Of course I'm going to RSVP "yes" when I get an invitation referencing me as "part of the tattoo community." Moi?
Sure, I'd love to attend the preview for "Japanese Tattoo: Perseverance, Art and Tradition." Don't mind if I do.
In the Claiborne Room upstairs at the VMFA, I found a roomful of tattooed body parts and the realization that I was most certainly going to be in the minority. When the VMFA's director said hello, I hypothesized that we were among the few un-inked people in the room.
Wrong. He's not only got a tattoo but he's already got his next one planned. Would have had it done before this opening if he hadn't been so understandably busy running one of the top ten museums in the country and all.
He was part way through a fascinating explanation of the origins and significance of his tattoos when a museum employee apologized and told him it was time to speak. He seemed to relish sharing stories of members calling his office, chagrined that the VMFA was going to have a tattoo-as-art show. Had the calls been put through, he said he'd have defended the choice and brought up his own ink.
The curator from the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles (where the show originated) also spoke, emphasizing the long history of tattoo art in Japan. He compared it to calligraphy and woodblock printing, two art forms considered low brow once but now appreciated for their skill and artistry.
Pointing out that if museums don't do something provocative, they may as well close their doors, there was much nodding. Amen. This show should bring in an entirely new audience.
Downstairs in the Evans Court galleries, the images of tattooed bodies were more than enough testament to the masterful talent of these artists. A series of two-sided panels showed men with full body suits, their skin inked from neck (sometimes with a tattoo of a beaded necklace) to calf or sometimes thigh.
Let me begin by being honest. It's been a long time (okay, never) that I've seen pictures of that many men's butts at once. True, they wore loincloths, but in the back, that disappears into the cheeks. No objection here; most of them were pretty good looking butts.
Looking at a striking tattooed man done by Adrian Lee, I overheard a tattoo artist explaining to a friend the importance of Lee -considered a new style Japanese tattoo artist - in his own stylistic development. He was in awe looking at the piece.
What was so compelling about all the tattoo photographs (besides the abundance of colors - brilliant red, so many shades of blue, dazzling white) was how they pulled from traditional Japanese art imagery: swords, warriors, birds, tigers, fish, dragons, calligraphy. Just on someone's skin (and a half dozen kites at the end of the exhibit).
Some were purely decorative and others told a complex story with characters and actions on different parts of the body. There were tattoos shaped like a vest or a bolero. It was entire bodies as canvas for artistry of the highest order and not just a random collection of body art. It was magnificent.
The question is, will those complaining members get that? I only hope so.
Leaving the VMFA afterwards. I saw that the brick sidewalks were wet so apparently it had rained while I'd been ogling men's backsides (and chests), but just enough to raise the humidity to Hell-level. The air was thick out there.
After a pit stop to change from platform espadrilles to flip-flops, I landed at Sound of Music Studio for a show. Slipping in the back entrance (front isn't an option), the guy at the door starts to inform me there's a $5 admission but before he can get it out, I have un-clenched my fist and he removes the $5 bill from it.
Sheepishly, he thumbs over his shoulder, saying, "Then you know...?" Where the stage is? Sure do.
And here's more good news for the evening. The show begins nearly on time with young but always impressive Way, Shape or Form. It happened last week at Gallery 5 and I'd been impressed then. Is this a mini-trend? Could musicians finally be committing to starting shows on time? Be still, my heart.
As I let Way, Shape or Form's angular sound capture and then continually surprise my ears, I looked around at the inside of Sound of Music Studio. Talk about an intriguing place, it's got built-in bookshelves along an enormous 40' wall. My guess was that the collection was probably a reflection of more than one person's taste in reading.
When I spot Thomas Pynchon's "Vineland," I think of a guy I met at Rappahannock two summers ago who judged people on whether or not they'd read Pynchon (I haven't. I will). I also see the dorky-sounding"In Quest of Quasars" and Darwin's "Origins of the Species."
A pristine red copy of "Mr. Boston's Official Bar and Party Guide" sits near lesser-known bar books and art histories.
"Diet or Die: The Dolly Dimples Weight Reduction Plan" boasts a lurid red, white and black cover complete with before and after pictures, presumably of Dolly on the cover. I have to squint to read the copyright (1968) because the dim room is lit only by the LED lights of the soundboard and a couple of strings of multi-colored Christmas lights strung up two pillars and draped in between.
Perusing "Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier," a 1981 gem, I see someone at my side. It's one of the studio's owners and he's gracious enough to say, "Feel free to take them down and read them." Read? I want to borrow Dolly Dimples and take it to a party.
Along another wall of the room sits a collection of objects - a large canvas of a smiling woman in the Pop art style so probably '70s, a table harp, a toy piano (grand, not upright), a globe where the bodies of water are sepia-toned and not blue. Look, there's a guy in a "Heck no techno" t-shirt.
Almost everyone is in shorts, although I'm still sporting the same $3 thrift dress I wore to the VMFA opening that netted a compliment from a museum staffer in the photography gallery. I'm getting good mileage out of it today.
Blanco Basnet was next and the singer announced them as from Durham, N.C., which is redundant because you can look at some bands and know at once they're from North Carolina (see: the Connells). One song in and I could see why they were on this bill.
While their sound leaned a bit more rock/pop than Way, Shape or Form, they still had the tempo changes, unconventional song structure and occasional jazz drumming of the younger band. The crowd took to them enthusiastically, cheering them on when they chose to try a brand-new song
It was warm in there and before long the singer was wiping his dripping face with a towel between songs but his clear, melodic voice didn't seem to suffer any from the warmth.
After their set, I went over to ask the sound guy who was last. That's when he told me Dumb Waiter had to bow out because guitarist Nick was sick. Too bad. I'd been looking forward to them, as had he.
"By the way, I see you at shows all the time," he said extending his hand and introducing himself. I have lost count of the number of friends I have met after they've uttered some variation of those words. Go places and people will talk to you, kids.
Last up was Houdan the Mystic ("We hope you'll like us") and theirs was a harder sound, although still in the same musical family, just more fast and furious. A trio, every instrument counted more (lots of terrific bass parts) and they played that way.
During their sound-check, the guitarist told a joke, eliciting laughter, so when the bassist sound-checked, he began singing "Blue Moon," of all the unlikely things.
"How was that? I mean, besides great? I know it wasn't telling a joke or anything..." the bassist cracked. Their set winds up being a boisterous finish to the evening's music.
It's not quite as miserably hot when I leave Sound of Music, but it's not great, either. Back in my apartment sipping cold water, I hear cyclists' voices as they glide down the street. I can't quite make out what the first guy says.
Matter-of-factly, the other responds, "Okay, go home and commit suicide and we won't get together later" as their bikes whiz by to catch the light at the corner.
So ends another day in J-Ward.
Showing posts with label way shape or form. Show all posts
Showing posts with label way shape or form. Show all posts
Friday, May 29, 2015
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Helluva Hootenanny
It isn't every Monday night that a musicologist with ties to folk royalty hits Richmond.
But tonight was UR's annual Neumann lecture and the speaker was Tony Seeger, UCLA professor emeritus and director emeritus of the Smithsonian Folkways Recordings.
Not to mention Pete Seeger's nephew, so given the legend's death last week, we got part music talk, "Is Music Prophetic or Reflexive? Music, Activism and Social Change," and part family tribute to his uncle.
Walking in to Camp Concert hall at UR, I heard a woman motioning a friend to her row with the entreaty, "This is the 'Hootenanny' crowd."
I have to assume what she meant was here were the people old enough to remember when Pete Seeger was blacklisted from the "Hootenanny" TV show for his overly left wing views.
I didn't qualify, so I sat elsewhere, but I did spot a row of WRIR DJs front and center.
Coming onstage, Seeger used a banjo ("My travel banjo," he called it. "It didn't travel too well") and a computer to give a lively talk and singalong about protest music and his uncle.
It was a far-ranging talk starting with his assumption that all cultures had protest music. Not so, he discovered while studying Brazilian music which had not only no protest songs, but no children's songs or love songs.
Refusing to sing or dance constituted protest for Brazilians, a novel concept to a mouthy culture like ours.
He put the lyrics to "We Shall Not Be Moved" on the screen and then played banjo and led us in singing it, encouraging us first to be louder and then to try it with harmony
"The experience of singing together is part of what this talk is about," he said.
Discussing whether protest music was reflective (like the laments of the blues) or prophetic (music that gives direction or information and leads to change), he showed a quote to explain the power of music.
"People read a pamphlet only once but sing a song a thousand times," said Joe Hill, an IWW member and songwriter of the early 1900s.
Explaining that political parties had songbooks up until the '20s or '30s, he sang one about John Quincy Adams and how if he wasn't elected, Satan was coming.
Imagine what they could have come up with for Nixon or W.
Saying that the union movement was a singing movement because it was more fun for unionizers to sing than to listen to speakers, he proceeded to sing "Union Maid" about a female worker.
Having firmly grounded us in protest musicology, he got down to family business with a picture of the Seeger clan backstage at Carnegie Hall in 1963.
In it, he was a teen and I'm sure to the students in the room there was no resemblance between the young man in the photograph and the one on stage 50 years older.
He said the key to protest music's role was what it meant to people and that was affected by all kinds of factors: changing the speed of the song, the volume, or even the place and time.
To illustrate his point, he played Hendrix's rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" at Woodstock, something I am embarrassed to say I've heard but never seen.
I was mesmerized by how beautiful his hands were, the fingers long and expressive, but not everyone was.
When the lights came up, half the students were grinning like fools and the other half were texting, ignoring the performance all together.
