzy guitars, changing dynamics and the pull of Tracy's voice as she dances, bounces and totally inhabits any space not occupied by a bandmate. Tonight we even got a few new songs, a real treat for someone who's seen them as often as I have.
From the stage, she talked about deciding to move to Seattle the year grunge (i.e., Kurt Cobain) died and then introduced her Seattle friend from the stage.
By the time their excellent set ended, the room had finally filled up nicely. Afterward, I saw a guy buy the band's album and shyly take it over to Tracy to sign, looking for all the world like a devoted fan boy.
After a quick trip to the loo (graffiti: It's not always easy to smile but it's easy to drink beer ~ a drunk Mac Mac), I approached the Seattle visitor to let him know that Tracy thought we'd have conversation and music in common, notwithstanding his second concert ever being Van Halen.
Oh, the things we overlook for the sake of conversation.
Without so much as asking my name, he followed Tracy's directive ("But of course!), asking where we should talk and accompanying me to my spot near the sound booth so we could dive into shared musical interests, why he's back in Virginia for the election cycle ( a thing he does every four years) and our shared disdain for arena shows.
Then Denver's Dressy Bessy took the stage to show us how many influences they could channel with singer Tammy's endless energy at the forefront. Well matched with Positive No's boundless energy, I could also see them on a bill with Tacocat.
Mixing the energy of punk with the girliness of pop and a smidge of twee, the band delivered a solid set with Tammy's left leg constantly in motion dancing, pointing, twisting and kicking for emphasis.
"Are you excited about seeing Pylon Reenactment Society?" she asked the crowd. "We are! They're our heroes, too, so we'll be geeking out as much as you guys!"
The visitor and I used the break to expand our conversation, talking about venue histories and our own musicality (mine being none). He admitted that music was not in his purview until punk and hardcore came along and it no longer mattered that he didn't really have the chops to play.
Just as the next band was getting set up, he looked at me and wondered aloud if we'd even introduced ourselves or had just jumped into conversation. Oops. Intros were made.
The headliner was Athens' Pylon Reenactment Society, a band built around the seminal Athens band Pylon that had come out of the same scene that birthed REM and the B52s, both of whom have repeatedly acknowledged their debt to Pylon.
But founding guitarist Randy died a few years ago, so the band no longer considers themselves Pylon, but a reenactment of them, done in the spirit of Pylon with its original lead singer.
Let's put it this way: it was more than enough reason to be at a Wednesday night show.
Singer Vanessa seemed clearly overwhelmed with the rampant love and fandom in the room, saying, "One guy here told me that his first show at the 9:30 Club was Pylon! I guess I shouldn't talk about it, but thanks so much for coming out!"
Years gone by aside, certainly her particular style of singing and phrasing was as unique and compelling as it had always been.
From there, we were treated to punchy vocals, distinctive melodies and, for those of us who recall the Athens scene, reminders of how fresh their sound of jangle pop via Gang of 4 was to our ears back then...and now.
Vanessa still does her arm waving, body bending style of dancing, continuing the evening's trend of non-stop movement both onstage and in the audience. She called up Tracy and a fan onstage for one of the last songs, making for a room full of dancers on and off stage.
They may be reenactors, but Pylon's spirit was as alive and enthralling as ever.
Walking home at nearly 1:00, it was a full-on party on Grace Street with Ipanema's patio full, people cruising the streets, shouting across them to have conversations, cars with windows down and music blasting and a general vibe of fun.
The whole city feels it when estrogen times three is on a Wednesday bill. Girl power must be in the air.
Proof positive presented itself tonight with three bands at Strange Matter representing Richmond, Denver and Athens, Georgia and a wildly enthusiastic, albeit not as large as it should've been, Wednesday crowd.
Do you remember twenty first night of September?
Before you go cold like December
All you saw was a cloudy day...
Greeting me first were a couple of guitarists lamenting Richmond's tardiness to shows, something they said they didn't see when touring other east coast cities. In those magical places, if doors were at 8 and music at 9, people began arriving shortly after 8 and were fully in place when the first band took the stage.
Mind you, they were telling me this at 8:45 when I was among the very few non-band members in the room. But they also mentioned the absence of simple amenities for bands - rooms to stow gear and change, food - basically just good hospitality.
The kind of thing I would never know, being a non-musician.
I heard about opening band Positive No's tradition of pre-show Jagermeisters and when I wondered aloud about the choice of shots, got testimonials.
Matt recalled a night when his stomach was badly upset just before their set and the Jager calmed it (well, it is a digestif) and Kenny told of a night he was flat out beat, yet felt completely energized afterward.
It's hard to argue with the restorative powers of a good shot, no?
Tracy, the queen bee of Positive No, came over looking fabulous, as always, in a brightly colored tunic and make-up that would have done the mod era proud, and the best smile in the room. Her energy glowed.
The good news was she had a friend in town from Seattle, a musicologist she called him, and she wanted to introduce us because she thought we'd hit it off conversationally. Conversation, we agreed, could be bested only by sex and even better when they go hand in hand.
Positive No's set was partly bittersweet because it was bassist Matt's last show with the band, meaning I had to drink in as much of his excellent playing as possible, while appreciating the visual of his curtain of hair obscuring his face when he really got going.
Luckily, I can continue to revel in Kenny's killer guitar playing.
The band's pop strength is catchy hooks, fuzzy guitars, changing dynamics and the pull of Tracy's voice as she dances, bounces and totally inhabits any space not occupied by a bandmate. Tonight we even got a few new songs, a real treat for someone who's seen them as often as I have.
From the stage, she talked about deciding to move to Seattle the year grunge (i.e., Kurt Cobain) died and then introduced her Seattle friend from the stage.
By the time their excellent set ended, the room had finally filled up nicely. Afterward, I saw a guy buy the band's album and shyly take it over to Tracy to sign, looking for all the world like a devoted fan boy.
After a quick trip to the loo (graffiti: It's not always easy to smile but it's easy to drink beer ~ a drunk Mac Mac), I approached the Seattle visitor to let him know that Tracy thought we'd have conversation and music in common, notwithstanding his second concert ever being Van Halen.
Oh, the things we overlook for the sake of conversation.
Without so much as asking my name, he followed Tracy's directive ("But of course!), asking where we should talk and accompanying me to my spot near the sound booth so we could dive into shared musical interests, why he's back in Virginia for the election cycle ( a thing he does every four years) and our shared disdain for arena shows.
Then Denver's Dressy Bessy took the stage to show us how many influences they could channel with singer Tammy's endless energy at the forefront. Well matched with Positive No's boundless energy, I could also see them on a bill with Tacocat.
Mixing the energy of punk with the girliness of pop and a smidge of twee, the band delivered a solid set with Tammy's left leg constantly in motion dancing, pointing, twisting and kicking for emphasis.
"Are you excited about seeing Pylon Reenactment Society?" she asked the crowd. "We are! They're our heroes, too, so we'll be geeking out as much as you guys!"
The visitor and I used the break to expand our conversation, talking about venue histories and our own musicality (mine being none). He admitted that music was not in his purview until punk and hardcore came along and it no longer mattered that he didn't really have the chops to play.
Just as the next band was getting set up, he looked at me and wondered aloud if we'd even introduced ourselves or had just jumped into conversation. Oops. Intros were made.
The headliner was Athens' Pylon Reenactment Society, a band built around the seminal Athens band Pylon that had come out of the same scene that birthed REM and the B52s, both of whom have repeatedly acknowledged their debt to Pylon.
But founding guitarist Randy died a few years ago, so the band no longer considers themselves Pylon, but a reenactment of them, done in the spirit of Pylon with its original lead singer.
Let's put it this way: it was more than enough reason to be at a Wednesday night show.
Singer Vanessa seemed clearly overwhelmed with the rampant love and fandom in the room, saying, "One guy here told me that his first show at the 9:30 Club was Pylon! I guess I shouldn't talk about it, but thanks so much for coming out!"
Years gone by aside, certainly her particular style of singing and phrasing was as unique and compelling as it had always been.
From there, we were treated to punchy vocals, distinctive melodies and, for those of us who recall the Athens scene, reminders of how fresh their sound of jangle pop via Gang of 4 was to our ears back then...and now.
Vanessa still does her arm waving, body bending style of dancing, continuing the evening's trend of non-stop movement both onstage and in the audience. She called up Tracy and a fan onstage for one of the last songs, making for a room full of dancers on and off stage.
They may be reenactors, but Pylon's spirit was as alive and enthralling as ever.
Walking home at nearly 1:00, it was a full-on party on Grace Street with Ipanema's patio full, people cruising the streets, shouting across them to have conversations, cars with windows down and music blasting and a general vibe of fun.
The whole city feels it when estrogen times three is on a Wednesday bill. Girl power must be in the air.
Friday, June 3, 2016
No Parking Zone
Tea Party sounds so much nicer than "mob of racists and homophobes."
~ bumpersticker on Park Avenue
Looking great! Flowers look pretty good, too!
~ guy calling out from car with out-of-state plates after driving the wrong way on a one-way street and spotting me watching his idiocy as I water my garden
Hey! Got any time left you could share?
~ stranger asking for my parking receipt as I get back in my car (I gave him my leftover hour)
My cross-country adventuring friend is back, so we decamped to the North to mingle, watch potters at the wheel and listen to men in pink shirts play music in the garden before servicing my hired mouth.
Gleaned from her trip to the Left Coast and back: never visit Oklahoma City on prom night, casinos on reservations are depressing but watching talented bowlers is stellar entertainment and having a cold when you're in a car for four weeks is taxing on both parties.
Oh, yes, and a bracelet suggesting the rhythms of life is worth the price.
As we're leaving the restaurant, we spot a family table with all four children under 10, heads bowed and engrossed in the blue lights of screens.
Tragic, we agree.
"They've been like that since they sat down," the impossibly young-looking hostess pipes up, her blond ponytail swinging as she shakes her pretty little head. "Headphones, too. We weren't like that when we were little."
And by we, I have to assume she means her fellow young millennials (as opposed to older millennials or Generation Z, the latest demographic target of fact-finding marketers) who had to wait until middle school to be granted device privileges.
Cry me a river.
Even the drive back from the hinterlands passes quickly with talk of Republican-baiters, wedding officiating and eleventh hour house tours. Fireworks are exploding over the Diamond as we drive by and she reminisces about a drive to the North Carolina beach on a long-ago July fourth, passing fireworks for miles along I-95, a sight you never forget.
Four weeks is really too long for friends to try to recap in a matter of hours. Hence, impending lunch plans were made to further the insider tip sharing of a two-time Paris pro.
She waved me goodbye with an armful of books - Egan's Pulitzer Prize-winning "A Visit from the Goon Squad" and Moore's "Sacre Bleu, a Comedy D'Art," among others - while at the same time clarifying that they were not birthday presents, merely fodder for discussion.
Be still my conversation heart, let's do read and dissect together.
But for tonight, let's instead invite a fellow music-lover (coincidentally a fellow) to take a somewhat steamy stroll over to Strange Matter for a show, arriving well enough in advance (okay, 20 minutes) to slide over to Ipanema and have a glass of wine and share some social intercourse in the uncrowded restaurant.
The music isn't loud enough, but the vibe is comfortable and music awaits us a few doors down.
