I felt frisky with a full moon due tonight, starting my evening at a motel.
Well, not an actual motel, but a motel-themed movie complete with motel-themed snackage.
In conjunction with the Library of Virginia's "No Vacancy: Remnants of Virginia's Roadside Culture" exhibit about motels along Route 1, which I'd seen and raved about here, they were showing Wes Anderson's directorial debut, "Bottle Rocket," a film which (no surprise) I'd never seen, much less on the big screen.
It's an established fact that my personal filmography is appalling.
They did it up right, too, with a spread of items you might find in motel vending machines, stuff like banana marshmallow pies, bags of chips, candy bars, Twinkies and glass bottles of soda.
Munching on Cheetos, I mingled with the small group of oddballs who, like me, would come to the state library for a crime comedy caper, overhearing a young woman say she'd never had a Twinkie.
I don't even want to know how this is possible.
After an introduction about the film (Owen and Luke Wilson's debut feature roles), we got down to the story of three guys in Texas, a 75-year plan for a life of crime and, most surprisingly, a sweet, little love story within all that.
The movie began with Owen Wilson uttering "ca caw!"
I don't know if you've ever had a man "ca caw!" under your window to alert you to his presence, but I have. Let's just say the film hooked me from the get-go.
To allow time for additional snacking, there was an intermission in the middle of the 90-minute film and during it, a guy I've run into at events before came up to talk to me.
He always asks me what bands I've seen lately and this time he also wanted to know who I thought was the best songwriter in Richmond.
For the fanzine he's planning on writing. And as if my opinion matters.
When the movie got ready to restart, he asked to join me in my row, which turned out to be interesting mainly because he laughed at stuff I didn't find funny and what made me chuckle didn't seem to effect him at all.
Translation: he'd never be dating material.
After the film and despite the junk food consumed in the name of motel culture, I headed south to La Parisienne for dinner.
The lights were low and a half dozen tables held duos and trios, so I took a seat at the bar where the dateless sit.
My server recommended the Laurent Miquel Nord Sud Syrah and who am I to ignore a recommendation from a Frenchman for an earthy wine with just a touch of minerality?
The music was stellar, pulling in songs by Donkey and Thom Yorke, although I think I was the only one paying attention when his "Black Swan" came on with its endless lyrics of "Cause this is f*cked up, f*cked up."
An autumn salad of greens, cooked apple slices, blue cheese and walnuts was followed by escargots and lots of crusty bread sopping of garlicy butter.
I was ready to stop there, but my server was having none of it, asking if I wanted more wine.
When I declined, he poured some in my glass anyway. "Just a taste," he winked.
It was half a glass, I pointed out. "That's a French taste," he insisted. As it happened, it went just fine with my dessert, a bittersweet chocolate mousse with Chantilly cream.
We got into a discussion of good chocolate, with his vote going to the Spanish for the best chocolate going. Well, he admitted, except for the Belgians.
"And I do buy Lindt," he said sheepishly, explaining it was an easy go-to because of widespread availability.
I didn't have the heart to tell him I buy Chocolove and not just because of the poetry inside.
True, it's made with Belgian chocolate but it's also made in Colorado, surely an abomination to a Frenchman.
I kept my secret so he wouldn't lose all respect for me.
My last stop was Balliceaux to see Those Manic Sea, a three-piece dressed in black, and with a twist on the cliched lead singer role: he isn't a real person.
Instead, a TV is mounted atop a mannequin and the singer's face and voice are on the TV singing while the band plays live.
I'd seen them last May and recognized the singer, Ben, at once from any number of other bands he's been in.
So I knew the drill and started scanning the room, sure that Ben was somewhere in the audience and, sure enough, there he was, near the back and grinning like a fool as the crowd watched him sing to muscular post punk sound coming from the live members of the band.
And speaking of that crowd, it was interesting, if a tad vanilla.
An unusually high percentage of guys were wearing suit jackets or blazers, including one who had on a navy pin-striped suit jacket while sporting a nose ring.
No judging here, just fact reporting.
I saw a girl in a black and white geometric sweater I swear I had in 1985. Who knows, maybe she bought it at a thrift store after I donated it.
It was some time after the song "Outlier" and before "Headache/Heartache" that the drummer left the stage and passed out his drumsticks to eager fans.
Remember the good old days when drummers used to just throw them into the crowd? When did things get so civilized anyway?
Next thing I knew, Ben was coming toward me, arms outstretched. Nothing like hugging the man whose face is singing the songs everyone is listening to.
We talked about the non-moving crowd, how they didn't seem to know how to react to the music. His theory was that usually the lead singer puts off an energy for the crowd to respond to so with only a monitor, they had nothing to feed off of.
The obvious thing would have been for him to jump on stage, but he's supposed to keep a low, unobtrusive profile at their gigs, so that wasn't going to happen.
After a discussion of shows I'd recently seen (he always asks) and how we both need to see new local super-group Avers, he melted back into the crowd who were still unaware of his double presence in the room.
"Thanks for helping us celebrate our birthday!" the guitarist said before the final song, about the time that balloons suddenly appeared bouncing around over the heads of the crowd.
Their set wound down with the guitarist playing that last song standing on the bass drum and the drummer attempting to fire something (confetti? t-shirts? a bottle rocket?) out of a tube which failed to ejaculate.
He shrugged, grinned and gave up, ending the set.
It was enough.
Short of a night in a Route 1 motel, I'd had a French taste of everything I needed for one full moon night.
"Ca caw" aside, that is.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
The Devil's Time
My evening began with a lesson in self-appreciation.
On my way to dinner, I stopped at the drugstore where a woman gasped and pointed at my legs, "I loooove your tights, girl!" Thanking her, I said they were an inexpensive Target pair, a confidence that got her talking.
"I bought myself some cute ones like that and wore them to church with a sweater dress and not too hootchie-kootcie, either," she said, gesturing to a skirt length far longer than mine. "You should have seen the nasty looks I got in church. I told them don't hate on me because I got these nice legs"
She outweighed me by a hundred pounds minimum and she was as confident about her nice legs as I am about my old ones.
We were soul sisters, she and I.
On that high note, I went to Curry Craft for dinner, finding it satisfyingly busy with a lot of Indian people and a table of gabbing women, so I became the lone bar sitter.
My place in the universe is secure. While I am happy to be that person at the bar sitting alone, if I'd thought it through, I'd have brought some reading material.
One of the servers took pity on me, coming over after putting my order in to chat me up, asking what I do.
Poor thing, before my food arrived, he heard about my walking and music show going and took questions about how he fills his days (applying to graduate school and doing laundry).
I bet he was glad when my Juhu beach-style chaat, a medium-hot melange of puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions, pomegranate and spices and naan arrived, saving him from further interrogation.
Karawali prawns made killer hot with roasted tomato, clove, chili and garlic masala was balanced by lemon/curry leaf vinaigrette drizzled on the plate for contrasting color and flavor.
Full as a tick after a lovely, albeit unusually quiet, meal, I left in the pouring rain to go to Balliceaux for music.
My first stop was the loo, where I found wall art saying, "Trouble, Come Home," with an arrow pointing toward the back room.
Underneath it, someone had scrawled, "Tried."
We can't always accomplish what we set out to do.
Ombak was just about to start and I wouldn't have wanted to miss any of their set. It's been close to three years since they played out and, having seen them three or four times before that, I knew what a treat they are.
The band is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class.
All of them - bandleader Bryan Hooten, Brian Jones, JC Kuhl, Trey Pollard and Cam Ralston- are so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.
Tonight I sat back to enjoy their intriguing sound full of odd time signatures, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between, with a couple of music lovers I knew.
On "Island," Brian Jones was so busy drumming on every possible part of his drum kit that I half expected him to reach over his shoulder and start playing on the wooden frame of the window above his head. Cam's sheet music kept getting knocked off the stand by the bows coming off his bass.
Introducing "Megatron," Bryan observed that it was obvious these were old songs by the cultural references; "Island" came from the TV show "Lost" and "Megatron" came from the Transformers series.
While the titles may have been a tad dated, the music was as fresh as a daisy.
Watching the musicians take such delight in each others' solos is a big part of the Ombak experience for the audience.
And tonight that small, jazz-loving crowd was as respectful as a listening room, an utterly rare occurrence at Balliceaux.
After intermission, they played an abbreviated but still stellar rendition of "Aware" off the "Framing the Void" album most of us in the room probably own.
Before launching into "Listen to the World," Cam looked at the music, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, man!" and causing Bryan to check with him to see if he still wanted to do it.
"Suuuure," the bassist said, evoking the anything goes philosophy of the night, also evident before they did Brian Jones' "R.H.," a nod to Pittsburgh drummer Roger Humphries.
"Let's vamp first," Brian instructed the band.
"It's cool, baby," leader Bryan agreed, head bobbing as the song exploded.
"Fresh out of the oven" he called the brand new song "Collapses," warning that it wasn't fully cooked before knocking everyone's socks off with a 5/4 beat that a musician near me identified as "devil's time."
Next time I'm having a difficult go of something, that's how I'll refer to it.
They finished with a Tuvan folk melody, with Bryan saying, "I don't know what it's about because I don't speak Tuvan."
It began with Cam bowing his bass for a change and Brian playing drums with no sticks and made all the better by guitarist Trey Pollard sliding notes into each other to mimic Tuvan throat singing.
God, these guys are good.
The best news is that Ombak is back and planning to play one night a month at Balliceaux for the foreseeable future.
If Ombak is trouble, they tried and have finally come home.
It's cool, baby. So cool.
On my way to dinner, I stopped at the drugstore where a woman gasped and pointed at my legs, "I loooove your tights, girl!" Thanking her, I said they were an inexpensive Target pair, a confidence that got her talking.
"I bought myself some cute ones like that and wore them to church with a sweater dress and not too hootchie-kootcie, either," she said, gesturing to a skirt length far longer than mine. "You should have seen the nasty looks I got in church. I told them don't hate on me because I got these nice legs"
She outweighed me by a hundred pounds minimum and she was as confident about her nice legs as I am about my old ones.
We were soul sisters, she and I.
On that high note, I went to Curry Craft for dinner, finding it satisfyingly busy with a lot of Indian people and a table of gabbing women, so I became the lone bar sitter.
My place in the universe is secure. While I am happy to be that person at the bar sitting alone, if I'd thought it through, I'd have brought some reading material.
One of the servers took pity on me, coming over after putting my order in to chat me up, asking what I do.
Poor thing, before my food arrived, he heard about my walking and music show going and took questions about how he fills his days (applying to graduate school and doing laundry).
I bet he was glad when my Juhu beach-style chaat, a medium-hot melange of puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions, pomegranate and spices and naan arrived, saving him from further interrogation.
Karawali prawns made killer hot with roasted tomato, clove, chili and garlic masala was balanced by lemon/curry leaf vinaigrette drizzled on the plate for contrasting color and flavor.
Full as a tick after a lovely, albeit unusually quiet, meal, I left in the pouring rain to go to Balliceaux for music.
My first stop was the loo, where I found wall art saying, "Trouble, Come Home," with an arrow pointing toward the back room.
Underneath it, someone had scrawled, "Tried."
We can't always accomplish what we set out to do.
Ombak was just about to start and I wouldn't have wanted to miss any of their set. It's been close to three years since they played out and, having seen them three or four times before that, I knew what a treat they are.
The band is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class.
All of them - bandleader Bryan Hooten, Brian Jones, JC Kuhl, Trey Pollard and Cam Ralston- are so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.
Tonight I sat back to enjoy their intriguing sound full of odd time signatures, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between, with a couple of music lovers I knew.
On "Island," Brian Jones was so busy drumming on every possible part of his drum kit that I half expected him to reach over his shoulder and start playing on the wooden frame of the window above his head. Cam's sheet music kept getting knocked off the stand by the bows coming off his bass.
Introducing "Megatron," Bryan observed that it was obvious these were old songs by the cultural references; "Island" came from the TV show "Lost" and "Megatron" came from the Transformers series.
While the titles may have been a tad dated, the music was as fresh as a daisy.
Watching the musicians take such delight in each others' solos is a big part of the Ombak experience for the audience.
And tonight that small, jazz-loving crowd was as respectful as a listening room, an utterly rare occurrence at Balliceaux.
After intermission, they played an abbreviated but still stellar rendition of "Aware" off the "Framing the Void" album most of us in the room probably own.
Before launching into "Listen to the World," Cam looked at the music, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, man!" and causing Bryan to check with him to see if he still wanted to do it.
"Suuuure," the bassist said, evoking the anything goes philosophy of the night, also evident before they did Brian Jones' "R.H.," a nod to Pittsburgh drummer Roger Humphries.
"Let's vamp first," Brian instructed the band.
"It's cool, baby," leader Bryan agreed, head bobbing as the song exploded.
"Fresh out of the oven" he called the brand new song "Collapses," warning that it wasn't fully cooked before knocking everyone's socks off with a 5/4 beat that a musician near me identified as "devil's time."
Next time I'm having a difficult go of something, that's how I'll refer to it.
They finished with a Tuvan folk melody, with Bryan saying, "I don't know what it's about because I don't speak Tuvan."
It began with Cam bowing his bass for a change and Brian playing drums with no sticks and made all the better by guitarist Trey Pollard sliding notes into each other to mimic Tuvan throat singing.
God, these guys are good.
The best news is that Ombak is back and planning to play one night a month at Balliceaux for the foreseeable future.
If Ombak is trouble, they tried and have finally come home.
It's cool, baby. So cool.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Honey, Do Drop In
There's a lot to be said for being serenaded by candlelight.
Sure, in a perfect world, it would be by a suitor, but I can't wait forever for that to happen.
I'd been invited to spend an evening in a friend's living room listening to the Honey Dew Drops play. What I didn't know until I got there was that she lives in the former Mrs. Morton's Tea Room house.
Longtime Richmonders probably know about the elegant staircase, inviting rooms and abundance of windows, but it was all new to me.
One of my J-Ward neighbors had even made yeast rolls for the occasion, apparently Mrs. Morton's specialty, slathering them with so much butter my fingers got shiny just eating one (or two).
It was my first time at one of this friend's house shows, but only because every other time she'd invited me, I already had plans.
She's passionate about bringing music to living rooms and I have to admit, I love the intimacy of a 20-person show.
Her living room was magical, lit by at least three dozen candles glowing from wall sconces and on the mantle, making all of us look really good.
Once everyone had beverages, the Honey Dew Drops moved to the front of the room to perform. Even they couldn't help but comment on how wonderful it was to be playing by candlelight.
On stools and leaning into each other, Kagey played guitar and Laura played banjo and their voices harmonized like they were soul mates, which perhaps they are since they're married and seemingly pretty happy about that.
With such a small group, their between-song chatter seemed more like one party guest just talking to another than anything else.
Like me, they'd just this weekend seen "Inside Llewyn Davis," although it resonated differently with them given their profession.
"It's a sad story about a folk singer," Kagey explained. "It kind of made us wonder if what we're doing is a good idea."
Based on what we heard tonight, I'd say it is.
They did several original songs, like "No More Troubles" and the finger-picking "Back Room," explaining that the latter had come together with a friend, some bad Texas beer and a tune Kagey had been working on for a while, trying to use the "cure cottages" they'd seen in Saranac as inspiration.
Cure cottages were for TB patients and had big porches for taking in good, clean air, I was fascinated to learn.
Laura introduced the beautiful "Silver Linings," a rare autobiographical song, saying it was about the ups and downs of being in a relationship, "how it's mostly a really positive thing."
"Happiness" had my favorite line of the evening: What do I know about the shape I'm in? All I know is what I don't want to do again.
Them's words to live by.
They balanced those two with "Nobody in the World," characterizing it as a breakup song, not autobiographical, written together at breakfast and played on mandolin and guitar.
