Jazz Hands and Birthday Pink

Sometimes you just have to cross people off your list.

So when I got offered tickets to the Richmond Jazz Fest at Maymont, I said yes so that I could cross two musicians off mine. I'd invited a friend to join me and since I was supplying the tickets, his job was to provide the picnic.

Given the changeable weather, we decided to cut our losses by arriving mid-day, hoping to miss at least some of the rain. We walked into Maymont about 3:45, just about the time the colorfully-clad Tiempo Libre took the stage.

It hadn't been that long since I'd seen them - March with the symphony- so I knew to expect high-energy Cuban music brought to us by classically trained musicians. I don't know how they did it, dancing and playing non-stop in the afternoon sun, but they even managed to make it look fun. Their set ended with a conga line and a long string of attendees snaking behind the lead singer, dancing in the grass.

During the break, we strolled over to the "bar" to get ID'd, buy tickets and finally (ta-da!) qualify to buy a bottle of wine. It wasn't an easy process, but sometimes you have to persevere for the cause.

Given the humidity, we opted for a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, taking it with us as we wandered through the craft area (lots of jewelry, something I don't wear) and the bistro area (lots of fried food with Mama Musu's and Croaker's Spot the only recognizable names) before returning to our chairs.

Not long after, Dr. John  and the Nite Trippers took the stage, thereby satisfying one of my must-see needs. The good doctor wore a hat over his trademark be-ribboned ponytail and got right down to business.

Four or five years ago, a friend had advised me that the only place to see Dr. John was in New Orleans, but I figured it was best not to wait indefinitely for that opportunity.

The man is, after all, 72 years old.

That said, he sounded exactly like he did when he first sang "Right Place, Wrong Time" in 1973.
He proved it by singing it tonight and as a guy sitting nearby observed, "If you closed your eyes, it was just like hearing it in the '70s."

The crowd today would know about the '70s, since it appeared that most of them came of age then.
In fact, at one point my friend looked at me and said that we were at the young edge of the average age, no small feat.

I would say that hearing Dr. John's distinctive gravel of a voice was a most satisfying experience as he tore up the skull-adorned piano in the muggy afternoon sun.

We decided to use the next break to eat, enjoying fried chicken and coleslaw with our Riesling while a gentle rain began to fall. No problem; along with other necessaries, I'd made sure to bring a small umbrella, if only to keep the raindrops out of my wine glass.

My planning skills are among the best.

At this point, many people began packing up to go while just as many arrived to set up camp. Depending on your taste, the main event had either just happened or was just about to.

Next up was another 72-year old, this one, Chick Corea, another musician I had to see for posterity's sake. His group, the Vigil, looked to be less than half his age and my friend noted that they might as well have been his "class."

His master class, maybe.

The man who was once part of Miles Davis' band in the '60s walked out looking easily 20 years younger than he was and proceeded to show the youngsters how it's done. With an almost constant smile, he showed his mastery, never dominating the sound, but always clearly the one driving the bus.

It's exciting to see someone of his age still so obviously enjoying what he does.

When their set ended, we decided to pack it in, both of us having already seen Michael McDonald.
You know, the great jazz artist, Michael McDonald. Yea, right.

Our original intent had been to make it to somewhere less populated after the music to watch the Perseid meteor shower, but the lingering cloud cover made that impossible. Instead we finished the evening at the late evening birthday party of a friend, drinking Rose from Provence, listening to Madonna and watching a Queen concert on a big screen.

One guest wore white pants and shirt, his glowing cell phone in his pocket beaming its light from his thigh. Another told me how much he liked my writing, citing a specific article I'd written almost six months ago.

Did I mention there was a smoke machine to set the birthday mood?

Yah mo B there, wherever the most fun can be found.

I only hope that's still the case when I'm 72.

Ready to Rhumba

Don't ask me who I saw there, because I don't remember.

"There" is a club in my hometown of Washington, the subject of the documentary, "The Bayou: D.C.'s Killer Joint," being shown as part of the Richmond International Film festival.

And while most of the festival's movies screened at the Byrd, this one showed at the Camel.

I arrived when the doors opened to ensure a good seat, not tough among a very small crowd.

That changed suddenly five minutes before the movie began when suddenly the room filled up in one fell swoop.

I heard friends calling to friends, attempting to sit together.

"No, no, we're back in steerage where we're comfortable," one smart-assed guy yelled to his friend after being invited closer to the front.

Beginning with the thank you credits, it was my first film with a thank you to Kickstarter.

How very 21st century.

The movie traced the history of the club that began as the Pirate's Den with all the male servers dressed as pirates.

That was followed by a jazz club called The Hideaway, but that closed once there was a gangster-style shooting in the place.

Eventually it became the Bayou, that venerable institution that was still around when I came of age.

What I missed, according to the film, was the years when they had a groovy scene, complete with go-go dancers.

"I don't think the girls got paid," one former manager recalled. "They just wanted to do it."

Looking at the old photographs of them in their sassy dresses and boots, I'm guessing plenty of people wanted to watch, too.

Talking about a former Bayou manager as a real tough guy, an associate said, "I think he managed the horses for the Riders of the Apocalypse."

Now that was funny.

Since the club was only shuttered in '98, there were plenty of people the filmmakers could interview to reminisce about the trials and tribulations of the joint.

As one manger recalled, yes they hosted Foreigner's very first U.S. show as well as U2's first show here, too (opening for the Slickee Boys) but they also hosted bands like Julius and the Polar Bears.

