How cold was it? So cold I wore jeans to celebrate Valentine's Day. Now that's cold...and a first.
The amazing part is that before the night was over, I was shedding layers.
I knew my night was going to be stellar when my favorite artist date and I walked into Hardywod for the latest installment of the Cover to Cover series and the band was launching into the Killers' "All These Things That I Have Done," for me, the song that defines "Hot Fuss."
Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
And my affection, well, it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection, no, no, no, no
Help me out, yeah
You know you got to help me out, yeah
Oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
That was the beauty of tonight's performance. In addition to doing an entire album cover to cover, the first set was all highlights from the past Cover to Cover shows, all of which I'd been to.
So after the Killers, we got Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" and host Matt's hilarious commentary, "That was a live fade-out, folks. I just wanted to point that out. Drink!" and held his cup of beer high.
From there, they moved through "Gold Dust Woman," then on to Green Day's "Dookie," which got all the young dudes around us singing out loud and another live fade-out.
Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black" prompted Matt to observe that they hadn't taken song choice into consideration for Valentine's Day given that they'd done the title song and the next song was "Love is a Lonely Game" and then Paul Simon's "Graceland" wound things down.
The backing band has finally given themselves a name - Trunk Show - and were as tight as ever. I'm a big fan of guitarist Grant, who looked great sporting asymmetrical bangs and a Flying V-style guitar. His cool factor was off the charts.
Tonight's album hearkened back to my youth with Heart's February 1976 classic (for guys anyway), "Dreamboat Annie." As my girlfriend and I discussed, neither of us had been Heart fans, although all the guys we knew had been. Apparently, '70s men were suckers for girl guitarists and big-voiced singers in Renaissance garb.
The band came roaring out of the gate with "Magic Man," complete with elaborate guitar solos, setting the tone for the rest of the show. A second guitarist was added to the lineup and my girlfriend was soon swooning over Forrest and his intricate solos and happy grin.
One of the women in front of us, obviously a Heart fan because she sang every word despite her relative youth, said, "They better do "Dog and Butterfly" or I'm gonna hit someone," clearly unaware that that's a song off another Heart album.
No question, it was a rockin' choice of an album, by far the hardest rocking thing they've done, but even so, my friend leaned over and observed, "This music is so white it's hard to dance to." True that, but nobody was dancing to rock in the '70s; that's what disco was for.
They'd brought in the "A" team of vocalists with Debra, Maggie, Katrinah and Ali showcasing their vocal chops to channel Ann Wilson, minus the long velvet gowns.
Oh, and the lyrics! "If you love me like the music, I'll be your song." Wow, just wow.
"Okay, this is where your tops come off," Matt exhorted the crowd before "Sing, Child, Sing," complete with flute solo (which immediately made me think of Jethro Tull and wonder why flutes were a thing in '70s rock bands), but not by the lead vocalist a la Ann Wilson, but by a separate flute player while Forrest showboated like the best of the '70s aces, grinning with pleasure all the while.
For the record, no tops came off that we saw. I saved that for later.
That could been an evening's entertainment in and of itself, but we were nowhere close to through and headed directly to Studio Two Three for their Galentine's dance, complete with Mean Bird fried chicken plus waffles (one of my very favorite edible combos ever) and assorted breakfast pastry washed down by Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose,
Because of course we're going to drink pink to celebrate. Celebrate what, you ask? How about that Cupid rhymes with stupid and we'll leave it at that?
Of course the women of Studio Two Three had done a magnificent job decorating the place for Valentine's Day, with giant hearts on the walls and hearts (both whole and broken) strung from lines overhead along with lights and pink, red and white balloons.
Two DJs were alternating spinning vintage soul 45s and women were dancing on the big open dance floor. Only a few men were in attendance as dates and only two of those were brave enough to enter the dance arena, but not so girlfriend and me.
'When's the last time you were dancing?" my friend asked. November, I told her, unless you count slow dancing on New Year's Eve (she didn't). For her, it had been even longer.
So of course we soon joined the masses on the floor, even venturing to do a little turning and twirling with each other. Eventually, one of the other women passed on the "Best Dancer 2016" name tag to my friend, who eventually passed it on to another girl. Before the night was over, we'd both had it hung on our necks, although my friend was sure it was due to our senior position on the floor.
The best dancers were a trio - one in a long lace dress, one adorable in a purple dress and the last with a smile that never dimmed - who danced nonstop and incorporated us into their Soul Train-style dance lines so everybody could show off a little.
After the first half hour or so, I was sorry for the abundance of layers I'd worn, but took care of it nicely by removing one of my under tops without removing the one on top of it. It's like that old trick of taking off your bra without removing your shirt. Not difficult if you know what you're doing. I do.
I briefly considered taking off my jeans since I had fleece tights underneath but checked myself. You can only undress so far in public before people begin to wonder.
When my friend got hot and winded (her layers were not so easily shed), she propped herself up against a wall and I danced in front of her until she cooled down.
It gave us a chance to laugh about the group of high maintenance-looking women who spent more time on their phones than dancing despite taking up a large chunk of the dance floor with their straightened hair, anorexic thighs and lookalike outfits.
Besides them, everyone else was delightful, munching cold waffles and croissants between songs, grabbing people to dance with and generally making my first galentine's dance a fabulous thing.
To close things out, my friend marched over to the DJ and requested one last song as her final dance. Little Richard rocked us happily right up until we headed out into the frigid night which actually felt pretty wonderful after hours of being overheated dancing.
Once in the car, her first question was when we were going dancing again. My answer? Not soon enough. Her idea? Plan a dance party with similar music and lots of dancing types. I'm in.
After she dropped me off, I could have stayed home given what a stellar night it had already been, but why would I when WRIR's Black Valentine's Day show was happening at Gallery 5, a few short blocks away.
Arriving to find the place massively full and strangely warm with so many bodies, I was greeted by a friend in a faux leopard coat and then by another friend, the evening's DJ, sporting a silver sequined blazer.
Seems the drummer of the band onstage, Brown Sabbath (obviously a Black Sabbath cover band), had complimented his blazer (as did I), mentioning that he was in a Neil Diamond cover band and how well it would suit their lead singer.
Neither the DJ nor his wife even knew Richmond had a Neil Diamond cover band, so I brought them up to speed. Come on, kids, Diamond Heist is a blast.
Standing behind a girl in a massive turquoise blue curly wig, I watched Brown Sabbath for about two songs before opting to put earplugs in because I'm not enough of a fan to pain my ears for it. I loved how the lead singer would vape onstage during guitar solos and between songs and pump his fists in time to the drums.
Whether he's aping Ozzy or not, I have no idea. A friend who would have known leaned in and told me she was terribly impressed with how much like Ozzy this guy sounded.
Another friend demurred. "I think they're just too loud." When I pointed out that the room was full, so there must be lots of Sabbath fans in attendance, he responded, "Nah, they're just here for mating."
Not that that's what he was there for. He'd already purchased a date at the date auction earlier in the evening with a plan to spend their date looking for her lost dog.
Romance is in the eye of the beholder. White lightening and wine followed by dancing suited me just fine.
Cue live fade-out. Drink!
Showing posts with label wrir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wrir. Show all posts
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Blow Out the Candles
The thing is, you can't not go.
How can anyone in this town justify not supporting a WRIR fundraiser? Where is there a better deal for the money than eight bands, comedy and assorted DJs for only 15 bucks? Why would I skip a party barely four blocks from home? Who doesn't love multiple kinds of birthday cake?
Walking over to WRIR's 11th annual Party for the Rest of Us, I ran into the photographer/printmaker I'd seen already twice this week. She attributed it to my presence at everything. "We need to make you a shirt that says EG - Everything Girl."
Once at the Renaissance, I was one of the early ones, meaning I could hear the DJ by the buffet and it was still full of food. As a favorite DJ put it, "I realized I'm here in time for the cheese cubes!" Her excitement was palpable.
The party's organizer walked by, enthusing, "Oh, my god, Karen, your tights!" I'd pulled out the Barcelona tights for the occasion, always an attention-getter.
Music began with Half Bascule, the quasi metal improv project of Dave and Nathaniel that always kicks ass. No surprise given Dave's massive pedal board and Nathaniel's exuberant drumming (his flannel shirt came off after the first song), but the two demonstrate remarkable compatibility considering how infrequently they play or rehearse.
From an improvised duo of two, I moved over to the ballroom for Brunswick, a 13-piece complete with jazz training, music stands and the inimitable (and noticeably slimmer) Reggie on percussion. For many, it was their first time seeing the band and they were clearly impressed, asking strangers who they were.
Lucy Dacus and her coat-clad band (sparkly t-shirts were revealed once they got hot enough to doff the coats) were next and seeing as Rolling Stone recently dubbed them a band to watch in 2016, the room filled up quickly.
I'd already run into Lucy in the loo, telling her I recall the first time I saw her play (long before the band stage) at Ghost Light Afterparty, where her acoustic cover of Prince's "I Would Die 4 U" made me weak in the knees. Now she's talking about the band soon making music full-time.
They grow up so fast, don't they?
Checking out the comedy showcase, I head a woman talking about her West Virginia/Muslim roots and somehow turning it into humor ("I moved to Richmond so now I drink craft beer and have cats tattooed on my back") before heading out for birthday cake.
With four kinds of cake, I chose chocolate chocolate, but had to cool my heels with other cake lovers until forks were brought out to eat it with. You want to eat with dignity when you're scarfing cake in front of hundreds of people.
Back in the ballroom, the all-female band Christi won my ears with a combination of girl group and punk influences, although as more than one friend pointed out, the incredibly high ceiling in that room compromised the sound quality ("They sound much better at Strange Matter," Paul told me and he would know) somewhat.
But their energy was terrific, the songs were all three minutes or less and lyrics resonated for those of us with girl parts. Besides, it's just such a treat to see an all female lineup, especially rocking that hard. You go, girls.
Night Idea played to a selection of silent movies behind them and their familiar math rock/proggy sound was well-suited to the black and white classics. "I think Richmond has more prog bands than metal bands these days," the film lover whispered to me.
I think Richmond has more independent radio fans than anything else and I can always count on seeing them at this birthday party.
From the dance party king just back from a shoot in Tidewater to the scooter queen recently back from a trip to Costa Rica to the literate guitarist with whom I discussed Elvis Costello's autobiography and Donald Fagen's charisma to the Australian I'd last met in a borrowed suit to the Gen X birthday boy whose party I have to miss Sunday to the former neighbor dapper in polka dots and boots to the various DJs I've come to know to the smiling friends I only saw in passing, it's a guaranteed get-together of just the kind of people you'd want at your own party, aka the rest of us.
You can count Everything Girl as happily part of that rest.
How can anyone in this town justify not supporting a WRIR fundraiser? Where is there a better deal for the money than eight bands, comedy and assorted DJs for only 15 bucks? Why would I skip a party barely four blocks from home? Who doesn't love multiple kinds of birthday cake?
Walking over to WRIR's 11th annual Party for the Rest of Us, I ran into the photographer/printmaker I'd seen already twice this week. She attributed it to my presence at everything. "We need to make you a shirt that says EG - Everything Girl."
Once at the Renaissance, I was one of the early ones, meaning I could hear the DJ by the buffet and it was still full of food. As a favorite DJ put it, "I realized I'm here in time for the cheese cubes!" Her excitement was palpable.
The party's organizer walked by, enthusing, "Oh, my god, Karen, your tights!" I'd pulled out the Barcelona tights for the occasion, always an attention-getter.
Music began with Half Bascule, the quasi metal improv project of Dave and Nathaniel that always kicks ass. No surprise given Dave's massive pedal board and Nathaniel's exuberant drumming (his flannel shirt came off after the first song), but the two demonstrate remarkable compatibility considering how infrequently they play or rehearse.
From an improvised duo of two, I moved over to the ballroom for Brunswick, a 13-piece complete with jazz training, music stands and the inimitable (and noticeably slimmer) Reggie on percussion. For many, it was their first time seeing the band and they were clearly impressed, asking strangers who they were.
Lucy Dacus and her coat-clad band (sparkly t-shirts were revealed once they got hot enough to doff the coats) were next and seeing as Rolling Stone recently dubbed them a band to watch in 2016, the room filled up quickly.
I'd already run into Lucy in the loo, telling her I recall the first time I saw her play (long before the band stage) at Ghost Light Afterparty, where her acoustic cover of Prince's "I Would Die 4 U" made me weak in the knees. Now she's talking about the band soon making music full-time.
They grow up so fast, don't they?
Checking out the comedy showcase, I head a woman talking about her West Virginia/Muslim roots and somehow turning it into humor ("I moved to Richmond so now I drink craft beer and have cats tattooed on my back") before heading out for birthday cake.
With four kinds of cake, I chose chocolate chocolate, but had to cool my heels with other cake lovers until forks were brought out to eat it with. You want to eat with dignity when you're scarfing cake in front of hundreds of people.
Back in the ballroom, the all-female band Christi won my ears with a combination of girl group and punk influences, although as more than one friend pointed out, the incredibly high ceiling in that room compromised the sound quality ("They sound much better at Strange Matter," Paul told me and he would know) somewhat.