Even when these two sing about breakups, their voices sound so beautiful together that it's hard to believe they could even write such lyrics, much less make them up out of whole cloth.
They told us about a tour through Canada doing house shows, advising against visiting Manitoba in January, but raving about a singer named Fred Eggleston they'd played with there and doing his excellent song, "Katy."
"For Sure Blues" was about Kagey's grandfather, a former alcoholic and army veteran, whom Laura said had the best sense of humor in the world.
He also had lived in Richmond and as a kid had a paper route along Franklin Street, stretching from Foushee, where we were tonight, to Oregon Hill.
As if listening to these two talented people play music in a candlelit room in a former tea room wasn't treat enough, we were also getting all kinds of great storytelling as the cherry on top of it all.
They closed the show with The Band's "Long Black Veil," a song of infidelity and death, causing the room to give them a standing ovation.
Apparently the candlelight and applause was enough incentive to give us an encore, which went from one to two songs when a musician in the audience requested an a capella song he'd heard them do at Ashland Coffee and Tea a while back.
"Bright Morning Stars" was positively goose bump-worthy.
I'm willing to bet a night of stellar music played by candlelight does a person as much good as any cure cottage.
Throw in a couple of yeast rolls and all I know is I want to do it again.
Sure, in a perfect world, it would be by a suitor, but I can't wait forever for that to happen.
I'd been invited to spend an evening in a friend's living room listening to the Honey Dew Drops play. What I didn't know until I got there was that she lives in the former Mrs. Morton's Tea Room house.
Longtime Richmonders probably know about the elegant staircase, inviting rooms and abundance of windows, but it was all new to me.
One of my J-Ward neighbors had even made yeast rolls for the occasion, apparently Mrs. Morton's specialty, slathering them with so much butter my fingers got shiny just eating one (or two).
It was my first time at one of this friend's house shows, but only because every other time she'd invited me, I already had plans.
She's passionate about bringing music to living rooms and I have to admit, I love the intimacy of a 20-person show.
Her living room was magical, lit by at least three dozen candles glowing from wall sconces and on the mantle, making all of us look really good.
Once everyone had beverages, the Honey Dew Drops moved to the front of the room to perform. Even they couldn't help but comment on how wonderful it was to be playing by candlelight.
On stools and leaning into each other, Kagey played guitar and Laura played banjo and their voices harmonized like they were soul mates, which perhaps they are since they're married and seemingly pretty happy about that.
With such a small group, their between-song chatter seemed more like one party guest just talking to another than anything else.
Like me, they'd just this weekend seen "Inside Llewyn Davis," although it resonated differently with them given their profession.
"It's a sad story about a folk singer," Kagey explained. "It kind of made us wonder if what we're doing is a good idea."
Based on what we heard tonight, I'd say it is.
They did several original songs, like "No More Troubles" and the finger-picking "Back Room," explaining that the latter had come together with a friend, some bad Texas beer and a tune Kagey had been working on for a while, trying to use the "cure cottages" they'd seen in Saranac as inspiration.
Cure cottages were for TB patients and had big porches for taking in good, clean air, I was fascinated to learn.
Laura introduced the beautiful "Silver Linings," a rare autobiographical song, saying it was about the ups and downs of being in a relationship, "how it's mostly a really positive thing."
"Happiness" had my favorite line of the evening: What do I know about the shape I'm in? All I know is what I don't want to do again.
Them's words to live by.
They balanced those two with "Nobody in the World," characterizing it as a breakup song, not autobiographical, written together at breakfast and played on mandolin and guitar.
Even when these two sing about breakups, their voices sound so beautiful together that it's hard to believe they could even write such lyrics, much less make them up out of whole cloth.
They told us about a tour through Canada doing house shows, advising against visiting Manitoba in January, but raving about a singer named Fred Eggleston they'd played with there and doing his excellent song, "Katy."
"For Sure Blues" was about Kagey's grandfather, a former alcoholic and army veteran, whom Laura said had the best sense of humor in the world.
He also had lived in Richmond and as a kid had a paper route along Franklin Street, stretching from Foushee, where we were tonight, to Oregon Hill.
As if listening to these two talented people play music in a candlelit room in a former tea room wasn't treat enough, we were also getting all kinds of great storytelling as the cherry on top of it all.
They closed the show with The Band's "Long Black Veil," a song of infidelity and death, causing the room to give them a standing ovation.
Apparently the candlelight and applause was enough incentive to give us an encore, which went from one to two songs when a musician in the audience requested an a capella song he'd heard them do at Ashland Coffee and Tea a while back.
"Bright Morning Stars" was positively goose bump-worthy.
I'm willing to bet a night of stellar music played by candlelight does a person as much good as any cure cottage.
Throw in a couple of yeast rolls and all I know is I want to do it again.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Some Are a Melody, Some Are the Beat
People always expect me to be out doing something.
Like the friend who e-mailed me one evening not long after 10 p.m. When I responded immediately, he expressed surprise that I was home.
I can't be out dancing on bars or dating lawyers every night of the week, I reminded him.
No, some nights I'm at a friend's house watching "Napoleon Dynamite" for the first time, laughing and relating to being a nerd in high school.
I've never been to Idaho, but I do know plenty about growing up in a mid-century rancher and wishing I were more popular.
I hear several good songs I already know that were used in the film, like When in Rome's "The Promise" and Alphaville's "Forever Young."
So many adventures couldn't happen today
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue
We let them come true
Between the actors' deadpan delivery, the quirky subplots and the bad costumes, I begin to see why this became a cult classic. Favorite line: I caught you a delicious sea bass.
Or I'm opening a bar of Choco-Love with sea salt and almonds, only to have the poet sitting beside me notice that a Roethke poem is included with the chocolate, something I'd never noticed despite weekly purchases of this particular chocolate.
Love is not love until love's vulnerable.
She slowed to sigh, in that long interval...
I tossed a stone and listened to its plunge.
She knew the grammar of least motion, she
Lent me one virtue, and I live thereby.
I should not have to have poetry pointed out to me. I am thrilled that it was.
Sometimes I'm invited to an afternoon fire where people sit around outside under a brilliant blue sky drinking Georges duBoeuf Beaujolais Nouveau while we still can and listen to music, talking about early New Order versus late New Order and how Helena Christianson once dated Michael Hutchence but is now married to Paul Banks.
Oh, what a tangled, incestuous musical web they weave.
Meanwhile, the fire burns on through the afternoon as the blue skies become cloudy ones and the fire's warmth becomes more useful than decorative.
Other times, I'm traveling to the hinterlands for an unlikely meal.
It's an Italian restaurant called Palermo and although we're the first people at the bar, before long there are three regulars surrounding us.
One, a deep-voiced man who retired from Reynolds and is now consulting for them, tells me that he built his house in Salisbury in 1989 after designing it himself.
I continue to be impressed with people who design their own houses and have no training to do so.
Coppola "Director's Cut" Zinfandel gets us started, but we soon pounce on $4 happy hour specials of crispy Buffalo wings and shrimp cocktail (a steal of a price for five good-sized shrimp).
Our bartender is young and gregarious and tells us he is a substitute P.E. teacher who has mistakenly kept the equipment room key in his pocket after a day subbing.
Also, he mentions that chivalry is not dead.
I hadn't thought it was.
Dinner is gnocchi verdi - spinach pasta with procuitto and more of it than I can possibly finish after all those wings.
Then there's the time I'm riding down a country road in Fluvanna county listening to Jimmy Martin on the radio singing "Drink Up and Go Home" as the sun sets.
Don't tell me your troubles, got enough of my own
Be thankful you're living, drink up and go home.
Oh, so thankful I'm living. Even when I'm not doing much of anything.
Like the friend who e-mailed me one evening not long after 10 p.m. When I responded immediately, he expressed surprise that I was home.
I can't be out dancing on bars or dating lawyers every night of the week, I reminded him.
No, some nights I'm at a friend's house watching "Napoleon Dynamite" for the first time, laughing and relating to being a nerd in high school.
I've never been to Idaho, but I do know plenty about growing up in a mid-century rancher and wishing I were more popular.
I hear several good songs I already know that were used in the film, like When in Rome's "The Promise" and Alphaville's "Forever Young."
So many adventures couldn't happen today
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue
We let them come true
Between the actors' deadpan delivery, the quirky subplots and the bad costumes, I begin to see why this became a cult classic. Favorite line: I caught you a delicious sea bass.
Or I'm opening a bar of Choco-Love with sea salt and almonds, only to have the poet sitting beside me notice that a Roethke poem is included with the chocolate, something I'd never noticed despite weekly purchases of this particular chocolate.
Love is not love until love's vulnerable.
She slowed to sigh, in that long interval...
I tossed a stone and listened to its plunge.
She knew the grammar of least motion, she
Lent me one virtue, and I live thereby.
I should not have to have poetry pointed out to me. I am thrilled that it was.
Sometimes I'm invited to an afternoon fire where people sit around outside under a brilliant blue sky drinking Georges duBoeuf Beaujolais Nouveau while we still can and listen to music, talking about early New Order versus late New Order and how Helena Christianson once dated Michael Hutchence but is now married to Paul Banks.
Oh, what a tangled, incestuous musical web they weave.
Meanwhile, the fire burns on through the afternoon as the blue skies become cloudy ones and the fire's warmth becomes more useful than decorative.
Other times, I'm traveling to the hinterlands for an unlikely meal.
It's an Italian restaurant called Palermo and although we're the first people at the bar, before long there are three regulars surrounding us.
One, a deep-voiced man who retired from Reynolds and is now consulting for them, tells me that he built his house in Salisbury in 1989 after designing it himself.
I continue to be impressed with people who design their own houses and have no training to do so.
Coppola "Director's Cut" Zinfandel gets us started, but we soon pounce on $4 happy hour specials of crispy Buffalo wings and shrimp cocktail (a steal of a price for five good-sized shrimp).
Our bartender is young and gregarious and tells us he is a substitute P.E. teacher who has mistakenly kept the equipment room key in his pocket after a day subbing.
Also, he mentions that chivalry is not dead.
I hadn't thought it was.
Dinner is gnocchi verdi - spinach pasta with procuitto and more of it than I can possibly finish after all those wings.
Then there's the time I'm riding down a country road in Fluvanna county listening to Jimmy Martin on the radio singing "Drink Up and Go Home" as the sun sets.
Don't tell me your troubles, got enough of my own
Be thankful you're living, drink up and go home.
Oh, so thankful I'm living. Even when I'm not doing much of anything.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Chopsticks and Gibson Guitars
I love a rainy day, especially when it's 60+ degrees and mere days ago it was 12.
So when I wake up to a message from a friend asking, "What do you think of dim sum?" when he knows perfectly well I can spend hours grazing off a good cart, I get my wet and wild walk out of the way tout de suite so we can commence chowing down.
Suggesting I meet him at his house so we can drive together, a technical necessity since I don't know where we're going, I arrive expecting to hit the road, but no, he wants to show off his latest project.
He and a carpenter friend have been building the most magnificent wraparound porch onto his house for years now and it's finally finished and he wants to show another porch-lover the fruits of his labor.
I am in awe.
The multi-level porch wraps around two sides of the house, has cypress railings, some scavenged from a house on Franklin Street decades ago and the rest copies of those (also in cypress) and six green, enamel hanging lights made in the Pacific northwest.
I find it particularly charming that birds have already made two nests on top of the nearly two-story high ceiling rafters, all the more so when my friend informs me that he intends to leave them there.
It is a splendid porch although if it were mine, I would have screened it in. But that's me.
On our way out of the house, I notice the black, rotary-dial phone hanging on the kitchen wall and he tells me many of the rooms have rotary dial phones, a conscious choice since he owns an iPhone.
No surprise, eccentric people attract eccentric friends.
Our destination turns out to be Queen's Dim Sum, a place past Glenside on Broad Street, far out of my purview.
So far beyond it that I had no idea that the K-Mart at Glenside has apparently been a flooring store for years.
But my friend is raving about Queen's and on arrival, we find we are the only non-Asian people in the room, always a good sign.
Our backsides barely hit the banquette before a tiny woman with limited English has wheeled the dim sum cart to our table and is offering up tasty-looking things.
Har gaw- steam shrimp dumplings- get us started and in quick order we get pork buns, deep fried taro and meat dumplings, using the crunchy bits that fall off as a dredge for other things, bright pink thinly-sliced pork, meat and shrimp dumplings, tiny ribs and goodness knows what else I've forgotten.
The cart keeps coming around and we keep pointing and ordering as if we are bottomless, which it turns out we're not.
Friend and I groan over the poor choice of music -pure classic rock- with tired songs by Steve Miller, 38 Special and Loverboy. Oh, it's bad.
A young Asian girl comes by to check on our progress and when we rave about the food, she gives us the traditional Chinese thumbs-up and says, "Awesome!"
By now the rain has started back up in earnest, but we force ourselves to read our fortunes (Mine: be a thoughtful friend and a generous enemy) and head out into the monsoon.
After he drops me at my car and heads inside to spend the rest of the evening with a book listening to the rain on his new tin roof, I make my way to the Criterion to meet another friend and finally see "Inside Llewyn Davis," a film that opened a month ago and is just now getting to Richmond.
Given Richmond's vibrant folk scene, I was curious to learn more about the roots of the music I get to hear so much around here.
Whether others felt the same or it was just people eager to see the latest Coen brothers film, the theater quickly filled every seat.
From the opening scene where the Davis character is allowed to sing an entire song instead of the usual ADD-quick snippet moviegoers seem to prefer now, it's clear that this is a grown-up Coen brothers movie.
Just as good is how all the characters actually sing their songs in the movie so there's no embarrassing lip-synching like in so many movies about music.
As a fan of cultural history, I was fascinated by the Coens' snapshot of Greenwich Village circa 1961.
Women wear cat-eye glasses and badly teased hair-dos. Men wear suits to dinner parties and watch their language around the womenfolk.
I'd read that the Coens had said that if they hadn't found Oscar Isaac to play Llewyn, they wouldn't have made the movie and it was clear why.
Inhabiting the character of a folk singer out of step with the new folk era, he was so compelling in the role that now I need to know more about the actual singer his character was based on - David Van Ronk.
And wouldn't you just know, as I listened to the songs of the "old folk" sound about to be replaced with the zeitgeist that was Bob Dylan, it sounded so honest, so genuine, so familiar...kind like Richmond's own Jonathan Vassar.
What goes around comes around.
Leave it to Richmond to take 50 years to do it.
So when I wake up to a message from a friend asking, "What do you think of dim sum?" when he knows perfectly well I can spend hours grazing off a good cart, I get my wet and wild walk out of the way tout de suite so we can commence chowing down.
Suggesting I meet him at his house so we can drive together, a technical necessity since I don't know where we're going, I arrive expecting to hit the road, but no, he wants to show off his latest project.
He and a carpenter friend have been building the most magnificent wraparound porch onto his house for years now and it's finally finished and he wants to show another porch-lover the fruits of his labor.
I am in awe.
The multi-level porch wraps around two sides of the house, has cypress railings, some scavenged from a house on Franklin Street decades ago and the rest copies of those (also in cypress) and six green, enamel hanging lights made in the Pacific northwest.
I find it particularly charming that birds have already made two nests on top of the nearly two-story high ceiling rafters, all the more so when my friend informs me that he intends to leave them there.
It is a splendid porch although if it were mine, I would have screened it in. But that's me.
On our way out of the house, I notice the black, rotary-dial phone hanging on the kitchen wall and he tells me many of the rooms have rotary dial phones, a conscious choice since he owns an iPhone.
No surprise, eccentric people attract eccentric friends.
Our destination turns out to be Queen's Dim Sum, a place past Glenside on Broad Street, far out of my purview.