Does it say something about me that I wanted to slap the phones out of their hands and banish them from the room because they were not worthy?
Probably.
Seeger made the point that even when no words were sung, changing the speed and place of the anthem amounted to using sound to make a statement.
He showed another video clip about Seeger's civil rights movement work, singing "We Shall Overcome."
The footage of Pete Seeger had him saying all he'd done was add a few verses and change "will" to "shall" and that he'd gotten far too much credit for that song.
Everyone else interviewed disagreed, saying him singing it had played a huge role in the movement.
We even saw a short clip of him singing "If I Had a Hammer," to a school group, a song I remember singing in music class in elementary school.
And throughout the videos and the talk, Tony Seeger would periodically have us singing "We Shall Not Be Moved" again and again.
Pete Seeger's last big effort had been years spent in getting the Hudson River cleaned up, so he'd built a sloop called "Clearwater" and performed on it up and down the river so people would notice how polluted it was and start cleaning it up.
No surprise, it worked and the river became swimmable and clean again.
The talk couldn't end until we sang together some more and harmonized one last time, his final slide saying, "Sing together," a message that might as well have come from his uncle.
During the Q & A, someone asked why Seeger had gotten so angry with Dylan when he went electric for the first time at the Newport Folk Fest.
When Seeger began with, "Well, I was 17 or 18 and I was there," I knew we were in for a good story.
He explained that part of the beauty of Newport was that it was a democratic event with all performers being paid the same and no one getting more attention or time than anyone else.
So when Dylan plugged in at an all-acoustic festival, his music became louder than everyone else's.
And since there weren't supposed to be electric instruments, the equipment wasn't designed for anything but acoustic. "The sound was an unholy mess," Seeger recalled, unpleasant and muddy. "it became an unequal field for the other musicians."
Imagine hearing first-hand why Pete Seeger took issue with Dylan for plugging in from someone who not only was there, but talked to his uncle about it afterwards.
Man, I love me some musicology.
After that kind of excitement, I could hardly go home so I stopped by the Camel to catch the last band of a three-band set.
Quintet Clair Morgan was getting set up, so I talked to the dance party king about the local DJ scene and the pot roast his brother had made him for dinner.
I checked in with the friend I'd seen Saturday night to see if he'd followed through on his plans to sleep in and take a bike ride in yesterday's glorious warmth.
Yes to the first, no to the ride, but he had spent the afternoon on his porch and proudly shared that he'd left his phone at work the day before, so he'd not only had porch time but a phone-free day.
Kind of like every day for me.
The band was having problems with their computer, eventually electing to start even though it wasn't working, meaning some songs were absent the ambient sound the computer provides.
But Clair's voice, songwriting and guitar playing are all stellar, so the band rallied around and made do without technology.
Toward the end, he taught the crowd a line for us to sing and had us practice, so I found myself once again singing together with others.
Instructing us to sing louder once he began the rest of the song, he said, "You, guy-on-a-first-date, sing really loud and she'll be impressed. So impressed she'll go out for coffee with you."
Maybe even come to your apartment and listen to Sigur Ros with you. Eventually move in.
As I learned tonight, such is the power of singing together.
But tonight was UR's annual Neumann lecture and the speaker was Tony Seeger, UCLA professor emeritus and director emeritus of the Smithsonian Folkways Recordings.
Not to mention Pete Seeger's nephew, so given the legend's death last week, we got part music talk, "Is Music Prophetic or Reflexive? Music, Activism and Social Change," and part family tribute to his uncle.
Walking in to Camp Concert hall at UR, I heard a woman motioning a friend to her row with the entreaty, "This is the 'Hootenanny' crowd."
I have to assume what she meant was here were the people old enough to remember when Pete Seeger was blacklisted from the "Hootenanny" TV show for his overly left wing views.
I didn't qualify, so I sat elsewhere, but I did spot a row of WRIR DJs front and center.
Coming onstage, Seeger used a banjo ("My travel banjo," he called it. "It didn't travel too well") and a computer to give a lively talk and singalong about protest music and his uncle.
It was a far-ranging talk starting with his assumption that all cultures had protest music. Not so, he discovered while studying Brazilian music which had not only no protest songs, but no children's songs or love songs.
Refusing to sing or dance constituted protest for Brazilians, a novel concept to a mouthy culture like ours.
He put the lyrics to "We Shall Not Be Moved" on the screen and then played banjo and led us in singing it, encouraging us first to be louder and then to try it with harmony
"The experience of singing together is part of what this talk is about," he said.
Discussing whether protest music was reflective (like the laments of the blues) or prophetic (music that gives direction or information and leads to change), he showed a quote to explain the power of music.
"People read a pamphlet only once but sing a song a thousand times," said Joe Hill, an IWW member and songwriter of the early 1900s.
Explaining that political parties had songbooks up until the '20s or '30s, he sang one about John Quincy Adams and how if he wasn't elected, Satan was coming.
Imagine what they could have come up with for Nixon or W.
Saying that the union movement was a singing movement because it was more fun for unionizers to sing than to listen to speakers, he proceeded to sing "Union Maid" about a female worker.
Having firmly grounded us in protest musicology, he got down to family business with a picture of the Seeger clan backstage at Carnegie Hall in 1963.
In it, he was a teen and I'm sure to the students in the room there was no resemblance between the young man in the photograph and the one on stage 50 years older.
He said the key to protest music's role was what it meant to people and that was affected by all kinds of factors: changing the speed of the song, the volume, or even the place and time.
To illustrate his point, he played Hendrix's rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" at Woodstock, something I am embarrassed to say I've heard but never seen.
I was mesmerized by how beautiful his hands were, the fingers long and expressive, but not everyone was.
When the lights came up, half the students were grinning like fools and the other half were texting, ignoring the performance all together.
Does it say something about me that I wanted to slap the phones out of their hands and banish them from the room because they were not worthy?
Probably.
Seeger made the point that even when no words were sung, changing the speed and place of the anthem amounted to using sound to make a statement.
He showed another video clip about Seeger's civil rights movement work, singing "We Shall Overcome."
The footage of Pete Seeger had him saying all he'd done was add a few verses and change "will" to "shall" and that he'd gotten far too much credit for that song.
Everyone else interviewed disagreed, saying him singing it had played a huge role in the movement.
We even saw a short clip of him singing "If I Had a Hammer," to a school group, a song I remember singing in music class in elementary school.
And throughout the videos and the talk, Tony Seeger would periodically have us singing "We Shall Not Be Moved" again and again.
Pete Seeger's last big effort had been years spent in getting the Hudson River cleaned up, so he'd built a sloop called "Clearwater" and performed on it up and down the river so people would notice how polluted it was and start cleaning it up.
No surprise, it worked and the river became swimmable and clean again.
The talk couldn't end until we sang together some more and harmonized one last time, his final slide saying, "Sing together," a message that might as well have come from his uncle.
During the Q & A, someone asked why Seeger had gotten so angry with Dylan when he went electric for the first time at the Newport Folk Fest.
When Seeger began with, "Well, I was 17 or 18 and I was there," I knew we were in for a good story.
He explained that part of the beauty of Newport was that it was a democratic event with all performers being paid the same and no one getting more attention or time than anyone else.
So when Dylan plugged in at an all-acoustic festival, his music became louder than everyone else's.
And since there weren't supposed to be electric instruments, the equipment wasn't designed for anything but acoustic. "The sound was an unholy mess," Seeger recalled, unpleasant and muddy. "it became an unequal field for the other musicians."
Imagine hearing first-hand why Pete Seeger took issue with Dylan for plugging in from someone who not only was there, but talked to his uncle about it afterwards.
Man, I love me some musicology.
After that kind of excitement, I could hardly go home so I stopped by the Camel to catch the last band of a three-band set.
Quintet Clair Morgan was getting set up, so I talked to the dance party king about the local DJ scene and the pot roast his brother had made him for dinner.
I checked in with the friend I'd seen Saturday night to see if he'd followed through on his plans to sleep in and take a bike ride in yesterday's glorious warmth.
Yes to the first, no to the ride, but he had spent the afternoon on his porch and proudly shared that he'd left his phone at work the day before, so he'd not only had porch time but a phone-free day.
Kind of like every day for me.
The band was having problems with their computer, eventually electing to start even though it wasn't working, meaning some songs were absent the ambient sound the computer provides.
But Clair's voice, songwriting and guitar playing are all stellar, so the band rallied around and made do without technology.
Toward the end, he taught the crowd a line for us to sing and had us practice, so I found myself once again singing together with others.
Instructing us to sing louder once he began the rest of the song, he said, "You, guy-on-a-first-date, sing really loud and she'll be impressed. So impressed she'll go out for coffee with you."
Maybe even come to your apartment and listen to Sigur Ros with you. Eventually move in.
As I learned tonight, such is the power of singing together.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Do I Know You?
It was a good night for random guys to talk to me.
Curious about what Harvard Graduate School of Design students might come up with, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for the opening of "Menokin Revealed."
You might not know what Menokin is, but I do, at least I have since attending a lecture at the Virginia Historical Society in 2012 given by David Brown who wrote a book about Menokin, a highly terraced 1769 home on the northern neck.
Recalling slides he'd shown of a house that had mostly collapsed on itself, I was curious to see what overly-educated students came up with for restoration ideas after spending four days on site.
Hardly surprisingly, with no budget parameters, the twelve students dreamed big, envisioning towers, catwalks, visitor centers, bridges and just about any other architectural features of which they could conceive.
As I was looking at one based on Native American "canopies," a man approached me and asked my name.