But their energy was terrific, the songs were all three minutes or less and lyrics resonated for those of us with girl parts. Besides, it's just such a treat to see an all female lineup, especially rocking that hard. You go, girls.
Night Idea played to a selection of silent movies behind them and their familiar math rock/proggy sound was well-suited to the black and white classics. "I think Richmond has more prog bands than metal bands these days," the film lover whispered to me.
I think Richmond has more independent radio fans than anything else and I can always count on seeing them at this birthday party.
From the dance party king just back from a shoot in Tidewater to the scooter queen recently back from a trip to Costa Rica to the literate guitarist with whom I discussed Elvis Costello's autobiography and Donald Fagen's charisma to the Australian I'd last met in a borrowed suit to the Gen X birthday boy whose party I have to miss Sunday to the former neighbor dapper in polka dots and boots to the various DJs I've come to know to the smiling friends I only saw in passing, it's a guaranteed get-together of just the kind of people you'd want at your own party, aka the rest of us.
You can count Everything Girl as happily part of that rest.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Doing Up a Decade
When you don't want to stand out in a crowd, there's WRIR's party for the rest of us.
The annual fundraiser, this one celebrating ten years on the air, always delivers a dizzying array of music, plenty of familiar faces and cake. That it takes place six blocks from my apartment is, well, icing on it.
Because I'd met a favorite couple for dinner first, it was an hour into the festivities before I arrived, left my coat in the unmanned black hole that is the coat closet and made my way to see the Dave Watkins Big Band.
I was far from the only one. I'd overheard the guy in the ticket line behind me say he'd come specifically for them and en route to the room, I picked up a girlfriend also intent on witnessing this musical event.
We all had good reason. Dave alone is unparalleled in what he does and Dumb Waiter and Navi are natural complementary sonic soul mates.
Spotting two empty chairs in the front of the room, we claimed them as the bands were setting up. I heard my name called and spotted my former Floyd Avenue neighbor, the long-time WRIR supporter.
Setting up the abundance of cords and pedal boards these bands required gave me a chance to hear about my friend's ongoing battle with her tonsils (I lobbied for removal since mine hadn't come out until I was an adult) while admiring her perfect skin.
A photographer friend arrived without his cute wife but with birthday cake in hand, so we quickly claimed ours, too, before it was all gone (this isn't my first WRIR rodeo). My slice was dark chocolate with white icing, my favorite combination.
Tonight's inaugural performance of this super group found namesake Dave Watkins all the way in the back (hardly surprising given his self-effacing demeanor), except for a few times when he stepped forward to point at the other musicians in succession to play. Guitar, sax, guitar, bass, dulcitar, each appointed musician grinning in delight when it was his brief turn.
Their opus was a free-ranging improvisation that also included two drummers for a total of seven musicians weaving together a sonic tapestry that occasionally dipped into pure effects (knob twirling, chains on drums) before finding the thread again. It was amazing.
Since I'd been all the way in the front for their set, I had no clue until I got up to leave how packed the room was behind me.
Making my way out through the party to the big stage, I ran into the ukulele player, more DJs than you could shake a stick at, the beer maker without his beloved and the J-Ward neighbors. Honestly, I'm always more surprised at who I don't see at this party than who I do.
Over in the ballroom, I said hello to the birthday boy and fell into a discussion of electronica, a kind of music we both adore despite the dearth of it in Richmond. Like me, he was totally stoked that Ki: Theory was the next band to play so we moved to the front for a better view.
"They're huge in Europe, huge in Japan, huge all over the country except Richmond," he said. "Their music has been used in all kinds of movies, TV shows and video games but no one here knows them." He was preaching to the choir. While I have seen them in Richmond, I've also seen them out of town open for other bands, so I already knew how much I liked the sound.
"Our show will be a lot cooler if you turn off these chandeliers," singer Joel said from under his black hoodie (which eventually he removed once sweat was streaming down his face after so much guitar/synth playing, singing and moving across stage) as the drummer began playing. They didn't, a shame since Ki: Theory's strobe light show deserved a darker room.
I know electronica isn't everyone's thing (I'm guessing they weren't dancing in clubs as much as I was in the '80s) so some in the crowd stayed for a while and then left for greener pastures, but there were plenty of people like me who couldn't stand still for the dance-worthy set the two-man band delivered.
The birthday boy and I agreed that they need to play out more around here until people start to appreciate them as much as the rest of the world.
Then it was back out into the party room which was like one big traffic jam of humanity as long lines at the bar and knots of people chatting made it tough going even to cross from one side to the other.
From the filmmaker, I learned that the documentary about D.C.'s hardcore scene, "Salad Days," will screen here next month. A friend shared his theory that eventually we'll have the technology that'll allow a drummer to program his style into his drum kit so others can play like him or her. I heard that a D.C. shoegaze band is coming to town for the filmmakers' forum.
The gallerist spotted me and gestured to his friend. "She's a writer, he's a farmer," he said by way of introduction. Turns out the farmer, a Richmond native, moved to Maryland to grow organic vegetables right about the time I moved to Richmond, meaning no possible overlap in lives or friends. Instead we talked CSAs and Maryland types.
From the jewelry maker, I heard about his soon-to-open studio in Church Hill near Sub Rosa. If only I wore jewelry. The musician whose band I'd gone to see last night came over to give me a hug and say hello. WRIR's volunteer of the year Richard was awarded a plaque for his efforts and we all applauded his hard work.
The urban planner was entranced when I told him about the new exhibit "Reprogramming the City" at the Virginia Center for Architecture, adding it to his plans for tomorrow, right after a visit to Early Bird Biscuit (I raved about that, too). He was so grateful to hear about the show, he high-fived me. Twice.
My final band of the night was Bermuda Triangles because there is no better way to end a musical party than with their tribal drumming, a sound too big to be contained in the room in which they were playing. You'd think all those bodies in the audience would deaden the sound, but no. Their thundering beats bellowed out into the party room drowning out the mindless and even tipsy chatter of party-goers.
Walking home afterwards, there were people on the street post-artwalk and spilling out of restaurants. A group of guys in front of me made fun of every store window they passed ("You call that art? Who'd pay for that?"). Behind me, a couple talked about how they'd seen more bands tonight than they'd seen in months. A guy on a bike rode down the sidewalk, dodging us all.
I was just the innocuous Jackson Ward dweller headed home after supporting the best little radio station in Richmond. The rest of us had a ball at the birthday party.
The annual fundraiser, this one celebrating ten years on the air, always delivers a dizzying array of music, plenty of familiar faces and cake. That it takes place six blocks from my apartment is, well, icing on it.
Because I'd met a favorite couple for dinner first, it was an hour into the festivities before I arrived, left my coat in the unmanned black hole that is the coat closet and made my way to see the Dave Watkins Big Band.
I was far from the only one. I'd overheard the guy in the ticket line behind me say he'd come specifically for them and en route to the room, I picked up a girlfriend also intent on witnessing this musical event.
We all had good reason. Dave alone is unparalleled in what he does and Dumb Waiter and Navi are natural complementary sonic soul mates.
Spotting two empty chairs in the front of the room, we claimed them as the bands were setting up. I heard my name called and spotted my former Floyd Avenue neighbor, the long-time WRIR supporter.
Setting up the abundance of cords and pedal boards these bands required gave me a chance to hear about my friend's ongoing battle with her tonsils (I lobbied for removal since mine hadn't come out until I was an adult) while admiring her perfect skin.
A photographer friend arrived without his cute wife but with birthday cake in hand, so we quickly claimed ours, too, before it was all gone (this isn't my first WRIR rodeo). My slice was dark chocolate with white icing, my favorite combination.
Tonight's inaugural performance of this super group found namesake Dave Watkins all the way in the back (hardly surprising given his self-effacing demeanor), except for a few times when he stepped forward to point at the other musicians in succession to play. Guitar, sax, guitar, bass, dulcitar, each appointed musician grinning in delight when it was his brief turn.
Their opus was a free-ranging improvisation that also included two drummers for a total of seven musicians weaving together a sonic tapestry that occasionally dipped into pure effects (knob twirling, chains on drums) before finding the thread again. It was amazing.
Since I'd been all the way in the front for their set, I had no clue until I got up to leave how packed the room was behind me.
Making my way out through the party to the big stage, I ran into the ukulele player, more DJs than you could shake a stick at, the beer maker without his beloved and the J-Ward neighbors. Honestly, I'm always more surprised at who I don't see at this party than who I do.
Over in the ballroom, I said hello to the birthday boy and fell into a discussion of electronica, a kind of music we both adore despite the dearth of it in Richmond. Like me, he was totally stoked that Ki: Theory was the next band to play so we moved to the front for a better view.
"They're huge in Europe, huge in Japan, huge all over the country except Richmond," he said. "Their music has been used in all kinds of movies, TV shows and video games but no one here knows them." He was preaching to the choir. While I have seen them in Richmond, I've also seen them out of town open for other bands, so I already knew how much I liked the sound.
"Our show will be a lot cooler if you turn off these chandeliers," singer Joel said from under his black hoodie (which eventually he removed once sweat was streaming down his face after so much guitar/synth playing, singing and moving across stage) as the drummer began playing. They didn't, a shame since Ki: Theory's strobe light show deserved a darker room.
I know electronica isn't everyone's thing (I'm guessing they weren't dancing in clubs as much as I was in the '80s) so some in the crowd stayed for a while and then left for greener pastures, but there were plenty of people like me who couldn't stand still for the dance-worthy set the two-man band delivered.
The birthday boy and I agreed that they need to play out more around here until people start to appreciate them as much as the rest of the world.
Then it was back out into the party room which was like one big traffic jam of humanity as long lines at the bar and knots of people chatting made it tough going even to cross from one side to the other.
From the filmmaker, I learned that the documentary about D.C.'s hardcore scene, "Salad Days," will screen here next month. A friend shared his theory that eventually we'll have the technology that'll allow a drummer to program his style into his drum kit so others can play like him or her. I heard that a D.C. shoegaze band is coming to town for the filmmakers' forum.
The gallerist spotted me and gestured to his friend. "She's a writer, he's a farmer," he said by way of introduction. Turns out the farmer, a Richmond native, moved to Maryland to grow organic vegetables right about the time I moved to Richmond, meaning no possible overlap in lives or friends. Instead we talked CSAs and Maryland types.
From the jewelry maker, I heard about his soon-to-open studio in Church Hill near Sub Rosa. If only I wore jewelry. The musician whose band I'd gone to see last night came over to give me a hug and say hello. WRIR's volunteer of the year Richard was awarded a plaque for his efforts and we all applauded his hard work.
The urban planner was entranced when I told him about the new exhibit "Reprogramming the City" at the Virginia Center for Architecture, adding it to his plans for tomorrow, right after a visit to Early Bird Biscuit (I raved about that, too). He was so grateful to hear about the show, he high-fived me. Twice.
My final band of the night was Bermuda Triangles because there is no better way to end a musical party than with their tribal drumming, a sound too big to be contained in the room in which they were playing. You'd think all those bodies in the audience would deaden the sound, but no. Their thundering beats bellowed out into the party room drowning out the mindless and even tipsy chatter of party-goers.
Walking home afterwards, there were people on the street post-artwalk and spilling out of restaurants. A group of guys in front of me made fun of every store window they passed ("You call that art? Who'd pay for that?"). Behind me, a couple talked about how they'd seen more bands tonight than they'd seen in months. A guy on a bike rode down the sidewalk, dodging us all.
I was just the innocuous Jackson Ward dweller headed home after supporting the best little radio station in Richmond. The rest of us had a ball at the birthday party.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Perfect Amount of Art and Awkward
Just another Friday night that starts with a makeshift disco and ends with strippers.
A photographer friend and I were walking to dinner when he spied some interesting tile work on a building and paused to take a picture.
Next thing we know, the owner of the building, a charming Mexican, comes out and invites us in for a tour of the building he is renovating for his construction company.
I'm sure my mother would disapprove of going into a stranger's building with him, but I figure my sturdy male friend is my insurance against bodily harm.
Inside, the owner tells us that the building was a laundry for 75 years, showing off massive sliding metal doors, huge exhaust fans and an abundance of windows to let out the hot, steamy air.
Everywhere but the front of the building is still a work in progress, with part of the floor torn up in one place and a walkway over the hole.
When we get almost to the back, though, we find an intact floor, finished walls and where, wait for it, he says nonchalantly, "Here is my discotheque," while hitting a switch which starts the mirror ball turning and myriad strobe lights flashing along the roof line.
He says this is where they dance when he holds employee parties. It was about the last thing on earth I'd expected when we'd walked in the building.
That said, if he'd put on some music, I might have tried it out and I bet my friend would have, too.
Neither of us could get over the unexpected invitation followed by a peek inside a building we would otherwise never have seen.
While we were eating dinner afterwards, we caught up with each other's lives, the best part being when I asked how his relationship is going. I'd guessed that since he never has time to get together, it must be going quite well.