So far beyond it that I had no idea that the K-Mart at Glenside has apparently been a flooring store for years.
But my friend is raving about Queen's and on arrival, we find we are the only non-Asian people in the room, always a good sign.
Our backsides barely hit the banquette before a tiny woman with limited English has wheeled the dim sum cart to our table and is offering up tasty-looking things.
Har gaw- steam shrimp dumplings- get us started and in quick order we get pork buns, deep fried taro and meat dumplings, using the crunchy bits that fall off as a dredge for other things, bright pink thinly-sliced pork, meat and shrimp dumplings, tiny ribs and goodness knows what else I've forgotten.
The cart keeps coming around and we keep pointing and ordering as if we are bottomless, which it turns out we're not.
Friend and I groan over the poor choice of music -pure classic rock- with tired songs by Steve Miller, 38 Special and Loverboy. Oh, it's bad.
A young Asian girl comes by to check on our progress and when we rave about the food, she gives us the traditional Chinese thumbs-up and says, "Awesome!"
By now the rain has started back up in earnest, but we force ourselves to read our fortunes (Mine: be a thoughtful friend and a generous enemy) and head out into the monsoon.
After he drops me at my car and heads inside to spend the rest of the evening with a book listening to the rain on his new tin roof, I make my way to the Criterion to meet another friend and finally see "Inside Llewyn Davis," a film that opened a month ago and is just now getting to Richmond.
Given Richmond's vibrant folk scene, I was curious to learn more about the roots of the music I get to hear so much around here.
Whether others felt the same or it was just people eager to see the latest Coen brothers film, the theater quickly filled every seat.
From the opening scene where the Davis character is allowed to sing an entire song instead of the usual ADD-quick snippet moviegoers seem to prefer now, it's clear that this is a grown-up Coen brothers movie.
Just as good is how all the characters actually sing their songs in the movie so there's no embarrassing lip-synching like in so many movies about music.
As a fan of cultural history, I was fascinated by the Coens' snapshot of Greenwich Village circa 1961.
Women wear cat-eye glasses and badly teased hair-dos. Men wear suits to dinner parties and watch their language around the womenfolk.
I'd read that the Coens had said that if they hadn't found Oscar Isaac to play Llewyn, they wouldn't have made the movie and it was clear why.
Inhabiting the character of a folk singer out of step with the new folk era, he was so compelling in the role that now I need to know more about the actual singer his character was based on - David Van Ronk.
And wouldn't you just know, as I listened to the songs of the "old folk" sound about to be replaced with the zeitgeist that was Bob Dylan, it sounded so honest, so genuine, so familiar...kind like Richmond's own Jonathan Vassar.
What goes around comes around.
Leave it to Richmond to take 50 years to do it.
Supporting the Sisterhood
My night was 50% art, 50% film and 50% food. 150% right up my alley.
Starting at Candela Gallery for the opening of "Louis Draper: A Retrospective," I found dozens of other lovers of mid-century African-American photography snacking on salmon cakes and looking at exquisite black and white pictures.
A street photographer for the most part, Richmond-born Draper had an unerring eye for an interesting shot and walking the galleries, I found myself drawn in by faces of everyday people, whether on the streets of Harlem or working in the fields.
I ran into an old friend there, one I almost always see at openings and inquired about her itinerary for the evening; for the gallery portion, it sounded much like mine but we were to detour after that because she was going to La Parisienne for dancing and I was going for something a little rougher.
"That's gonna be fun," she said when she heard my plans. I was counting on it.
But first I went to Quirk Gallery to see Andras Bality's "Scenes from Virginia," a show of scenes, many of which I recognized- Goshen Pass, Hollywood Rapids, Huguenot Bridge complete with construction crane- done in a way that was part Cezanne and part Monet.
"Virginia Beach Pier in Fog" was a large-scale study in taupes and grays, evocative of a damp day at the beach.
Even closer to home, "Belle Isle Bathers" evoked Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," except with the bathers far less clothed and proper-looking.
The large composition included 20 people, one dog and one guitarist, a pretty fair approximation of an afternoon on Belle Isle with the exception of insufficient canine representation.
I particularly liked "Spare Room for Artist," a depiction of a small room with three windows, a bed and a phone on a nightstand - all the essentials an artistic soul could need when staying over.
The refined part of my evening over, I made my way to Lovebomb, a collective artists' space in Manchester run by three talented women, one of whom is Lily Lamberta, she who puts on the annual Halloween parade with her massive puppets every year.
Tonight the filmmakers of "CLAW," a documentary about female arm wrestling, were going to show us why their film won the People's Choice award at the Virginia Film Festival.
Walking in next to a woman I know from music shows, she sounded relieved, saying, "I almost forgot about this tonight. I would've hated to miss a movie about female empowerment."
I hadn't thought of it that way until she mentioned it.
Lovebomb was ready for the crowd, with candles lit for atmosphere, mulled cider for sipping and a crowd of people curious about something described as "50% theater, 50% sport, 50% fundraiser. 150% awesome."
Heide, one of Lovebomb's founders and an arm wrestler herself introduced the evening in a gold lame bodysuit that was particularly, ahem, snug in certain places. Her wrestling name was Camela Toe, if that tells you anything.
Filmmakers Billy Hunt and Brian Wimer had done a great job (and used up nearly five years of their lives) following the ladies' arm wrestling phenomena that began in, of all places, Charlottesville.
We saw the woman who'd conceived of it all after her husband had died unexpectedly and she was looking for an outlet for her grief and healing process.
She found that she could lose herself in a character by arm wrestling and it turned out a lot of women felt the same way.
As one woman put it, "I love having a reason to put on a rubber nurse's uniform and have it not be totally self-serving."
Don't we all?
So, sure there were impressive costumes, but they didn't hold a candle to the names these women took for wrestling. Copafeelia. Punky Bruiser. Pain Fonda. Tragedy Ann.
As one wrestler was adjusting her costume, she said, "I wanna make sure I don't have a camel toe," bringing a shriek of "what?' from Camela Toe at the back of Lovebomb.
The film detailed the development of arm wrestling first in Charlottesville and then the subsequent leagues that began forming all over the country in Chicago, Washington, D.C., New Orleans, Austin, Durham.
The women involved did it for all different kinds of reasons - something diametrically opposed to their day job, a desire to be onstage, a love of dancing and/or burlesque, personal strength- but most of them mentioned how empowering it was to do.
And, of course, all the money raised by betting on wrestlers and bribing the refs went to a woman-based charity at every match, another reason many women were involved.
So the film was going along in a rough trade but feel-good kind of way when all of a sudden we were watching a match and a wrestler's arm broke badly as she was wrestling.
The room got silent as we realized what had just happened.
Then it happened again at another match and this time we even heard the pop as her arm snapped and sagged at the shoulder.
Meetings ensued among CLAW (collective of lady arm wrestlers) members in several cities as they tried to decide what to do about this unexpected and heartbreaking issue. Many didn't want to go on wrestling knowing that they could do that to someone or have it happen to them.
They compromised by shortening the period of the match, but the effect of two broken arms sobered them as well as the room of movie watchers.
The film finished with a championship match that included a round of rock, paper, scissors, but far be it for me to ruin the surprise of who won But even with shorter match times, I couldn't have been the only one nervous about the possibility of another on-screen break.
By the time we started applauding, I'm guessing everyone in the room understood why the movie had been such an audience favorite.
We'd laughed, we'd cried, we'd been engrossed. Now I was starving.
I stopped by Dinamo on the way home, finding a butt in every seat, but a friendly server persuaded me to wait a few minutes for a seat.
Which I did because I was craving crostini with chicken liver and Montepulciano, but honestly, I felt guilty taking up a two-top when people arriving after me were standing around waiting for a table.
Not so guilty that I was willing to forgo dessert, a simple chocolate tort with whipped cream, but enough not to dally over it, either.
Fortunately by that point, I'd had my 150% of self-serving entertainment.
Sorry my friend, tonight CLAW beat dancing hands down.
Starting at Candela Gallery for the opening of "Louis Draper: A Retrospective," I found dozens of other lovers of mid-century African-American photography snacking on salmon cakes and looking at exquisite black and white pictures.
A street photographer for the most part, Richmond-born Draper had an unerring eye for an interesting shot and walking the galleries, I found myself drawn in by faces of everyday people, whether on the streets of Harlem or working in the fields.
I ran into an old friend there, one I almost always see at openings and inquired about her itinerary for the evening; for the gallery portion, it sounded much like mine but we were to detour after that because she was going to La Parisienne for dancing and I was going for something a little rougher.
"That's gonna be fun," she said when she heard my plans. I was counting on it.
But first I went to Quirk Gallery to see Andras Bality's "Scenes from Virginia," a show of scenes, many of which I recognized- Goshen Pass, Hollywood Rapids, Huguenot Bridge complete with construction crane- done in a way that was part Cezanne and part Monet.
"Virginia Beach Pier in Fog" was a large-scale study in taupes and grays, evocative of a damp day at the beach.
Even closer to home, "Belle Isle Bathers" evoked Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," except with the bathers far less clothed and proper-looking.
The large composition included 20 people, one dog and one guitarist, a pretty fair approximation of an afternoon on Belle Isle with the exception of insufficient canine representation.
I particularly liked "Spare Room for Artist," a depiction of a small room with three windows, a bed and a phone on a nightstand - all the essentials an artistic soul could need when staying over.
The refined part of my evening over, I made my way to Lovebomb, a collective artists' space in Manchester run by three talented women, one of whom is Lily Lamberta, she who puts on the annual Halloween parade with her massive puppets every year.
Tonight the filmmakers of "CLAW," a documentary about female arm wrestling, were going to show us why their film won the People's Choice award at the Virginia Film Festival.
Walking in next to a woman I know from music shows, she sounded relieved, saying, "I almost forgot about this tonight. I would've hated to miss a movie about female empowerment."
I hadn't thought of it that way until she mentioned it.
Lovebomb was ready for the crowd, with candles lit for atmosphere, mulled cider for sipping and a crowd of people curious about something described as "50% theater, 50% sport, 50% fundraiser. 150% awesome."
Heide, one of Lovebomb's founders and an arm wrestler herself introduced the evening in a gold lame bodysuit that was particularly, ahem, snug in certain places. Her wrestling name was Camela Toe, if that tells you anything.
Filmmakers Billy Hunt and Brian Wimer had done a great job (and used up nearly five years of their lives) following the ladies' arm wrestling phenomena that began in, of all places, Charlottesville.
We saw the woman who'd conceived of it all after her husband had died unexpectedly and she was looking for an outlet for her grief and healing process.
She found that she could lose herself in a character by arm wrestling and it turned out a lot of women felt the same way.
As one woman put it, "I love having a reason to put on a rubber nurse's uniform and have it not be totally self-serving."
Don't we all?
So, sure there were impressive costumes, but they didn't hold a candle to the names these women took for wrestling. Copafeelia. Punky Bruiser. Pain Fonda. Tragedy Ann.
As one wrestler was adjusting her costume, she said, "I wanna make sure I don't have a camel toe," bringing a shriek of "what?' from Camela Toe at the back of Lovebomb.
The film detailed the development of arm wrestling first in Charlottesville and then the subsequent leagues that began forming all over the country in Chicago, Washington, D.C., New Orleans, Austin, Durham.
The women involved did it for all different kinds of reasons - something diametrically opposed to their day job, a desire to be onstage, a love of dancing and/or burlesque, personal strength- but most of them mentioned how empowering it was to do.
And, of course, all the money raised by betting on wrestlers and bribing the refs went to a woman-based charity at every match, another reason many women were involved.
So the film was going along in a rough trade but feel-good kind of way when all of a sudden we were watching a match and a wrestler's arm broke badly as she was wrestling.
The room got silent as we realized what had just happened.
Then it happened again at another match and this time we even heard the pop as her arm snapped and sagged at the shoulder.
Meetings ensued among CLAW (collective of lady arm wrestlers) members in several cities as they tried to decide what to do about this unexpected and heartbreaking issue. Many didn't want to go on wrestling knowing that they could do that to someone or have it happen to them.
They compromised by shortening the period of the match, but the effect of two broken arms sobered them as well as the room of movie watchers.
The film finished with a championship match that included a round of rock, paper, scissors, but far be it for me to ruin the surprise of who won But even with shorter match times, I couldn't have been the only one nervous about the possibility of another on-screen break.
By the time we started applauding, I'm guessing everyone in the room understood why the movie had been such an audience favorite.
We'd laughed, we'd cried, we'd been engrossed. Now I was starving.
I stopped by Dinamo on the way home, finding a butt in every seat, but a friendly server persuaded me to wait a few minutes for a seat.
Which I did because I was craving crostini with chicken liver and Montepulciano, but honestly, I felt guilty taking up a two-top when people arriving after me were standing around waiting for a table.
Not so guilty that I was willing to forgo dessert, a simple chocolate tort with whipped cream, but enough not to dally over it, either.
Fortunately by that point, I'd had my 150% of self-serving entertainment.
Sorry my friend, tonight CLAW beat dancing hands down.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Quickening My Humdrum Heart
I am delighted when I light on something different happening.
Tonight, sure, there was the drunken spelling bee at Strange Matter, but there was also Jazz in January at Page Bond gallery.
Promising jazz sketches of Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition," works inspired by the "Next" exhibition of emerging artists in the gallery and original works by the band members, I was one of the first six to arrive.
Rows of chairs were laid out in between the walls, inviting listeners in. I took a seat second row center.
Gallery director Page Bond explained that the event had come about because she liked the alliteration of "Jazz in January," but also that one of her favorite recordings was Keith Jarret's "Koln Concert" recording of January 1975, done outside.
"Emerging artists need spaces to show their work or perform their work," she said by way of introduction before the quartet- sax, keys, bass and drums- of VCU jazz students took over.
I took a seat next to a writer I've known for over a decade, a few seats down from a landscape designer for whom I ghostwrite and her husband, a row in front of the former lawyer/restaurateur and his artist wife and settled in to hear music in an artistic setting.
In my element.
From "Pictures at an Exhibition," a work I know better from Emerson, Lake and Palmer's 1971 retelling of it than the original, they began with "Promenade," a piece about moving through the exhibition, sometimes strolling, sometimes briskly.
I know I do both.
Next they did "Il Vecchio Castello," telling the musical story of a troubadour singing outside a castle. It was during this movement that Justin, the upright bass player, began doing the most awkward and impressive bass faces.
The final movement had something to do with clumsily running around without legs, but mostly I was appreciating how into it the pianist was, all turtle necking, shoulders shrugging and mouth moving as he played.
Next came bass player Justin's tribute to all the British hip-hop artists he's been listening to lately, an interesting piece very different than what had come before.
Watching the quartet play against a background of large-scale yellow and green abstract works by emerging artists, I felt sure I'd picked the most interesting thing going on in Richmond tonight.
Drunken spelling bee aside, of course.
They followed that with "A Wink and a Nod," a piece they'd written after touring the "Next" exhibit and a title which reminded me of Faces' 1971 album "A Nod is as Good as a Wink...to a Blind Horse."
Of course, they were all far too young to know that reference.
The prolific bass player Justin had written a ballad called "Meet Me at the Side," a piece that started as a late-night slow dance and segued into something livelier.
Meanwhile, people continued to arrive at the gallery and look for seats or a place to stand and hear the extraordinary music that was happening.
Justin, clearly an emerging composer as well as musician, described his next composition as about biking.
"Nothing is more freeing than biking this city," he said. "When I first came here as a college student, I found I could go anywhere in the confines of the city on my bike This is a piece about freeing yourself."
The music had a traveling sound, sometimes meandering, other times deliberately heading up hills and occasionally just cruising, absolutely carefree.
We heard a re-harmonized version of the Cole Porter classic, "What Is This Thing Called Love?" with sax player Myrick saying he hoped we liked it.