Loop master Dave Watkins has gone and built himself another instrument, this time with a $99 Telecaster kit and the usual obscene amount of elbow grease, and proceeds to make music on it, magnificently layering sounds made by playing the guitar, tapping on it and singing into it to create dense soundscapes that entrance the room.
And by room, I mean a semi-circle of young men standing around Dave, worshiping at his altar and trying to absorb his genius.
Between songs a friend says hello and shares that just a few minutes earlier, he'd noticed that everyone in the audience was male until I walked in. "Women don't like this kind of music, I guess," he says. "Too technical?"
But I like it a lot, I remind him. "Women don't like power pop, either," he insists. Well, I love that, too. "Well, you're not a typical woman."
Thank you, I'll take that as a the compliment.
Philly's Laser Background took the stage and played their new album "Correct" from start to finish, effectively taking the crowd on a mildly psychedelic electronic journey complete with synthesizers and, as my date so perfectly put it, cosmetically-enhanced voice work (loads of effects).
Naturally the requisite non-stop dance guy threw his waist-length hair around as he stepped erratically and shook his body directly in front of the stage to the trippy sounds that deserved visual effects.
Born too late, he'd have made a terrific Dead follower, forever searching for a beat.
I'd shared with a friend that I'd seen Laser Background referred to as "paisley pop" and it took only one song for him to turn and deadpan, "I hear no paisley." Turns out he spoke too soon because a few songs later, a decidedly whimsical paisley pop feel emerged and I savored the moment almost as much as the music.
This, kids, is why we come out for live music on a Thursday night.
Recluse Raccoon closed out the show, trucker hats on heads and rhythm section keeping things lively as guitarist Timothy sang his succinct and slightly mournful songs to close out the evening and send the two of us walking home along a mostly deserted Broad Street, a far cry from the suburban landscapes of Henrico County and any clandestine Tea Party activity.
A women doesn't have to be typical to appreciate a late night post-paisley walk when the company's right and there's time left to share.
Things move really fast now. How did that happen?
~ bumpersticker on Park Avenue
Looking great! Flowers look pretty good, too!
~ guy calling out from car with out-of-state plates after driving the wrong way on a one-way street and spotting me watching his idiocy as I water my garden
Hey! Got any time left you could share?
~ stranger asking for my parking receipt as I get back in my car (I gave him my leftover hour)
My cross-country adventuring friend is back, so we decamped to the North to mingle, watch potters at the wheel and listen to men in pink shirts play music in the garden before servicing my hired mouth.
Gleaned from her trip to the Left Coast and back: never visit Oklahoma City on prom night, casinos on reservations are depressing but watching talented bowlers is stellar entertainment and having a cold when you're in a car for four weeks is taxing on both parties.
Oh, yes, and a bracelet suggesting the rhythms of life is worth the price.
As we're leaving the restaurant, we spot a family table with all four children under 10, heads bowed and engrossed in the blue lights of screens.
Tragic, we agree.
"They've been like that since they sat down," the impossibly young-looking hostess pipes up, her blond ponytail swinging as she shakes her pretty little head. "Headphones, too. We weren't like that when we were little."
And by we, I have to assume she means her fellow young millennials (as opposed to older millennials or Generation Z, the latest demographic target of fact-finding marketers) who had to wait until middle school to be granted device privileges.
Cry me a river.
Even the drive back from the hinterlands passes quickly with talk of Republican-baiters, wedding officiating and eleventh hour house tours. Fireworks are exploding over the Diamond as we drive by and she reminisces about a drive to the North Carolina beach on a long-ago July fourth, passing fireworks for miles along I-95, a sight you never forget.
Four weeks is really too long for friends to try to recap in a matter of hours. Hence, impending lunch plans were made to further the insider tip sharing of a two-time Paris pro.
She waved me goodbye with an armful of books - Egan's Pulitzer Prize-winning "A Visit from the Goon Squad" and Moore's "Sacre Bleu, a Comedy D'Art," among others - while at the same time clarifying that they were not birthday presents, merely fodder for discussion.
Be still my conversation heart, let's do read and dissect together.
But for tonight, let's instead invite a fellow music-lover (coincidentally a fellow) to take a somewhat steamy stroll over to Strange Matter for a show, arriving well enough in advance (okay, 20 minutes) to slide over to Ipanema and have a glass of wine and share some social intercourse in the uncrowded restaurant.
The music isn't loud enough, but the vibe is comfortable and music awaits us a few doors down.
Loop master Dave Watkins has gone and built himself another instrument, this time with a $99 Telecaster kit and the usual obscene amount of elbow grease, and proceeds to make music on it, magnificently layering sounds made by playing the guitar, tapping on it and singing into it to create dense soundscapes that entrance the room.
And by room, I mean a semi-circle of young men standing around Dave, worshiping at his altar and trying to absorb his genius.
Between songs a friend says hello and shares that just a few minutes earlier, he'd noticed that everyone in the audience was male until I walked in. "Women don't like this kind of music, I guess," he says. "Too technical?"
But I like it a lot, I remind him. "Women don't like power pop, either," he insists. Well, I love that, too. "Well, you're not a typical woman."
Thank you, I'll take that as a the compliment.
Philly's Laser Background took the stage and played their new album "Correct" from start to finish, effectively taking the crowd on a mildly psychedelic electronic journey complete with synthesizers and, as my date so perfectly put it, cosmetically-enhanced voice work (loads of effects).
Naturally the requisite non-stop dance guy threw his waist-length hair around as he stepped erratically and shook his body directly in front of the stage to the trippy sounds that deserved visual effects.
Born too late, he'd have made a terrific Dead follower, forever searching for a beat.
I'd shared with a friend that I'd seen Laser Background referred to as "paisley pop" and it took only one song for him to turn and deadpan, "I hear no paisley." Turns out he spoke too soon because a few songs later, a decidedly whimsical paisley pop feel emerged and I savored the moment almost as much as the music.
This, kids, is why we come out for live music on a Thursday night.
Recluse Raccoon closed out the show, trucker hats on heads and rhythm section keeping things lively as guitarist Timothy sang his succinct and slightly mournful songs to close out the evening and send the two of us walking home along a mostly deserted Broad Street, a far cry from the suburban landscapes of Henrico County and any clandestine Tea Party activity.
A women doesn't have to be typical to appreciate a late night post-paisley walk when the company's right and there's time left to share.
Things move really fast now. How did that happen?
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Plan A, Plan B
Let the season begin. I have waded in the James.
Mac and I walked down to Belle Isle and around it, past new steps for the Folk Fest stage, dodging weekday running warriors and bikini-clad students to stake out our claim on a rock and remove our shoes to revel in the impending arrival of summer.
The sparkling blue water wasn't anywhere near as cold as I'd anticipated, while the air didn't have nearly the distinctive briny smell we'd thrilled to when we'd walked the pipeline just last Friday, but so what? Some people were at work on a Monday morning and we were in the river.
Don't drink and drive
Take acid and teleport
Right?
Making our way up the grade toward Oregon Hill, that pithy piece of graffiti greeted us. Mac spotted a cache of new water bottles under the bridge, accompanied by a notebook paper sign inviting sweaty types like us to help ourselves. Hell, yea.
Further up Pine Street, we met Jake the beagle, a spry six year old who'd never been neutered, perhaps accounting for his swaggering attitude. Nothing wrong with a little swagger.
Plenty of it was in evidence tonight when I walked over to Strange Matter for a killer Monday night show of energetic pop-punk with two Seattle bands (one written up in Rolling Stone last week) and two Richmond bands.
Despite a musician friend saying, "People are afraid of a Monday night show," I knew I could count on seeing familiar faces ignoring the day of the week for the quality of the music.
Local but new to me was Atta Girl, succinctly described to me by the shoegaze master as "twee punk," meaning a wholesome looking front woman in a dress snarling over short, fast, loud songs.
For the record, it should be noted that only a twee punk ban would get the show started right on time, at precisely 9 p.m.
Playing out for the first time in ages was Positive No with a new bass player (see: shoegaze wizard) and drummer completing Tracey and Kenny's musical world, a very happy, brightly colored place with stellar music, kind of like their house.
She was especially excited about how many show-goers were wearing bright colors when usually S'Matter is a sea of black. Let's just say I'd known to wear a color like orange.
When Kenny's guitar strap came off mid-high energy song, she managed to reattach it while still singing every word of the song. It's no wonder he loves her.
The first Seattle band was Boyfriends (who claim to worship Freddy Mercury and host frequent nail-painting parties), my main competition in the legs department, since three of the guys wore shorts (the singer's were maybe two inches longer than his over-sized t-shirt) and the fourth guy had donned leopard leggings.
The bass player (who had the shortest shorts) announced, "I love Richmond. Today I found the Hello, Kitty earrings that I've been looking for for six months!"
It may have been Monday night, but of course everyone who'd come out stayed to hear Seattle's finest surf-punk feminist band, Tacocat - who, by the way, bring their own Tacocat banner complete with a spaceship on it to hang behind the drummer - three women, one man, two brunettes, two blonds, two with blue/green hair, all sweaty as hell on this unseasonably warm April East Coast night they claimed was making them drowsy.
You'd never know it by the way they play their surfy guitars and sing lyrics only a woman would write dressed up in the sparkling pop mode of the Go-Gos, except with blue hair and bras showing.
I'm talking songs like "FDP" about the first day of your period ("Stay away from me!"). How about "Hey, You!" about street harassment? Don't get me started on "Men Explain Things to Me" because they do.
Only a service industry worker could have written "I Hate the Weekend," which lead singer Emily apparently is. When she said the next song was called "Internet," and a guy called out, "What's the Internet?" she retorted immediately, "Trolls!" Asking who in the room had been "teenage horse girls," only three women reluctantly raised their hands.
"Come on, I know you all were," Emily teased.
I wasn't - no, really - but I'm also not afraid of a Monday night show, especially when three of the bands are female-fronted (polka dots abounded) and Boyfriends may as well have been with their fashion style, lipstick and nail polish.
Thank goodness I wasn't shamed, having had the foresight to come home from Belle Isle and paint my toenails silver to kick off the season.
Lamenting her inability to attend tonight's show earlier, a friend had warned me, "Don't tell me how good it is! I love that Tacocat record so damn much."
There is nothing quite like female swagger to the fourth power to kick off a sunny week. Okay, I won't tell you.
Mac and I walked down to Belle Isle and around it, past new steps for the Folk Fest stage, dodging weekday running warriors and bikini-clad students to stake out our claim on a rock and remove our shoes to revel in the impending arrival of summer.
The sparkling blue water wasn't anywhere near as cold as I'd anticipated, while the air didn't have nearly the distinctive briny smell we'd thrilled to when we'd walked the pipeline just last Friday, but so what? Some people were at work on a Monday morning and we were in the river.
Don't drink and drive
Take acid and teleport
Right?
Making our way up the grade toward Oregon Hill, that pithy piece of graffiti greeted us. Mac spotted a cache of new water bottles under the bridge, accompanied by a notebook paper sign inviting sweaty types like us to help ourselves. Hell, yea.
Further up Pine Street, we met Jake the beagle, a spry six year old who'd never been neutered, perhaps accounting for his swaggering attitude. Nothing wrong with a little swagger.
