Never let it be said that rain keeps me at home.
Or anything else for that matter.
The soggy night began at Stuzzi with a seat at the bar in front of the pizza oven.
Playing on the nearby screen was "Marriage, Italian Style," and as much as I hate screens in restaurants, watching the magnificent Sophia Loren and the handsome Marcello Mastroianni romp through '60s-era Italy was surprisingly appealing.
The plan was to have a glass of Chianti and a margherita pizza and be done with it.
But things seldom work out the way you expect them to and my fellow pizza lover and I ended up with pasta fagioli, especially satisfying for the prosciutto and mussels.
I had to admit, I was also curious about the Steven Spielberg Zoone, a spicy Asian-based sauce (I know, right?) served over fried calamari.
After a taste, I could see why the director had ordered it delivered to him so many times while he was filming in Richmond.
The owner came over to check if we were putting grated Parmesan on our pizza (we had) and to remind us that that wasn't the Neapolitan way.
I felt no shame since I have not a drop of Italian blood, but he laughed and admitted to doing the same.
"Don't worry, my father puts cheese on his linguine and clam sauce," he said, eyebrows raised in horror. "They shoot you for that in Italy."
Seems a little harsh.
Next we tried what he called cheese triangles, but what were really Mozzarella in Carrozza, little grilled sandwiches of Mozzarella, prosciutto and basil and tasty on their own or with a touch of Spielberg's sauce on them.
So much for sticking to a simple little supper of pizza and grape.
Next up was my first Limoncello cream, which seemed more like a dessert with its sweet creaminess than a digestivo like regular Limoncello, but I managed to down it nonetheless.
That didn't prevent having dessert, something the chalkboard called "strawberry tiramisu in a glass."
It was sort of a deconstructed tiramisu with Grappa-soaked ladyfingers and strawberry cream with whipped cream on top.
Surprisingly, the Grappa was an ideal counterpoint to the sweetness of the strawberries, and obscenely alcoholic.
Note to self: refrain from over-indulging while watching a gorgeous 30-year old physical specimen like Sophia Loren while gorging to avoid self-flagellation.
So, yes, I was in a food coma by the time I got to Balliceaux.
The 17-piece RVA Big Band, with two members in knit caps and on in a trucker cap, was still getting situated when we slid into a booth.
"Thanks for bearing the rain," the bandleader said in greeting. "You're a small but mighty audience."
And we were, all eighteen of us, but the number grew as they began to play.
The usual cadre of young girls in sexy dresses was notably absent tonight, no doubt unwilling to risk their cute shoes or straightened hair, even for the sake of swinging music.
The first set was dedicated to more classic stuff, pieces like "My One and Only Love," while the second set jumped forward in time and momentum.
I suspected as much when, after the break, the bass player benched his upright and strapped on his electric bass, the better to make contorted bass player faces.
If you've ever paid attention to bass players, you know the ones I'm talking about.
It was during that set that the keyboard player and drummer got a workout, to songs like Steely Dan's "Kid Charlemagne."
Before we knew it, the bandleader announced the last song, "so we can all get out of here."
Which wasn't really necessary because it was pouring even harder by that point.
Truth is, the small and mighty among us could have sat there indefinitely had they been willing to play on.
But never let it be said that the rain keeps me from leaving, either.
No weather wimp here.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Bowing to the Sunday Monkey God
And Sunday nights just got better.
Dinner had to be quick because the new music series at Helen's was supposed to begin around seven-ish.
That turned out to be an optimistic estimate, but you have to plan for the earliest.
Don't Look Back won by default, despite knowing that the multiple screens would be tuned to the big game, about which I cared not a whit.
And while I'm fond of their nachos, I'd like to respectfully suggest to the kitchen staff that drowning the plate in salsa inevitably leads to seriously soggy, might I even say drowned, chips by the time you're halfway through.
Fortunately, our sweet server noticed the dilemma, offering to bring additional chips with which to capture the beans, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes remaining on waterlogged chips.
The situation was salvaged.
From there, it was on to Helen's for their relatively new Sunday night music series.
The place was still decorated in full-on holiday mode, right down to the plastic light-up wise men and sheep looking down over the open kitchen.
Waiting for the bands to set up, I indulged in mocha mousse with frozen hazelnut custard and hazelnut crumbles.
Mousse, sure, we've all had that, but the frozen hazelnut custard was out of this world, more substantial than whipped cream and not so common as gelato.
It was an unexpected dessert score.
First up was Adam Weatherford, a singer/songwriter who'd been billed as having an "Oh-so beautiful drifting voice and sound that takes you through the forest to the sea."
Hyperbolic as it sounds, it wasn't far off.
In addition to his own beautiful songs, many of which were written in 2007 in Central America, he did some superb covers.
He did one by Virginia native Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, "a cover by my man, Beck," and Gram Parsons' "Return of the Grievous Angel."
Oh, and I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true
20,000 roads I went down, down, down
And they all led me straight home to you
He also did a song he'd written yesterday, saying, "I'm going to play a new one I never played before. You guys are my crash test dummies."
So new it necessitated him clipping the words to the mic.
After his set, he admitted to messing up a couple lines, but from where I sat, it sounded beautiful.
Burlington, Vermont's Hello Shark, a quartet, played next, taking up all the room in the front alcove and using a vintage amp that fascinated the music geeks in the room.
They'd been billed as, "dreamy indie with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat" and delivered on all that, plus poetic lyrics about things like fireflies, backpacks and Hamlet.
Sample lyric: The sky was a tie dye t-shirt today.
Midway through their set a group of drunk-looking football fans arrived wearing Patriots jerseys and the Vermonters took notice.
"I didn't think there were any pro football fans in the south," the lead singer said. "We're New England fans."
You'd think fans who got that kind of a welcome could have shut up for the band, but they didn't.
Their last song, "The Rolling Stones," was definitely not about how much they liked the aging rockers, but showed a sense of humor.
Globehoppers Lobo Marino finished up the show with their tribal drumming, chanting and room-filling songs.
It was interesting watching the guys in Hello Shark stop in their tracks and focus on the sounds Lobo Marino was making.
Or maybe they just don't get to hear a harmonium or see someone drumming on a vase all that often.
"Celebrate" got not only the touring band's attention, but that of the whole room who finally mostly quieted down to listen.
As many times as I've heard them, tonight was the first time I heard their Hindu chant, which Laney introduced by saying, "We're gonna vibe on it" before singing a tribute to the monkey god.
You could practically smell the incense burning.
But then, it always gets groovy when Lobo Marino plays.
By the time they finished, I was reminded how lucky we are that while they're gone a lot, they always come back to share with their friends and fans.
So we'd been through the forest to the sea with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat leading to Laney and Jameson screaming themselves to enlightenment.
You know, just another Sunday night music series in Richmond.
Luckily it didn't take me going down, down, down 20,000 roads to get there.
Dinner had to be quick because the new music series at Helen's was supposed to begin around seven-ish.
That turned out to be an optimistic estimate, but you have to plan for the earliest.
Don't Look Back won by default, despite knowing that the multiple screens would be tuned to the big game, about which I cared not a whit.
And while I'm fond of their nachos, I'd like to respectfully suggest to the kitchen staff that drowning the plate in salsa inevitably leads to seriously soggy, might I even say drowned, chips by the time you're halfway through.
Fortunately, our sweet server noticed the dilemma, offering to bring additional chips with which to capture the beans, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes remaining on waterlogged chips.
The situation was salvaged.
From there, it was on to Helen's for their relatively new Sunday night music series.
The place was still decorated in full-on holiday mode, right down to the plastic light-up wise men and sheep looking down over the open kitchen.
Waiting for the bands to set up, I indulged in mocha mousse with frozen hazelnut custard and hazelnut crumbles.
Mousse, sure, we've all had that, but the frozen hazelnut custard was out of this world, more substantial than whipped cream and not so common as gelato.
It was an unexpected dessert score.
First up was Adam Weatherford, a singer/songwriter who'd been billed as having an "Oh-so beautiful drifting voice and sound that takes you through the forest to the sea."
Hyperbolic as it sounds, it wasn't far off.
In addition to his own beautiful songs, many of which were written in 2007 in Central America, he did some superb covers.
He did one by Virginia native Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, "a cover by my man, Beck," and Gram Parsons' "Return of the Grievous Angel."
Oh, and I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true
20,000 roads I went down, down, down
And they all led me straight home to you
He also did a song he'd written yesterday, saying, "I'm going to play a new one I never played before. You guys are my crash test dummies."
So new it necessitated him clipping the words to the mic.
After his set, he admitted to messing up a couple lines, but from where I sat, it sounded beautiful.
Burlington, Vermont's Hello Shark, a quartet, played next, taking up all the room in the front alcove and using a vintage amp that fascinated the music geeks in the room.
They'd been billed as, "dreamy indie with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat" and delivered on all that, plus poetic lyrics about things like fireflies, backpacks and Hamlet.
Sample lyric: The sky was a tie dye t-shirt today.
Midway through their set a group of drunk-looking football fans arrived wearing Patriots jerseys and the Vermonters took notice.
"I didn't think there were any pro football fans in the south," the lead singer said. "We're New England fans."
You'd think fans who got that kind of a welcome could have shut up for the band, but they didn't.
Their last song, "The Rolling Stones," was definitely not about how much they liked the aging rockers, but showed a sense of humor.
Globehoppers Lobo Marino finished up the show with their tribal drumming, chanting and room-filling songs.
It was interesting watching the guys in Hello Shark stop in their tracks and focus on the sounds Lobo Marino was making.
Or maybe they just don't get to hear a harmonium or see someone drumming on a vase all that often.
"Celebrate" got not only the touring band's attention, but that of the whole room who finally mostly quieted down to listen.
As many times as I've heard them, tonight was the first time I heard their Hindu chant, which Laney introduced by saying, "We're gonna vibe on it" before singing a tribute to the monkey god.
You could practically smell the incense burning.
But then, it always gets groovy when Lobo Marino plays.
By the time they finished, I was reminded how lucky we are that while they're gone a lot, they always come back to share with their friends and fans.
So we'd been through the forest to the sea with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat leading to Laney and Jameson screaming themselves to enlightenment.
You know, just another Sunday night music series in Richmond.
Luckily it didn't take me going down, down, down 20,000 roads to get there.
A Foggy Night in R-Town
On second thought, I guess I didn't seem so bad.
A phone call to Holmes to see what he and the little woman were up to told me they were making dinner at home together tonight.
No problem, I said, we'll get together next week.
A minute later the phone rang.
"Come over and have dinner with us," Holmes suggested.
Wouldn't I be interrupting an intimate evening for the two of them?
Apparently not.
I arrived during the prep stage, with much chopping and measuring going on.
Holmes had gone to Book People and picked up a copy of "Betty Crocker's Cooking with Wine," a slender 1974 volume that no doubt capitalized on the then-growing American interest in wine.
Even better, the moment I walked in, the TV was changed from football to PBS for, wait for it, "The Lawrence Welk Show."
And although I'd heard the jokes, I'd never actually seen the show.
Or the bubbles.
But for the two of them, both of their parents had made a ritual of watching the Welk show every Saturday night, so I was participating in a long-standing tradition.
I don't know what was funnier, the cheesy sets (you could see the pieces propping up the set fronts), the bad teeth (clearly cosmetic dentistry had not yet become mainstream, even for TV) and hideous costumes (blue chiffon meets hippie maxi dresses).
It was hysterical and, mercifully, brief.
Beaujolais nouveau, a Holmes favorite, was immediately poured for me and we munched on pot stickers with Holmes' secret sauce while I took charge as chief meal coordinator.
Or, as Holmes put it, I played referee so he and his beloved didn't kill each other during the process.
We actually made a hell of a team.
As the oldest of six (which didn't compare to one of the Welk singers who was described as "a father of ten"), bossiness runs in my veins, so I did my share of telling my hosts when to measure, when to thicken and when to stir constantly.
For the beef stroganoff we were making, we used a bottle of the homemade wine provided by Holmes' brother (who's also been known to make banana wine and tomato wine), which turned out to be much better than you'd expect.
The music was outstanding, first blaring the soundtrack to 1967's "Casino Royale" followed by "Live at the BBC (The Beatles Album)," classics both.
You can never go wrong with Burt Bacharach, Dusty Springfield or the lads from Liverpool before they hit big.
My hosts gave me all kinds of props during dinner, praising my assistance with the food and from keeping things from ending badly, both the meal and their relationship.
"This is the best stroganoff we've ever made. Next time we make this, you have to come back and help," my hostess insisted.
Will work for wine.
Holmes made a lame joke about going to Sweet Frogs afterwards, but one look from his beloved and he changed it to Amour.
So once we'd done a cursory job of cleaning up the kitchen, we headed out to walk there.
The fog had rolled in since I'd arrived, making alleys look picaresque, cars appear out of nowhere and photo ops abound at every corner.
We found a small crowd at Amour, but the two bar sitters moved so we could sit together.
Django Reinhardt was playing and the view of Cary Court shrouded in fog was framed in the big front window.
Since we'd come for dessert, we began with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose and a look at the evening's dessert specials.
Raspberry hazelnut panna cotta, chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and a trio of sorbets (kiwi, clementine and pear) comprising our game of musical desserts as we passed each around to the others.
I'd never had the pear sorbet before and maybe it's because I've been reveling in the little Seckle pears lately, but the flavor was a thing of beauty, delicate and deep at the same time.
A nearby map of France took us on a tangent to the connection between Nimes and RVA (duh, TJ and the Maison Carree) and Holmes' childhood trip to Europe.
"I wanted to get to Paris to play pinball," he stated about his family's whirlwind tour, surely the first time those words have ever been uttered.
We thought we'd be the last customers of the evening when two women arrived, taking a bar table behind us.
Soon they were enjoying Kir Royales and owner Paul brought out a bowl of sorbet with a lit candle in it.
One of the women began singing "Joyeux Anniversaire" to her friend before abandoning French and finishing with, "Happy birthday to you."
It was an unexpectedly charming moment.
By the time we finished our dessert smorgasbord, we were all but in a food coma and it seemed best to begin the walk back to the Holmes homestead.
If anything, the fog was denser and I led the way back under my flowered umbrella as the happy couple followed arm in arm.
People don't mind a fifth wheel as long as she knows her place.
A phone call to Holmes to see what he and the little woman were up to told me they were making dinner at home together tonight.
No problem, I said, we'll get together next week.
A minute later the phone rang.
"Come over and have dinner with us," Holmes suggested.
Wouldn't I be interrupting an intimate evening for the two of them?
Apparently not.
I arrived during the prep stage, with much chopping and measuring going on.
Holmes had gone to Book People and picked up a copy of "Betty Crocker's Cooking with Wine," a slender 1974 volume that no doubt capitalized on the then-growing American interest in wine.
Even better, the moment I walked in, the TV was changed from football to PBS for, wait for it, "The Lawrence Welk Show."
And although I'd heard the jokes, I'd never actually seen the show.
Or the bubbles.
But for the two of them, both of their parents had made a ritual of watching the Welk show every Saturday night, so I was participating in a long-standing tradition.
I don't know what was funnier, the cheesy sets (you could see the pieces propping up the set fronts), the bad teeth (clearly cosmetic dentistry had not yet become mainstream, even for TV) and hideous costumes (blue chiffon meets hippie maxi dresses).
It was hysterical and, mercifully, brief.
Beaujolais nouveau, a Holmes favorite, was immediately poured for me and we munched on pot stickers with Holmes' secret sauce while I took charge as chief meal coordinator.
Or, as Holmes put it, I played referee so he and his beloved didn't kill each other during the process.
We actually made a hell of a team.
As the oldest of six (which didn't compare to one of the Welk singers who was described as "a father of ten"), bossiness runs in my veins, so I did my share of telling my hosts when to measure, when to thicken and when to stir constantly.
For the beef stroganoff we were making, we used a bottle of the homemade wine provided by Holmes' brother (who's also been known to make banana wine and tomato wine), which turned out to be much better than you'd expect.
The music was outstanding, first blaring the soundtrack to 1967's "Casino Royale" followed by "Live at the BBC (The Beatles Album)," classics both.
You can never go wrong with Burt Bacharach, Dusty Springfield or the lads from Liverpool before they hit big.
My hosts gave me all kinds of props during dinner, praising my assistance with the food and from keeping things from ending badly, both the meal and their relationship.
"This is the best stroganoff we've ever made. Next time we make this, you have to come back and help," my hostess insisted.
Will work for wine.
Holmes made a lame joke about going to Sweet Frogs afterwards, but one look from his beloved and he changed it to Amour.
So once we'd done a cursory job of cleaning up the kitchen, we headed out to walk there.
The fog had rolled in since I'd arrived, making alleys look picaresque, cars appear out of nowhere and photo ops abound at every corner.
We found a small crowd at Amour, but the two bar sitters moved so we could sit together.
Django Reinhardt was playing and the view of Cary Court shrouded in fog was framed in the big front window.
Since we'd come for dessert, we began with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Rose and a look at the evening's dessert specials.
Raspberry hazelnut panna cotta, chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and a trio of sorbets (kiwi, clementine and pear) comprising our game of musical desserts as we passed each around to the others.
I'd never had the pear sorbet before and maybe it's because I've been reveling in the little Seckle pears lately, but the flavor was a thing of beauty, delicate and deep at the same time.
A nearby map of France took us on a tangent to the connection between Nimes and RVA (duh, TJ and the Maison Carree) and Holmes' childhood trip to Europe.
"I wanted to get to Paris to play pinball," he stated about his family's whirlwind tour, surely the first time those words have ever been uttered.
We thought we'd be the last customers of the evening when two women arrived, taking a bar table behind us.
Soon they were enjoying Kir Royales and owner Paul brought out a bowl of sorbet with a lit candle in it.
One of the women began singing "Joyeux Anniversaire" to her friend before abandoning French and finishing with, "Happy birthday to you."
It was an unexpectedly charming moment.
By the time we finished our dessert smorgasbord, we were all but in a food coma and it seemed best to begin the walk back to the Holmes homestead.
If anything, the fog was denser and I led the way back under my flowered umbrella as the happy couple followed arm in arm.
