When people ask me about my religion, I admit to being a heathen, with the qualifier that I see no need for organization when it comes to belief systems.
Then I usually joke that for me, walking outside every day is equivalent to a weekly service inside a building with a bunch of strangers.
I saw a lot of people who prefer the more conventional religious route as I headed to Carytown this morning, passing the throngs on their way to mass at Cathedral of the Scared Heart.
If they'd asked, which they didn't, I'd have told them I was on my way to worship at the church of live music, today's Mozart Festival celebrating the composer's 258th birthday.
The first event of the festival was at Alternatives boutique on this sunny, cold morning and I walked in to find all kinds of familiar faces, the conga player, the handsome bass player, the former neighbor, the scientist/musician involved in coordinating the festivities, who said he was surprised at the size of the crowd, having expected a half dozen people at best so early on a Sunday morning.
It wasn't long before he excused himself to "get a few snaparoos" and I moved closer to get a better view of the quartet about to play.
Ellen of Classical Revolutions welcomed everyone to the kick-off of the Mozart festival and thanked AlterNatives for being the presenting sponsor and making it all possible.
Against a backdrop of jewel-colored scarves and bejeweled wall hangings, the foursome began with Mozart's quartet #14, which Ellen had described as sunny, a perfect beginning for the day and the festival.
Turning the page literally and figuratively, quartet #15 in D minor, she said, wasn't as sunny but, "Mozart couldn't help himself and the sun comes out halfway through this piece."
It wasn't quite Mozart for Dummies, but it was nice to have some insider information for each piece.
A minuet from the same piece followed after an explanation that it was usually the first Mozart piece Suzuki students learn. "It's in book seven of ten because Mozart is hard!" Ellen said.
Afterwards, the symphony librarian observed that, "People don't know when to clap with classical music," so he led them, saying in an aside to me, "Now they'e all thinking, hey, I didn't hate hearing classical music!"
He, I might add, looked very smug about that.
What's to hate about hearing live classical music in a colorful boutique, especially when doughnuts are being served?
Some of us would call that a religious experience. And then we'd still go home and take a walk to see what else might drop from the sky.
But it was a fairly quiet walk with few people outside except for the ones I saw in their church clothes going into Mama J's Kitchen, the happy looks on their faces probably as much a function of where they were headed as where they'd been.
Rounding the corner from Leigh Street to St. James on my way back, I immediately heard the call and response coming from inside the Miracle Church of Our Lord Jesus Christ of the Apostolic Faith.
Moving from stained glass window to window, I realized that the congregation's role was clapping and a big "Ahhh" after every ecstatic line the pastor said.
You're gonna get up in the morning!
Ahhh!
You're gonna read the word of god!
Ahhh!
Of our savior Jesus Christ!
Ahhh!
I'm gonna stand outside your church and listen to the testifying that is the sound of Sunday music in Jackson Ward. Ahhh!
But then I'm going to drive back to Carytown to go hear another installment of the Mozart Festival, this time Operatic Incarnations at Plan 9.
When I arrived, there were fewer than 20 of us and by the time the program ended, there must have been at least 60 or more. On stage were cardboard cut-outs of both Mozart and Daft Punk, an apt metaphor for the crowd.
I found a prime spot in front of the new releases (Mogwai, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings), next to a fresh-faced kid wearing a Maggie Walker Governor's School hoodie and prepared to take notes in his Chorus notebook.
With a pianist to accompany them. a succession of soloists, duos, trios and quartets took the stage to show off Mozart's operatic talent.
They began with a quartet doing the opening from "The Magic Flute," three girls in black boas fighting over one boy laying on the floor.
Glancing at the student's notes in pencil on lined notebook paper, I read, "very good vowels," proof enough that he knew what to look for.
A duet from "Marriage of Figaro" concerned two women trying to trap one of their husbands in the act of betrayal and they even acted it out a little.
We got a solo from "Don Giovanni" about how much he loved her and during a solo from "Marriage of Figaro," I spotted an older woman near me mouthing every word.
Sure, I'd seen several people I knew - DJs from WRIR, the man about town, the filmmaker/artist- but there were also many people who were serious opera fans.