Plenty of it was in evidence tonight when I walked over to Strange Matter for a killer Monday night show of energetic pop-punk with two Seattle bands (one written up in Rolling Stone last week) and two Richmond bands.
Despite a musician friend saying, "People are afraid of a Monday night show," I knew I could count on seeing familiar faces ignoring the day of the week for the quality of the music.
Local but new to me was Atta Girl, succinctly described to me by the shoegaze master as "twee punk," meaning a wholesome looking front woman in a dress snarling over short, fast, loud songs.
For the record, it should be noted that only a twee punk ban would get the show started right on time, at precisely 9 p.m.
Playing out for the first time in ages was Positive No with a new bass player (see: shoegaze wizard) and drummer completing Tracey and Kenny's musical world, a very happy, brightly colored place with stellar music, kind of like their house.
She was especially excited about how many show-goers were wearing bright colors when usually S'Matter is a sea of black. Let's just say I'd known to wear a color like orange.
When Kenny's guitar strap came off mid-high energy song, she managed to reattach it while still singing every word of the song. It's no wonder he loves her.
The first Seattle band was Boyfriends (who claim to worship Freddy Mercury and host frequent nail-painting parties), my main competition in the legs department, since three of the guys wore shorts (the singer's were maybe two inches longer than his over-sized t-shirt) and the fourth guy had donned leopard leggings.
The bass player (who had the shortest shorts) announced, "I love Richmond. Today I found the Hello, Kitty earrings that I've been looking for for six months!"
It may have been Monday night, but of course everyone who'd come out stayed to hear Seattle's finest surf-punk feminist band, Tacocat - who, by the way, bring their own Tacocat banner complete with a spaceship on it to hang behind the drummer - three women, one man, two brunettes, two blonds, two with blue/green hair, all sweaty as hell on this unseasonably warm April East Coast night they claimed was making them drowsy.
You'd never know it by the way they play their surfy guitars and sing lyrics only a woman would write dressed up in the sparkling pop mode of the Go-Gos, except with blue hair and bras showing.
I'm talking songs like "FDP" about the first day of your period ("Stay away from me!"). How about "Hey, You!" about street harassment? Don't get me started on "Men Explain Things to Me" because they do.
Only a service industry worker could have written "I Hate the Weekend," which lead singer Emily apparently is. When she said the next song was called "Internet," and a guy called out, "What's the Internet?" she retorted immediately, "Trolls!" Asking who in the room had been "teenage horse girls," only three women reluctantly raised their hands.
"Come on, I know you all were," Emily teased.
I wasn't - no, really - but I'm also not afraid of a Monday night show, especially when three of the bands are female-fronted (polka dots abounded) and Boyfriends may as well have been with their fashion style, lipstick and nail polish.
Thank goodness I wasn't shamed, having had the foresight to come home from Belle Isle and paint my toenails silver to kick off the season.
Lamenting her inability to attend tonight's show earlier, a friend had warned me, "Don't tell me how good it is! I love that Tacocat record so damn much."
There is nothing quite like female swagger to the fourth power to kick off a sunny week. Okay, I won't tell you.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Woman's Animal Nature Triumphs Again
If there was one thing I wasn't going to do tonight, it was go to the Elbys.
I'd made it known back when the 2016 announcement was made that this year's event was a no-go for me. My objections were twofold: primarily the sameness of the nominees (besides best new restaurant, who cares about the same old, same old?) and secondarily, the theme: Elbys en Blanc.
As the owner of a vintage shop put it succinctly, "I am not dressing this ass and these hips in white."
Nor was I. Sure, I'd attended the past four Elbys, but I was over it.
Happily for me, this opened me up to all kinds of Sunday night fun that did not involve restaurant worship.
With a light rain falling, I walked over to Quirk Hotel to hear actress/poet Amber Tamblyn read from her latest book of poetry, "Dark Sparkler." It was common knowledge that the only reason she was reading in Richmond was because her husband, comedian David Cross, is performing at CenterStage tonight.
Whatever the reason, I got myself to Quirk Gallery where arrivals were being told we could score a drink at Maple & Pine's bar and bring it into the reading.
At the bar, I ran into a dapperly dressed gentleman in a white linen suit who - wouldn't you know - informed me that he only looked that way because he was going to the Elbys because Maple & Pine was nominated for best new restaurant.
After we'd both gotten our drinks - my Ms. Genevieve of Aperol, elderflower liqueur and Prosecco was prettier than his julep, I thought - we adjourned to the gallery and took seats to chat.
I wanted nothing more than the scoop on the upcoming rooftop deck (got it), although we dipped into the subject of Amber, whom he also knew from "House" and "Two and a Half Men," while all I knew was her father, Russ Tamblyn, the outstanding dancer I'd first seen in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" and later in "West Side Story."
Amber arrived, beer in hand, to applause, said, "I love doing readings where there's a bar attached," and dove right into the reading of poetry about the lives and deaths of young actresses.
The first, "Actress" read like a casting call with specific qualifications - "small bust preferred, not taller than 5'5", good teeth, lean but not gaunt, no brown eyes" - and finished with the clincher: "Not a speaking part."
All of her poems examined not just the women's lives and deaths but the commodification of women in Hollywood ("I suppose you're detecting a theme"). "I want to go down on your cliche," she writes in "Jane Doe, along with, "And wrestle the Ayn Rand impersonator for her flask," noting in an aside, "I did that once."
How can you not want to hear from a woman who wrestled an Ayn Rand impersonator for anything? Who writes, "I will never have the knees of Bardot?"
Midway through the reading, a white-suited man, clad exactly like the one next to me, walked past the window down Broad Street, undoubtedly on his way to the Elbys.
Wordplay was a constant - serial kisser and serial cereal eater - as in her list of fake actress names such as Ivory Sopra and Iwanna Oscar.
Toward the end, she surprised us with a love poem which included my favorite line of the evening, "Someone who needs the way you kiss, the way you graze on a lip." Lovely.
During the Q & A, someone teased her about drinking a Heineken instead of one of our local craft brews and then asked about the poem, "Marilyn Monroe," which is titled, but has no words. As Amber flipped through the book to find the poem, the woman said, "Page 27."
Amber beamed. "You know we're definitely making out after this." I liked her quick wit.
It wasn't just that I'd finished my cocktail, I was sorry when the reading ended because it had been too long since I'd had poetry read to me. But I was on to another adventure so I wished my seatmate an Elbys win and left for Strange Matter.
Because last month was the 50th anniversary, Movie Club Richmond was showing the 1966 Bond spoof, "Our Man Flint," and I hoped to eat before the action started. My Blastoff, a BLT with avocado on rye, and mountain of fries was history by the time the lights went down.
I'm happy to say it was everything I adore about a '60s movie: overly saturated colors (Cinemascope, no doubt), a girl with a blond bouffant and a giant daisy in her hair, go-go dancers, computers the size of a gymnasium with zillions of punch cards and, of course, sexism galore ("How often woman's animal nature triumphs!").
The recurring joke is that Flint's secret code is based on a mathematical progression, 40-26-36. He also excels at everything he does - judo, fencing, cooking, saving lives, saving the world. He even teaches ballet classes...to the Russians, no less.
It was a Cold War classic with everything from anti-American eagles who only attack Americans ("It's diabolical!") to bad acronyms (ZOWIE) and a red hotline phone to the commander-in-chief (who sounded a lot like LBJ).
There was so much to laugh out loud about.
Flint plays both sides of the fence, taking the time to de-program women who have been brainwashed by the bad guys to be nothing but "pleasure units," but also with a staff of four pretty women to shave him, choose his clothes, manage his finances and dance with him when they all go to the club together.
Sounds pretty pleasurable to me, sort of like tonight's choice of movie.
Conveniently for me, there was a synth-pop show following the screening, so I could have parked once and partied twice, except I'd walked over. As a friend and I discussed between sets, synthpop is hard to find in Richmond, a shame for those of us devoted to the genre.
First up was Dazeases, the one-woman project that I'd come to see. Singer London came onstage in a cream sweater and plaid skirt to do her soundcheck and then removed the skirt to do a set so mind-blowing no one could have been prepared for it.
With a big voice, incredibly personal and emotional lyrics and a way of dancing/prowling the stage that ensured no one took their eyes off her, she hit play on an unseen laptop and music she'd recorded accompanied her as she sang in the dark room with only a few spotlights on her.
It was mesmerizing.
From "Possession" to "S'mores on the Hellfire," where she sang, "I will keep you warm when no one else will," her big voice made every song sound as if her life depended on it.
And yet, it was all very dancey and the small crowd obliged, moving constantly, although maybe not as sinuously or emotively as she did. So young, so raw and yet obviously so much potential.
Given that she was singing to her own prerecorded tracks, it could have come off like karaoke, but it didn't. Between the low lights and how completely she sold herself and her music, it was like watching the birth of something that's only going to get better.
Next came Raleigh's Band and the Beat, a husband and wife duo layering her vocals over lush synths and drum machines for a dreamgaze sound that would have been at home in '80s clubs (and my heart).
I especially enjoyed how he would get things going and start dancing enthusiastically in place as she sang before going back to knob-turning. If they weren't having a good time, they were giving a terrific approximation of it onstage.
Mine was better than a good time and best of all, didn't involve wearing white. The funny part is, I got home to a message from a friend: "Elbys weren't the same without you."
Oh, I bet they were.
I'd made it known back when the 2016 announcement was made that this year's event was a no-go for me. My objections were twofold: primarily the sameness of the nominees (besides best new restaurant, who cares about the same old, same old?) and secondarily, the theme: Elbys en Blanc.
As the owner of a vintage shop put it succinctly, "I am not dressing this ass and these hips in white."
Nor was I. Sure, I'd attended the past four Elbys, but I was over it.
Happily for me, this opened me up to all kinds of Sunday night fun that did not involve restaurant worship.
With a light rain falling, I walked over to Quirk Hotel to hear actress/poet Amber Tamblyn read from her latest book of poetry, "Dark Sparkler." It was common knowledge that the only reason she was reading in Richmond was because her husband, comedian David Cross, is performing at CenterStage tonight.
Whatever the reason, I got myself to Quirk Gallery where arrivals were being told we could score a drink at Maple & Pine's bar and bring it into the reading.
At the bar, I ran into a dapperly dressed gentleman in a white linen suit who - wouldn't you know - informed me that he only looked that way because he was going to the Elbys because Maple & Pine was nominated for best new restaurant.
After we'd both gotten our drinks - my Ms. Genevieve of Aperol, elderflower liqueur and Prosecco was prettier than his julep, I thought - we adjourned to the gallery and took seats to chat.
I wanted nothing more than the scoop on the upcoming rooftop deck (got it), although we dipped into the subject of Amber, whom he also knew from "House" and "Two and a Half Men," while all I knew was her father, Russ Tamblyn, the outstanding dancer I'd first seen in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" and later in "West Side Story."
Amber arrived, beer in hand, to applause, said, "I love doing readings where there's a bar attached," and dove right into the reading of poetry about the lives and deaths of young actresses.
The first, "Actress" read like a casting call with specific qualifications - "small bust preferred, not taller than 5'5", good teeth, lean but not gaunt, no brown eyes" - and finished with the clincher: "Not a speaking part."