What's not to like when talented musicians are playing Cole Porter live surrounded by art?
Band original "Wizard" followed Myrick's "Stars in Her Eyes" before they closed with "Seize the Joy," an imperative I took as gospel.
After the performance, I joined many others in looking at the "Next" group exhibition, recognizing a couple of artists' names - Alyssa Solomon, Nell Blaine- and seeing how easy it must have been for the musicians to take inspiration from the works on the walls.
When I got home, it was to a message from Holmes, entreating me to join him and his main squeeze at, wait for it, Lucy's.
Okay, so I'd been there for lunch earlier today, but why would I not go join friends there now?
By the time I arrived minutes later, they'd polished off a cheese and charcuterie plate (raving about the flank steak) and were awaiting entrees.
I sat down next to another J-Ward resident who wanted to convince me that the heart of the neighborhood lies on the other side of I-95.
Sorry, I beg to differ, explaining the parameters of J-Ward, with which he was unfamiliar.
My friends were drinking beer and cocktails, leaving me no choice but Espolon on the rocks as they shared their succulent medium rare Monrovia farms N.Y. strip (a curious naming juxtaposition, no?) with me.
As they gushed about the flavorful meat, I told them about the happy cows I'd met at Monrovia Farms. One follows the other.
The sounds of Edith Piaf and Billie Holliday soon gave way to Alabama Shakes and Of Monsters and Men as I joined them in another round and dessert, a flourless chocolate torte with fresh whipped cream and raspberries.
We got off on the subject of camping (not my thing), brothers who marry the same woman (Holmes can attest to it) and, not surprisingly, "Pictures at an Exhibition."
"Did they play 'Kiev Gates'?" Holmes, the resident classical music expert wanted to know. "Because the only reason anyone plays that other stuff is so that they can get to 'Kiev Gates."
I was pretty sure they hadn't, much to his disdain.
A someone who knows less about classical music than Holmes has forgotten, it didn't matter much to me.
I'd enjoyed every minute of the eclectic musical program and it's hard to beat ending a night with friends, happy cow meat and tequila.
Seizing the joy left and right, I am. And just so you know, I could have nailed that drunken spelling bee if I'd wanted to.
Tonight, sure, there was the drunken spelling bee at Strange Matter, but there was also Jazz in January at Page Bond gallery.
Promising jazz sketches of Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition," works inspired by the "Next" exhibition of emerging artists in the gallery and original works by the band members, I was one of the first six to arrive.
Rows of chairs were laid out in between the walls, inviting listeners in. I took a seat second row center.
Gallery director Page Bond explained that the event had come about because she liked the alliteration of "Jazz in January," but also that one of her favorite recordings was Keith Jarret's "Koln Concert" recording of January 1975, done outside.
"Emerging artists need spaces to show their work or perform their work," she said by way of introduction before the quartet- sax, keys, bass and drums- of VCU jazz students took over.
I took a seat next to a writer I've known for over a decade, a few seats down from a landscape designer for whom I ghostwrite and her husband, a row in front of the former lawyer/restaurateur and his artist wife and settled in to hear music in an artistic setting.
In my element.
From "Pictures at an Exhibition," a work I know better from Emerson, Lake and Palmer's 1971 retelling of it than the original, they began with "Promenade," a piece about moving through the exhibition, sometimes strolling, sometimes briskly.
I know I do both.
Next they did "Il Vecchio Castello," telling the musical story of a troubadour singing outside a castle. It was during this movement that Justin, the upright bass player, began doing the most awkward and impressive bass faces.
The final movement had something to do with clumsily running around without legs, but mostly I was appreciating how into it the pianist was, all turtle necking, shoulders shrugging and mouth moving as he played.
Next came bass player Justin's tribute to all the British hip-hop artists he's been listening to lately, an interesting piece very different than what had come before.
Watching the quartet play against a background of large-scale yellow and green abstract works by emerging artists, I felt sure I'd picked the most interesting thing going on in Richmond tonight.
Drunken spelling bee aside, of course.
They followed that with "A Wink and a Nod," a piece they'd written after touring the "Next" exhibit and a title which reminded me of Faces' 1971 album "A Nod is as Good as a Wink...to a Blind Horse."
Of course, they were all far too young to know that reference.
The prolific bass player Justin had written a ballad called "Meet Me at the Side," a piece that started as a late-night slow dance and segued into something livelier.
Meanwhile, people continued to arrive at the gallery and look for seats or a place to stand and hear the extraordinary music that was happening.
Justin, clearly an emerging composer as well as musician, described his next composition as about biking.
"Nothing is more freeing than biking this city," he said. "When I first came here as a college student, I found I could go anywhere in the confines of the city on my bike This is a piece about freeing yourself."
The music had a traveling sound, sometimes meandering, other times deliberately heading up hills and occasionally just cruising, absolutely carefree.
We heard a re-harmonized version of the Cole Porter classic, "What Is This Thing Called Love?" with sax player Myrick saying he hoped we liked it.
What's not to like when talented musicians are playing Cole Porter live surrounded by art?
Band original "Wizard" followed Myrick's "Stars in Her Eyes" before they closed with "Seize the Joy," an imperative I took as gospel.
After the performance, I joined many others in looking at the "Next" group exhibition, recognizing a couple of artists' names - Alyssa Solomon, Nell Blaine- and seeing how easy it must have been for the musicians to take inspiration from the works on the walls.
When I got home, it was to a message from Holmes, entreating me to join him and his main squeeze at, wait for it, Lucy's.
Okay, so I'd been there for lunch earlier today, but why would I not go join friends there now?
By the time I arrived minutes later, they'd polished off a cheese and charcuterie plate (raving about the flank steak) and were awaiting entrees.
I sat down next to another J-Ward resident who wanted to convince me that the heart of the neighborhood lies on the other side of I-95.
Sorry, I beg to differ, explaining the parameters of J-Ward, with which he was unfamiliar.
My friends were drinking beer and cocktails, leaving me no choice but Espolon on the rocks as they shared their succulent medium rare Monrovia farms N.Y. strip (a curious naming juxtaposition, no?) with me.
As they gushed about the flavorful meat, I told them about the happy cows I'd met at Monrovia Farms. One follows the other.
The sounds of Edith Piaf and Billie Holliday soon gave way to Alabama Shakes and Of Monsters and Men as I joined them in another round and dessert, a flourless chocolate torte with fresh whipped cream and raspberries.
We got off on the subject of camping (not my thing), brothers who marry the same woman (Holmes can attest to it) and, not surprisingly, "Pictures at an Exhibition."
"Did they play 'Kiev Gates'?" Holmes, the resident classical music expert wanted to know. "Because the only reason anyone plays that other stuff is so that they can get to 'Kiev Gates."
I was pretty sure they hadn't, much to his disdain.
A someone who knows less about classical music than Holmes has forgotten, it didn't matter much to me.
I'd enjoyed every minute of the eclectic musical program and it's hard to beat ending a night with friends, happy cow meat and tequila.
Seizing the joy left and right, I am. And just so you know, I could have nailed that drunken spelling bee if I'd wanted to.
Black Velvet Lunch
Lunch was all about monogamy.
Because a good friend and I hadn't met up in months, he had plenty new to share today.
Although he now lives in Church Hill, he used to be part of Jackson Ward, so I couldn't resist taking him to the neighborhood's latest and greatest, Lucy's.
We sat right in the sunny front window next to the living wall, me squinting against the sunlight and watching the pageantry of Second Street and him checking out the space, admiring the community table and posting board, complete with black velvet artwork.
How is it an avid thrifter, photographer and jewelry artist has never heard of black velvet painting kits?
For lunch, I finally decided on the Downtown Cheddar, an excuse to try some of the beef that comes from co-owner Amanda's sister's cow farm on the northern neck.
And while I've been to that farm and met the cows, I'd not tasted them.
House made Monrovia Farms roast beef was stacked thickly on a Billy Bread bun, served warm with cheddar, caramelized onion for contrasting sweetness and horseradish mayo to clear my stuffy head. The spicy pickle chips were a hit with both of us. On the side, I got three-bean salad to help myself justify the mound o' meat.
Meanwhile I checked on Friend's love life, like mine, an ever-evolving saga.
I was treated to some of his male humor- the burden of dating women of a certain age who are at their sexual peak, blah, blah, women wanting to talk about monogamy but taking forever to get it out, blah, blah- as he finally got to the point: he and his girlfriend are finally talking about moving in together.
In six months or so.
He's a non-drinker so I couldn't suggest celebrating his progress, but that's a pretty big step for him considering that a few months ago she wanted to start grocery shopping together and the idea of that shared intimacy sent tremors of fear through him.
Now he's bringing back ham bones from a Christmas visit to his mother and she's making soup with them. Doing "practice sleepovers" to see how they handle workday mornings together.
I told him I had nothing anywhere near that committed to share with him.
Give me what you got, he insisted.
It wasn't much, but enough to elicit a loud and excited "good!" from him because at least I'm dating, leading to a discussion of our fairly recent friendship, which I told him is nearing the five-year mark.
Has it really been that long, he asked incredulously.
Get back with me when you've been with her for that long, my friend, and I'll give you a five-year chip to commemorate the occasion.
No telling where my love life will be at that point, but we can meet for lunch and I'll let you know.
'Cause that's what friends do.
Because a good friend and I hadn't met up in months, he had plenty new to share today.
Although he now lives in Church Hill, he used to be part of Jackson Ward, so I couldn't resist taking him to the neighborhood's latest and greatest, Lucy's.
We sat right in the sunny front window next to the living wall, me squinting against the sunlight and watching the pageantry of Second Street and him checking out the space, admiring the community table and posting board, complete with black velvet artwork.
How is it an avid thrifter, photographer and jewelry artist has never heard of black velvet painting kits?
For lunch, I finally decided on the Downtown Cheddar, an excuse to try some of the beef that comes from co-owner Amanda's sister's cow farm on the northern neck.
And while I've been to that farm and met the cows, I'd not tasted them.
House made Monrovia Farms roast beef was stacked thickly on a Billy Bread bun, served warm with cheddar, caramelized onion for contrasting sweetness and horseradish mayo to clear my stuffy head. The spicy pickle chips were a hit with both of us. On the side, I got three-bean salad to help myself justify the mound o' meat.
Meanwhile I checked on Friend's love life, like mine, an ever-evolving saga.
I was treated to some of his male humor- the burden of dating women of a certain age who are at their sexual peak, blah, blah, women wanting to talk about monogamy but taking forever to get it out, blah, blah- as he finally got to the point: he and his girlfriend are finally talking about moving in together.
In six months or so.
He's a non-drinker so I couldn't suggest celebrating his progress, but that's a pretty big step for him considering that a few months ago she wanted to start grocery shopping together and the idea of that shared intimacy sent tremors of fear through him.
Now he's bringing back ham bones from a Christmas visit to his mother and she's making soup with them. Doing "practice sleepovers" to see how they handle workday mornings together.
I told him I had nothing anywhere near that committed to share with him.
Give me what you got, he insisted.
It wasn't much, but enough to elicit a loud and excited "good!" from him because at least I'm dating, leading to a discussion of our fairly recent friendship, which I told him is nearing the five-year mark.
Has it really been that long, he asked incredulously.
Get back with me when you've been with her for that long, my friend, and I'll give you a five-year chip to commemorate the occasion.
No telling where my love life will be at that point, but we can meet for lunch and I'll let you know.
'Cause that's what friends do.
Give Me Morning Wood
Not that I ever give much thought to what's for dinner, but it's come to this: I'm taking dinner suggestions from the Internet.
I may as well put on a foil hat and start communicating with aliens.
With plans to go to Gallery 5 for music anyway, it wasn't much of a leap to go to Saison when I saw them posting that it was their first post-holiday pupusas night.
Suddenly I wanted pupusas, so I trundled down to Saison only to find a full house with one open bar stool.
Fate was expecting me. Or I got lucky, take your pick.
When I heard there were two pupusa varieties tonight, I ordered both: duck, cilantro and chiles for the meat-lover in me and oyster mushrooms, onions and queso fresca because why not?
While I waited for my dinner to arrive, I sipped Espolon, eavesdropped and flipped through the book that contained my menu, a glossy picture book of photographs of colonial Williamsburg.
Just when I'd decided that dated pictures of school groups in knee socks paying rapt attention to tour guides was the highlight, I came across pictures of a tavern and the motto inscribed over its door.
Jollity - lively and cheerful activity, the offspring of wisdom and good living.
I love research. Here I've been going for a life of jollity all along without realizing the source of it.
The guy next to me began discussing beer with the barkeep, specifically the Morning Wood Amber ale and when I gave him a look of amazement about the beer's name, I saw that his date was giving him the same.
I only wish I drank beer so I could say to a stranger with a straight face, "I want morning wood."
Instead I tucked into my pupusas, first the oyster mushroom one and then proceeding to the duck filling inside the thick, corn tortillas.
Behind me, tables began to empty and I saw a photographer I know leaving, but within minutes the tables were full again.
"It's crazy in here!" the guy beside me said and the bartender agreed, unsure why a frigid Wednesday had brought so many people out, but clearly happy about it.
Maybe I'm not the only sucker for an online tease.
For dessert, I got the chocolate beignets with coffee ice cream, a most generous serving that was probably meant to be shared.
Dateless, I did my best alone.
The beignets were dusted in fine granulated sugar rather than the standard confectioner's sugar and I found the housemade ice cream a glorious accompaniment, high praise from this non-coffee drinker.
But the star of the dish, at least for me, was the housemade granola covering the plate, unique for its pepper kick. Brilliant.
With contrasting textures, temperatures and flavors, the dish was an edible symphony on a plate.
I took so long savoring it that I missed the first couple songs by D.C.'s Andrew Grossman and his band at Gallery 5.
Theirs was an electronic poppy folk, clever and catchy enough to make me sorry I'd missed any of it.
Andrew was fun to watch, sometimes all but laying down across his keyboard as he sang.
"We're gonna finish with a cover if that's okay," he said. "If it's not, we won't. It's important to get consent."
It was fine so they covered Radiohead, bringing a film friend to my side afterwards to comment on the choice.
"Young bands never choose songs that aren't off "The Bends" or "OK Computer," he said with resignation, saying that Radiohead was influenced by the Smiths in his opinion.
Can you tell he's a child of the '80s?
On the plus side I now had company for the show and we set up camp in front of the sound booth together.
I've seen My Darling Fury a handful of times now, but my friend hadn't, so I told him he was in for a treat.
His first observation was that their song structures reminded him of Magnetic Fields but it didn't take long before he commented on singer Danny's fabulous voice, one that has been compared to Freddy Mercury's for its drama and range.
"This song was big in 2013," Danny joked about "Blots in the Margins," which Pop Matters had chosen as a best song last year.
"Yea, it's a classic," the drummer shot back. And it is, beautiful and hopeful for anyone who's ever felt outside the norm.
Is there anyone who hasn't at some point?
Voice aside, it's hard not to appreciate MDF's use of upright bass and, fittingly, my favorite handsome upright bass player showed up in time for their set, calling out, "Bass!" in between songs in support.
They ended with "End of the World" and my film friend acknowledged that he'd been impressed.
It's good to be right.
My bass-playing friend said he was going to Comfort and suggested I come get Comfort-able ("Get it?" he grinned) with him and his bandmates there.
It's hard to pass up an invitation from a handsome bass player, but there was more music.
Last up was Floodwall, the reason the filmmaker had come tonight and whom I hadn't seen since last summer.
I like their forays into post-rock and the dreamy vocals, but, let's be honest, it's their shoegaze leanings full of effects that speak to my inner music-from-a-cave soul.
Moving through songs like "Sunlit" and "Belong," they had the full attention of the small crowd gathered in a cold room on a school night.