He affirmed how happy he was, saying, "She's smart, she likes to talk, she's good company and she used to be a cheerleader so she's flexible."
A man couldn't really ask for much more than that, could he?
The icing on the cake was when he surprised me by saying, "Since I won't be seeing you on Valentine's day, I have a present for you," pulling out a large pink eraser shaped like a diamond ring. "Anyone who doesn't put a ring on it is a dumbass."
Clearly he didn't want to be among that group. It was my first pink eraser diamond ring and although I'm not a jewelry person, I wore it all night.
Our next stop was Glave Kocen gallery to See "Click III," a biannual invitational photography show with the theme "From Mountains to Sea."
We both recognized several of the photographers' names while taking in a fascinating array of photography styles from photo montage to pinhole Polaroids to photo-journalism to abstractions. Our post-gallery discussion involved how the best digital photographs look like they were shot on 35 mm.
We parted ways in the arts district since I had First Fridays artwalking to do and he had other plans.
My first stop was at Black Iris gallery to see "Public Eye: Civil Rights Case Study," a series of photographs and videos shot for surveillance purposes during the '60s and '70s in Richmond.
The mug shots looked like Joe Average people, a comment I made to a woman who responded, "Yea, there's one of my sister."
I'm willing to bet if you're of an age and were in Richmond during the days of protests and demonstrations, you might recognize some young person's mug in the exhibit, too.
Projected on the back wall was a series of film clips, like a 1970 busing protest on Belvidere, a memorial for Martin Luther King at the state capital in 1968 (with women in white gloves and hats), a KKK parade and a Black Panther meeting on Laurel Street.
Of course Laurel Street. Where else but Oregon Hill would you expect to find Black Panthers and anarchists?
A black and white no-frills look at a period in RVA's history I missed, presented without political agenda or bias. As in, just the facts, ma'am. Definitely worth checking out.
From there, it was just a short walk to the Renaissance for WRIR's annual "party for the rest of us" to celebrate their ninth birthday.
I made a point to get there early enough to see River City Taiko, a group that plays traditional Japanese drums, which I have to assume means one person on either side of the drum playing different rhythms because that's what these people were doing, sometimes two at a time and sometimes the entire group at once.
The Colloquial Orchestra was next and while I've seen them many times, that's meaningless because the orchestra is defined as Dave Watkins on dulcitar and anyone else he asks to play with him, so never the same.
It can be a three piece, a six-piece or, like tonight, a 14-piece: two drummers, six guitarists (one acoustic), bass, trumpet, keyboard, violin,and a late-arriving sax player.
Improvising for a half hour, they wove elaborate soundscapes around the bass and drum center, creating what one first-timer described to me as sounding like "bagpipes on acid."
Changing rooms to catch some storytelling courtesy of Secretly Y'All, I heard the inimitable Herschel tell a tale of falling hard for a girl after hearing her laugh because, "it was the best laugh I ever heard."
Now there's a hell of a compliment.
He accompanied himself on ukulele when he sang a song partially based on their interaction.
Justin's story was about moving from Powhatan and an outdoor-centered life to Church Hill and having to push himself "to get off my ass and go outside," and his song was called "Silver and Diamonds."
Patrick's story was about a girl joining his group traveling Europe and after spending 24 hours with her, knowing he was deeply in love. Two months here went great but six weeks in Berlin made it painfully obvious she'd lost interest. His heartbreaking tribute was called "Waltz to Noel."
No one had mentioned that tonight's theme would be "guys with sad stories."
Milling about between bands, I ran into the DJ who works at WPA and had made all the lovely birthday cakes for tonight's party. I had him give me a rundown on what kind of cake was inside each since they all looked different.
Chocolate coconut and caramel chocolate seemed to hold the most promise for me. I took a swipe of icing just to be sure, alarming a DJ.
That's an annual tradition for me at this party, my friend. Just ask Andrew.
The one band I wanted to make sure I caught tonight was Hypercolor and walking into the ballroom as their set began, I knew in an instant that they were right up my alley.
A ruby-throated female lead singer playing guitar ("She's not your typical lead, she's even doing some finger-picking," the guy behind me whispered to me), two other lush-sounding guitars including one of the guys from Avers whom I'd just seen and the bassist from Fear of Music (also just seen last weekend) who together with the drummer kept everyone from wandering off into psychedelic bliss.
I kept moving closer and closer to the front to watch and listen to the impressive execution and well-written songs. I'll need to see them again soon.
The Silent Music Revival was presenting the avant-garde 1947 film "The Cage" with improvised soundtrack by Snack Truck and their thunderous rock was a fine match for the falling eyeballs, nude women running, leek stealers and other assorted oddities of the silent movie.
I could tell that a lot of people watching had never seen a SMR presentation before as they focused solely on the band and ignored the movie.
Guys, guys, guys.
Back in the main ballroom, the Ar-Kaics had morphed from a trio to a quartet since I'd last seen them at Steady Sounds but hard and fast ear-splitting garage rock was still their metier.
For something completely different, I crossed rooms to hear the RVA Squares, a bluegrass band with a dance caller.
Eight couples took the challenge, including three all girl couples (one of each was given a tie to make her easier to identify as the male) and squared off as Grant Hunnicutt, hat, microphone and all, proceed to call out the square dancing instructions.
Gents go round the outside line
Pass your partner one time by
Pick a new girl on the fly
Swing her round
Step right back and watch her strut
Step back up and bump your butt
I'm not sure those are the same square dancing calls I heard when we square danced in elementary school, but they seemed to elicit much the same results.
It really did look like fun and while I'm sure I would have made a mess of it, I'd have tried square dancing for the first time since elementary school if someone had asked.
But they didn't, so I accepted an invitation from my favorite J-Ward couple to leave for Gallery 5 and the last of their evening of burlesque and boylesque.
The place was packed and we heard major hooting and hollering from outside, so I found a place by the radiator and stood on tip-toe to see the ample Dante the Inferno gyrate and strip down.
"That was just the perfect amount of awkward," host Parker said afterwards while scantily clad women were sweeping up the stripping droppings of Dante.
The lovely and zaftig Ellie "Iron Lady" Quinn was next and her red and gold costume zipped off while she danced provocatively to reveal a gold bikini top and gold thong with tassels .
The crowd ate it up, cheering her on until she removed her bikini top and it was just pasties with tassels, which she then proceeded to twirl like a pro, shimmying wildly.
Buster Britches was introduced as "the cream show Casanova" and Parker instructed us to make a path down the center of the room "cause he's gonna be coming from the back, just the way he likes it."
In a short floral robe and carrying an umbrella, the ample Buster strutted onstage to Billie Holiday's "He's a Tramp," dropped the robe and then spent the rest of the time adding clothes back on.
The night ended with Deanna Danger, not only a burlesque performer but a teacher ("You, too, can be up here taking your clothes off!" Parker said by way of introduction) in a fabulous gold and black dress with a slit skirt that got twirled and swirled overhead before being removed to reveal the tiniest of pasties and leopard briefs.
The audience was practically salivating and clearly disappointed that the evening's stripping was over.
Not me. Despite the fact that I hadn't danced at the discotheque, hadn't square danced, hadn't danced while taking my clothes off and no one's writing a "Waltz to Karen," tonight was a terrific lot of fun.
Not only am I wearing the latest in pink eraser jewelry, but I was told me that I always add laughter to a room.
A woman couldn't really ask for much more than that, could she?
A photographer friend and I were walking to dinner when he spied some interesting tile work on a building and paused to take a picture.
Next thing we know, the owner of the building, a charming Mexican, comes out and invites us in for a tour of the building he is renovating for his construction company.
I'm sure my mother would disapprove of going into a stranger's building with him, but I figure my sturdy male friend is my insurance against bodily harm.
Inside, the owner tells us that the building was a laundry for 75 years, showing off massive sliding metal doors, huge exhaust fans and an abundance of windows to let out the hot, steamy air.
Everywhere but the front of the building is still a work in progress, with part of the floor torn up in one place and a walkway over the hole.
When we get almost to the back, though, we find an intact floor, finished walls and where, wait for it, he says nonchalantly, "Here is my discotheque," while hitting a switch which starts the mirror ball turning and myriad strobe lights flashing along the roof line.
He says this is where they dance when he holds employee parties. It was about the last thing on earth I'd expected when we'd walked in the building.
That said, if he'd put on some music, I might have tried it out and I bet my friend would have, too.
Neither of us could get over the unexpected invitation followed by a peek inside a building we would otherwise never have seen.
While we were eating dinner afterwards, we caught up with each other's lives, the best part being when I asked how his relationship is going. I'd guessed that since he never has time to get together, it must be going quite well.
He affirmed how happy he was, saying, "She's smart, she likes to talk, she's good company and she used to be a cheerleader so she's flexible."
A man couldn't really ask for much more than that, could he?
The icing on the cake was when he surprised me by saying, "Since I won't be seeing you on Valentine's day, I have a present for you," pulling out a large pink eraser shaped like a diamond ring. "Anyone who doesn't put a ring on it is a dumbass."
Clearly he didn't want to be among that group. It was my first pink eraser diamond ring and although I'm not a jewelry person, I wore it all night.
Our next stop was Glave Kocen gallery to See "Click III," a biannual invitational photography show with the theme "From Mountains to Sea."
We both recognized several of the photographers' names while taking in a fascinating array of photography styles from photo montage to pinhole Polaroids to photo-journalism to abstractions. Our post-gallery discussion involved how the best digital photographs look like they were shot on 35 mm.
We parted ways in the arts district since I had First Fridays artwalking to do and he had other plans.
My first stop was at Black Iris gallery to see "Public Eye: Civil Rights Case Study," a series of photographs and videos shot for surveillance purposes during the '60s and '70s in Richmond.
The mug shots looked like Joe Average people, a comment I made to a woman who responded, "Yea, there's one of my sister."
I'm willing to bet if you're of an age and were in Richmond during the days of protests and demonstrations, you might recognize some young person's mug in the exhibit, too.
Projected on the back wall was a series of film clips, like a 1970 busing protest on Belvidere, a memorial for Martin Luther King at the state capital in 1968 (with women in white gloves and hats), a KKK parade and a Black Panther meeting on Laurel Street.
Of course Laurel Street. Where else but Oregon Hill would you expect to find Black Panthers and anarchists?
A black and white no-frills look at a period in RVA's history I missed, presented without political agenda or bias. As in, just the facts, ma'am. Definitely worth checking out.
From there, it was just a short walk to the Renaissance for WRIR's annual "party for the rest of us" to celebrate their ninth birthday.
I made a point to get there early enough to see River City Taiko, a group that plays traditional Japanese drums, which I have to assume means one person on either side of the drum playing different rhythms because that's what these people were doing, sometimes two at a time and sometimes the entire group at once.
The Colloquial Orchestra was next and while I've seen them many times, that's meaningless because the orchestra is defined as Dave Watkins on dulcitar and anyone else he asks to play with him, so never the same.
It can be a three piece, a six-piece or, like tonight, a 14-piece: two drummers, six guitarists (one acoustic), bass, trumpet, keyboard, violin,and a late-arriving sax player.
Improvising for a half hour, they wove elaborate soundscapes around the bass and drum center, creating what one first-timer described to me as sounding like "bagpipes on acid."
Changing rooms to catch some storytelling courtesy of Secretly Y'All, I heard the inimitable Herschel tell a tale of falling hard for a girl after hearing her laugh because, "it was the best laugh I ever heard."
Now there's a hell of a compliment.
He accompanied himself on ukulele when he sang a song partially based on their interaction.
Justin's story was about moving from Powhatan and an outdoor-centered life to Church Hill and having to push himself "to get off my ass and go outside," and his song was called "Silver and Diamonds."
Patrick's story was about a girl joining his group traveling Europe and after spending 24 hours with her, knowing he was deeply in love. Two months here went great but six weeks in Berlin made it painfully obvious she'd lost interest. His heartbreaking tribute was called "Waltz to Noel."
No one had mentioned that tonight's theme would be "guys with sad stories."
Milling about between bands, I ran into the DJ who works at WPA and had made all the lovely birthday cakes for tonight's party. I had him give me a rundown on what kind of cake was inside each since they all looked different.
Chocolate coconut and caramel chocolate seemed to hold the most promise for me. I took a swipe of icing just to be sure, alarming a DJ.
That's an annual tradition for me at this party, my friend. Just ask Andrew.
The one band I wanted to make sure I caught tonight was Hypercolor and walking into the ballroom as their set began, I knew in an instant that they were right up my alley.
A ruby-throated female lead singer playing guitar ("She's not your typical lead, she's even doing some finger-picking," the guy behind me whispered to me), two other lush-sounding guitars including one of the guys from Avers whom I'd just seen and the bassist from Fear of Music (also just seen last weekend) who together with the drummer kept everyone from wandering off into psychedelic bliss.
I kept moving closer and closer to the front to watch and listen to the impressive execution and well-written songs. I'll need to see them again soon.