Turns out he's a trustee of the Menokin board and wanted to know if I knew where Menokin was.
He was surprised that I knew it was outside of Warsaw and I was surprised that he'd heard of my parents' tiny little crabbing village.
"If you live out there, you know where everything is," he assured me, asking if he could show me something.
"Something" turned out to be a scale model of the actual restoration that will be done to Menokin, which bears no resemblance to the students' visions.
Instead, they intend to take the pieces of the remaining walls, add supports and a roof and finish all the missing areas with glass walls. You'll once again be able to see the river over the treeline from the second floor.
Even better, paneling and furniture removed from the house 40 or so years ago when they realized it was falling apart will be returned to its rightful place and re-installed.
"I'd like to see a pavilion on the grounds, too," the trustee said. "Someplace that would make Menokin a cultural destination for the northern neck, a place the symphony could come and play."
Well, you know I was all about that idea and assured him that people like my parents would be, too.
By the time he'd finished showing me all the models and explaining everything, a good part of the crowd had left. I'd been so fascinated with hearing about the plans that I'd lost track of time and the opening was officially over.
Thanking my unexpected guide, I left for the VMFA's jazz cafe to see M. Law and the Modern Prophets of Jazz, mainly because I keep seeing the name at venues around town and knew nothing about them.
First surprise? M. Law is a woman (Mary Lawrence Hicks). Second, she plays trumpet. Third, Larry Branch, whose quartet I'd seen last week plays piano in this group.
Finding a place near enough to see and hear, it wasn't long before a guy walked by, winked and said hello, he'd be right back.
I was a little surprised at his boldness, until he came back from getting a beer and stopped to ask if I remembered him (um, no?). Gallery 5, a few weeks ago, yadda, yadda.
In my own defense, tonight he was wearing a sweater and that night he'd had on a bulky coat because G5's heat wasn't working so he looked different to me. Or maybe he just hadn't been that memorable, although I appreciate anyone who swings from Gallery 5 to VMFA's jazz cafe.
He invited me to join him at his table, but I was just fine where I was listening to the band's improvisational takes on standards as well as some interesting original material against a backdrop of people strolling through the still snow-covered sculpture garden.
M Law wasn't much for between-song patter, so one song followed another for non-stop music. I have to say, it's satisfying seeing a woman blow a horn, especially in a dress.
Once that ended, I went straight to Cafe 821 for eats, joining the throngs for thirsty Thursday.
From my bar stool, I had a constant clutch of people behind me, not just ogling the tap list (because they were all $2 off tonight) but discussing what to order with their friends.
After the fourth or fifth group, I could conclude that, for most guys anyway, the overriding factor in choosing a beer was the alcohol percentage.
They were all pretty bummed when the 10% stout keg tapped out and they had to make do with a 7% second choice.
Don't get me started on our over-saturated beer market.
Without such things to worry about, I savored the pleasures of a perfect plate of black bean nachos with punk music blaring loud enough to drown out the conversation of the rest of the room.
Until a guy sat down at the end of the bar, looked over, looked again, and asked if we had met.
Sure had. He'd been seated next to me during my fried chicken dinner at Saison recently, where we'd talked about the primal pleasures of eating with your fingers.
Funny the people who recall you when you show up elsewhere and out of context.
Leaving the thirsty hordes to their discounted rail drinks and beers, I moved on to Balliceaux for a terrific double bill of Way, Shape or Form followed by Annousheh.
Getting my hand stamped to go in, I happened into a conversation involving pools of vomit.
Promising to do my best, the one guy looked at me and said, "You don't seem like a pools of vomit kind of girl."
Thanks for noticing.
I'm not going to lie, I fell for Way, Shape or Form's prog-influenced indie pop with just enough post-rock to seal the deal last January when I first heard them, becoming a complete convert once I spoke to leader Troy afterwards and learning that we'd both been at the same Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
No wonder I liked them so much given the overlap in our musical taste.
Joined by a friend who'd never heard them, I had the pleasure of hearing how much someone else was impressed with the jangley, syncopated guitars and odd time signatures.
It's always fun to introduce a fellow music-lover to a local band to whom I'm devoted.
And Annousheh, well, that's just guilty pop pleasure, 80s-sounding songs done '90s alternative style. radio-ready and delighting the crowd no end.
Plus instead of random guys, I got to talk to friends - the dance party enthusiast, the newly blond minimalist, the tango teacher, the brilliant bartender, the new WSoF fan - making for a fine finale to my evening.
Nothing guilty about the pleasures of the right kind of conversation paired with live music...especially absent pools of vomit.
Curious about what Harvard Graduate School of Design students might come up with, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for the opening of "Menokin Revealed."
You might not know what Menokin is, but I do, at least I have since attending a lecture at the Virginia Historical Society in 2012 given by David Brown who wrote a book about Menokin, a highly terraced 1769 home on the northern neck.
Recalling slides he'd shown of a house that had mostly collapsed on itself, I was curious to see what overly-educated students came up with for restoration ideas after spending four days on site.
Hardly surprisingly, with no budget parameters, the twelve students dreamed big, envisioning towers, catwalks, visitor centers, bridges and just about any other architectural features of which they could conceive.
As I was looking at one based on Native American "canopies," a man approached me and asked my name.
Turns out he's a trustee of the Menokin board and wanted to know if I knew where Menokin was.
He was surprised that I knew it was outside of Warsaw and I was surprised that he'd heard of my parents' tiny little crabbing village.
"If you live out there, you know where everything is," he assured me, asking if he could show me something.
"Something" turned out to be a scale model of the actual restoration that will be done to Menokin, which bears no resemblance to the students' visions.
Instead, they intend to take the pieces of the remaining walls, add supports and a roof and finish all the missing areas with glass walls. You'll once again be able to see the river over the treeline from the second floor.
Even better, paneling and furniture removed from the house 40 or so years ago when they realized it was falling apart will be returned to its rightful place and re-installed.
"I'd like to see a pavilion on the grounds, too," the trustee said. "Someplace that would make Menokin a cultural destination for the northern neck, a place the symphony could come and play."
Well, you know I was all about that idea and assured him that people like my parents would be, too.
By the time he'd finished showing me all the models and explaining everything, a good part of the crowd had left. I'd been so fascinated with hearing about the plans that I'd lost track of time and the opening was officially over.
Thanking my unexpected guide, I left for the VMFA's jazz cafe to see M. Law and the Modern Prophets of Jazz, mainly because I keep seeing the name at venues around town and knew nothing about them.
First surprise? M. Law is a woman (Mary Lawrence Hicks). Second, she plays trumpet. Third, Larry Branch, whose quartet I'd seen last week plays piano in this group.
Finding a place near enough to see and hear, it wasn't long before a guy walked by, winked and said hello, he'd be right back.
I was a little surprised at his boldness, until he came back from getting a beer and stopped to ask if I remembered him (um, no?). Gallery 5, a few weeks ago, yadda, yadda.
In my own defense, tonight he was wearing a sweater and that night he'd had on a bulky coat because G5's heat wasn't working so he looked different to me. Or maybe he just hadn't been that memorable, although I appreciate anyone who swings from Gallery 5 to VMFA's jazz cafe.
He invited me to join him at his table, but I was just fine where I was listening to the band's improvisational takes on standards as well as some interesting original material against a backdrop of people strolling through the still snow-covered sculpture garden.
M Law wasn't much for between-song patter, so one song followed another for non-stop music. I have to say, it's satisfying seeing a woman blow a horn, especially in a dress.
Once that ended, I went straight to Cafe 821 for eats, joining the throngs for thirsty Thursday.
From my bar stool, I had a constant clutch of people behind me, not just ogling the tap list (because they were all $2 off tonight) but discussing what to order with their friends.
After the fourth or fifth group, I could conclude that, for most guys anyway, the overriding factor in choosing a beer was the alcohol percentage.
They were all pretty bummed when the 10% stout keg tapped out and they had to make do with a 7% second choice.
Don't get me started on our over-saturated beer market.
Without such things to worry about, I savored the pleasures of a perfect plate of black bean nachos with punk music blaring loud enough to drown out the conversation of the rest of the room.
Until a guy sat down at the end of the bar, looked over, looked again, and asked if we had met.
Sure had. He'd been seated next to me during my fried chicken dinner at Saison recently, where we'd talked about the primal pleasures of eating with your fingers.
Funny the people who recall you when you show up elsewhere and out of context.
Leaving the thirsty hordes to their discounted rail drinks and beers, I moved on to Balliceaux for a terrific double bill of Way, Shape or Form followed by Annousheh.
Getting my hand stamped to go in, I happened into a conversation involving pools of vomit.
Promising to do my best, the one guy looked at me and said, "You don't seem like a pools of vomit kind of girl."
Thanks for noticing.
I'm not going to lie, I fell for Way, Shape or Form's prog-influenced indie pop with just enough post-rock to seal the deal last January when I first heard them, becoming a complete convert once I spoke to leader Troy afterwards and learning that we'd both been at the same Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
No wonder I liked them so much given the overlap in our musical taste.
Joined by a friend who'd never heard them, I had the pleasure of hearing how much someone else was impressed with the jangley, syncopated guitars and odd time signatures.
It's always fun to introduce a fellow music-lover to a local band to whom I'm devoted.
And Annousheh, well, that's just guilty pop pleasure, 80s-sounding songs done '90s alternative style. radio-ready and delighting the crowd no end.
Plus instead of random guys, I got to talk to friends - the dance party enthusiast, the newly blond minimalist, the tango teacher, the brilliant bartender, the new WSoF fan - making for a fine finale to my evening.