Another "Figaro" piece sung by a woman in the part of a 13-year old boy who wants to talk about love with everyone he meets elicited the student noting, "Good consonants, good crescendo."
Throughout the performance, people would be walking by Plan 9 and either hear the music or see the people onstage and pause to look in and listen. Many then decided to come in while some kept on going, a shame considering there was plenty of room and it was free.
After another "Figaro" aria and then duet, the pianist gathered up her music to leave as the next singer came onstage.
"Uh, my accompanist is at the petting zoo right now," she explained looking crestfallen, but the talented pianist sat back down to play for her.
Explaining that she was doing an aria from "Magic Flute," she said it was the part of the queen of the night. "She's evil and she's evil because she's single. Sorry, that was Mozart's interpretation."
I'm here to say that we no longer have to be evil just because we're single.
Some of us may be godless, but we're also thrilled when there's a Mozart Festival going on all day long.
I've heard there'll be snaparoos to show you what you missed, but you really had to hear it to believe it.
Best of all, I'm pretty sure a bad-ass new Richmond tradition was born today. Ahhh!
Showing posts with label treesa gold. Show all posts
Showing posts with label treesa gold. Show all posts
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Monday, May 27, 2013
Melodic Little Pill
You can't count on many Memorial Day Sunday throwdowns that involve the spawn of a Beatle.
And yet, here we had one tonight, being thrown down at the Camel.
Risa Binder and Goldrush were opening for the son of Sir Paul McCartney, James.
Given that it's the second day of a three day weekend, I never thought for a minute that the show would start on time (8:00).
And yet when I arrived at 8:23, I caught only the last of Risa's songs before her set ended.
I hate when that happens.
I found a music buddy who works at the National to chat with (heard a fabulous story of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon being led down Broad Street in a shower towel drunk) while Goldrush set up.
I'd already heard from bandleader Prabir that they were playing as a trio, not a quartet tonight, with the assurance, "This is just a tangent. We'll get back to being a quartet."
As huge Beatles fans, I felt sure that Goldrush's adrenaline was running especially hard tonight.
Working off of Prabir's phone for their set list ("We've gone paperless at Goldrush," he said), the band played a bunch of newer songs, including one violinist Treesa and bassist Matt had written for Prabir's birthday.
Mid-song, a threesome came in and proceeded to stand directly in front of the stage.
The problem was, everyone else in the room was sitting, and the only standing people were against the wall.
The man behind me got huffy at his blocked view, demanding of his server, "Is this the way it's gonna be?" to which she shrugged.
"No, really!" he said to show his displeasure at having a potentially blocked view of Macca 2.
I eventually asked the trio to move to the side and they did.
Goldrush sounded really strong and the crowd repaid them with an almost Listening Room-attentiveness.
Or maybe they were just captivated by a band with a purple-haired violinist in the cutest pencil skirt and slingbacks.
When they finished, a friend came over and said, "You were right! I like them better as a trio!"
But as we discussed, some rooms require a bigger sound and then you need your drummer.
Bassist Matt put it best. "I miss my Gregs. The trio sound is the sound of my loneliness."
Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?
During the break, I saw Prabir signing CDs for fans. So cute.
The stage was set for James McCartney's set with a piano, lots of guitars and even more candles.
"Ooh, very atmospheric," a friend said. "I like it."
I like how he rhymed "right" and "shite," but then, I'm a language geek.
In fact, I liked a lot of his British phrasing, including the title of the second song he did, "Life's a Pill."
Life is a pill
Give it to me now
An inordinate number of his song titles were one word - "Angel," "Bluebell," "Wisteria-" and, yes, he looks a lot like Dad, especially around the eyes and mouth.
Especially when his lips were pursed.
His show attire was a black t-shirt with leather braces hanging at his side.
"Thanks for coming out," he said by way of greeting. "I do have a song called "Virginia" on my new album, but I'm not gonna play it tonight. Just thought I'd mention that."
And then he launched into "You and Me, Individually."
Hey, he's Paul McCartney's son; he can do whatever the hell he pleases, I'm sure.
And he wanted to do Neil Young's "Old Man," full of lyrics one could take any number of ways.
