I spent my evening surrounded by the fruit of VCU's loins.
Next up on VCU Cinematheque's ongoing tribute to Italian director extraordinaire Michelangelo Antonioni was "The Passenger," so I followed my sunny road trip with a brisk walk to the Grace Street Theater.
Brisk because sundown means I'm automatically cold and resenting it, even when culture awaits.
Although I've been to see several of the Antonioni films this semester and in the past, tonight's was the first in English. Maybe even more surprising than that was that the film had been made at MGM, featured a big American actor, Jack Nicholson, and was considered an homage to Hitchcock and, with his main character switching identities, to Hitch's masterful "North by Northwest."
The theater was unusually packed for the Tuesday night screening series, a fact I attributed to the name recognition of the star. That said, the movie was made in 1975 before every role Jack Nicholson played was essentially Jack Nicholson, resulting in the chance to see him disappear into the role and not overpower it with his own persona.
That alone was worth seeing.
But so was the French actress Maria Schneider, whom I knew solely from having seen in "Last Tango in Paris" way back when it came out, who played a strong, assured architecture student at a time when most women's roles were more decorative.
And not that she wasn't lovely (that her haircut in 1975 was eerily similar to mine in 2018 was a side bonus), but I was especially taken with her clothes because they were so spot on for that era. Everything she wore in the film looked like a variation of something I owned that decade, including the over-sized fabric bag she carried for a purse.
When it came to male style, Nicholson had multiple scenes wearing a button-down, short-sleeved shirt which he'd unbuttoned completely and tied at the waist. Whole lot of chest and chest hair there. If that was a thing anywhere but in the gay clubs in 1975, I don't recall seeing it.
Like any Antonioni film, effort was required to stay engaged and within the first 45 minutes, at least a dozen students got up to leave, some of them running up the theater aisles as if they were making a break for it. No doubt they'd be incredulous to learn that some of us had come by choice and not because our professor dictated it.
I got a kick out of a scene where Nicholson is renting a car to begin his adventure as somebody else (a dead man) and when the clerk asks where he's going, he hasn't a clue. She points to a list of potential drop-off countries in Europe and he says, "Yugoslovia! I'll go to Dubrovnik."
I can only imagine how different Dubrovnik must have been in 1975 than it was last month when I saw it.
Walking out of the theater with the hordes of students, I overheard one say, "Once I knew what it was about..." as if it had taken a while to figure out. The irony there is that the professor had read a four-page introduction to the movie, including explaining what would happen in the story, as well as mentioning the notable 7-minute long tracking shot near the end, so if he'd been paying attention (say, not on his phone), he'd have had a clue.
I'm guessing listening to your professor is sooo 20th century.
One thing the professor had not shared, however, was that actual footage of a real assassination had been used by Antonioni, so as one who has great difficulty watching violence of any kind, I was completely unprepared for that. My issues aside, I'd have been curious to know if it even registered for students who've grown up with the ability to see to any horrible thing they care to online.
And, as the professor had warned us, the ending came as a complete surprise. Those who were glancing at their phones undoubtedly missed it entirely.
Another Tuesday night, another Antonioni film. It's like the gallerist I was recently interviewing observed, "Once Fall hits, there's just so much to do in Richmond." Tell me about it.
When I got back to J-Ward, I didn't even bother going upstairs. My next stop was the Rabbit Hole at Vagabond for the Randazzo Big Band doing Charles Owen (not that I knew who Charles Owen was) and I was already late because Antonioni makes no short films.
The room was quite full when I got there, so I slipped into a sliver of space near the door in the back to take in the satisfying sounds of 15 musicians playing in a very low-ceilinged room. Charles Owen, it turned out, was the bearded sax player whose music Randazzo had transcribed and was now being featured in the first set, and he looked mighty happy about it.
Mind you, this is a big band led by bass player Andrew Randazzo, who also plays with Butcher Brown, so besides a dozen horns of all kinds, there were some pretty great bass lines leading the way. And don't get me started on Devonne Harris on drums.
I gotta say, music fans in this town should get down on their knees every night and thank VCU's jazz studies program for the top notch musicians it spits out for us to enjoy.
Just when it felt like the room couldn't hold another person, Randazzo announced, "Okay, we're going to take a ten minute break. Just ten minutes! Then we'll come back and play Beyonce." From behind me at the bar, I overheard a guy knowingly say, "It'll be a soft ten minutes," and I knew he was right.
I think I'm safe in saying that no band in Richmond has ever stuck to a ten-minute break, least of all jazz cats.
The break gave me an opportunity to wiggle in for a better vantage point, which I found on the back corner of a couch where a couple occupying it told me to help myself to the edge of their space. The room was full of hair and lots of it, and looked to be crowded with long-time musicians and jazz students eager to hear their (slightly) elders.
A busy, young server came by, trying to clean up a bit during the break. When she picked up an almost full plate of fries from the couple's table, I joked that it was a waste of perfectly good fries. Her take was purely economical, though. "It's a waste of perfectly good money! Those fries cost $5!"
Clearly a woman who works hard for the money.
Behind me, I heard several musicians lamenting the difficulty of transitioning from touring to being back at home and more than one admitted that when on the road, they don't worry about the regular business of life at all.
I may not have a musical bone in my body, but I can sure relate to trying to balance the reality of daily life with time spent away, constantly trying to play catch-up.
Running into a favorite saxophone player provided the opportunity to learn that he's now teaching music in the Henrico County jail, a job with enormous challenges, I gathered. When I asked how many inmates were interested in music, he laughed, saying maybe one in each class. That's got to be tough.
The second set may or may not have included Beyonce (it's not like I'd recognize anything beyond "Single Ladies"), but it definitely featured several Butcher Brown tunes as well as one by Philly soul songwriter Thom Bell. Still, I think I was the only one who raised my hand when Randazzo asked if there were any Thom Bell fans in the room, although why he'd ask that of a room made up 90% with people born after grunge is beyond me. Optimism, I guess.
Around 10:30, a guy came in, assessed the crowded room and began moving through the tables and chairs, eventually settling himself on the floor beside a front booth, mere feet from the the saxophones. Prime real estate if you're willing to floor sit.
The evening closed with a Vince Guaraldi song the bandleader said was originally called "Minus Lucy" but became "Linus, Single Again," but all I know for sure is that the distinctive sound of brushes on drums and that kind of piano playing could only be Guaraldi.
Sort of like an Antonioni screening followed by a big band on a Tuesday night. Once you know what it's about, it could only be Richmond.
Showing posts with label vagabond. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vagabond. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
For the Whole Round World to Hear
To paraphrase Miss Nina Simone, Virginia goddam. But in a good way.
I voted this morning behind a friend/neighbor/immigrant, who managed to crack me up and insinuate innuendo into the 90 seconds we sat next to each other waiting for voting booths to open up. At least we were voting for the same people.
At the Valentine for the first in their History/Controversy series, the ice breaker question asked of everyone in the room was who would win the gubernatorial race. A solid 90% of us predicted (or fervently hoped) Northam. Then we were polled about who had voted and 6% had not.
"All right, you 6%-ers are dismissed to go vote," our facilitator joked. And if he wasn't kidding, nobody was brave enough to leave and prove they'd shirked their civic duty.
Tonight's topic was voting and we were given historical context via the back stories of Sally Dooley (Virginia Association Opposed to Women's Suffrage) and Lila Meade Valentine (Equal Suffrage League of Virginia), but by far the most astounding fact we learned was that despite the Nineteenth Amendment (granting women the right to vote) being ratified in 1919, Virginia didn't get around to ratification until 1952.
That kind of crap could also be characterized as Virginia goddam, although not in a good way.
Tonight's experts - two UR law professors, one black, one white, one male, one female, hell, they were practically the Mod Squad - shared that as Virginians, we have a long history of gerrymandering going back to Patrick Henry, who tried to swing things so that James Monroe would beat out James Madison (he failed).
Looking at the current district maps was disturbing for how flagrantly they flaunted their only requirement: to be compact and contiguous. I think we can all agree that a district shaped like an amoeba with tumors hardly qualifies as compact.
It was a timely evening for a discussion of the importance of winning tonight's election because the re-districting maps will be drawn during the next administration and heaven knows, we could use some major amoeba trimming.
When I left there in the pouring rain, I only had to go two blocks to Vagabond for the music of a seminal pianist, singer, songwriter and activist. Down in the warm, dimly lit basement known as the Rabbit Hole, a crowd was already gathering for an event billed as "Sam Reed Sings Nina Simone."
Bellying up to the bar was no easy feat given the size of the crowd, but all it really gave me was a better view of a bartender so far in the weeds that he couldn't see out. The floor behind the bar was slick with moisture and I watched as he skidded on it repeatedly while people kept trying to get his attention to order.
Suddenly, from the end of the bar, somebody yelled, "Northam won!" and the room erupted in shrieks and applause. It was such a fantastic way to start the musical - and now celebratory - part of my evening. Spotting an abandoned bar stool, I dragged it over near a couch so I'd have a better (and seated) view.
That bit of luck was followed by the arrival of a guy I know and hadn't seen in ages (unless Facebook counts and it doesn't) and suddenly I had someone to chat with, too. I wanted to hear all about the Fire, Flour and Fork barbecue dinner he'd gone to - White Stone oysters at a BBQ, really? - and, since it was his first visit to the Rabbit Hole for music, he wanted to hear about bands I'd seen there.
Meanwhile, we saw other people giving up on the bartender and going upstairs to score drinks. One guy came down carrying two cans of PBR so he wouldn't have to go back up again. And people just kept coming in, filling up the place until there wasn't any room for more.
Sam Reed came out looking like a million bucks in wide, red bell bottoms and a long-sleeved black crop top and introduced her keyboard player Calvin. "We've been rehearsing these songs for weeks now, but it's not easy to come up here and suddenly become one amazing person."
After only a couple of songs, including a poignant "I Loves You, Porgy," during which some people continued to blather, Sam asked the sound guy to check on a buzz from the drum. "Any of you seen the documentary "What Happened, Miss Simone?" she inquired and a fair number of people indicated they had.