I was won over when the guitarist began "Moth" by bowing his guitar and did the same later in the song.
Some people hope for more cowbell; I hope for more guitar bowing.
As it got close to curfew time, they managed to fit in three last songs, including the last which took off in a decidedly post-rock soundscape that could have gone on for another half an hour if it had been up to me.
You know how I hate to see an evening of jollity end.
I may as well put on a foil hat and start communicating with aliens.
With plans to go to Gallery 5 for music anyway, it wasn't much of a leap to go to Saison when I saw them posting that it was their first post-holiday pupusas night.
Suddenly I wanted pupusas, so I trundled down to Saison only to find a full house with one open bar stool.
Fate was expecting me. Or I got lucky, take your pick.
When I heard there were two pupusa varieties tonight, I ordered both: duck, cilantro and chiles for the meat-lover in me and oyster mushrooms, onions and queso fresca because why not?
While I waited for my dinner to arrive, I sipped Espolon, eavesdropped and flipped through the book that contained my menu, a glossy picture book of photographs of colonial Williamsburg.
Just when I'd decided that dated pictures of school groups in knee socks paying rapt attention to tour guides was the highlight, I came across pictures of a tavern and the motto inscribed over its door.
Jollity - lively and cheerful activity, the offspring of wisdom and good living.
I love research. Here I've been going for a life of jollity all along without realizing the source of it.
The guy next to me began discussing beer with the barkeep, specifically the Morning Wood Amber ale and when I gave him a look of amazement about the beer's name, I saw that his date was giving him the same.
I only wish I drank beer so I could say to a stranger with a straight face, "I want morning wood."
Instead I tucked into my pupusas, first the oyster mushroom one and then proceeding to the duck filling inside the thick, corn tortillas.
Behind me, tables began to empty and I saw a photographer I know leaving, but within minutes the tables were full again.
"It's crazy in here!" the guy beside me said and the bartender agreed, unsure why a frigid Wednesday had brought so many people out, but clearly happy about it.
Maybe I'm not the only sucker for an online tease.
For dessert, I got the chocolate beignets with coffee ice cream, a most generous serving that was probably meant to be shared.
Dateless, I did my best alone.
The beignets were dusted in fine granulated sugar rather than the standard confectioner's sugar and I found the housemade ice cream a glorious accompaniment, high praise from this non-coffee drinker.
But the star of the dish, at least for me, was the housemade granola covering the plate, unique for its pepper kick. Brilliant.
With contrasting textures, temperatures and flavors, the dish was an edible symphony on a plate.
I took so long savoring it that I missed the first couple songs by D.C.'s Andrew Grossman and his band at Gallery 5.
Theirs was an electronic poppy folk, clever and catchy enough to make me sorry I'd missed any of it.
Andrew was fun to watch, sometimes all but laying down across his keyboard as he sang.
"We're gonna finish with a cover if that's okay," he said. "If it's not, we won't. It's important to get consent."
It was fine so they covered Radiohead, bringing a film friend to my side afterwards to comment on the choice.
"Young bands never choose songs that aren't off "The Bends" or "OK Computer," he said with resignation, saying that Radiohead was influenced by the Smiths in his opinion.
Can you tell he's a child of the '80s?
On the plus side I now had company for the show and we set up camp in front of the sound booth together.
I've seen My Darling Fury a handful of times now, but my friend hadn't, so I told him he was in for a treat.
His first observation was that their song structures reminded him of Magnetic Fields but it didn't take long before he commented on singer Danny's fabulous voice, one that has been compared to Freddy Mercury's for its drama and range.
"This song was big in 2013," Danny joked about "Blots in the Margins," which Pop Matters had chosen as a best song last year.
"Yea, it's a classic," the drummer shot back. And it is, beautiful and hopeful for anyone who's ever felt outside the norm.
Is there anyone who hasn't at some point?
Voice aside, it's hard not to appreciate MDF's use of upright bass and, fittingly, my favorite handsome upright bass player showed up in time for their set, calling out, "Bass!" in between songs in support.
They ended with "End of the World" and my film friend acknowledged that he'd been impressed.
It's good to be right.
My bass-playing friend said he was going to Comfort and suggested I come get Comfort-able ("Get it?" he grinned) with him and his bandmates there.
It's hard to pass up an invitation from a handsome bass player, but there was more music.
Last up was Floodwall, the reason the filmmaker had come tonight and whom I hadn't seen since last summer.
I like their forays into post-rock and the dreamy vocals, but, let's be honest, it's their shoegaze leanings full of effects that speak to my inner music-from-a-cave soul.
Moving through songs like "Sunlit" and "Belong," they had the full attention of the small crowd gathered in a cold room on a school night.
I was won over when the guitarist began "Moth" by bowing his guitar and did the same later in the song.
Some people hope for more cowbell; I hope for more guitar bowing.
As it got close to curfew time, they managed to fit in three last songs, including the last which took off in a decidedly post-rock soundscape that could have gone on for another half an hour if it had been up to me.
You know how I hate to see an evening of jollity end.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Dear Diary
It would have been so easy just to stay inside the whole day and grumble about the arctic vortex freezing us out.
But where's the fun in that?
Instead I invited a fellow film-lover to meet me at VMFA for "Mary Shelley's Frankenstein," a 1994 horror film I'd never seen.
Not being any more of a fan of the genre now than I was then, I went because of the literary reference, assuming that the author's name in the title ensured a somewhat more faithful rather than Hollywood-esque adaptation.
The museum educator who introduced the film (and had a Frankenstein finger puppet on) dispelled that notion right off the bat.
"This is really "Kenneth Branagh's Frankenstein," she warned us. I presumed since he was directing that that meant it was his take on the classic tale, but no, she meant he was in practically every scene, more often than not with his shirt off.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a Branagh fan at least when it comes to his Shakespearean roles, but during a lot of this movie he looked like '90s-era Bono, swaggering around full of testosterone and righteousness.
Then there was De Niro as the creature, not a bad choice since if anyone could pull off the role of a reanimated man sewn from parts, he could.
Except when he's talking to very British Dr. Frankenstein and his New York-ese dogs every word he says.
If the creature could read and talk and play a musical instrument because of the bodies from which he was created, It's tough to see where he got his accent, seeing as how they all came from that side of the pond.
But I quibble.
The movie was an interesting adaptation in that it tried to incorporate every film version since Edison's, along with some fidelity to Shelley's book, making for a jam-packed two hours.
I have to say, it was far gorier than I expected and even the man sitting next to me winced and put his hands over his eyes a few times when things got graphic.
Me, I just close my eyes when things get unpleasant.
After the film, I came home to do some clean-up work on a writing assignment before getting cleaned up myself to go engage in some community conversation.
The Valentine Richmond History Center (you know, the ones with 1.6 million objects pertaining to the city's history) was hosting the conversation at Arcadia and by the time I got there, they were just about full.
I managed to secure a seat in the back row next to a favorite film geek and beside a former teacher who lives in Church Hill, right in front of a window that faced Main Street Station.
The evening began with the Valentine's Bill Martin saying that 50 or 100 years from now, the only record we'll have of what people thought about this time we're living in will be publications because no one writes diaries or letters anymore.
I beg to differ. A blog is as good as a diary to future generations and I, for one, have been faithfully writing in mine for over five years now. And it's not even locked or hidden away.
But it's not about me.
According to Bill, it was about the roomful of 60-some people (30-some had been turned away because the room was full) having a conversation about the future of Shockoe Slip without any politicians or others with agendas in the room.
Our first assignment was to tell a stranger about our earliest memory of Shockoe Bottom. Ginny, the former teacher on my left, heard mine.
I'd only been in Richmond a year or so when someone recommended a club they thought I'd like called Bird in Hand, down in the Bottom.
I went with friends, the music was great, I danced and talked to people, but when I mentioned the place to some neighbors afterwards they were appalled.
Don't go down there, they warned. That's a dangerous place. No one goes to the Bottom.
Pshaw.
Ginny's first memory was of shopping with her parents at the farmer's market. Every week.
After the room buzzed with so many strangers talking at once, we were told that the decibel level had reached 98 - equivalent to a motorcycle or subway. There was a lot of positive energy in the room.
Then we reconvened the group and heard from people we hadn't talked to.
James, on the other side of me, recalled the particular pleasures of Main Street Grill and its wildly different day and night crowds. A woman remembered a fish market on the canal. Harry recalled his parents bringing him in from the county to see the aftereffects of Hurricane Agnes. Someone mentioned a boat restaurant with the best fried oysters.
One woman spoke of her great-grandfather, a Buffalo soldier who helped free slaves from Lumpkin's Jail.
It was fascinating hearing the memories of others.
Then Bill showed us photographs from the Valentine's collection, beginning with an 1855 image (the oldest one they have) looking across the Bottom up to the State Capital.
There was surprise at how dense the area was populated then.
We saw photos of the Exchange and Ballard Hotels where the rich slave traders stayed. One of Main Street in 1866, completely flooded.
When he showed one of the City Jail, a man in the front row shared that it was standard practice to paint the first floor of jails white so that it'd be easier to spot escapees against it.
A 1950s photo showed construction beginning on I-95, cutting an ugly swath between MCV and the Bottom.
Keypads were distributed and we answered questions on them to determine the demographics of the room, so different than the demographics of the city.
The only shared quality was a higher percentage of women in attendance.
We went back to small groups to discuss our current perceptions of the Bottom versus our hope for what we'd like it to be and more high decibel conversation ensued.
Then we had our experts talk, each for ten minutes.
Anna, part of the group espousing an alternative to the ballpark plan for Shockoe Bottom, explained her hopes of encouraging walkability and density for an area where "every step represents a history of some kind."
Jack, representing the mayor who was on southside pitching his ballpark idea, laid out the mayor's plan to incorporate a ballpark, a Hyatt, a Kroger, a glass-facade on the shed of Main Street station and two apartment buildings.
Lest it sound like he was ignoring the slave trade history of the area, he showed drawings for Lumpkin's Pavilion, a contemporary, glass museum situated over an archaeological dig.
Not surprisingly, when he finished a dozen hands shot in the air to comment or question his presentation.
But as one savvy attendee pointed out, we weren't there to crucify the messenger. The point of tonight's gathering was to share thoughts about the history and future of Shockoe Bottom with other people who care about that area and our city.
To meet other people willing to come out on a 17-degree night to hear about history and talk about how to make things happen.
To have a community conversation at 98 db.
But where's the fun in that?
Instead I invited a fellow film-lover to meet me at VMFA for "Mary Shelley's Frankenstein," a 1994 horror film I'd never seen.
Not being any more of a fan of the genre now than I was then, I went because of the literary reference, assuming that the author's name in the title ensured a somewhat more faithful rather than Hollywood-esque adaptation.
The museum educator who introduced the film (and had a Frankenstein finger puppet on) dispelled that notion right off the bat.
"This is really "Kenneth Branagh's Frankenstein," she warned us. I presumed since he was directing that that meant it was his take on the classic tale, but no, she meant he was in practically every scene, more often than not with his shirt off.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a Branagh fan at least when it comes to his Shakespearean roles, but during a lot of this movie he looked like '90s-era Bono, swaggering around full of testosterone and righteousness.
Then there was De Niro as the creature, not a bad choice since if anyone could pull off the role of a reanimated man sewn from parts, he could.
Except when he's talking to very British Dr. Frankenstein and his New York-ese dogs every word he says.
If the creature could read and talk and play a musical instrument because of the bodies from which he was created, It's tough to see where he got his accent, seeing as how they all came from that side of the pond.
But I quibble.
The movie was an interesting adaptation in that it tried to incorporate every film version since Edison's, along with some fidelity to Shelley's book, making for a jam-packed two hours.
I have to say, it was far gorier than I expected and even the man sitting next to me winced and put his hands over his eyes a few times when things got graphic.
Me, I just close my eyes when things get unpleasant.
After the film, I came home to do some clean-up work on a writing assignment before getting cleaned up myself to go engage in some community conversation.
The Valentine Richmond History Center (you know, the ones with 1.6 million objects pertaining to the city's history) was hosting the conversation at Arcadia and by the time I got there, they were just about full.
I managed to secure a seat in the back row next to a favorite film geek and beside a former teacher who lives in Church Hill, right in front of a window that faced Main Street Station.
The evening began with the Valentine's Bill Martin saying that 50 or 100 years from now, the only record we'll have of what people thought about this time we're living in will be publications because no one writes diaries or letters anymore.
I beg to differ. A blog is as good as a diary to future generations and I, for one, have been faithfully writing in mine for over five years now. And it's not even locked or hidden away.
But it's not about me.
According to Bill, it was about the roomful of 60-some people (30-some had been turned away because the room was full) having a conversation about the future of Shockoe Slip without any politicians or others with agendas in the room.
Our first assignment was to tell a stranger about our earliest memory of Shockoe Bottom. Ginny, the former teacher on my left, heard mine.
I'd only been in Richmond a year or so when someone recommended a club they thought I'd like called Bird in Hand, down in the Bottom.
I went with friends, the music was great, I danced and talked to people, but when I mentioned the place to some neighbors afterwards they were appalled.
Don't go down there, they warned. That's a dangerous place. No one goes to the Bottom.
Pshaw.
Ginny's first memory was of shopping with her parents at the farmer's market. Every week.
After the room buzzed with so many strangers talking at once, we were told that the decibel level had reached 98 - equivalent to a motorcycle or subway. There was a lot of positive energy in the room.
Then we reconvened the group and heard from people we hadn't talked to.
James, on the other side of me, recalled the particular pleasures of Main Street Grill and its wildly different day and night crowds. A woman remembered a fish market on the canal. Harry recalled his parents bringing him in from the county to see the aftereffects of Hurricane Agnes. Someone mentioned a boat restaurant with the best fried oysters.
One woman spoke of her great-grandfather, a Buffalo soldier who helped free slaves from Lumpkin's Jail.
It was fascinating hearing the memories of others.
Then Bill showed us photographs from the Valentine's collection, beginning with an 1855 image (the oldest one they have) looking across the Bottom up to the State Capital.
There was surprise at how dense the area was populated then.
We saw photos of the Exchange and Ballard Hotels where the rich slave traders stayed. One of Main Street in 1866, completely flooded.
When he showed one of the City Jail, a man in the front row shared that it was standard practice to paint the first floor of jails white so that it'd be easier to spot escapees against it.
A 1950s photo showed construction beginning on I-95, cutting an ugly swath between MCV and the Bottom.
Keypads were distributed and we answered questions on them to determine the demographics of the room, so different than the demographics of the city.
The only shared quality was a higher percentage of women in attendance.
We went back to small groups to discuss our current perceptions of the Bottom versus our hope for what we'd like it to be and more high decibel conversation ensued.
Then we had our experts talk, each for ten minutes.
Anna, part of the group espousing an alternative to the ballpark plan for Shockoe Bottom, explained her hopes of encouraging walkability and density for an area where "every step represents a history of some kind."
Jack, representing the mayor who was on southside pitching his ballpark idea, laid out the mayor's plan to incorporate a ballpark, a Hyatt, a Kroger, a glass-facade on the shed of Main Street station and two apartment buildings.
Lest it sound like he was ignoring the slave trade history of the area, he showed drawings for Lumpkin's Pavilion, a contemporary, glass museum situated over an archaeological dig.
Not surprisingly, when he finished a dozen hands shot in the air to comment or question his presentation.
But as one savvy attendee pointed out, we weren't there to crucify the messenger. The point of tonight's gathering was to share thoughts about the history and future of Shockoe Bottom with other people who care about that area and our city.
To meet other people willing to come out on a 17-degree night to hear about history and talk about how to make things happen.
To have a community conversation at 98 db.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Natives Believe Love Desires Verse 2013
Remember when I used to have enough time to put out my annual list by the end of the year?