All of her poems examined not just the women's lives and deaths but the commodification of women in Hollywood ("I suppose you're detecting a theme"). "I want to go down on your cliche," she writes in "Jane Doe, along with, "And wrestle the Ayn Rand impersonator for her flask," noting in an aside, "I did that once."
How can you not want to hear from a woman who wrestled an Ayn Rand impersonator for anything? Who writes, "I will never have the knees of Bardot?"
Midway through the reading, a white-suited man, clad exactly like the one next to me, walked past the window down Broad Street, undoubtedly on his way to the Elbys.
Wordplay was a constant - serial kisser and serial cereal eater - as in her list of fake actress names such as Ivory Sopra and Iwanna Oscar.
Toward the end, she surprised us with a love poem which included my favorite line of the evening, "Someone who needs the way you kiss, the way you graze on a lip." Lovely.
During the Q & A, someone teased her about drinking a Heineken instead of one of our local craft brews and then asked about the poem, "Marilyn Monroe," which is titled, but has no words. As Amber flipped through the book to find the poem, the woman said, "Page 27."
Amber beamed. "You know we're definitely making out after this." I liked her quick wit.
It wasn't just that I'd finished my cocktail, I was sorry when the reading ended because it had been too long since I'd had poetry read to me. But I was on to another adventure so I wished my seatmate an Elbys win and left for Strange Matter.
Because last month was the 50th anniversary, Movie Club Richmond was showing the 1966 Bond spoof, "Our Man Flint," and I hoped to eat before the action started. My Blastoff, a BLT with avocado on rye, and mountain of fries was history by the time the lights went down.
I'm happy to say it was everything I adore about a '60s movie: overly saturated colors (Cinemascope, no doubt), a girl with a blond bouffant and a giant daisy in her hair, go-go dancers, computers the size of a gymnasium with zillions of punch cards and, of course, sexism galore ("How often woman's animal nature triumphs!").
The recurring joke is that Flint's secret code is based on a mathematical progression, 40-26-36. He also excels at everything he does - judo, fencing, cooking, saving lives, saving the world. He even teaches ballet classes...to the Russians, no less.
It was a Cold War classic with everything from anti-American eagles who only attack Americans ("It's diabolical!") to bad acronyms (ZOWIE) and a red hotline phone to the commander-in-chief (who sounded a lot like LBJ).
There was so much to laugh out loud about.
Flint plays both sides of the fence, taking the time to de-program women who have been brainwashed by the bad guys to be nothing but "pleasure units," but also with a staff of four pretty women to shave him, choose his clothes, manage his finances and dance with him when they all go to the club together.
Sounds pretty pleasurable to me, sort of like tonight's choice of movie.
Conveniently for me, there was a synth-pop show following the screening, so I could have parked once and partied twice, except I'd walked over. As a friend and I discussed between sets, synthpop is hard to find in Richmond, a shame for those of us devoted to the genre.
First up was Dazeases, the one-woman project that I'd come to see. Singer London came onstage in a cream sweater and plaid skirt to do her soundcheck and then removed the skirt to do a set so mind-blowing no one could have been prepared for it.
With a big voice, incredibly personal and emotional lyrics and a way of dancing/prowling the stage that ensured no one took their eyes off her, she hit play on an unseen laptop and music she'd recorded accompanied her as she sang in the dark room with only a few spotlights on her.
It was mesmerizing.
From "Possession" to "S'mores on the Hellfire," where she sang, "I will keep you warm when no one else will," her big voice made every song sound as if her life depended on it.
And yet, it was all very dancey and the small crowd obliged, moving constantly, although maybe not as sinuously or emotively as she did. So young, so raw and yet obviously so much potential.
Given that she was singing to her own prerecorded tracks, it could have come off like karaoke, but it didn't. Between the low lights and how completely she sold herself and her music, it was like watching the birth of something that's only going to get better.
Next came Raleigh's Band and the Beat, a husband and wife duo layering her vocals over lush synths and drum machines for a dreamgaze sound that would have been at home in '80s clubs (and my heart).
I especially enjoyed how he would get things going and start dancing enthusiastically in place as she sang before going back to knob-turning. If they weren't having a good time, they were giving a terrific approximation of it onstage.
Mine was better than a good time and best of all, didn't involve wearing white. The funny part is, I got home to a message from a friend: "Elbys weren't the same without you."
Oh, I bet they were.
Monday, December 7, 2015
All You See Is Where Else You Could Be
Because I am a dinosaur, dating is not much different for me than it was when I was in my twenties. Old habits apparently do die hard for my people.
But I also concede that my experiences have almost nothing in common with those born after John and Yoko's "Double Fantasy" came out. Eating dinner with a millennial recently, he mentioned an article entitled, "This Is How We Date Now," lamenting that the dating world I know doesn't exist for him.
Reading the article, I was reminded of the new normal for that generation. Why commit when there are so many choices available via Tinder, OK Cupid, Grindr and the like? Endless possibilities mean there could always be someone better on a different app or platform. Not to mention the endless stream of friends' posts touting their picture-perfect relationships because people live out loud now, endlessly Instagramming or tweeting so everyone can see how enviable their lives are.
Why would you want to settle when your friend's life is so fabulous? The missing piece of the puzzle is that few people post about the arguments, the frustrations of trying to make a relationship work, so what you're envying isn't reality. It's a glossy facade, and completely unattainable.
Truthfully, the article was overly facile, purposefully glib and, in many ways, an ideal metaphor for the kind of shallow introspection that passes for deep thought. As guitarist John Mayer observed all the way back in 2003, "Numb is the new deep."
If that prediction was merely darkly amusing then, it's full-on depressing now.
That said, Death Cab for Cutie's 2005 album "Plans" contained the hauntingly beautiful "Your Heart Is an Empty Room," a song about a guy who can't quite commit because of (what else?) possibility.
Spring blooms and you find the love that's true
But you don't know what now to do
'Cause the chase is all you know
And she stopped running months ago
And all you see is where else you could be
When you're at home
Out on the street are so many possibilities
To not be alone
Choice has always been there, obviously, but at least you used to have to leave your house to find it. Now dating options are as easy to order up as Chinese food.
All of this was in the back of my mind when I attended a show recently at Strange Matter. Because the band had originally been active from 1981 through 1989, the crowd skewed older, but with some millennials scattered throughout.
Taking up my usual position, I tried chatting up the very tall younger man standing next to me. I was curious how deep his interest in the band went, so I asked, apropos of nothing.
He looked nothing short of fully shocked that I'd instigated a conversation, but shared his enthusiasm for the band. After some face to face conversation, he kindly inquired if I could see well enough given the sold-out crowd in front of us. Explaining that at 5'5" I can never really get a great view, he moved behind me and gestured for me to stand in front of him.
I was terribly impressed with his thoughtfulness.
But from there, my evening unfolded like it was 1989 again, and not just because I was dancing for the next two hours. Because I was alone, several guys born while John Lennon was still in the Beatles decided to engage with me, talking about how good the band was, making jokes about people in the crowd, offering to buy me drinks, trying to make me laugh.
Hitting on me, plain and simple.
Which wasn't why I was at the show. But it occurred to me right then and there that they hadn't hesitated to come talk to me in an effort to try to connect with me. They were working it old-school style.
I go to Gallery 5 for shows all the time and I never see this happen. I'm the consummate observer when I'm out, but I just don't see 20-somethings making the effort to hit on each other at a show. You already have a band in common, so why the hell not?
What I do see is a lot of people on their phones - checking Facebook, filming or taking pictures and Instagramming, checking texts - while a band is singing and playing their hearts out right in front of them.
But not talking to strangers they're attracted to.
True, not everyone sees a person who catches their eye at a show, but surely it's a generational statement that it can happen to a dinosaur like me and not to the manic pixie dream girl types I'm surrounded by at these shows.
Is it because they're on Tinder and swiping their way to meeting yet another someone? As the writer of the article put it, "Maybe romance is still there, we just don't know what it looks like now."
Yeesh, at the risk of sounding like Yoko Ono ("The regret of my life is that I have not said 'I love you' often enough"), I think I'd find out about romance by talking to people's faces and not waste time swiping in search of someone to say it to.
I know, I know, how utterly prehistoric of me.
But I also concede that my experiences have almost nothing in common with those born after John and Yoko's "Double Fantasy" came out. Eating dinner with a millennial recently, he mentioned an article entitled, "This Is How We Date Now," lamenting that the dating world I know doesn't exist for him.
Reading the article, I was reminded of the new normal for that generation. Why commit when there are so many choices available via Tinder, OK Cupid, Grindr and the like? Endless possibilities mean there could always be someone better on a different app or platform. Not to mention the endless stream of friends' posts touting their picture-perfect relationships because people live out loud now, endlessly Instagramming or tweeting so everyone can see how enviable their lives are.
Why would you want to settle when your friend's life is so fabulous? The missing piece of the puzzle is that few people post about the arguments, the frustrations of trying to make a relationship work, so what you're envying isn't reality. It's a glossy facade, and completely unattainable.
Truthfully, the article was overly facile, purposefully glib and, in many ways, an ideal metaphor for the kind of shallow introspection that passes for deep thought. As guitarist John Mayer observed all the way back in 2003, "Numb is the new deep."
If that prediction was merely darkly amusing then, it's full-on depressing now.
That said, Death Cab for Cutie's 2005 album "Plans" contained the hauntingly beautiful "Your Heart Is an Empty Room," a song about a guy who can't quite commit because of (what else?) possibility.
Spring blooms and you find the love that's true
But you don't know what now to do
'Cause the chase is all you know
And she stopped running months ago
And all you see is where else you could be
When you're at home
Out on the street are so many possibilities
To not be alone
Choice has always been there, obviously, but at least you used to have to leave your house to find it. Now dating options are as easy to order up as Chinese food.
All of this was in the back of my mind when I attended a show recently at Strange Matter. Because the band had originally been active from 1981 through 1989, the crowd skewed older, but with some millennials scattered throughout.
Taking up my usual position, I tried chatting up the very tall younger man standing next to me. I was curious how deep his interest in the band went, so I asked, apropos of nothing.
He looked nothing short of fully shocked that I'd instigated a conversation, but shared his enthusiasm for the band. After some face to face conversation, he kindly inquired if I could see well enough given the sold-out crowd in front of us. Explaining that at 5'5" I can never really get a great view, he moved behind me and gestured for me to stand in front of him.
I was terribly impressed with his thoughtfulness.
But from there, my evening unfolded like it was 1989 again, and not just because I was dancing for the next two hours. Because I was alone, several guys born while John Lennon was still in the Beatles decided to engage with me, talking about how good the band was, making jokes about people in the crowd, offering to buy me drinks, trying to make me laugh.
Hitting on me, plain and simple.
Which wasn't why I was at the show. But it occurred to me right then and there that they hadn't hesitated to come talk to me in an effort to try to connect with me. They were working it old-school style.
I go to Gallery 5 for shows all the time and I never see this happen. I'm the consummate observer when I'm out, but I just don't see 20-somethings making the effort to hit on each other at a show. You already have a band in common, so why the hell not?