People don't mind a fifth wheel as long as she knows her place.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Tell Me, I'll Listen
It was my first reading for one.
I went to Chop Suey Books to hear Jack Trammell read from his new book, "The Richmond Slave Trade," only to end up being the only person who came.
Besides his wife, that is, and she joined me in the audience, but I'm not sure if she really counted.
The book grew out of a Washington Times article he'd written on slavery which had gotten so much response that his publisher suggested a book.
It's the story of the economic factors that fed into the Civil War, namely the selling and renting of human chattel.
As he put it, a slave cost as much as an Escalade, or roughly $40,000 in today's money.
What was most interesting was how the money from slave trading was then funneled to northern banks where it was used to finance the Industrial Revolution.
So while the notherners and abolitionists were saying they abhorred slavery, they apparently didn't mind profiting from it.
And that doesn't even count the speculation and futures buying that went on with the slave trade.
"This was a myth-busting project," Trammel said and I could see why.
He spoke of Wall Street, the area of Richmond servicing the slave trade with clothiers, doctors and life insurance agents and located between 14th and 18th Streets.
Doug Wilder had been scheduled to write the introduction but after that whole slavery museum fiasco, that idea was scrapped.
Since I'd never had a reading done exclusively for me, I wasted no time in asking whatever questions I had of Trammel after his talk and reading.
Leaving there, I saw a familiar face down the block at Secco and stopped in to say hello.
Next thing I know, I was having a glass of 2007 San Rustico Rpipasso "Gaso," recommended as medium to full bodied and promising dried cherries.
A few delicious sips in and a couple asked if they could occupy the stools next to me.
Glad for the company, I found myself having stellar conversation with an ad director and former chef about aging, our first concerts, restaurants and memory.
Some of their memories included amazing Mama Zu stories, like when a customer stood up and began singing an aria during dinner.
Another customer soon rose from the table, went over and pulled the plug on the juke box, the better to hear, resulting in applause.
Opera must be heard.
Or the time when a table of obnoxious used car salesmen trash-talked so loudly that Ed eventually went over, cleared their table with his arm and told them to get out of his restaurant.
I'd have paid to see that.
With stories like those, they were exactly the kind of people I want to randomly run into when I stop by a wine bar to say hi to a friend.
Let's face it, I am more than happy to be an audience of one, whether it's to a history writer or a charming couple.
One isn't always the loneliest number.
Sometimes it's the one that gets you the best time.
I went to Chop Suey Books to hear Jack Trammell read from his new book, "The Richmond Slave Trade," only to end up being the only person who came.
Besides his wife, that is, and she joined me in the audience, but I'm not sure if she really counted.
The book grew out of a Washington Times article he'd written on slavery which had gotten so much response that his publisher suggested a book.
It's the story of the economic factors that fed into the Civil War, namely the selling and renting of human chattel.
As he put it, a slave cost as much as an Escalade, or roughly $40,000 in today's money.
What was most interesting was how the money from slave trading was then funneled to northern banks where it was used to finance the Industrial Revolution.
So while the notherners and abolitionists were saying they abhorred slavery, they apparently didn't mind profiting from it.
And that doesn't even count the speculation and futures buying that went on with the slave trade.
"This was a myth-busting project," Trammel said and I could see why.
He spoke of Wall Street, the area of Richmond servicing the slave trade with clothiers, doctors and life insurance agents and located between 14th and 18th Streets.
Doug Wilder had been scheduled to write the introduction but after that whole slavery museum fiasco, that idea was scrapped.
Since I'd never had a reading done exclusively for me, I wasted no time in asking whatever questions I had of Trammel after his talk and reading.
Leaving there, I saw a familiar face down the block at Secco and stopped in to say hello.
Next thing I know, I was having a glass of 2007 San Rustico Rpipasso "Gaso," recommended as medium to full bodied and promising dried cherries.
A few delicious sips in and a couple asked if they could occupy the stools next to me.
Glad for the company, I found myself having stellar conversation with an ad director and former chef about aging, our first concerts, restaurants and memory.
Some of their memories included amazing Mama Zu stories, like when a customer stood up and began singing an aria during dinner.
Another customer soon rose from the table, went over and pulled the plug on the juke box, the better to hear, resulting in applause.
Opera must be heard.
Or the time when a table of obnoxious used car salesmen trash-talked so loudly that Ed eventually went over, cleared their table with his arm and told them to get out of his restaurant.
I'd have paid to see that.
With stories like those, they were exactly the kind of people I want to randomly run into when I stop by a wine bar to say hi to a friend.
Let's face it, I am more than happy to be an audience of one, whether it's to a history writer or a charming couple.
One isn't always the loneliest number.
Sometimes it's the one that gets you the best time.
Bittersweet and Solo
Familiar faces, different places.
To start, it was like a mini-artwalk, with Candela Gallery having an opening and artist's talk on this damp Friday evening.
The show, "Bittersweet on Bostwick Lane" featured work by photographer Susan Worsham, a name I didn't recognize, but a face I did.
I'd met her years ago at Zeus Gallery Cafe and we'd talked about photography; later, I'd seen her at photography shows and always enjoyed her positivity.
But until I saw her smiling face tonight, I hadn't made the connection.
The show comes from Susan's life experiences which include the deaths of her parents and her brother's suicide.
Interestingly enough, the works highlight beauty as much as decay and death.
And not all are photographs.
One called "Watercolor" is a collection of antique veterinary slides, with samples of things like rabbit tongue, eye of pig and human testicle included.
Others relate to her family's former neighbor Margaret, a former biology teacher, who was an integral part of her childhood.
Margaret's presence is felt throughout the exhibition, in her microscope and handmade bread doily, in a large-scale photograph of her under Susan's mother's favorite camellia tree and in a piece of bread she baked which Susan let go moldy before photographing.
Even better, Susan recorded Margaret reminiscing and an hour-long recording of her memories and stories plays in Candela as you look at the photographs.
It's tempting to just sit down and listen to the wisdom of this wizened woman.
My vote for most disturbing photograph goes to "Snakes on My Childhood Bed," where a snake lounges next to a picture of Susan's mother on her wedding day.
It became even more meaningful when, during Susan's talk, she said that as a child, her mother had always assured her, "There's never going to be any snakes in your room."
Her mother couldn't have foreseen that a multiple-snake owner would eventually own the house or that Susan and her boyfriend would one day knock on that door and ask to see her childhood home.
On the other hand, clearly it provided inspiration for the artist.
Susan was an engaging speaker, sharing all kinds of stories about the idyllic beauty of her childhood on the UR campus and the sadness that came out of that lovely start in life.
Bittersweet it was.
Music followed with the RVA Solo show at For Instance Gallery, a place I'd never been.
But the faces I knew well.
A winding stair took me to the cozy gallery with art hung everywhere on the walls and three long windows fronting Cary Street downtown.
As things got set up, one of the musicians turned off the lights, leaving only a few colored bulbs from a lamp on and asked of the crowd which they preferred, dark or light.
I was the first to vote for dim, justifying the red, blue and yellow lamp lights as "groovy" and so the show went on sans overhead lighting.
It pays to be a big mouth sometimes.
Organizer Scott Clark soon stood up, announcing, "We're dedicated to starting shows on times and seven minutes late isn't too bad."
What followed was a succession of some of Richmond's best and brightest jazz musicians.
First trombonist Bryan Hooten played and since I'd never heard solo trombone, I was surprised to hear his sharp intakes of breath between blows.
He played an untitled piece, said, "Solo trombone is hard work,"took a big gulp of water and did an improvised number.
He then proceeded to empty his instrument.
"It's just condensed water," he grinned. "Contrary to popular belief, it's not spit, it's really just condensed water."
I believe him because I want to.
As he was playing a cello sonata he'd transcribed by his favorite composer, Gyorgy Ligeti, I couldn't help but admire the night view from the windows.
In each, a tree was foreground to a building across the street, all silhouetted against the misty gray sky as Bryan's trombone made beautiful noise.
Cameron Ralston and his bass were up second and he began with what is usually an exercise to warm up, but what he referred to as "D Plus."
His bow arced and jumped around creating noises I couldn't begin to see him make, but then I'm a musical idiot.
Finishing, he admitted, "That opens up all kinds of creative doors."
How could it not?
Next he did an original piece he'd written while on tour (with our own Matthew White) when he'd heard about the Connecticut shootings.
"I imagined it for piano and bass originally, but seeing as how I'm the only one up here, I'll do it myself."
It was an achingly beautiful piece and after finishing, he changed gears, saying, "Let's do something fun. This is an Ornette Coleman tune called "The Sphinx."
And it was fun, as evidenced by his twitching leg and even his right hand, which became a blur as he tore through the piece.
Drummer Scott Clark took center stage next, saying that he and Cameron had been talking for years about doing a solo show and it had taken this long to make it happen.
That it was finally happening was a fact for which every music-lover in the room was eternally grateful, I'm sure.
Scott mentioned that he'd been reading "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and writing off of the book and that it had become more meaningful as he'd toured parts of the country recently that the book had touched on.
"Seeing those places was profound. I don't know whether that will come through in my playing the drums, but just enjoy."
It did come through and I can't say how except that the improvised piece had a rhythmic urgency that played out in his handling of the brushes, mallets and bells.
Toward the end, he began reading a poem he had written about the Native American experience and it was truly a magical moment to hear him drumming and sharing his words simultaneously.
"And the drums relive what once was," he intoned beautifully.
At that moment, I felt privileged to be hearing his heartfelt playing and reading with the night sky behind him in this little second-floor gallery with only a handful of people.
Guitarist Scott Burton replaced the first Scott doing new solo material he was debuting.
As many times as I've seen Scott play in various incarnations, it may have also been the first time I'd ever heard him play an acoustic guitar.
We heard "Staircase" and "Interiors" before he said,"I'm going to play "I Believe" by a band called Tears for Fears."
His cover was exquisite and you could almost hear the people in the room holding their breath for every note.
Afterwards, he grinned and said, "Tears for Fears, yea!"
Yea, indeed.
Things got heavier for "Underwater," followed by "Scaffolding" and "The Lizard" and every time he locked into a groove, I noticed both Scott Clark and Cameron bobbing their heads in the front row.
And why not? I believe, right along with Tears for Fears.
I believe that Richmond is a place where talented musicians share their music in intimate galleries on misty winter nights.
Sculptors come. Music teachers come. Frenchmen come. And of course other musicians come.
But so should everyone who needs proof that this town has got it going on.
It may even make you believe.
To start, it was like a mini-artwalk, with Candela Gallery having an opening and artist's talk on this damp Friday evening.
The show, "Bittersweet on Bostwick Lane" featured work by photographer Susan Worsham, a name I didn't recognize, but a face I did.
I'd met her years ago at Zeus Gallery Cafe and we'd talked about photography; later, I'd seen her at photography shows and always enjoyed her positivity.
But until I saw her smiling face tonight, I hadn't made the connection.
The show comes from Susan's life experiences which include the deaths of her parents and her brother's suicide.
Interestingly enough, the works highlight beauty as much as decay and death.
And not all are photographs.
One called "Watercolor" is a collection of antique veterinary slides, with samples of things like rabbit tongue, eye of pig and human testicle included.
Others relate to her family's former neighbor Margaret, a former biology teacher, who was an integral part of her childhood.
Margaret's presence is felt throughout the exhibition, in her microscope and handmade bread doily, in a large-scale photograph of her under Susan's mother's favorite camellia tree and in a piece of bread she baked which Susan let go moldy before photographing.
Even better, Susan recorded Margaret reminiscing and an hour-long recording of her memories and stories plays in Candela as you look at the photographs.
It's tempting to just sit down and listen to the wisdom of this wizened woman.
My vote for most disturbing photograph goes to "Snakes on My Childhood Bed," where a snake lounges next to a picture of Susan's mother on her wedding day.
It became even more meaningful when, during Susan's talk, she said that as a child, her mother had always assured her, "There's never going to be any snakes in your room."
Her mother couldn't have foreseen that a multiple-snake owner would eventually own the house or that Susan and her boyfriend would one day knock on that door and ask to see her childhood home.
On the other hand, clearly it provided inspiration for the artist.
Susan was an engaging speaker, sharing all kinds of stories about the idyllic beauty of her childhood on the UR campus and the sadness that came out of that lovely start in life.
Bittersweet it was.
Music followed with the RVA Solo show at For Instance Gallery, a place I'd never been.
But the faces I knew well.
A winding stair took me to the cozy gallery with art hung everywhere on the walls and three long windows fronting Cary Street downtown.
As things got set up, one of the musicians turned off the lights, leaving only a few colored bulbs from a lamp on and asked of the crowd which they preferred, dark or light.
I was the first to vote for dim, justifying the red, blue and yellow lamp lights as "groovy" and so the show went on sans overhead lighting.
It pays to be a big mouth sometimes.
Organizer Scott Clark soon stood up, announcing, "We're dedicated to starting shows on times and seven minutes late isn't too bad."
What followed was a succession of some of Richmond's best and brightest jazz musicians.
First trombonist Bryan Hooten played and since I'd never heard solo trombone, I was surprised to hear his sharp intakes of breath between blows.
He played an untitled piece, said, "Solo trombone is hard work,"took a big gulp of water and did an improvised number.
He then proceeded to empty his instrument.
"It's just condensed water," he grinned. "Contrary to popular belief, it's not spit, it's really just condensed water."
I believe him because I want to.
As he was playing a cello sonata he'd transcribed by his favorite composer, Gyorgy Ligeti, I couldn't help but admire the night view from the windows.
In each, a tree was foreground to a building across the street, all silhouetted against the misty gray sky as Bryan's trombone made beautiful noise.
Cameron Ralston and his bass were up second and he began with what is usually an exercise to warm up, but what he referred to as "D Plus."
His bow arced and jumped around creating noises I couldn't begin to see him make, but then I'm a musical idiot.
Finishing, he admitted, "That opens up all kinds of creative doors."
How could it not?
Next he did an original piece he'd written while on tour (with our own Matthew White) when he'd heard about the Connecticut shootings.
"I imagined it for piano and bass originally, but seeing as how I'm the only one up here, I'll do it myself."
It was an achingly beautiful piece and after finishing, he changed gears, saying, "Let's do something fun. This is an Ornette Coleman tune called "The Sphinx."
And it was fun, as evidenced by his twitching leg and even his right hand, which became a blur as he tore through the piece.
Drummer Scott Clark took center stage next, saying that he and Cameron had been talking for years about doing a solo show and it had taken this long to make it happen.
That it was finally happening was a fact for which every music-lover in the room was eternally grateful, I'm sure.
Scott mentioned that he'd been reading "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and writing off of the book and that it had become more meaningful as he'd toured parts of the country recently that the book had touched on.
"Seeing those places was profound. I don't know whether that will come through in my playing the drums, but just enjoy."
It did come through and I can't say how except that the improvised piece had a rhythmic urgency that played out in his handling of the brushes, mallets and bells.
Toward the end, he began reading a poem he had written about the Native American experience and it was truly a magical moment to hear him drumming and sharing his words simultaneously.
"And the drums relive what once was," he intoned beautifully.
At that moment, I felt privileged to be hearing his heartfelt playing and reading with the night sky behind him in this little second-floor gallery with only a handful of people.
Guitarist Scott Burton replaced the first Scott doing new solo material he was debuting.
As many times as I've seen Scott play in various incarnations, it may have also been the first time I'd ever heard him play an acoustic guitar.
We heard "Staircase" and "Interiors" before he said,"I'm going to play "I Believe" by a band called Tears for Fears."
His cover was exquisite and you could almost hear the people in the room holding their breath for every note.
Afterwards, he grinned and said, "Tears for Fears, yea!"
Yea, indeed.
Things got heavier for "Underwater," followed by "Scaffolding" and "The Lizard" and every time he locked into a groove, I noticed both Scott Clark and Cameron bobbing their heads in the front row.
And why not? I believe, right along with Tears for Fears.
I believe that Richmond is a place where talented musicians share their music in intimate galleries on misty winter nights.
Sculptors come. Music teachers come. Frenchmen come. And of course other musicians come.
But so should everyone who needs proof that this town has got it going on.
It may even make you believe.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Pickin' Up the Pieces
It was a jigsaw puzzle of a night, but I made it work, with only one sacrifice.
Much as I hate to admit it, when it came to dinner, Facebook made me do it.
I'd seen a picture of squid ink bucatini with sea urchin carbonara at Secco online and that was that.
Arriving early enough to get prime bar stools, I chose Filicaja Chianti Superiore for the promise of red fruit and spices and was rewarded for it.
Despite a schizophrenic soundtrack that swung from French cafe to indie to dance, I found it a satisfying pastiche.
The bucatini was as beautiful to look at as it was to eat, rich with assertive pig and delicate urchin.
Not long after our bowl appeared, the guy next to us ordered the same.
Next came squash ravioli with brown butter, sage and crushed amaretti, which caused my seatmate to observe, "It's like eating pumpkin pie!"
The savory ravioli bowed to the sweet amaretti in the most delightful way.
Clearly it looked as good as it tasted, because the two girls next to me immediately ordered the same and weren't shy about admitting that they were copying.
Before long, one turned to me and said, "It's like dessert," and promptly ordered a second plate of ravioli.
Because time was running out, we finished with a plate of Olli wild boar salame (cured with garlic and Sangiovese, the very grape I was drinking), Pentaleo (a cheese tasting of white pepper and lemon) and Sottocenere, ripe with black truffles and an ash rind.
And, just for the record, the housemade apple butter was swoon-worthy, at least for someone like me raised on apple butter.
And then it was off to the movies, specifically the opening of the new Criterion at Movieland.
Walking in to a gaggle of people drinking and schmoozing, I was glad we'd arrived just in time for the remarks portion of the evening before going across the street to see "Not Fade Away."
I knew going in it wasn't going to be a great movie, but its length best fit the rest of my evening, so it kind of won by default.
It didn't hurt that it was a coming of age story set in the '60s with a music soundtrack, either.