"Well, then you know she would have stopped a show with a snare drum buzzing like that. She'd also stop singing if people were talking because she wanted them to listen to her, like they did when she played classical music on piano." At that comment, many people shouted affirmations, telling her she should do just that and I agreed since near me were a couple of women catching up far too loudly while she sang.
It was just the reminder some people needed to be more respectful as she went forward with other Simone standards like "Don't Smoke in Bed" and "I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl," nailing that male/female tone that Nina's voice had.
Sam reminded the audience of Nina's place in civil rights history, chiding us with, "I hope you all voted!" and going into a set of music from that period, including a killer rendition of "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood," which I have to admit I knew only by the Animals' version.
But it was the song Sam said Simone had written after being devastated by the death of the four little girls in the Birmingham church that got the crowd singing along. With no prodding from her, people spontaneously joined in for the refrain of "Do it slow" in "Mississippi Goddam," making for a powerful moment to witness.
I was quickly brought back to reality when Sam said she was doing "Old Jim Crow" next and the young girl behind me asked her companion, "Jim who?"
Old Jim Crow, I thought I had you beat
Now I see you walkin' and talkin' up and down my street
Old Jim Crow, don't you know it's all over now
Referring to those lines of the song, Sam said, "I feel like that's what's been going on for the past year. But we're going to persevere and work together to change that, right?"
Right, indeed. She ended her set with "I Wish I Knew How It Feels To Be Free" and people clapping along in rhythm, like a gospel chorus. I couldn't have asked for a better way to close out election night.
Well, except to get home and see how many Republicans had been unseated in the House of Delegates. Oh, and what's this, a transgendered woman has beaten a dinosaur of a legislator, a man who bragged about being anti-LGBTQ? Karma really is a bitch.
Can't you see it?
Can't you feel it?
It's all in the air.
Virginia, goddam!
And I mean that in the best possible way.
I voted this morning behind a friend/neighbor/immigrant, who managed to crack me up and insinuate innuendo into the 90 seconds we sat next to each other waiting for voting booths to open up. At least we were voting for the same people.
At the Valentine for the first in their History/Controversy series, the ice breaker question asked of everyone in the room was who would win the gubernatorial race. A solid 90% of us predicted (or fervently hoped) Northam. Then we were polled about who had voted and 6% had not.
"All right, you 6%-ers are dismissed to go vote," our facilitator joked. And if he wasn't kidding, nobody was brave enough to leave and prove they'd shirked their civic duty.
Tonight's topic was voting and we were given historical context via the back stories of Sally Dooley (Virginia Association Opposed to Women's Suffrage) and Lila Meade Valentine (Equal Suffrage League of Virginia), but by far the most astounding fact we learned was that despite the Nineteenth Amendment (granting women the right to vote) being ratified in 1919, Virginia didn't get around to ratification until 1952.
That kind of crap could also be characterized as Virginia goddam, although not in a good way.
Tonight's experts - two UR law professors, one black, one white, one male, one female, hell, they were practically the Mod Squad - shared that as Virginians, we have a long history of gerrymandering going back to Patrick Henry, who tried to swing things so that James Monroe would beat out James Madison (he failed).
Looking at the current district maps was disturbing for how flagrantly they flaunted their only requirement: to be compact and contiguous. I think we can all agree that a district shaped like an amoeba with tumors hardly qualifies as compact.
It was a timely evening for a discussion of the importance of winning tonight's election because the re-districting maps will be drawn during the next administration and heaven knows, we could use some major amoeba trimming.
When I left there in the pouring rain, I only had to go two blocks to Vagabond for the music of a seminal pianist, singer, songwriter and activist. Down in the warm, dimly lit basement known as the Rabbit Hole, a crowd was already gathering for an event billed as "Sam Reed Sings Nina Simone."
Bellying up to the bar was no easy feat given the size of the crowd, but all it really gave me was a better view of a bartender so far in the weeds that he couldn't see out. The floor behind the bar was slick with moisture and I watched as he skidded on it repeatedly while people kept trying to get his attention to order.
Suddenly, from the end of the bar, somebody yelled, "Northam won!" and the room erupted in shrieks and applause. It was such a fantastic way to start the musical - and now celebratory - part of my evening. Spotting an abandoned bar stool, I dragged it over near a couch so I'd have a better (and seated) view.
That bit of luck was followed by the arrival of a guy I know and hadn't seen in ages (unless Facebook counts and it doesn't) and suddenly I had someone to chat with, too. I wanted to hear all about the Fire, Flour and Fork barbecue dinner he'd gone to - White Stone oysters at a BBQ, really? - and, since it was his first visit to the Rabbit Hole for music, he wanted to hear about bands I'd seen there.
Meanwhile, we saw other people giving up on the bartender and going upstairs to score drinks. One guy came down carrying two cans of PBR so he wouldn't have to go back up again. And people just kept coming in, filling up the place until there wasn't any room for more.
Sam Reed came out looking like a million bucks in wide, red bell bottoms and a long-sleeved black crop top and introduced her keyboard player Calvin. "We've been rehearsing these songs for weeks now, but it's not easy to come up here and suddenly become one amazing person."
After only a couple of songs, including a poignant "I Loves You, Porgy," during which some people continued to blather, Sam asked the sound guy to check on a buzz from the drum. "Any of you seen the documentary "What Happened, Miss Simone?" she inquired and a fair number of people indicated they had.
"Well, then you know she would have stopped a show with a snare drum buzzing like that. She'd also stop singing if people were talking because she wanted them to listen to her, like they did when she played classical music on piano." At that comment, many people shouted affirmations, telling her she should do just that and I agreed since near me were a couple of women catching up far too loudly while she sang.
It was just the reminder some people needed to be more respectful as she went forward with other Simone standards like "Don't Smoke in Bed" and "I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl," nailing that male/female tone that Nina's voice had.
Sam reminded the audience of Nina's place in civil rights history, chiding us with, "I hope you all voted!" and going into a set of music from that period, including a killer rendition of "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood," which I have to admit I knew only by the Animals' version.
But it was the song Sam said Simone had written after being devastated by the death of the four little girls in the Birmingham church that got the crowd singing along. With no prodding from her, people spontaneously joined in for the refrain of "Do it slow" in "Mississippi Goddam," making for a powerful moment to witness.
I was quickly brought back to reality when Sam said she was doing "Old Jim Crow" next and the young girl behind me asked her companion, "Jim who?"
Old Jim Crow, I thought I had you beat
Now I see you walkin' and talkin' up and down my street
Old Jim Crow, don't you know it's all over now
Referring to those lines of the song, Sam said, "I feel like that's what's been going on for the past year. But we're going to persevere and work together to change that, right?"
Right, indeed. She ended her set with "I Wish I Knew How It Feels To Be Free" and people clapping along in rhythm, like a gospel chorus. I couldn't have asked for a better way to close out election night.
Well, except to get home and see how many Republicans had been unseated in the House of Delegates. Oh, and what's this, a transgendered woman has beaten a dinosaur of a legislator, a man who bragged about being anti-LGBTQ? Karma really is a bitch.
Can't you see it?
Can't you feel it?
It's all in the air.
Virginia, goddam!
And I mean that in the best possible way.
Thursday, September 28, 2017
Pointing No Fingers
Infidelity never looked so good.
By that I mean, the 50th anniversary 4K restoration of "The Graduate" that the Byrd Theater was showing tonight was pristine. I don't think it's looked that good since 1967.
"This is the best possible way you'll ever see this movie," manager Todd told the assembled masses and he wasn't kidding. Never have the various colors of Mrs. Robinson's half slips or the details of her blue eye shadow been so vivid.
I started at Garnett's for dinner only to arrive during prime happy hour (it's been a while since I've seen a pitcher of beer served) and just barely manage to snag the only stool available at the counter.
In the tiny kitchen was the always charming Mac who greeted me by catching my eye in the mirror behind the counter. It was enough to get my attention and a smile from him so I had to assume that the baseball-sized mound of chicken salad on my green salad was his doing.
To my left was a guy eating solo and our server's innocuous inquiry about his day turned into a highly detailed account about his company's move and how they planned to spend $30K on renovations, but then the contractor upped the price to $140K, so the company balked and it was lowered to $100K, but then they demanded a $35K deposit.
Her eyes glazed over even before mine did just listening to him ramble.
It was hardly surprising that there was a sizable crowd for "The Graduate," but I have to admit I was surprised by how many young people were in attendance. I'd have been curious to know how many of them were seeing the seminal film for the first time.
Then, too, I wondered how certain dated details registered with them. Like beer cans with two holes punched in the top because it was the pre-pop top era. Or how Mrs. Robinson wore actual stockings and a garter belt, not pantyhose. How Mr. and Mrs. Robinson had to get married because she got pregnant. How the drinking age was lower, so it was okay to offer a 20 year old scotch or bourbon.
For that matter, stop for a moment and consider that Benjamin's father buys him a full scuba diving suit and accessories and complains that it set him back $200. I overheard a guy sitting behind me say it would be at least $1200 today and even allowing for jaw-flapping, I'm sure it wasn't a cheap gift then or now.
And although the movie had its dated moments (clip earrings, opera gloves, lots of teased hair), it held up beautifully for how it melded the story with Simon and Garfunkel's songs and delivered that most sought after ending of all: true love triumphing.
Sigh. Thank you, Hollywood circa 1967.
From there, I headed to Vagabond for music because I have been out for live music far too infrequently the past few months and I think it's affecting me and not in a good way.
The low-ceilinged Rabbit Hole downstairs was mobbed when I walked in and as I stood in the back looking for a way into the crowd, I spotted a girlfriend all the way across the long bar.
Starting toward her, we met in the middle only to return to her corner for a better vantage point. The first band finished their set and we took the opportunity to catch up because, as she said, women gotta talk and men don't always.