The Silent Music Revival was presenting the avant-garde 1947 film "The Cage" with improvised soundtrack by Snack Truck and their thunderous rock was a fine match for the falling eyeballs, nude women running, leek stealers and other assorted oddities of the silent movie.
I could tell that a lot of people watching had never seen a SMR presentation before as they focused solely on the band and ignored the movie.
Guys, guys, guys.
Back in the main ballroom, the Ar-Kaics had morphed from a trio to a quartet since I'd last seen them at Steady Sounds but hard and fast ear-splitting garage rock was still their metier.
For something completely different, I crossed rooms to hear the RVA Squares, a bluegrass band with a dance caller.
Eight couples took the challenge, including three all girl couples (one of each was given a tie to make her easier to identify as the male) and squared off as Grant Hunnicutt, hat, microphone and all, proceed to call out the square dancing instructions.
Gents go round the outside line
Pass your partner one time by
Pick a new girl on the fly
Swing her round
Step right back and watch her strut
Step back up and bump your butt
I'm not sure those are the same square dancing calls I heard when we square danced in elementary school, but they seemed to elicit much the same results.
It really did look like fun and while I'm sure I would have made a mess of it, I'd have tried square dancing for the first time since elementary school if someone had asked.
But they didn't, so I accepted an invitation from my favorite J-Ward couple to leave for Gallery 5 and the last of their evening of burlesque and boylesque.
The place was packed and we heard major hooting and hollering from outside, so I found a place by the radiator and stood on tip-toe to see the ample Dante the Inferno gyrate and strip down.
"That was just the perfect amount of awkward," host Parker said afterwards while scantily clad women were sweeping up the stripping droppings of Dante.
The lovely and zaftig Ellie "Iron Lady" Quinn was next and her red and gold costume zipped off while she danced provocatively to reveal a gold bikini top and gold thong with tassels .
The crowd ate it up, cheering her on until she removed her bikini top and it was just pasties with tassels, which she then proceeded to twirl like a pro, shimmying wildly.
Buster Britches was introduced as "the cream show Casanova" and Parker instructed us to make a path down the center of the room "cause he's gonna be coming from the back, just the way he likes it."
In a short floral robe and carrying an umbrella, the ample Buster strutted onstage to Billie Holiday's "He's a Tramp," dropped the robe and then spent the rest of the time adding clothes back on.
The night ended with Deanna Danger, not only a burlesque performer but a teacher ("You, too, can be up here taking your clothes off!" Parker said by way of introduction) in a fabulous gold and black dress with a slit skirt that got twirled and swirled overhead before being removed to reveal the tiniest of pasties and leopard briefs.
The audience was practically salivating and clearly disappointed that the evening's stripping was over.
Not me. Despite the fact that I hadn't danced at the discotheque, hadn't square danced, hadn't danced while taking my clothes off and no one's writing a "Waltz to Karen," tonight was a terrific lot of fun.
Not only am I wearing the latest in pink eraser jewelry, but I was told me that I always add laughter to a room.
A woman couldn't really ask for much more than that, could she?
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, February 2, 2013
One Way Streets and 3-Cornered Parks
It was an evening of samplers.
Arriving at the VMFA, the two security guards both welcomed me in. "How are you?" one inquired.
So cold, I said. It's freezing out there. But I just passed another girl in tights, so we're both crazy.
"Thank you!" the other guard said.
Gratitude is appreciated given the sacrifice in this weather.
I kicked off the weekend at Amuse where I arrived just as the window shades were being raised.
The hostess said they'd had a steady line all day, no doubt Johnny-come-latelies to the Chihuly exhibit, which closes next weekend.
When a stool emptied, the hostess led me over, mentioning that it was right next to the absinthe drip.
I took that as a sign from the green fairy and ordered one despite the sun not yet being down.
No need to judge.
The bartender, always witty and never more so than when she smiled and informed me that she was expecting to be handed her ass on a platter tonight after the afternoon they'd had, was nonetheless efficient, personable and genial.
She got me a dish of mussels and Surry ham in no time at all while all around me, the tables filled up as if by magic.
When I was down to nothing but broth, she kindly inquired if I needed more bread, but I was worried about the time.
Hearing that I had eight minutes to spare, I took more bread for the broth and still made it downstairs in time for the poetry reading.
Laura Minning, perhaps nervous, read her poetry like it was all one piece, barely taking a breath between the last word of a poem and saying, "The name of my next poem is..."
One of her poems had been commissioned by a man for his wife on the occasion of their 20th anniversary.
There's a gift that'd be hard to top.
Anna Claire Hodge's poetry was passionate and focused on what sounded like life experience.
"I only have two mugs in my house," she told us. "One is Tupac Shakur and one is the royal wedding of William and his bride. I feel like that sums everything up."
It did, indeed.
After that, the growing audience was encouraged to take a break and grab some vino at Best Cafe.
"I can tell that there are some people here who could use some wine for the poetry," our hostess Shann said.
The break was followed by the poet I'd come to see, Cynthia Grier Lotze, a friend and teacher.
She began with a poem about "a friend who keeps bees," a man I also know, that referenced "one way streets and three-cornered parks," both familiar to this city resident.
Favorite line: "The step down from the porch into night."
She read several pieces from a book-length poem she's been working on for five years ("I'm going to finish it," she promised) about two people named Peter and Stella.
In "Prayers," we heard about Peter "carrying his silent heart."
A devastating mental image.
"Another Accident" was described as "where I leave Stella, so if you have any ideas what to do with her, I'm all ears."
Just as she read the line, "The scientist, whose notes are precise," I spotted the scientist in the crowd.
Unfortunately, he was too far away to inquire of him if he had any chocolate with him. He almost always does.
I had to smile at the line, "As if life is one big Presbyterian potluck," part of "First Rabbit."
One poem she described as having "the whole cast of characters in my life in it," but it was the evocative language that stuck with me.
How will we winter over in this small apartment?
There are thick books to be read.
It concluded with, "So sit. Let us watch fall come in."
I don't even especially like fall and I was ready to sit.
Last up was Tarfia Faizullah, who opened with a poem dedicated and about her dead grandmother.
She told of going to an Episcopalian private school and how that Anglican experience had caused her to write poetry to exorcise the memories.
That kind of an experience can scar a person for life. She's lucky she was able to be inspired by it.
I hated to be read to and run, but I really needed to get to the WRIR party for the rest of us as soon as I could.
Because, you see, WRIR's birthday party is a sampler of all kinds of my favorite RVA activities.
I'd already missed the Listening Room and David Shultz doing a solo set (that included a John Prine cover) I later heard was stellar.
Soon after, I got permission from a Foundry member not to have it counted against me that I'd missed it.
Michael Murphy was spinning records when I got there and his well-chosen picks were tempting people to dance by the buffet table.
Wolf//Goat had just started their set, so I went in and watched (once again) as kids who have never seen violas and banjos in a ramshackle folk project were sucked in and start dancing wildly.
It's really something to see.
Since I'd just seen them play a few weeks ago, I changed rooms for tonight's installment of Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, which featured musicians.
I try never to miss a Secretly Y'All.
Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats shared how modern country music had devolved to nothing more than nostalgia and cliche.
That said, he also sang an original song he claimed was one of the very few songs he wrote based on feelings and not just thinking it up.
The lovely Julie Karr, looking fetching in a flowered sweater, was next and shared the saga of being tested to see if she could donate a kidney to her brother.
After days of testing and inconvenience, she was found unsuitable but a song was born out of it.
Written in three parts, it was essentially three conversations, one with her family, one with herself and one with her brother.
Her heartfelt voice totally sold what was already a strong song.
Before I even knew who the next musician was, a guy came over and asked if he could stand next to me and film the next band
"They only got one song, but it's worth it," he promised.
Emmanuel told of a guy who tried to pick a fight with him, not because he had a beef with him, but because that's what he went around doing and his friends would film the fight and put it on YouTube.
Can I just say what an unpleasant reminder it was to hear that such people exist?
But the resulting song came out of it, so there's the bright side.
Storytelling over, I moved back into the main room to mingle.
One sure thing about the WRIR party is that everybody comes out of the woodwork for it.
Even people who don't go out much show up for this benefit.
So besides the usual suspects, I saw a long-ago Floyd Avenue neighbor, a former editor, a member of the Foundry, lots of musicians and more deejays than you could shake a stick at.
Canary, Oh Canary played a strong set but seemed small on a stage so big.
I remember seeing them on Sprout's tiny stage what seems like ages ago and now they were commanding this big room.
Reverb and obtuse lyrics will do it every time.
They even played a song they'd written especially for tonight.
After their set, I got down to the business end of the party, meaning I went for birthday cake and got there just as the chocolate cake was being cut.
Everyone was reveling in the cakes not having black icing this year since in the past it's been a tad disconcerting to party with people with black teeth.
I reveled so much I had two pieces.
Judge away.
Next came Richmond Comedy Coalition riffing on Richmond Famous, another of my mainstays.
Tonight's "famous" guinea pigs were WRIR deejays Shannon Cleary and Mike Rutz.
Shannon told of band practice for a band called 27 based on rock stars who'd died at 27.
Recalling the band practicing for the Monster Mashquerade party at the Garber building, his main memory was Paul Ivy yelling, "Goddammit!" all the time.
He revealed for the fist time that the way the band knew to begin playing was when Lindsey struck a certain pose.
Let's just say it was fertile material for the comedians to work with.
Mike told of planning the party for the rest of us for seven years, including 2010 when it began snowing at noon on the day of the party.
After anguishing about whether to cancel, his decision was made when Heks Orkest's singer managed to fly down from NYC in time for the show.
Mike figured if he'd made it down, Richmond could manage a little white powder.
As it turned out, the snow turned to rain at 7:00 and stayed that way until midnight.
I remember because I was one of the ones who braved the soggy weather to come to that party.
The comedy troupe made the most of Mike's story, starting by dealing with the burden of carrying around a seven-year old child.
Back into the main room for Samson Trinh and the Upper East Side Big Band, whom I hadn't seen since summer 2011.
They were in full swing when I arrived but it wasn't long until they moved into their Abbey Road project, doing big band takes on the seminal album.
From a down and dirty "Oh! Darling," that had No BS's Reggie Pace standing in front of me with his hands to the ceiling grooving hard, they took it up a notch.
"This is the part of the show where we blow your mind," Samson said and he should know given the knockout red suit and black vest he was wearing.
He's the most energetic conductor a big band has ever seen, dancing and highstepping non-stop as he led his band, several of whom I recognized from the RVA big band.
A funked-up version of "Back in the USSR" had half the room dancing or, if you were like me and near the front, bopping hard in place.
There's a song I've danced to more times than I care to count.
That segued into "Dear Prudence" before a rousing number that had many in the crowd doing "jazz hands" as the female singer testified the song to a close.
Hallelujah.
During the mingle period, a friend went looking for cake only to find none cut. I found a server and asked and she rushed off for a knife.
"I just needed to get a clean knife, honey," she assured me.
I wasn't the one who needed cake, that was my friends, both too timid to ask for the cake they wanted.
"Karen always knows how to make things happen, " one said as the other nodded.
Yea, I ask.
Back to the other room for the Colloquial Orchestra, also known as Dave Watkins and whomever he chooses to play with on any given night.
Tonight there were a record eleven musicians onstage and the sound was enormous.
Let's see, there were three drummers, two violinists, a keyboard player, a guitar player, Dave on his electric dulcitar, a sax, a trumpet, a jack-of-all-trades (PJ) and Nelly Kate on vocals and knobs.
At one point, five of them were crouched and turning knobs to get effects out of their instruments.
I saw drummer Brandon (Snowy Owls) playing a maraca with his right hand, using it to hit the cymbal and holding his beer in his left.
Not long after, Jimmy (White Laces) took his beer from the windowsill and enjoyed a long drink while letting the other drummers have a moment.
PJ played a giant plastic harmonica through a megaphone, that is, when he wasn't hitting a metal bowl.
Midway through the epic improvised piece they were creating, drummer Nathaniel picked up one of his drums, carried it to the front of the stage and began banging with a frenzy.
PJ wasted not a moment taking over his remaining drums, so now we had four drummers.
Nelly sat on the floor, out of the way, but making her distinctive sounds into the mic to add to the overall mix.
Usually Dave blows into his dulcitar and tonight he was joined by Joon blowing into his violin.
As many times as I've seen the Colloquial Orchestra, tonight's huge cast made for a particularly grand performance, both in intensity and sheer variety of sound.
Last up was Dead Fame and by the time I got in there, the crowd was way into them.
Balloons were everywhere, being batted about and all at once, there were two Dead Fame beach balls being thrown into the mix.
We have a band in Richmond with beach balls. Who knew?
"Does it have to be so f*cking bright in this room?" the lead singer asked before things got a bit dimmer.
The bouncing balloons and balls got old when both me and my girlfriend got beaned by them from behind, but that problem was partially solved when one of them landed in the crystal chandelier high above our heads.
Meanwhile, the band played on, all black-clad and '80s intensity as the party wound down.
When I went to find my coat in the coat check room, it appeared that a bomb had gone off, but I eventually located my scarf and coat, both absolutely necessary for the walk home.