Old man, look at my life
I'm a lot like you were
The man had a powerful voice (good DNA, you know), and whether he was playing guitar or piano, a talented musician.
What he wasn't was much of a talker.
At one point fairly far in, he joked, "I'll try not to not talk a little. Okay, this song is "Snow" and it's about spiders and things."
After pulling his braces up, apropos of nothing, he announced, "Who likes awkward conversations? Yea, I do, too."
So that explained that.
He closed his set with the single, "Strong as You," from his new album, saying, "I wrote this while listening to "Here Comes the Sun."
Hard for me to say
How happy I am
Happy man
I am strong enough
To make it through
I am strong enough
Strong as you
When he returned for his encore (led by an assistant with a flashlight, no less), he did three songs for the crowd who hadn't budged when he walked off.
After doing "New York Times," he said, "If that song was my penultimate song, this song is my grand finale. It's called "Thinkin' About Rock and Roll."
I doubt there was ever a moment in his life when he could think about anything else.
Which made it my de rigueur Memorial Day Sunday throwdown.
And yet, here we had one tonight, being thrown down at the Camel.
Risa Binder and Goldrush were opening for the son of Sir Paul McCartney, James.
Given that it's the second day of a three day weekend, I never thought for a minute that the show would start on time (8:00).
And yet when I arrived at 8:23, I caught only the last of Risa's songs before her set ended.
I hate when that happens.
I found a music buddy who works at the National to chat with (heard a fabulous story of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon being led down Broad Street in a shower towel drunk) while Goldrush set up.
I'd already heard from bandleader Prabir that they were playing as a trio, not a quartet tonight, with the assurance, "This is just a tangent. We'll get back to being a quartet."
As huge Beatles fans, I felt sure that Goldrush's adrenaline was running especially hard tonight.
Working off of Prabir's phone for their set list ("We've gone paperless at Goldrush," he said), the band played a bunch of newer songs, including one violinist Treesa and bassist Matt had written for Prabir's birthday.
Mid-song, a threesome came in and proceeded to stand directly in front of the stage.
The problem was, everyone else in the room was sitting, and the only standing people were against the wall.
The man behind me got huffy at his blocked view, demanding of his server, "Is this the way it's gonna be?" to which she shrugged.
"No, really!" he said to show his displeasure at having a potentially blocked view of Macca 2.
I eventually asked the trio to move to the side and they did.
Goldrush sounded really strong and the crowd repaid them with an almost Listening Room-attentiveness.
Or maybe they were just captivated by a band with a purple-haired violinist in the cutest pencil skirt and slingbacks.
When they finished, a friend came over and said, "You were right! I like them better as a trio!"
But as we discussed, some rooms require a bigger sound and then you need your drummer.
Bassist Matt put it best. "I miss my Gregs. The trio sound is the sound of my loneliness."
Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?
During the break, I saw Prabir signing CDs for fans. So cute.
The stage was set for James McCartney's set with a piano, lots of guitars and even more candles.
"Ooh, very atmospheric," a friend said. "I like it."
I like how he rhymed "right" and "shite," but then, I'm a language geek.
In fact, I liked a lot of his British phrasing, including the title of the second song he did, "Life's a Pill."
Life is a pill
Give it to me now
An inordinate number of his song titles were one word - "Angel," "Bluebell," "Wisteria-" and, yes, he looks a lot like Dad, especially around the eyes and mouth.
Especially when his lips were pursed.
His show attire was a black t-shirt with leather braces hanging at his side.
"Thanks for coming out," he said by way of greeting. "I do have a song called "Virginia" on my new album, but I'm not gonna play it tonight. Just thought I'd mention that."
And then he launched into "You and Me, Individually."
Hey, he's Paul McCartney's son; he can do whatever the hell he pleases, I'm sure.
And he wanted to do Neil Young's "Old Man," full of lyrics one could take any number of ways.
Old man, look at my life
I'm a lot like you were
The man had a powerful voice (good DNA, you know), and whether he was playing guitar or piano, a talented musician.
What he wasn't was much of a talker.
At one point fairly far in, he joked, "I'll try not to not talk a little. Okay, this song is "Snow" and it's about spiders and things."