Yea, vaguely, I do. So I'm a little behind the game, but here it finally is, my annual list of favorite records, the ones that got far too much playing time as I over-indulged myself by hitting "repeat" all too often.
Local Natives "Hummingbird
A fellow music lover sent me an e-mail last February saying that this was the best new album so far. Not exactly high praise in the second month but it took me exactly one listen to fall in love with it, too. It's lush, it's emotional, there are two vocalists and the layers of sound are pure ear candy. It got the year off to a fabulous musical beginning.
My song: "Ceilings" At less than three minutes, it's entirely too short, but this song could take the worst day and make it sunny and beautiful again.
The show: June 19 at the National, here.
Chvrches "The Bones of What You Believe"
All I had to do was read about this band playing at Virgin Free Fest to know that they were a band for me. Sometimes you just know. Then there were those Glaswegian voices, synths and a sound that hearkened back to the likes of Depeche Mode. Be still my '80s heart.
My song: "Under the Tide" An atypical choice because it's the rare song not sung by lead singer Laura Mayberry, but between the hopeful lyrics and rocking energy, it's a killer song, even more so live.
The show: November 30 at the National, here
The Love Language "Ruby Red"
I think bandleader Stuart could write a pop gem in his sleep and this album was one after another, so it must have been a hell of a night. There were something like 26 musicians who played on the recording of it to achieve the hooky, dense sound he wanted. Clearly, he knew what he was doing.
My song: "Golden Age" Soaring, longing and downright beautiful, this song belongs as background music to a dreamy life. Maybe mine.
The show: August 2 at Strange Matter, here
Small Black "Limits of Desire"
I was listening to a program of new music on the radio and a song came on that oozed a neo-'80s sound with R & B influences. It was Small Black and I followed their breathy vocals and synths to an album that doesn't have a song on it I don't enjoy hearing for the hundreth time. I recommended it to someone who later wrote me, "We're driving Skyline Drive, listening to Small Black and I'm thinking about marrying this boy." Such is the power of Small Black.
My song: "No Stranger"/"Sophie" I don't think it's an accident that one song follows the other. This is an absolutely perfect one-two punch.
No show: I wish they'd make it to Virginia for my sake.
Frightened Rabbit "Pedestrian Verse
Maybe it's having a Scottish friend, maybe it's that one trip to Scotland, but I am a sucker for hearing the Scots sing. The band gets tighter with each album and leader Scott writes better songs as he manages to sing of life and love in that distinctive Scottish way.
My song: "Late March, Death March" How does he manage to brood and make it sound so appealing at the same time? Don't know, don't care. Keep it coming, though.
The show: October 14 at the Jefferson, here
That's hardly all I listened to this year, but they would be the ones that got on people's nerves who spent any time in my car or living room, where they stayed in constant rotation.
They got played in the city, at the beach, on road trips and late at night while I was blogging.
The music of a year that ended surprisingly better than I could have hoped for.
Yea, vaguely, I do. So I'm a little behind the game, but here it finally is, my annual list of favorite records, the ones that got far too much playing time as I over-indulged myself by hitting "repeat" all too often.
Local Natives "Hummingbird
A fellow music lover sent me an e-mail last February saying that this was the best new album so far. Not exactly high praise in the second month but it took me exactly one listen to fall in love with it, too. It's lush, it's emotional, there are two vocalists and the layers of sound are pure ear candy. It got the year off to a fabulous musical beginning.
My song: "Ceilings" At less than three minutes, it's entirely too short, but this song could take the worst day and make it sunny and beautiful again.
The show: June 19 at the National, here.
Chvrches "The Bones of What You Believe"
All I had to do was read about this band playing at Virgin Free Fest to know that they were a band for me. Sometimes you just know. Then there were those Glaswegian voices, synths and a sound that hearkened back to the likes of Depeche Mode. Be still my '80s heart.
My song: "Under the Tide" An atypical choice because it's the rare song not sung by lead singer Laura Mayberry, but between the hopeful lyrics and rocking energy, it's a killer song, even more so live.
The show: November 30 at the National, here
The Love Language "Ruby Red"
I think bandleader Stuart could write a pop gem in his sleep and this album was one after another, so it must have been a hell of a night. There were something like 26 musicians who played on the recording of it to achieve the hooky, dense sound he wanted. Clearly, he knew what he was doing.
My song: "Golden Age" Soaring, longing and downright beautiful, this song belongs as background music to a dreamy life. Maybe mine.
The show: August 2 at Strange Matter, here
Small Black "Limits of Desire"
I was listening to a program of new music on the radio and a song came on that oozed a neo-'80s sound with R & B influences. It was Small Black and I followed their breathy vocals and synths to an album that doesn't have a song on it I don't enjoy hearing for the hundreth time. I recommended it to someone who later wrote me, "We're driving Skyline Drive, listening to Small Black and I'm thinking about marrying this boy." Such is the power of Small Black.
My song: "No Stranger"/"Sophie" I don't think it's an accident that one song follows the other. This is an absolutely perfect one-two punch.
No show: I wish they'd make it to Virginia for my sake.
Frightened Rabbit "Pedestrian Verse
Maybe it's having a Scottish friend, maybe it's that one trip to Scotland, but I am a sucker for hearing the Scots sing. The band gets tighter with each album and leader Scott writes better songs as he manages to sing of life and love in that distinctive Scottish way.
My song: "Late March, Death March" How does he manage to brood and make it sound so appealing at the same time? Don't know, don't care. Keep it coming, though.
The show: October 14 at the Jefferson, here
That's hardly all I listened to this year, but they would be the ones that got on people's nerves who spent any time in my car or living room, where they stayed in constant rotation.
They got played in the city, at the beach, on road trips and late at night while I was blogging.
The music of a year that ended surprisingly better than I could have hoped for.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Hearts and Pearls
That's one off my list.
I knocked off one of the 1001 movies you must see before you die, "Sherlock Jr." at the Silent Music Revival tonight at Gallery 5.
The classic 1924 Buster Keaton movie got a boost with an improvised soundtrack by the Green Boys, the handsome Fredericksburg band with slide guitar, doublebass and mandolin, along with the usual suspects.
Host Jameson had created the perfect pairing with the tale of a lowly film projectionist who yearns to be a detective and gets his chance when a rival for his love steals a watch and pawns it.
He warned us to look out for a scene where Buster jumped off a train and into a water torrent because during that scene, the actor had broken his neck, unbeknownst to him.
I have to say, it's more than a little unsettling to watch an actor do his own stunt, knowing that his neck is being broken in the process.
But most of the film was laugh-out-loud funny and the Green Boys' accompaniment was ideal- energetic, homey and with just enough twang to convey our hero's everyman status.
As a bonus, I loved all the scenes of '20s-era California, so much simpler a time.
All the cool kids were there- the scientist bearing chocolate he shared with me, the DJ who'd had a sad morning (our third meeting in as many days), the printmaker whose prints I'd coveted earlier today, the harmonium player about to go out on tour.
It was a record crowd in Gallery 5, where, mercifully, the heating system had been restored after Friday night's breakdown, and they had to bring in extra chairs to accommodate them all.
Judging by all the laughter during the movie and the heartfelt applause afterwards, I'd say it was a perfect marriage of film and music.
But then, that's what Jameson does best. I should know; I've been going since 2007 when he used to do it in Rumors boutique for a dozen people.
When I left there, it was to go to Max's on Broad for a bite where a familiar actor friend greeted us and before long, the scientist and his date showed up, too.
The music was ideally suited to the room - Billy Holiday, Edith Piaf- and we started with an extremely generous serving of steak tartare, made all the richer with an egg yolk and a creamy pesto to take it over the top.
I followed meat with meat with a French dip with Gruyere, horseradish and red onion on a baguette with asparagus on the side, a sandwich so tasty I shared a bite with the scientist despite his date's surprised look.
The way I see it, if a man offers me his chocolate, the least I can do is offer him a bite of my roast beast in return.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
I knocked off one of the 1001 movies you must see before you die, "Sherlock Jr." at the Silent Music Revival tonight at Gallery 5.
The classic 1924 Buster Keaton movie got a boost with an improvised soundtrack by the Green Boys, the handsome Fredericksburg band with slide guitar, doublebass and mandolin, along with the usual suspects.
Host Jameson had created the perfect pairing with the tale of a lowly film projectionist who yearns to be a detective and gets his chance when a rival for his love steals a watch and pawns it.
He warned us to look out for a scene where Buster jumped off a train and into a water torrent because during that scene, the actor had broken his neck, unbeknownst to him.
I have to say, it's more than a little unsettling to watch an actor do his own stunt, knowing that his neck is being broken in the process.
But most of the film was laugh-out-loud funny and the Green Boys' accompaniment was ideal- energetic, homey and with just enough twang to convey our hero's everyman status.
As a bonus, I loved all the scenes of '20s-era California, so much simpler a time.
All the cool kids were there- the scientist bearing chocolate he shared with me, the DJ who'd had a sad morning (our third meeting in as many days), the printmaker whose prints I'd coveted earlier today, the harmonium player about to go out on tour.
It was a record crowd in Gallery 5, where, mercifully, the heating system had been restored after Friday night's breakdown, and they had to bring in extra chairs to accommodate them all.
Judging by all the laughter during the movie and the heartfelt applause afterwards, I'd say it was a perfect marriage of film and music.
But then, that's what Jameson does best. I should know; I've been going since 2007 when he used to do it in Rumors boutique for a dozen people.
When I left there, it was to go to Max's on Broad for a bite where a familiar actor friend greeted us and before long, the scientist and his date showed up, too.
The music was ideally suited to the room - Billy Holiday, Edith Piaf- and we started with an extremely generous serving of steak tartare, made all the richer with an egg yolk and a creamy pesto to take it over the top.
I followed meat with meat with a French dip with Gruyere, horseradish and red onion on a baguette with asparagus on the side, a sandwich so tasty I shared a bite with the scientist despite his date's surprised look.
The way I see it, if a man offers me his chocolate, the least I can do is offer him a bite of my roast beast in return.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Soul, with a Side of Sad
I swear, all I did was sit down. I wasn't looking for anything more than a seat.
My Sunday began, as all good Sundays should, with brunch, but not at a restaurant.
The Sharon Jones soul brunch was happening at Steady Sounds, an easy three-block walk from my house, and the occasion was the impending release of the new Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings album.
I walked in to hear the mellow madness of Michael Murphy spinning soul 45s and proceeded upstairs where he was for brunch.
There I found the pop-up style guru, the cheese whiz and lots of others chowing down. Me, I passed by three kinds of Proper Pies to get to Heritage's chicken and waffles with chile honey.
I may not be a southerner by birth, but damned if I don't think that chicken and waffles is the best breakfast ever.
Downstairs, I found more friends, the mod-looking DJ who's growing out her bangs for the first time since I've known her and a favorite cute couple.
I'd seen on Facebook recently that half the couple had posted that, "a perfect Friday night would include art, pie and dancing," so naturally I asked if his had.
Affirmative. Curious about the source of the pie, he said he'd gotten it at Bamboo, "served with a side of crochety."
Apparently when you order pie at Bamboo at 1:45 a.m., the server will tell you you're not allowed to eat it there. And the pie won't be as good as at Garnett's, either, he said.
I couldn't resist looking at the latest art show, Nick Crider's "Work," a collection of prints as well as posters for music shows, trying to decide which one I'd like to own given how reasonably priced they were.
Too full from brunch and with too many people to talk to, I couldn't decide, but I'll go back and score one before the show ends, that much I know.
When I left there, soul music was still blaring and the joint was just as full, always a pleasure to see at my neighborhood record store.
My next stop was the VMFA to see "Atonement," part of the "60 Films in 60 Days" series they're doing.
I slid into a seat at the end of my favorite row and the couple next to me turned as if they'd been awaiting my arrival.
It was the trifecta. Recent transplants landing in my lap again, just like the past two nights.
These had moved from Morgantown, West Virginia and were over the moon about being back in a place with more than chain restaurants and culture at every turn.
They'd just heard of Lucy's and wanted to know if I'd been. They wanted restaurant recommendations and to know about docent tours at the VMFA. They were my kind of people.
In the fifteen minutes before the film began, I learned that they'd seen the Hollywood photography show and, like me, liked it even better than the costume show.
The one of Liz Taylor on the beach was her favorite, she told me after asking mine (couldn't decide).
Interestingly enough, she'd once had a chance to meet Liz, back when she was Warner's wife and living in Virginia.
But a prior engagement had prevented her from going and she'd never gotten over missing her chance.
"I divorced him because he kept me from meeting Elizabeth Taylor," the woman said dryly and I knew we were going to be friends.
I guess that makes you the lucky replacement, I said to her current husband.
"That's me, Mr. Lucky," he grinned, actually sounding sincere.
They were delightful and just before the lights went down, insisted that we exchange cards after the movie so we could meet for drinks or dinner.
Honestly, I did not try to engage these people, they engaged me.
As for "Atonement," I'd seen it at the Westhampton back in 2007 when it came out, but frankly, anything that happened before 2009 is like another lifetime to me, so I'd forgotten how a) beautifully shot it was and b) heart-breakingly sad.
The first half takes place on a summer's day so scenes of lush, green, English fields, hollyhocks and Queen Anne's lace blooming everywhere, felt as faraway as 2007.
Doors were left open, bees crawled on windowpanes and people asked questions at dinner like, "Does the hot weather make you behave badly?"
I only wish it was hot enough for me to answer yes to that.
After an ending that had me in tears, my new friends were as good as their word, insisting we get together soon for drinks and more conversation at the very least.
He handed me a card with both their names, both their phone numbers and a shared e-mail address printed on it.
I found it quaint, perhaps because I'd never seen a couple's card before.
Maybe it's the prize you get when you finally find Mr. Lucky.
My Sunday began, as all good Sundays should, with brunch, but not at a restaurant.
The Sharon Jones soul brunch was happening at Steady Sounds, an easy three-block walk from my house, and the occasion was the impending release of the new Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings album.
I walked in to hear the mellow madness of Michael Murphy spinning soul 45s and proceeded upstairs where he was for brunch.
There I found the pop-up style guru, the cheese whiz and lots of others chowing down. Me, I passed by three kinds of Proper Pies to get to Heritage's chicken and waffles with chile honey.
I may not be a southerner by birth, but damned if I don't think that chicken and waffles is the best breakfast ever.
Downstairs, I found more friends, the mod-looking DJ who's growing out her bangs for the first time since I've known her and a favorite cute couple.
I'd seen on Facebook recently that half the couple had posted that, "a perfect Friday night would include art, pie and dancing," so naturally I asked if his had.
Affirmative. Curious about the source of the pie, he said he'd gotten it at Bamboo, "served with a side of crochety."
Apparently when you order pie at Bamboo at 1:45 a.m., the server will tell you you're not allowed to eat it there. And the pie won't be as good as at Garnett's, either, he said.
I couldn't resist looking at the latest art show, Nick Crider's "Work," a collection of prints as well as posters for music shows, trying to decide which one I'd like to own given how reasonably priced they were.
Too full from brunch and with too many people to talk to, I couldn't decide, but I'll go back and score one before the show ends, that much I know.
When I left there, soul music was still blaring and the joint was just as full, always a pleasure to see at my neighborhood record store.
My next stop was the VMFA to see "Atonement," part of the "60 Films in 60 Days" series they're doing.
I slid into a seat at the end of my favorite row and the couple next to me turned as if they'd been awaiting my arrival.
It was the trifecta. Recent transplants landing in my lap again, just like the past two nights.
These had moved from Morgantown, West Virginia and were over the moon about being back in a place with more than chain restaurants and culture at every turn.
They'd just heard of Lucy's and wanted to know if I'd been. They wanted restaurant recommendations and to know about docent tours at the VMFA. They were my kind of people.