The opening black and white scene of Mick and Keith meeting as teens to discuss the records they were listening to soon gave way to color and teens in New Jersey, but the clothes were groovy, some of the period details correct (milk in bottles, everyone smoking everywhere, Archie comic books), but then when was life here as compelling as in swinging London?
I liked the hero's reaction the first time he heard the Beatles on the radio ("What is that?) but wondered if the young audience around me got all the cultural references ("It's a little more McGuinn-ish than we usually do").
I also thought the actor John Magaro was adorable with his thick curly hair and expressive mouth, saying hysterical things like, "They should put more than one of these fat blobs in each can," about pork and beans.
You know the fat blobs he's talking about, or at least I do.
After the movie, I chatted with some theatergoers in the lobby who'd gone into one movie and found it so depressing that they'd changed theaters mid-film.
I admire that kind of determination to make the most of an experience. Why stay put when you can have more fun some place else?
And speaking of, next up was the Camel for music.
Walking in, I got my hand stamped and was immediately greeted by man-about-town Prabir, bundled up in a scarf and knit hat.
"S'up, Karen?" he inquired, as he always does.
We'd get back to that later.
Animal Beat was playing and while I wasn't familiar with them, I certainly knew their keyboard player, Ben Wilson, one of my favorite Richmond musicians.
I heard a couple of folk rock songs, noticed that the bass player was playing shoeless before they announced their last song, "Madhouse."
Next up was DC's Alex Vans and the Hide Away, and they took the stage like they owned it.
From the first note, it was power pop heaven and they didn't let up for a moment.
Their frenetic front man was a long, tall drink of water whose lower limbs shot out non-stop as he played guitar and sang.
'Are you having a god time, Richmond?" Alex called out to us. "I've been drinking a lot and I hope you have, too."
The entire band wore Chucks (Alex's were a bright blue) and their relentless assault of great melodies, killer guitars and relentless drumming had me very glad I'd come.
The bass player was almost as energetic as Alex, moving around the stage and making the best bass player faces ever.
They did a new song called "Weekend," because what power pop group doesn't live for the weekend?
And then there was "Wait."
If I got to take my time
And make my first words rhyme
I know I'd make you mine
For a power pop-loving girl, that really is all you'd need. Just sayin'.
I was sorry to see them leave the stage, but took the opportunity to do some mingling and ended up with Prabir again.
That was a little slice of power pop heaven, I told him. Kind of rare in these parts.
He agreed, likening its scarcity to dinosaurs. "Yea, there used to be a lot of power pop around here, but no more. Kind of like the apatosaurus. Used to be a lot of them around here, but no more."
Leave it to Prabir to make a geeky science analogy, albeit one I thought apt.
Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade were up next and they'd morphed a bit since I'd last seen them.
Gone were the banjo, upright bass and mandolin, although the pedal steel remained.
Fortunately, so did Ben Wilson and his keyboard.
It was funny, though because while Ben is my favorite part of E&tRC, his music sensibility is, to my ear, poppier than the others and it comes through in his songwriting and voice.
Tonight it also showed in his wardrobe; he was the sole knit shirt on stage with four plaid shirts.
But luckily the band has four vocalists and all four write songs, so I got to hear some of Ben's stuff, including classics like "Spilt Coffee."
The band is rehearsing for a three hour set at Hardywood, so they'd been working on some covers and we heard the Eagles' "One of These Nights."
I'm inclined to think I was the only one in the room alive when that song came out, but the crowd was incredibly into it, dancing like it was the seventies again.
For the rousing song "Kings, Queens, Princes and Thieves," we were instructed, "If you're ready to punch someone, do it during this song," but instead the crowd danced.
In fact, despite the show stretching on till 1 a.m., the crowd hung in, getting louder and insisting the band keep playing, even after they said goodnight.
Maybe, like me, they'd worked it out just so and wanted to make sure they eked out every last minute of pleasure they could from putting the puzzle together.
Oh, but it's so satisfying when it all comes together.
Much as I hate to admit it, when it came to dinner, Facebook made me do it.
I'd seen a picture of squid ink bucatini with sea urchin carbonara at Secco online and that was that.
Arriving early enough to get prime bar stools, I chose Filicaja Chianti Superiore for the promise of red fruit and spices and was rewarded for it.
Despite a schizophrenic soundtrack that swung from French cafe to indie to dance, I found it a satisfying pastiche.
The bucatini was as beautiful to look at as it was to eat, rich with assertive pig and delicate urchin.
Not long after our bowl appeared, the guy next to us ordered the same.
Next came squash ravioli with brown butter, sage and crushed amaretti, which caused my seatmate to observe, "It's like eating pumpkin pie!"
The savory ravioli bowed to the sweet amaretti in the most delightful way.
Clearly it looked as good as it tasted, because the two girls next to me immediately ordered the same and weren't shy about admitting that they were copying.
Before long, one turned to me and said, "It's like dessert," and promptly ordered a second plate of ravioli.
Because time was running out, we finished with a plate of Olli wild boar salame (cured with garlic and Sangiovese, the very grape I was drinking), Pentaleo (a cheese tasting of white pepper and lemon) and Sottocenere, ripe with black truffles and an ash rind.
And, just for the record, the housemade apple butter was swoon-worthy, at least for someone like me raised on apple butter.
And then it was off to the movies, specifically the opening of the new Criterion at Movieland.
Walking in to a gaggle of people drinking and schmoozing, I was glad we'd arrived just in time for the remarks portion of the evening before going across the street to see "Not Fade Away."
I knew going in it wasn't going to be a great movie, but its length best fit the rest of my evening, so it kind of won by default.
It didn't hurt that it was a coming of age story set in the '60s with a music soundtrack, either.
The opening black and white scene of Mick and Keith meeting as teens to discuss the records they were listening to soon gave way to color and teens in New Jersey, but the clothes were groovy, some of the period details correct (milk in bottles, everyone smoking everywhere, Archie comic books), but then when was life here as compelling as in swinging London?
I liked the hero's reaction the first time he heard the Beatles on the radio ("What is that?) but wondered if the young audience around me got all the cultural references ("It's a little more McGuinn-ish than we usually do").
I also thought the actor John Magaro was adorable with his thick curly hair and expressive mouth, saying hysterical things like, "They should put more than one of these fat blobs in each can," about pork and beans.
You know the fat blobs he's talking about, or at least I do.
After the movie, I chatted with some theatergoers in the lobby who'd gone into one movie and found it so depressing that they'd changed theaters mid-film.
I admire that kind of determination to make the most of an experience. Why stay put when you can have more fun some place else?
And speaking of, next up was the Camel for music.
Walking in, I got my hand stamped and was immediately greeted by man-about-town Prabir, bundled up in a scarf and knit hat.
"S'up, Karen?" he inquired, as he always does.
We'd get back to that later.
Animal Beat was playing and while I wasn't familiar with them, I certainly knew their keyboard player, Ben Wilson, one of my favorite Richmond musicians.
I heard a couple of folk rock songs, noticed that the bass player was playing shoeless before they announced their last song, "Madhouse."
Next up was DC's Alex Vans and the Hide Away, and they took the stage like they owned it.
From the first note, it was power pop heaven and they didn't let up for a moment.
Their frenetic front man was a long, tall drink of water whose lower limbs shot out non-stop as he played guitar and sang.
'Are you having a god time, Richmond?" Alex called out to us. "I've been drinking a lot and I hope you have, too."
The entire band wore Chucks (Alex's were a bright blue) and their relentless assault of great melodies, killer guitars and relentless drumming had me very glad I'd come.
The bass player was almost as energetic as Alex, moving around the stage and making the best bass player faces ever.
They did a new song called "Weekend," because what power pop group doesn't live for the weekend?
And then there was "Wait."
If I got to take my time
And make my first words rhyme
I know I'd make you mine
For a power pop-loving girl, that really is all you'd need. Just sayin'.
I was sorry to see them leave the stage, but took the opportunity to do some mingling and ended up with Prabir again.
That was a little slice of power pop heaven, I told him. Kind of rare in these parts.
He agreed, likening its scarcity to dinosaurs. "Yea, there used to be a lot of power pop around here, but no more. Kind of like the apatosaurus. Used to be a lot of them around here, but no more."
Leave it to Prabir to make a geeky science analogy, albeit one I thought apt.
Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade were up next and they'd morphed a bit since I'd last seen them.
Gone were the banjo, upright bass and mandolin, although the pedal steel remained.
Fortunately, so did Ben Wilson and his keyboard.
It was funny, though because while Ben is my favorite part of E&tRC, his music sensibility is, to my ear, poppier than the others and it comes through in his songwriting and voice.
Tonight it also showed in his wardrobe; he was the sole knit shirt on stage with four plaid shirts.
But luckily the band has four vocalists and all four write songs, so I got to hear some of Ben's stuff, including classics like "Spilt Coffee."
The band is rehearsing for a three hour set at Hardywood, so they'd been working on some covers and we heard the Eagles' "One of These Nights."
I'm inclined to think I was the only one in the room alive when that song came out, but the crowd was incredibly into it, dancing like it was the seventies again.
For the rousing song "Kings, Queens, Princes and Thieves," we were instructed, "If you're ready to punch someone, do it during this song," but instead the crowd danced.
In fact, despite the show stretching on till 1 a.m., the crowd hung in, getting louder and insisting the band keep playing, even after they said goodnight.
Maybe, like me, they'd worked it out just so and wanted to make sure they eked out every last minute of pleasure they could from putting the puzzle together.
Oh, but it's so satisfying when it all comes together.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Dog Eat Dog
There are dog lovers and then there are dog lovers.
Like the people who will eat a hot dog because it's all that's available at the moment.
I once took a date to City Dogs, only to have him say to m, "Seriously?"
And then there are the people who actively seek out good dogs.
So when a fellow dog lover invited me to lunch today, I immediately suggested the new A2, a Japanese cafe in the heart of downtown and full of suits.
The sleek interior with a very long bar belied the simple set-up and we soon realized that you ordered in the back and waited for your food to be delivered to you on whichever sleek table you'd chosen.
A personable woman behind the counter caught our eye and said, "Let me break it down for you."
There were a selection of entrees, two bento dogs of the day and a host of sides.
Since one of today's dogs was actually tempura-fried chicken in a hot dog bun, we both opted for the real dog.
It was the sea dog, a grilled hot dog with spicy Japanese mayo, seaweed salad, fish roe and tempura batter crumbles.
And while I'm not usually one for green on my dog, I am a huge fan of seaweed salad.
My buddy got a side of Asian vegetables (actually an entree, but he paid extra for it to be his side) while I chose one of four varieties of fries, the shichimi, promised to me as spicy and garlicky.
While we waited for our food, we struck up a conversation with a woman who'd just moved here from Las Vegas and wanted restaurant recommendations.
Easily done by two rabid eaters like us.
Our dogs arrived, colorful with the green seaweed and the orange roe and perfectly delicious, no matter how unlikely the combination sounds.
The fries were just as interesting, not salty but addicting, no doubt because of the shichimi, known as seven flavor chili pepper.
Best of all, the side of fries was just that, a side, and not an overwhelming mound of fried potatoes.
No need to induce a food coma for business types, I guess.
The place was hopping, no doubt attractive to people on a prescribed lunch hour.
And while I certainly didn't have any time restrictions, by the time we'd downed our dogs, my friend had missed five calls, so I felt guilty keeping him any longer.
Brushing some errant roe off my sweater, we walked out into the sunny afternoon, the owner holding the door open for me as another gaggle of suits walked in.
You'd never be able to tell from the outside, but I have to assume that they were dog lovers, too.
Seriously.
Like the people who will eat a hot dog because it's all that's available at the moment.
I once took a date to City Dogs, only to have him say to m, "Seriously?"
And then there are the people who actively seek out good dogs.
So when a fellow dog lover invited me to lunch today, I immediately suggested the new A2, a Japanese cafe in the heart of downtown and full of suits.
The sleek interior with a very long bar belied the simple set-up and we soon realized that you ordered in the back and waited for your food to be delivered to you on whichever sleek table you'd chosen.
A personable woman behind the counter caught our eye and said, "Let me break it down for you."
There were a selection of entrees, two bento dogs of the day and a host of sides.
Since one of today's dogs was actually tempura-fried chicken in a hot dog bun, we both opted for the real dog.
It was the sea dog, a grilled hot dog with spicy Japanese mayo, seaweed salad, fish roe and tempura batter crumbles.
And while I'm not usually one for green on my dog, I am a huge fan of seaweed salad.
My buddy got a side of Asian vegetables (actually an entree, but he paid extra for it to be his side) while I chose one of four varieties of fries, the shichimi, promised to me as spicy and garlicky.
While we waited for our food, we struck up a conversation with a woman who'd just moved here from Las Vegas and wanted restaurant recommendations.
Easily done by two rabid eaters like us.
Our dogs arrived, colorful with the green seaweed and the orange roe and perfectly delicious, no matter how unlikely the combination sounds.
The fries were just as interesting, not salty but addicting, no doubt because of the shichimi, known as seven flavor chili pepper.
Best of all, the side of fries was just that, a side, and not an overwhelming mound of fried potatoes.
No need to induce a food coma for business types, I guess.
The place was hopping, no doubt attractive to people on a prescribed lunch hour.
And while I certainly didn't have any time restrictions, by the time we'd downed our dogs, my friend had missed five calls, so I felt guilty keeping him any longer.
Brushing some errant roe off my sweater, we walked out into the sunny afternoon, the owner holding the door open for me as another gaggle of suits walked in.
You'd never be able to tell from the outside, but I have to assume that they were dog lovers, too.
Seriously.
Taste with the Heart
Tonight was all about birthdays and hearts.
And that doesn't even begin to cover it.
Bistro 27 had put its regulars on notice: chicken hearts were to be had for one night only.
Had I had chicken hearts before? No.
Did I want chicken hearts tonight? But of course.
So I found a willing heart-eater and we made our way to my favorite neighborhood joint, finding the place hopping at 5:30.
"The Producers" has a 7:00 curtain across the street, so eager theatergoers were getting their feedbag on beforehand.
As I tried to make a left toward my favorite bar stool, I saw Chef Carlos' wife and twin baby girls.
Turns out it was the girls' first birthday, too, having conveniently been born on their father's birthday.
So it was to be a three-way celebration with hearts. And cheese rolls.
Apparently in Brazil (Carlos' birthplace), cheese rolls are so popular that even McDonald's has them on the menu.
Tonight, they were part of the birthday celebration.
And what an array of celebrants there were!
Armed with only a glass of Sangiovese, I did my meeting and greeting from the comfort of my bar stool.
Soon, food arrived in the form of chicken hearts on a skewer, along with chicken hearts braised with potatoes.
If eating hearts has the ability to make me bigger hearted, I am most certainly a better person after the dozen hearts I wolfed down.
I got handed one of the twin babies, complete with cheese roll in her tiny hand, and soon discovered how much she liked being laid on my outstretched legs and lowered upside down.
No doubt I was introducing her to the gateway drug to more thrilling pastimes and her father will probably not thank me for it.
Plates of the cheese rolls arrived, airy and quickly consumed.
We did a group birthday sing for Carlos, with the baby in my lap applauding along with everyone else after the song.
A portabella mushroom "napoleon" followed and I found that babies born of a Brazilian father will eat pieces of vinaigrette-soaked Mozzarella like it was as bland as a Saltine.
It was pretty cute.
Lobster ravioli in shrimp bisque was next and one swipe of the bisque delivered the flavor of many shrimp long-cooked.
As is usual with Carlos' ravioli of the day, the filling was abundant and the pasta perfectly cooked.
Because of so many other guests, the conversation was all over the place.
The pleasures of sleeping in versus the paycheck of a 9 to 5 job. Women who lose their fathers and take years to recover. The new arthouse theater at Movieland. Starting a new restaurant job on a busy night.
Eventually the babies left, sent home with freshly cooked pasta courtesy of their talented Dad, and the party went back to being about birthdays and hearts.
Over another glass of Sangiovese, the Brazilian shared his thoughts on planning a trip to Spain and Portugal, based more on what he'd heard than what he'd experienced, since he hadn't been. Yet.
But the eating wasn't over and the next course was head cheese, a personal favorite, and the first time I'd had Carlos' version.
He said he'd been so tempted by a $17 pig's head that he bought it and began the process of turning it into what could be called high-end Scrapple.
With a good mustard and a swirl of a balsamic reduction, it was just beautiful.
By this time, I'd missed the Classical Revolution show at the Camel (musicians sight-reading classical music while getting drunk), so the only logical thing seemed to be to order dessert and more wine.
A chocolate hazelnut torte rounded out an evening of many distinctive flavors as the restaurant gradually emptied out and only the good people were left.
Or maybe that's just how I saw things given all the heart I'd taken in.
And that doesn't even begin to cover it.
Bistro 27 had put its regulars on notice: chicken hearts were to be had for one night only.
Had I had chicken hearts before? No.
Did I want chicken hearts tonight? But of course.
So I found a willing heart-eater and we made our way to my favorite neighborhood joint, finding the place hopping at 5:30.
"The Producers" has a 7:00 curtain across the street, so eager theatergoers were getting their feedbag on beforehand.
As I tried to make a left toward my favorite bar stool, I saw Chef Carlos' wife and twin baby girls.
Turns out it was the girls' first birthday, too, having conveniently been born on their father's birthday.
So it was to be a three-way celebration with hearts. And cheese rolls.
Apparently in Brazil (Carlos' birthplace), cheese rolls are so popular that even McDonald's has them on the menu.
Tonight, they were part of the birthday celebration.
And what an array of celebrants there were!
Armed with only a glass of Sangiovese, I did my meeting and greeting from the comfort of my bar stool.
Soon, food arrived in the form of chicken hearts on a skewer, along with chicken hearts braised with potatoes.
If eating hearts has the ability to make me bigger hearted, I am most certainly a better person after the dozen hearts I wolfed down.
I got handed one of the twin babies, complete with cheese roll in her tiny hand, and soon discovered how much she liked being laid on my outstretched legs and lowered upside down.
No doubt I was introducing her to the gateway drug to more thrilling pastimes and her father will probably not thank me for it.
Plates of the cheese rolls arrived, airy and quickly consumed.
