I'd have been fine, but I broke the seal.
Stay with me here.
I've spent my 48 hours at home focused and solo, despite Paris still very much occupying my mind, a fact not helped by comments from readers about their own undying affection for the City of Light.
Not surprisingly, the first song I needed to hear when I got home was Joni Mitchell's "Free Man in Paris" and it's been pretty much on repeat in the car, stirring up thoughts about how different experiencing Paris must have been in 1974 when she wrote the song than my recent adventures.
And as I allow all that to work itself out of my brain and pores, I turned my attention to home and hearth with laundry, vigorous house cleaning (ahem, even baseboards...at least a few of them) and gardening (Lowes times two in one afternoon, oh, my).
My little world returned to an orderly and attractive comfort zone, I could today focus on earning a living: editing, scheduling interviews and studying notes. I made appointments, I registered, I waited in lines.
The way I see it, it was the walk that weakened me.
Three blocks from home and I spot a friend for the first time since he moved to the neighborhood. We spend 15 minutes catching up in front of Saison, a breakfast sandwich cooling in its see-through container as we chat.
Less than a block away, I hear a friendly if accusatory, "Hey, stranger!" from a neighborhood acquaintance when I walk by the open door of his restoration business. I pause to explain my absence and he shares that a good friend of his left yesterday for Paris.
"We traded her for you, I guess," he jokes.
Walking away, it occurs to me that these are the first real conversations I've had since I got back. I've been existing completely in a vacuum, righting my world, processing my trip and decompressing alone.
Very much not my usual style.
But the seeds had been planted and in no time, I'm thinking it's already been entirely too long (hello, two whole days) since I've had the pleasure of company and conversation. I thought I was fine keeping to myself, at least right up until I started running into people I wanted to talk to.
Naturally, I did what any phone-hating person short on friendly contact would do: call up a friend and suggest getting together tonight.
"And do what?" he inquires, half whiny 8-year old and half curious about my purpose. I'm honest, saying all I'm looking for is some chatter after my self-imposed isolation.
Luckily, he bites. Grateful, I arrive with show and tell.
When I suggest My Noodle & Bar, he says it's the girlfriend's new favorite place. The July exodus of the city means it's not even a challenge to find a Monument Avenue parking space. I want a tiki booth, he wants the bar with backless stools and we compromise on a banquette for them with a comfy chair for me.
Meanwhile, playing overhead is the soundtrack to much younger days for two dancing fools at the table: "Good Times," "Ring My Bell," "Stayin' Alive" and a couple of worthy Al Green songs for slow dance grinding.
Did they see us coming or what?
Even without music to break a platform shoe by (unfortunately, she said, they were from legendary Grace Street boutique Sunny Day), the meal unfolded appealingly with a special of noodle-covered shrimp flash fried before plates of garlic beef, broccoli with chicken and ginger beef occupied our attention.
Of course I wanted to hear all about their Corolla trip last week (his boogie board stood sentry at the front door of his house) and they were a bit curious about my French outing. When it was my turn in the spotlight, I answered questions, shared stories and teased out their own long-ago Parisian experiences.
Chances are, I blathered like an idiot after my time in solitary confinement.
Since the meal took no time, we kept the social intercourse going at his house with my show and tell collection. A copy of Paul McCartney's set list on this current tour. The new Anderson Gallery retrospective book, chock full of pictures of most of her art professors from the '70s, long before I arrived here.
Now I know that the friendly artist I met in 2000 as an older man was once referred to by his students as the "Italian stallion" for his bed-hopping antics.
And while I'd brought a dozen or so albums from my vinyl collection - carefully chosen to include some I knew she'd flip for and others straight up his alley - the one that had him swooning and most envious (because he didn't own a copy) was Badfinger's "Straight Up."
For him, it had been one of those "everybody-owns-it-so-I didn't-have-to-but-I-still-heard-it a-million-times" records, so tonight was the first time he'd heard it in 40 years. It held up, we agreed.
High art form British power pop circa 1971, mostly produced by Todd Rundgren, with a few songs produced by George Harrison on uber-hip Apple Records. All that and "Baby Blue," "Day After Day," "It's Over," in other words, classic stuff for Beatles fans still smarting from the band's breakup at the turn of the decade.