After pulling his braces up, apropos of nothing, he announced, "Who likes awkward conversations? Yea, I do, too."
So that explained that.
He closed his set with the single, "Strong as You," from his new album, saying, "I wrote this while listening to "Here Comes the Sun."
Hard for me to say
How happy I am
Happy man
I am strong enough
To make it through
I am strong enough
Strong as you
When he returned for his encore (led by an assistant with a flashlight, no less), he did three songs for the crowd who hadn't budged when he walked off.
After doing "New York Times," he said, "If that song was my penultimate song, this song is my grand finale. It's called "Thinkin' About Rock and Roll."
I doubt there was ever a moment in his life when he could think about anything else.
Which made it my de rigueur Memorial Day Sunday throwdown.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
A Mad and Faithful Telling
I promised my mother I'd eat pancakes today
And I meant to, I really did (not that I'm a good Catholic girl or anything), but the evening got away from me.
But not the celebrating, which began with an overdue happy hour with a theater type.
We met at Heritage by default because she was parked near it, but I knew better and should have changed course.
Instead, I walked right up to it, passing a man by the door who said, "Those are great tights," without ever breaking stride or making eye contact with me.
Since Heritage got two stellar reviews, it looks to be busy every night I drive by it.
Which is great, except that means no more happy hour prices and why would anyone be drinking for full price at 5:45 in this town?
It had been over a month since Maxine's daughter and I last met up, so as soon as I got my Virginia on with a glass of the oh-so-smooth Breaux Vineyards Equation Merlot X, she insisted we order something off the menu that boasts, "Chef/ Daddy Joe Sparatta."
I'd say congrats were in order.
We chose the Virginia cheese plate (Mountaineer, Appalachian, Grayson) to go with the local wine along with a charcuterie plate.
Tasso ham, beef summer sausage, lomo, Berkshire lardo, and duck ham sat next to pickled quails' egg halves, pickled veggies and pimento cheese.
Pick-up food allowed us to grab bites between stories about dated plays, gun talk at parties and storytelling with a mic.
And that was just her.
Meanwhile, the restaurant was filling up non-stop, making our stools valuable real estate.
A man came in and eyed one stool next to her and one next to me.
After requesting us to move down, I agreed but asked what was in it for me.
"A glass of wine?" he offered. My backside slid over in no time.
By 8:00, the joint was jumping, we'd both been debriefed and she was off to have dinner with her husband.
What else was there for me to do but get myself to a Mardi Gras party?
If not today, I was going to have to wait a while for another opportunity to laissez les bons temps rouler.
It was being hosted by two of the Richmond Symphony's finest, also known as Treesa and Matt of Goldrush.
So, right there, that assured me I'd know a bunch of people plus there'd be symphony types.
Hell, yea.
Walking up the sidewalk to their abode, a neighbor came down her steps, stopped and complimented my tights.
One of the guests socializing on the front porch stopped me on the way in and insisted on putting beads on me so as to be spared an attack by Treesa, apparently tonight's bead pusher.
The guy got one strand around my neck before I let him know that I'm really not the jewelry type, even on Lent eve.
Inside, I learned that Matt reads my blog when he told me, "I hope other people don't read your blog like I do. Blah, blah, Matt, blah, blah, Goldrush."
I think it's safe to say they do, Matt.
The party got dancing in earnest when M.J.'s "PYT" came on, but Matt stopped it toward the end and settled into a slower groove.
"Classy, huh?" he asked me, pointing at me. "I changed the music for you."
I was fine, I told him. I like "PYT."
You see, Matt and I have a history when it comes to the music he plays at his parties.
At their housewarming extravaganza two summers ago, I'd blogged some harsh words about his party mix. Something exactly along the lines of:
Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.
I'd completely forgotten what I'd written but during a Nas song, Matt sidled up in his hat and mask and when I said I'd been expecting an eclectic mix from him tonight, said, "Apparently you aren't the only person who doesn't like Rick Astley and Journey."
You don't say?
Still, if I can do my small part to enrich parties at Gold Manor, I know I will sleep better at night.
Because I'd arrived midway through the party, the jambalaya was pretty much gone.
I was offered some bourbon punch, a concoction of bourbon, ice cream, fruit juicy red Hawaiian Punch and god knows what else.