Nothing guilty about the pleasures of the right kind of conversation paired with live music...especially absent pools of vomit.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Anniversary Song
Four years ago, in an alcohol-free church basement, the Listening Room was born.
I know because I was there that night, here, and thrilled to have found a place where music trumped blather.
Tonight was the fourth anniversary Listening Room and the program ably demonstrated how far the series has come.
Curated by Shannon Cleary of WRIR's Commonwealth of Notions show, it featured three local bands, all of whom I've seen before and all of whom impressed me mightily.
Chatting with some fellow long-time regulars before the show, we talked about how the series has evolved, having begun as all acoustic with no drums and no electric instruments.
Tonight was all about the drums and the plugged-in instruments.
Way, Shape or Form had originally appealed to me with their jazzy guitars and unique time signatures, dancing right on that edge of math rock with just enough pop thrown in to be catchy.
Tonight was more of the same but the band sounded even tighter than when I'd seen them last winter.
Singer Troy apologized late into their set, saying, "Of course I picked this week to get sick and have to do a show where everyone is quiet and listening to my voice."
Honestly, his voice sounded fine, plus they did two songs, the first and the last, without vocals, always a pleasure to hear because they veer beautifully close to soaring post-rock soundscapes.
I did the seated mingling thing during the break, turning to talk to friends behind me and waiting for others to come sit in the row with me and catch up.
As a veteran of 42 of the 44 Listening Room shows, I think I've earned the right to play queen bee on occasion.
Next up was Warren Hixson and just before they started, a bearded friend leaned down and asked if anyone in the band was actually named Warren Hixson.
Is there an Echo in the Bunnymen? No, and there's no Warren here either.
Brent, the leader of the band, began by asking if the stage lights could be turned down a bit.
"They're fixed," sound man Dave called down to him. "Just like me," Brent joked (or maybe not).
Their sound is unlike anyone else's in Richmond at the moment, one part garage rock, a little grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards that wove the most interesting sounds plus male and female vocals (including the incomparable Nelly Kate).
A couple songs in and the listener has to acknowledge the sound as a pastiche with no discernible genre other than its own.
Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, those keyboards kick in and they start sounding surf-like and psychedelic and I find myself sucked back in.
Pausing to acknowledge the room, Brent said, "This is cool. We once played a show in an attic with four dudes dancing and unplugging our pedals, so this is very cool."
Because they didn't have dudes dancing or people talking, they decided to do "Cruel Whims," the last song on their record and one Brent characterized as a "bedroom song, one that's awkward to do in loud situations."
Such are the benefits of hearing a band when they can be heard.
When their set ended, a photographer friend slid into the seat next to me and said, "I wasn't ready for that to be over. They were amazing."
Since he's a big show-goer, too, I was sincerely surprised that he'd never seen them before but agreed with him about their set.
During the second break, I got up and moved around to mingle, ending up talking to some people about how electric the Listening Room had become.
In the old days, breaks between sets were extremely brief; one guy with a guitar walked offstage and another guy with a guitar walked on.
Now it's like a regular show with break down and set up times that approaches 20 minutes, an unheard of amount of time in the old days.
"Yea, in another four years, we'll have entire orchestras playing," one guy observed humorously.
Curator Shannon took the stage again, this time to talk about the local music scene and what a terrific point in time it is for it.
He thanked the people who document the scene, mentioning specific sites and blogs (including this one, she said proudly), at "this moment in Richmond's music history."
Last up was trio White Laces, a band who only has to begin playing to remind me how very much I love their dreampop sound and that it's always been too long since I heard them last.
Tonight they were here to play the songs that will be on their new album, which they start recording in a week.
"Most of these songs have been played out once or never," singer Landon told us before treating us to some absolutely brilliant new hook-filled songs.
Admitting that many of the songs never got past their working titles - "Skate or Die, "Janet," "Keith Sweats"- the audience sat entranced by melodic songs, kick ass drums and guitar hooks that surely must get them laid.
Of "New Jam 2," Landis said, "It still doesn't have a name beyond that. We've been calling it that for five months now, which doesn't bode well for it."
Named properly or not, the song was one more strong example of songwriting and execution.
Drummer Jimmy kept track of the set list, reminding the others what was upcoming and occasionally getting distracted by the joking onstage.
"Every time we start laughing, I forget what the next song is," he explained before a do-over.
"We don't have humor at practice," Landis deadpanned, "So when we do up here, it's weird."
We didn't used to have alcohol or drums at the Listening Room and now we do but it's not weird, it only makes things better.
I'd say that bodes very well for the next four years. But don't take my word for it, check it out for yourself. Just be quiet about it, will you?
Because some things about the Listening Room will never change. Lucky us.
I know because I was there that night, here, and thrilled to have found a place where music trumped blather.
Tonight was the fourth anniversary Listening Room and the program ably demonstrated how far the series has come.
Curated by Shannon Cleary of WRIR's Commonwealth of Notions show, it featured three local bands, all of whom I've seen before and all of whom impressed me mightily.
Chatting with some fellow long-time regulars before the show, we talked about how the series has evolved, having begun as all acoustic with no drums and no electric instruments.
Tonight was all about the drums and the plugged-in instruments.
Way, Shape or Form had originally appealed to me with their jazzy guitars and unique time signatures, dancing right on that edge of math rock with just enough pop thrown in to be catchy.
Tonight was more of the same but the band sounded even tighter than when I'd seen them last winter.
Singer Troy apologized late into their set, saying, "Of course I picked this week to get sick and have to do a show where everyone is quiet and listening to my voice."
Honestly, his voice sounded fine, plus they did two songs, the first and the last, without vocals, always a pleasure to hear because they veer beautifully close to soaring post-rock soundscapes.
I did the seated mingling thing during the break, turning to talk to friends behind me and waiting for others to come sit in the row with me and catch up.
As a veteran of 42 of the 44 Listening Room shows, I think I've earned the right to play queen bee on occasion.
Next up was Warren Hixson and just before they started, a bearded friend leaned down and asked if anyone in the band was actually named Warren Hixson.
Is there an Echo in the Bunnymen? No, and there's no Warren here either.
Brent, the leader of the band, began by asking if the stage lights could be turned down a bit.
"They're fixed," sound man Dave called down to him. "Just like me," Brent joked (or maybe not).
Their sound is unlike anyone else's in Richmond at the moment, one part garage rock, a little grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards that wove the most interesting sounds plus male and female vocals (including the incomparable Nelly Kate).
A couple songs in and the listener has to acknowledge the sound as a pastiche with no discernible genre other than its own.
Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, those keyboards kick in and they start sounding surf-like and psychedelic and I find myself sucked back in.
Pausing to acknowledge the room, Brent said, "This is cool. We once played a show in an attic with four dudes dancing and unplugging our pedals, so this is very cool."
Because they didn't have dudes dancing or people talking, they decided to do "Cruel Whims," the last song on their record and one Brent characterized as a "bedroom song, one that's awkward to do in loud situations."
Such are the benefits of hearing a band when they can be heard.
When their set ended, a photographer friend slid into the seat next to me and said, "I wasn't ready for that to be over. They were amazing."
Since he's a big show-goer, too, I was sincerely surprised that he'd never seen them before but agreed with him about their set.
During the second break, I got up and moved around to mingle, ending up talking to some people about how electric the Listening Room had become.
In the old days, breaks between sets were extremely brief; one guy with a guitar walked offstage and another guy with a guitar walked on.
Now it's like a regular show with break down and set up times that approaches 20 minutes, an unheard of amount of time in the old days.
"Yea, in another four years, we'll have entire orchestras playing," one guy observed humorously.
Curator Shannon took the stage again, this time to talk about the local music scene and what a terrific point in time it is for it.
He thanked the people who document the scene, mentioning specific sites and blogs (including this one, she said proudly), at "this moment in Richmond's music history."
Last up was trio White Laces, a band who only has to begin playing to remind me how very much I love their dreampop sound and that it's always been too long since I heard them last.
Tonight they were here to play the songs that will be on their new album, which they start recording in a week.
"Most of these songs have been played out once or never," singer Landon told us before treating us to some absolutely brilliant new hook-filled songs.
Admitting that many of the songs never got past their working titles - "Skate or Die, "Janet," "Keith Sweats"- the audience sat entranced by melodic songs, kick ass drums and guitar hooks that surely must get them laid.
Of "New Jam 2," Landis said, "It still doesn't have a name beyond that. We've been calling it that for five months now, which doesn't bode well for it."
Named properly or not, the song was one more strong example of songwriting and execution.
Drummer Jimmy kept track of the set list, reminding the others what was upcoming and occasionally getting distracted by the joking onstage.
"Every time we start laughing, I forget what the next song is," he explained before a do-over.
"We don't have humor at practice," Landis deadpanned, "So when we do up here, it's weird."
We didn't used to have alcohol or drums at the Listening Room and now we do but it's not weird, it only makes things better.
I'd say that bodes very well for the next four years. But don't take my word for it, check it out for yourself. Just be quiet about it, will you?
Because some things about the Listening Room will never change. Lucky us.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Shannon's Steppin' Stone
The music just kept on coming.
Today's seven-hour musical extravaganza, WRIR and the Commonwealth of Notions present Volume 3 (part 3), was conveniently (for me) located at Gallery 5, meaning I could stroll over at 4.
I'd been instructed not to be a minute later by the show's first performer, Dave Watkins.
Unlike the park show where I'd recently seen him, tonight he had his full array of instruments, layering dulcitar, drums, keyboards and percussion to craft "songs."
With many new faces in the crowd, I just leaned back and watched their awed faces as they tried to wrap their mind around the textured sounds Dave was creating.