We did a group birthday sing for Carlos, with the baby in my lap applauding along with everyone else after the song.
A portabella mushroom "napoleon" followed and I found that babies born of a Brazilian father will eat pieces of vinaigrette-soaked Mozzarella like it was as bland as a Saltine.
It was pretty cute.
Lobster ravioli in shrimp bisque was next and one swipe of the bisque delivered the flavor of many shrimp long-cooked.
As is usual with Carlos' ravioli of the day, the filling was abundant and the pasta perfectly cooked.
Because of so many other guests, the conversation was all over the place.
The pleasures of sleeping in versus the paycheck of a 9 to 5 job. Women who lose their fathers and take years to recover. The new arthouse theater at Movieland. Starting a new restaurant job on a busy night.
Eventually the babies left, sent home with freshly cooked pasta courtesy of their talented Dad, and the party went back to being about birthdays and hearts.
Over another glass of Sangiovese, the Brazilian shared his thoughts on planning a trip to Spain and Portugal, based more on what he'd heard than what he'd experienced, since he hadn't been. Yet.
But the eating wasn't over and the next course was head cheese, a personal favorite, and the first time I'd had Carlos' version.
He said he'd been so tempted by a $17 pig's head that he bought it and began the process of turning it into what could be called high-end Scrapple.
With a good mustard and a swirl of a balsamic reduction, it was just beautiful.
By this time, I'd missed the Classical Revolution show at the Camel (musicians sight-reading classical music while getting drunk), so the only logical thing seemed to be to order dessert and more wine.
A chocolate hazelnut torte rounded out an evening of many distinctive flavors as the restaurant gradually emptied out and only the good people were left.
Or maybe that's just how I saw things given all the heart I'd taken in.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Mackerel by Monlight
The irony of it set in at the parking garage.
Pulling in under the Library of Virginia, I was told that it was full due to the General Assembly being in session and using all the spaces.
Leave it to the Gen Ass to make it more difficult to get to a lecture on John Randolph of Roanoke, a man who served in the House of Representatives and the Senate.
Speaker David Johnson began by saying, "I spent ten years with John Randolph of Roanoke and a lot of people say, why?"
The why soon became apparent as he told of Randolph's personal eccentricities, acerbic wit, penetrating looks, flashy dressing and quick-thinking oratory skills.
He was Jefferson's confidante, at least until they parted ways on ideology.
According to Johnson, Randolph linked every issue to a higher power, always expounding on principle.
Clearly that's no longer a requirement of serving in Congress.
As the son of a planter (read: rich), he said things like, "I am an aristocrat. I love liberty. I hate equality."
Chances are, plenty of rich people still feel that way.
But I had to admit, the man had a way with words.
"He is a man of splendid abilities, but utterly corrupt," Randolph claimed. "He shines and stinks, like a rotting mackerel by moonlight."
As one who makes her living with words, I only wish I'd written that last sentence.
Randolph referred to Congress as "a mass of mediocrity," a phrase both prescient and apt.
And, by god, he was a Virginian, in that way that the forefathers were devoted to this place.
"When I speak of my country, I mean the Commonwealth of Virginia."
Ah, yes, that country. The one of landed gentry and slavery.
His 20-year battle with Henry Clay ended in a duel, with Clay's bullet going through his outer garment and Randolph demanding, "You owe me a coat."
Johnson was full of fun facts like that.
Randolph was an opium smoker, likely impotent and brought his hunting dogs to the House floor.
I'm guessing that you couldn't say those three things about any other representative, then or now.
When he died and was buried, per his request his face was turned westward so he could keep an eye on Henry Clay.
They later moved his body to Hollywood Cemetery, but no word on where his head and eye were placed.
An hour spent listening to a lecture about a cocky man whose main cause was liberty left me older and wiser, but needing to get out.
After all, our very own "mass of mediocrity" had forced me into a one-hour parking space and I didn't want to risk a ticket.
Especially for a man who hated equality.
Pulling in under the Library of Virginia, I was told that it was full due to the General Assembly being in session and using all the spaces.
Leave it to the Gen Ass to make it more difficult to get to a lecture on John Randolph of Roanoke, a man who served in the House of Representatives and the Senate.
Speaker David Johnson began by saying, "I spent ten years with John Randolph of Roanoke and a lot of people say, why?"
The why soon became apparent as he told of Randolph's personal eccentricities, acerbic wit, penetrating looks, flashy dressing and quick-thinking oratory skills.
He was Jefferson's confidante, at least until they parted ways on ideology.
According to Johnson, Randolph linked every issue to a higher power, always expounding on principle.
Clearly that's no longer a requirement of serving in Congress.
As the son of a planter (read: rich), he said things like, "I am an aristocrat. I love liberty. I hate equality."
Chances are, plenty of rich people still feel that way.
But I had to admit, the man had a way with words.
"He is a man of splendid abilities, but utterly corrupt," Randolph claimed. "He shines and stinks, like a rotting mackerel by moonlight."
As one who makes her living with words, I only wish I'd written that last sentence.
Randolph referred to Congress as "a mass of mediocrity," a phrase both prescient and apt.
And, by god, he was a Virginian, in that way that the forefathers were devoted to this place.
"When I speak of my country, I mean the Commonwealth of Virginia."
Ah, yes, that country. The one of landed gentry and slavery.
His 20-year battle with Henry Clay ended in a duel, with Clay's bullet going through his outer garment and Randolph demanding, "You owe me a coat."
Johnson was full of fun facts like that.
Randolph was an opium smoker, likely impotent and brought his hunting dogs to the House floor.
I'm guessing that you couldn't say those three things about any other representative, then or now.
When he died and was buried, per his request his face was turned westward so he could keep an eye on Henry Clay.
They later moved his body to Hollywood Cemetery, but no word on where his head and eye were placed.
An hour spent listening to a lecture about a cocky man whose main cause was liberty left me older and wiser, but needing to get out.
After all, our very own "mass of mediocrity" had forced me into a one-hour parking space and I didn't want to risk a ticket.
Especially for a man who hated equality.
Do Wrong Right
I didn't know what folk punk was, but I was willing to find out.
So I recruited a musician friend and we reported to Capital Ale House to find out.
We discussed that either of us had researched the band to better understand their sound, preferring to experience the music without preconceptions.
Well, except for the confusing folk/punk part. That much we'd read.
Arriving before he did, I found an eclectic crowd of young, old, hipsters and hatboys.
And more people than you'd expect in visors. At night.
I saw one girl with half black hair and half blue. I had to assume that the black side was the folk side, the blue the punk.
There were some Jackson Ward neighbors, who posed the question to me, "What's a folk punk mosh pit like?"
No idea, but willing to find out.
When my friend came in, newly-purchased ticket in hand, he had a look of relief on his face.
"I heard them say there were less than 22 tickets left," he said of not buying ours in advance.
Looks like we'd just squeaked in under the wire.
Almost all the tables had been cleared, something I'd never seen at any of the Cap Ale shows I'd been to over the years.
But servers were roaming the room and delivering adult bevvies to wherever people stood, so the lack of tables was no hardship.
We set up camp near the brick wall, me in a bar stool and my tall friend standing next to me.
Opening was Philip Roebuck, a one-man band with a drum on his back and a banjo in his hands.
"Dick van Dyke," my friend observed of the initial impression, recalling the chimney sweep from "Mary Poppins."
Roebuck, as this one man show was known, said, "I only live in Norfolk and I never play in Richmond."
It was a lot of sound coming from just one guy.
He was personable, responding to the crowd's calls in between strumming his banjo.
Some men got money
Some men got charm
But I ain't got nothin'
Without you on my arm
When our server delivered two glasses of Trump Simply Red, my friend raised his to mine, saying, "Here's to visors."
Meanwhile Roebuck paused to quaff his Guinness, asking, "Any questions while I sip my beer?
For his last song, he explained, "I originally wrote this song on the fiddle but my fiddle broke on the last tour, so I had to figure it out on banjo and it was really hard!"
And even my musically ignorant ear could pick up on how the banjo evoked the sound of a fiddle, so he'd done a fine job figuring.
During the break, the crowd moved forward, meaning even more tall people clumped in front of the vertically-challenged like me.
Fortunately, I had my bar stool to kneel and stand on when necessary.
The Devil Makes Three was a trio of a banjo player with two braids halfway down his back and an impossibly long beard, a guitarist with a vest and tie and an upright bass player who was female.
I can't tell you how satisfying it was to watch a girl slap a bass, although probably not half so appealing as it was for my bass-playing friend next to me.
It didn't take long to discover that "folk punk" meant a mixture of bluegrass, ragtime, rockabilly, old time music and country.
In other words, a lot like the Hot Seats without the familiar faces or the Two Man Gentleman Band without the fabulous wardrobe.
It's just that no one had ever told me those bands were folk punk.
Live and learn, Karen.
Which means there were funny lyrics and songs, things like, "I'm gonna drink till I don't know the meaning of alone."
What was interesting was the crowd reaction, which was split between die-hard fans (these guys already have four albums) and people who had clearly never experienced this kind of music before.
"How you doing?" singer Pete asked of us. "Welcome to our first sold out show in Virginia!"
So those last 22 had sold.
"Old Number 7," a song about Jack Daniels and Tennessee whiskey got everyone moving.
Based on the number of shots that came out immediately afterwards all around us, I have to assume it also helped liquor sales of Old Number 7.
But there were also story songs, humorous songs, and songs with all three voices singing.
I wanna tell you a story
It ain't got no characters but me
As the set progressed, I saw men doing jigs to the music. One had his visor on backwards and another looked eerily like Greg Allman.
There were many songs that had people in the crowd singing along, so clearly serious fans were in the house.
And, I'm willing to bet, a whole lot of converts by the end of the show.
My friend and I were scratching our heads at how into the music some people were, as if they were hearing folk punk for the first time.
If you're gonna do wrong,
Better do wrong right
Amen, DM3. Doing wrong right is an art form.
So if you're gonna do folk punk,
Better do bluegrass, rockabilly, old time and country right
Any chance of a mosh pit next time?
So I recruited a musician friend and we reported to Capital Ale House to find out.
We discussed that either of us had researched the band to better understand their sound, preferring to experience the music without preconceptions.
Well, except for the confusing folk/punk part. That much we'd read.
Arriving before he did, I found an eclectic crowd of young, old, hipsters and hatboys.
And more people than you'd expect in visors. At night.
I saw one girl with half black hair and half blue. I had to assume that the black side was the folk side, the blue the punk.
There were some Jackson Ward neighbors, who posed the question to me, "What's a folk punk mosh pit like?"
No idea, but willing to find out.
When my friend came in, newly-purchased ticket in hand, he had a look of relief on his face.
"I heard them say there were less than 22 tickets left," he said of not buying ours in advance.
Looks like we'd just squeaked in under the wire.
Almost all the tables had been cleared, something I'd never seen at any of the Cap Ale shows I'd been to over the years.
But servers were roaming the room and delivering adult bevvies to wherever people stood, so the lack of tables was no hardship.
We set up camp near the brick wall, me in a bar stool and my tall friend standing next to me.
Opening was Philip Roebuck, a one-man band with a drum on his back and a banjo in his hands.
"Dick van Dyke," my friend observed of the initial impression, recalling the chimney sweep from "Mary Poppins."
Roebuck, as this one man show was known, said, "I only live in Norfolk and I never play in Richmond."
It was a lot of sound coming from just one guy.
He was personable, responding to the crowd's calls in between strumming his banjo.
Some men got money
Some men got charm
But I ain't got nothin'
Without you on my arm
When our server delivered two glasses of Trump Simply Red, my friend raised his to mine, saying, "Here's to visors."
Meanwhile Roebuck paused to quaff his Guinness, asking, "Any questions while I sip my beer?
For his last song, he explained, "I originally wrote this song on the fiddle but my fiddle broke on the last tour, so I had to figure it out on banjo and it was really hard!"
And even my musically ignorant ear could pick up on how the banjo evoked the sound of a fiddle, so he'd done a fine job figuring.
During the break, the crowd moved forward, meaning even more tall people clumped in front of the vertically-challenged like me.
Fortunately, I had my bar stool to kneel and stand on when necessary.
The Devil Makes Three was a trio of a banjo player with two braids halfway down his back and an impossibly long beard, a guitarist with a vest and tie and an upright bass player who was female.
I can't tell you how satisfying it was to watch a girl slap a bass, although probably not half so appealing as it was for my bass-playing friend next to me.
It didn't take long to discover that "folk punk" meant a mixture of bluegrass, ragtime, rockabilly, old time music and country.
In other words, a lot like the Hot Seats without the familiar faces or the Two Man Gentleman Band without the fabulous wardrobe.
It's just that no one had ever told me those bands were folk punk.
Live and learn, Karen.
Which means there were funny lyrics and songs, things like, "I'm gonna drink till I don't know the meaning of alone."
What was interesting was the crowd reaction, which was split between die-hard fans (these guys already have four albums) and people who had clearly never experienced this kind of music before.
"How you doing?" singer Pete asked of us. "Welcome to our first sold out show in Virginia!"
So those last 22 had sold.
"Old Number 7," a song about Jack Daniels and Tennessee whiskey got everyone moving.
Based on the number of shots that came out immediately afterwards all around us, I have to assume it also helped liquor sales of Old Number 7.
But there were also story songs, humorous songs, and songs with all three voices singing.
I wanna tell you a story
It ain't got no characters but me
As the set progressed, I saw men doing jigs to the music. One had his visor on backwards and another looked eerily like Greg Allman.
There were many songs that had people in the crowd singing along, so clearly serious fans were in the house.
And, I'm willing to bet, a whole lot of converts by the end of the show.
My friend and I were scratching our heads at how into the music some people were, as if they were hearing folk punk for the first time.
If you're gonna do wrong,
Better do wrong right
Amen, DM3. Doing wrong right is an art form.
So if you're gonna do folk punk,
Better do bluegrass, rockabilly, old time and country right
Any chance of a mosh pit next time?
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Sunlight Makes Me Paranoid
So it was a friend's birthday but I got to choose the place to celebrate.
Bistro Bobette is one of my friend's favorite restaurants, so while I decided on it, he happily complied.
I was coming straight from doing an interview at Plant Zero, so he was already ensconced at a table when I breezed in late into lunchtime.
We did some quick catch-up.
He's just over the crud that's been going around, had a getaway to a snow-covered cabin in West Virginia recently and bragged about an overseas record find.
A Neil Young concert recorded in the Netherlands and unearthed in a Dublin record store.
Nice, very nice.
Since he'd already decided on the triple cut burger on bricohe (although, sadly, he wanted no cheese on it) and frites, I wasted no time in making up my mind.
With our cow base covered, I went for the sauteed rainbow trout in almond butter with shallot-sauteed haricot verts.
Since we were doing a day-late celebration of his birthday, he ordered a bottle of 2009 Chateau Valcombe, a supple and rich Cote du Rhone ideal for a gray day.
It matched the Pink Martini station playing in the background, lulling us into relaxed long lunch mode.
We shared off of each other's plates, including a bacon "orphan" off his burger that he generously handed me, while the conversation ran the gamut from the pleasures of pig at Publican in Chicago to U-shaped raw bars to the latest Dylan album.
When our server noticed we'd given up on eating, he asked tentatively about dessert.
Since part of the motivation in ordering the Cotes du Rhone had been for the pleasure of having it with chocolate, he got an enthusiastic "bien sur" in response.
The chocolate crousillant with its layers of cake, mousse and crushed hazelnut made both the birthday boy and his guest very happy.
As we finished it up, we heard a woman tell a man behind us, "Just don't tell your wife," a warning that inspired wonder about the circumstances of the conversation.
But ours was not to judge.
All at once a woman came around the divider, exclaiming when she saw me, "Look who's here in the daylight!"
I could say the same about her since it's almost always night time when we run into each other.
A conversation about the newest restaurants ensued as we compared notes about the places we've both been lately.
We got so caught up in it we even made plans to meet up for dinner soon to check out a place she hasn't been.
I have, but I'm willing to give the place a second try for her sake. Anything for a friend.
The birthday boy and I had stayed so long that eventually the chef came out and joined our discussion, telling us which new places he'd tried and what he thought of them.
He was curious about Godfrey's drag brunch, wanting the scoop there.
As far as I'm concerned, they're the original Grace Street pioneers.
Walking out, my friend observed that the roundtable with the chef had been the perfect ending to his delicious birthday lunch.
Some of us sure know how to pick 'em, if I do say so myself.
And I do.
Bistro Bobette is one of my friend's favorite restaurants, so while I decided on it, he happily complied.
I was coming straight from doing an interview at Plant Zero, so he was already ensconced at a table when I breezed in late into lunchtime.
We did some quick catch-up.
He's just over the crud that's been going around, had a getaway to a snow-covered cabin in West Virginia recently and bragged about an overseas record find.
A Neil Young concert recorded in the Netherlands and unearthed in a Dublin record store.
Nice, very nice.
Since he'd already decided on the triple cut burger on bricohe (although, sadly, he wanted no cheese on it) and frites, I wasted no time in making up my mind.
With our cow base covered, I went for the sauteed rainbow trout in almond butter with shallot-sauteed haricot verts.
Since we were doing a day-late celebration of his birthday, he ordered a bottle of 2009 Chateau Valcombe, a supple and rich Cote du Rhone ideal for a gray day.
It matched the Pink Martini station playing in the background, lulling us into relaxed long lunch mode.
We shared off of each other's plates, including a bacon "orphan" off his burger that he generously handed me, while the conversation ran the gamut from the pleasures of pig at Publican in Chicago to U-shaped raw bars to the latest Dylan album.
When our server noticed we'd given up on eating, he asked tentatively about dessert.
Since part of the motivation in ordering the Cotes du Rhone had been for the pleasure of having it with chocolate, he got an enthusiastic "bien sur" in response.
The chocolate crousillant with its layers of cake, mousse and crushed hazelnut made both the birthday boy and his guest very happy.
As we finished it up, we heard a woman tell a man behind us, "Just don't tell your wife," a warning that inspired wonder about the circumstances of the conversation.
But ours was not to judge.
All at once a woman came around the divider, exclaiming when she saw me, "Look who's here in the daylight!"