Because her relationship is in a state of uncertainty at the moment, she told me that after crying for 48 hours, she'd resolved to take a deep breath and focus on herself. That means she'd been at yoga before this, as well as cutting back on caffeine and drinking, doing whatever she thought would make her feel good.
And we both agreed that going out for live music always makes us feel good, with or without drinking, which is how we'd both ended up here tonight.
Keyboardist/singer Calvin Brown and his band then took the stage and proved that their brand of soul was just what we needed. The jazz critic came over to join us for a bit while the band began weaving its R&B spell over the room.
Brown had written a song or two about Instagram, "Because that's the world we live in," (causing the critic to joke, "I'm waiting for their song about MySpace"). When the singer bantered with the crowd between songs, he was pleased when people responded.
"I like when you answer me like that. I'm a church boy!" he said to applause before launching into "Cool."
I like when I go out looking for true love and end up letting the music wash over me until I feel good. Sure beats yoga.
By that I mean, the 50th anniversary 4K restoration of "The Graduate" that the Byrd Theater was showing tonight was pristine. I don't think it's looked that good since 1967.
"This is the best possible way you'll ever see this movie," manager Todd told the assembled masses and he wasn't kidding. Never have the various colors of Mrs. Robinson's half slips or the details of her blue eye shadow been so vivid.
I started at Garnett's for dinner only to arrive during prime happy hour (it's been a while since I've seen a pitcher of beer served) and just barely manage to snag the only stool available at the counter.
In the tiny kitchen was the always charming Mac who greeted me by catching my eye in the mirror behind the counter. It was enough to get my attention and a smile from him so I had to assume that the baseball-sized mound of chicken salad on my green salad was his doing.
To my left was a guy eating solo and our server's innocuous inquiry about his day turned into a highly detailed account about his company's move and how they planned to spend $30K on renovations, but then the contractor upped the price to $140K, so the company balked and it was lowered to $100K, but then they demanded a $35K deposit.
Her eyes glazed over even before mine did just listening to him ramble.
It was hardly surprising that there was a sizable crowd for "The Graduate," but I have to admit I was surprised by how many young people were in attendance. I'd have been curious to know how many of them were seeing the seminal film for the first time.
Then, too, I wondered how certain dated details registered with them. Like beer cans with two holes punched in the top because it was the pre-pop top era. Or how Mrs. Robinson wore actual stockings and a garter belt, not pantyhose. How Mr. and Mrs. Robinson had to get married because she got pregnant. How the drinking age was lower, so it was okay to offer a 20 year old scotch or bourbon.
For that matter, stop for a moment and consider that Benjamin's father buys him a full scuba diving suit and accessories and complains that it set him back $200. I overheard a guy sitting behind me say it would be at least $1200 today and even allowing for jaw-flapping, I'm sure it wasn't a cheap gift then or now.
And although the movie had its dated moments (clip earrings, opera gloves, lots of teased hair), it held up beautifully for how it melded the story with Simon and Garfunkel's songs and delivered that most sought after ending of all: true love triumphing.
Sigh. Thank you, Hollywood circa 1967.
From there, I headed to Vagabond for music because I have been out for live music far too infrequently the past few months and I think it's affecting me and not in a good way.
The low-ceilinged Rabbit Hole downstairs was mobbed when I walked in and as I stood in the back looking for a way into the crowd, I spotted a girlfriend all the way across the long bar.
Starting toward her, we met in the middle only to return to her corner for a better vantage point. The first band finished their set and we took the opportunity to catch up because, as she said, women gotta talk and men don't always.
Because her relationship is in a state of uncertainty at the moment, she told me that after crying for 48 hours, she'd resolved to take a deep breath and focus on herself. That means she'd been at yoga before this, as well as cutting back on caffeine and drinking, doing whatever she thought would make her feel good.
And we both agreed that going out for live music always makes us feel good, with or without drinking, which is how we'd both ended up here tonight.
Keyboardist/singer Calvin Brown and his band then took the stage and proved that their brand of soul was just what we needed. The jazz critic came over to join us for a bit while the band began weaving its R&B spell over the room.
Brown had written a song or two about Instagram, "Because that's the world we live in," (causing the critic to joke, "I'm waiting for their song about MySpace"). When the singer bantered with the crowd between songs, he was pleased when people responded.
"I like when you answer me like that. I'm a church boy!" he said to applause before launching into "Cool."
I like when I go out looking for true love and end up letting the music wash over me until I feel good. Sure beats yoga.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
I'll Make Time
As every former Girl Scout knows, make new friends, but keep the old, blah, blah, silver and gold.
The old, a former co-worker and music buddy, had emailed with his standard, "Drinks or lunch soon?" so we'd planned lunch at Peking (I know, I know, who goes to Peking anymore, especially when a so-called Chinese restaurant doesn't provide chopsticks without asking) because it was near his office at the James Center.
Over my Sezchuan chicken and his General Tso's fried chicken, we discussed our shared allegiance in the mayoral race before moving on to the state of the scene, a favorite topic of ours for a decade now.
Not for the first time, he thanked me for insisting he attend the Silent Music Revival back in 2008 when he hadn't a clue (always happy to be of service) and suggested a game where we chronicle our favorite cultural experiences back in that era when all the underground scenes were just beginning to burble up to a more mainstream audience.
Mermaid Skeletons in the Poe Garden, the first Listening Room at the Micheaux House, the Silent Music Revival with Blue Letter making our ears bleed, the first time we marched together in the Halloween parade.
We got a million of 'em, he and I.
Only problem is, we can play that game all day long and both of us had work to accomplish this afternoon, so I accompanied him as far as the James Center and continued my walk uphill to Jackson Ward.
As for the new (friend, that is), he was technically still wet behind the ears since we'd met exactly a week ago and this was our first outing. The man's only been back in Richmond for two months, so I'd offered to help a brother out by showcasing what I like about Richmond life.
Upon his return from a weekend in Asheville, the Barrister had notified me of his availability, I'd shared what my plans for that evening were and left him to decide if any or all of it was appealing enough to join in.
Whether bravely or foolishly, he'd checked all three boxes.
We met at Chop Suey Books for "One Hour, Four Places," with four writers reading from their work about linen closets, cheating spouses dying, overnights in a museum and bedside manner, although we were also those horrible people in the back row who only stayed for three of the readings.
Once out on the sidewalk, we agreed that Gayla Mills' ode to repeatedly patching the worn out jeans of the 21-year old she fell in love and began making music with rang truest.
As old friends of mine know well, memoir often trumps fiction for my interest.
From there, we did a convoy over to Vagabond for dinner, only to walk in and be informed that it was Restaurant Week and they were full up. On the one hand, I should probably have known what week it was given my occupation but on the other, I tend to block it out intentionally.
Fortunately, the bar was empty and dinner service extended to those stools, so we settled in to do battle with the unexpected constraints of the week, but the good news kept coming when I learned that ordering off the Restaurant Week menu was not required given the - ta da! - "Vagabond Staples" portion of the menu.
That and a glass of La Galope Rose ensured that even if Barr turned out to be dead boring as company, at least the meal wouldn't be (and he didn't). Additional points were earned because he's also firmly in the camp that food is meant to be shared so there can be no duplicate ordering.
Not a problem since I went with the staples and Barr went traditional with the Restaurant Week menu.
My first course was fried cauliflower with a swipe of earthy roasted pumpkin seed Romesco, while his was a smoked brisket taco combining pine nut salsa, pickled jalapeno and queso fresco that refused to stay contained in the tortilla despite our best efforts.
We covered the entire histories of all the people at the table where we'd met, as well as our conflicting plans for Saturday night. Despite his entreaties, Paula Poundstone yields to Julius Caesar for me in this instance.
Next up I tucked into scallops perfectly seared over smoked corn puree (something I'd love to see more of), butternut squash, pico de gallo and, yes, that's right, tortilla chips.
Snack food fine dining, yes, please.
His roasted rockfish brought up the whole roasted rockfish we'd shared with the table last Wednesday, a frequency he commented on, but, pshaw, I'd already had a second rockfish since then, making this my third in a week. Tonight's repeat fish benefited from toothsome collards, sea island red peas, potlikker and butter (although, let's face it, a fillet never measures up to whole fish).
Because that's what friends do - even brand new friends - I was happy to explain potlikker to the grown man next to me who was unfamiliar with the term despite an obvious affinity for the product.
More explaining was in order when he inquired about the photo on my blog - Jonathan Borofsky's "Walking to the Sky" - which I took in 2008 laying in the grass at the Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas (and good for me since it has since been dismantled and not reinstalled) on a glorious winter day.
And since I can't mention Dallas without sharing how distasteful I repeatedly found the city despite the friend I adore who lived there, he gave me his take on Dallas, which was far more positive than mine.
But even newly-minted friends are bound to have differences of opinion, so I didn't hold it against him.
His third course was a chocolate torte with a Fall-tasting sweet Asian pear compote and goat cheese whipped cream, which he graciously shared with yours truly before we took our drinks and headed downstairs to the Gypsy Tea Room for the main event: music.
Two large groups of noisy talkers were just vacating their tables when we arrived, ordered more wine and claimed prime spaces on the banquette facing the Scott Clark Other Other 4-tet in the moody darkness, which also happens to be one reason I like this space so much.
So. Much. Atmosphere.
Given that it was a first outing for this friendship, we both had plenty of getting-to-know-you questions, such as him inquiring what radio station I listened to. When I said public radio WNRN, he said that told him everything he needed to know since he was also a huge fan of the station.
People continued to trickle in for the next half an hour as the quartet began playing and improvising, meaning I saw a favorite candidate for City Council, one of the musicians who used to live underneath me ("How are the new tenants?" he wondered about his replacements) and the drummer whose park show I'd missed last night.
Across the room, I spotted the jazz critic and several up and coming musicians, little surprise given the quality of musicianship on display tonight: the low key and multi-talented Scott on drums, Cameron Ralston slapping, plucking, bowing and generally owning the bass, Jason Scott killing it on sax and clarinet and Trey Pollard on guitar while making outstanding guitar faces.