It was during his second song that the members of Dumb Waiter, an instrumental math rock/improvisational quartet (with sax!), joined Dave and that's when the epic factor went off the charts.
Seriously, these are musicians to watch and Dave complemented them magnificently.
The good news is I heard they've already scheduled an upcoming show together.
The only one I knew was Nathaniel, who used to be in Lobo Marino and who was in his element on drums here.
Speaking of, next, we all trooped upstairs for Lobo Marino, playing in the same room where they'd recorded their album a while back.
I'm proud to say that you can hear my laugh on that album.
Lobo Marino has been on tour a lot lately, so it was great to have Laney and Jameson back in RVA to play for long-time (and new) fans.
They did material from all their albums old and new, including inviting the audience to follow along with the hand gestures on "Animal Hands," the ecstatic "Celebrate," and the evocative "Stay with Me."
Calling up Nathaniel to join them onstage for the first time in over a year, Laney said they'd do the only song they sing in Spanish, one that they hadn't done in ages because it was "dependent on Nathaniel."
It's true; his trumpet and mandolin on that song make it even more beautiful and it was a real treat to hear it again after so long.
Back downstairs we went for Herro Sugar, a band whose singer wore their collective heart on his t-shirt, which said Wilco.
They began by sound-checking their mics, with each member stating that his mic should be the loudest because he was the most important member of the band.
I do like it when musicians have a sense of humor.
Their tightly written, indie pop songs were short blasts of energy and hooks and the crowd bopped right along with them.
Way, Shape or Form followed, sans one of their guitarists, who was away, but with a worthy replacement.
Their sound is more polished, with jazz and pop elements, demonstrating the range of the show's bands and yet the overlap of fans who enjoyed them just as much.
After their set, I bade my music buddy farewell for a bit, as I headed home to eat and get a little work done before returning.
When I got back, Warren Hixson was just starting and Friend and I picked up where we'd left off, with water in hand and attention to the band.
I'd seen them back in April, so it was no surprise that their catchy psychedelic surf rock was easy enough to enjoy from the first notes.
But I had to laugh when I overheard a guy say to a girl, "They're so new and different, I find them interesting."
Clearly his musical history knowledge was surface deep as the band's influences were all over the music, but I didn't correct him.
I did repeat his quote to some musicians who laughed at his naivete, but that's another story.
After their set, I mingled for a bit, only to have someone come up and exclaim, "You left and I couldn't find you! I was so upset I threw up!"
You have to love the high drama of friends after they've been drinking at a show since 4:00.
Even if they mean it.
Tonight's piece de resistance was Baby Help Me Forget's reunion show a year and a half after they'd played their last at the 2012 WRIR birthday party.
I wouldn't have missed their set for anything.
Personally, I think singer Jamie is the best showman in town, whether singing, dancing, gesturing or flinging his hair.
Until you've seen him bound onstage or leap off it, you can't imagine how he abuses his body in the service of rock and roll.
He leaped onstage in a jacket, vest and shirt and I knew right away that he'd be losing layers as the set progressed.
Unlike at past shows, sadly, we never got down to bare chest.
The band kicked into high-energy mode from the first song and the remaining crowd danced and cheered them along.
At one point, Jamie dedicate a song to the event's organizer, Shannon and it was a doozy.
"(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone" whipped the band and the audience into a '60s pop frenzy, with people doing everything from the pony to pogoing.
From there, you'd have thought they couldn't possibly take things any higher, but they did.
They sure did.
Jamie came down off the stage and placed what looked like a candle on the floor in front of the stage.
Returning to the stage, the band began another kick-ass song just as the "candle" showed itself to be fireworks of some kind, sending up a stream of colored sparks and plumes that lasted almost as long as the song.
Meanwhile, Jamie sang, ending up writhing on the floor, as is his long-standing tradition at shows.
It was the most epic ending to the show that could have been imagined, short of burning down Gallery 5.
And we wouldn't want that anyway.
Strolling home under a nearly-full moon, I had to think what a fantastic day in the neighborhood it is when I can support my local independent radio station by watching local talent strut their stuff all day and night.
Plus fireworks.
My only regret is making someone throw up for missing me.
Today's seven-hour musical extravaganza, WRIR and the Commonwealth of Notions present Volume 3 (part 3), was conveniently (for me) located at Gallery 5, meaning I could stroll over at 4.
I'd been instructed not to be a minute later by the show's first performer, Dave Watkins.
Unlike the park show where I'd recently seen him, tonight he had his full array of instruments, layering dulcitar, drums, keyboards and percussion to craft "songs."
With many new faces in the crowd, I just leaned back and watched their awed faces as they tried to wrap their mind around the textured sounds Dave was creating.
It was during his second song that the members of Dumb Waiter, an instrumental math rock/improvisational quartet (with sax!), joined Dave and that's when the epic factor went off the charts.
Seriously, these are musicians to watch and Dave complemented them magnificently.
The good news is I heard they've already scheduled an upcoming show together.
The only one I knew was Nathaniel, who used to be in Lobo Marino and who was in his element on drums here.
Speaking of, next, we all trooped upstairs for Lobo Marino, playing in the same room where they'd recorded their album a while back.
I'm proud to say that you can hear my laugh on that album.
Lobo Marino has been on tour a lot lately, so it was great to have Laney and Jameson back in RVA to play for long-time (and new) fans.
They did material from all their albums old and new, including inviting the audience to follow along with the hand gestures on "Animal Hands," the ecstatic "Celebrate," and the evocative "Stay with Me."
Calling up Nathaniel to join them onstage for the first time in over a year, Laney said they'd do the only song they sing in Spanish, one that they hadn't done in ages because it was "dependent on Nathaniel."
It's true; his trumpet and mandolin on that song make it even more beautiful and it was a real treat to hear it again after so long.
Back downstairs we went for Herro Sugar, a band whose singer wore their collective heart on his t-shirt, which said Wilco.
They began by sound-checking their mics, with each member stating that his mic should be the loudest because he was the most important member of the band.
I do like it when musicians have a sense of humor.
Their tightly written, indie pop songs were short blasts of energy and hooks and the crowd bopped right along with them.
Way, Shape or Form followed, sans one of their guitarists, who was away, but with a worthy replacement.
Their sound is more polished, with jazz and pop elements, demonstrating the range of the show's bands and yet the overlap of fans who enjoyed them just as much.
After their set, I bade my music buddy farewell for a bit, as I headed home to eat and get a little work done before returning.
When I got back, Warren Hixson was just starting and Friend and I picked up where we'd left off, with water in hand and attention to the band.
I'd seen them back in April, so it was no surprise that their catchy psychedelic surf rock was easy enough to enjoy from the first notes.
But I had to laugh when I overheard a guy say to a girl, "They're so new and different, I find them interesting."
Clearly his musical history knowledge was surface deep as the band's influences were all over the music, but I didn't correct him.
I did repeat his quote to some musicians who laughed at his naivete, but that's another story.
After their set, I mingled for a bit, only to have someone come up and exclaim, "You left and I couldn't find you! I was so upset I threw up!"
You have to love the high drama of friends after they've been drinking at a show since 4:00.
Even if they mean it.
Tonight's piece de resistance was Baby Help Me Forget's reunion show a year and a half after they'd played their last at the 2012 WRIR birthday party.
I wouldn't have missed their set for anything.
Personally, I think singer Jamie is the best showman in town, whether singing, dancing, gesturing or flinging his hair.
Until you've seen him bound onstage or leap off it, you can't imagine how he abuses his body in the service of rock and roll.
He leaped onstage in a jacket, vest and shirt and I knew right away that he'd be losing layers as the set progressed.
Unlike at past shows, sadly, we never got down to bare chest.
The band kicked into high-energy mode from the first song and the remaining crowd danced and cheered them along.
At one point, Jamie dedicate a song to the event's organizer, Shannon and it was a doozy.
"(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone" whipped the band and the audience into a '60s pop frenzy, with people doing everything from the pony to pogoing.
From there, you'd have thought they couldn't possibly take things any higher, but they did.
They sure did.
Jamie came down off the stage and placed what looked like a candle on the floor in front of the stage.
Returning to the stage, the band began another kick-ass song just as the "candle" showed itself to be fireworks of some kind, sending up a stream of colored sparks and plumes that lasted almost as long as the song.
Meanwhile, Jamie sang, ending up writhing on the floor, as is his long-standing tradition at shows.
It was the most epic ending to the show that could have been imagined, short of burning down Gallery 5.
And we wouldn't want that anyway.
Strolling home under a nearly-full moon, I had to think what a fantastic day in the neighborhood it is when I can support my local independent radio station by watching local talent strut their stuff all day and night.
Plus fireworks.
My only regret is making someone throw up for missing me.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Ides of March
Yes, I know there was a game going on.
Even the VMFA knew about the game, hence the welcome to the Black and Gold Maria Film/Video Fest.
All those other years I attended, it was just the Black Maria Film/Video Fest.
Clearly film types have a sense of humor.
But even with the addition of gold and the smaller-than-usual audience, it was still a stellar night of screen watching.
The animated film "Feral," five years in the making, was unbelievably gorgeous with a simple gray-scale and tonal palette that told the story of trying to tame a wild thing.
My takeaway was don't attempt it.
"Bug People" was all kinds of funny, with a woman sharing stir-fry and taco recipes using bugs and an exterminator extolling the pleasures of his job.
The only part I had a problem with was when a scientist put some kind of 8" worm-like-looking millipede on the filmmaker's arm and explained that removing it would sound like Velcro.