I could say the same about her since it's almost always night time when we run into each other.
A conversation about the newest restaurants ensued as we compared notes about the places we've both been lately.
We got so caught up in it we even made plans to meet up for dinner soon to check out a place she hasn't been.
I have, but I'm willing to give the place a second try for her sake. Anything for a friend.
The birthday boy and I had stayed so long that eventually the chef came out and joined our discussion, telling us which new places he'd tried and what he thought of them.
He was curious about Godfrey's drag brunch, wanting the scoop there.
As far as I'm concerned, they're the original Grace Street pioneers.
Walking out, my friend observed that the roundtable with the chef had been the perfect ending to his delicious birthday lunch.
Some of us sure know how to pick 'em, if I do say so myself.
And I do.
Blowing This Pop Stand
It was pretty entertaining what crawled out of the wreckage tonight.
Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story's theme this month was "wreckage," and who among us doesn't like to hear about the shambles of other people's lives?
I'll freely admit to being an audio voyeur of the highest order.
The evening began with a long-time friend, Glynn, telling her story of "Wreckage I" about her Dad, a star athlete who lettered in four sports.
She even brought one of his letters. How cool is that?
He went on to fly planes and in 1936, there was a crash into another plane (not his fault), a failed parachute, a crash landing, and eventually two strokes.
The beauty of the story came when she told of accompanying her Dad to his high school reunion years later when the stroke impaired his ability to speak.
His first order of business was to go up to some of his fellow Japanese students and with a nod to Glynn, say, "Tell them."
She understood and apologized to them for the interments and land grabbing done by the U.S. government.
His next "Tell them," had her explaining to fellow students what had happened to him to bring him from Big Man on Campus to the man he was now.
That business over, he turned to her and said, "Now let's blow this pop stand."
Glynn is a consummate storyteller and her closer knocked the socks off the audience.
Next up was Les, telling about an attempt at a trip to NYC by him and two army buddies in 1960 for some R & R.
A failing generator caused their Hudson to die in Dawn, again in Washington and right at the start of the cherry blossom parade before an 18-hour trip home.
Not very restful or recreational.
Dave Brockie of GWAR went next and I'd heard from one of the organizers that he'd said he had a story to tell as far back as the very first Secretly Y'All and was just now getting on stage.
His tale of a misspent youth in the Zero Rat Race Messers gang involved setting baby dolls on fire.
When he admitted, "So we graduated to lighting a whole house on fire," he followed with, "I'm getting smiles and I'm getting frowns."
I guess it depends on whose house you're torching.
Wendy's story was "How I Lost My Fear of the Dark," and involved "doing the things unsupervised kids do," always a scary subject.
With a brother doing his best to scare her to death on a daily basis, she ended up being terrorized by her right arm.
Maybe you had to be there, but it was pretty funny.
We heard John's saga of "Me and the Canoe," which began at Pocahontas camp at father/son day.
"Dad's experience with canoes was riding the subway," he deadpanned. "And my Dad had an afro and none of the other dads had afros."
One of his funniest observations was, "EST is the way baby boomers rationalize being really self-absorbed."
When he ran out of time, he finished with, "Thank you. That's half of my canoe story."
But that's the way Secretly Y'All rolls.
You get five to seven minutes to tell a story and then the metaphorical hook comes out and pulls you offstage.
I also knew the next storyteller, Pinson, a talented drummer I've seen many times.
His story was "I Once was Lost but Now I'm Found" and told the story of his Cambodian father's (same name, too) time in the Cambodian navy.
When the Kmher Rouge began taking over, his father presciently converted most of his paychecks into gold sheets.
Laughing, Pinson said, "That's some weirdo Pinson Sr. shit," saying that it wouldn't have occurred to most people to do the same.
His father stored the gold in the cuff of his black jean jacket, wearing it non-stop from then on.
Pinson Sr. eventually escaped on a Kmher Rouge boat, going non-stop for hours to make it to safety (he thought) in Thailand.
He told Pinson it was the most psychedelic moments of his life.
And that's why I go to Secretly Y'All, folks.
I could have gone my whole life without hearing a Kmher Rouge story from someone whose father lived it.
Now I don't have to.
During the intermission, eager storytellers put their names in a hat for their chance to share wreckage tales.
First up was Herschel and his memories of a corpse bride were tragic and heartfelt.
"She taught me a fear of pipes, alleys and grates," he said.
Truth is, not every one can tell a story about a friend dying.
Clay told of being raised on twelve acres in Beaverdam by a Baptist preacher who punished him by making him build things.
Things like stone walls and split rail fences.
It got funny when he told of forging his mother's name so he could go to Skateland after she said no.
Needless to say, she found out and he had to build a woodshed. At ten years old.
"By the way, it was totally worth it because I got to hold a girl's hand for the first time," he said.
Despite the hard lessons learned (and almost cutting off a few fingers sawing), he concluded by saying he was grateful for his childhood because, "I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in my circle of friends who can build anything besides a sculpture."
Now there's a positive take on a strict upbringing.
As he left the stage, organizer and emcee Colin joked, "You know, Jesus was a carpenter, Clay."
Laughs abounded tonight.
Karen began by saying, "This is when the drunk people get up and tell stories."
Hers was about an alcoholic father, a family vacation in Florida and her Dad deciding to pee in an orange juice bottle as they drove up I-95.
Being a tightwad, he first made his son drink the juice which the son took delight in doing very slowly.
Gayle began by saying, "Is Glynn still here? No? Good because it takes chutzpah to get up on this stage after her story."
Amen to that, brother.
His tale of working at an ad agency and trying to save a client was a lesson in doing your homework first.
Kids in Germany and Holland are not raised seeing "The Wizard of Oz," he learned the hard way,
I also knew the last storyteller Steven, a filmmaker, from his days with Project Resolution.
Tonight's story was about growing his career while his parents' marriage disintegrated and his family home was sold.
All the while, he kept telling himself that his film work, which was significant, was what was important.
He worked with Daniel Day Lewis and James Woods, after all.
"I'm being called the wrong name by the someone on 'Arrested Development,'" he said as proof of how his career was on track.
But it was when, "I'm being tickled by a two-time Oscar winner because he liked to hear me laugh," he said, that he realized, "I wanna go home now."
Something about having no real home had finally gotten to him.
"Where do I go when I don't want fingers in my chest hair?" he pondered.
Where, indeed?
Wreckage is as wreckage does, I always say.
At least, that's what I say after a thoroughly fascinating night of hearing bits of other people's lives.
Secretly, y'all, I'm all ears.
Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story's theme this month was "wreckage," and who among us doesn't like to hear about the shambles of other people's lives?
I'll freely admit to being an audio voyeur of the highest order.
The evening began with a long-time friend, Glynn, telling her story of "Wreckage I" about her Dad, a star athlete who lettered in four sports.
She even brought one of his letters. How cool is that?
He went on to fly planes and in 1936, there was a crash into another plane (not his fault), a failed parachute, a crash landing, and eventually two strokes.
The beauty of the story came when she told of accompanying her Dad to his high school reunion years later when the stroke impaired his ability to speak.
His first order of business was to go up to some of his fellow Japanese students and with a nod to Glynn, say, "Tell them."
She understood and apologized to them for the interments and land grabbing done by the U.S. government.
His next "Tell them," had her explaining to fellow students what had happened to him to bring him from Big Man on Campus to the man he was now.
That business over, he turned to her and said, "Now let's blow this pop stand."
Glynn is a consummate storyteller and her closer knocked the socks off the audience.
Next up was Les, telling about an attempt at a trip to NYC by him and two army buddies in 1960 for some R & R.
A failing generator caused their Hudson to die in Dawn, again in Washington and right at the start of the cherry blossom parade before an 18-hour trip home.
Not very restful or recreational.
Dave Brockie of GWAR went next and I'd heard from one of the organizers that he'd said he had a story to tell as far back as the very first Secretly Y'All and was just now getting on stage.
His tale of a misspent youth in the Zero Rat Race Messers gang involved setting baby dolls on fire.
When he admitted, "So we graduated to lighting a whole house on fire," he followed with, "I'm getting smiles and I'm getting frowns."
I guess it depends on whose house you're torching.
Wendy's story was "How I Lost My Fear of the Dark," and involved "doing the things unsupervised kids do," always a scary subject.
With a brother doing his best to scare her to death on a daily basis, she ended up being terrorized by her right arm.
Maybe you had to be there, but it was pretty funny.
We heard John's saga of "Me and the Canoe," which began at Pocahontas camp at father/son day.
"Dad's experience with canoes was riding the subway," he deadpanned. "And my Dad had an afro and none of the other dads had afros."
One of his funniest observations was, "EST is the way baby boomers rationalize being really self-absorbed."
When he ran out of time, he finished with, "Thank you. That's half of my canoe story."
But that's the way Secretly Y'All rolls.
You get five to seven minutes to tell a story and then the metaphorical hook comes out and pulls you offstage.
I also knew the next storyteller, Pinson, a talented drummer I've seen many times.
His story was "I Once was Lost but Now I'm Found" and told the story of his Cambodian father's (same name, too) time in the Cambodian navy.
When the Kmher Rouge began taking over, his father presciently converted most of his paychecks into gold sheets.
Laughing, Pinson said, "That's some weirdo Pinson Sr. shit," saying that it wouldn't have occurred to most people to do the same.
His father stored the gold in the cuff of his black jean jacket, wearing it non-stop from then on.
Pinson Sr. eventually escaped on a Kmher Rouge boat, going non-stop for hours to make it to safety (he thought) in Thailand.
He told Pinson it was the most psychedelic moments of his life.
And that's why I go to Secretly Y'All, folks.
I could have gone my whole life without hearing a Kmher Rouge story from someone whose father lived it.
Now I don't have to.
During the intermission, eager storytellers put their names in a hat for their chance to share wreckage tales.
First up was Herschel and his memories of a corpse bride were tragic and heartfelt.
"She taught me a fear of pipes, alleys and grates," he said.
Truth is, not every one can tell a story about a friend dying.
Clay told of being raised on twelve acres in Beaverdam by a Baptist preacher who punished him by making him build things.
Things like stone walls and split rail fences.
It got funny when he told of forging his mother's name so he could go to Skateland after she said no.
Needless to say, she found out and he had to build a woodshed. At ten years old.
"By the way, it was totally worth it because I got to hold a girl's hand for the first time," he said.
Despite the hard lessons learned (and almost cutting off a few fingers sawing), he concluded by saying he was grateful for his childhood because, "I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in my circle of friends who can build anything besides a sculpture."
Now there's a positive take on a strict upbringing.
As he left the stage, organizer and emcee Colin joked, "You know, Jesus was a carpenter, Clay."
Laughs abounded tonight.
Karen began by saying, "This is when the drunk people get up and tell stories."
Hers was about an alcoholic father, a family vacation in Florida and her Dad deciding to pee in an orange juice bottle as they drove up I-95.
Being a tightwad, he first made his son drink the juice which the son took delight in doing very slowly.
Gayle began by saying, "Is Glynn still here? No? Good because it takes chutzpah to get up on this stage after her story."
Amen to that, brother.
His tale of working at an ad agency and trying to save a client was a lesson in doing your homework first.
Kids in Germany and Holland are not raised seeing "The Wizard of Oz," he learned the hard way,
I also knew the last storyteller Steven, a filmmaker, from his days with Project Resolution.
Tonight's story was about growing his career while his parents' marriage disintegrated and his family home was sold.
All the while, he kept telling himself that his film work, which was significant, was what was important.
He worked with Daniel Day Lewis and James Woods, after all.
"I'm being called the wrong name by the someone on 'Arrested Development,'" he said as proof of how his career was on track.
But it was when, "I'm being tickled by a two-time Oscar winner because he liked to hear me laugh," he said, that he realized, "I wanna go home now."
Something about having no real home had finally gotten to him.
"Where do I go when I don't want fingers in my chest hair?" he pondered.
Where, indeed?
Wreckage is as wreckage does, I always say.
At least, that's what I say after a thoroughly fascinating night of hearing bits of other people's lives.
Secretly, y'all, I'm all ears.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Be Still, My Oscillating Heart
If you're going to take someone on a first date and impress them, tonight was the time to do it.
It was the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema and Way, Shape or Form was playing.
The name meant nothing to me but Allen, the guy who chooses the bands and records the show, has an unerring ear for choosing the best local music to showcase.
So my companion and I made sure to arrive in time to grab a prime seat and munch on some focaccia and sip Dolcetta d'Alba while the band set up.
My carefully-laid plan was for naught, though, when all at once an influx of people, no doubt fans and friends of the band, showed up en masse and my view was lost.
On the bright side, a girlfriend showed up unexpectedly, so her company helped compensate for the tallest man on earth deciding to stand directly in front of me.
It was about 30 seconds in when the music-lover I'd brought with me turned, grinned and acknowledged, "This is right up your alley. This is Karen music."
And, boy, was it ever.
Ipanema is a small space and the band was a four-piece with drums.
While the drummer definitely qualified as a hard-hitter and he'd covered his drums to soften the sound, it was the interesting time signatures that got my attention.
"The drummer is holding it down," my friend said.
I admit I'm a sucker for electronica and the band's poppy songs used it brilliantly to move the songs forward.
The jazzy guitars did the same, never too loud or intrusive, but always winding their way into my ear.
There was so much going on that I felt like I was listening to math rock filtered through a pop punk aesthetic (and I say pop punk rather than just pop due to their ages) and the result was speaking to my inner music geek directly.
I was pretty much in heaven, but as I soon noticed, so were the people on either side of me.
Some songs had lyrics, some didn't, but the rapt crowd was as engaged with one as the other.
As I listened to leader Troy's confessional-sounding vocals, I marveled at how I hadn't yet heard of these guys.
I am, after all, out hearing live music three or four nights a week.
Let's just say I've already put their vinyl release show into my calendar (or, as my fellow Gemini called it, my "prehistoric Blackberry."), very much looking forward to hearing a longer set next time.
Tonight's ended way too soon and Troy said, "It's really packed in here. Thanks! We have t-shirts for sale, long sleeves for the cool times."
Except that the room was anything but cool because of the mass of humanity who had crowded in to hear these guys.
Mingling afterwards, I was curious as to what Troy had been listening to and wasn't the least surprised to hear that we'd both been to Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
Even later still, I ran into a favorite friend coming in, only to learn he'd been on a date there the whole time.
He'd brought his date for dinner and music, and she, being a relative newcomer to Richmond's scene, had marveled at what a great show it had been, wondering how often stuff like this happened.
"Pretty much all the time, if you know where to go," my bearded friend had assured her.
All I can say is if a guy took me on a first date to an intimate show at Ipanema featuring a local band as talented/catchy/listenable as Way, Shape or Form, I'd ask him for a second date.
And that's saying something.
It was the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema and Way, Shape or Form was playing.
The name meant nothing to me but Allen, the guy who chooses the bands and records the show, has an unerring ear for choosing the best local music to showcase.
So my companion and I made sure to arrive in time to grab a prime seat and munch on some focaccia and sip Dolcetta d'Alba while the band set up.
My carefully-laid plan was for naught, though, when all at once an influx of people, no doubt fans and friends of the band, showed up en masse and my view was lost.
On the bright side, a girlfriend showed up unexpectedly, so her company helped compensate for the tallest man on earth deciding to stand directly in front of me.
It was about 30 seconds in when the music-lover I'd brought with me turned, grinned and acknowledged, "This is right up your alley. This is Karen music."
And, boy, was it ever.
Ipanema is a small space and the band was a four-piece with drums.
While the drummer definitely qualified as a hard-hitter and he'd covered his drums to soften the sound, it was the interesting time signatures that got my attention.
"The drummer is holding it down," my friend said.
I admit I'm a sucker for electronica and the band's poppy songs used it brilliantly to move the songs forward.
The jazzy guitars did the same, never too loud or intrusive, but always winding their way into my ear.
There was so much going on that I felt like I was listening to math rock filtered through a pop punk aesthetic (and I say pop punk rather than just pop due to their ages) and the result was speaking to my inner music geek directly.
I was pretty much in heaven, but as I soon noticed, so were the people on either side of me.
Some songs had lyrics, some didn't, but the rapt crowd was as engaged with one as the other.
As I listened to leader Troy's confessional-sounding vocals, I marveled at how I hadn't yet heard of these guys.
I am, after all, out hearing live music three or four nights a week.
Let's just say I've already put their vinyl release show into my calendar (or, as my fellow Gemini called it, my "prehistoric Blackberry."), very much looking forward to hearing a longer set next time.
Tonight's ended way too soon and Troy said, "It's really packed in here. Thanks! We have t-shirts for sale, long sleeves for the cool times."
Except that the room was anything but cool because of the mass of humanity who had crowded in to hear these guys.
Mingling afterwards, I was curious as to what Troy had been listening to and wasn't the least surprised to hear that we'd both been to Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
Even later still, I ran into a favorite friend coming in, only to learn he'd been on a date there the whole time.
He'd brought his date for dinner and music, and she, being a relative newcomer to Richmond's scene, had marveled at what a great show it had been, wondering how often stuff like this happened.
"Pretty much all the time, if you know where to go," my bearded friend had assured her.
All I can say is if a guy took me on a first date to an intimate show at Ipanema featuring a local band as talented/catchy/listenable as Way, Shape or Form, I'd ask him for a second date.
And that's saying something.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Go Hard or Go Home
As romantic gestures go, it was pretty wonderful.
Not that I went to Richmond Comedy Coalition's "Richmond Famous" night for romance.
No, I went, as I always do, to see a local celebrity tell some personal stories and then be skewered for them by a talented bunch of improv comedians.
Tonight's willing victim was Marc Cheatham, he who does the popular "Cheat's Movement" blog.
That is, when he's not working his day job as Tim Kaine's scheduler.
"You're the first audience I can tell my Tim Kaine stories to," he laughed, explaining that he'd refrained until the election was over.
Good way to keep your job, Cheats.
He said that if Kaine hadn't had political aspirations that he'd have made a great DJ.
Marc mentioned some of the senator's favorite bands, like Gorillaz, and De La Soul, to which somebody in the crowd said, "What?"