All of which, as you might imagine, we discussed in earnest.
My fault, entirely. If I hadn't crossed the street, I wouldn't have seen my friend the new neighbor and I wouldn't have endangered my self-imposed isolation.
Now that I have, there's no going back. No matter what.
Showing posts with label the anderson gallery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the anderson gallery. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Not at My Dive Bar You Don't
It was time for vacation debriefing.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
A Little Wisp of a Scherzo
You start slow and you build on a hot Wednesday evening.
Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.
No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.
Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.
As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.
I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.
Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.
As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.
Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"
The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.
Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.
Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.
A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.
Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.
The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.
I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.
Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.
The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).
Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.
When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.
And just one fillet, not two.
But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.
It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.
The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.
"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.
It was.
Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.
Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..
I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.
Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.
That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.
Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.
Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.
As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.
Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.
Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.
Brilliant.
The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.
When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.
"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."
I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.
She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.
Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.
She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.
It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.
Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.
On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"
Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.
Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms like "big boys don't cry."
During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.
It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.
"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.
They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."
The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.
I just know it was really beautiful.
My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.
I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.
That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.
By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.
Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.
"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.
It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.
But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.
Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.
Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.
No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.
Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.
As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.
I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.
Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.
As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.
Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"
The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.
Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.
Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.
A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.
Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.
The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.
I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.
Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.
The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).
Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.
When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.
And just one fillet, not two.
But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.
It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.
The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.
"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.
It was.
Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.
Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..
I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.
Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.
That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.
Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.
Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.
As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.
Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.
Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.
Brilliant.
The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.
When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.
"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."
I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.
She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.
Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.
She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.
It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.
Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.
On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"
Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.
Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms like "big boys don't cry."
During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.
It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.
"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.
They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."
The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.
I just know it was really beautiful.
My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.
I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.
That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.
By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.
Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.
"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.
It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.
But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.
Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Look How Modern
A rainy evening called for an escape and my second French film in three days.
That, and having to go eat to earn a living afterwards.
The Anderson Gallery showed the second installment of their February film series in conjunction with Brian Ulrich's consumer exhibit, "Copia."
Tonight we traveled back to Paris in the mid-'60s with "Playtime," a film by Jacques Tati that looks at the obsession with material goods.
Ahh, there was the tie-in to Ulrich's show.
Tati also starred in the movie as the bumbling Monsieur Hulot, who never seemed to talk but always managed to be in the middle of activity that had nothing to do with him.
His rumpled raincoat and unlit pipe only added to the sense of an absent-minded comedic fool.
Before the film began, the gallery's director Ashley spoke about the elaborate (and costly) specially constructed set, so massive it needed its own power plant.
So costly Tati had to stop and start making the film three times just to break to raise money.
The result was a visual masterpiece, always stunning to look at and inevitably with scores of things happening in the background.
The kind of film best seen twice to catch what you missed the first time.
During the opening credits, the one that caught my eye was "Dialogue anglaise...Art Buchwald."
In last week's Anderson Gallery film, "The Store," Buchwald had been the speaker at a Neiman-Marcus event near the end of the film.
Tonight, here he was again, providing English for a French movie.
Funny how you can not think about someone for years and then you get a one-two punch to jog your memory out of nowhere.
One of the big reasons I relish old movies is the cultural references and I was sure a French movie made between 1964 and 1967 would be full of archaic details.
And it was (nuns in long skirts and "flying" hats) but not nearly as much as I'd expected because the film looked at a futuristic Paris where all the buildings are tall and made of glass, furniture is straight and uncomfortable and people move in straight lines.
It's not a particularly appealing vision of the future and sadly, a lot of it came to be.
The opening scene takes place at Orly Airport and a woman is fussing over her departing husband, making sure he has everything necessary for his trip and his health,
"You've got your vitamins, you've got your cigarettes and your pajamas," she reassures him.
What else could a man need?
A Frenchman I know sat in the front row, laughing loudly at all the physical humor, but eventually cutting out before the movie came to its conclusion.
The M. Hulot character was the everyman, coming up against all this modernity (pleather chairs that squeak, speeding elevators, control panels) while seeking nothing more than human interaction.
One scene of a trade exhibition has a group of women tourists enthralled as they enter.
"Come on, girls, look how modern it is," one exclaims, leading her pals into the exhibition. "They even have American stuff!"
It's all our fault. We're the ones who led the world astray and here was the proof.