Not what I want to hear when a bug is removed from a human.
Most evocative of what we saw tonight was "Time Exposure" about the filmmaker's father's photography hobby.
It used vintage photographs and voice-over to trace his passion for picture-taking.
Most hysterical was "Queen of the Night Aria" which had a mother doll singing in Italian, instructing her doll daughter to kill her husband for her.
The brilliance was that they lyrics were subtitled with lines like, "I am really pissed" and "I was a good stay-at-home mom."
Spending two hours watching film shorts is satisfying in that way that reading a good book of short stories is; you get your satisfaction quickly and if something doesn't thrill you, it's over soon.
Once the festival ended, I headed over to Strange Matter and barely got out of the car before I started running into people I knew.
One had just seen my car at the museum a half hour ago. One said, "Hey, Fig!" And one I was introduced to tonight said, "Come on, you're coming with us."
Do I know you?
Conveniently, one of them also asked if I was going to the Camel for the show.
Doh. Only then did I realize I'd confused my venues tonight.
I still made it to the Camel in time to find friends and catch Way, Shape or Form, whom I'd discovered at Live at Ipanema where I'd become a fan of their pastiche of electronic, jazz and pop.
As a friend later noted, that's the kind of band that could play the Modlin Center and they'd love the sound.
When they finished, Snowy Owls began setting up but it took a while before they began playing.
As I learned later, they'd delayed because there had been a noise complaint to WRIR upstairs and it seemed prudent not to arouse the caller's ire again so quickly.
That and they were waiting for the cop to leave.
But then they began with the full-on fuzz that makes me their devoted fan and all was right with the world.
"We're playing songs off an EP we put out a while ago," leader Matt said,"Back to front if you're keeping score."
I wasn't, I was just glad to be hearing them play, watching Brandon bopping his head as he wailed on the drums while Allen faced him, working off what he saw more than what he could hear.
"The next song is about love and color theory," Matt said. "They go together so well."
Naturally, the artistic nerds in the crowd nodded in agreement.
They treated us to a brand new song, "Kerfluffle," to end their set and it was terrific to hear something I hadn't before.
Apparently the noise complainer had given up because Snowy Owls was followed in short order by Nick Coward and the Last Battle.
It was their CD release show and it seemed like there were a bazillion people on stage.
A friend told me there were eight so I stood on tiptoe to try to see what they all were playing, when I counted nine.
"Whatever it is, it's a full orchestra up there," he cracked.
Indeed. It was cello player Constance Sisk's last show with the band and they'd added two new members, including Troy from Way, Shape or Form.
Just another stellar example of the incestuous world of Richmond musicians and I mean that in the best possible way.
"Hi, we're Nick Coward and the Last Battle and this is "Thieves," Nick said, kicking off a set of new music.
Well, not all that new.
"This song is called "Rock" and it was on our first EP and our second EP and it's on the album," he said. "But we promise not to record it again."
You know, when a song is that good, it's easy to see how it kept getting put on whatever they were working on.
Judging by the crowd's reaction, I think we were all in agreement that the band's full sound, with sax, cello and keyboards adding heft to the guitars, bass and drums, is awfully compelling.
But just so I don't look like a complete music fanatic, let the record show that I did inquire about the score of the game before leaving.
Fortunately, the team was able to pull out another victory without me having to watch.
Now can I go back to my music? I mean, go team.
Even the VMFA knew about the game, hence the welcome to the Black and Gold Maria Film/Video Fest.
All those other years I attended, it was just the Black Maria Film/Video Fest.
Clearly film types have a sense of humor.
But even with the addition of gold and the smaller-than-usual audience, it was still a stellar night of screen watching.
The animated film "Feral," five years in the making, was unbelievably gorgeous with a simple gray-scale and tonal palette that told the story of trying to tame a wild thing.
My takeaway was don't attempt it.
"Bug People" was all kinds of funny, with a woman sharing stir-fry and taco recipes using bugs and an exterminator extolling the pleasures of his job.
The only part I had a problem with was when a scientist put some kind of 8" worm-like-looking millipede on the filmmaker's arm and explained that removing it would sound like Velcro.
Not what I want to hear when a bug is removed from a human.
Most evocative of what we saw tonight was "Time Exposure" about the filmmaker's father's photography hobby.
It used vintage photographs and voice-over to trace his passion for picture-taking.
Most hysterical was "Queen of the Night Aria" which had a mother doll singing in Italian, instructing her doll daughter to kill her husband for her.
The brilliance was that they lyrics were subtitled with lines like, "I am really pissed" and "I was a good stay-at-home mom."
Spending two hours watching film shorts is satisfying in that way that reading a good book of short stories is; you get your satisfaction quickly and if something doesn't thrill you, it's over soon.
Once the festival ended, I headed over to Strange Matter and barely got out of the car before I started running into people I knew.
One had just seen my car at the museum a half hour ago. One said, "Hey, Fig!" And one I was introduced to tonight said, "Come on, you're coming with us."
Do I know you?
Conveniently, one of them also asked if I was going to the Camel for the show.
Doh. Only then did I realize I'd confused my venues tonight.
I still made it to the Camel in time to find friends and catch Way, Shape or Form, whom I'd discovered at Live at Ipanema where I'd become a fan of their pastiche of electronic, jazz and pop.
As a friend later noted, that's the kind of band that could play the Modlin Center and they'd love the sound.
When they finished, Snowy Owls began setting up but it took a while before they began playing.
As I learned later, they'd delayed because there had been a noise complaint to WRIR upstairs and it seemed prudent not to arouse the caller's ire again so quickly.
That and they were waiting for the cop to leave.
But then they began with the full-on fuzz that makes me their devoted fan and all was right with the world.
"We're playing songs off an EP we put out a while ago," leader Matt said,"Back to front if you're keeping score."
I wasn't, I was just glad to be hearing them play, watching Brandon bopping his head as he wailed on the drums while Allen faced him, working off what he saw more than what he could hear.
"The next song is about love and color theory," Matt said. "They go together so well."
Naturally, the artistic nerds in the crowd nodded in agreement.
They treated us to a brand new song, "Kerfluffle," to end their set and it was terrific to hear something I hadn't before.
Apparently the noise complainer had given up because Snowy Owls was followed in short order by Nick Coward and the Last Battle.
It was their CD release show and it seemed like there were a bazillion people on stage.
A friend told me there were eight so I stood on tiptoe to try to see what they all were playing, when I counted nine.
"Whatever it is, it's a full orchestra up there," he cracked.
Indeed. It was cello player Constance Sisk's last show with the band and they'd added two new members, including Troy from Way, Shape or Form.
Just another stellar example of the incestuous world of Richmond musicians and I mean that in the best possible way.
"Hi, we're Nick Coward and the Last Battle and this is "Thieves," Nick said, kicking off a set of new music.
Well, not all that new.
"This song is called "Rock" and it was on our first EP and our second EP and it's on the album," he said. "But we promise not to record it again."
You know, when a song is that good, it's easy to see how it kept getting put on whatever they were working on.
Judging by the crowd's reaction, I think we were all in agreement that the band's full sound, with sax, cello and keyboards adding heft to the guitars, bass and drums, is awfully compelling.
But just so I don't look like a complete music fanatic, let the record show that I did inquire about the score of the game before leaving.
Fortunately, the team was able to pull out another victory without me having to watch.
Now can I go back to my music? I mean, go team.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Be Still, My Oscillating Heart
If you're going to take someone on a first date and impress them, tonight was the time to do it.
It was the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema and Way, Shape or Form was playing.
The name meant nothing to me but Allen, the guy who chooses the bands and records the show, has an unerring ear for choosing the best local music to showcase.
So my companion and I made sure to arrive in time to grab a prime seat and munch on some focaccia and sip Dolcetta d'Alba while the band set up.
My carefully-laid plan was for naught, though, when all at once an influx of people, no doubt fans and friends of the band, showed up en masse and my view was lost.
On the bright side, a girlfriend showed up unexpectedly, so her company helped compensate for the tallest man on earth deciding to stand directly in front of me.
It was about 30 seconds in when the music-lover I'd brought with me turned, grinned and acknowledged, "This is right up your alley. This is Karen music."
And, boy, was it ever.
Ipanema is a small space and the band was a four-piece with drums.
While the drummer definitely qualified as a hard-hitter and he'd covered his drums to soften the sound, it was the interesting time signatures that got my attention.
"The drummer is holding it down," my friend said.
I admit I'm a sucker for electronica and the band's poppy songs used it brilliantly to move the songs forward.
The jazzy guitars did the same, never too loud or intrusive, but always winding their way into my ear.
There was so much going on that I felt like I was listening to math rock filtered through a pop punk aesthetic (and I say pop punk rather than just pop due to their ages) and the result was speaking to my inner music geek directly.
I was pretty much in heaven, but as I soon noticed, so were the people on either side of me.
Some songs had lyrics, some didn't, but the rapt crowd was as engaged with one as the other.
As I listened to leader Troy's confessional-sounding vocals, I marveled at how I hadn't yet heard of these guys.
I am, after all, out hearing live music three or four nights a week.
Let's just say I've already put their vinyl release show into my calendar (or, as my fellow Gemini called it, my "prehistoric Blackberry."), very much looking forward to hearing a longer set next time.
Tonight's ended way too soon and Troy said, "It's really packed in here. Thanks! We have t-shirts for sale, long sleeves for the cool times."
Except that the room was anything but cool because of the mass of humanity who had crowded in to hear these guys.
Mingling afterwards, I was curious as to what Troy had been listening to and wasn't the least surprised to hear that we'd both been to Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
Even later still, I ran into a favorite friend coming in, only to learn he'd been on a date there the whole time.