When he mentioned "Gnarls Barkley, especially CeLo Green." another person shouted, "Awesome."
Apparently some people are surprised when politicians turn out to be real people with decent musical taste.
Cheatham's first story involved all the famous people he and Kaine had met traveling together over the years.
Well, that opened the door for Richmond Comedy Coalition to riff on Applebees ("Where you can get, like, five entrees for five dollars"), self-promotion ("I'll TMZ all over you"), sexual humor ("Please let two men be men") and hosting a talk show in your basement with your mother yelling at your guests ("Tell DJ Shadow those Bagel Bites aren't free!").
Marc told of "not being ashamed of wasting a ridiculous amount of time watching bad reality TV" with his girlfriend, of whom he also said, "And I'm not ashamed we met on an online dating site, Match.com."
Then he got sentimental on us, saying, "Sometimes you really do find the love of your life," before pulling out a ring box and calling his girlfriend to the stage.
There, he dropped to one knee and proposed and she said yes.
Naturally, the room went wild applauding at having been a party to the moment.
The RCC looked just as stunned, and yet they now were expected to make comedy out of that.
Kaine stood up from his seat in the front row, pointed at them and yelled, "Top that!"
It was impossible, although the moment when one of the comedians, David, grabbed his comedian girlfriend, Katie, and dropped to one knee was amusing for what he proposed.
"Will you scratch my itch?" he asked sincerely, pointing to somewhere between his legs.
They recovered enough to have a Match.com HQ skit with a guy complaining that he had signed up looking for an arsonist and had no luck finding one, despite years of looking at profiles.
They ended after one of the improv guys inquired of Marc's new fiancee, "Aren't you worried at all that you're marrying a guy whose last name is Cheats?"
It was a fine and funny way to end the comedic portion of the evening.
Then it was time for us to fold up our chairs and stack them to the side, "So we can get our grind on," as comedian David so eloquently put it.
I heard during the break that Cheats had actually proposed before the show after his Mom had warned him that springing a proposal on a woman in public is never a good idea.
But it didn't detract from the tableaux we'd seen since both were clearly still feeling the newness of it all.
And then it was music time.
Up first was Just Plain Sounds, with an emphasis on the Hon. Sleaze.
They got points for taking suggestions from the audience for words to rap with.
"Sasquatch" and "cigarettes" were chosen and damned if they didn't manage to rap using both repeatedly.
Favorite line: "When I'm in a pickle, I just relish it."
Now that's good stuff.
Playing second was one of my long-time favorite bands, Glows in the Dark and, as always, they never fail to impress.
The guy behind me was prepping the girls with him by telling them, "Nothing sounds like an electric hollow body. Just wait until you hear this."
And Scott Burton's guitar playing is a delight to hear, but so is Reggie's trombone and flawless percussion, the incredibly tight rhythm section of Cameron and Scott and John's wailing sax.
Add to that cinematic songs that seem to be scoring an imaginary film (or maybe just the life I'm living) and I'm in heaven.
As I'd reminded a music buddy of mine earlier in the evening, I fell in love with this band five years ago when several friends were telling me they just didn't "get" Glows.
Their loss if they're just now seeing the talent, but better late than never.
Glows finished with a couple of John Carpenter songs, no surprise to me since I've seen them do all-Carpenter sets on a couple of occasions and always marveled at Scott's mastery at turning keyboard-based music into a score for his keyboard-less jazz band.
Cheats had saved Photosynthesizers for last, a shame only because the crowd had thinned.
But the crowd that was left reveled in their live multi-instrumental hip-hop (minus one regular) and high energy set.
As as they like to do, they finished with "We go hard," as true a lyric as was ever sung/rapped.
Because going out for comedy and music and having a U.S. senator in the front row and a proposal on stage followed by three bands is about as hard as I need to go on this Saturday night.
But talk about relishing.
Not that I went to Richmond Comedy Coalition's "Richmond Famous" night for romance.
No, I went, as I always do, to see a local celebrity tell some personal stories and then be skewered for them by a talented bunch of improv comedians.
Tonight's willing victim was Marc Cheatham, he who does the popular "Cheat's Movement" blog.
That is, when he's not working his day job as Tim Kaine's scheduler.
"You're the first audience I can tell my Tim Kaine stories to," he laughed, explaining that he'd refrained until the election was over.
Good way to keep your job, Cheats.
He said that if Kaine hadn't had political aspirations that he'd have made a great DJ.
Marc mentioned some of the senator's favorite bands, like Gorillaz, and De La Soul, to which somebody in the crowd said, "What?"
When he mentioned "Gnarls Barkley, especially CeLo Green." another person shouted, "Awesome."
Apparently some people are surprised when politicians turn out to be real people with decent musical taste.
Cheatham's first story involved all the famous people he and Kaine had met traveling together over the years.
Well, that opened the door for Richmond Comedy Coalition to riff on Applebees ("Where you can get, like, five entrees for five dollars"), self-promotion ("I'll TMZ all over you"), sexual humor ("Please let two men be men") and hosting a talk show in your basement with your mother yelling at your guests ("Tell DJ Shadow those Bagel Bites aren't free!").
Marc told of "not being ashamed of wasting a ridiculous amount of time watching bad reality TV" with his girlfriend, of whom he also said, "And I'm not ashamed we met on an online dating site, Match.com."
Then he got sentimental on us, saying, "Sometimes you really do find the love of your life," before pulling out a ring box and calling his girlfriend to the stage.
There, he dropped to one knee and proposed and she said yes.
Naturally, the room went wild applauding at having been a party to the moment.
The RCC looked just as stunned, and yet they now were expected to make comedy out of that.
Kaine stood up from his seat in the front row, pointed at them and yelled, "Top that!"
It was impossible, although the moment when one of the comedians, David, grabbed his comedian girlfriend, Katie, and dropped to one knee was amusing for what he proposed.
"Will you scratch my itch?" he asked sincerely, pointing to somewhere between his legs.
They recovered enough to have a Match.com HQ skit with a guy complaining that he had signed up looking for an arsonist and had no luck finding one, despite years of looking at profiles.
They ended after one of the improv guys inquired of Marc's new fiancee, "Aren't you worried at all that you're marrying a guy whose last name is Cheats?"
It was a fine and funny way to end the comedic portion of the evening.
Then it was time for us to fold up our chairs and stack them to the side, "So we can get our grind on," as comedian David so eloquently put it.
I heard during the break that Cheats had actually proposed before the show after his Mom had warned him that springing a proposal on a woman in public is never a good idea.
But it didn't detract from the tableaux we'd seen since both were clearly still feeling the newness of it all.
And then it was music time.
Up first was Just Plain Sounds, with an emphasis on the Hon. Sleaze.
They got points for taking suggestions from the audience for words to rap with.
"Sasquatch" and "cigarettes" were chosen and damned if they didn't manage to rap using both repeatedly.
Favorite line: "When I'm in a pickle, I just relish it."
Now that's good stuff.
Playing second was one of my long-time favorite bands, Glows in the Dark and, as always, they never fail to impress.
The guy behind me was prepping the girls with him by telling them, "Nothing sounds like an electric hollow body. Just wait until you hear this."
And Scott Burton's guitar playing is a delight to hear, but so is Reggie's trombone and flawless percussion, the incredibly tight rhythm section of Cameron and Scott and John's wailing sax.
Add to that cinematic songs that seem to be scoring an imaginary film (or maybe just the life I'm living) and I'm in heaven.
As I'd reminded a music buddy of mine earlier in the evening, I fell in love with this band five years ago when several friends were telling me they just didn't "get" Glows.
Their loss if they're just now seeing the talent, but better late than never.
Glows finished with a couple of John Carpenter songs, no surprise to me since I've seen them do all-Carpenter sets on a couple of occasions and always marveled at Scott's mastery at turning keyboard-based music into a score for his keyboard-less jazz band.
Cheats had saved Photosynthesizers for last, a shame only because the crowd had thinned.
But the crowd that was left reveled in their live multi-instrumental hip-hop (minus one regular) and high energy set.
As as they like to do, they finished with "We go hard," as true a lyric as was ever sung/rapped.
Because going out for comedy and music and having a U.S. senator in the front row and a proposal on stage followed by three bands is about as hard as I need to go on this Saturday night.
But talk about relishing.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
To George, With Love
You're never really prepared for it, no matter when it happens.
Even so, when I got the word that an ex had died, it rocked my world.
Yes, he was decidedly older, but still too young to be gone.
Today a memorial was held for him at the VMFA, where he worked for a quarter of a century in the publications department.
He was an excellent writer and editor, with a true gift for putting words together and excising the unnecessary ones.
But his contribution to the museum went so much deeper than the catalogs and annual reports and other things he wrote for them.
He had a passion for photography, both the taking and collecting of photographs and, back in the early '70s, he approached the museum's director, suggesting that it was time to start collecting photographs for the collection.
Mind you, most museums at this time were still disdainful of photography as a fine art.
But he was persuasive enough to eke out a small allotted budget and assiduously began collecting important pieces.
And when I say important, I mean the big names, names like Steichen, Cartier-Bresson, Man Ray, Weegee.
The man had an uncanny ability to foresee which artists would eventually be considered the major forces.
But he also acquired the work of local photographers because, after all, we are a state museum.
All the while, he was amassing his own collection, a passion he relished and one made even easier with the advent of the Internet.
After he left the museum, we worked together for years at a local publishing company before our relationship took root.
I hired him as an editor because of his witty repartee during the interview and the fact that he lived on Floyd Avenue, also my home street.
Our shared love of Floyd Avenue bored many a co-worker, but I appreciated someone who got my devotion to the quirky street that was the red-headed cousin to mighty Grove and Hanover.
But I was attracted to him because of a shared love of art, books, music and conversation.
When we first started dating, he compared his life before to being with me as "the shock of the new."
What he had to explain to me was that the phrase was a book title.
Robert Hughes' "The Shock of the New" looked at the development of art post-Impressionism but written in a witty and insightful way that made it accessible even to non-art geeks.
Despite already being just that, I immediately went out, bought and read all 425 pages as quickly as possible.
His music roots obviously went back much further than mine, including a memory of seeing Dave Brubeck when he was in college.
Even so, I wasn't the least bit surprised to check out his CD collection in 2000 and find grunge, namely Pearl Jam's first two albums from the early '90s.
Or the low rock of Morphine.
And our conversations ranged from his long-ago days as a college athlete to shows he'd curated to how he'd earned his nickname at the VMFA, "the loose cannon."
He was an enthusiastic gardener who'd go out back and pull radishes from the ground, serving them to me simply washed and next to a bowl of sea salt.
An avid baker, he'd bake me a loaf of bread of varying kinds every Sunday during the cold months and bring it over in a brown paper bag.
He must have tried ten variations on rye because it was a favorite of mine.
Appalled at my ancient and dull bread knife, he promptly bought me a good one, which I still use today.
He joined me on my daily walks, complaining sometimes about my faster pace, accusing me of "putting the after-burners on," but keeping up anyway.
A hand-thrown green bowl he gave me for my birthday still sits on a pedestal in my hallway, the daily recipient of my keys and gloves.
And while the relationship eventually ended, my respect and admiration for him did not.
It was clear that many, many people felt the same when I saw the huge crowd that came out to the memorial at the museum today.
They had to bring in extra chairs the crowd grew so large.
And yet, if you'd asked him who would come to his service, he'd have self-effacingly expected his long-time drinking/fishing/art buddies and his kids.
And they were there, sure, but so were scads of other people.
One of the best tributes came from curator Sarah Eckhardt, who showed a variety of the superb photographs he had presciently acquired all those decades ago.
Which brings me to what should be the best part about the loss of a man who changed Richmond's art scene for the better.
Now that the renovated VMFA has a dedicated photography gallery, I would like to suggest to the powers-that-be that it be named the George Albert Cruger Gallery.
It only makes sense and I can't imagine a more fitting tribute for a man who followed his passion for photography his entire life.
VMFA, are you listening?
Even so, when I got the word that an ex had died, it rocked my world.
Yes, he was decidedly older, but still too young to be gone.
Today a memorial was held for him at the VMFA, where he worked for a quarter of a century in the publications department.
He was an excellent writer and editor, with a true gift for putting words together and excising the unnecessary ones.
But his contribution to the museum went so much deeper than the catalogs and annual reports and other things he wrote for them.
He had a passion for photography, both the taking and collecting of photographs and, back in the early '70s, he approached the museum's director, suggesting that it was time to start collecting photographs for the collection.
Mind you, most museums at this time were still disdainful of photography as a fine art.
But he was persuasive enough to eke out a small allotted budget and assiduously began collecting important pieces.
And when I say important, I mean the big names, names like Steichen, Cartier-Bresson, Man Ray, Weegee.
The man had an uncanny ability to foresee which artists would eventually be considered the major forces.
But he also acquired the work of local photographers because, after all, we are a state museum.
All the while, he was amassing his own collection, a passion he relished and one made even easier with the advent of the Internet.
After he left the museum, we worked together for years at a local publishing company before our relationship took root.
I hired him as an editor because of his witty repartee during the interview and the fact that he lived on Floyd Avenue, also my home street.
Our shared love of Floyd Avenue bored many a co-worker, but I appreciated someone who got my devotion to the quirky street that was the red-headed cousin to mighty Grove and Hanover.
But I was attracted to him because of a shared love of art, books, music and conversation.
When we first started dating, he compared his life before to being with me as "the shock of the new."
What he had to explain to me was that the phrase was a book title.
Robert Hughes' "The Shock of the New" looked at the development of art post-Impressionism but written in a witty and insightful way that made it accessible even to non-art geeks.
Despite already being just that, I immediately went out, bought and read all 425 pages as quickly as possible.
His music roots obviously went back much further than mine, including a memory of seeing Dave Brubeck when he was in college.
Even so, I wasn't the least bit surprised to check out his CD collection in 2000 and find grunge, namely Pearl Jam's first two albums from the early '90s.
Or the low rock of Morphine.
And our conversations ranged from his long-ago days as a college athlete to shows he'd curated to how he'd earned his nickname at the VMFA, "the loose cannon."
He was an enthusiastic gardener who'd go out back and pull radishes from the ground, serving them to me simply washed and next to a bowl of sea salt.
An avid baker, he'd bake me a loaf of bread of varying kinds every Sunday during the cold months and bring it over in a brown paper bag.
He must have tried ten variations on rye because it was a favorite of mine.
Appalled at my ancient and dull bread knife, he promptly bought me a good one, which I still use today.
He joined me on my daily walks, complaining sometimes about my faster pace, accusing me of "putting the after-burners on," but keeping up anyway.
A hand-thrown green bowl he gave me for my birthday still sits on a pedestal in my hallway, the daily recipient of my keys and gloves.
And while the relationship eventually ended, my respect and admiration for him did not.
It was clear that many, many people felt the same when I saw the huge crowd that came out to the memorial at the museum today.
They had to bring in extra chairs the crowd grew so large.
And yet, if you'd asked him who would come to his service, he'd have self-effacingly expected his long-time drinking/fishing/art buddies and his kids.
And they were there, sure, but so were scads of other people.
One of the best tributes came from curator Sarah Eckhardt, who showed a variety of the superb photographs he had presciently acquired all those decades ago.
Which brings me to what should be the best part about the loss of a man who changed Richmond's art scene for the better.
Now that the renovated VMFA has a dedicated photography gallery, I would like to suggest to the powers-that-be that it be named the George Albert Cruger Gallery.
It only makes sense and I can't imagine a more fitting tribute for a man who followed his passion for photography his entire life.
VMFA, are you listening?
Night Creeping on Apace
As Swedish pop master Jens Lekman put it, "It's a young Friday night."
Or at least it was when I arrived at the VMFA for Capitol Opera Richmond's evening of "Famous Arias and Duets."
The fairly recent company is the fifth in the group of all volunteer opera companies begun in state capitols and targeting community involvement.
Given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket (according to my paternal grandmother), my involvement is attending and applause.
Seated in the atrium, our hostess said it would be a program of "art songs and selections from H.M.S. Pinafore," which Cap Op (yes, I am already abbreviating it) would be performing March 8th and 9th at Henrico Theater.
"We're going to play for you for the next hour, or two if you want to sit here that long," she informed us.
Stephanie came out in a long, green dress and sang "The Hours Creep on Apace" from H.M.S. Pinafore.
Favorite line: "Oh, god of love and god of reason, say
Which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?
Isn't that the eternal question?
Next up was Jason, dressed far more casually, and doing another H.M.S. song before he and Stephanie did a duet.
Meanwhile, the seats in the atrium were all but full, with many couples sharing a bottle of wine while they listened to opera.
It was certainly an imbibing crowd.
From the two staircases and landings leading upstairs, people paused to watch and listen from above, some lingering for only a minute and others taking up residence for the duration.
Me, I was perfectly happy in a chair not far from the guy with the bad toupee and the old hippie chick with the floor-length skirt and poncho.
Michael took the stage and announced he'd be doing "an oddball collection of songs" by Schumann and Debussy.
"I don't know how many people here are Debussy fans," he said as I watched knowing nods from a healthy number of heads.
His voice was stellar.
Fran came up to do what she called "Mozart art songs," promising a translation before each.
"The Violet" was a song of a flower trampled by a foot (an all-too frequent tragedy), two she called "Mozart being funny," one about contentment and the other beginning with, "Men are always looking for a woman to nibble."
And is there anything really wrong with that?
"The Parting Song" was as sad as you'd expect from the title.
As I was watching this parade of opera singing, it occurred to me that I'd seen very different music on this stage before.
For the museum's opening, it was one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, with guitarist Adam playing in a suit and barefoot, wailing on his guitar.
Shortly thereafter, it was Alejandro Escovedo, he of the first wave punk scene before moving on to a harder roots rock sound and playing to a packed house for the return to the Jumpin' in July series.
In other words, very different than what I was hearing tonight.
And yet I was glad I'd come. Perhaps not as deeply as the people with their eyes closed during the singing, but enjoying it nonetheless.
After opera, you almost have to move on to art because anything else would feel insubstantial.