I could see that the Barrister was enjoying himself completely. Leaning over between songs, he asked rhetorically, "Shows like this are happening all over town every night, aren't they?"
Sure are and some nights, they're in the same place where potlikker is being ladled up.
If this friendship continues to go well, in ten years I'd like to think he'll be another long-time friend thanking me for suggesting all kinds of places.
My gold and silver motto? Making new friends, keeping the old and laying in the grass when it's called for.
The old, a former co-worker and music buddy, had emailed with his standard, "Drinks or lunch soon?" so we'd planned lunch at Peking (I know, I know, who goes to Peking anymore, especially when a so-called Chinese restaurant doesn't provide chopsticks without asking) because it was near his office at the James Center.
Over my Sezchuan chicken and his
Not for the first time, he thanked me for insisting he attend the Silent Music Revival back in 2008 when he hadn't a clue (always happy to be of service) and suggested a game where we chronicle our favorite cultural experiences back in that era when all the underground scenes were just beginning to burble up to a more mainstream audience.
Mermaid Skeletons in the Poe Garden, the first Listening Room at the Micheaux House, the Silent Music Revival with Blue Letter making our ears bleed, the first time we marched together in the Halloween parade.
We got a million of 'em, he and I.
Only problem is, we can play that game all day long and both of us had work to accomplish this afternoon, so I accompanied him as far as the James Center and continued my walk uphill to Jackson Ward.
As for the new (friend, that is), he was technically still wet behind the ears since we'd met exactly a week ago and this was our first outing. The man's only been back in Richmond for two months, so I'd offered to help a brother out by showcasing what I like about Richmond life.
Upon his return from a weekend in Asheville, the Barrister had notified me of his availability, I'd shared what my plans for that evening were and left him to decide if any or all of it was appealing enough to join in.
Whether bravely or foolishly, he'd checked all three boxes.
We met at Chop Suey Books for "One Hour, Four Places," with four writers reading from their work about linen closets, cheating spouses dying, overnights in a museum and bedside manner, although we were also those horrible people in the back row who only stayed for three of the readings.
Once out on the sidewalk, we agreed that Gayla Mills' ode to repeatedly patching the worn out jeans of the 21-year old she fell in love and began making music with rang truest.
As old friends of mine know well, memoir often trumps fiction for my interest.
From there, we did a convoy over to Vagabond for dinner, only to walk in and be informed that it was Restaurant Week and they were full up. On the one hand, I should probably have known what week it was given my occupation but on the other, I tend to block it out intentionally.
Fortunately, the bar was empty and dinner service extended to those stools, so we settled in to do battle with the unexpected constraints of the week, but the good news kept coming when I learned that ordering off the Restaurant Week menu was not required given the - ta da! - "Vagabond Staples" portion of the menu.
That and a glass of La Galope Rose ensured that even if Barr turned out to be dead boring as company, at least the meal wouldn't be (and he didn't). Additional points were earned because he's also firmly in the camp that food is meant to be shared so there can be no duplicate ordering.
Not a problem since I went with the staples and Barr went traditional with the Restaurant Week menu.
My first course was fried cauliflower with a swipe of earthy roasted pumpkin seed Romesco, while his was a smoked brisket taco combining pine nut salsa, pickled jalapeno and queso fresco that refused to stay contained in the tortilla despite our best efforts.
We covered the entire histories of all the people at the table where we'd met, as well as our conflicting plans for Saturday night. Despite his entreaties, Paula Poundstone yields to Julius Caesar for me in this instance.
Next up I tucked into scallops perfectly seared over smoked corn puree (something I'd love to see more of), butternut squash, pico de gallo and, yes, that's right, tortilla chips.
Snack food fine dining, yes, please.
His roasted rockfish brought up the whole roasted rockfish we'd shared with the table last Wednesday, a frequency he commented on, but, pshaw, I'd already had a second rockfish since then, making this my third in a week. Tonight's repeat fish benefited from toothsome collards, sea island red peas, potlikker and butter (although, let's face it, a fillet never measures up to whole fish).
Because that's what friends do - even brand new friends - I was happy to explain potlikker to the grown man next to me who was unfamiliar with the term despite an obvious affinity for the product.
More explaining was in order when he inquired about the photo on my blog - Jonathan Borofsky's "Walking to the Sky" - which I took in 2008 laying in the grass at the Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas (and good for me since it has since been dismantled and not reinstalled) on a glorious winter day.
And since I can't mention Dallas without sharing how distasteful I repeatedly found the city despite the friend I adore who lived there, he gave me his take on Dallas, which was far more positive than mine.
But even newly-minted friends are bound to have differences of opinion, so I didn't hold it against him.
His third course was a chocolate torte with a Fall-tasting sweet Asian pear compote and goat cheese whipped cream, which he graciously shared with yours truly before we took our drinks and headed downstairs to the Gypsy Tea Room for the main event: music.
Two large groups of noisy talkers were just vacating their tables when we arrived, ordered more wine and claimed prime spaces on the banquette facing the Scott Clark Other Other 4-tet in the moody darkness, which also happens to be one reason I like this space so much.
So. Much. Atmosphere.
Given that it was a first outing for this friendship, we both had plenty of getting-to-know-you questions, such as him inquiring what radio station I listened to. When I said public radio WNRN, he said that told him everything he needed to know since he was also a huge fan of the station.
People continued to trickle in for the next half an hour as the quartet began playing and improvising, meaning I saw a favorite candidate for City Council, one of the musicians who used to live underneath me ("How are the new tenants?" he wondered about his replacements) and the drummer whose park show I'd missed last night.
Across the room, I spotted the jazz critic and several up and coming musicians, little surprise given the quality of musicianship on display tonight: the low key and multi-talented Scott on drums, Cameron Ralston slapping, plucking, bowing and generally owning the bass, Jason Scott killing it on sax and clarinet and Trey Pollard on guitar while making outstanding guitar faces.
I could see that the Barrister was enjoying himself completely. Leaning over between songs, he asked rhetorically, "Shows like this are happening all over town every night, aren't they?"
Sure are and some nights, they're in the same place where potlikker is being ladled up.
If this friendship continues to go well, in ten years I'd like to think he'll be another long-time friend thanking me for suggesting all kinds of places.
My gold and silver motto? Making new friends, keeping the old and laying in the grass when it's called for.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Learning the Hard Way
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood because the Bijou has opened.
If you want to get technical, it opened last weekend but I was out of town for Chaplin's "Modern Times," the inaugural offering. So after a friend's dimly-lit birthday party in the Gypsy Room at Vagabond, I walked down a few blocks to the Bijou.
But not before convincing doubters to eat torchon (without sharing that it's made from pig head), hearing vacation tales of the wonder of U.S. territory Puerto Rico (no currency exchange! no language barrier! a rain forest!), ingesting more rockfish rillettes than I care to admit and listening to the Denver transplant mock-whine about the local Broncos obsession and the abundance of pot shops and over-priced apartments out there.
Headed up Broad, I was looking forward to checking out the Bijou's new digs, which turned out to be the perfect starter space: small, simple and complete with bar and popcorn (two bags, no judging, please).
When I walked in, vinyl was playing on the turntable, there were two men clad in seersucker blazers despite Labor Day already being in the rear view mirror, and a growing crowd was filing in with a few familiar faces thrown in for good measure.
Even better, I was told that the earlier screening of "Miss Sharon Jones!" had sold out. See, Richmond, there's your proof we really did want a small arthouse theater showing repertory as well as new films. I, for one, am tired of reading reviews of wonderful but obscure or small films in the Washington Post, knowing full well they'll never play Richmond.
Happily, the Bijou is changing all that.
The film center's founders spoke briefly, including a mention about how film is truly meant to be experienced on a big screen with strangers, a sentiment I support wholeheartedly and am mocked for regularly.
The documentary covered the period after Miss Jones found out she had stage two pancreatic cancer, underwent surgery and chemo and was nursed back to health so she could go back to singing, but it also included plenty of impressive live footage from before and after her illness.
I only saw Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings once, back in May 2010 at Maymont, and it was a helluva show given the towering musical talent of the band and the force of nature personality of Miss Jones. Even six plus years later, I can clearly recall the way she worked the crowd up into a dancing frenzy, never letting up herself...and she was also singing the whole time.
Of course, even without the cancer angle, her story was film-worthy. How does a singer who's been told by a record executive that she's too old, too black and too short (side note: how many men get told that by record execs, hmmm?) for success manage to have her first hit at age 40?
Major talent and sheer determination. A band that's as close as family. Divine luck.
After the film, I strolled down Broad Street chatting with a couple headed to their car. Like me, they'd really enjoyed the documentary, but unlike me, they'd never seen her live and wanted to hear every detail about my experience.
A block or so later, they asked if I was walking home and when I said yes, if I would like a ride for safety. I assured them I was barely six blocks from home, so I'd be just fine.
Besides, they're missing the point. With the opening of the Bijou, there's one more reason to attract people to the neighborhood, more to do once you're here and yet another formerly vacant storefront is knit into the fabric of Jackson Ward. Score!
So, yes, Bijou Film Center, I will happily be your neighbor.
If you want to get technical, it opened last weekend but I was out of town for Chaplin's "Modern Times," the inaugural offering. So after a friend's dimly-lit birthday party in the Gypsy Room at Vagabond, I walked down a few blocks to the Bijou.
But not before convincing doubters to eat torchon (without sharing that it's made from pig head), hearing vacation tales of the wonder of U.S. territory Puerto Rico (no currency exchange! no language barrier! a rain forest!), ingesting more rockfish rillettes than I care to admit and listening to the Denver transplant mock-whine about the local Broncos obsession and the abundance of pot shops and over-priced apartments out there.
Headed up Broad, I was looking forward to checking out the Bijou's new digs, which turned out to be the perfect starter space: small, simple and complete with bar and popcorn (two bags, no judging, please).
When I walked in, vinyl was playing on the turntable, there were two men clad in seersucker blazers despite Labor Day already being in the rear view mirror, and a growing crowd was filing in with a few familiar faces thrown in for good measure.