I demurred because I don't drink bourbon, but the best assessment came from a music-loving girl I know from shows.
Gesturing toward the punch bowl, she said, "That would be a horrible thing to puke."
It was never even an option.
King cake was brought out and while I didn't give a fig about finding the baby in the cake, I did enjoy several slivers of it while chatting with a favorite drummer about the importance of dating someone whose musical passion matches your own.
As expected, the party was full of musicians and friends I knew and symphony musicians I didn't.
One, a handsome and new-to-the symphony violinist, walked up to the host and inquired, "Where are the single women?"
No question, men outnumbered women, so I felt his pain.
Luckily, he didn't have to suffer at an all night party.
Our hosts had informed us that they had to be up at 6 a.m., so they wanted us partied and out by midnight.
Fair enough.
By that time, Treesa had draped me with additional pink and green beads she deemed more coordinated with my outfit.
Matt had me laughing like mad when he lectured me about longevity, saying, "Don't give me that, "Back in my day we had cell phones stuck to the walls" bullshit!"
The guitarist had raved about the recent Milkstains show and how good they'd sounded.
The drummer had kindly invited me to his upcoming birthday celebration.
The music lover already knew what upcoming shows I'm going to, thanks to Facebook (I'm hoping).
And, Mom, I had enough king cake (i.e., flour and sugar topping) to make up for the pancakes (also known as flour and sugar topping) I promised but never ate.
So maybe I'll start Ash Wednesday by stacking 'em high to make up for it.
I'll even wear my beads while I eat them.
And I meant to, I really did (not that I'm a good Catholic girl or anything), but the evening got away from me.
But not the celebrating, which began with an overdue happy hour with a theater type.
We met at Heritage by default because she was parked near it, but I knew better and should have changed course.
Instead, I walked right up to it, passing a man by the door who said, "Those are great tights," without ever breaking stride or making eye contact with me.
Since Heritage got two stellar reviews, it looks to be busy every night I drive by it.
Which is great, except that means no more happy hour prices and why would anyone be drinking for full price at 5:45 in this town?
It had been over a month since Maxine's daughter and I last met up, so as soon as I got my Virginia on with a glass of the oh-so-smooth Breaux Vineyards Equation Merlot X, she insisted we order something off the menu that boasts, "Chef/ Daddy Joe Sparatta."
I'd say congrats were in order.
We chose the Virginia cheese plate (Mountaineer, Appalachian, Grayson) to go with the local wine along with a charcuterie plate.
Tasso ham, beef summer sausage, lomo, Berkshire lardo, and duck ham sat next to pickled quails' egg halves, pickled veggies and pimento cheese.
Pick-up food allowed us to grab bites between stories about dated plays, gun talk at parties and storytelling with a mic.
And that was just her.
Meanwhile, the restaurant was filling up non-stop, making our stools valuable real estate.
A man came in and eyed one stool next to her and one next to me.
After requesting us to move down, I agreed but asked what was in it for me.
"A glass of wine?" he offered. My backside slid over in no time.
By 8:00, the joint was jumping, we'd both been debriefed and she was off to have dinner with her husband.
What else was there for me to do but get myself to a Mardi Gras party?
If not today, I was going to have to wait a while for another opportunity to laissez les bons temps rouler.
It was being hosted by two of the Richmond Symphony's finest, also known as Treesa and Matt of Goldrush.
So, right there, that assured me I'd know a bunch of people plus there'd be symphony types.
Hell, yea.
Walking up the sidewalk to their abode, a neighbor came down her steps, stopped and complimented my tights.
One of the guests socializing on the front porch stopped me on the way in and insisted on putting beads on me so as to be spared an attack by Treesa, apparently tonight's bead pusher.
The guy got one strand around my neck before I let him know that I'm really not the jewelry type, even on Lent eve.
Inside, I learned that Matt reads my blog when he told me, "I hope other people don't read your blog like I do. Blah, blah, Matt, blah, blah, Goldrush."
I think it's safe to say they do, Matt.
The party got dancing in earnest when M.J.'s "PYT" came on, but Matt stopped it toward the end and settled into a slower groove.