As I walked, quickly, very quickly, it was with the satisfaction that I'd packed a month's worth of Richmond happenings into one short seven-hour period.
For anyone looking to sample the kinds of stuff I do day in and day out, tonight was a nice cross-section of it all: storytelling, DJs, Listening Room, bands, comedy, poetry.
Tonight Karen didn't have to make it happen. It was all there for the taking.
Arriving at the VMFA, the two security guards both welcomed me in. "How are you?" one inquired.
So cold, I said. It's freezing out there. But I just passed another girl in tights, so we're both crazy.
"Thank you!" the other guard said.
Gratitude is appreciated given the sacrifice in this weather.
I kicked off the weekend at Amuse where I arrived just as the window shades were being raised.
The hostess said they'd had a steady line all day, no doubt Johnny-come-latelies to the Chihuly exhibit, which closes next weekend.
When a stool emptied, the hostess led me over, mentioning that it was right next to the absinthe drip.
I took that as a sign from the green fairy and ordered one despite the sun not yet being down.
No need to judge.
The bartender, always witty and never more so than when she smiled and informed me that she was expecting to be handed her ass on a platter tonight after the afternoon they'd had, was nonetheless efficient, personable and genial.
She got me a dish of mussels and Surry ham in no time at all while all around me, the tables filled up as if by magic.
When I was down to nothing but broth, she kindly inquired if I needed more bread, but I was worried about the time.
Hearing that I had eight minutes to spare, I took more bread for the broth and still made it downstairs in time for the poetry reading.
Laura Minning, perhaps nervous, read her poetry like it was all one piece, barely taking a breath between the last word of a poem and saying, "The name of my next poem is..."
One of her poems had been commissioned by a man for his wife on the occasion of their 20th anniversary.
There's a gift that'd be hard to top.
Anna Claire Hodge's poetry was passionate and focused on what sounded like life experience.
"I only have two mugs in my house," she told us. "One is Tupac Shakur and one is the royal wedding of William and his bride. I feel like that sums everything up."
It did, indeed.
After that, the growing audience was encouraged to take a break and grab some vino at Best Cafe.
"I can tell that there are some people here who could use some wine for the poetry," our hostess Shann said.
The break was followed by the poet I'd come to see, Cynthia Grier Lotze, a friend and teacher.
She began with a poem about "a friend who keeps bees," a man I also know, that referenced "one way streets and three-cornered parks," both familiar to this city resident.
Favorite line: "The step down from the porch into night."
She read several pieces from a book-length poem she's been working on for five years ("I'm going to finish it," she promised) about two people named Peter and Stella.
In "Prayers," we heard about Peter "carrying his silent heart."
A devastating mental image.
"Another Accident" was described as "where I leave Stella, so if you have any ideas what to do with her, I'm all ears."
Just as she read the line, "The scientist, whose notes are precise," I spotted the scientist in the crowd.
Unfortunately, he was too far away to inquire of him if he had any chocolate with him. He almost always does.
I had to smile at the line, "As if life is one big Presbyterian potluck," part of "First Rabbit."
One poem she described as having "the whole cast of characters in my life in it," but it was the evocative language that stuck with me.
How will we winter over in this small apartment?
There are thick books to be read.
It concluded with, "So sit. Let us watch fall come in."
I don't even especially like fall and I was ready to sit.
Last up was Tarfia Faizullah, who opened with a poem dedicated and about her dead grandmother.
She told of going to an Episcopalian private school and how that Anglican experience had caused her to write poetry to exorcise the memories.
That kind of an experience can scar a person for life. She's lucky she was able to be inspired by it.
I hated to be read to and run, but I really needed to get to the WRIR party for the rest of us as soon as I could.
Because, you see, WRIR's birthday party is a sampler of all kinds of my favorite RVA activities.
I'd already missed the Listening Room and David Shultz doing a solo set (that included a John Prine cover) I later heard was stellar.
Soon after, I got permission from a Foundry member not to have it counted against me that I'd missed it.
Michael Murphy was spinning records when I got there and his well-chosen picks were tempting people to dance by the buffet table.
Wolf//Goat had just started their set, so I went in and watched (once again) as kids who have never seen violas and banjos in a ramshackle folk project were sucked in and start dancing wildly.
It's really something to see.
Since I'd just seen them play a few weeks ago, I changed rooms for tonight's installment of Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, which featured musicians.
I try never to miss a Secretly Y'All.
Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats shared how modern country music had devolved to nothing more than nostalgia and cliche.
That said, he also sang an original song he claimed was one of the very few songs he wrote based on feelings and not just thinking it up.
The lovely Julie Karr, looking fetching in a flowered sweater, was next and shared the saga of being tested to see if she could donate a kidney to her brother.
After days of testing and inconvenience, she was found unsuitable but a song was born out of it.
Written in three parts, it was essentially three conversations, one with her family, one with herself and one with her brother.
Her heartfelt voice totally sold what was already a strong song.
Before I even knew who the next musician was, a guy came over and asked if he could stand next to me and film the next band
"They only got one song, but it's worth it," he promised.
Emmanuel told of a guy who tried to pick a fight with him, not because he had a beef with him, but because that's what he went around doing and his friends would film the fight and put it on YouTube.
Can I just say what an unpleasant reminder it was to hear that such people exist?
But the resulting song came out of it, so there's the bright side.
Storytelling over, I moved back into the main room to mingle.
One sure thing about the WRIR party is that everybody comes out of the woodwork for it.
Even people who don't go out much show up for this benefit.
So besides the usual suspects, I saw a long-ago Floyd Avenue neighbor, a former editor, a member of the Foundry, lots of musicians and more deejays than you could shake a stick at.
Canary, Oh Canary played a strong set but seemed small on a stage so big.
I remember seeing them on Sprout's tiny stage what seems like ages ago and now they were commanding this big room.
Reverb and obtuse lyrics will do it every time.
They even played a song they'd written especially for tonight.
After their set, I got down to the business end of the party, meaning I went for birthday cake and got there just as the chocolate cake was being cut.
Everyone was reveling in the cakes not having black icing this year since in the past it's been a tad disconcerting to party with people with black teeth.
I reveled so much I had two pieces.
Judge away.
Next came Richmond Comedy Coalition riffing on Richmond Famous, another of my mainstays.
Tonight's "famous" guinea pigs were WRIR deejays Shannon Cleary and Mike Rutz.
Shannon told of band practice for a band called 27 based on rock stars who'd died at 27.
Recalling the band practicing for the Monster Mashquerade party at the Garber building, his main memory was Paul Ivy yelling, "Goddammit!" all the time.
He revealed for the fist time that the way the band knew to begin playing was when Lindsey struck a certain pose.
Let's just say it was fertile material for the comedians to work with.
Mike told of planning the party for the rest of us for seven years, including 2010 when it began snowing at noon on the day of the party.
After anguishing about whether to cancel, his decision was made when Heks Orkest's singer managed to fly down from NYC in time for the show.
Mike figured if he'd made it down, Richmond could manage a little white powder.
As it turned out, the snow turned to rain at 7:00 and stayed that way until midnight.
I remember because I was one of the ones who braved the soggy weather to come to that party.
The comedy troupe made the most of Mike's story, starting by dealing with the burden of carrying around a seven-year old child.
Back into the main room for Samson Trinh and the Upper East Side Big Band, whom I hadn't seen since summer 2011.
They were in full swing when I arrived but it wasn't long until they moved into their Abbey Road project, doing big band takes on the seminal album.
From a down and dirty "Oh! Darling," that had No BS's Reggie Pace standing in front of me with his hands to the ceiling grooving hard, they took it up a notch.
"This is the part of the show where we blow your mind," Samson said and he should know given the knockout red suit and black vest he was wearing.
He's the most energetic conductor a big band has ever seen, dancing and highstepping non-stop as he led his band, several of whom I recognized from the RVA big band.
A funked-up version of "Back in the USSR" had half the room dancing or, if you were like me and near the front, bopping hard in place.
There's a song I've danced to more times than I care to count.
That segued into "Dear Prudence" before a rousing number that had many in the crowd doing "jazz hands" as the female singer testified the song to a close.
Hallelujah.
During the mingle period, a friend went looking for cake only to find none cut. I found a server and asked and she rushed off for a knife.
"I just needed to get a clean knife, honey," she assured me.
I wasn't the one who needed cake, that was my friends, both too timid to ask for the cake they wanted.
"Karen always knows how to make things happen, " one said as the other nodded.
Yea, I ask.
Back to the other room for the Colloquial Orchestra, also known as Dave Watkins and whomever he chooses to play with on any given night.
Tonight there were a record eleven musicians onstage and the sound was enormous.
Let's see, there were three drummers, two violinists, a keyboard player, a guitar player, Dave on his electric dulcitar, a sax, a trumpet, a jack-of-all-trades (PJ) and Nelly Kate on vocals and knobs.
At one point, five of them were crouched and turning knobs to get effects out of their instruments.
I saw drummer Brandon (Snowy Owls) playing a maraca with his right hand, using it to hit the cymbal and holding his beer in his left.
Not long after, Jimmy (White Laces) took his beer from the windowsill and enjoyed a long drink while letting the other drummers have a moment.
PJ played a giant plastic harmonica through a megaphone, that is, when he wasn't hitting a metal bowl.
Midway through the epic improvised piece they were creating, drummer Nathaniel picked up one of his drums, carried it to the front of the stage and began banging with a frenzy.
PJ wasted not a moment taking over his remaining drums, so now we had four drummers.
Nelly sat on the floor, out of the way, but making her distinctive sounds into the mic to add to the overall mix.
Usually Dave blows into his dulcitar and tonight he was joined by Joon blowing into his violin.
As many times as I've seen the Colloquial Orchestra, tonight's huge cast made for a particularly grand performance, both in intensity and sheer variety of sound.
Last up was Dead Fame and by the time I got in there, the crowd was way into them.
Balloons were everywhere, being batted about and all at once, there were two Dead Fame beach balls being thrown into the mix.
We have a band in Richmond with beach balls. Who knew?
"Does it have to be so f*cking bright in this room?" the lead singer asked before things got a bit dimmer.
The bouncing balloons and balls got old when both me and my girlfriend got beaned by them from behind, but that problem was partially solved when one of them landed in the crystal chandelier high above our heads.
Meanwhile, the band played on, all black-clad and '80s intensity as the party wound down.
When I went to find my coat in the coat check room, it appeared that a bomb had gone off, but I eventually located my scarf and coat, both absolutely necessary for the walk home.
As I walked, quickly, very quickly, it was with the satisfaction that I'd packed a month's worth of Richmond happenings into one short seven-hour period.
For anyone looking to sample the kinds of stuff I do day in and day out, tonight was a nice cross-section of it all: storytelling, DJs, Listening Room, bands, comedy, poetry.
Tonight Karen didn't have to make it happen. It was all there for the taking.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Baby Help Me Remember It All
I am one of the rest of us and quite proud of it.
So when WRIR throws itself and the rest of us a birthday party, I go.
No, not always; I've been to five and this was their seventh.
I go because it's a great way to support Richmond's independent radio station.
Ten dollars is a small price to pay for multiple rooms of diverse music, storytelling, comedy and burlesque.
I go because practically everyone I know goes to it. And some I didn't know until tonight.
You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a DJ. Music lovers of every ilk are there.
A woman walks up and says, "Hi, Karen" and says something about being "Anonymous" on my blog.
She guessed who I was by my (40 Euro) tights and tells me she reads it to get ideas of what to do.
I admit it; I love the compliment.
The pretty people come (Michael and Matt) and say wildly flattering things to me in the first five minutes I'm there.
The homebodies come in their adorable vintage shoes.
The prickly one comes not only smiling but looking dapper.
The long-time music buddy comes with tales of a predictably madcap show I missed.
I go because they serve birthday cake and it's chocolate with white icing, a favorite of mine.
It will surprise no one who knows me but I am one of the first people to get a piece.
I grab a corner (more icing!) with no black decoration since we all learned last year that it turns your teeth black in a most unattractive manner.
I go to hear music any way it's presented. And, I'll be honest, without earplugs.
I hear a drum circle from three feet away and I feel like the drum rhythms have me rooted in place unable to move away, despite the volume, until the drums stop.
Sweet Fern, aka Allison Self and Josh Bearman, play un-amplified in the main hallway next to the food table.
Only the small circle of us who surround them from two feet away are able to hear their Carter Family and Johnny Cash covers over the din of the crowd.
Allison finished with what she called a dirty song, Lucille Bogen's "Shave Em Dry," throwing out the f-bomb and sex references to the rapt group surrounding her.
I loved watching people hear her do it for the first time.
I go to hear Baby Help Me Forget's last show, knowing lead singer and showman extraordinaire Jamie will end up shirtless and on the floor.
It's emotional because it's the end for the band. "It's been a good run," Jamie says. It has.
Their set the last night Sprout was open will go down in the annals of great Richmond shows.
I go to see the awesome light show Dave Watkins puts on behind the bands. The groovy factor is high.