Conveniently, it was First Friday and while many galleries had held over their December shows, some had new work.
1708 Gallery had Eric McMaster's "The Obstruction of Action," a fascinating look at what happens when our authentic self is altered by the rules and conditions placed upon us.
A scaled down hockey rink dominated the show and I wasted no time in walking inside it beside a kid in his socks sliding across the plastic ice.
Most interesting to me was that a hockey game of six on six plus a referee had played in that tiny rink and McMaster had filmed it.
It was playing on a nearby wall.
By far the most poignant piece was "The Obstruction of Action by the Absence of Other," a film of a couples skater doing a couples routine without his partner.
The artist had intended to film each of the couple skating alone and show them side by side but before he could, the woman had had a career-ending injury.
So watching the man skate the routine he'd created with his partner alone became incredibly moving to see.
It wasn't what the artist had intended, giving it more weight for its tragic element.
And 1708 was hopping with VMFA people, Anderson gallery types, and probably people looking for something different this artwalk.
Over at Quirk Gallery was Michael Birch-Pierce's "Honesty in Artifice," a show about looking further than the superficial to see into the wearer's mind.
It was clear that he had a degree in fashion design based on the elaborate articles of clothing he made and photographed on people.
There were also small scale works on the wall, complete with magnifying glasses for closer inspection.
Finishing with one of the magnifiers, the guy next to me raised an eyebrow and inquired, "Trade?" and we swapped places to look at each other's tiny objects and compare notes.
In the shop was Ben Hill's series of cut-up photographs of Richmond - Maymont, trestle tracks, the skyline- divided up into neat little segments that gave a geometry to familiar subjects.
We certainly are a handsome little city, aren't we?
By the time I got home, it was time to call up Holmes and find a suitable place to meet up with him and his main squeeze.
A person's got to eat to live, especially in my case. It's what I call earning a living.
Only then did this Friday night move from youth into middle age, with plenty of bubbles and laughter to ease into it.
Let's just say the god of reason was not needed.
Or at least it was when I arrived at the VMFA for Capitol Opera Richmond's evening of "Famous Arias and Duets."
The fairly recent company is the fifth in the group of all volunteer opera companies begun in state capitols and targeting community involvement.
Given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket (according to my paternal grandmother), my involvement is attending and applause.
Seated in the atrium, our hostess said it would be a program of "art songs and selections from H.M.S. Pinafore," which Cap Op (yes, I am already abbreviating it) would be performing March 8th and 9th at Henrico Theater.
"We're going to play for you for the next hour, or two if you want to sit here that long," she informed us.
Stephanie came out in a long, green dress and sang "The Hours Creep on Apace" from H.M.S. Pinafore.
Favorite line: "Oh, god of love and god of reason, say
Which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?
Isn't that the eternal question?
Next up was Jason, dressed far more casually, and doing another H.M.S. song before he and Stephanie did a duet.
Meanwhile, the seats in the atrium were all but full, with many couples sharing a bottle of wine while they listened to opera.
It was certainly an imbibing crowd.
From the two staircases and landings leading upstairs, people paused to watch and listen from above, some lingering for only a minute and others taking up residence for the duration.
Me, I was perfectly happy in a chair not far from the guy with the bad toupee and the old hippie chick with the floor-length skirt and poncho.
Michael took the stage and announced he'd be doing "an oddball collection of songs" by Schumann and Debussy.
"I don't know how many people here are Debussy fans," he said as I watched knowing nods from a healthy number of heads.
His voice was stellar.
Fran came up to do what she called "Mozart art songs," promising a translation before each.
"The Violet" was a song of a flower trampled by a foot (an all-too frequent tragedy), two she called "Mozart being funny," one about contentment and the other beginning with, "Men are always looking for a woman to nibble."
And is there anything really wrong with that?
"The Parting Song" was as sad as you'd expect from the title.
As I was watching this parade of opera singing, it occurred to me that I'd seen very different music on this stage before.
For the museum's opening, it was one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, with guitarist Adam playing in a suit and barefoot, wailing on his guitar.
Shortly thereafter, it was Alejandro Escovedo, he of the first wave punk scene before moving on to a harder roots rock sound and playing to a packed house for the return to the Jumpin' in July series.
In other words, very different than what I was hearing tonight.
And yet I was glad I'd come. Perhaps not as deeply as the people with their eyes closed during the singing, but enjoying it nonetheless.
After opera, you almost have to move on to art because anything else would feel insubstantial.
Conveniently, it was First Friday and while many galleries had held over their December shows, some had new work.
1708 Gallery had Eric McMaster's "The Obstruction of Action," a fascinating look at what happens when our authentic self is altered by the rules and conditions placed upon us.
A scaled down hockey rink dominated the show and I wasted no time in walking inside it beside a kid in his socks sliding across the plastic ice.
Most interesting to me was that a hockey game of six on six plus a referee had played in that tiny rink and McMaster had filmed it.
It was playing on a nearby wall.
By far the most poignant piece was "The Obstruction of Action by the Absence of Other," a film of a couples skater doing a couples routine without his partner.
The artist had intended to film each of the couple skating alone and show them side by side but before he could, the woman had had a career-ending injury.
So watching the man skate the routine he'd created with his partner alone became incredibly moving to see.
It wasn't what the artist had intended, giving it more weight for its tragic element.
And 1708 was hopping with VMFA people, Anderson gallery types, and probably people looking for something different this artwalk.
Over at Quirk Gallery was Michael Birch-Pierce's "Honesty in Artifice," a show about looking further than the superficial to see into the wearer's mind.
It was clear that he had a degree in fashion design based on the elaborate articles of clothing he made and photographed on people.
There were also small scale works on the wall, complete with magnifying glasses for closer inspection.
Finishing with one of the magnifiers, the guy next to me raised an eyebrow and inquired, "Trade?" and we swapped places to look at each other's tiny objects and compare notes.
In the shop was Ben Hill's series of cut-up photographs of Richmond - Maymont, trestle tracks, the skyline- divided up into neat little segments that gave a geometry to familiar subjects.
We certainly are a handsome little city, aren't we?
By the time I got home, it was time to call up Holmes and find a suitable place to meet up with him and his main squeeze.
A person's got to eat to live, especially in my case. It's what I call earning a living.
Only then did this Friday night move from youth into middle age, with plenty of bubbles and laughter to ease into it.
Let's just say the god of reason was not needed.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Getting the Party Started
I may have missed the cute boys, but at least I'm back at the business of real life.
A friend wanted to meet for dinner, so she picked me up in her warm car and we took the scenic route to Tio Pablo.
I say scenic because we drove by the work-in-progress Jackson Commons that has the neighbors' panties in a wad.
It pays to stay up on what's going on in the neighborhood.
Further east, we found rock star parking in front of Julep and moseyed down the block for Mexican.
Our purpose was twofold: to enjoy a gluten-free meal (a necessity for her) and to introduce her to the world of tequila.
As it turned out, for the second time in two days, I also introduced her to tongue.
We began with Espolon, my new favorite well-priced tequila, and moved on to tongue tacos, carnitas and an array of sides.
Guacamole, grilled onions, nopales and black beans provided more side dishes than we could finish.
I watched her take a solitary bite of tongue to gauge the taste (our bartender had described it as "pot roast" and that's not far off) before devouring the whole taco.
Another tongue convert. My chest swelled with pride.
The music was awesome, ranging from "What's Going On" to a Spanish version of "Be My Baby," and all played at a volume that, as she said, kept others from overhearing us.
Conversely, I liked that it was loud enough to add to the overall vibe so we didn't have to listen to other people's chatter.
At one point, we were deep in a discussion of the local food scene, how simple men are and how tweeting sucks the life out of a person.
Being a confirmed non-tweeter, I wouldn't know.
Suddenly her eyes widened as someone walked by and before I could formulate a thought, she said, "I think Yoda just walked by."
Not true, although the tiny man did have a certain wizened look.
Once my friend had conquered the nuances of smoky Espolon Reposado, we decided to try a second tequila to further broaden her horizons.
"86 Cazadores," the bartender told the staff moments before I tried to order one for us to share.
We settled for Hornitos Reposado, which my friend found greener and with a livelier mid-palate taste.
I was just pleased that she was finding tequila to be up her alley, although there's no telling where that might lead us in the future.
We concluded our gabfest with tres leches cake because they offered a gluten-free version which thrilled my friend no end.
Me, I was just happy about the icing.
By the time our conversation wound down, it was us and one table by the door and the bartender was bored enough to be going on smoke breaks in between telling us how she liked to alternate good tequila with white zinfandel.
You can't buy that kind of entertainment.
One thing the tequila had done to the first-timer was finish her off for the night, so she deposited me at home and I promptly went out for music.
And thank goodness we're far enough out of the holiday season that music was even an option.
Balliceaux was hosting the Richmanian Ramblers, our local purveyors of Romanian gypsy music, with Allison Self also playing.
I walked in to find a couple of good friends holding court up front, but I moved on to the back for music, sure they'd follow.
There was a stop at the front bar, where the barkeep introduced me to a handsome man with an accent, saying, "I don't know how you two haven't met before."
I guess because I don't force myself on absolutely everyone.
Lead singer Antonia is in the last month of her pregnancy, so I was surprised she was even willing to do a Ramblers show, but there she was, looking fit and fab in a non-maternity dress stretched over her perfect little baby-laden body.
Everyone must have realized that this was our last chance for gypsy music for a while because I found friends and strangers galore in back.
The photographer (using his phone rather than a camera tonight), the favorite musical couple just back from a six-month tour, the horn player switching places with me because the tallest man in the room decided to stand right in front of me, the bluegrass king, assorted Listening Room regulars.
Taking the stage, the band introduced themselves, saying, "We're the Richmanian Ramblers and we're going to play for the next 42 minutes for you."
They kept their word, moving from drinking song to toll bridge song to dowry song.
A guy came up and stood next to me at one point, leaning over to say, "I feel like people should be dancing."
It was true; with tavern music of this caliber, we should all be dancing, but sadly, no one was.
I say sadly because far too many of them were chatting over the sound of Antonia's exquisite voice singing in Romanian.
It was easily the most inattentive Ramblers audience I've yet to experience.
I'm going to cut them some slack and guess that they were just glad that they were out at a show and not still home with relatives.
But that meant they missed when the band did the "sheep love song," which Antonia defended as "not dirty" when it began with a few bars of "Mary Had a Little lamb."
Leader Nate finished by saying that he didn't know when the band could play again because Antonia's bedtime was now 8:45.
Quickly, she corrected him, reminding him that he'd wanted to schedule a show for January 28th, or roughly her due date.
Men, her look seemed to say, are such simple creatures.
During the break, I found my road tripping friend, hearing his stories from their recent tour.
We covered Chincoteague, quirky small towns, sleeping naked and nudist with shoes and socks on, all before Allison Self took the stage.
Wearing a black dress and tan cowboy boots, she proceeded to dominate the room with her big voice.
There were all the usual suspects - Carter Family, "Your Cheatin'Heart," Loretta Lynn, "Don't Come Home A-Drinkin' with Lovin' on Your Mind" as well as original material.
At one point, two thirds of the band Arise, Sweet Donkey! was onstage when Laney of Lobo Marino came up to join her former bandmate Allison for a couple of songs.
"Three years ago, this was your accordion solo," Allison told Laney mid-song.
We did at least get some harmonizing from the two before the set ended, always a real pleasure given how beautiful the two voices sound together.
And maybe that's all I needed, to hear some music to feel like things are finally righting themselves after the holiday.
When I got home, it was to a message from a girlfriend, saying, "I know it's last minute, but I'm having aget-together at Gallery 5 tonight, so come out! It's over by 11, free booze, cute guys. Wear a mini-skirt!"
That's a hell of an invitation, but I was a bit late to consider it.
Although I was already dressed perfectly for it.
Fortunately, the season has restarted, so there'll be other offers.
About damn time.
A friend wanted to meet for dinner, so she picked me up in her warm car and we took the scenic route to Tio Pablo.
I say scenic because we drove by the work-in-progress Jackson Commons that has the neighbors' panties in a wad.
It pays to stay up on what's going on in the neighborhood.
Further east, we found rock star parking in front of Julep and moseyed down the block for Mexican.
Our purpose was twofold: to enjoy a gluten-free meal (a necessity for her) and to introduce her to the world of tequila.
As it turned out, for the second time in two days, I also introduced her to tongue.
We began with Espolon, my new favorite well-priced tequila, and moved on to tongue tacos, carnitas and an array of sides.
Guacamole, grilled onions, nopales and black beans provided more side dishes than we could finish.
I watched her take a solitary bite of tongue to gauge the taste (our bartender had described it as "pot roast" and that's not far off) before devouring the whole taco.
Another tongue convert. My chest swelled with pride.
The music was awesome, ranging from "What's Going On" to a Spanish version of "Be My Baby," and all played at a volume that, as she said, kept others from overhearing us.
Conversely, I liked that it was loud enough to add to the overall vibe so we didn't have to listen to other people's chatter.
At one point, we were deep in a discussion of the local food scene, how simple men are and how tweeting sucks the life out of a person.
Being a confirmed non-tweeter, I wouldn't know.
Suddenly her eyes widened as someone walked by and before I could formulate a thought, she said, "I think Yoda just walked by."
Not true, although the tiny man did have a certain wizened look.
Once my friend had conquered the nuances of smoky Espolon Reposado, we decided to try a second tequila to further broaden her horizons.
"86 Cazadores," the bartender told the staff moments before I tried to order one for us to share.
We settled for Hornitos Reposado, which my friend found greener and with a livelier mid-palate taste.
I was just pleased that she was finding tequila to be up her alley, although there's no telling where that might lead us in the future.
We concluded our gabfest with tres leches cake because they offered a gluten-free version which thrilled my friend no end.
Me, I was just happy about the icing.
By the time our conversation wound down, it was us and one table by the door and the bartender was bored enough to be going on smoke breaks in between telling us how she liked to alternate good tequila with white zinfandel.
You can't buy that kind of entertainment.
One thing the tequila had done to the first-timer was finish her off for the night, so she deposited me at home and I promptly went out for music.
And thank goodness we're far enough out of the holiday season that music was even an option.
Balliceaux was hosting the Richmanian Ramblers, our local purveyors of Romanian gypsy music, with Allison Self also playing.
I walked in to find a couple of good friends holding court up front, but I moved on to the back for music, sure they'd follow.
There was a stop at the front bar, where the barkeep introduced me to a handsome man with an accent, saying, "I don't know how you two haven't met before."
I guess because I don't force myself on absolutely everyone.
Lead singer Antonia is in the last month of her pregnancy, so I was surprised she was even willing to do a Ramblers show, but there she was, looking fit and fab in a non-maternity dress stretched over her perfect little baby-laden body.
Everyone must have realized that this was our last chance for gypsy music for a while because I found friends and strangers galore in back.
The photographer (using his phone rather than a camera tonight), the favorite musical couple just back from a six-month tour, the horn player switching places with me because the tallest man in the room decided to stand right in front of me, the bluegrass king, assorted Listening Room regulars.
Taking the stage, the band introduced themselves, saying, "We're the Richmanian Ramblers and we're going to play for the next 42 minutes for you."
They kept their word, moving from drinking song to toll bridge song to dowry song.
A guy came up and stood next to me at one point, leaning over to say, "I feel like people should be dancing."
It was true; with tavern music of this caliber, we should all be dancing, but sadly, no one was.
I say sadly because far too many of them were chatting over the sound of Antonia's exquisite voice singing in Romanian.
It was easily the most inattentive Ramblers audience I've yet to experience.
I'm going to cut them some slack and guess that they were just glad that they were out at a show and not still home with relatives.
But that meant they missed when the band did the "sheep love song," which Antonia defended as "not dirty" when it began with a few bars of "Mary Had a Little lamb."
Leader Nate finished by saying that he didn't know when the band could play again because Antonia's bedtime was now 8:45.
Quickly, she corrected him, reminding him that he'd wanted to schedule a show for January 28th, or roughly her due date.
Men, her look seemed to say, are such simple creatures.
During the break, I found my road tripping friend, hearing his stories from their recent tour.
We covered Chincoteague, quirky small towns, sleeping naked and nudist with shoes and socks on, all before Allison Self took the stage.
Wearing a black dress and tan cowboy boots, she proceeded to dominate the room with her big voice.
There were all the usual suspects - Carter Family, "Your Cheatin'Heart," Loretta Lynn, "Don't Come Home A-Drinkin' with Lovin' on Your Mind" as well as original material.
At one point, two thirds of the band Arise, Sweet Donkey! was onstage when Laney of Lobo Marino came up to join her former bandmate Allison for a couple of songs.
"Three years ago, this was your accordion solo," Allison told Laney mid-song.
We did at least get some harmonizing from the two before the set ended, always a real pleasure given how beautiful the two voices sound together.
And maybe that's all I needed, to hear some music to feel like things are finally righting themselves after the holiday.
When I got home, it was to a message from a girlfriend, saying, "I know it's last minute, but I'm having aget-together at Gallery 5 tonight, so come out! It's over by 11, free booze, cute guys. Wear a mini-skirt!"
That's a hell of an invitation, but I was a bit late to consider it.
Although I was already dressed perfectly for it.
Fortunately, the season has restarted, so there'll be other offers.
About damn time.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Take From Me My Lace
It was time to close the door on the holiday season, at least for me.
I'm fine with decking the halls and all that fa-la-la-la-la up to a point and then I just want real life to resume.
Step one was visiting the parental units on the northern neck for lunch and gifting.
One highlight was the time spent on the dock on this winter afternoon, the tide rolling in and the sun fighting with the clouds for dominance.
Sure, my legs got a little cold, but it was worth it for the brisk air and sunlight sparkling on the river.
Back home, it was time for the Christmas tree to become mulch (first I drop it off the balcony) and my apartment to be returned to rights.
A little night music would have been nice, but I settled for a good old fashioned night at the pizza parlor.
Mary Angela's won out for no good reason.
I rarely go there, it's a Richmond staple, I was in the mood for pizza after some really nice meals lately.
All or none of the above.
The chosen pizza was New York style, white sauce, sausage and spinach, the chosen beverage root beer drunk from the bottle.