What I do see is a lot of people on their phones - checking Facebook, filming or taking pictures and Instagramming, checking texts - while a band is singing and playing their hearts out right in front of them.
But not talking to strangers they're attracted to.
True, not everyone sees a person who catches their eye at a show, but surely it's a generational statement that it can happen to a dinosaur like me and not to the manic pixie dream girl types I'm surrounded by at these shows.
Is it because they're on Tinder and swiping their way to meeting yet another someone? As the writer of the article put it, "Maybe romance is still there, we just don't know what it looks like now."
Yeesh, at the risk of sounding like Yoko Ono ("The regret of my life is that I have not said 'I love you' often enough"), I think I'd find out about romance by talking to people's faces and not waste time swiping in search of someone to say it to.
I know, I know, how utterly prehistoric of me.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Burning Bush
All movies, all the time, that was today.
After this morning's flick, I had a late afternoon meeting about the new Bijou Film Center project. As a devoted fan of movies shown in public settings, I'd been asked to join the group that's steering the effort to create a small repertory arthouse theater in Richmond.
At Anchor Studios, a handsome, high-ceilinged space with massive gold-trimmed columns in the arts district, I admired the artsy clutter - the piles of old 45s (Curtis Mayfield, Little Stevie Wonder, the Delphonics), the 7-Up rack intended to house green-bottled soda but instead a storage place for art supplies, a sewing machine and dress mannequin, before the brainstorming session began.
I'm new to this group, although I'd been asked to join some time back. It's just that meetings usually fall on Sundays, a day I almost always have plans. Over PBR and snacks, we discussed the next screening, how to get people excited about it and, by the end, whether Neil Young was the most important member of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young or not.
From that cultural debate I went on to Strange Matter for more film, albeit of a slightly trashier vein. With John Waters coming to town in a few weeks, the screening of his oeuvre was beginning tonight, and truly, where better than at a gritty venue like SM?
Truth be told, I was a little bummed when I walked in because usually when Movie Club Richmond shows a film there, the front row is lined with old recliners. Not so tonight, it was nothing but the usual sturdy tables and chairs, so I made do with a front row table.
The bartender tried to regale me with the pasta special with vegan meatballs (vegballs?) but all I wanted was a cheeseburger with carrot/radish/apple slaw to accompany 1981's "Polyester," which I wasn't entirely sure I'd seen before.
"Pink Flamingos"? Living in Maryland, so naturally I saw it when it opened. "Female Trouble"? I think so. "Hairspray" and "Serial Mom"? Definitely.
So I definitely knew Divine, the cross-dressing male actor who pretty much defined Waters' early films. Just wasn't certain about "Polyester."
Part of the movie's place in cinematic history is that it used "Odorama" cards to enhance the experience. Wouldn't you just know that the Movie Club contingent had brought a sole Odorama card for us to experience the smells of the movie?
To my great regret, it was sniffed by one person, passed on to another and the rest of us never saw it. Not that I don't know what a rose or passing gas smell like, but it's been too long since I scratched and sniffed.
The movie even began with a fake scientist explaining smell and how the nose works - "You may experience some odors that are repulsive" - in case we weren't sure. Numbers flashed onscreen throughout, alerting the cardholder which number to sniff.
1980 was stamped all over this classic with relics such as Gaines burgers dog food (the ones that looked like hamburgers), aerosol deodorants and blue refrigerators with crocheted happy face ornaments on them, proof this wasn't long after the smiley face "have a nice day" era.
Slutty daughter (who aspires to be a go-go girl at the Flaming Cave Lounge when she's not reading "Farrah's World") wears skintight satin Lycra pants and Dad (whose secretary and mistress sports Bo Derek-like braids) yells at punk-looking son, "Why don't you let that hair grow? You look like a fruit!"
That's right, 1980, when we scolded teenaged boys for not growing their hair long and shows like "Family Ties" portrayed ex-hippie parents having to put up with Republican spawn. The times, they were a-changin'.
Of course, that's all besides the typical John Waters' staples: alcoholism, divorce, abortion, masturbation, fetishes, you know, the usual occupations of suburban Baltimore.
When son Dexter returns rehabilitated after a stint in jail, he's upset at his mother's alcoholism since Dad's departure. "Are you still drinking? Mom, you could stop it. I got off the angel dust."
And when she does dry out and finds love with a handsome, Corvette driving stranger, he's the kind who romantically tells her, "Let me kiss away your DTs, honey." A girl (or even a girdle and bra-wearing man like Divine) couldn't ask for a much better boyfriend.
You see, children? It's not hard to be normal.
That lasts for about a hot minute in "Polyester." In a John Waters movie, you always know that normalcy is illusory. See one of his films young enough and you stop seeking it altogether.
Not sure, but I think that may have also been the overarching theme of "Farrah's World."
After this morning's flick, I had a late afternoon meeting about the new Bijou Film Center project. As a devoted fan of movies shown in public settings, I'd been asked to join the group that's steering the effort to create a small repertory arthouse theater in Richmond.
At Anchor Studios, a handsome, high-ceilinged space with massive gold-trimmed columns in the arts district, I admired the artsy clutter - the piles of old 45s (Curtis Mayfield, Little Stevie Wonder, the Delphonics), the 7-Up rack intended to house green-bottled soda but instead a storage place for art supplies, a sewing machine and dress mannequin, before the brainstorming session began.
I'm new to this group, although I'd been asked to join some time back. It's just that meetings usually fall on Sundays, a day I almost always have plans. Over PBR and snacks, we discussed the next screening, how to get people excited about it and, by the end, whether Neil Young was the most important member of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young or not.
From that cultural debate I went on to Strange Matter for more film, albeit of a slightly trashier vein. With John Waters coming to town in a few weeks, the screening of his oeuvre was beginning tonight, and truly, where better than at a gritty venue like SM?
Truth be told, I was a little bummed when I walked in because usually when Movie Club Richmond shows a film there, the front row is lined with old recliners. Not so tonight, it was nothing but the usual sturdy tables and chairs, so I made do with a front row table.
The bartender tried to regale me with the pasta special with vegan meatballs (vegballs?) but all I wanted was a cheeseburger with carrot/radish/apple slaw to accompany 1981's "Polyester," which I wasn't entirely sure I'd seen before.
"Pink Flamingos"? Living in Maryland, so naturally I saw it when it opened. "Female Trouble"? I think so. "Hairspray" and "Serial Mom"? Definitely.
So I definitely knew Divine, the cross-dressing male actor who pretty much defined Waters' early films. Just wasn't certain about "Polyester."
Part of the movie's place in cinematic history is that it used "Odorama" cards to enhance the experience. Wouldn't you just know that the Movie Club contingent had brought a sole Odorama card for us to experience the smells of the movie?
To my great regret, it was sniffed by one person, passed on to another and the rest of us never saw it. Not that I don't know what a rose or passing gas smell like, but it's been too long since I scratched and sniffed.
The movie even began with a fake scientist explaining smell and how the nose works - "You may experience some odors that are repulsive" - in case we weren't sure. Numbers flashed onscreen throughout, alerting the cardholder which number to sniff.
1980 was stamped all over this classic with relics such as Gaines burgers dog food (the ones that looked like hamburgers), aerosol deodorants and blue refrigerators with crocheted happy face ornaments on them, proof this wasn't long after the smiley face "have a nice day" era.
Slutty daughter (who aspires to be a go-go girl at the Flaming Cave Lounge when she's not reading "Farrah's World") wears skintight satin Lycra pants and Dad (whose secretary and mistress sports Bo Derek-like braids) yells at punk-looking son, "Why don't you let that hair grow? You look like a fruit!"
That's right, 1980, when we scolded teenaged boys for not growing their hair long and shows like "Family Ties" portrayed ex-hippie parents having to put up with Republican spawn. The times, they were a-changin'.
Of course, that's all besides the typical John Waters' staples: alcoholism, divorce, abortion, masturbation, fetishes, you know, the usual occupations of suburban Baltimore.
When son Dexter returns rehabilitated after a stint in jail, he's upset at his mother's alcoholism since Dad's departure. "Are you still drinking? Mom, you could stop it. I got off the angel dust."
And when she does dry out and finds love with a handsome, Corvette driving stranger, he's the kind who romantically tells her, "Let me kiss away your DTs, honey." A girl (or even a girdle and bra-wearing man like Divine) couldn't ask for a much better boyfriend.
You see, children? It's not hard to be normal.
That lasts for about a hot minute in "Polyester." In a John Waters movie, you always know that normalcy is illusory. See one of his films young enough and you stop seeking it altogether.
Not sure, but I think that may have also been the overarching theme of "Farrah's World."
Monday, June 15, 2015
What's to Come
Let's adjust to the rhythms of almost summer, shall we?
When the sky is still pale blue at 9:00 and the temperature's only dropped to 80 outside, it only makes sense to go to a show that starts at 10.
Even so, when I'd bought my ticket weeks ago, I'd had no clue how oppressive it would be or that I was signing on to spend a hot night in a venue known for its anemic air conditioning. Good thing I like heat.
Mid-afternoon, the phone unexpectedly rings and it's the recent blast from my past with an invitation to go see Tom Chapin play at Tin Pan tonight. I no sooner decline when a friend posts that she's got an extra Prince ticket for the show in D.C. tonight.
If I didn't have such stellar memories of seeing Prince twice in the '90s, I might have jumped on that second offer, but no. I was going to see Avers and Strand of Oaks, as planned.
Positioning myself in my usual spot at Strange Matter - in front of the water dispenser - and waiting for Avers to take the stage, a favorite bartender I hadn't seen in ages came over for water and spotted me. He was on a guys' night out and as thoughtful as ever ("It's so nice to see you. And you look great!" while gesturing at my flowered sundress) and I was genuinely happy to chat with him until the band began.
Filing onstage in single file, Avers proceeded to reward their local fans with their usual well-oiled machine of a set. With four guitars for any given song, it's a constant guitar fest with meaty interludes where everyone gets to show off, the way they also do with the many false stops and precision restarts that characterize their songs.
I love watching guitarist Charlie (whom I know from the Trillions) because he's not only multi-talented but a showman as well, lifting his knee to prop up his guitar or playing it perpendicular to his body. When his considerable talents were required to play keyboard, he'd sling his guitar behind him and proceed to use his knees and full body to play it. When the bass player sang lead vocal, Charlie played her bass for her.
My fourth grade teacher would have called him an asset to the class.
Also a pleasure to watch is James, a guitarist I first heard as part of Mason Brothers a couple years ago, for his expressive voice and low key yet appealing stage presence. He doesn't play or sing with a "look at me" frenzy, but I often found myself looking at him.
After their set ended and a trip to the always amusing bathroom (no TP but graffiti that read, "F*ck Punk!"), I had time to take attendance in the room and note the DJ who hadn't been able to take a nap despite laying down this afternoon, the guy my age who goes to as many shows as I do, the WRIR crew, the pensive songwriter.
Usual cast of characters, in other words.
During the break, the room cooled down a bit as people went outside to smoke, but once back, the infrequent hits of cooler air could barely address the radiating warmth of all the bodies. Good thing I like heat.
Then Strand of Oaks took the stage, with leader Timothy announcing, "It's Sunday f*cking night in Richmond! This is gonna be good!" A friend and I had already discussed that we'd made the right choice of where to be tonight.