He'd brought his date for dinner and music, and she, being a relative newcomer to Richmond's scene, had marveled at what a great show it had been, wondering how often stuff like this happened.
"Pretty much all the time, if you know where to go," my bearded friend had assured her.
All I can say is if a guy took me on a first date to an intimate show at Ipanema featuring a local band as talented/catchy/listenable as Way, Shape or Form, I'd ask him for a second date.
And that's saying something.
It was the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema and Way, Shape or Form was playing.
The name meant nothing to me but Allen, the guy who chooses the bands and records the show, has an unerring ear for choosing the best local music to showcase.
So my companion and I made sure to arrive in time to grab a prime seat and munch on some focaccia and sip Dolcetta d'Alba while the band set up.
My carefully-laid plan was for naught, though, when all at once an influx of people, no doubt fans and friends of the band, showed up en masse and my view was lost.
On the bright side, a girlfriend showed up unexpectedly, so her company helped compensate for the tallest man on earth deciding to stand directly in front of me.
It was about 30 seconds in when the music-lover I'd brought with me turned, grinned and acknowledged, "This is right up your alley. This is Karen music."
And, boy, was it ever.
Ipanema is a small space and the band was a four-piece with drums.
While the drummer definitely qualified as a hard-hitter and he'd covered his drums to soften the sound, it was the interesting time signatures that got my attention.
"The drummer is holding it down," my friend said.
I admit I'm a sucker for electronica and the band's poppy songs used it brilliantly to move the songs forward.
The jazzy guitars did the same, never too loud or intrusive, but always winding their way into my ear.
There was so much going on that I felt like I was listening to math rock filtered through a pop punk aesthetic (and I say pop punk rather than just pop due to their ages) and the result was speaking to my inner music geek directly.
I was pretty much in heaven, but as I soon noticed, so were the people on either side of me.
Some songs had lyrics, some didn't, but the rapt crowd was as engaged with one as the other.
As I listened to leader Troy's confessional-sounding vocals, I marveled at how I hadn't yet heard of these guys.
I am, after all, out hearing live music three or four nights a week.
Let's just say I've already put their vinyl release show into my calendar (or, as my fellow Gemini called it, my "prehistoric Blackberry."), very much looking forward to hearing a longer set next time.
Tonight's ended way too soon and Troy said, "It's really packed in here. Thanks! We have t-shirts for sale, long sleeves for the cool times."
Except that the room was anything but cool because of the mass of humanity who had crowded in to hear these guys.
Mingling afterwards, I was curious as to what Troy had been listening to and wasn't the least surprised to hear that we'd both been to Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
Even later still, I ran into a favorite friend coming in, only to learn he'd been on a date there the whole time.
He'd brought his date for dinner and music, and she, being a relative newcomer to Richmond's scene, had marveled at what a great show it had been, wondering how often stuff like this happened.
"Pretty much all the time, if you know where to go," my bearded friend had assured her.
All I can say is if a guy took me on a first date to an intimate show at Ipanema featuring a local band as talented/catchy/listenable as Way, Shape or Form, I'd ask him for a second date.
And that's saying something.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Twin Peaks
It was First Fridays on steroids.
The fun began at the Anderson Gallery for the opening of "Judith Godwin: Early Abstractions."
After hearing the artist's talk last night, I was eager to see her work firsthand.
It was fascinating to watch the progression of her work from her junior year in college through the late '60s.
From the earliest academic painting where she was clearly trying to break down form, through the exquisite "Martha Graham: Lamentation," with its otherworldly blues and suggestion of a black figure in motion to what she called her "Japanese period," I was mesmerized by her development as an artist.
Walking by a student on gallery duty, I heard her lament, "As a young painter, I can't imagine what it felt like to live through that period she did."
I didn't have the heart to tell her that the period she's living through has the potential to be just as impressive to an artist-to-be not yet born.
Assuming, that is, that she and her artistic-minded peers persevere and stay true to themselves.
And if the work of the young Judith Godwin in the galleries there didn't inspire her to that, she was already hopeless.
By the end, I concluded that my favorite was probably "Blue Storm" from 1963 for its evocation of the range of dark blues where horizon separates sky and sea in the run-up to a bad storm.
Coinciding with that show was the VMFA's "Gesture: Judith Godwin and Abstract Expressionism," which included work from her entire career as well as that of other artists in the collection.
Making my way around the gallery, it was a shock to finally see one of Godwin's works from the '70s.
The progression was clear and only became more so with the '80s and '90s works.
Her brushstrokes became looser, her palette lighter with softer colors.
It was a crash course in the art of one woman, surrounded by other second wave abstract expressionists, including several Virginians.
I don't know how a young painter, or anyone with a shred of interest in painting, could walk away without a profound appreciation for the talent of a woman who fought the very male mainstream of the time and stayed true to her vision.
But maybe I should check with a young painter just to be sure.
After getting a healthy dose of Godwin, we moved upstairs to Amuse for dinner.
When we sat down at the bar, the bartender reminded me that I was sitting next to a neighbor.
Sure enough, the woman sitting there lives a half a block from me.
It's a small world after all at the VMFA.
It was a lovely time to be in Amuse, with the last hour of daylight making for a pale and then deep blue sky.
With the impending opening of the museum's Asian galleries, Amuse's menu has taken a turn eastward.
After scoring Michael Shaps' VMFA viognier and a split of Cristalino cava, we couldn't resist the pork buns stuffed with cucumber and scallions served with pickled onions and hoisin sauce.
Let's just say that the kitchen clearly has a knack for Asian flavors.
We were told about a dish so brand-new that it hadn't even made it on to tonight's menu, so that was our decision made.
General Tso's chicken used thigh meat and came over jasmine rice with tempura asparagus atop it.
The bartender had recommended the Kung Pao beef for its Szechuan spiciness, but admitted that she hadn't had the new dish, so she was unsure about its spiciness.
The first bite yielded the answer; there was a subtle but distinct heat on the finish that delivered the kicker.
Take-out Tso's never tasted so good.
Conversation ranged all over the place, with our bartender frequently supplying her opinion.
Burning issues like what percentage of men 20 to 60 recognize a good woman when they meet one?
I got one 50% and one 10%, so no conclusions could be drawn.
While making up our mind about dessert, we shared a new drink on the cocktail menu, the Ice Cube.
It came in a glass with only a straw sized opening, but inside the glass was tequila, Chambord, agave, lime juice, grapefruit juice and Sprite.
Oh, yes, and a big, round Chambord-colored ice cube.
It was like a ship in a bottle. How did that big cube get in a glass with only a straw-sized hole?
Hint: you'll need to drink one to find out.
Given the subtlely blended flavors, that shouldn't be too difficult.
I'm not even a cocktail drinker and I slurped down my half.
Dessert was a chocolate hazelnut tort, an extremely moist way to end a meal.
And for possibly the first time since Picasso, I did not end my meal with an absinthe drip.
The Ice Cube had taken precedence.
By the time we left, I had to hightail it back to J-Ward to catch a couple of major shows.
My first stop was Ghostprint Gallery for "Josh George: The Scientific Method," a show of much larger works than I'd seen from him before.
But having just come from Godwin's shows, I was already adjusted to paintings done large.
George uses paint and collage and the pieces in this show, done over a five-month period he told me, were darker than the ones I'd seen last fall.
Even the titles were darker: "First Line of Defense in the Frozen Yogurt Wars" and "The Organ Harvesters."
The artist was there, but as usual, we talked more restaurants than art.
I was happy to hear that the show will be up for two months so I can take a friend and see it again.
Leaving Ghostprint so they could lock up, my final stop was Gallery 5 for "&@$#!: An Exhibition of Comic Artists."
Walking in, I caught the last song of trio Houdan the Mystic, billed as "three beards playing instruments."
Honestly, that's most every band in town with number of beards the only variable.
I wouldn't want to judge any band by one song, but I did like what I heard of their psychedelic math rock.
From there, I went upstairs to check out the comic art.
Before I could even begin, I ran into Lily, the talented and ambitious woman who creates the large-scale puppets for the upcoming Halloween parade as well as the annual May Day parade.
She's busy preparing for the Halloween parade and told me this year's theme.
Saints and sinners and Virginia General Assembly puppets will represent the sinners.
How brilliant is that?
We hadn't seen each other in ages, so we took the time to catch up while the friend she was with patiently waited through our girl talk.
Suddenly I noticed something.
Peking out from Lily's dress was a black polka-dotted bra.
I immediately asked her friend to unzip my dress six inches.
Without so much as an inquiry why, he did so, allowing me to show Lily the top of my identical black polka-dotted bra.
So there we were, two grown women holding the tops of our twin bras next to the other one.
Lily turned to her unzipping friend. "Did you have any idea where that was going?"
Apparently he hadn't but was willing to go along for the ride.
You gottta love men.
That business addressed, I said my adieus and moved on to the art.
I found myself drawn to Julia Scott's work, including "Sirens" and "Joey," an ink, watercolor and Pentel piece.
My eye was captured by the shades of green and black that evoked the capped and bearded Joey.
Naturally I was attracted to James Callahan's "Barf Comics Cover" of the first-ever issue, with its cover tease of "Holy freakin' collector's item! You should probably buy two of 'em!!!"
That sense of humor is one of my favorite things about Callahan's work and one of the reasons I have a Callahan hanging in my apartment.
Greg Roth's three pieces of ink on paper showed very different scenes.
One was "Conan: Born in the Battlefield" of men in horned helmets with swords, while the other two, "Freaks of the Heartland" were of figures in overalls out in a rural setting.