In the fifteen minutes before the film began, I learned that they'd seen the Hollywood photography show and, like me, liked it even better than the costume show.
The one of Liz Taylor on the beach was her favorite, she told me after asking mine (couldn't decide).
Interestingly enough, she'd once had a chance to meet Liz, back when she was Warner's wife and living in Virginia.
But a prior engagement had prevented her from going and she'd never gotten over missing her chance.
"I divorced him because he kept me from meeting Elizabeth Taylor," the woman said dryly and I knew we were going to be friends.
I guess that makes you the lucky replacement, I said to her current husband.
"That's me, Mr. Lucky," he grinned, actually sounding sincere.
They were delightful and just before the lights went down, insisted that we exchange cards after the movie so we could meet for drinks or dinner.
Honestly, I did not try to engage these people, they engaged me.
As for "Atonement," I'd seen it at the Westhampton back in 2007 when it came out, but frankly, anything that happened before 2009 is like another lifetime to me, so I'd forgotten how a) beautifully shot it was and b) heart-breakingly sad.
The first half takes place on a summer's day so scenes of lush, green, English fields, hollyhocks and Queen Anne's lace blooming everywhere, felt as faraway as 2007.
Doors were left open, bees crawled on windowpanes and people asked questions at dinner like, "Does the hot weather make you behave badly?"
I only wish it was hot enough for me to answer yes to that.
After an ending that had me in tears, my new friends were as good as their word, insisting we get together soon for drinks and more conversation at the very least.
He handed me a card with both their names, both their phone numbers and a shared e-mail address printed on it.
I found it quaint, perhaps because I'd never seen a couple's card before.
Maybe it's the prize you get when you finally find Mr. Lucky.
Darling If U Want Me 2
My aura seems to be attracting transplants.
For the second night in a row, I spent an evening listening to music with a stranger new to Richmond and already eager to sing its praises.
It happened over at Crossroads, a place I'd never been until December 1st and which I've now visited twice in barely over a month.
This time it was for Rattlemouth, those practitioners of world music with the devoted, dancing following.
I first saw them back in 2008 at Art 6 of all places and with no idea what to expect, my companion and I had been hugely impressed with the way they could take, say, an Ethiopian groove and run with it until it became something wholly their own.
Since I'd been to Crossroads at the beginning of December for the mobbed Loversville show (they love their country music on southside...as did I that night), they'd added a patio pavilion with heaters, increasing the number of people they could seat for a show.
Even so, with my thin blood, I had no intention of sitting anywhere but indoors and just for good measure in this ungodly cold, ordered a large hot chocolate, too.
With whipped cream, but only because they didn't offer me marshmallows.
My server made it while singing along to the Stylistics "Betcha By Golly Wow," a song not every man could manage but he was spot on with the high notes.
He also acquitted himself admirably on Prince's "I Would Die 4 U," I happened to notice.
I took my liquid warmth to sit down at the only table inside, a circular six-top, assuming that the other tables had been moved to the patio to accommodate Rattlemouth's girth.
The five piece (guitar, bass, drums, electric cello and sax) takes up a goodly amount of room and anyone who's seen them knows that where they go, dancers follow, so space was essential.
So when a guy approached me asking if he could share my table, I welcomed him in, asking what kind of awful person would deny a stranger a chair.
"I came from New York and people do stuff like that all the time," he said, smiling. Well, this is Virginia, man, and we're a tad more gracious than that.
Ryan sat down and introduced himself, explaining that he was a recent transplant, having visited his mother in Lakeside during Christmas 2012 and been so impressed with our fair city that he'd since moved down here.
It was the usual RVA suspects that got under his skin and won him over: cost of living, quality of life, rarity of snow.
He was just starting to get into the local music scene and had been advised to check out Rattlemouth. I told him that was good advice because their world music sound, dancey in a hypnotic sort of way with its odd time signatures, allows the sizable talent of the band's members to shine.
Waiting for the band to set up, he told me about his work, his music and some upcoming projects he was excited about, one of which involved writing. When he found out what I did, he was almost giddy at all we had to talk about
When another guy joined our table and heard Ryan was a first-timer, he gushed, "You're gonna love 'em," causing Ryan to look at me and grin.
Yea, I told you that already.
Two songs in and everyone in the room was totally into it, heads and shoulders grooving, except maybe the guy who'd made my hot chocolate who was juggling behind the counter.
By the fourth song, the first dancers took the floor, doing the particular dance moves that this music elicits in fans. Part modern dance, part Deadhead butterfly-catching dance, part loose-limbed spastic, there were some serious moves being busted.
When one woman at our table got up to dance, she said over her shoulder, "It draws you out eventually."
Even the musicians weren't immune and when the sax player wasn't playing, he was holding his instrument horizontally and dancing with it side to side, eyes closed.
When a song would build to a pitch, the dancers became almost frenzied echoing the intensity of the music.
After the break ("Take a moment to talk amongst yourselves," we were instructed and you know I did), the band came back strong, barely giving the dancing crowd time to catch their breath between songs.
Hell, even the staff were dancing behind the counter by that point. Irresistible grooves wait for no one.
Ryan got up to leave before the last song, but not before handing me a piece of paper with his e-mail and phone number on it.
"Maybe you can mentor me about Richmond," he said before waving good-bye.
You're going to love it, friend. I'm telling you now.
For the second night in a row, I spent an evening listening to music with a stranger new to Richmond and already eager to sing its praises.
It happened over at Crossroads, a place I'd never been until December 1st and which I've now visited twice in barely over a month.
This time it was for Rattlemouth, those practitioners of world music with the devoted, dancing following.
I first saw them back in 2008 at Art 6 of all places and with no idea what to expect, my companion and I had been hugely impressed with the way they could take, say, an Ethiopian groove and run with it until it became something wholly their own.
Since I'd been to Crossroads at the beginning of December for the mobbed Loversville show (they love their country music on southside...as did I that night), they'd added a patio pavilion with heaters, increasing the number of people they could seat for a show.
Even so, with my thin blood, I had no intention of sitting anywhere but indoors and just for good measure in this ungodly cold, ordered a large hot chocolate, too.
With whipped cream, but only because they didn't offer me marshmallows.
My server made it while singing along to the Stylistics "Betcha By Golly Wow," a song not every man could manage but he was spot on with the high notes.
He also acquitted himself admirably on Prince's "I Would Die 4 U," I happened to notice.
I took my liquid warmth to sit down at the only table inside, a circular six-top, assuming that the other tables had been moved to the patio to accommodate Rattlemouth's girth.
The five piece (guitar, bass, drums, electric cello and sax) takes up a goodly amount of room and anyone who's seen them knows that where they go, dancers follow, so space was essential.
So when a guy approached me asking if he could share my table, I welcomed him in, asking what kind of awful person would deny a stranger a chair.
"I came from New York and people do stuff like that all the time," he said, smiling. Well, this is Virginia, man, and we're a tad more gracious than that.
Ryan sat down and introduced himself, explaining that he was a recent transplant, having visited his mother in Lakeside during Christmas 2012 and been so impressed with our fair city that he'd since moved down here.
It was the usual RVA suspects that got under his skin and won him over: cost of living, quality of life, rarity of snow.
He was just starting to get into the local music scene and had been advised to check out Rattlemouth. I told him that was good advice because their world music sound, dancey in a hypnotic sort of way with its odd time signatures, allows the sizable talent of the band's members to shine.
Waiting for the band to set up, he told me about his work, his music and some upcoming projects he was excited about, one of which involved writing. When he found out what I did, he was almost giddy at all we had to talk about
When another guy joined our table and heard Ryan was a first-timer, he gushed, "You're gonna love 'em," causing Ryan to look at me and grin.
Yea, I told you that already.
Two songs in and everyone in the room was totally into it, heads and shoulders grooving, except maybe the guy who'd made my hot chocolate who was juggling behind the counter.
By the fourth song, the first dancers took the floor, doing the particular dance moves that this music elicits in fans. Part modern dance, part Deadhead butterfly-catching dance, part loose-limbed spastic, there were some serious moves being busted.
When one woman at our table got up to dance, she said over her shoulder, "It draws you out eventually."
Even the musicians weren't immune and when the sax player wasn't playing, he was holding his instrument horizontally and dancing with it side to side, eyes closed.
When a song would build to a pitch, the dancers became almost frenzied echoing the intensity of the music.
After the break ("Take a moment to talk amongst yourselves," we were instructed and you know I did), the band came back strong, barely giving the dancing crowd time to catch their breath between songs.
Hell, even the staff were dancing behind the counter by that point. Irresistible grooves wait for no one.
Ryan got up to leave before the last song, but not before handing me a piece of paper with his e-mail and phone number on it.
"Maybe you can mentor me about Richmond," he said before waving good-bye.
You're going to love it, friend. I'm telling you now.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Don't Make Me Toast, I Won't Cheat
Of all the high class ways I could have spent an afternoon, I chose watching vomiting, masturbation, non-stop profanity, a whole lot of screaming, gratuitous stabbing, a hand job and anger-induced destruction of property.
Someone's gotta keep up with the local film scene.
The Byrd theater was hosting a super-secret screening of "Science Team," a micro-budget sci-fi/horror movie set in Richmond.
I was far from the only one who couldn't resist the allure of heads exploding and blood spurting, all set in familiar locations.
The hilarity started even before the film when I had to listen to the inane banter of the two college-age couples behind me.
"The years go by so much faster than they did when I was in high school," one girl said , all sincerity. "Now that I'm, you know, having fun."
Just for the record, she also clarified that her parents do her taxes because, "I'm not really grown up and that stuff's, like, hard. So my Dad pays the taxes and then writes me a check for what I should have gotten. I know that's not very real world." Giggle.
Can't wait till life smacks you in the face, sweetie.
Two of the film's producers came out to introduce it, warning us that, "It's not a final version, but it's still good." So we were the only audience who will ever see this version.
"We have a lot of people we have to thank for their help getting this movie made," the director said. "I won't mention them specifically."
Alrighty, then.
Familiar Richmond sites began showing up with the first scene at the Carillon followed by scenes at Dogwood Dell and in front of the aluminum foil building.
The premise was simple. A guy finds out his girlfriend cheated on him ("I made you toast and you went and had sex with Donald on the very same day!"), destroys the living room and goes home to take solace with his mother.
Only she's dead, her head having been exploded by an alien.
The Science Team comes to the rescue, sending in a crack team in pink jumpsuits led by an inter-galactic diplomat, all of them trained to defend American shores from external and existential threats.
Not surprisingly, a lot of the special effects got major cheers from the audience.
Two of the funnier elements of the story were all the dated devices used- land lines, VCR tapes and machines, a typewriter- and that the hero spent the entire film in his robe, wife-beater and boxers.
Was most of the humor utterly sophomoric? Absolutely.
Was the violence over-the-top and gratuitous? You bet.
Were there politically incorrect references? Sure were.
Did the Science Team ultimately save the day while we ate popcorn and laughed at inappropriate jokes?
Yes, and on a Saturday afternoon, isn't that more than enough?
Someone's gotta keep up with the local film scene.
The Byrd theater was hosting a super-secret screening of "Science Team," a micro-budget sci-fi/horror movie set in Richmond.
I was far from the only one who couldn't resist the allure of heads exploding and blood spurting, all set in familiar locations.
The hilarity started even before the film when I had to listen to the inane banter of the two college-age couples behind me.
"The years go by so much faster than they did when I was in high school," one girl said , all sincerity. "Now that I'm, you know, having fun."
Just for the record, she also clarified that her parents do her taxes because, "I'm not really grown up and that stuff's, like, hard. So my Dad pays the taxes and then writes me a check for what I should have gotten. I know that's not very real world." Giggle.
Can't wait till life smacks you in the face, sweetie.
Two of the film's producers came out to introduce it, warning us that, "It's not a final version, but it's still good." So we were the only audience who will ever see this version.
"We have a lot of people we have to thank for their help getting this movie made," the director said. "I won't mention them specifically."
Alrighty, then.
Familiar Richmond sites began showing up with the first scene at the Carillon followed by scenes at Dogwood Dell and in front of the aluminum foil building.
The premise was simple. A guy finds out his girlfriend cheated on him ("I made you toast and you went and had sex with Donald on the very same day!"), destroys the living room and goes home to take solace with his mother.
Only she's dead, her head having been exploded by an alien.
The Science Team comes to the rescue, sending in a crack team in pink jumpsuits led by an inter-galactic diplomat, all of them trained to defend American shores from external and existential threats.
Not surprisingly, a lot of the special effects got major cheers from the audience.
Two of the funnier elements of the story were all the dated devices used- land lines, VCR tapes and machines, a typewriter- and that the hero spent the entire film in his robe, wife-beater and boxers.
Was most of the humor utterly sophomoric? Absolutely.
Was the violence over-the-top and gratuitous? You bet.
Were there politically incorrect references? Sure were.
Did the Science Team ultimately save the day while we ate popcorn and laughed at inappropriate jokes?
Yes, and on a Saturday afternoon, isn't that more than enough?
Art, Independence and Spirit
There were giveaways, there was art, there was metal.
Only another reader can appreciate how thrilled I was to hear about the main library's big book giveaway tonight, part of First Fridays artwalk.
The only requirement was that you bring your own bag and I brought a sturdy one, quite sure I'd find plenty that interested me. I like to think I have an advantage because my taste probably resides somewhat outside the mainstream.
It was a narrow hallway lined on both sides with boxes and boxes of books and the crowd moved slowly through it, each with their own reading agenda.
Many sections I gave only a cursory glance - romance, self-help, religion - while I lingered over others so as to not miss a hidden gem.
I spent about an hour and left with a baker's dozen books, everything from "Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley" to "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece" to "American Moderns: Bohemian New York and the Creation of a New Century."
There was no resisting a 1938 book called "If You Want to Write: A Book About Art, Independence and Spirit," which the poet Carl Sandberg called, "The best book ever written about how to write." We'll just see about that.
Lest I make it sound like I only chose non-fiction, I also snagged William Styron's "Sophie's Choice" for a good 515-page cry and Oscar Hijuelos' "A Simple Habana Melody," the latter chosen because I enjoyed his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" so much.
I met a book dealer carefully checking titles against the inventory on his phone and he raised an eyebrow, asking how I was doing. Giving him a peek into my bag, he smiled and said I was not an easy-to-categorize reader. Duh.
Then I lugged my booty upstairs to see some art.
Jason Clark's white, carved wood panels reminded me of monochromatic maps and his colored rubbings on paper made abstractions of familiar things.
Jess Pruett's show of collage works, "Caustic Merges," blended the female form with typography and iconography in an almost Byzantine-looking way so that each small, framed work had the feel of a much older object.
Leaving the library, I made my way back to J-Ward for the first opening at New Normal Apparel, where Boris Bernard's prints entitled "Your Failure Iz My Happiness" were showing.
There were screen prints of athletes kissing trophies and celebrating victories but my favorite was a decidedly pink one of the famous image from the 1968 Olympics of two black athletes raising their fists while the national anthem played.
Somehow seeing it screened in pink and rustically framed made it even more powerful. If only they'd been giving away prints, I'd have taken it home in a heartbeat.
But they weren't, so I headed down Clay to Gallery 5 to check out a group show, "Feels Good" and hear some music.
The place was freezing and I mean that not in a hyperbolic way but because the heat wasn't working and despite a few small heaters, it's impossible to warm ceilings two stories high with concrete floors and brick walls.
As a musician friend warned me on arrival, "Just leave your coat and gloves on." Oh, you can be sure I did.
First onstage was Spandrel, a band I'd seen just a few weeks ago at one of the Well's final shows before closing.
The quartet has a mellow sound (a DJ friend referred to it as "classic AM radio sounding) with three vocalists, all of whom traded instruments throughout their set.