Even better, I was told that the earlier screening of "Miss Sharon Jones!" had sold out. See, Richmond, there's your proof we really did want a small arthouse theater showing repertory as well as new films. I, for one, am tired of reading reviews of wonderful but obscure or small films in the Washington Post, knowing full well they'll never play Richmond.
Happily, the Bijou is changing all that.
The film center's founders spoke briefly, including a mention about how film is truly meant to be experienced on a big screen with strangers, a sentiment I support wholeheartedly and am mocked for regularly.
The documentary covered the period after Miss Jones found out she had stage two pancreatic cancer, underwent surgery and chemo and was nursed back to health so she could go back to singing, but it also included plenty of impressive live footage from before and after her illness.
I only saw Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings once, back in May 2010 at Maymont, and it was a helluva show given the towering musical talent of the band and the force of nature personality of Miss Jones. Even six plus years later, I can clearly recall the way she worked the crowd up into a dancing frenzy, never letting up herself...and she was also singing the whole time.
Of course, even without the cancer angle, her story was film-worthy. How does a singer who's been told by a record executive that she's too old, too black and too short (side note: how many men get told that by record execs, hmmm?) for success manage to have her first hit at age 40?
Major talent and sheer determination. A band that's as close as family. Divine luck.
After the film, I strolled down Broad Street chatting with a couple headed to their car. Like me, they'd really enjoyed the documentary, but unlike me, they'd never seen her live and wanted to hear every detail about my experience.
A block or so later, they asked if I was walking home and when I said yes, if I would like a ride for safety. I assured them I was barely six blocks from home, so I'd be just fine.
Besides, they're missing the point. With the opening of the Bijou, there's one more reason to attract people to the neighborhood, more to do once you're here and yet another formerly vacant storefront is knit into the fabric of Jackson Ward. Score!
So, yes, Bijou Film Center, I will happily be your neighbor.
Friday, May 6, 2016
Keep Calm and Eat Lunch
You can lead a man to creative food, but you can't make him step out of his comfort zone.
When a newish friend suggested lunch, I countered with Vagabond, knowing it was two blocks from where he worked. "I haven't been there since the name change," he tells me and we set a time.
Arriving first, I spot a hungover-looking bartender eating lunch at the bar and catch up with him, barely returning to my seat when a newly-blond friend approaches, having spotted me from across the room. We finish up just as my friend arrives.
I could tell from looking at his face as he scanned the menu that it was not to his taste, a fact confirmed when I asked where he usually eats lunch. His answer told me everything I needed to know: Joe's Inn, the Hill Cafe, Tarrant's. His current weekly favorite is Bandito's.
Seems he used to be a huge fan of Home Team Grill but thinks the quality of the food has declined. Was it ever elevated, I wonder?
Eventually he decides on the chicken salad sandwich (I'd already guessed it would be that or the egg salad - not for him the likes of braised pork cheek tacos or even barley), despite its inclusion of cranberry, pecan and orange.
I could see he was hesitant about the accompanying green soup du jour, a killer potato asparagus from the taste I'd had, but he eventually lapped it up, sounding shocked about how tasty it was.
Only a Vagabond virgin would be surprised at how good the food was.
Meanwhile, over on my side of the table, I was totally digging two filled-to-bursting shrimp tacos laden with charred pico de gallo, hot sauce crema and, yes, popcorn, accompanied by a magnificent side salad that could have been a standalone it was so well executed.
Where we had lots to talk about was on the subject of his mid-century modern house and the fabulous updates to it, including plenty of before and after photos that proved what the house I'd toured on Riverside Drive had: that a '60s box of a dwelling has plenty of room for improvement with a bit of creativity and a little effort.
Kind of like that elevated chicken salad sandwich. If only it were as easy to improve a boring eater's habits.
When a newish friend suggested lunch, I countered with Vagabond, knowing it was two blocks from where he worked. "I haven't been there since the name change," he tells me and we set a time.
Arriving first, I spot a hungover-looking bartender eating lunch at the bar and catch up with him, barely returning to my seat when a newly-blond friend approaches, having spotted me from across the room. We finish up just as my friend arrives.
I could tell from looking at his face as he scanned the menu that it was not to his taste, a fact confirmed when I asked where he usually eats lunch. His answer told me everything I needed to know: Joe's Inn, the Hill Cafe, Tarrant's. His current weekly favorite is Bandito's.
Seems he used to be a huge fan of Home Team Grill but thinks the quality of the food has declined. Was it ever elevated, I wonder?
Eventually he decides on the chicken salad sandwich (I'd already guessed it would be that or the egg salad - not for him the likes of braised pork cheek tacos or even barley), despite its inclusion of cranberry, pecan and orange.
I could see he was hesitant about the accompanying green soup du jour, a killer potato asparagus from the taste I'd had, but he eventually lapped it up, sounding shocked about how tasty it was.
Only a Vagabond virgin would be surprised at how good the food was.
Meanwhile, over on my side of the table, I was totally digging two filled-to-bursting shrimp tacos laden with charred pico de gallo, hot sauce crema and, yes, popcorn, accompanied by a magnificent side salad that could have been a standalone it was so well executed.
Where we had lots to talk about was on the subject of his mid-century modern house and the fabulous updates to it, including plenty of before and after photos that proved what the house I'd toured on Riverside Drive had: that a '60s box of a dwelling has plenty of room for improvement with a bit of creativity and a little effort.
Kind of like that elevated chicken salad sandwich. If only it were as easy to improve a boring eater's habits.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Different From the Rest
Let this be a lesson to you, boys and girls.
When you stay out 'till 2 a.m., then you're likely to sleep in until 11 (or is that just me?), which is almost certain to put you behind for the (abbreviated) next day when you have work to do (a 1:00 interview is going to come up almost as soon as you finish eating breakfast, answering emails and opening every window in the house because it's already 75 degrees), which, let's face it, we all do.
Well, except my friend who bought Apple stock in the '90s, but he's one of the lucky ones.
Still, last night's nine-hour progressive restaurant crawl through Monroe Ward and Jackson Ward was well worth today's repercussions, one of which is this highlights reel post about it.
Things got rolling at Rappahannock for oyster and Prosecco happy hour, where an error in our server hearing our order resulted in a bonus four Old Salts to our dozen, making for a fine start to the night.
From there, we headed east to Lucca where sunny yellow stools and a familiar face at their raw bar greeted us.
Sitting at the regular bar under lights far too bright, we expressed our wish for dimmer and the bartender agreed wholeheartedly, immediately setting a far more intimate mood to accompany a stellar Motown soundtrack (gems such as "Love Child," and - be still my heart - "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me").
A charcuterie and frommage plate groaned under Comte, Tallegio and Humbolt Fog, along with Capricola, Rohschinken and grilled bread with apricot chutney. MIA was the promised honey and pickle, but all in all, it was a solid spread.
Crossing back over Broad Street to Vagabond, we settled in with coupes of Can Xa Brut Rosé to accompany smoked chicken wings in tequila honey sauce (because some people believe wings and Monday night go together like football and TV) and, my choice, a plate of sticky General Tso's sweetbreads, hoping the broccoli would count as tonight's lone vegetable.
With enough pink bubbly, a person could justify almost anything.
The evening's final stop was Saison where we ran into the daily sunrise-watcher (I had to ask when sunrise was since I had no clue) and then gradually watched the place begin to fill up with beards and tattoos for half-priced wine night.
From our vantage point at the top of the bar and glasses of Pheasants Tears Tavkeri Rosé, we debated the political candidates, the cost of a transmission and why some people scrimp to save for a week at the beach.
Walking outside just before 2 a.m., it was startling how warm it still was. Could Spring have sprung while we were catching up and crawling all evening?
Regardless, sitting down to post at that point seemed silly, so here I am now, late but not entirely lost.
Just in case anyone's keeping score.
When you stay out 'till 2 a.m., then you're likely to sleep in until 11 (or is that just me?), which is almost certain to put you behind for the (abbreviated) next day when you have work to do (a 1:00 interview is going to come up almost as soon as you finish eating breakfast, answering emails and opening every window in the house because it's already 75 degrees), which, let's face it, we all do.
Well, except my friend who bought Apple stock in the '90s, but he's one of the lucky ones.
Still, last night's nine-hour progressive restaurant crawl through Monroe Ward and Jackson Ward was well worth today's repercussions, one of which is this highlights reel post about it.
Things got rolling at Rappahannock for oyster and Prosecco happy hour, where an error in our server hearing our order resulted in a bonus four Old Salts to our dozen, making for a fine start to the night.
From there, we headed east to Lucca where sunny yellow stools and a familiar face at their raw bar greeted us.
Sitting at the regular bar under lights far too bright, we expressed our wish for dimmer and the bartender agreed wholeheartedly, immediately setting a far more intimate mood to accompany a stellar Motown soundtrack (gems such as "Love Child," and - be still my heart - "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me").
A charcuterie and frommage plate groaned under Comte, Tallegio and Humbolt Fog, along with Capricola, Rohschinken and grilled bread with apricot chutney. MIA was the promised honey and pickle, but all in all, it was a solid spread.
Crossing back over Broad Street to Vagabond, we settled in with coupes of Can Xa Brut Rosé to accompany smoked chicken wings in tequila honey sauce (because some people believe wings and Monday night go together like football and TV) and, my choice, a plate of sticky General Tso's sweetbreads, hoping the broccoli would count as tonight's lone vegetable.
With enough pink bubbly, a person could justify almost anything.
The evening's final stop was Saison where we ran into the daily sunrise-watcher (I had to ask when sunrise was since I had no clue) and then gradually watched the place begin to fill up with beards and tattoos for half-priced wine night.
From our vantage point at the top of the bar and glasses of Pheasants Tears Tavkeri Rosé, we debated the political candidates, the cost of a transmission and why some people scrimp to save for a week at the beach.