The movie played like a silent film, with all the sounds unnaturally amplified as if they were dubbed in.
Wiping feet on a doormat, you heard every bristle of the mat move.
An office worker coming down an endless linoleum hall made distinctive tap sounds with every step of his shiny shoes.
For sheer comedic value, I'd give high marks to the 45-minute restaurant scene that defined the movie.
In it, a restaurant is abuzz with construction workers, trying to finish the details before opening night when people start arriving in droves.
As it is, the host is seating people while things are being nailed, pieces slid into place and food hurriedly served.
I couldn't help but wonder how often this scenario plays out in a new restaurant, although probably without the comedic flourishes of Tati.
When part of a wooden structure hanging from the ceiling partially falls, a guest makes the most of it, cordoning off a private dance party for only those he "allows" into the area beyond the hanging pieces.
With music wildly playing, he opens and closes the "gate" to his own private soiree in the middle of a restaurant exploding with people, servers and construction workers.
Meanwhile on the real dance floor, mod looking couples with girls in short cocktail dresses and opera length gloves, are doing the jerk and shaking their booty incessantly.
It was 1967, after all.
Needless to day, I got no mid-century shots of Paris' quaint neighborhoods or historic landmarks because "Playtime" was all about what came after that.
Clearly, Tati could already see that the future wasn't looking especially appealing when he imagined it way back when.
Tant pis. It sucks to be right sometimes.
That, and having to go eat to earn a living afterwards.
The Anderson Gallery showed the second installment of their February film series in conjunction with Brian Ulrich's consumer exhibit, "Copia."
Tonight we traveled back to Paris in the mid-'60s with "Playtime," a film by Jacques Tati that looks at the obsession with material goods.
Ahh, there was the tie-in to Ulrich's show.
Tati also starred in the movie as the bumbling Monsieur Hulot, who never seemed to talk but always managed to be in the middle of activity that had nothing to do with him.
His rumpled raincoat and unlit pipe only added to the sense of an absent-minded comedic fool.
Before the film began, the gallery's director Ashley spoke about the elaborate (and costly) specially constructed set, so massive it needed its own power plant.
So costly Tati had to stop and start making the film three times just to break to raise money.
The result was a visual masterpiece, always stunning to look at and inevitably with scores of things happening in the background.
The kind of film best seen twice to catch what you missed the first time.
During the opening credits, the one that caught my eye was "Dialogue anglaise...Art Buchwald."
In last week's Anderson Gallery film, "The Store," Buchwald had been the speaker at a Neiman-Marcus event near the end of the film.
Tonight, here he was again, providing English for a French movie.
Funny how you can not think about someone for years and then you get a one-two punch to jog your memory out of nowhere.
One of the big reasons I relish old movies is the cultural references and I was sure a French movie made between 1964 and 1967 would be full of archaic details.
And it was (nuns in long skirts and "flying" hats) but not nearly as much as I'd expected because the film looked at a futuristic Paris where all the buildings are tall and made of glass, furniture is straight and uncomfortable and people move in straight lines.
It's not a particularly appealing vision of the future and sadly, a lot of it came to be.
The opening scene takes place at Orly Airport and a woman is fussing over her departing husband, making sure he has everything necessary for his trip and his health,
"You've got your vitamins, you've got your cigarettes and your pajamas," she reassures him.
What else could a man need?
A Frenchman I know sat in the front row, laughing loudly at all the physical humor, but eventually cutting out before the movie came to its conclusion.
The M. Hulot character was the everyman, coming up against all this modernity (pleather chairs that squeak, speeding elevators, control panels) while seeking nothing more than human interaction.
One scene of a trade exhibition has a group of women tourists enthralled as they enter.
"Come on, girls, look how modern it is," one exclaims, leading her pals into the exhibition. "They even have American stuff!"
It's all our fault. We're the ones who led the world astray and here was the proof.
The movie played like a silent film, with all the sounds unnaturally amplified as if they were dubbed in.
Wiping feet on a doormat, you heard every bristle of the mat move.
An office worker coming down an endless linoleum hall made distinctive tap sounds with every step of his shiny shoes.
For sheer comedic value, I'd give high marks to the 45-minute restaurant scene that defined the movie.