But it almost shot out of my nose when I realized what music was playing.
"Flashdance." As in, what a feeling.
How had I not seen this coming?
For my partner in pizza, that moment came when the Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night" came on.
You know the one.
Gonna rock it up, roll it up, do it all, have a ball
Saturday night, Saturday night
Of course, he's also said he's looking for a girl who likes the Bay City Rollers and the Ramones and I told him good luck with that.
The music continued in the tragically geriatric mode with bands like Supertramp and R.E.O. Speedwagon until I wanted to bang my head on the scarred table.
Please make it stop.
But then a true chestnut came on, the Stevie Nicks/Don Henley duet "Leather and Lace," the kind of song long forgotten by most people alive in the '80s.
People like me, for instance.
If ever there was a moment when that song should have come on, though, it was as I sat in a booth at Mary Angela's slurping pizza and slugging root beer.
You in the moonlight
With your sleepy eyes
Could you ever love a man like me?
That said, I feel like I just paid my classic rock dues for the year.
Now can I do it all, have a ball in 2013?
Let's get this year started before I explode.
I'm fine with decking the halls and all that fa-la-la-la-la up to a point and then I just want real life to resume.
Step one was visiting the parental units on the northern neck for lunch and gifting.
One highlight was the time spent on the dock on this winter afternoon, the tide rolling in and the sun fighting with the clouds for dominance.
Sure, my legs got a little cold, but it was worth it for the brisk air and sunlight sparkling on the river.
Back home, it was time for the Christmas tree to become mulch (first I drop it off the balcony) and my apartment to be returned to rights.
A little night music would have been nice, but I settled for a good old fashioned night at the pizza parlor.
Mary Angela's won out for no good reason.
I rarely go there, it's a Richmond staple, I was in the mood for pizza after some really nice meals lately.
All or none of the above.
The chosen pizza was New York style, white sauce, sausage and spinach, the chosen beverage root beer drunk from the bottle.
But it almost shot out of my nose when I realized what music was playing.
"Flashdance." As in, what a feeling.
How had I not seen this coming?
For my partner in pizza, that moment came when the Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night" came on.
You know the one.
Gonna rock it up, roll it up, do it all, have a ball
Saturday night, Saturday night
Of course, he's also said he's looking for a girl who likes the Bay City Rollers and the Ramones and I told him good luck with that.
The music continued in the tragically geriatric mode with bands like Supertramp and R.E.O. Speedwagon until I wanted to bang my head on the scarred table.
Please make it stop.
But then a true chestnut came on, the Stevie Nicks/Don Henley duet "Leather and Lace," the kind of song long forgotten by most people alive in the '80s.
People like me, for instance.
If ever there was a moment when that song should have come on, though, it was as I sat in a booth at Mary Angela's slurping pizza and slugging root beer.
You in the moonlight
With your sleepy eyes
Could you ever love a man like me?
That said, I feel like I just paid my classic rock dues for the year.
Now can I do it all, have a ball in 2013?
Let's get this year started before I explode.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Tongue to Tongue
Last year, it was a first day hike.
This year, a first day brunch.
When a friend and I heard that Pasture was doing a Mexican brunch, we immediately committed to it.
I'd been to Comfort's Mexican brunch a couple of years ago and remember the thrill of eating off a south of the border menu instead of the usual southern comfort food.
This was to be the same thing.
Walking in to a half full restaurant, the hostess, looking cute in a ruffled skirt and boots, led us to a front window table.
I'd expected a bigger crowd, but it was already going on 3:00 and apparently the crowds had arrived en masse on the dot of 11 when they first opened.
My question was, who the hell is up that early on New Year's Day? And why?
The menu was far more extensive than what I'd remembered last time, meaning the decision making process was more challenging.
All except the given, tacos lingua.
Must have braised beef tongue when available.
So Friend and I split an order of three, making for his first tongue taco experience, a fact I took great pleasure in.
And of course he loved them, finding the tomatillo salsa and cheese a yummy addition to the long-cooked slices of tongue.
He even went so far as to make corny jokes about being glad he'd brushed his teeth before going tongue to tongue with his lunch.
Wah, wah.
When our server returned to find an empty plate mere minutes later, he observed, "Guess you didn't like those."
Everyone's a comedian on New Year's Day.
Up next for me was a tostada with braised chicken in red chile sauce and pickled slaw on top.
The deep flavor of the chicken and chile was satisfying, especially on a gray and damp afternoon.
The new tongue lover got seared Scottish salmon in Mexico City-style green pumpkin seed sauce, wrapping bits of fish in the accompanying flour tortillas and oohing and ahhing over the sauce.
All I know is the bites he shared with me would make a salmon lover swoon.
As we lingered in the front window eating our first brunch of 2013, we talked about our New Year's eves (he worked, I played), his love life ("I don't need any more women right now!" he said about being introduced to one) and about people who are up for anything.
We agreed that they're the best kind.
When our server came to inquire if we needed coffee or tequila (hmmm, how did he know?), my friend piped up, saying, "How about dessert?"
The choices included the "candy bar" that we'd devoured at our last Pasture lunch, as well as three other options.
My friend dithered over choosing until I finally laid it out there. "You know you want the candy bar, so just get it," I bossed him.
"Yea, you're right," he admitted sheepishly and a candy bar was delivered post haste.
If you've never had this combination of dark chocolate pate over peanut butter with a mound of thick caramel beside it, be forewarned.
Despite how obscenely rich it is, you will eat every bite.
And if you're sharing with, say, a good friend, eat quickly or risk a fork in your hand.
Once the sweet course was finished, we looked around and realized we were one of only two tables left, despite another hour before brunch ended.
Walking out onto Grace Street, the bells of the church across the street were ringing, making for a symbolic reminder of the new year we were ringing in with our shared meal.
I was even thanked for being such a good friend, a compliment I returned.
Sure, a first day hike would have been nice, but 2013 got off to a terrific start with sharing food and conversation with someone who's heard all my stories and knows where all the bodies were buried over the past four tumultuous years.
I'd even go so far as to say starting the year with him is a good omen for the coming year.
Come on, lucky '13, bring it on.
This year, a first day brunch.
When a friend and I heard that Pasture was doing a Mexican brunch, we immediately committed to it.
I'd been to Comfort's Mexican brunch a couple of years ago and remember the thrill of eating off a south of the border menu instead of the usual southern comfort food.
This was to be the same thing.
Walking in to a half full restaurant, the hostess, looking cute in a ruffled skirt and boots, led us to a front window table.
I'd expected a bigger crowd, but it was already going on 3:00 and apparently the crowds had arrived en masse on the dot of 11 when they first opened.
My question was, who the hell is up that early on New Year's Day? And why?
The menu was far more extensive than what I'd remembered last time, meaning the decision making process was more challenging.
All except the given, tacos lingua.
Must have braised beef tongue when available.
So Friend and I split an order of three, making for his first tongue taco experience, a fact I took great pleasure in.
And of course he loved them, finding the tomatillo salsa and cheese a yummy addition to the long-cooked slices of tongue.
He even went so far as to make corny jokes about being glad he'd brushed his teeth before going tongue to tongue with his lunch.
Wah, wah.
When our server returned to find an empty plate mere minutes later, he observed, "Guess you didn't like those."
Everyone's a comedian on New Year's Day.
Up next for me was a tostada with braised chicken in red chile sauce and pickled slaw on top.
The deep flavor of the chicken and chile was satisfying, especially on a gray and damp afternoon.
The new tongue lover got seared Scottish salmon in Mexico City-style green pumpkin seed sauce, wrapping bits of fish in the accompanying flour tortillas and oohing and ahhing over the sauce.
All I know is the bites he shared with me would make a salmon lover swoon.
As we lingered in the front window eating our first brunch of 2013, we talked about our New Year's eves (he worked, I played), his love life ("I don't need any more women right now!" he said about being introduced to one) and about people who are up for anything.
We agreed that they're the best kind.
When our server came to inquire if we needed coffee or tequila (hmmm, how did he know?), my friend piped up, saying, "How about dessert?"
The choices included the "candy bar" that we'd devoured at our last Pasture lunch, as well as three other options.
My friend dithered over choosing until I finally laid it out there. "You know you want the candy bar, so just get it," I bossed him.
"Yea, you're right," he admitted sheepishly and a candy bar was delivered post haste.
If you've never had this combination of dark chocolate pate over peanut butter with a mound of thick caramel beside it, be forewarned.
Despite how obscenely rich it is, you will eat every bite.
And if you're sharing with, say, a good friend, eat quickly or risk a fork in your hand.
Once the sweet course was finished, we looked around and realized we were one of only two tables left, despite another hour before brunch ended.
Walking out onto Grace Street, the bells of the church across the street were ringing, making for a symbolic reminder of the new year we were ringing in with our shared meal.
I was even thanked for being such a good friend, a compliment I returned.
Sure, a first day hike would have been nice, but 2013 got off to a terrific start with sharing food and conversation with someone who's heard all my stories and knows where all the bodies were buried over the past four tumultuous years.
I'd even go so far as to say starting the year with him is a good omen for the coming year.
Come on, lucky '13, bring it on.
Pork Rind Prosperity
Once is nothing, but twice is a tradition.
So I invited the same girlfriend I'd invited out last New Year's Eve and we dubbed it an annual tradition.
We were looking for a leisurely meal to celebrate 2013 so I chose Enoteca Sogno, making a reservation for two at the bar.
Points always go to restaurants that take bar reservations.
When we arrived at 9, the place was packed with revelers, but our two stools were waiting for us.
Next to us at the bar was wine god Bob from Can Can, looking extremely dapper in a dark blue suit with a pale shirt and tie combination that looked most elegant.
There was never an question but that bubbles were the order of the evening, but it was choosing the bubbles that challenged.
Luckily, the barkeep was patient as we took our time choosing glasses of Montelliana Prosecco and then toasting each other.
Then we opened up the floor for others to entertain us.
The guys next to us were of no use, using phrases like "real Amuricans," so we were glad when they left.
They were replaced with a stylish couple, she with a chignon and he with a decidedly European look and accent.
Talk of the music playing got Bob's attention and he amused us with stories of stumping the "kids" he worked with at Can Can.
Apparently he's got an encyclopedic knowledge of music from 1955 forward and a discussion of an all-night Elvis-watching party in his youth followed tales of Roy Orbison.
There was a musical quiz and I got several right as Bob sang snippets from his youth in Ames, Iowa.
Eventually the Prosecco dictated that we begin eating and we turned to the special New Year's Eve menu.
Bob had been eating the crostini with mascarpone (and a dissertation on the frequent misspelling of that word) with Osetra caviar.
He admitted that the dish had been a tease, making him want less bread and cheese and more eggs.
We decided on the Robiola cheese, a fresh cow's milk cheese from the Piedmont region and served with honey.
The cheese, with over 50% fat, was to die for and we slathered it thickly on bread like butter and drizzled it lightly with the honey before scarfing it down.
It soon became clear that more bubbles were in order, so we moved on to Orsolani Erbaluce di Caluso 2006, getting beautiful bubbles and lemony fruit in the bargain.
Looking at the special menu, I saw that they were serving a dish Italians traditionally serve for New Year's, Cotechino sausage with lentils.
I asked the bartender about it and he handed me off. "Ask Paolo," he said, gesturing toward the Italian on a nearby stool.
"My mother makes it every year since I was a little boy," he said with a smile. "But I've been eating it so long, so now I tell her no thanks when she invites me over for Cotechino for the new year."
Since we were non-Italians and hadn't been eating it since childhood, we decided to try the rustic dish with the pork rind sausage.
When it arrived smelling earthy and wonderful, the five slices of sausage were arranged over a bed of lentils and the owner said the placement was intentional, intended to evoke coins over a pile of small change.
The dish, he said, is eaten on New Year's to ensure good luck and prosperity in the new year.
Well, who couldn't use some of that?
I loved the coarse, fatty sausage and I adore lentils, so the dish was a home run for me although my friend found it too unique for her taste.
But she was wallowing in a bowl of Brussels sprouts, a dish she traditionally makes for Christmas but hadn't this year.
Her holiday wasn't going to be complete until she ate some and we finally took care of scratching that Christmas itch for her.
We got into an intense discussion with Bob about cultural literacy, having to define words for colleagues and the number of people with no appreciation for the Bard.
Bob surprised us both by beginning to recite a Shakespeare soliloquy as we sat back in our stools, rapt at lucking into someone willing to recite for us.
That was about the time that some French bubbly started showing up, brought by Bob to share with those who lingered long enough.
We hadn't intended to, but all of a sudden it was 11:50 and we were told, "As long as you're here now, you may as well stay and celebrate here."
Who were we to argue?
We'd wanted to order the caramel and sea salt budino but it had sold out, so the bartender brought us bread pudding, a nice gesture if an unsatisfactory substitution.
But with tastings of Barolos and Barbarescos coming our way, we'd have been fools to be anywhere else.
M Ward yielded to Led Zeppelin on the sound system and more music talk resulted.
I chatted up the woman next to me and she must have been feeling her wine because she shared all kinds of things I had no business hearing.
Let's just say the age difference and the size of her mate were among the tidbits she laughingly offered unsolicited.
But it was almost 2 a.m. by that time, so we may have all been over-sharing a bit.
All told, we'd had an excellent meal, plenty of celebratory bubbles and the kind of erudite conversation a girl can only hope for when she leaves the house on the last night of the year.
I even got a mash note.
"Karen, You are hilarious! So hilarious, as in Gene Wilder in "Young Frankenstein"! I love ya! Thanks for making me laugh."
What better night to spend laughing?
And now it's a tradition, so I already have a date for next New Year's Eve.
So I invited the same girlfriend I'd invited out last New Year's Eve and we dubbed it an annual tradition.
We were looking for a leisurely meal to celebrate 2013 so I chose Enoteca Sogno, making a reservation for two at the bar.
Points always go to restaurants that take bar reservations.
When we arrived at 9, the place was packed with revelers, but our two stools were waiting for us.
Next to us at the bar was wine god Bob from Can Can, looking extremely dapper in a dark blue suit with a pale shirt and tie combination that looked most elegant.
There was never an question but that bubbles were the order of the evening, but it was choosing the bubbles that challenged.
Luckily, the barkeep was patient as we took our time choosing glasses of Montelliana Prosecco and then toasting each other.
Then we opened up the floor for others to entertain us.
The guys next to us were of no use, using phrases like "real Amuricans," so we were glad when they left.
They were replaced with a stylish couple, she with a chignon and he with a decidedly European look and accent.
Talk of the music playing got Bob's attention and he amused us with stories of stumping the "kids" he worked with at Can Can.
Apparently he's got an encyclopedic knowledge of music from 1955 forward and a discussion of an all-night Elvis-watching party in his youth followed tales of Roy Orbison.
There was a musical quiz and I got several right as Bob sang snippets from his youth in Ames, Iowa.
Eventually the Prosecco dictated that we begin eating and we turned to the special New Year's Eve menu.
Bob had been eating the crostini with mascarpone (and a dissertation on the frequent misspelling of that word) with Osetra caviar.
He admitted that the dish had been a tease, making him want less bread and cheese and more eggs.
We decided on the Robiola cheese, a fresh cow's milk cheese from the Piedmont region and served with honey.
The cheese, with over 50% fat, was to die for and we slathered it thickly on bread like butter and drizzled it lightly with the honey before scarfing it down.
It soon became clear that more bubbles were in order, so we moved on to Orsolani Erbaluce di Caluso 2006, getting beautiful bubbles and lemony fruit in the bargain.
Looking at the special menu, I saw that they were serving a dish Italians traditionally serve for New Year's, Cotechino sausage with lentils.
I asked the bartender about it and he handed me off. "Ask Paolo," he said, gesturing toward the Italian on a nearby stool.
"My mother makes it every year since I was a little boy," he said with a smile. "But I've been eating it so long, so now I tell her no thanks when she invites me over for Cotechino for the new year."
Since we were non-Italians and hadn't been eating it since childhood, we decided to try the rustic dish with the pork rind sausage.
When it arrived smelling earthy and wonderful, the five slices of sausage were arranged over a bed of lentils and the owner said the placement was intentional, intended to evoke coins over a pile of small change.
The dish, he said, is eaten on New Year's to ensure good luck and prosperity in the new year.
Well, who couldn't use some of that?
I loved the coarse, fatty sausage and I adore lentils, so the dish was a home run for me although my friend found it too unique for her taste.
But she was wallowing in a bowl of Brussels sprouts, a dish she traditionally makes for Christmas but hadn't this year.
Her holiday wasn't going to be complete until she ate some and we finally took care of scratching that Christmas itch for her.
We got into an intense discussion with Bob about cultural literacy, having to define words for colleagues and the number of people with no appreciation for the Bard.
Bob surprised us both by beginning to recite a Shakespeare soliloquy as we sat back in our stools, rapt at lucking into someone willing to recite for us.
That was about the time that some French bubbly started showing up, brought by Bob to share with those who lingered long enough.
We hadn't intended to, but all of a sudden it was 11:50 and we were told, "As long as you're here now, you may as well stay and celebrate here."
Who were we to argue?
We'd wanted to order the caramel and sea salt budino but it had sold out, so the bartender brought us bread pudding, a nice gesture if an unsatisfactory substitution.
But with tastings of Barolos and Barbarescos coming our way, we'd have been fools to be anywhere else.
M Ward yielded to Led Zeppelin on the sound system and more music talk resulted.
I chatted up the woman next to me and she must have been feeling her wine because she shared all kinds of things I had no business hearing.
Let's just say the age difference and the size of her mate were among the tidbits she laughingly offered unsolicited.
But it was almost 2 a.m. by that time, so we may have all been over-sharing a bit.
All told, we'd had an excellent meal, plenty of celebratory bubbles and the kind of erudite conversation a girl can only hope for when she leaves the house on the last night of the year.
I even got a mash note.
"Karen, You are hilarious! So hilarious, as in Gene Wilder in "Young Frankenstein"! I love ya! Thanks for making me laugh."
What better night to spend laughing?
And now it's a tradition, so I already have a date for next New Year's Eve.
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