Walking outside just before 2 a.m., it was startling how warm it still was. Could Spring have sprung while we were catching up and crawling all evening?
Regardless, sitting down to post at that point seemed silly, so here I am now, late but not entirely lost.
Just in case anyone's keeping score.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
You'll Take to the Sky
You know it's going to be a good day when it starts in the clouds.
My road trip took me through rain, mist and wet weather bad drivers, but rewarded me in spades once I started across the arcing Norris Bridge with almost no other traffic on it. Because it's so high and the day was so moist, the entire drive across it was like being suspended in a cloud.
Everything was hidden from view: the shoreline, buildings I knew to be there, the mighty Rappahannock River below, even any sea birds that might have been winging by. Honestly, it felt like floating in mid-air, made all the more exhilarating because I had the windows down to drink in the smell of being inside a cloud.
Satisfying as my day on the water was, so was my evening spent in the company of the best walker I know, who'd picked up the slack when my original date needed to cancel.
Despite a throng of people in line for tonight's Kevin Gates show at the National, we had no problem finding parking in my usual National space, conveniently available. The hostess at Vagabond recognized me at once because as strangers, we had once shared a cheese plate at Amuse. Small world.
The bar was full with so many concert-goers in attendance, so we took a table. While my friend was in the loo, a familiar wine face and his posse sat down at the next table.
When I overheard him say to his Portuguese guests that perhaps they should begin with a Virginia wine, I couldn't resist jumping in, saying it was the least he could do for them given his profession. His eyebrow shot up; clearly I had piqued his interest. How did...?
I love that moment when you remind a man that he's already met you. Even better is when you remind him where and he can immediately recall details.
Moving on, I cast my vote for him to break their Virginia wine cherries before the Portuguese asked for dinner recommendations - easy enough to do after our stellar supper (the only disappointment being they were out of the scallop casserole) - and I left them to enjoy themselves as much as we had.
Griddled ham and Idiazabal bocadillos dunked in salsa verde had gotten us started, a beautifully colorful butternut squash and beet salad with pea shoots had kept us going and killer beef cheeks with grilled pineapple, Manchego churros and a coffee reduction took care of my eating needs and made a convert out of the Vagabond first-timer.
And since the savory churros were so outstanding, we had to try the dessert version, rolled in cinnamon sugar and accompanied by melted chocolate and poblano jam for dipping, making for the exclamation point to our meal.
Saying goodnight to the foreign contingent, we headed four blocks down to TheatreLAB for their Acts of Faith collaboration with the JCC in producing "Bad Jews," a story of three grandkids arguing over their dead grandfather's memory and jewelry, except that they're really arguing about far bigger issues of envy and resentment.
You know how families do.
In this case, it was the ultra-Jewish Diana versus the happily more secular Liam who's about to propose to a shiksa from Delaware, while the mild-mannered younger brother just tries to stay out of the fray.
Recriminations, shouting matches, shoving and revelations, so, needless to say, it's very funny, especially if you enjoy outrageous family drama.
TheatreLAB company artist Kelsey Cordrey's Diana is assured and acerbically overwhelming in making her case for why she should be the chosen one, only showing her insecurity in how she constantly tugs at her Vassar shirt. Her timing's so on point and her portrayal so fierce, it's a role she'll be remembered for in years to come.
Despite the many roles I've seen him play, never have I seen Evan Nasteff - looking geek-handsome in spectacles - convey the kind of mean-spirited, neurotic behavior that makes Liam as culpable as Diana for the evening from Hell.
Can't you two just get along?
No matter which side you take - maintaining one's pure Jewishness in tribute to the torturous legacy of the past or accepting that as Americans we are a melting pot of races and religions that allows for individuality - both points of view can make a strong case.
"Bad Jews" sure did, insisting that a play should both entertain and provide food for thought.
Not bad for a day that began with my head in the clouds, feet nowhere near the ground.
My road trip took me through rain, mist and wet weather bad drivers, but rewarded me in spades once I started across the arcing Norris Bridge with almost no other traffic on it. Because it's so high and the day was so moist, the entire drive across it was like being suspended in a cloud.
Everything was hidden from view: the shoreline, buildings I knew to be there, the mighty Rappahannock River below, even any sea birds that might have been winging by. Honestly, it felt like floating in mid-air, made all the more exhilarating because I had the windows down to drink in the smell of being inside a cloud.
Satisfying as my day on the water was, so was my evening spent in the company of the best walker I know, who'd picked up the slack when my original date needed to cancel.
Despite a throng of people in line for tonight's Kevin Gates show at the National, we had no problem finding parking in my usual National space, conveniently available. The hostess at Vagabond recognized me at once because as strangers, we had once shared a cheese plate at Amuse. Small world.
The bar was full with so many concert-goers in attendance, so we took a table. While my friend was in the loo, a familiar wine face and his posse sat down at the next table.
When I overheard him say to his Portuguese guests that perhaps they should begin with a Virginia wine, I couldn't resist jumping in, saying it was the least he could do for them given his profession. His eyebrow shot up; clearly I had piqued his interest. How did...?
I love that moment when you remind a man that he's already met you. Even better is when you remind him where and he can immediately recall details.
Moving on, I cast my vote for him to break their Virginia wine cherries before the Portuguese asked for dinner recommendations - easy enough to do after our stellar supper (the only disappointment being they were out of the scallop casserole) - and I left them to enjoy themselves as much as we had.
Griddled ham and Idiazabal bocadillos dunked in salsa verde had gotten us started, a beautifully colorful butternut squash and beet salad with pea shoots had kept us going and killer beef cheeks with grilled pineapple, Manchego churros and a coffee reduction took care of my eating needs and made a convert out of the Vagabond first-timer.
And since the savory churros were so outstanding, we had to try the dessert version, rolled in cinnamon sugar and accompanied by melted chocolate and poblano jam for dipping, making for the exclamation point to our meal.
Saying goodnight to the foreign contingent, we headed four blocks down to TheatreLAB for their Acts of Faith collaboration with the JCC in producing "Bad Jews," a story of three grandkids arguing over their dead grandfather's memory and jewelry, except that they're really arguing about far bigger issues of envy and resentment.
You know how families do.
In this case, it was the ultra-Jewish Diana versus the happily more secular Liam who's about to propose to a shiksa from Delaware, while the mild-mannered younger brother just tries to stay out of the fray.
Recriminations, shouting matches, shoving and revelations, so, needless to say, it's very funny, especially if you enjoy outrageous family drama.
TheatreLAB company artist Kelsey Cordrey's Diana is assured and acerbically overwhelming in making her case for why she should be the chosen one, only showing her insecurity in how she constantly tugs at her Vassar shirt. Her timing's so on point and her portrayal so fierce, it's a role she'll be remembered for in years to come.
Despite the many roles I've seen him play, never have I seen Evan Nasteff - looking geek-handsome in spectacles - convey the kind of mean-spirited, neurotic behavior that makes Liam as culpable as Diana for the evening from Hell.
Can't you two just get along?
No matter which side you take - maintaining one's pure Jewishness in tribute to the torturous legacy of the past or accepting that as Americans we are a melting pot of races and religions that allows for individuality - both points of view can make a strong case.
"Bad Jews" sure did, insisting that a play should both entertain and provide food for thought.
Not bad for a day that began with my head in the clouds, feet nowhere near the ground.
Friday, November 20, 2015
What a Little Moonlight Can Do
The working for the weekend crowd was in full force tonight. In costume, no less.
Walking toward Vagabond to eat, Pru and I pass three women already in line (and in '80s attire) two hours before the sold out Legwarmers show.
Who stands in line for hours to see a cover band?
Inside Vagabond, it gets worse. The dozens of people inside and obviously going to the show are dressed like a parody of the '80s. One guy looks like Doc from "Back to the Future," a movie that just happens to be playing at the Byrd tonight.
Don't these people remember the reality of the Reagan years?
Never have I seen so many lace fingerless gloves or, yeesh, legwarmers. Yes, Madonna wore a net skirt to sing "Like a Virgin" on the MTV music awards, but tonight women are walking around with net skirts like it was a thing back then. It wasn't.
Seated at the edge of the bar, we have a bird's eye view of people coming in to pre-game before the show. The bartender tells us people have already sat down and ordered a drink and a dessert to satisfy the $15 minimum that qualifies them for early entry to the National next door.
"They leave the dessert," he says, shaking his head. "What possible difference does it make to get in a little early for a show like this?"
Beats the hell out of me.
That said, in spite of himself, he says he's been singing along to every song that's come on the '80s station they're playing tonight in the restaurant. "I grew up listening to this music," he says half-reverently. May Bow Wow Wow forgive you.
Another staff member comes over to share an anecdote with us, a look of astonishment written all over his face.
"These people called to ask about our corkage fee and I told them it was $15 as long as we don't carry the bottle," he said, still shaking his head. "Pretty standard for the industry, right? They just showed up...with a box of wine. That's like three bottles! I've never seen anything like it in all my years working in restaurants."
So not only are they costumed poorly, but they're crass as well. Or maybe they still think it's hip to be square.
As the bar fills up with more concert-goers, I tuck into spicy goat tacos with Thurston Wolfe Pinot Gris, followed by an exquisite Italian take on rockfish collar prepared with basil cooked in olive oil and a little Thai salad that eats even better than it smells, an amazing feat considering the aroma that announces the dish's arrival.
As if that weren't delightful enough, Pru casually mentions, "You're not gonna believe it but I'm on YouTube," explaining that she was roped into playing bells onstage at a recent performance of "Forever Plaid" and naturally, Beau filmed it. She's right, I don't believe it.
The world's gone mad tonight. Or should I say Madge?
Fleeing the former kids in America crowd, we make for the Basement and Theatre LAB's production of "Lady Day at Emerson's Bar & Grill," where, mercifully, the crowd is less hungry like the wolf.
Yet again I am impressed with how the malleable Basement has been transformed, this time into a small Philly jazz club with a postage stamp-sized stage, a piano off to one side and low tables for drinks for those with a front row view of Katrinah Carol Lewis as Billie Holiday.