Part of that is that Strand of Oaks' music references the '70s with wailing guitars, a sound I know well from my youth but don't listen to much now, but with an Americana feel that resonates as harder than most music of that genre. "Goshen '97" about growing up in his hometown got the crowd's attention with lyrics about teenage angst and shredding guitars.
"I haven't drank Black Label in 12 years," Timothy said, holding up a can. "It's good to be back." Turns out most of his tattoos had been acquired here on frequent trips while touring. Our ink cred stays strong.
"Daniel's Blues" was about Dan Aykroyd wanting revenge on Belushi's drug dealer. After the song, he said, "I remember my Dad had the Blues Brothers album on vinyl, pink vinyl. It had a naked lady picture on it, a Playboy picture. Thanks for showing a young man what was to come!"
His band was excellent, a fact he acknowledged when he introduced them, recalling the days when he toured alone with his guitar (and apparently frequently to Richmond). Now the band brings to life his big-as-the-'70s guitar sound and he seems thrilled, much like the crowd when they did "Shut In," a song with a big anthemic chorus that got the guy in front of me playing air guitar.
My bartender friend walked by, looking happy as a clam, and telling me he was blown away by the band. "I can't take my eyes off his face," he said. Timothy has a look with long, dark hair halfway down his chest and a huge beard, but there was such happy energy he was projecting that I found it compelling.
It was after midnight when he told the room they could play all night but that they would play one more song and "burn it extra long." It was "JM," a song about singer Jason Molina, and the band did indeed take us out with swelling and crashing guitars that sounded post punk and classic rock simultaneously.
Walking out into the warm night air that had barely dropped in temperature since I'd gone in, I found Grace Street quiet. The students are gone and everyone else must be in their air-conditioned homes.
A perfect time to walk home enjoying a summer night. Good thing I like the heat.
When the sky is still pale blue at 9:00 and the temperature's only dropped to 80 outside, it only makes sense to go to a show that starts at 10.
Even so, when I'd bought my ticket weeks ago, I'd had no clue how oppressive it would be or that I was signing on to spend a hot night in a venue known for its anemic air conditioning. Good thing I like heat.
Mid-afternoon, the phone unexpectedly rings and it's the recent blast from my past with an invitation to go see Tom Chapin play at Tin Pan tonight. I no sooner decline when a friend posts that she's got an extra Prince ticket for the show in D.C. tonight.
If I didn't have such stellar memories of seeing Prince twice in the '90s, I might have jumped on that second offer, but no. I was going to see Avers and Strand of Oaks, as planned.
Positioning myself in my usual spot at Strange Matter - in front of the water dispenser - and waiting for Avers to take the stage, a favorite bartender I hadn't seen in ages came over for water and spotted me. He was on a guys' night out and as thoughtful as ever ("It's so nice to see you. And you look great!" while gesturing at my flowered sundress) and I was genuinely happy to chat with him until the band began.
Filing onstage in single file, Avers proceeded to reward their local fans with their usual well-oiled machine of a set. With four guitars for any given song, it's a constant guitar fest with meaty interludes where everyone gets to show off, the way they also do with the many false stops and precision restarts that characterize their songs.
I love watching guitarist Charlie (whom I know from the Trillions) because he's not only multi-talented but a showman as well, lifting his knee to prop up his guitar or playing it perpendicular to his body. When his considerable talents were required to play keyboard, he'd sling his guitar behind him and proceed to use his knees and full body to play it. When the bass player sang lead vocal, Charlie played her bass for her.
My fourth grade teacher would have called him an asset to the class.
Also a pleasure to watch is James, a guitarist I first heard as part of Mason Brothers a couple years ago, for his expressive voice and low key yet appealing stage presence. He doesn't play or sing with a "look at me" frenzy, but I often found myself looking at him.
After their set ended and a trip to the always amusing bathroom (no TP but graffiti that read, "F*ck Punk!"), I had time to take attendance in the room and note the DJ who hadn't been able to take a nap despite laying down this afternoon, the guy my age who goes to as many shows as I do, the WRIR crew, the pensive songwriter.
Usual cast of characters, in other words.
During the break, the room cooled down a bit as people went outside to smoke, but once back, the infrequent hits of cooler air could barely address the radiating warmth of all the bodies. Good thing I like heat.
Then Strand of Oaks took the stage, with leader Timothy announcing, "It's Sunday f*cking night in Richmond! This is gonna be good!" A friend and I had already discussed that we'd made the right choice of where to be tonight.
Part of that is that Strand of Oaks' music references the '70s with wailing guitars, a sound I know well from my youth but don't listen to much now, but with an Americana feel that resonates as harder than most music of that genre. "Goshen '97" about growing up in his hometown got the crowd's attention with lyrics about teenage angst and shredding guitars.
"I haven't drank Black Label in 12 years," Timothy said, holding up a can. "It's good to be back." Turns out most of his tattoos had been acquired here on frequent trips while touring. Our ink cred stays strong.
"Daniel's Blues" was about Dan Aykroyd wanting revenge on Belushi's drug dealer. After the song, he said, "I remember my Dad had the Blues Brothers album on vinyl, pink vinyl. It had a naked lady picture on it, a Playboy picture. Thanks for showing a young man what was to come!"
His band was excellent, a fact he acknowledged when he introduced them, recalling the days when he toured alone with his guitar (and apparently frequently to Richmond). Now the band brings to life his big-as-the-'70s guitar sound and he seems thrilled, much like the crowd when they did "Shut In," a song with a big anthemic chorus that got the guy in front of me playing air guitar.
My bartender friend walked by, looking happy as a clam, and telling me he was blown away by the band. "I can't take my eyes off his face," he said. Timothy has a look with long, dark hair halfway down his chest and a huge beard, but there was such happy energy he was projecting that I found it compelling.
It was after midnight when he told the room they could play all night but that they would play one more song and "burn it extra long." It was "JM," a song about singer Jason Molina, and the band did indeed take us out with swelling and crashing guitars that sounded post punk and classic rock simultaneously.
Walking out into the warm night air that had barely dropped in temperature since I'd gone in, I found Grace Street quiet. The students are gone and everyone else must be in their air-conditioned homes.
A perfect time to walk home enjoying a summer night. Good thing I like the heat.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
With All the Frills Upon It
This whole world's wild at heart and weird on top.
But would I want it any other way?
The first order of business was a drive to the Northern Neck to see my parents.
Cruising down Route 360, I wound up in the left hand lane which became a problem when a monster truck came up behind me. There was nowhere for me to move over and since I was going 63 in a 60 mph zone, the driver was not happy.
Sorry, buddy, nothing I can do.
Further on, I spotted a cop on the median, his radar gun pointed directly at traffic. I wasn't in the least worried; since I don't speed, Johnny Law doesn't concern me.
After passing the cop, I was able to pull into the right lane and let Mr. Big Truck pass me by. The funny part? He didn't blow by.
Instead, he slowed down next to me, smiled his best smile and saluted me. He and I both knew my old lady driving had just saved him from an Easter speeding ticket.
From there, he became my guardian angel, politely following a few car lengths behind me for the next 45 minutes until I put on my signal to turn off toward my parents' hamlet.
When he saw that, he flashed his lights, saluted me again and waved goodbye, continuing on.
It had been in Tappahannock that I'd first seen cars with people - men and women - in Easter hats. It seemed like such a throwback. Being the card-carrying heathen that I am, I'd almost forgotten the holiday.
But of course my Mom hadn't and she was putting a ham in the oven as I arrived.
Part of the reason for my visit was to help her file their taxes online, a slow process given their limited wi-fi accessibility, but I persevered, as Dad read the newspapers in the family room with me and Mom puttered about nearby in the kitchen.
At one point, I jokingly called out to her, asking about any gambling winnings.
Without so much as rustling his Washington Post, my father responded nonchalantly from behind his paper. "I don't think she has any and I don't report mine."
I cracked up at his casual reply. Before the afternoon was over, he'd be watching horse racing on TV, a long-time passion of his. I have childhood memories of stopping after church so he could pick up The Daily Racing Form at the drugstore.
It was a gorgeous day to be at the river, sunny and almost 70 degrees, their property covered in daffodils and hyacinths in bloom. When I finally said my goodbyes, it was to try to make it home in time for Movie Club at Strange Matter.
My first mistake was in not laying claim to one of the front row recliners when I walked in, so I had to settle for a regular chair. That won't happen again. Live and learn, girl.
Usually Movie Club's starting time is a loosey-goosey affair, but Strange Matter had a show immediately after the film tonight, so for a change the film started on time. I'd ordered a bowl of chili beforehand, but the film was already in progress when I heard my name called out loudly from behind the bar and I went to claim my dinner.
On the (somewhat) big screen tonight was "Wild at Heart," chosen as a tease to the upcoming Twin Peaks festival, The Great Southern. And, sure, I'd seen it when it came out in 1990, but all I remembered was how over the top it seemed at the time.
Not a lot's changed in a quarter of a century.
It had all the '80s trademarks: huge hair, high-waisted jeans, red fingernails, lots of Spandex, a metal band. Most significantly, women had strong eyebrows as opposed to the over-plucked lines that pass for eyebrows now. Thank you, Brooke Shields.
The supposedly southern accents sounded completely fake and put on, there were still so many huge '70s cars around and seat belt-wearing (even for children) was non-existent.
One line that particularly struck me was Laura Dern's concern about the growing hole in the ozone layer, to which Nicolas Cage assures her it won't be an issue in their lifetime. Sadly, called that one wrong.
It was interesting being in a room full of people who had either been zygotes or in diapers when the film first came out. Several spent more time looking at their phones than the film despite how bizarre it was.
One girl kept taking photos of the screen. Why? There was a lot of awkward, inappropriate laughter at things not intended to be funny.
As opposed to actual humor, such as Cage responding with, "Man, I had a boner with a capital "O" in his pseudo-Elvis accent or, "You really are desperately cute, baby" when he can't figure out the machinations of his girlfriend's mind.
Maybe it's just been too long, but felt clobbered over the head with weirdness for the sake of weirdness, and, yes, I remember that was David Lynch's trademark and we were a far more naive culture then.
Favorite line: "Those toenails dry yet, sweetheart? We got some dancin' to do." Moral of the story: "Don't turn away from love, Sailor."
Verdict: enjoyed the road trip part of "Wild at Heart." Maybe not as much as my own road trip - I far prefer an admiring trucker, parental humor and thick slices of salty ham - but an appropriately weird way for a non-believer to celebrate a purported return from the dead.
As our hero put it so succinctly, "Rockin' good news." And weird all the way through.
But would I want it any other way?
The first order of business was a drive to the Northern Neck to see my parents.
Cruising down Route 360, I wound up in the left hand lane which became a problem when a monster truck came up behind me. There was nowhere for me to move over and since I was going 63 in a 60 mph zone, the driver was not happy.
Sorry, buddy, nothing I can do.
Further on, I spotted a cop on the median, his radar gun pointed directly at traffic. I wasn't in the least worried; since I don't speed, Johnny Law doesn't concern me.
After passing the cop, I was able to pull into the right lane and let Mr. Big Truck pass me by. The funny part? He didn't blow by.