I go to hear White Laces demonstrate for the second time in two weeks why their continuing musical evolution is an amazing thing to behold.
Just when your body starts moving and you expect to get locked in a groove, the tempo changes up and you know you are being challenged.
And you like it a lot.
As if all that weren't enough, I am told I was thanked. And I see the proof.
Why wouldn't I pull out the cute tights for a party that good?
So when WRIR throws itself and the rest of us a birthday party, I go.
No, not always; I've been to five and this was their seventh.
I go because it's a great way to support Richmond's independent radio station.
Ten dollars is a small price to pay for multiple rooms of diverse music, storytelling, comedy and burlesque.
I go because practically everyone I know goes to it. And some I didn't know until tonight.
You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a DJ. Music lovers of every ilk are there.
A woman walks up and says, "Hi, Karen" and says something about being "Anonymous" on my blog.
She guessed who I was by my (40 Euro) tights and tells me she reads it to get ideas of what to do.
I admit it; I love the compliment.
The pretty people come (Michael and Matt) and say wildly flattering things to me in the first five minutes I'm there.
The homebodies come in their adorable vintage shoes.
The prickly one comes not only smiling but looking dapper.
The long-time music buddy comes with tales of a predictably madcap show I missed.
I go because they serve birthday cake and it's chocolate with white icing, a favorite of mine.
It will surprise no one who knows me but I am one of the first people to get a piece.
I grab a corner (more icing!) with no black decoration since we all learned last year that it turns your teeth black in a most unattractive manner.
I go to hear music any way it's presented. And, I'll be honest, without earplugs.
I hear a drum circle from three feet away and I feel like the drum rhythms have me rooted in place unable to move away, despite the volume, until the drums stop.
Sweet Fern, aka Allison Self and Josh Bearman, play un-amplified in the main hallway next to the food table.
Only the small circle of us who surround them from two feet away are able to hear their Carter Family and Johnny Cash covers over the din of the crowd.
Allison finished with what she called a dirty song, Lucille Bogen's "Shave Em Dry," throwing out the f-bomb and sex references to the rapt group surrounding her.
I loved watching people hear her do it for the first time.
I go to hear Baby Help Me Forget's last show, knowing lead singer and showman extraordinaire Jamie will end up shirtless and on the floor.
It's emotional because it's the end for the band. "It's been a good run," Jamie says. It has.
Their set the last night Sprout was open will go down in the annals of great Richmond shows.
I go to see the awesome light show Dave Watkins puts on behind the bands. The groovy factor is high.
I go to hear White Laces demonstrate for the second time in two weeks why their continuing musical evolution is an amazing thing to behold.
Just when your body starts moving and you expect to get locked in a groove, the tempo changes up and you know you are being challenged.
And you like it a lot.
As if all that weren't enough, I am told I was thanked. And I see the proof.
Why wouldn't I pull out the cute tights for a party that good?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Social Scavenging with a Soundtrack
Audio met visual at the Anderson Gallery tonight and I'd have to say it was one of the coolest ways to see an art show I've ever experienced.
WRIR was hosting a social with Lotus Land DJ Michael Miracle playing a live, specially curated two-hour show featuring music inspired by the art of "Knock, Knock," the new contemporary art show at the Anderson.
Boomboxes and radios were in every gallery. They had a cash bar, there was food for the taking and people were mingling inside and out. And how great that outside is even an option this week.
But the hook, the absolutely brilliant part of the event, was the scavenger hunt.
Each guest was given a list of some of the works from the show and a list of some of the songs from the broadcast.
The challenge was to look at the art, listen to the music and link them up. Music came from Sparklehorse, Ladytron, Throwing Muses and Louis Prima, to name but a few of the masterfully chosen songs.
The exhibit showcases works from the collection of Paul and Sara Monroe and focused on the human presence in the pieces. There were paintings, sculpture, and video installations.
Much to my surprise, the pleasure of the scavenger hunt was in the multiple viewings I had of each work.
Sometimes hearing the song live triggered the answer, other times it was enough just to study the details of the work.
What I began to realize was that I kept coming back to pieces repeatedly, either because I hadn't yet figured out what song they matched, or because I needed a break from the hunt and wanted to enjoy some of the works not represented in music.
In doing so, I picked my two favorites, both far too large to hang in my apartment, but definitely both pieces I could live with.
Jack Pierson's "I Never Dreamed You'd Leave in Summer" was an acrylic piece done with dots of a vase filled with lush red roses and a biography of actress Jean Seberg, both in the foreground and filling the canvas. It was striking for the sense of loss it conveyed.
The other, Brian Calvin's "The Open Window" showed a hipster-looking couple facing each other, eyes closed, in front of a window.
There was no depth, the colors were flat without nuance and standing in front of it, I was struck by how slightly weird and quietly disconcerting it was.
After numerous trips through all the galleries, I completed my scavenger sheet and turned it in for "grading." I was eager to know what I'd gotten right and what I'd erred on, but that information wasn't forthcoming.
I probably don't need to know. It was enough to have enjoyed the social, talked to some friends I randomly ran into and seen a really interesting art show with an awesome soundtrack.
Audio and visual, you're a match made in heaven. In lesbian parlance, go ahead and rent the U-Haul.
WRIR was hosting a social with Lotus Land DJ Michael Miracle playing a live, specially curated two-hour show featuring music inspired by the art of "Knock, Knock," the new contemporary art show at the Anderson.
Boomboxes and radios were in every gallery. They had a cash bar, there was food for the taking and people were mingling inside and out. And how great that outside is even an option this week.
But the hook, the absolutely brilliant part of the event, was the scavenger hunt.
Each guest was given a list of some of the works from the show and a list of some of the songs from the broadcast.
The challenge was to look at the art, listen to the music and link them up. Music came from Sparklehorse, Ladytron, Throwing Muses and Louis Prima, to name but a few of the masterfully chosen songs.
The exhibit showcases works from the collection of Paul and Sara Monroe and focused on the human presence in the pieces. There were paintings, sculpture, and video installations.
Much to my surprise, the pleasure of the scavenger hunt was in the multiple viewings I had of each work.
Sometimes hearing the song live triggered the answer, other times it was enough just to study the details of the work.
What I began to realize was that I kept coming back to pieces repeatedly, either because I hadn't yet figured out what song they matched, or because I needed a break from the hunt and wanted to enjoy some of the works not represented in music.
In doing so, I picked my two favorites, both far too large to hang in my apartment, but definitely both pieces I could live with.
Jack Pierson's "I Never Dreamed You'd Leave in Summer" was an acrylic piece done with dots of a vase filled with lush red roses and a biography of actress Jean Seberg, both in the foreground and filling the canvas. It was striking for the sense of loss it conveyed.
The other, Brian Calvin's "The Open Window" showed a hipster-looking couple facing each other, eyes closed, in front of a window.
There was no depth, the colors were flat without nuance and standing in front of it, I was struck by how slightly weird and quietly disconcerting it was.
After numerous trips through all the galleries, I completed my scavenger sheet and turned it in for "grading." I was eager to know what I'd gotten right and what I'd erred on, but that information wasn't forthcoming.
I probably don't need to know. It was enough to have enjoyed the social, talked to some friends I randomly ran into and seen a really interesting art show with an awesome soundtrack.
Audio and visual, you're a match made in heaven. In lesbian parlance, go ahead and rent the U-Haul.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Paying WRIR Forward
I went to the benefit music show at the Firehouse Theater tonight solely to support WRIR.
That's a lie. I went because WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had curated a show of four of Richmond's finest bands, including one band's final performance. Contributing five bucks to my favorite indie radio station was just icing on the cake.
The show was late starting, as is unfortunately the norm here (the Listening Room and the Silent Music Revival being notable and appreciated exceptions), but I had good company in the form of the hatted man-about-town, two favorite couples, my usual seatmate when rating musicians on cuteness and Mr. Dulcitar. I even made a couple date.
Starting things off by kicking ass and taking names was Nick Coward and the Last Battle, a band that has grown by leaps and bounds over the past two years. With six talented members including brass and cello, this multi-instrumentalist sextet tore it up, especially with the material from their outstanding latest CD.
In the most wonderful kind of tribute to another local band, they covered Zac Hyrciak and the Junglebeat's "We are One" beautifully and unexpectedly.I was sorry to see them leave the stage.
Next up was Ophelia, aka Jonathan Vassar and David Schultz, tonight anyway. With their dark, melodic songs, Jonathan played guitar, harmonica and accordion while David played the guitar he'd been given as a high school graduation present (his former guitar having exploded recently).
He said he was really liking how the old guitar was sounding after being pulled out of disuse for so long. They pulled Josh Small onstage to play guitar and sing with them for the last two songs, placing Jonathan in the center standing position ("I'm in the awkward back-up singer position," he joked).
From sidekick to center stage, Josh Small played next, boisterously working his metal resonator guitar and stomping his foot. He covered Emmylou Harris and sang a song he'd written for his niece, "Patricia Noel."
Another interesting song he wrote, he said. was ripped off from a Maxwell song he admired ("shuffle beat and false ending"). He self-deprecatingly acknowledged the source material that inspired him in his songwriting again and again.
Tonight's finale was being billed as the Orioles' last show because Nick Woods (who is Orioles whether he plays alone or with four other people, like tonight) is moving to Nashville (at least he's not making the cliched move to Brooklyn, only to return).
Midway through their set, someone called out, "Don't move!" and he laughed. "Yea, that's what you and all the other people in Richmond who I owe money to say, but you can't fool me." He did say he may play a few solo shows before heading out.
Their set was a treat since I'd never heard him with a full band. Josh Hryciak (he of the amazing voice in Mermaid Skeletons) was playing drums, something I'd never seen before. He took the time to thank Nick Coward for covering his brother's song (and also reminded Nick Woods that it was almost Mother's Day, so to get on with the set).
Nick sang songs about being a flower delivery man, about canopies and, of course, failed relationships. When the show ended, the audience called for an encore as the band walked offstage. He came back but the band didn't.
"That's all the songs we know," he explained. "I do know one other short one." He then explained that the song was about his crazy great-grandfather who had a ghost dog who told him not to drink and a ghost lady who sat on a bench and talked to him.
"My family's crazy," he admitted. The great-grandfather had had six kids, his grandmother and six boys. One of the brothers killed another of the brothers he told us, and the room went silent. "That wasn't the reaction I was expecting," he said.
Likewise, the audience wasn't expecting one last stellar song, but we got it and rewarded it with thunderous applause. Richmond's loss is Nashville's gain.
Whereas with tonight's show, WRIR gained necesary finds and the audience gained four hours of some of RVA's best music.
I may have begun with a lie, but that's the truth...at least as I see it. To each her own reality.
That's a lie. I went because WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had curated a show of four of Richmond's finest bands, including one band's final performance. Contributing five bucks to my favorite indie radio station was just icing on the cake.
The show was late starting, as is unfortunately the norm here (the Listening Room and the Silent Music Revival being notable and appreciated exceptions), but I had good company in the form of the hatted man-about-town, two favorite couples, my usual seatmate when rating musicians on cuteness and Mr. Dulcitar. I even made a couple date.
Starting things off by kicking ass and taking names was Nick Coward and the Last Battle, a band that has grown by leaps and bounds over the past two years. With six talented members including brass and cello, this multi-instrumentalist sextet tore it up, especially with the material from their outstanding latest CD.
In the most wonderful kind of tribute to another local band, they covered Zac Hyrciak and the Junglebeat's "We are One" beautifully and unexpectedly.I was sorry to see them leave the stage.
Next up was Ophelia, aka Jonathan Vassar and David Schultz, tonight anyway. With their dark, melodic songs, Jonathan played guitar, harmonica and accordion while David played the guitar he'd been given as a high school graduation present (his former guitar having exploded recently).
He said he was really liking how the old guitar was sounding after being pulled out of disuse for so long. They pulled Josh Small onstage to play guitar and sing with them for the last two songs, placing Jonathan in the center standing position ("I'm in the awkward back-up singer position," he joked).
From sidekick to center stage, Josh Small played next, boisterously working his metal resonator guitar and stomping his foot. He covered Emmylou Harris and sang a song he'd written for his niece, "Patricia Noel."
Another interesting song he wrote, he said. was ripped off from a Maxwell song he admired ("shuffle beat and false ending"). He self-deprecatingly acknowledged the source material that inspired him in his songwriting again and again.
Tonight's finale was being billed as the Orioles' last show because Nick Woods (who is Orioles whether he plays alone or with four other people, like tonight) is moving to Nashville (at least he's not making the cliched move to Brooklyn, only to return).
Midway through their set, someone called out, "Don't move!" and he laughed. "Yea, that's what you and all the other people in Richmond who I owe money to say, but you can't fool me." He did say he may play a few solo shows before heading out.
Their set was a treat since I'd never heard him with a full band. Josh Hryciak (he of the amazing voice in Mermaid Skeletons) was playing drums, something I'd never seen before. He took the time to thank Nick Coward for covering his brother's song (and also reminded Nick Woods that it was almost Mother's Day, so to get on with the set).