Just as impressive is how much more diverse the crowd is than typically. I especially enjoy the couple sitting nearest me because they don't hesitate to react to what's said onstage.
When Lady Day is talking about how much she likes cooking, she says, "I cook pigs' feet real good. I boil 'em, then I bake 'em till they're crispy like potato chips," I hear him mutter appreciatively, "Mmmm, mmm!" almost licking his chops.
Clearly he appreciates a woman who can cook a mean mess o' pig's feet.
Set in 1959, the year she dies, the play portrays her after her prime, as a drug user (thanks to a man, natch) and post-jail time, but as a singer who can still move people with her voice and poignancy, albeit while moving through a bottle of booze onstage.
Between songs, she talks to the audience about her life and tries to get her pianist to interact with her.
For me, it was fascinating seeing local musician Larry Branch play the part of pianist Jimmy after years of seeing him play keys around town in various ensembles. Besides being seriously talented, his taciturn demeanor and valiant attempts to keep her on track added a note of pathos to the show.
Of course, with a one-woman show, you need a hell of a woman to pull it off and Katrinah is that woman, alternately (deservedly) disparaging white people and then breaking your heart with her back story.
Except when she's hilariously telling the story of a white restaurant hostess who refuses to let her use the whites only bathroom. Holiday solves the problem by pulling up her dress and taking care of business on the woman's sequined shoes and then Lewis goes into her breathtakingly beautiful rendition of Holiday's classic "Strange Fruit."
Past performances have proven what a gorgeous and robust singing voice Lewis has, so it was all to her credit that she managed to sound so much like the life-weary Lady Day as she moved through her repertoire, needle tracks on her arms evident.
No question, Billie Holiday's story was a tough one and by the time it finished, my interest had been piqued to find a good biography of the woman to further flesh out my understanding of her now that I knew bits and pieces.
When the lights came up, I heard the guys behind me tell friends that they'd "snuck out to the bar halfway though to get another bottle of wine."
Why not? I feel sure Lady Day would have approved.
Walking toward Vagabond to eat, Pru and I pass three women already in line (and in '80s attire) two hours before the sold out Legwarmers show.
Who stands in line for hours to see a cover band?
Inside Vagabond, it gets worse. The dozens of people inside and obviously going to the show are dressed like a parody of the '80s. One guy looks like Doc from "Back to the Future," a movie that just happens to be playing at the Byrd tonight.
Don't these people remember the reality of the Reagan years?
Never have I seen so many lace fingerless gloves or, yeesh, legwarmers. Yes, Madonna wore a net skirt to sing "Like a Virgin" on the MTV music awards, but tonight women are walking around with net skirts like it was a thing back then. It wasn't.
Seated at the edge of the bar, we have a bird's eye view of people coming in to pre-game before the show. The bartender tells us people have already sat down and ordered a drink and a dessert to satisfy the $15 minimum that qualifies them for early entry to the National next door.
"They leave the dessert," he says, shaking his head. "What possible difference does it make to get in a little early for a show like this?"
Beats the hell out of me.
That said, in spite of himself, he says he's been singing along to every song that's come on the '80s station they're playing tonight in the restaurant. "I grew up listening to this music," he says half-reverently. May Bow Wow Wow forgive you.
Another staff member comes over to share an anecdote with us, a look of astonishment written all over his face.
"These people called to ask about our corkage fee and I told them it was $15 as long as we don't carry the bottle," he said, still shaking his head. "Pretty standard for the industry, right? They just showed up...with a box of wine. That's like three bottles! I've never seen anything like it in all my years working in restaurants."
So not only are they costumed poorly, but they're crass as well. Or maybe they still think it's hip to be square.
As the bar fills up with more concert-goers, I tuck into spicy goat tacos with Thurston Wolfe Pinot Gris, followed by an exquisite Italian take on rockfish collar prepared with basil cooked in olive oil and a little Thai salad that eats even better than it smells, an amazing feat considering the aroma that announces the dish's arrival.
As if that weren't delightful enough, Pru casually mentions, "You're not gonna believe it but I'm on YouTube," explaining that she was roped into playing bells onstage at a recent performance of "Forever Plaid" and naturally, Beau filmed it. She's right, I don't believe it.
The world's gone mad tonight. Or should I say Madge?
Fleeing the former kids in America crowd, we make for the Basement and Theatre LAB's production of "Lady Day at Emerson's Bar & Grill," where, mercifully, the crowd is less hungry like the wolf.
Yet again I am impressed with how the malleable Basement has been transformed, this time into a small Philly jazz club with a postage stamp-sized stage, a piano off to one side and low tables for drinks for those with a front row view of Katrinah Carol Lewis as Billie Holiday.
Just as impressive is how much more diverse the crowd is than typically. I especially enjoy the couple sitting nearest me because they don't hesitate to react to what's said onstage.
When Lady Day is talking about how much she likes cooking, she says, "I cook pigs' feet real good. I boil 'em, then I bake 'em till they're crispy like potato chips," I hear him mutter appreciatively, "Mmmm, mmm!" almost licking his chops.
Clearly he appreciates a woman who can cook a mean mess o' pig's feet.
Set in 1959, the year she dies, the play portrays her after her prime, as a drug user (thanks to a man, natch) and post-jail time, but as a singer who can still move people with her voice and poignancy, albeit while moving through a bottle of booze onstage.
Between songs, she talks to the audience about her life and tries to get her pianist to interact with her.
For me, it was fascinating seeing local musician Larry Branch play the part of pianist Jimmy after years of seeing him play keys around town in various ensembles. Besides being seriously talented, his taciturn demeanor and valiant attempts to keep her on track added a note of pathos to the show.
Of course, with a one-woman show, you need a hell of a woman to pull it off and Katrinah is that woman, alternately (deservedly) disparaging white people and then breaking your heart with her back story.
Except when she's hilariously telling the story of a white restaurant hostess who refuses to let her use the whites only bathroom. Holiday solves the problem by pulling up her dress and taking care of business on the woman's sequined shoes and then Lewis goes into her breathtakingly beautiful rendition of Holiday's classic "Strange Fruit."
Past performances have proven what a gorgeous and robust singing voice Lewis has, so it was all to her credit that she managed to sound so much like the life-weary Lady Day as she moved through her repertoire, needle tracks on her arms evident.
No question, Billie Holiday's story was a tough one and by the time it finished, my interest had been piqued to find a good biography of the woman to further flesh out my understanding of her now that I knew bits and pieces.
When the lights came up, I heard the guys behind me tell friends that they'd "snuck out to the bar halfway though to get another bottle of wine."
Why not? I feel sure Lady Day would have approved.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Smart Enough
Let's get this out of the way right off the bat: I voted.
Some things are just non-negotiable, like eating deviled eggs on National Deviled Egg Day (yesterday, and, yes, I did, at Shoryuken, if you must know) and voting is one of them.
Other activities are optional.
But since I'd missed Matmos' show last night at Black Iris, I consoled myself with seeing them at The Depot, where they drew a huge crowd, played some of their music and videos and gave what was loosely termed an "artists' talk."
Note quotations.
VCU sound artist Stephen Vitiello began by welcoming the throngs, saying, "For those of you smart enough to come, welcome."
Drew, who did the lion's share of talking about the electronic music duo's music and creative process, while his partner in life and music, Martin, provided the low-voiced, hilarious color commentary, began by skewering the notion of the artist's talk, saying it was all about pleasuring the artist.
To prove his point, he squeezed his own nipples as he spoke.
After playing one of their songs from "The Rose Has Teeth in the Mouth of the Beast," - during which they both laid down on mats on the floor, causing a flurry of students to snap photos with their phones - Drew explained its genesis.
"Anyone here ever hard of the Germs?" he inquired and I wasn't the only one to raise my hand. "Anyone here have a germ burn?"
Not a soul did, understandable given the age of the group, but also that a Germ burn used to be acquired by allowing self-loathing and closeted lead singer Darby to hold a lighted cigarette to a fan's wrist to mark them.
The tie-in to the song? The manipulated sounds we'd heard were of Drew's wrist being burnt, his cries of pain and Martin shaving his head. Honestly, it had just sounded like really interesting electronic music to my unsophisticated ear.
His point was that there is sound for sound's sake and sound that delivers information. Clearly we all felt differently about the song after learning what we were hearing.
Talking about their show last night, Drew said they purposely push for autonomy of sound by using quad sound, making it impossible for people in the audience to record. "So if you do record it, your file will sound like shit," Drew said with obvious delight. "That's our insistence on presence in the moment."
Sigh. My heroes.
He made the point that he didn't want to be the old man yelling and shaking his fist at Soundcloud, but that the huge audio sound in the room was the point of being at the show.
Their breakthrough was a piece that was based on manipulating amplified crayfish nerve tissue and, yes, you read that right. "As a result of that song, we were called scientists of sound and surgeons of sound and so we were given all this credit we didn't deserve."
Humility is a beautiful thing.
They loved working with Bjork, who told them that she wanted their collaboration to be like Utopia with no suffering. "Yea, we want this job," they told her happily.
Drew, a tenured Shakespeare professor at Johns Hopkins, was a fascinating speaker, never losing his thread no matter how many tangents he took, but his best line came near the end.
"No one would go to a restaurant that only served mussel meat and bouillon cubes and that's what EDM is." I may like some EDM, but I like this analogy even better.
Although it had been a beautiful, blue sky kind of afternoon when I'd walked up the steps to the Depot, by the time I got out it was dark and getting cooler by the minute. Meanwhile, I am counting the days until March 6th when we spring forward and life gets warm and bright again.
Tonight was the Valentine's Community Conversation, this month on the topic of housing, particularly public and affordable.
Looking at photographs from the Valentine's extensive collection, we saw many dilapidated wood frame houses - or maybe shacks would be a better word - in Carver and on Second Street in Jackson Ward, houses in such awful shape it broke your heart to think people lived in them. Many, we learned had dirt floors.