In it, a restaurant is abuzz with construction workers, trying to finish the details before opening night when people start arriving in droves.
As it is, the host is seating people while things are being nailed, pieces slid into place and food hurriedly served.
I couldn't help but wonder how often this scenario plays out in a new restaurant, although probably without the comedic flourishes of Tati.
When part of a wooden structure hanging from the ceiling partially falls, a guest makes the most of it, cordoning off a private dance party for only those he "allows" into the area beyond the hanging pieces.
With music wildly playing, he opens and closes the "gate" to his own private soiree in the middle of a restaurant exploding with people, servers and construction workers.
Meanwhile on the real dance floor, mod looking couples with girls in short cocktail dresses and opera length gloves, are doing the jerk and shaking their booty incessantly.
It was 1967, after all.
Needless to day, I got no mid-century shots of Paris' quaint neighborhoods or historic landmarks because "Playtime" was all about what came after that.
Clearly, Tati could already see that the future wasn't looking especially appealing when he imagined it way back when.
Tant pis. It sucks to be right sometimes.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
The Longest Day
How I Spent my Summer Solstice.
1. I watched Balinese dancers in a garden.
They were moving to the Gamelan Raga Kusuma, a community-based ensemble who were playing new and old Balinese music outside the Anderson Gallery.
Which, as you might imagine, is a pretty amazing thing to experience on a very hot and long first day of summer.
The dancers were positively bewitching; they moved different body parts for each and every beat of the music.
And that includes facial gestures, fingers, eyebrows and eyes.
Even smiles came and went with the music, although always controlled smiles, never showing any teeth.
Impeccable timing with small movements allowed them to follow the fastest beat.
In one piece, two dancers squared off trading gestures, even flicking the scarves that hung from their costumes, in a call and response to each other.
And if it was sheen-inducing standing in the garden listening to a Gamelan orchestra play beautiful seven-tone melodies, the dancers in traditional costumes, which wrapped their bodies with heavy, jewel-covered fabrics, must have been sweltering.
They never let on, always appearing placid and pretty in the Summer Solstice sunlight.
Yet again, it was happy hour heaven thanks to the Anderson Gallery's summer series.
2. I had a champagne dinner with two Frenchmen.
Amour was doing a double celebration: their second anniversary and the Summer Solstice.
Best of all, they were doing it with bubbles from Champagne to Virginia.
But what they were really trying to prove is that bubbles pair with every kind of food.
Smoked salmon mousse on buckwheat blinis with candied lemon peel got us started.
Thibaut-Janisson Cuvee D'Etat Blanc de Blanc had the same bright, fresh flavors as the vegetable spring roll with orange/apricot sauce it accompanied.
When it was poured, the owner asked for votes on whether it was a true champagne or not and the majority said French.
The majority were wrong.
An amuse bouche of Comte in puff pastry followed and winemaker Claude Thibaut spoke in his charmingly-accented French to explain his passion for bubbles.
Sole fillet with white and green asparagus and a champagne sauce was paired with Janisson et Fils Brut Rose, a bone dry pink that cut the richness of the fish effortlessly.
From pink we went to blue with Janisson et Fils Brut Bleu and a raisin-stuffed quail on a vegetable nest.
On my way to the W.C., I was introduced to the winemaker and he admitted that this was his favorite pairing of the evening.
With golden raisins in a savory stuffing, and the Bleu enhancing every bite. it was mine, too.
If I were going to start a blue bottle tree, this is what I'd happily drink until I had my tree ablaze in blue.
Brie in puff pastry followed while Claude explained his final wine.
It was everyone's favorite everyday local bubbles, the Thibaud-Janisson Virginia Fizz, with dessert.
Puff pastry with coffee-flavored whipped cream, cherry clafoutis (using Julia Child's recipe) and red berries gratin all worked with the slightly sweeter Fizz.
Replete and completely convinced of the food-worthiness of bubbles, both French and Virginian, the long day sun had finally set into darkness.
By the time I said goodnight to the two Frenchmen, I felt like I'd had the ultimate summer repast.
There was only one way left to celebrate Midsummer Day.
3. I did not dance naked in the moonlight.
Because with all the clouds tonight, there was no moonlight. Luckily, the Druid police hadn't been out.
Anyway, tonight had been all about celebrating the sunlight.