Nick sang songs about being a flower delivery man, about canopies and, of course, failed relationships. When the show ended, the audience called for an encore as the band walked offstage. He came back but the band didn't.
"That's all the songs we know," he explained. "I do know one other short one." He then explained that the song was about his crazy great-grandfather who had a ghost dog who told him not to drink and a ghost lady who sat on a bench and talked to him.
"My family's crazy," he admitted. The great-grandfather had had six kids, his grandmother and six boys. One of the brothers killed another of the brothers he told us, and the room went silent. "That wasn't the reaction I was expecting," he said.
Likewise, the audience wasn't expecting one last stellar song, but we got it and rewarded it with thunderous applause. Richmond's loss is Nashville's gain.
Whereas with tonight's show, WRIR gained necesary finds and the audience gained four hours of some of RVA's best music.
I may have begun with a lie, but that's the truth...at least as I see it. To each her own reality.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Thrash Unreal by the Men's Room Door
Not to rub it in your face or anything, but yours truly was the bathroom monitor for the men's bathroom at Alley Katz for the Against Me! show tonight.
As more than one guy told me, "You ought to be getting paid for this." I ought to be getting paid for something, that's for sure.
My bathroom management began because, arriving near the beginning of Dead to Me's set, I found a great place to stand with an unobstructed view. It was on the side of the stage, three feet from the band and I was only two people back. For a short person (let's just say I never get to see musician's legs), that's an infrequent vantage point. The last time I remember such a great view was a Pinback show at the Satellite Ballroom several years back and it was a revelation.
So I happily took up residence just to the right of the men's room door. Dead to Me's lead singer was just telling the audience how great a show Against Me! was going to be. He then looked up at the people on the third floor and said, "I was looking at these guys when I said that, but it's true for you guys, too...you posers! Afraid to be down here and have a real moshing experience?"
The posers didn't respond. Dead to Me continued with their energetic set.
During their set, guys kept coming to use the facilities and it soon became clear that there was no process in place, no clear line and as a result, girls were walking into the men's room (not a good idea when guys are using the sink as a back-up urinal) and others were butting in line.
I took charge, directing girls away to the proper place and telling the guys where the line was. It only made sense and worked out well for me as I now had an ever-changing line of potential music conversational partners.
I'd say close to three quarters of the guys had seen Against Me! before. Of those who hadn't, most were like me, had missed seeing them the last time they came through and were determined to see them at Alley Katz tonight. I asked one guy his three favorite bands; he said Interpol, Editors and the Shins. When I said I'd seen all three live, he about lost it. Editors, especially was of such interest to him that he gave up his place in line to quiz me on where and when and how good it had been; the man wanted details.
When another guy learned I'd seen the Arcade Fire, he was so impressed that I was afraid he was going to kiss the hem of my skirt. Seriously.
One guy recognized me immediately while I had no idea who he was: turns out he's the new food talent in Carlos' kitchen at Bistro 27 and we'd just met Thursday (sorry, he was out of context and looked different in real clothes after having met him in chef garb).
As the night wore on, guys were back in line and greeting me like an old friend. It was pretty funny.
I know old-school Against Me! fans shun the band post-New Wave, their major label debut. I also know Spin named New Wave the number one album of the year for 2007. Somewhere in between I'm happy to appreciate their melodic punk muscle, especially in an ideal venue for them like Alley Katz.
Despite an alarming number of people using earplugs (seriously, kids, live music is supposed to ruin your hearing; believe me, I know), moshing and stage diving were rampant and you can't get that at the National or the Camel.
Tom Gabel's voice was terrific live, their energy indicated they really were happy to be playing rva and they played old and new material to satisfy the sing-along crowd. Before the encore, two bathroom line guys I'd already talked to came by to pee and ask if I thought the show was as excellent as they had. I'm not sure why they wanted a first-timer's opinion, but I assured them that I did.
The WRIR DJ I'd met in line came by and thoughtfully gave me the link to his podcasts. The nearby bouncer thanked me for all my hard work managing the line, making his job easier.
Hey, you do what you have to do at a punk show. More than one guy asked me why I was putting up with the endless line of guys, but when I explained my superior vantage point, they immediately got it.
Sometimes you've got to suffer for art, even if all you're doing is appreciating rather than creating it. I'm okay with that, although my bruised toes would probably beg to differ.
But my ringing ears couldn't be happier.
As more than one guy told me, "You ought to be getting paid for this." I ought to be getting paid for something, that's for sure.
My bathroom management began because, arriving near the beginning of Dead to Me's set, I found a great place to stand with an unobstructed view. It was on the side of the stage, three feet from the band and I was only two people back. For a short person (let's just say I never get to see musician's legs), that's an infrequent vantage point. The last time I remember such a great view was a Pinback show at the Satellite Ballroom several years back and it was a revelation.
So I happily took up residence just to the right of the men's room door. Dead to Me's lead singer was just telling the audience how great a show Against Me! was going to be. He then looked up at the people on the third floor and said, "I was looking at these guys when I said that, but it's true for you guys, too...you posers! Afraid to be down here and have a real moshing experience?"
The posers didn't respond. Dead to Me continued with their energetic set.
During their set, guys kept coming to use the facilities and it soon became clear that there was no process in place, no clear line and as a result, girls were walking into the men's room (not a good idea when guys are using the sink as a back-up urinal) and others were butting in line.
I took charge, directing girls away to the proper place and telling the guys where the line was. It only made sense and worked out well for me as I now had an ever-changing line of potential music conversational partners.
I'd say close to three quarters of the guys had seen Against Me! before. Of those who hadn't, most were like me, had missed seeing them the last time they came through and were determined to see them at Alley Katz tonight. I asked one guy his three favorite bands; he said Interpol, Editors and the Shins. When I said I'd seen all three live, he about lost it. Editors, especially was of such interest to him that he gave up his place in line to quiz me on where and when and how good it had been; the man wanted details.
When another guy learned I'd seen the Arcade Fire, he was so impressed that I was afraid he was going to kiss the hem of my skirt. Seriously.
One guy recognized me immediately while I had no idea who he was: turns out he's the new food talent in Carlos' kitchen at Bistro 27 and we'd just met Thursday (sorry, he was out of context and looked different in real clothes after having met him in chef garb).
As the night wore on, guys were back in line and greeting me like an old friend. It was pretty funny.
I know old-school Against Me! fans shun the band post-New Wave, their major label debut. I also know Spin named New Wave the number one album of the year for 2007. Somewhere in between I'm happy to appreciate their melodic punk muscle, especially in an ideal venue for them like Alley Katz.
Despite an alarming number of people using earplugs (seriously, kids, live music is supposed to ruin your hearing; believe me, I know), moshing and stage diving were rampant and you can't get that at the National or the Camel.
Tom Gabel's voice was terrific live, their energy indicated they really were happy to be playing rva and they played old and new material to satisfy the sing-along crowd. Before the encore, two bathroom line guys I'd already talked to came by to pee and ask if I thought the show was as excellent as they had. I'm not sure why they wanted a first-timer's opinion, but I assured them that I did.
The WRIR DJ I'd met in line came by and thoughtfully gave me the link to his podcasts. The nearby bouncer thanked me for all my hard work managing the line, making his job easier.
Hey, you do what you have to do at a punk show. More than one guy asked me why I was putting up with the endless line of guys, but when I explained my superior vantage point, they immediately got it.
Sometimes you've got to suffer for art, even if all you're doing is appreciating rather than creating it. I'm okay with that, although my bruised toes would probably beg to differ.
But my ringing ears couldn't be happier.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Sweetbreads and Celebrating WRIR
Never tell a chef who's just added sweetbreads to his menu that you just had sweetbreads three days before at another restaurant.
Or, if you choose to do so, you can expect to eat sweetbreads twice in three days.
Which, if you're as fortunate as me, can be a very good thing.
I'd gotten a call from a friend alerting me that First Fridays was canceled tonight, which wasn't a problem because the WRIR 5th birthday bash was still on.
Now I had time to eat dinner out before the party and it seemed logical to pick the restaurant closest to the Renaissance Center, the location of the soiree.
It was obvious that the rain had scared more than just the First Friday organizers because, upon entering my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, I was surprised at how few people were out on this rainy night dining.
On the other hand, the staff greeted me with, "Now the party is complete," and there were a couple of neighbors present, so I didn't really need much more.
Chef Carlos wanted to know where I'd had my recent sweetbreads and how they were prepared, and then he disappeared.
After ordering the touted Angeline Pinot Noir, the bartender pointed me toward several interesting new things on the menu.
Just as I had about decided to go for the seared foie gras, Carlos appeared with an overly generous serving of the veal sweetbreads in a mushroom, sage, shallot and Marsala sauce.
As he pointed out, it's a traditional preparation, but when done as well as these were, I'd have to say sublime.
Okay, he'd won me over. Again.
I followed with a guilt salad for having eaten sweetbreads twice in 72 hours.
Because it was so slow, I had the pleasure of Carlos' company for the entire evening.
We got off on a rant about the local restaurant scene, who's over-promoted, who doesn't really live up to their press, who's over-priced and who curries favor with the local critics.
As it turned out, he's as opinionated on this subject as I am and we share many of the same opinions, so it was a very satisfying discussion.
Our other hot topic was the lack of special events to keep pulling people to First Fridays.
Happenings like the May Day parade and the Chinese lantern parade drew people in droves to First Fridays last year, but during the months where the galleries alone represent the focus, the numbers seem to drop.
It's a subject Carlos has discussed with the mayor, a regular customer, who claims to fully support the idea of doing more, even suggesting that the organizers need to address the issue.
After dessert and a wine lecture by Carlos for the benefit of the neighbors at the bar, I bundled up to walk the half a block to the WRIR party.
I got teased about not bringing an ID (seriously?) and immediately ran into scads of people I knew.
It began with Matt from Amazing Ghost; I had just missed their performance.
But as I told him, I could hardly be faulted since I've seen them twice in the past few weeks.
I caught most of the Hot Damns set and ran into Johnny H. and his camera, the one person I knew without a doubt I'd see tonight.
Naturally there were plenty of musicians I knew, a favorite blogger and assorted others, all out supporting independent radio.
Cam from Heks Orkest came up to say hi and I teased him about them headlining; he thought it was because they were the loudest band performing and would probably clear the room.
I told him that my first show had been the Who, I'd seen Stinkeye play inside ADA Gallery and had been at the My Bloody Valentine show, so loud didn't scare me.
Grinning hugely, he pulled up his shirt to show me his MBV t-shirt underneath; okay, he knew loud, too.
Probably my favorite performance was one of the WRIR DJ's band, Photosynthesizers, in the back room.
Standing off to the side, a guy spotted me and motioned me forward to stand in front of him.
"You feel sorry for me because I'm short, don't you?" I asked.
Laughing, he said, "Nah, but I was short once , too."
Considering he was about 6"2", I had to ask, "What, when you were ten?" which got him to laugh again. I did appreciate the better view, though.
I went back to the main stage for HO's set and they were loud, but the crowd was really into them and that always makes a show better.
Their volume did make it impossible to carry on phone conversations, so it was gratifying to see people have to leave the room to talk on their phones.
Don't let the screen door hit you in the ass on your way out, guys.
And despite having had dessert already, I enjoyed a piece of cake before leaving.
It was a birthday party after all and I, for one, am thrilled that we have such a station in RVA (keep that Breakfast Blend coming).
Happy birthday, WRIR and here's to many more.
Or, if you choose to do so, you can expect to eat sweetbreads twice in three days.
Which, if you're as fortunate as me, can be a very good thing.
I'd gotten a call from a friend alerting me that First Fridays was canceled tonight, which wasn't a problem because the WRIR 5th birthday bash was still on.
Now I had time to eat dinner out before the party and it seemed logical to pick the restaurant closest to the Renaissance Center, the location of the soiree.
It was obvious that the rain had scared more than just the First Friday organizers because, upon entering my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, I was surprised at how few people were out on this rainy night dining.
On the other hand, the staff greeted me with, "Now the party is complete," and there were a couple of neighbors present, so I didn't really need much more.
Chef Carlos wanted to know where I'd had my recent sweetbreads and how they were prepared, and then he disappeared.
After ordering the touted Angeline Pinot Noir, the bartender pointed me toward several interesting new things on the menu.
Just as I had about decided to go for the seared foie gras, Carlos appeared with an overly generous serving of the veal sweetbreads in a mushroom, sage, shallot and Marsala sauce.
As he pointed out, it's a traditional preparation, but when done as well as these were, I'd have to say sublime.
Okay, he'd won me over. Again.
I followed with a guilt salad for having eaten sweetbreads twice in 72 hours.
Because it was so slow, I had the pleasure of Carlos' company for the entire evening.
We got off on a rant about the local restaurant scene, who's over-promoted, who doesn't really live up to their press, who's over-priced and who curries favor with the local critics.
As it turned out, he's as opinionated on this subject as I am and we share many of the same opinions, so it was a very satisfying discussion.
Our other hot topic was the lack of special events to keep pulling people to First Fridays.