I learned a new architecture term - dogtrot house - and saw examples on Moore Street, which I'd passed by on my walk this very morning. Two one story wooden structures connected by a breezeway, this was the first I'd ever heard of such a thing, although I'd seen something similar in Carver and wondered about it.
We saw the Carverettes, a youth group, cleaning up the neighborhood in the '60s, a scale model of what Randolph would look like from the '70s and the first Habitat for Humanity house in Richmond, built in Church Hill in 1990.
Truth be told, I could look at old photographs of the city for the entire two-hour community conversation, but that's not how this works.
Instead we use handheld devices to find out the demographics of the room (always a whiter representation than the actual city and usually more females than representative) and then break into small groups to discuss issues related to the topic.
Tonight it was fact or fiction statements about housing and welfare, house values and HUD. Our group had a terrific advantage in Lillian, who actually lived in public housing and could give us a hard-won feel for what that life was like.
The expert panel brought together the impressive TK (40+ years in the job) from Richmond Redevelopment and Housing Authority, Bernard and David from the Better Housing Coalition (photographs of the Cary and Meadow area before their residential and retail redevelopment projects were downright scary) and Jane from Habitat, who said prospective homeowners are expected to take classes and put in 350 hours of sweat equity to qualify for a mortgage.
Probably the most compelling discussions were about inclusionary housing - where a percentage of affordable housing is built along with market housing - and how race and politics play such a huge role in making those decisions.
Even once the evening ended, I was there for another 20 minutes talking with a woman who challenged what the benefit was to mixing people from affordable and market housing in the same neighborhood or complex.
As someone who moved from a very suburban white bread, homogeneous community into a very diverse urban one, I have extremely strong opinions on the subject.
With my intellect stimulated, I moved on to mindless fun. Tonight I'd been invited to the preview of the new Vagabond restaurant in the old Coda space next to the National.
I arrived late enough that every crumb of food that had been put out was long gone, but enough people remained to socialize with, including the chef's wife, newly blond, the real estate agent I run into everywhere and the former critic whom I'm always happy to see.
Curious about how they'd transformed the enormous space, I was charmed by a red textured and partially stenciled wall, another with crystals and constellations painted on and everywhere, small touches - flowers, glasses, framed art from the old Magpie - that gave a sense of personality to the two floors.
Airlift cocktail in hand, I got a tour from the chef - the easy access directly to the floor of the National and the VIP section is awfully appealing - and settled in to chat with a foodie and a restaurateur.
This is how I learned that when Daniel Ratcliffe was in town, he ate repeatedly at Buckhead's (bleu cheese-crusted fillet every time) and Osaka, but drank at neither, having given up the sauce a few years ago. I knew he'd been in town - I'd seen his bus parked at Quirk Hotel - but heard he'd begun at the Jefferson and decided to move.
Hardly surprising. Of course Harry Potter would prefer funky over staid.
After a protracted discussion of adopting country dogs and bringing them to the city, why the "Gilmore Girls" is such a good source for fashion tips (her statement, not mine, since I've never seen the show) and a thorough analysis of "Burnt" (saw it last night after the ramen, steamed buns and deviled eggs) with the restaurateur who'd seen it at Cinebistro, I decided I'd had enough fun for one night.
An invitation to join the talkers for a nightcap at Heritage failed to change my mind.
Maybe it was depression. I'd just been told that Republicans had held onto the Virginia Senate.
At least it wasn't my fault. I voted.
Some things are just non-negotiable, like eating deviled eggs on National Deviled Egg Day (yesterday, and, yes, I did, at Shoryuken, if you must know) and voting is one of them.
Other activities are optional.
But since I'd missed Matmos' show last night at Black Iris, I consoled myself with seeing them at The Depot, where they drew a huge crowd, played some of their music and videos and gave what was loosely termed an "artists' talk."
Note quotations.
VCU sound artist Stephen Vitiello began by welcoming the throngs, saying, "For those of you smart enough to come, welcome."
Drew, who did the lion's share of talking about the electronic music duo's music and creative process, while his partner in life and music, Martin, provided the low-voiced, hilarious color commentary, began by skewering the notion of the artist's talk, saying it was all about pleasuring the artist.
To prove his point, he squeezed his own nipples as he spoke.
After playing one of their songs from "The Rose Has Teeth in the Mouth of the Beast," - during which they both laid down on mats on the floor, causing a flurry of students to snap photos with their phones - Drew explained its genesis.
"Anyone here ever hard of the Germs?" he inquired and I wasn't the only one to raise my hand. "Anyone here have a germ burn?"
Not a soul did, understandable given the age of the group, but also that a Germ burn used to be acquired by allowing self-loathing and closeted lead singer Darby to hold a lighted cigarette to a fan's wrist to mark them.
The tie-in to the song? The manipulated sounds we'd heard were of Drew's wrist being burnt, his cries of pain and Martin shaving his head. Honestly, it had just sounded like really interesting electronic music to my unsophisticated ear.
His point was that there is sound for sound's sake and sound that delivers information. Clearly we all felt differently about the song after learning what we were hearing.
Talking about their show last night, Drew said they purposely push for autonomy of sound by using quad sound, making it impossible for people in the audience to record. "So if you do record it, your file will sound like shit," Drew said with obvious delight. "That's our insistence on presence in the moment."
Sigh. My heroes.
He made the point that he didn't want to be the old man yelling and shaking his fist at Soundcloud, but that the huge audio sound in the room was the point of being at the show.
Their breakthrough was a piece that was based on manipulating amplified crayfish nerve tissue and, yes, you read that right. "As a result of that song, we were called scientists of sound and surgeons of sound and so we were given all this credit we didn't deserve."
Humility is a beautiful thing.
They loved working with Bjork, who told them that she wanted their collaboration to be like Utopia with no suffering. "Yea, we want this job," they told her happily.
Drew, a tenured Shakespeare professor at Johns Hopkins, was a fascinating speaker, never losing his thread no matter how many tangents he took, but his best line came near the end.
"No one would go to a restaurant that only served mussel meat and bouillon cubes and that's what EDM is." I may like some EDM, but I like this analogy even better.
Although it had been a beautiful, blue sky kind of afternoon when I'd walked up the steps to the Depot, by the time I got out it was dark and getting cooler by the minute. Meanwhile, I am counting the days until March 6th when we spring forward and life gets warm and bright again.
Tonight was the Valentine's Community Conversation, this month on the topic of housing, particularly public and affordable.
Looking at photographs from the Valentine's extensive collection, we saw many dilapidated wood frame houses - or maybe shacks would be a better word - in Carver and on Second Street in Jackson Ward, houses in such awful shape it broke your heart to think people lived in them. Many, we learned had dirt floors.
I learned a new architecture term - dogtrot house - and saw examples on Moore Street, which I'd passed by on my walk this very morning. Two one story wooden structures connected by a breezeway, this was the first I'd ever heard of such a thing, although I'd seen something similar in Carver and wondered about it.
We saw the Carverettes, a youth group, cleaning up the neighborhood in the '60s, a scale model of what Randolph would look like from the '70s and the first Habitat for Humanity house in Richmond, built in Church Hill in 1990.
Truth be told, I could look at old photographs of the city for the entire two-hour community conversation, but that's not how this works.
Instead we use handheld devices to find out the demographics of the room (always a whiter representation than the actual city and usually more females than representative) and then break into small groups to discuss issues related to the topic.
Tonight it was fact or fiction statements about housing and welfare, house values and HUD. Our group had a terrific advantage in Lillian, who actually lived in public housing and could give us a hard-won feel for what that life was like.
The expert panel brought together the impressive TK (40+ years in the job) from Richmond Redevelopment and Housing Authority, Bernard and David from the Better Housing Coalition (photographs of the Cary and Meadow area before their residential and retail redevelopment projects were downright scary) and Jane from Habitat, who said prospective homeowners are expected to take classes and put in 350 hours of sweat equity to qualify for a mortgage.
Probably the most compelling discussions were about inclusionary housing - where a percentage of affordable housing is built along with market housing - and how race and politics play such a huge role in making those decisions.
Even once the evening ended, I was there for another 20 minutes talking with a woman who challenged what the benefit was to mixing people from affordable and market housing in the same neighborhood or complex.
As someone who moved from a very suburban white bread, homogeneous community into a very diverse urban one, I have extremely strong opinions on the subject.
With my intellect stimulated, I moved on to mindless fun. Tonight I'd been invited to the preview of the new Vagabond restaurant in the old Coda space next to the National.
I arrived late enough that every crumb of food that had been put out was long gone, but enough people remained to socialize with, including the chef's wife, newly blond, the real estate agent I run into everywhere and the former critic whom I'm always happy to see.
Curious about how they'd transformed the enormous space, I was charmed by a red textured and partially stenciled wall, another with crystals and constellations painted on and everywhere, small touches - flowers, glasses, framed art from the old Magpie - that gave a sense of personality to the two floors.
Airlift cocktail in hand, I got a tour from the chef - the easy access directly to the floor of the National and the VIP section is awfully appealing - and settled in to chat with a foodie and a restaurateur.
This is how I learned that when Daniel Ratcliffe was in town, he ate repeatedly at Buckhead's (bleu cheese-crusted fillet every time) and Osaka, but drank at neither, having given up the sauce a few years ago. I knew he'd been in town - I'd seen his bus parked at Quirk Hotel - but heard he'd begun at the Jefferson and decided to move.
Hardly surprising. Of course Harry Potter would prefer funky over staid.
After a protracted discussion of adopting country dogs and bringing them to the city, why the "Gilmore Girls" is such a good source for fashion tips (her statement, not mine, since I've never seen the show) and a thorough analysis of "Burnt" (saw it last night after the ramen, steamed buns and deviled eggs) with the restaurateur who'd seen it at Cinebistro, I decided I'd had enough fun for one night.
An invitation to join the talkers for a nightcap at Heritage failed to change my mind.
Maybe it was depression. I'd just been told that Republicans had held onto the Virginia Senate.
At least it wasn't my fault. I voted.
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