Instead, he slowed down next to me, smiled his best smile and saluted me. He and I both knew my old lady driving had just saved him from an Easter speeding ticket.
From there, he became my guardian angel, politely following a few car lengths behind me for the next 45 minutes until I put on my signal to turn off toward my parents' hamlet.
When he saw that, he flashed his lights, saluted me again and waved goodbye, continuing on.
It had been in Tappahannock that I'd first seen cars with people - men and women - in Easter hats. It seemed like such a throwback. Being the card-carrying heathen that I am, I'd almost forgotten the holiday.
But of course my Mom hadn't and she was putting a ham in the oven as I arrived.
Part of the reason for my visit was to help her file their taxes online, a slow process given their limited wi-fi accessibility, but I persevered, as Dad read the newspapers in the family room with me and Mom puttered about nearby in the kitchen.
At one point, I jokingly called out to her, asking about any gambling winnings.
Without so much as rustling his Washington Post, my father responded nonchalantly from behind his paper. "I don't think she has any and I don't report mine."
I cracked up at his casual reply. Before the afternoon was over, he'd be watching horse racing on TV, a long-time passion of his. I have childhood memories of stopping after church so he could pick up The Daily Racing Form at the drugstore.
It was a gorgeous day to be at the river, sunny and almost 70 degrees, their property covered in daffodils and hyacinths in bloom. When I finally said my goodbyes, it was to try to make it home in time for Movie Club at Strange Matter.
My first mistake was in not laying claim to one of the front row recliners when I walked in, so I had to settle for a regular chair. That won't happen again. Live and learn, girl.
Usually Movie Club's starting time is a loosey-goosey affair, but Strange Matter had a show immediately after the film tonight, so for a change the film started on time. I'd ordered a bowl of chili beforehand, but the film was already in progress when I heard my name called out loudly from behind the bar and I went to claim my dinner.
On the (somewhat) big screen tonight was "Wild at Heart," chosen as a tease to the upcoming Twin Peaks festival, The Great Southern. And, sure, I'd seen it when it came out in 1990, but all I remembered was how over the top it seemed at the time.
Not a lot's changed in a quarter of a century.
It had all the '80s trademarks: huge hair, high-waisted jeans, red fingernails, lots of Spandex, a metal band. Most significantly, women had strong eyebrows as opposed to the over-plucked lines that pass for eyebrows now. Thank you, Brooke Shields.
The supposedly southern accents sounded completely fake and put on, there were still so many huge '70s cars around and seat belt-wearing (even for children) was non-existent.
One line that particularly struck me was Laura Dern's concern about the growing hole in the ozone layer, to which Nicolas Cage assures her it won't be an issue in their lifetime. Sadly, called that one wrong.
It was interesting being in a room full of people who had either been zygotes or in diapers when the film first came out. Several spent more time looking at their phones than the film despite how bizarre it was.
One girl kept taking photos of the screen. Why? There was a lot of awkward, inappropriate laughter at things not intended to be funny.
As opposed to actual humor, such as Cage responding with, "Man, I had a boner with a capital "O" in his pseudo-Elvis accent or, "You really are desperately cute, baby" when he can't figure out the machinations of his girlfriend's mind.
Maybe it's just been too long, but felt clobbered over the head with weirdness for the sake of weirdness, and, yes, I remember that was David Lynch's trademark and we were a far more naive culture then.
Favorite line: "Those toenails dry yet, sweetheart? We got some dancin' to do." Moral of the story: "Don't turn away from love, Sailor."
Verdict: enjoyed the road trip part of "Wild at Heart." Maybe not as much as my own road trip - I far prefer an admiring trucker, parental humor and thick slices of salty ham - but an appropriately weird way for a non-believer to celebrate a purported return from the dead.
As our hero put it so succinctly, "Rockin' good news." And weird all the way through.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Did I Happen to Mention?
You know it's a good day when it ends with listening to a) Julia Fordham's "Porcelain" and b) the Luther Vandross Pandora station.
First stop was the Richmond Jewish Food Festival at the Jewish Community Center, where the line for food spanned the building and into the heated tent. Fortunately, the line moved quickly and there were plenty of volunteers, so before we knew it, there were people asking us what we wanted to eat.
Never mind that they were navigating mud puddles and sloppy patches of trodden lawn, every volunteer had a smile and a good attitude for the hungry masses. Our order, matzo ball soup, brisket, broccoli kugel, potato latkes, stuffed cabbage and Israeli beer made for a laden tray.
We found seating at a table in the cafe with three women who complimented us for our wisdom in only choosing one dinner and four sides. "We were little piggies," the woman in a fur coat and muddy boots said. "You did it the right way."
At the very least, we did it the way that allowed us to have an afternoon once we left the JCC. Others seemed destined for naps.
The next stop was the VMFA to see the Impressionist paintings finally released from the Mellon estate after Paul Mellon's wife Bunny died last year. Although we were only able to locate three of the five pieces recently added to the collection, they were worth seeing.
Come on, when are a new Seraut, Gaugin and Pissaro not worth checking out?
Naturally, we ended up at Amuse for happy hour, where I took in a Double Happiness (lychee liqueur and champagne with coconut jelles) while discussing current events: Charlie Hebdo, Elizabeth Warren and John Kerry.
Once the dining room had emptied out a bit and the soundtrack mellowed to "Chim Chim Cheree," we moved on to Nautilus Sauvignon Blanc, a wine I'd first tasted at the Australian embassy last year. The sky provided a scenic panorama over the Pauley Center as we sipped and talked about mariachi bands, low-tech accounting and women who drink wine.
Leaving the museum after it had closed, we filled the gap until movie time at Secco, noticing a guy who arrived with a beverage in hand. Who in the world has the nerve to show up at a wine bar with a beverage? As our server observed, if the owner had been there, he'd have been thrown out on his ear.
Over glasses of Chinon and bites of pork rilletes with cornichons, we watched as the mostly empty bar became crowded with new arrivals and pleasantly intoxicated couples. At one point, a couple became rowdy, causing the server to observe, "That's okay for Saturday night, but not on Sunday evening." The couple soon left.
As did we because Movie Club was happening tonight at Strange Matter and we wanted to score recliners in the front row. The crowd was small but mighty for the Coen Brothers' second feature, "Raising Arizona."
I don't know about you, but I hadn't seen this movie since it was in theaters, so it was a delight to revisit the story of a couple desperate to have a child of their own. Nicolas Cage looked so young while all the usual suspects - John Goodman, Frances McDormand - were there.
It's impossible not to enjoy an evening of vintage film punctuated with trivia questions and prize giveaways (imagine winning a copy of "Lord of War" for mumbling the correct answer). Be still my heart, next month is the Patrick Swayze classic "Road House."
By the time the day was winding down, it was time for Lallier champagne and some vintage soul. I may not recognize Brian McKnight when I hear his name, but his dulcet tones are unmistakable. And don't get me started on Stevie Wonder's "That Girl." Pure heaven.
It's the kind of thing that's not only okay for Saturday night but also Sunday evening. And then some.
First stop was the Richmond Jewish Food Festival at the Jewish Community Center, where the line for food spanned the building and into the heated tent. Fortunately, the line moved quickly and there were plenty of volunteers, so before we knew it, there were people asking us what we wanted to eat.
Never mind that they were navigating mud puddles and sloppy patches of trodden lawn, every volunteer had a smile and a good attitude for the hungry masses. Our order, matzo ball soup, brisket, broccoli kugel, potato latkes, stuffed cabbage and Israeli beer made for a laden tray.
We found seating at a table in the cafe with three women who complimented us for our wisdom in only choosing one dinner and four sides. "We were little piggies," the woman in a fur coat and muddy boots said. "You did it the right way."
At the very least, we did it the way that allowed us to have an afternoon once we left the JCC. Others seemed destined for naps.
The next stop was the VMFA to see the Impressionist paintings finally released from the Mellon estate after Paul Mellon's wife Bunny died last year. Although we were only able to locate three of the five pieces recently added to the collection, they were worth seeing.
Come on, when are a new Seraut, Gaugin and Pissaro not worth checking out?
Naturally, we ended up at Amuse for happy hour, where I took in a Double Happiness (lychee liqueur and champagne with coconut jelles) while discussing current events: Charlie Hebdo, Elizabeth Warren and John Kerry.
Once the dining room had emptied out a bit and the soundtrack mellowed to "Chim Chim Cheree," we moved on to Nautilus Sauvignon Blanc, a wine I'd first tasted at the Australian embassy last year. The sky provided a scenic panorama over the Pauley Center as we sipped and talked about mariachi bands, low-tech accounting and women who drink wine.
Leaving the museum after it had closed, we filled the gap until movie time at Secco, noticing a guy who arrived with a beverage in hand. Who in the world has the nerve to show up at a wine bar with a beverage? As our server observed, if the owner had been there, he'd have been thrown out on his ear.
Over glasses of Chinon and bites of pork rilletes with cornichons, we watched as the mostly empty bar became crowded with new arrivals and pleasantly intoxicated couples. At one point, a couple became rowdy, causing the server to observe, "That's okay for Saturday night, but not on Sunday evening." The couple soon left.
As did we because Movie Club was happening tonight at Strange Matter and we wanted to score recliners in the front row. The crowd was small but mighty for the Coen Brothers' second feature, "Raising Arizona."
I don't know about you, but I hadn't seen this movie since it was in theaters, so it was a delight to revisit the story of a couple desperate to have a child of their own. Nicolas Cage looked so young while all the usual suspects - John Goodman, Frances McDormand - were there.
It's impossible not to enjoy an evening of vintage film punctuated with trivia questions and prize giveaways (imagine winning a copy of "Lord of War" for mumbling the correct answer). Be still my heart, next month is the Patrick Swayze classic "Road House."
By the time the day was winding down, it was time for Lallier champagne and some vintage soul. I may not recognize Brian McKnight when I hear his name, but his dulcet tones are unmistakable. And don't get me started on Stevie Wonder's "That Girl." Pure heaven.
It's the kind of thing that's not only okay for Saturday night but also Sunday evening. And then some.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
The Swayziest Christmas of Them All
Sometimes you make sacrifices for the right people.
Among those I made this weekend were sawing off the sappy base of my parents' Christmas tree until my arm went numb. Twenty eight trips up and down three flights of stairs to dig out obscure holiday decorations from the storage floor, where dust mites are outnumbered only by the minutiae of a half century of marriage.
My parents had asked me to come down yesterday and help them get ready for Christmas, yet by early evening, they were suggesting I spend the night in order to provide more assistance today.
Putting aside plans to watch the boat parade of lights, catch "Holiday Inn" at Movieland, see musicologist Christopher King deejay gospel at Steady Sounds and attend a friend's Christmas party, I stayed.
If I can't be a good daughter at the holidays, then when?
After my final effort of the weekend - making a pound cake - I made a beeline for the great outdoors, determined to enjoy a riverside walk in the 60-degree late afternoon sunshine, returning to the house lomg enough to remove the cake from the oven and kiss my parents goodbye.
Much as I love them, I was more than ready for some outside contact beyond the man who'd greeted Dad and me at the dump this morning.
I needed Movie Club.