1. I watched Balinese dancers in a garden.
They were moving to the Gamelan Raga Kusuma, a community-based ensemble who were playing new and old Balinese music outside the Anderson Gallery.
Which, as you might imagine, is a pretty amazing thing to experience on a very hot and long first day of summer.
The dancers were positively bewitching; they moved different body parts for each and every beat of the music.
And that includes facial gestures, fingers, eyebrows and eyes.
Even smiles came and went with the music, although always controlled smiles, never showing any teeth.
Impeccable timing with small movements allowed them to follow the fastest beat.
In one piece, two dancers squared off trading gestures, even flicking the scarves that hung from their costumes, in a call and response to each other.
And if it was sheen-inducing standing in the garden listening to a Gamelan orchestra play beautiful seven-tone melodies, the dancers in traditional costumes, which wrapped their bodies with heavy, jewel-covered fabrics, must have been sweltering.
They never let on, always appearing placid and pretty in the Summer Solstice sunlight.
Yet again, it was happy hour heaven thanks to the Anderson Gallery's summer series.
2. I had a champagne dinner with two Frenchmen.
Amour was doing a double celebration: their second anniversary and the Summer Solstice.
Best of all, they were doing it with bubbles from Champagne to Virginia.
But what they were really trying to prove is that bubbles pair with every kind of food.
Smoked salmon mousse on buckwheat blinis with candied lemon peel got us started.
Thibaut-Janisson Cuvee D'Etat Blanc de Blanc had the same bright, fresh flavors as the vegetable spring roll with orange/apricot sauce it accompanied.
When it was poured, the owner asked for votes on whether it was a true champagne or not and the majority said French.
The majority were wrong.
An amuse bouche of Comte in puff pastry followed and winemaker Claude Thibaut spoke in his charmingly-accented French to explain his passion for bubbles.
Sole fillet with white and green asparagus and a champagne sauce was paired with Janisson et Fils Brut Rose, a bone dry pink that cut the richness of the fish effortlessly.
From pink we went to blue with Janisson et Fils Brut Bleu and a raisin-stuffed quail on a vegetable nest.
On my way to the W.C., I was introduced to the winemaker and he admitted that this was his favorite pairing of the evening.
With golden raisins in a savory stuffing, and the Bleu enhancing every bite. it was mine, too.
If I were going to start a blue bottle tree, this is what I'd happily drink until I had my tree ablaze in blue.
Brie in puff pastry followed while Claude explained his final wine.
It was everyone's favorite everyday local bubbles, the Thibaud-Janisson Virginia Fizz, with dessert.
Puff pastry with coffee-flavored whipped cream, cherry clafoutis (using Julia Child's recipe) and red berries gratin all worked with the slightly sweeter Fizz.
Replete and completely convinced of the food-worthiness of bubbles, both French and Virginian, the long day sun had finally set into darkness.
By the time I said goodnight to the two Frenchmen, I felt like I'd had the ultimate summer repast.
There was only one way left to celebrate Midsummer Day.
3. I did not dance naked in the moonlight.
Because with all the clouds tonight, there was no moonlight. Luckily, the Druid police hadn't been out.
Anyway, tonight had been all about celebrating the sunlight.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Art and Gnocchi Make the World Go Round
I've learned that beginning my evening with art all but guarantees a superior follow-up.
The Anderson Gallery was opening a new show, "Environment and Object," a show of contemporary African art.
It was the kind of contemporary art that makes you forget about where the artists are from. The kind that speaks to global issues and recycled materials.
The kind that reassures an art lover that creative people are still making statements and creating beauty even in the 21st century.
Witness Garth Meyers, a South African whose black and white photographs border on the abstract.
His shots of forest scenes acknowledge the lines of the forest and the shapes of it, in a way that makes as much of an artistic statement as a document of a living place.
Cheri Samba's "Fighting Mosquitoes" comes across as street art, with a couple fighting off the pesky insects in their bedroom (using a bow and arrow and slingshot).
The acrylic piece seeks to spread the truth (Malaria kills more people than AIDS) but with a humorous message.
"My dear, kill those on the right while I battle the lefists," says the caption.
Of all the compelling pieces in the exhibit, the one I vote for purchase by the VMFA would be Sokari Douglas Camp's sculpture of a woman shooting a rifle in her mouth.