By the time I finished reading comics, I heard music starting and headed downstairs.
Quintet Way, Shape or Form was playing their second show tonight.
As they began to play, I stood near the window where I could see the fire performers finishing up their acts of derring-do to the beats of two DJs.
What I didn't expect was that when the fire performers stopped, the music was cranked louder and spontaneous dancing in the street began as the audience took over center stage.
After a few minutes, things got very Soul Train with a group of four guys taking turns trying to outdo each other with their moves.
But I wanted to pay attention to WSoF because their electronic indie pop was awfully catchy.
The lead singer had a great voice and was kept busy turning knobs and playing guitar.
All of a sudden I had company at the window when a woman came over to look outside and found the dance party in full swing.
"Her momma should have taught her not to go out in shorts like that," the woman clucked about the leopard-print shorts as short as any underwear and even tighter.
For the record, the woman speaking was probably no more than ten years older than the girl dancing, but was clearly calling it as she saw it.
I left her to her voyeurism and went back to figuring out what I was liking about WSoF.
With hints of chillwave, post rock and enough electronica to get some of the dance party stragglers moving now that they'd moved inside, I found a lot to like.
And if this really was their second show, bravo, boys.
But they were full of youthful energy/enthusiasm and when they finished their set, said they were heading down two blocks to do another show at the Bug house with some other electronic bands.
Tempting as that sounded, I already had plans to walk down two blocks and finally bring my first Friday to a close.
I just hope I didn't miss the show of a lifetime.
Come on, the bug house?
Only in Jackson Ward and only on first Friday.
The fun began at the Anderson Gallery for the opening of "Judith Godwin: Early Abstractions."
After hearing the artist's talk last night, I was eager to see her work firsthand.
It was fascinating to watch the progression of her work from her junior year in college through the late '60s.
From the earliest academic painting where she was clearly trying to break down form, through the exquisite "Martha Graham: Lamentation," with its otherworldly blues and suggestion of a black figure in motion to what she called her "Japanese period," I was mesmerized by her development as an artist.
Walking by a student on gallery duty, I heard her lament, "As a young painter, I can't imagine what it felt like to live through that period she did."
I didn't have the heart to tell her that the period she's living through has the potential to be just as impressive to an artist-to-be not yet born.
Assuming, that is, that she and her artistic-minded peers persevere and stay true to themselves.
And if the work of the young Judith Godwin in the galleries there didn't inspire her to that, she was already hopeless.
By the end, I concluded that my favorite was probably "Blue Storm" from 1963 for its evocation of the range of dark blues where horizon separates sky and sea in the run-up to a bad storm.
Coinciding with that show was the VMFA's "Gesture: Judith Godwin and Abstract Expressionism," which included work from her entire career as well as that of other artists in the collection.
Making my way around the gallery, it was a shock to finally see one of Godwin's works from the '70s.
The progression was clear and only became more so with the '80s and '90s works.
Her brushstrokes became looser, her palette lighter with softer colors.
It was a crash course in the art of one woman, surrounded by other second wave abstract expressionists, including several Virginians.
I don't know how a young painter, or anyone with a shred of interest in painting, could walk away without a profound appreciation for the talent of a woman who fought the very male mainstream of the time and stayed true to her vision.
But maybe I should check with a young painter just to be sure.
After getting a healthy dose of Godwin, we moved upstairs to Amuse for dinner.
When we sat down at the bar, the bartender reminded me that I was sitting next to a neighbor.
Sure enough, the woman sitting there lives a half a block from me.
It's a small world after all at the VMFA.
It was a lovely time to be in Amuse, with the last hour of daylight making for a pale and then deep blue sky.
With the impending opening of the museum's Asian galleries, Amuse's menu has taken a turn eastward.
After scoring Michael Shaps' VMFA viognier and a split of Cristalino cava, we couldn't resist the pork buns stuffed with cucumber and scallions served with pickled onions and hoisin sauce.
Let's just say that the kitchen clearly has a knack for Asian flavors.
We were told about a dish so brand-new that it hadn't even made it on to tonight's menu, so that was our decision made.
General Tso's chicken used thigh meat and came over jasmine rice with tempura asparagus atop it.
The bartender had recommended the Kung Pao beef for its Szechuan spiciness, but admitted that she hadn't had the new dish, so she was unsure about its spiciness.
The first bite yielded the answer; there was a subtle but distinct heat on the finish that delivered the kicker.
Take-out Tso's never tasted so good.
Conversation ranged all over the place, with our bartender frequently supplying her opinion.
Burning issues like what percentage of men 20 to 60 recognize a good woman when they meet one?
I got one 50% and one 10%, so no conclusions could be drawn.
While making up our mind about dessert, we shared a new drink on the cocktail menu, the Ice Cube.
It came in a glass with only a straw sized opening, but inside the glass was tequila, Chambord, agave, lime juice, grapefruit juice and Sprite.
Oh, yes, and a big, round Chambord-colored ice cube.
It was like a ship in a bottle. How did that big cube get in a glass with only a straw-sized hole?
Hint: you'll need to drink one to find out.
Given the subtlely blended flavors, that shouldn't be too difficult.
I'm not even a cocktail drinker and I slurped down my half.
Dessert was a chocolate hazelnut tort, an extremely moist way to end a meal.
And for possibly the first time since Picasso, I did not end my meal with an absinthe drip.
The Ice Cube had taken precedence.
By the time we left, I had to hightail it back to J-Ward to catch a couple of major shows.
My first stop was Ghostprint Gallery for "Josh George: The Scientific Method," a show of much larger works than I'd seen from him before.
But having just come from Godwin's shows, I was already adjusted to paintings done large.
George uses paint and collage and the pieces in this show, done over a five-month period he told me, were darker than the ones I'd seen last fall.
Even the titles were darker: "First Line of Defense in the Frozen Yogurt Wars" and "The Organ Harvesters."
The artist was there, but as usual, we talked more restaurants than art.
I was happy to hear that the show will be up for two months so I can take a friend and see it again.
Leaving Ghostprint so they could lock up, my final stop was Gallery 5 for "&@$#!: An Exhibition of Comic Artists."
Walking in, I caught the last song of trio Houdan the Mystic, billed as "three beards playing instruments."
Honestly, that's most every band in town with number of beards the only variable.
I wouldn't want to judge any band by one song, but I did like what I heard of their psychedelic math rock.
From there, I went upstairs to check out the comic art.
Before I could even begin, I ran into Lily, the talented and ambitious woman who creates the large-scale puppets for the upcoming Halloween parade as well as the annual May Day parade.
She's busy preparing for the Halloween parade and told me this year's theme.
Saints and sinners and Virginia General Assembly puppets will represent the sinners.
How brilliant is that?
We hadn't seen each other in ages, so we took the time to catch up while the friend she was with patiently waited through our girl talk.
Suddenly I noticed something.
Peking out from Lily's dress was a black polka-dotted bra.
I immediately asked her friend to unzip my dress six inches.
Without so much as an inquiry why, he did so, allowing me to show Lily the top of my identical black polka-dotted bra.
So there we were, two grown women holding the tops of our twin bras next to the other one.
Lily turned to her unzipping friend. "Did you have any idea where that was going?"
Apparently he hadn't but was willing to go along for the ride.
You gottta love men.
That business addressed, I said my adieus and moved on to the art.
I found myself drawn to Julia Scott's work, including "Sirens" and "Joey," an ink, watercolor and Pentel piece.
My eye was captured by the shades of green and black that evoked the capped and bearded Joey.
Naturally I was attracted to James Callahan's "Barf Comics Cover" of the first-ever issue, with its cover tease of "Holy freakin' collector's item! You should probably buy two of 'em!!!"
That sense of humor is one of my favorite things about Callahan's work and one of the reasons I have a Callahan hanging in my apartment.
Greg Roth's three pieces of ink on paper showed very different scenes.
One was "Conan: Born in the Battlefield" of men in horned helmets with swords, while the other two, "Freaks of the Heartland" were of figures in overalls out in a rural setting.
By the time I finished reading comics, I heard music starting and headed downstairs.
Quintet Way, Shape or Form was playing their second show tonight.
As they began to play, I stood near the window where I could see the fire performers finishing up their acts of derring-do to the beats of two DJs.
What I didn't expect was that when the fire performers stopped, the music was cranked louder and spontaneous dancing in the street began as the audience took over center stage.
After a few minutes, things got very Soul Train with a group of four guys taking turns trying to outdo each other with their moves.
But I wanted to pay attention to WSoF because their electronic indie pop was awfully catchy.
The lead singer had a great voice and was kept busy turning knobs and playing guitar.
All of a sudden I had company at the window when a woman came over to look outside and found the dance party in full swing.
"Her momma should have taught her not to go out in shorts like that," the woman clucked about the leopard-print shorts as short as any underwear and even tighter.
For the record, the woman speaking was probably no more than ten years older than the girl dancing, but was clearly calling it as she saw it.
I left her to her voyeurism and went back to figuring out what I was liking about WSoF.
With hints of chillwave, post rock and enough electronica to get some of the dance party stragglers moving now that they'd moved inside, I found a lot to like.
And if this really was their second show, bravo, boys.
But they were full of youthful energy/enthusiasm and when they finished their set, said they were heading down two blocks to do another show at the Bug house with some other electronic bands.
Tempting as that sounded, I already had plans to walk down two blocks and finally bring my first Friday to a close.
I just hope I didn't miss the show of a lifetime.
Come on, the bug house?
Only in Jackson Ward and only on first Friday.
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