Tonight's installment was looking to be just the holiday boost I craved: "Mystery Science Theater 3000: Santa Claus Conquers the Martians." You better believe I was cleaned up, dressed for the city and walking over to Strange Matter within an hour of getting home from the country.
My parents would never understand.
I walked into the venue I've been to so many times to find a row of recliners lined up in front of a screen set on the stage. Behind them were small tables and chairs for a cafe-like cinebistro setting. I was right where I needed to be..
Ordering a bowl of vegan chili with Twin Oaks "chorizo", the only answer the bartender needed from me was whether I wanted real cheese or vegan cheese. Excuse me, but if it's vegan it technically isn't cheese (just like those vile individually wrapped American cheese food product slices, which are made with vegetable oil and no actual dairy. Blech!), although some would say I'm arguing semantics here.
Drink in hand, I found myself a table and chair directly behind the recliners and waited for the movie to begin. When my chili was delivered, I found it jalapeno-spicy and chock full of beans. Considering the massive cheeseburgers Mom had made for dinner last night, I could forego meat tonight.
While "Santa Claus Conquers the Martians" had been made in 1964, the "Mystery Science Theater 3000" version had been made in 1991, meaning we were going to get cultural references from two entirely different periods. I was in heaven.
Host Andrew warned us that the original movie has consistently been listed as one of the 100 worst of all time and it didn't take long to see why.
For starters, they obviously didn't have budget for so much as a copy editor since the credits read "custume designer" not "costume." Yeesh. There was also a credit for "Martian furniture." Somebody's mother must have been very proud.
And, given that it was 1964, Santa still smoked a pipe. I guess he hadn't seen the surgeon general's warning yet. And speaking of, his elves all liked like miniature C. Everett Koops (for those who remmeber who he was).
I was glad we were seeing the MST version because all the best lines came from the exiled spaceman and his robots. "You know, elf tastes just like chicken." When a Martian asks what Christmas is, the MST robot says, "A Christian holiday ruined by commercialism." Bingo.
On the other hand, it didn't take long for me to begin wondering how many people in the room were getting the 1991 references.
Walking into the Martian spaceship control room, a cliched '60s idea of a high tech center with reel to reel tape machines lining the walls, the MST robot says, "But first a tour of Paisley Park." I laughed out loud at the Prince reference, but no one else did.
Ditto allusions to the book "Alive," the movie "Ice Station Zebra" and actor Larry Storch. References to Jimmy Durante and McGyver. Or when the robot sang in a whiny voice, "Old man, take a look at your elf, I'm a lot like you are."
I'm just saying that I seriously doubt many people in the room knew that the "whipped cream and other delights" reference was the name of an iconic Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass album. Or what "The Long Goodbye" was.
Some humor is timeless, though, such as, "And now for your enjoyment, some suggestive scenes of jets refueling."
There was no forgetting that the original film was from the '60s and had a finite budget because of things like an actor in a polar bear costume, the headpiece clearly separate from the body or a robot that looked like a tin foil box with a coffee can on top.
When Santa said, "Falderal and fiddle dee dee," the robots chided him, saying, "Language, Santa, language!" Hysterical.
For those who don't know, the premise of the movie is that the Martian children are quiet, remote and very unhappy because they are fed information but never allowed to be children with freedom. Once the Martians kidnap two earth children who tell them where to find Santa, they nab him too. Then they're all taken to Mars, where the fat man makes everybody laugh because he's such a jolly fellow.
"It's the little signs of drug abuse," one of the MST robots observes about the corny laughter.
Patrick Swayze and the movie "Roadhouse" were a recurring theme throughout the commentary, probably because the movie was barely two years old at that point. Lines from it were repeatedly quoted and worked into the Martian story to hilarious results. You know, "my way or the highway" and "You're gonna be my regular Saturday night thing, baby" kind of stuff.
In Santa's Martian workshop, he had a machine instead of elves to help him make toys. When a load of baseball bats came out, the robot quipped, "Okay, those are marked for the L.A.P.D." Some black humor still resonates.
Eventually, the earth children get homesick, and the mother Martian explains to others that the kids miss their friends and family. "And Nintendo and sugar," an MST robot cracks.
By the time the movie ended with a singalong, I was pretty clear on why it had been so firmly entrenched in the worst of lists for 50 years. Which is not to say it hadn't been great fun, a real time capsule of two completely different eras. One of the robots even sang a violent Christmas carol about "Road House" to close out the MST part of the movie.
What's also notable is that Movie Club doesn't make a habit of showing perfectly awful movies. This had been a holiday selection (yet, in part chosen for its awfulness) while next month's will be something far superior, namely "Raising Arizona." I'll be there.
The funny part was that after the last of the trivia questions and prizes handed out after Santa conquered the Martians, host Andrew announced that, "Inspired by tonight, we're planning to show "Road House" in the future."
I. Can. Not. Wait.
We're talking about a film with the line, "That gal's got entirely too many brains to have an ass like that." It'll be a night of '80s splendor, I feel sure of it.
Should Mom and Dad ask me to stay over that night, I'm afraid their needs will have to be sacrificed on the altar of Patrick Swayze.
Oh, yea, Movie Club's gonna be my monthly Sunday night thing, baby.
Among those I made this weekend were sawing off the sappy base of my parents' Christmas tree until my arm went numb. Twenty eight trips up and down three flights of stairs to dig out obscure holiday decorations from the storage floor, where dust mites are outnumbered only by the minutiae of a half century of marriage.
My parents had asked me to come down yesterday and help them get ready for Christmas, yet by early evening, they were suggesting I spend the night in order to provide more assistance today.
Putting aside plans to watch the boat parade of lights, catch "Holiday Inn" at Movieland, see musicologist Christopher King deejay gospel at Steady Sounds and attend a friend's Christmas party, I stayed.
If I can't be a good daughter at the holidays, then when?
After my final effort of the weekend - making a pound cake - I made a beeline for the great outdoors, determined to enjoy a riverside walk in the 60-degree late afternoon sunshine, returning to the house lomg enough to remove the cake from the oven and kiss my parents goodbye.
Much as I love them, I was more than ready for some outside contact beyond the man who'd greeted Dad and me at the dump this morning.
I needed Movie Club.
Tonight's installment was looking to be just the holiday boost I craved: "Mystery Science Theater 3000: Santa Claus Conquers the Martians." You better believe I was cleaned up, dressed for the city and walking over to Strange Matter within an hour of getting home from the country.
My parents would never understand.
I walked into the venue I've been to so many times to find a row of recliners lined up in front of a screen set on the stage. Behind them were small tables and chairs for a cafe-like cinebistro setting. I was right where I needed to be..
Ordering a bowl of vegan chili with Twin Oaks "chorizo", the only answer the bartender needed from me was whether I wanted real cheese or vegan cheese. Excuse me, but if it's vegan it technically isn't cheese (just like those vile individually wrapped American cheese food product slices, which are made with vegetable oil and no actual dairy. Blech!), although some would say I'm arguing semantics here.
Drink in hand, I found myself a table and chair directly behind the recliners and waited for the movie to begin. When my chili was delivered, I found it jalapeno-spicy and chock full of beans. Considering the massive cheeseburgers Mom had made for dinner last night, I could forego meat tonight.
While "Santa Claus Conquers the Martians" had been made in 1964, the "Mystery Science Theater 3000" version had been made in 1991, meaning we were going to get cultural references from two entirely different periods. I was in heaven.
Host Andrew warned us that the original movie has consistently been listed as one of the 100 worst of all time and it didn't take long to see why.
For starters, they obviously didn't have budget for so much as a copy editor since the credits read "custume designer" not "costume." Yeesh. There was also a credit for "Martian furniture." Somebody's mother must have been very proud.
And, given that it was 1964, Santa still smoked a pipe. I guess he hadn't seen the surgeon general's warning yet. And speaking of, his elves all liked like miniature C. Everett Koops (for those who remmeber who he was).
I was glad we were seeing the MST version because all the best lines came from the exiled spaceman and his robots. "You know, elf tastes just like chicken." When a Martian asks what Christmas is, the MST robot says, "A Christian holiday ruined by commercialism." Bingo.
On the other hand, it didn't take long for me to begin wondering how many people in the room were getting the 1991 references.
Walking into the Martian spaceship control room, a cliched '60s idea of a high tech center with reel to reel tape machines lining the walls, the MST robot says, "But first a tour of Paisley Park." I laughed out loud at the Prince reference, but no one else did.
Ditto allusions to the book "Alive," the movie "Ice Station Zebra" and actor Larry Storch. References to Jimmy Durante and McGyver. Or when the robot sang in a whiny voice, "Old man, take a look at your elf, I'm a lot like you are."
I'm just saying that I seriously doubt many people in the room knew that the "whipped cream and other delights" reference was the name of an iconic Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass album. Or what "The Long Goodbye" was.
Some humor is timeless, though, such as, "And now for your enjoyment, some suggestive scenes of jets refueling."
There was no forgetting that the original film was from the '60s and had a finite budget because of things like an actor in a polar bear costume, the headpiece clearly separate from the body or a robot that looked like a tin foil box with a coffee can on top.
When Santa said, "Falderal and fiddle dee dee," the robots chided him, saying, "Language, Santa, language!" Hysterical.
For those who don't know, the premise of the movie is that the Martian children are quiet, remote and very unhappy because they are fed information but never allowed to be children with freedom. Once the Martians kidnap two earth children who tell them where to find Santa, they nab him too. Then they're all taken to Mars, where the fat man makes everybody laugh because he's such a jolly fellow.
"It's the little signs of drug abuse," one of the MST robots observes about the corny laughter.
Patrick Swayze and the movie "Roadhouse" were a recurring theme throughout the commentary, probably because the movie was barely two years old at that point. Lines from it were repeatedly quoted and worked into the Martian story to hilarious results. You know, "my way or the highway" and "You're gonna be my regular Saturday night thing, baby" kind of stuff.
In Santa's Martian workshop, he had a machine instead of elves to help him make toys. When a load of baseball bats came out, the robot quipped, "Okay, those are marked for the L.A.P.D." Some black humor still resonates.
Eventually, the earth children get homesick, and the mother Martian explains to others that the kids miss their friends and family. "And Nintendo and sugar," an MST robot cracks.
By the time the movie ended with a singalong, I was pretty clear on why it had been so firmly entrenched in the worst of lists for 50 years. Which is not to say it hadn't been great fun, a real time capsule of two completely different eras. One of the robots even sang a violent Christmas carol about "Road House" to close out the MST part of the movie.
What's also notable is that Movie Club doesn't make a habit of showing perfectly awful movies. This had been a holiday selection (yet, in part chosen for its awfulness) while next month's will be something far superior, namely "Raising Arizona." I'll be there.
The funny part was that after the last of the trivia questions and prizes handed out after Santa conquered the Martians, host Andrew announced that, "Inspired by tonight, we're planning to show "Road House" in the future."
I. Can. Not. Wait.
We're talking about a film with the line, "That gal's got entirely too many brains to have an ass like that." It'll be a night of '80s splendor, I feel sure of it.
Should Mom and Dad ask me to stay over that night, I'm afraid their needs will have to be sacrificed on the altar of Patrick Swayze.
Oh, yea, Movie Club's gonna be my monthly Sunday night thing, baby.
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