Her chest and face are covered in pink paint. The piece, a commentary on oil greed and militant violence in the Nigerian Delta, is striking for its presence and message.
You can't not look at it.
Congolese Sammy Baloj was quickly passed over by younger visitors who perhaps could not see the weight of his photographs.
Former mines were shot in color and over them were superimposed images of Belgian colonial administrators and Congo prisoners in black and white.
The juxtaposition of another generation of the ruling and enslaved people of the Congo over the mine ruins today was a stark reminder of the perils of colonization in a time before us.
Leaving the gallery after such a heady look at African art, I must have looked pleased, or satisfied maybe just open to anything.
Walking down Franklin Street to my car, a student in a group of four smiled and said hello.
Moments later, a man enthusiastically greeted me., followed by a group of three, all of whom said good evening.
Non-scientific studies have now shown that viewing art makes you more attractive to the opposite sex.
Next on my dance card was Rowland's to meet friends, including my girlfriend's out-of-town beau.
They were running late, so the other couple and I proceeded to start the party without them.
We stuck our heads in the kitchen to say hello to Virginia and Bruce, owners and chefs, before settling on a table because the bar was mobbed.
My friends were on their way to the VMFA party with Richard Branson (I opted out, $100 a ticket being too rich for my blood) and dressed in their Bygones best to impress.
For dinner, I tried Virginia's ceviche over half a baked sweet potato, a surprisingly complementary combination.
When our friend arrived with her man in tow, we did a round of introductions before settling in to chat.
The poor guy had just spent four hours driving soul-sucking 95 from Baltimore, so we made sure he got a cocktail pronto.
After hearing about him from my friend for nearly a year, it was fun to finally get the opportunity to chat with him and get a sense of who he is.
You want your friends to find good people to share their lives and my friend has succeeded beautifully.
It made me happy to enjoy the company of someone who makes her so happy.
All of a sudden it was the bewitching hour and they were off to the VMFA ("Wanna try to sneak in?" my friend asked) and I was off to the Roosevelt.
I'd never ventured in on a weekend night, having heard stories of long waits and big crowds, but it was after 10:30, so I figured I was safe.
One lonely stool at the end of the bar awaited me, but I was immediately greeted by one of my favorite musician/bartenders who had just recently made the switch to the Roosevelt.
His former employer wasn't thrilled, but as he said, "Baby's gotta have new shoes."
This is one guy who never fails to crack me up or satisfy my need to talk music.
It was the perfect chance to give him a hard time for not having let me know...and order some Barboursville Viognier.
He went back to being a worker be and just as I turned for my wine, a musician friend showed up at the bar.
It had been ages since we saw each other; he'd been on tour, we 'd missed each other at the last Sprout show and I was thrilled to unexpectedly see him.
He invited me to join him and another friend at their table, starting a three-hour conversation sitting on one of the pillows I'd made and enjoying my friends.
Because food is my weakness (well, one of many) I couldn't resist ordering the gnocchi mac and cheese style, a dish that continues to thrill everyone who tastes it.
I can only imagine how much more popular it'll become once colder weather hits.
My friend got the chocolate Coca-Cola cake and generously shared. My, my but that was a delicious thing and so Southern tasting.
To balance out the hormones at the table, my girlfriend joined us and I made the introductions.
Since she used to work in the music business and be in a band, I got to hear lots of stories from Richmond's musical past, always fun for me.
She asked if I'd tried the new tequila, Hussong's Reposado which came in what looked like a black stoneware moonshine jug, complete with thumb holder.
I decided to forsake the grape for the night for the sake of some nice woody agave.
Kind of like I'd forsaken Richard Branson for three friends who were happy to sit with me until closing time discussing anything and everything.
And they didn't charge me for the pleasure of their company.
The Anderson Gallery was opening a new show, "Environment and Object," a show of contemporary African art.
It was the kind of contemporary art that makes you forget about where the artists are from. The kind that speaks to global issues and recycled materials.
The kind that reassures an art lover that creative people are still making statements and creating beauty even in the 21st century.
Witness Garth Meyers, a South African whose black and white photographs border on the abstract.
His shots of forest scenes acknowledge the lines of the forest and the shapes of it, in a way that makes as much of an artistic statement as a document of a living place.