"Classy, huh?" he asked me, pointing at me. "I changed the music for you."
I was fine, I told him. I like "PYT."
You see, Matt and I have a history when it comes to the music he plays at his parties.
At their housewarming extravaganza two summers ago, I'd blogged some harsh words about his party mix. Something exactly along the lines of:
Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.
I'd completely forgotten what I'd written but during a Nas song, Matt sidled up in his hat and mask and when I said I'd been expecting an eclectic mix from him tonight, said, "Apparently you aren't the only person who doesn't like Rick Astley and Journey."
You don't say?
Still, if I can do my small part to enrich parties at Gold Manor, I know I will sleep better at night.
Because I'd arrived midway through the party, the jambalaya was pretty much gone.
I was offered some bourbon punch, a concoction of bourbon, ice cream, fruit juicy red Hawaiian Punch and god knows what else.
I demurred because I don't drink bourbon, but the best assessment came from a music-loving girl I know from shows.
Gesturing toward the punch bowl, she said, "That would be a horrible thing to puke."
It was never even an option.
King cake was brought out and while I didn't give a fig about finding the baby in the cake, I did enjoy several slivers of it while chatting with a favorite drummer about the importance of dating someone whose musical passion matches your own.
As expected, the party was full of musicians and friends I knew and symphony musicians I didn't.
One, a handsome and new-to-the symphony violinist, walked up to the host and inquired, "Where are the single women?"
No question, men outnumbered women, so I felt his pain.
Luckily, he didn't have to suffer at an all night party.
Our hosts had informed us that they had to be up at 6 a.m., so they wanted us partied and out by midnight.
Fair enough.
By that time, Treesa had draped me with additional pink and green beads she deemed more coordinated with my outfit.
Matt had me laughing like mad when he lectured me about longevity, saying, "Don't give me that, "Back in my day we had cell phones stuck to the walls" bullshit!"
The guitarist had raved about the recent Milkstains show and how good they'd sounded.
The drummer had kindly invited me to his upcoming birthday celebration.
The music lover already knew what upcoming shows I'm going to, thanks to Facebook (I'm hoping).
And, Mom, I had enough king cake (i.e., flour and sugar topping) to make up for the pancakes (also known as flour and sugar topping) I promised but never ate.
So maybe I'll start Ash Wednesday by stacking 'em high to make up for it.
I'll even wear my beads while I eat them.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Musical Tuesday: Preachers' Guns and Sons
If I'd set out to have an evening of contrasting musical experiences, I couldn't have accomplished it any better than where I found myself tonight.
It was the end of an era at the Listening Room, with tonight's show being the final one at the Michaux House; after a stellar fifteen-month run there, the monthly event is moving to the Firehouse Theater.
No more will we walk down the outdoor staircase to the basement for a talk-free show, so it was a little bittersweet knowing I'd never again eat a donut or ask a dumb musical question of a musician there.
Tonight's show was a strong one, making for the appropriate sendoff for the turning of the venue page. Singer-songwriter Knox Hubard was introduced with the words, "I have seen grown women swoon at the sound of his voice."
I know for sure that he was the first LR performer ever to wear a corduroy blazer or have his lyrics/set list taped to his guitar.
He did have a beautiful voice, showcased with well-written songs and impeccable delivery. He sang about trains, a song he'd written after a trip with his son, and about finding the love of your life, with assistance from Mark of Louisiana Territory (whom he'd written it for on the occasion of his marriage) and Chris and Antonia of the Speckled Bird.
Up second was Allison Self, a long-time favorite of mine who'd been traveling so much the past year that she hadn't been playing out much.
Tonight's near-capacity crowd (the baked goods were completely gone by the end of the first set) was treated to her classic Americana big voice and enthusiastic ukulele playing.
The buzz after her set was incredible; apparently a lot of people were hearing her for the first time and being blown away. She played music from her new EP "Self-Titled," (get it?), which she had for sale for $1 to $500, buyer's choice a la Radiohead.
She also covered vintage country, blues and folk, including Leadbelly's "Good Night Irene," Loretta Lynn and "St. Louis Blues." Lyric: "If it weren't for powder and store-bought hair, That man of mine wouldn't have gone nowhere." Classic stuff.