Happenings like the May Day parade and the Chinese lantern parade drew people in droves to First Fridays last year, but during the months where the galleries alone represent the focus, the numbers seem to drop.
It's a subject Carlos has discussed with the mayor, a regular customer, who claims to fully support the idea of doing more, even suggesting that the organizers need to address the issue.
After dessert and a wine lecture by Carlos for the benefit of the neighbors at the bar, I bundled up to walk the half a block to the WRIR party.
I got teased about not bringing an ID (seriously?) and immediately ran into scads of people I knew.
It began with Matt from Amazing Ghost; I had just missed their performance.
But as I told him, I could hardly be faulted since I've seen them twice in the past few weeks.
I caught most of the Hot Damns set and ran into Johnny H. and his camera, the one person I knew without a doubt I'd see tonight.
Naturally there were plenty of musicians I knew, a favorite blogger and assorted others, all out supporting independent radio.
Cam from Heks Orkest came up to say hi and I teased him about them headlining; he thought it was because they were the loudest band performing and would probably clear the room.
I told him that my first show had been the Who, I'd seen Stinkeye play inside ADA Gallery and had been at the My Bloody Valentine show, so loud didn't scare me.
Grinning hugely, he pulled up his shirt to show me his MBV t-shirt underneath; okay, he knew loud, too.
Probably my favorite performance was one of the WRIR DJ's band, Photosynthesizers, in the back room.
Standing off to the side, a guy spotted me and motioned me forward to stand in front of him.
"You feel sorry for me because I'm short, don't you?" I asked.
Laughing, he said, "Nah, but I was short once , too."
Considering he was about 6"2", I had to ask, "What, when you were ten?" which got him to laugh again. I did appreciate the better view, though.
I went back to the main stage for HO's set and they were loud, but the crowd was really into them and that always makes a show better.
Their volume did make it impossible to carry on phone conversations, so it was gratifying to see people have to leave the room to talk on their phones.
Don't let the screen door hit you in the ass on your way out, guys.
And despite having had dessert already, I enjoyed a piece of cake before leaving.
It was a birthday party after all and I, for one, am thrilled that we have such a station in RVA (keep that Breakfast Blend coming).
Happy birthday, WRIR and here's to many more.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Mixtape Master
Back in the 90s, I met and befriended a local club DJ, whose skill at mixing music was awe-inspiring.
He didn't have a car, so he'd ride his bike to gigs with a crate of records bungee-corded on the back of it.
He was a music junkie, always going back to DC to score new and obscure stuff he couldn't find in rva. Needless to say, I don't often meet someone as rabid about music as I am, so I wanted to know him better.
After seeing him for several weeks at one place or another, he suggested we meet up at the Virginia Museum on a Thursday night since that's when the museum stayed open in the evening.
As it turned out, I had to stay late at the radio station where I worked and missed meeting him.
I didn't even have a way to contact him to let him know I couldn't make it. What I didn't know at the time was that he'd made me a mixtape he'd intended to give me that night.
It was a masterpiece entitled "Naive Melodies/Waiting" and the title referred to his anticipation of our first outing together.
Full of classic 80s and early 90s indie pop, it was superbly chosen and mixed.
By the time we rescheduled our outing, he'd made me a second mixtape, this one called, "STOOD UP!" and full of jittery and angry music.
I got the message.
Other mixtapes followed, with names like "A Cup of Coffee and a Slice of Time" and "Groovy Tunes," which had one side of "Harmless Pop" and another of "Popless Harm."
One called "Delusions of Grandeur" didn't even list song titles or artists, just the instructions to listen and enjoy because titles were irrelevant.
I listened to those mixtapes for years because they were so well done. It got to the point where I could anticipate the next song because I knew the tape so well.
Finally I realized that I was going to wear out the tape itself and enlisted a friend to put them on CD for me so I could enjoy them in perpetuity.
My friend and I eventually lost touch, although I occasionally heard him on a late-night shift on several local commercial radio stations.
Not long after I'd heard he'd moved back to DC, he showed up weekly on WRIR doing Monday's Breakfast Blend.
What a treat! It's almost like having a new mixtape made for me every week because our tastes are so similar and I'm just so fond of his musical selections.
I listen when I'm up early enough, but I always make a point to look at his playlist for sentimental reasons.
Invariably, I see song after song from one of my many mixtapes that are still making it on to his show: the B52's "Follow Your Bliss," The Posies' "Mrs. Green," Marshall Crenshaw's "Cynical Girl" and anything by Paul Weller.
There's also plenty of new stuff which I'm also listening to, but it's these mixtape reminders that give me a retro thrill.
Over the years, no less than a dozen friends have made mixtapes for me; some were terrific and some were nice gestures, but uninspired.
Creating a really good mixtape is more difficult than it sounds and yet, I've still got this guy's collection of 1993/94 mixtapes in regular rotation.
No one but a mixtape master can inspire that kind of long-term musical devotion.
He didn't have a car, so he'd ride his bike to gigs with a crate of records bungee-corded on the back of it.
He was a music junkie, always going back to DC to score new and obscure stuff he couldn't find in rva. Needless to say, I don't often meet someone as rabid about music as I am, so I wanted to know him better.
After seeing him for several weeks at one place or another, he suggested we meet up at the Virginia Museum on a Thursday night since that's when the museum stayed open in the evening.
As it turned out, I had to stay late at the radio station where I worked and missed meeting him.
I didn't even have a way to contact him to let him know I couldn't make it. What I didn't know at the time was that he'd made me a mixtape he'd intended to give me that night.
It was a masterpiece entitled "Naive Melodies/Waiting" and the title referred to his anticipation of our first outing together.
Full of classic 80s and early 90s indie pop, it was superbly chosen and mixed.
By the time we rescheduled our outing, he'd made me a second mixtape, this one called, "STOOD UP!" and full of jittery and angry music.
I got the message.
Other mixtapes followed, with names like "A Cup of Coffee and a Slice of Time" and "Groovy Tunes," which had one side of "Harmless Pop" and another of "Popless Harm."
One called "Delusions of Grandeur" didn't even list song titles or artists, just the instructions to listen and enjoy because titles were irrelevant.
I listened to those mixtapes for years because they were so well done. It got to the point where I could anticipate the next song because I knew the tape so well.
Finally I realized that I was going to wear out the tape itself and enlisted a friend to put them on CD for me so I could enjoy them in perpetuity.
My friend and I eventually lost touch, although I occasionally heard him on a late-night shift on several local commercial radio stations.
Not long after I'd heard he'd moved back to DC, he showed up weekly on WRIR doing Monday's Breakfast Blend.
What a treat! It's almost like having a new mixtape made for me every week because our tastes are so similar and I'm just so fond of his musical selections.
I listen when I'm up early enough, but I always make a point to look at his playlist for sentimental reasons.
Invariably, I see song after song from one of my many mixtapes that are still making it on to his show: the B52's "Follow Your Bliss," The Posies' "Mrs. Green," Marshall Crenshaw's "Cynical Girl" and anything by Paul Weller.
There's also plenty of new stuff which I'm also listening to, but it's these mixtape reminders that give me a retro thrill.
Over the years, no less than a dozen friends have made mixtapes for me; some were terrific and some were nice gestures, but uninspired.
Creating a really good mixtape is more difficult than it sounds and yet, I've still got this guy's collection of 1993/94 mixtapes in regular rotation.
No one but a mixtape master can inspire that kind of long-term musical devotion.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Harry Shearer: Pushing It Up to 11
WRIR's benefit at the Byrd Theater featuring Harry Shearer and showing the classic 1984 film, This is Spinal Tap, had something for everyone: fans of the Simpsons, fans of Saturday Night Live and, as evidenced by the age of some in the crowd, fans of hair bands and especially Spinal Tap. And like any special event at the Byrd, it began with Lin Lundy playing the mighty Wurlitzer.
When Shearer took the stage, his first comment was, "I actually thought I might rise from the floor and play my organ, but they said that was already taken care of." It was a line that couldn't have been scripted and couldn't have been more appropriate for his Spinal Tap character, bassist Derek Smalls (he of the strategically placed foil-wrapped cucumber in the movie).
Shearer went on to share his opinions of the corporatization of radio ("absolute and devastating"), media monopolies ("Even if C. Montgomery Burns can live forever, Rupert Murdoch can't.") and the recording industry ("A record exec couldn't recognize artistic rights if it crawled up his backside and bit him in the pancreas."). Perhaps most tellingly, he said that he makes fun of this stuff because he is so serious about it.
As for Spinal Tap, Shearer claimed it was the first non-porn movie to make money on VHS. Oasis singer Liam Gallagher supposedly walked out of a screening of the movie because it was too real, a comment Shearer says the creators have heard countless times. He also clarified that there will never be a Spinal Tap sequel and that the Simpsons will never leave the air.
By that point, the WRIR-loving audience was eager to get to the 25th anniversary screening of the rockumentary that gave us the concept of pushing it to eleven. Or, as Shearer encouraged the enthusiastic crowd as he introduced the film, "Rock on!"
When Shearer took the stage, his first comment was, "I actually thought I might rise from the floor and play my organ, but they said that was already taken care of." It was a line that couldn't have been scripted and couldn't have been more appropriate for his Spinal Tap character, bassist Derek Smalls (he of the strategically placed foil-wrapped cucumber in the movie).
Shearer went on to share his opinions of the corporatization of radio ("absolute and devastating"), media monopolies ("Even if C. Montgomery Burns can live forever, Rupert Murdoch can't.") and the recording industry ("A record exec couldn't recognize artistic rights if it crawled up his backside and bit him in the pancreas."). Perhaps most tellingly, he said that he makes fun of this stuff because he is so serious about it.
As for Spinal Tap, Shearer claimed it was the first non-porn movie to make money on VHS. Oasis singer Liam Gallagher supposedly walked out of a screening of the movie because it was too real, a comment Shearer says the creators have heard countless times. He also clarified that there will never be a Spinal Tap sequel and that the Simpsons will never leave the air.
By that point, the WRIR-loving audience was eager to get to the 25th anniversary screening of the rockumentary that gave us the concept of pushing it to eleven. Or, as Shearer encouraged the enthusiastic crowd as he introduced the film, "Rock on!"
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
I Used My Best Phone Voice, Too
What better use of my unemployed time could I make than volunteering?
With that in mind, I spent 3 hours today at WRIR (93.1) as a phone volunteer for their fund drive. I'm pleased to say I took three pledges, 2 messages for the staff and l long-winded call from a woman wanting to know why her radio couldn't hold the signal for 105 point something.
I guess she thought all the radio stations are in cahoots and know what's up with each other...or something.
There were a couple other volunteers there when I arrived and, lo and behold, they were both unemployed too. One guy had just been laid off after 34 years with the same company. 34 years! He started that job part-time in high school! It's the only thing he's ever done and now he's got to find another job at 53. He wasn't optimistic but at least he had 6 months of severance pay to tide him over while he looks.
The other guy was 28 and desperately seeking work. Just while I was there, he filled out online applications for 3 different jobs. He said he always followed up submitting applications with calling the company. Daily. Finally one woman told him that she was tired of hearing his voice and not to call anymore.
Employment etiquette aside, I don't think he helped his job chances any.
While I was there, a former neighbor came in to make a pledge; turns out he's unemployed also. I was beginning to feel like I was in the Laid Off Twilight Zone, so it was particularly gratifying when a girl came in with her laptop to do some work for her part-time job. Finally! Someone in the room with gainful employment...maybe I should touch her for good luck?
What I learned today: Even in the tough times, people are still giving of their time and limited funds for the worthwhile causes.
And WRIR, you know, "radio for the rest of us," is surely that.
With that in mind, I spent 3 hours today at WRIR (93.1) as a phone volunteer for their fund drive. I'm pleased to say I took three pledges, 2 messages for the staff and l long-winded call from a woman wanting to know why her radio couldn't hold the signal for 105 point something.
I guess she thought all the radio stations are in cahoots and know what's up with each other...or something.
There were a couple other volunteers there when I arrived and, lo and behold, they were both unemployed too. One guy had just been laid off after 34 years with the same company. 34 years! He started that job part-time in high school! It's the only thing he's ever done and now he's got to find another job at 53. He wasn't optimistic but at least he had 6 months of severance pay to tide him over while he looks.
The other guy was 28 and desperately seeking work. Just while I was there, he filled out online applications for 3 different jobs. He said he always followed up submitting applications with calling the company. Daily. Finally one woman told him that she was tired of hearing his voice and not to call anymore.
Employment etiquette aside, I don't think he helped his job chances any.
While I was there, a former neighbor came in to make a pledge; turns out he's unemployed also. I was beginning to feel like I was in the Laid Off Twilight Zone, so it was particularly gratifying when a girl came in with her laptop to do some work for her part-time job. Finally! Someone in the room with gainful employment...maybe I should touch her for good luck?
What I learned today: Even in the tough times, people are still giving of their time and limited funds for the worthwhile causes.
And WRIR, you know, "radio for the rest of us," is surely that.
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