At this point, I'm guessing even Julius has forgotten about that band.

Several people recalled the vibe of the club was nothing more than boys seeking girls.

"Sex and power chords just go together naturally," one said, sounding practically poetic to me.

One guy told a fabulous story about booking Dire Staits before they got big and by the time the played, the crowd was enormous.

He said it got to be almost 2 a.m. and the band was still going strong, but the club staff was justifiably worried about their liquor license.

Telling the mob that the only way Dire Straits could go on playing was if they removed all the liquor, people began gathering up glasses and handing them to the servers.

On with the show was their point.

One manager remembered an early Ramones show, saying, "I stole the set list off the stage, I was so moved."

Moved by the Ramones, that's one way to put it.

The filmmakers showed how the Bayou got left behind when alternative music came along ("Those bands didn't want to play after Foghat"), essentially abdicating that growing audience to the 9:30 Club.

Gotta keep up with the times.

The film ended with the club's destruction (to build "yuppie farms") and nothing but a bunch of middle-aged people with memories.

And speaking of, that about summed up many people in the room, including the filmmakers, who took the stage afterwards to share.

The project, originally begun in 1998, languished and was conveniently restarted in 2008.

"That made it much easier because of YouTube, Facebook and Google," one of the writers said. "Mostly Facebook. A whole new world opened up to us."

How many relationships these days could say the same?

Ah, Faceboook, our debt to you is impossible to repay.

Singer Robbin Thompson was in the audience, significant because he'd been interviewed for the movie.

Although all but one of his stories ended up on the cutting room floor, tonight he shared one about Springsteen, whose band he played in briefly.

During that stint, the Boss had given Thompson a throwaway song.

That night at the Bayou, Thompson had sung the song and Bruce had complimented it, saying, "I like that song."

"You wrote it," Thompson reminded him.

Ooh, stick.

The filmmakers told us that their target demographic was 35+ (uh, yea, just look around the room) and one woman piped up, "You have taken me down Memory Lane and I absolutely loved this film."

I don't even remember what two shows I went to at the Bayou (although I do remember the guys who took me) but I was right there on Memory Lane with her.

And, just for the record, Mickey Mantle got turned away because he didn't have a jacket on and years later, Robert Plant got thrown out.

That's the kind of place the Bayou was.

From there, the evening moved in a southerly direction.

The Richmond Symphony was playing with Cuban band Tiempo Libre and while I'd gotten the nosebleed seats (back row but only ten bucks), all that percussion reached right up to the rafters.

The Latin evening began with Gershwin's "Cuban Overture (Rhumba)," making for a stellar start since any night that starts with Gershwin should be a good one.

From the first note, it was clear that Gershwin had visited Cuba (February 1932), but what I loved was that he waited until July and August that year to compose the piece.

You need heat to get in a Cuban frame of mind,  you know?

The classically-trained septet (keys, bass, drums, percussion, sax, trumpet, vocal) of Tiempo Libre came out post-Gershwin and took up their instruments in front of the symphony.

From their opening notes, every band member except the drummer was moving his feet side to side.

"Let me tell you," said lead singer Joaquin, "My English is very Cuban." Not that it mattered.

Next they showed us how a song sounds normally and how it can be funked up Cuban-style, using the symphony as back up.

Joaquin was a whirlwind, dancing and singing along with the symphony to standards like "Guatanamera," while trying to get the audience to help with some of the lyrics.

A very cool piece was Beethoven's "Sonata in D Minor" (for which Joaquin exhorted us to, "Dance if you want to"), mainly because they did it ch-cha style with the keyboard and the horns killing it.

And when these guys do a sonata cha-cha style, they need no help from the symphony, who just sat there taking it all in.

There had to be an intermission, if only to give the members of Tiempo Libre a few minutes to cool down.

When the show started again, it was with the symphony doing Roldan's "Carnival Ballet," which conductor Steven Smith said was, "Worth playing for its title. It sounds like a party, all rhythm and colors."

The four-movement piece had terrific percussion, meaning we were instructed to dance.

Once again, the symphony's services were not needed; Tiempo Libre had this one covered.

Soon couples were dancing in the front row of the nosebleed seats.

For all I know, they were doing the same down below, but you couldn't prove it by me.

I did see a viola player keeping time by tapping his bow.

Seeing people dancing in their seats, Joaquin came down off the stage to party with the orchestra seats.

"This is going to be our last song of the night, so if you want to dance, here's your chance," he said.

"Do you remember Desi Arnez? How about conga lines? I love Lucy, too, but this is about Desi."

It was time for "Tu Conga Bach," if you can believe that.

Taking off his suit jacket, he demonstrated his conga-fluid hips before going down into the audience to start a conga line.

And therein lies the disadvantage of the cheap seats.

When the bandleader is dancing for the front row, he may as well be in Kansas for all I can see.

Fortunately, he soon regained the stage for some major moves before jumping off it into the orchestra seats and starting another conga line.

"Richmond, are you ready?" he called, inviting two female audience members (who must have passed the conga test he'd given) onstage to dance on either side of him.

The trumpeter and sax player moved over to frame the two women dancing as the song reached an ecstatic, sweaty climax.

Sitting in Kenn-Tico afterwards having a Cubano sandwich while nearby couples chatted in Spanish, I took stock.

Sure, I'd been in steerage, but plenty happy up there shaking my ass Cuban-style.

Haven't you heard? Sex and percussion just go together naturally.