Tyler Crowley played last and he also had a new EP to play. Before he even got started, the string of lights that falls nearly every LR show fell, causing him to note, "I was at the very first Listening Room show and watched the lights fall."
As was I; now it's practically guaranteed to happen every time. Regulars laugh; newbies are just surprised.
Tyler had brought the crew with whom he'd recorded, including Lance Koehler, Marcus Tenney, and Reggie Chapman (all of No BS) and Jonathan Vassar and Antonia (JV & the Speckled Bird), making for the biggest band ever for the LR stage and a very full sound.
Tyler's songs were all taken from slices of his life, including "Preacher and his Gun," a song he described as, "Imagine if Clint Eastwood and Jimmy Swaggert morphed into one man."
My favorite was the lush "Restless Feeling," full of warm horns and indie swagger. He said it sounded even better on the CD than it had live, but I don't see how that's possible.
He closed with a cover of his favorite song, Radiohead's "Let Down." I went to compliment him on the set after the show and before I could, he asked if I'd been at the Symphony Sunday because he thought he'd seen me. "You are at every kind of show," he laughed.
It was appropriate because Tyler and I first met at the Camel when he came up to me and said, "I see you at every show I go to. Who are you?"
After saying good-bye to the Micheaux House for the last time, a couple of friends and I took the short drive to the Republic for a very different sort of musical event.
Prabir and Treesa, half of Prabir and the Goldrush, were playing music from movies. It's part of their themed series at Republic; last time it was all about sex.
They were finishing up their first set when we got there and during the break, Treesa came up to hug me and thank me for coming because, she said, "I know you hate this venue."
It's the smoke I hate and the reeking afterwards actually, but, even so, I told her, I wouldn't have missed seeing what the set list was.
Besides, 48 hours ago, I had been listening to Treesa play violin with the Richmond Symphony performing Pucini and Verdi; how could I resist hearing something so different from her tonight?
And there were some doozies. They opened with the theme from Star Wars and Jaws before cutting loose on "Gangsta's Paradise."
Imagine a white girl from Kansas playing violin and rapping while using her phone for the lyrics. It really needed to be seen and heard to be believed. The crowd roared their approval and her husband taped the entire thing for posterity (or blackmail, I don't know which).
There was an exuberant (read: drunk and loud) crowd at Republic for the show and much enthusiasm as they launched into music from Pulp Fiction, including "Son of a Preacher Man."
The theme to Aladdin, "A Whole New World" was familiar enough to Treesa that she didn't even need her phone, nor did the singalong crowd. Who knew there were so many Aladdin fans at the Republic on a Tuesday night?
For "Ghostbusters," they turned on the fog machine and really got the crowd going. Afterwards, Treesa pouted, "I don't want to stop using the fog machine." Not a complaint you hear every day.
But she did because it wasn't needed for the cheesiest possible one-two punch closer ever imagined, a medley of "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Everything I Do (I Do for You)." Some of the girls in the crowd were clearly in rapture mode as they belted out the lyrics with the band.
If Prabir hadn't set out to pick two of the absolute corniest songs ever written, he'd inadvertently shown cornball genius.
Or, as Treesa's husband Matt summed it up for the ages, "This is really a comedy show." Musical comedy, but comedy for sure.
That's fine. From earnest early on to laughing later on, I'll take my music every way I can get it.
It was the end of an era at the Listening Room, with tonight's show being the final one at the Michaux House; after a stellar fifteen-month run there, the monthly event is moving to the Firehouse Theater.
No more will we walk down the outdoor staircase to the basement for a talk-free show, so it was a little bittersweet knowing I'd never again eat a donut or ask a dumb musical question of a musician there.
Tonight's show was a strong one, making for the appropriate sendoff for the turning of the venue page. Singer-songwriter Knox Hubard was introduced with the words, "I have seen grown women swoon at the sound of his voice."
I know for sure that he was the first LR performer ever to wear a corduroy blazer or have his lyrics/set list taped to his guitar.
He did have a beautiful voice, showcased with well-written songs and impeccable delivery. He sang about trains, a song he'd written after a trip with his son, and about finding the love of your life, with assistance from Mark of Louisiana Territory (whom he'd written it for on the occasion of his marriage) and Chris and Antonia of the Speckled Bird.