Cheri Samba's "Fighting Mosquitoes" comes across as street art, with a couple fighting off the pesky insects in their bedroom (using a bow and arrow and slingshot).
The acrylic piece seeks to spread the truth (Malaria kills more people than AIDS) but with a humorous message.
"My dear, kill those on the right while I battle the lefists," says the caption.
Of all the compelling pieces in the exhibit, the one I vote for purchase by the VMFA would be Sokari Douglas Camp's sculpture of a woman shooting a rifle in her mouth.
Her chest and face are covered in pink paint. The piece, a commentary on oil greed and militant violence in the Nigerian Delta, is striking for its presence and message.
You can't not look at it.
Congolese Sammy Baloj was quickly passed over by younger visitors who perhaps could not see the weight of his photographs.
Former mines were shot in color and over them were superimposed images of Belgian colonial administrators and Congo prisoners in black and white.
The juxtaposition of another generation of the ruling and enslaved people of the Congo over the mine ruins today was a stark reminder of the perils of colonization in a time before us.
Leaving the gallery after such a heady look at African art, I must have looked pleased, or satisfied maybe just open to anything.
Walking down Franklin Street to my car, a student in a group of four smiled and said hello.
Moments later, a man enthusiastically greeted me., followed by a group of three, all of whom said good evening.
Non-scientific studies have now shown that viewing art makes you more attractive to the opposite sex.
Next on my dance card was Rowland's to meet friends, including my girlfriend's out-of-town beau.
They were running late, so the other couple and I proceeded to start the party without them.
We stuck our heads in the kitchen to say hello to Virginia and Bruce, owners and chefs, before settling on a table because the bar was mobbed.
My friends were on their way to the VMFA party with Richard Branson (I opted out, $100 a ticket being too rich for my blood) and dressed in their Bygones best to impress.
For dinner, I tried Virginia's ceviche over half a baked sweet potato, a surprisingly complementary combination.
When our friend arrived with her man in tow, we did a round of introductions before settling in to chat.
The poor guy had just spent four hours driving soul-sucking 95 from Baltimore, so we made sure he got a cocktail pronto.
After hearing about him from my friend for nearly a year, it was fun to finally get the opportunity to chat with him and get a sense of who he is.
You want your friends to find good people to share their lives and my friend has succeeded beautifully.
It made me happy to enjoy the company of someone who makes her so happy.
All of a sudden it was the bewitching hour and they were off to the VMFA ("Wanna try to sneak in?" my friend asked) and I was off to the Roosevelt.
I'd never ventured in on a weekend night, having heard stories of long waits and big crowds, but it was after 10:30, so I figured I was safe.
One lonely stool at the end of the bar awaited me, but I was immediately greeted by one of my favorite musician/bartenders who had just recently made the switch to the Roosevelt.
His former employer wasn't thrilled, but as he said, "Baby's gotta have new shoes."
This is one guy who never fails to crack me up or satisfy my need to talk music.
It was the perfect chance to give him a hard time for not having let me know...and order some Barboursville Viognier.
He went back to being a worker be and just as I turned for my wine, a musician friend showed up at the bar.
It had been ages since we saw each other; he'd been on tour, we 'd missed each other at the last Sprout show and I was thrilled to unexpectedly see him.
He invited me to join him and another friend at their table, starting a three-hour conversation sitting on one of the pillows I'd made and enjoying my friends.
Because food is my weakness (well, one of many) I couldn't resist ordering the gnocchi mac and cheese style, a dish that continues to thrill everyone who tastes it.
I can only imagine how much more popular it'll become once colder weather hits.
My friend got the chocolate Coca-Cola cake and generously shared. My, my but that was a delicious thing and so Southern tasting.
To balance out the hormones at the table, my girlfriend joined us and I made the introductions.
Since she used to work in the music business and be in a band, I got to hear lots of stories from Richmond's musical past, always fun for me.
She asked if I'd tried the new tequila, Hussong's Reposado which came in what looked like a black stoneware moonshine jug, complete with thumb holder.
I decided to forsake the grape for the night for the sake of some nice woody agave.
Kind of like I'd forsaken Richard Branson for three friends who were happy to sit with me until closing time discussing anything and everything.
And they didn't charge me for the pleasure of their company.
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