Up second was Allison Self, a long-time favorite of mine who'd been traveling so much the past year that she hadn't been playing out much.
Tonight's near-capacity crowd (the baked goods were completely gone by the end of the first set) was treated to her classic Americana big voice and enthusiastic ukulele playing.
The buzz after her set was incredible; apparently a lot of people were hearing her for the first time and being blown away. She played music from her new EP "Self-Titled," (get it?), which she had for sale for $1 to $500, buyer's choice a la Radiohead.
She also covered vintage country, blues and folk, including Leadbelly's "Good Night Irene," Loretta Lynn and "St. Louis Blues." Lyric: "If it weren't for powder and store-bought hair, That man of mine wouldn't have gone nowhere." Classic stuff.
Tyler Crowley played last and he also had a new EP to play. Before he even got started, the string of lights that falls nearly every LR show fell, causing him to note, "I was at the very first Listening Room show and watched the lights fall."
As was I; now it's practically guaranteed to happen every time. Regulars laugh; newbies are just surprised.
Tyler had brought the crew with whom he'd recorded, including Lance Koehler, Marcus Tenney, and Reggie Chapman (all of No BS) and Jonathan Vassar and Antonia (JV & the Speckled Bird), making for the biggest band ever for the LR stage and a very full sound.
Tyler's songs were all taken from slices of his life, including "Preacher and his Gun," a song he described as, "Imagine if Clint Eastwood and Jimmy Swaggert morphed into one man."
My favorite was the lush "Restless Feeling," full of warm horns and indie swagger. He said it sounded even better on the CD than it had live, but I don't see how that's possible.
He closed with a cover of his favorite song, Radiohead's "Let Down." I went to compliment him on the set after the show and before I could, he asked if I'd been at the Symphony Sunday because he thought he'd seen me. "You are at every kind of show," he laughed.
It was appropriate because Tyler and I first met at the Camel when he came up to me and said, "I see you at every show I go to. Who are you?"
After saying good-bye to the Micheaux House for the last time, a couple of friends and I took the short drive to the Republic for a very different sort of musical event.
Prabir and Treesa, half of Prabir and the Goldrush, were playing music from movies. It's part of their themed series at Republic; last time it was all about sex.
They were finishing up their first set when we got there and during the break, Treesa came up to hug me and thank me for coming because, she said, "I know you hate this venue."
It's the smoke I hate and the reeking afterwards actually, but, even so, I told her, I wouldn't have missed seeing what the set list was.
Besides, 48 hours ago, I had been listening to Treesa play violin with the Richmond Symphony performing Pucini and Verdi; how could I resist hearing something so different from her tonight?
And there were some doozies. They opened with the theme from Star Wars and Jaws before cutting loose on "Gangsta's Paradise."
Imagine a white girl from Kansas playing violin and rapping while using her phone for the lyrics. It really needed to be seen and heard to be believed. The crowd roared their approval and her husband taped the entire thing for posterity (or blackmail, I don't know which).
There was an exuberant (read: drunk and loud) crowd at Republic for the show and much enthusiasm as they launched into music from Pulp Fiction, including "Son of a Preacher Man."
The theme to Aladdin, "A Whole New World" was familiar enough to Treesa that she didn't even need her phone, nor did the singalong crowd. Who knew there were so many Aladdin fans at the Republic on a Tuesday night?
For "Ghostbusters," they turned on the fog machine and really got the crowd going. Afterwards, Treesa pouted, "I don't want to stop using the fog machine." Not a complaint you hear every day.
But she did because it wasn't needed for the cheesiest possible one-two punch closer ever imagined, a medley of "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Everything I Do (I Do for You)." Some of the girls in the crowd were clearly in rapture mode as they belted out the lyrics with the band.
If Prabir hadn't set out to pick two of the absolute corniest songs ever written, he'd inadvertently shown cornball genius.
Or, as Treesa's husband Matt summed it up for the ages, "This is really a comedy show." Musical comedy, but comedy for sure.
That's fine. From earnest early on to laughing later on, I'll take my music every way I can get it.
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