Next came Half Bascule, named after the kind of bridge at Great Shiplock park, and made up of the uber-talented Dave Watkins and the equally impressive Nathaniel Rosenberry on drums.
They set up on the floor in front of the stage so the crowd was mere feet away.
The first thing Nathaniel did was peel off his jacket and hat before sitting down to play and then said, "If anyone here knows Dave, you know he's never played this instrument in public before."
True that and the instrument in question looked like a kid's bass with guitar strings.
With no more than that, the two of them took off on a sonic journey that knocked the crowd on their collective asses.
Part doom metal, part Appalachian folk and part spaghetti western (doom spaghetti, Dave later called it), the music was loud, fast and incredibly melodic.
The dance party king said to me at one point, "Now that part is pure southern rock. And that's pure Hendrix." I think I even heard some Led Zeppelin. Another guy heard Minus the Bear.
As they tore into this improvised music, each of them going at it with an intensity that only spurred the other on, the crowd stood in awe.
At one point, I saw a guy climb up onstage with his camera to shoot them playing from above. Another guy found his way to stand on a radiator behind Nathaniel and shoot over his shoulder. Others just stood inches away and shot pictures and video right in their faces.
Everyone in the room knew they were seeing something spectacular.
Now, I've seen Dave play dozens of times over the past almost five years, but never like that. Ditto for Nathaniel.
I had the feeling that their set ended only when Nathaniel was close to exhaustion.
A guy came up to me after their set, asking me if I'd been at the VMFA last night because he thought he recognized me.
Once I confirmed that, he stayed to talk, eager to know more about Dave and talk about the local scene.
Seems he'd graduated from VCU with a double major in sculpture and photography and then moved to San Francisco for 33 years and just returned.
He wanted suggestions for stuff to do now that he's back, so I made some, always happy to share my knowledge and get people out and enjoying the scene.
I shushed him when The Silent Type took the stage because I'd never heard them, despite a decade-long history here, although apparently they'd been on hiatus for years.
And while I say "they," we were also told that the guitarist Phil (from Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade) had stepped in and learned all the songs in two weeks.
The lead singer played acoustic guitar (tuning frequently because of how cold it was in there) and had a dramatic voice, reminding the DJ and me a bit of Morrissey's stagey delivery (which we both liked a lot), but it was the addition of the effect-laden electric guitar Phil was playing that made the sound for me.
His songs were very poetic - "Alarms," "Fools' Gold, Sinners' Blues," "The Year Since You Left Me" and decidedly downbeat, but as the former San Franciscan pointed out, "Upbeat gets old after a while. It's good to hear someone do downbeat well."
Agreed.
After some long-winded sound checking (and never really getting it right), Antiphons played, starting with a song called "Orchard Graves."
It was notable for how the band was dressed to play, namely as warmly as possible. The bass player wore his jacket and the guitarist wore an epic hat with flaps and blew on his hands to keep blood flowing in them.
Between the cold and the hour, their set was a casual one, with lots of asides to the audience. "Thanks again for being here. You guys are cute," singer Brian said.
They did a Built to Spill cover, "Twin Falls," a real crowd-pleaser and later said they were doing another cover, "But one we haven't done in a long time. That's a disclaimer."
When the bassist asked what the chords were, the lead singer laughed. "Just play it. What do we have to lose at this point?" before playing Weezer's "Only in Dreams."
"Thanks for humoring us," Brian finished to those of us still shivering and listening.
Hey, once a bohemian's gotten free books and heard doom spaghetti, she's pretty much agreeable to anything.
Feel free to test me on that.
Only another reader can appreciate how thrilled I was to hear about the main library's big book giveaway tonight, part of First Fridays artwalk.
The only requirement was that you bring your own bag and I brought a sturdy one, quite sure I'd find plenty that interested me. I like to think I have an advantage because my taste probably resides somewhat outside the mainstream.
It was a narrow hallway lined on both sides with boxes and boxes of books and the crowd moved slowly through it, each with their own reading agenda.
Many sections I gave only a cursory glance - romance, self-help, religion - while I lingered over others so as to not miss a hidden gem.
I spent about an hour and left with a baker's dozen books, everything from "Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley" to "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece" to "American Moderns: Bohemian New York and the Creation of a New Century."
There was no resisting a 1938 book called "If You Want to Write: A Book About Art, Independence and Spirit," which the poet Carl Sandberg called, "The best book ever written about how to write." We'll just see about that.
Lest I make it sound like I only chose non-fiction, I also snagged William Styron's "Sophie's Choice" for a good 515-page cry and Oscar Hijuelos' "A Simple Habana Melody," the latter chosen because I enjoyed his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" so much.
I met a book dealer carefully checking titles against the inventory on his phone and he raised an eyebrow, asking how I was doing. Giving him a peek into my bag, he smiled and said I was not an easy-to-categorize reader. Duh.
Then I lugged my booty upstairs to see some art.
Jason Clark's white, carved wood panels reminded me of monochromatic maps and his colored rubbings on paper made abstractions of familiar things.
Jess Pruett's show of collage works, "Caustic Merges," blended the female form with typography and iconography in an almost Byzantine-looking way so that each small, framed work had the feel of a much older object.
Leaving the library, I made my way back to J-Ward for the first opening at New Normal Apparel, where Boris Bernard's prints entitled "Your Failure Iz My Happiness" were showing.
There were screen prints of athletes kissing trophies and celebrating victories but my favorite was a decidedly pink one of the famous image from the 1968 Olympics of two black athletes raising their fists while the national anthem played.
Somehow seeing it screened in pink and rustically framed made it even more powerful. If only they'd been giving away prints, I'd have taken it home in a heartbeat.
But they weren't, so I headed down Clay to Gallery 5 to check out a group show, "Feels Good" and hear some music.
The place was freezing and I mean that not in a hyperbolic way but because the heat wasn't working and despite a few small heaters, it's impossible to warm ceilings two stories high with concrete floors and brick walls.
As a musician friend warned me on arrival, "Just leave your coat and gloves on." Oh, you can be sure I did.
First onstage was Spandrel, a band I'd seen just a few weeks ago at one of the Well's final shows before closing.
The quartet has a mellow sound (a DJ friend referred to it as "classic AM radio sounding) with three vocalists, all of whom traded instruments throughout their set.
Next came Half Bascule, named after the kind of bridge at Great Shiplock park, and made up of the uber-talented Dave Watkins and the equally impressive Nathaniel Rosenberry on drums.
They set up on the floor in front of the stage so the crowd was mere feet away.
The first thing Nathaniel did was peel off his jacket and hat before sitting down to play and then said, "If anyone here knows Dave, you know he's never played this instrument in public before."
True that and the instrument in question looked like a kid's bass with guitar strings.
With no more than that, the two of them took off on a sonic journey that knocked the crowd on their collective asses.
Part doom metal, part Appalachian folk and part spaghetti western (doom spaghetti, Dave later called it), the music was loud, fast and incredibly melodic.
The dance party king said to me at one point, "Now that part is pure southern rock. And that's pure Hendrix." I think I even heard some Led Zeppelin. Another guy heard Minus the Bear.
As they tore into this improvised music, each of them going at it with an intensity that only spurred the other on, the crowd stood in awe.
At one point, I saw a guy climb up onstage with his camera to shoot them playing from above. Another guy found his way to stand on a radiator behind Nathaniel and shoot over his shoulder. Others just stood inches away and shot pictures and video right in their faces.
Everyone in the room knew they were seeing something spectacular.
Now, I've seen Dave play dozens of times over the past almost five years, but never like that. Ditto for Nathaniel.
I had the feeling that their set ended only when Nathaniel was close to exhaustion.
A guy came up to me after their set, asking me if I'd been at the VMFA last night because he thought he recognized me.
Once I confirmed that, he stayed to talk, eager to know more about Dave and talk about the local scene.
Seems he'd graduated from VCU with a double major in sculpture and photography and then moved to San Francisco for 33 years and just returned.
He wanted suggestions for stuff to do now that he's back, so I made some, always happy to share my knowledge and get people out and enjoying the scene.
I shushed him when The Silent Type took the stage because I'd never heard them, despite a decade-long history here, although apparently they'd been on hiatus for years.
And while I say "they," we were also told that the guitarist Phil (from Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade) had stepped in and learned all the songs in two weeks.
The lead singer played acoustic guitar (tuning frequently because of how cold it was in there) and had a dramatic voice, reminding the DJ and me a bit of Morrissey's stagey delivery (which we both liked a lot), but it was the addition of the effect-laden electric guitar Phil was playing that made the sound for me.
His songs were very poetic - "Alarms," "Fools' Gold, Sinners' Blues," "The Year Since You Left Me" and decidedly downbeat, but as the former San Franciscan pointed out, "Upbeat gets old after a while. It's good to hear someone do downbeat well."
Agreed.
After some long-winded sound checking (and never really getting it right), Antiphons played, starting with a song called "Orchard Graves."
It was notable for how the band was dressed to play, namely as warmly as possible. The bass player wore his jacket and the guitarist wore an epic hat with flaps and blew on his hands to keep blood flowing in them.
Between the cold and the hour, their set was a casual one, with lots of asides to the audience. "Thanks again for being here. You guys are cute," singer Brian said.
They did a Built to Spill cover, "Twin Falls," a real crowd-pleaser and later said they were doing another cover, "But one we haven't done in a long time. That's a disclaimer."
When the bassist asked what the chords were, the lead singer laughed. "Just play it. What do we have to lose at this point?" before playing Weezer's "Only in Dreams."
"Thanks for humoring us," Brian finished to those of us still shivering and listening.
Hey, once a bohemian's gotten free books and heard doom spaghetti, she's pretty much agreeable to anything.
Feel free to test me on that.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Just A-Walking Down the Street
I'm not sure which was more unfortunate - waking up at 9 a.m. or finding that it was 19 degrees outside.
I put off walking till it got to 20 degrees and then set out for the Fan, seeing very few people out braving the cold until I ran into a theater director also out and about on a cold morning.
Not long after, I was spotted by a man with a beagle who pointed at me and said, "I'd know that walk anywhere!"
How I hadn't recognized the familiar form of a handsome, favorite server is beyond me, although admittedly, we were both bundled to the max.
But my walk, really?
Back at home I found a delightful e-mail awaiting me.
Hey, girl, can you come play at lunchtime? 12:00 if possible. I need my Karen fix.
So there were some benefits to getting up early after all.
He wanted to check out Society down in the Slip, having been intrigued by their full page ad in Style Weekly.
Me, I just wanted someplace warm with food.
We were seated at a table facing the window on Cary Street so at least seeing sun through the glass gave the illusion of warmth.
My friend, long the expert on nightlife, looked around the dining room and found it lacking. "It looks like a nightclub from the '80s," he said, unimpressed by the purple, black and gold decor.
Considering how much time he spent in clubs then, he would know.
We began with panko-crusted scallop croquettes over smoked paprika aioli and a balsamic reduction and were both impressed with the meaty chunks of creamy scallop in the two croquettes.
Part of our reason for meeting up was to share stories from our recent trips, his to D.C. and mine to Florida, so I heard about $18 martinis and $700 hotel rooms and he got to hear about dog racing and gator tail bites.
My biggest laugh came when he told me that he and a coworker always go out for pedicures as their Christmas present to each other. And while I love a pedicure, I was only now learning that he did, too.
"Are you kidding, darling?" he asked rhetorically. "My feet look like a prehistoric animal's."
I admire a man with Hobbit-looking feet willing to address it, I have to admit.
Despite the club-like appearance, the music was safe to the point of revulsion, relying on non-stop Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews songs to lull the lunching crowd into complete aural boredom.
Okay, maybe that's just me.
My sandwich was the catch of the day, grouper, and came grilled with garlic aioli, lettuce, tomato, onion on a crusty roll and showed the same deft touch with seafood that the croquette had.
The thick piece of fish tasted right-off-the-boat fresh and I couldn't have been more impressed with it. Friend was just as happy with his Reuben, although I tend to think that's easier to pull off than a stellar fish sandwich.
We talked about down time and he bragged about having spent seven hours on the couch New Year's day watching old movies with his boyfriend. I told him of a similar memory of spending five hours on a couch in Bermuda watching old movies the day before New Year's eve, but only after going out to procure popcorn and candy first.
He felt like his story topped mine because of the two extra hours, while I thought mine won because of snackage.
Our server interrupted to see if we needed anything and dessert seemed like the best idea, so she scurried to the kitchen, returning with a scrap of paper with the two choices written out, although clearly not phonetically.
"We have powdered sugar beg-nets," she said and I explained that she might want to pronounce beignets differently. The other choice was a semi-fredo and given the weather, we opted for the warm option.
They were more like beignet nuggets than true beignets, but with a caramel sauce for dipping, quite a nice finish to our meal.
Maybe it was that Friend was having wine with lunch, but at one point, he took my hand and told me he'd missed seeing me.
It had only been a month, but he said it felt like longer since I'd been out of town and unavailable even if he'd had time to get together, which he hadn't.
But I guess when you're jonesing for a fix, you're not thinking logically.
I put off walking till it got to 20 degrees and then set out for the Fan, seeing very few people out braving the cold until I ran into a theater director also out and about on a cold morning.
Not long after, I was spotted by a man with a beagle who pointed at me and said, "I'd know that walk anywhere!"
How I hadn't recognized the familiar form of a handsome, favorite server is beyond me, although admittedly, we were both bundled to the max.
But my walk, really?
Back at home I found a delightful e-mail awaiting me.
Hey, girl, can you come play at lunchtime? 12:00 if possible. I need my Karen fix.
So there were some benefits to getting up early after all.
He wanted to check out Society down in the Slip, having been intrigued by their full page ad in Style Weekly.
Me, I just wanted someplace warm with food.
We were seated at a table facing the window on Cary Street so at least seeing sun through the glass gave the illusion of warmth.
My friend, long the expert on nightlife, looked around the dining room and found it lacking. "It looks like a nightclub from the '80s," he said, unimpressed by the purple, black and gold decor.
Considering how much time he spent in clubs then, he would know.
We began with panko-crusted scallop croquettes over smoked paprika aioli and a balsamic reduction and were both impressed with the meaty chunks of creamy scallop in the two croquettes.
Part of our reason for meeting up was to share stories from our recent trips, his to D.C. and mine to Florida, so I heard about $18 martinis and $700 hotel rooms and he got to hear about dog racing and gator tail bites.
My biggest laugh came when he told me that he and a coworker always go out for pedicures as their Christmas present to each other. And while I love a pedicure, I was only now learning that he did, too.
"Are you kidding, darling?" he asked rhetorically. "My feet look like a prehistoric animal's."
I admire a man with Hobbit-looking feet willing to address it, I have to admit.
Despite the club-like appearance, the music was safe to the point of revulsion, relying on non-stop Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews songs to lull the lunching crowd into complete aural boredom.
Okay, maybe that's just me.
My sandwich was the catch of the day, grouper, and came grilled with garlic aioli, lettuce, tomato, onion on a crusty roll and showed the same deft touch with seafood that the croquette had.
The thick piece of fish tasted right-off-the-boat fresh and I couldn't have been more impressed with it. Friend was just as happy with his Reuben, although I tend to think that's easier to pull off than a stellar fish sandwich.
We talked about down time and he bragged about having spent seven hours on the couch New Year's day watching old movies with his boyfriend. I told him of a similar memory of spending five hours on a couch in Bermuda watching old movies the day before New Year's eve, but only after going out to procure popcorn and candy first.
He felt like his story topped mine because of the two extra hours, while I thought mine won because of snackage.
Our server interrupted to see if we needed anything and dessert seemed like the best idea, so she scurried to the kitchen, returning with a scrap of paper with the two choices written out, although clearly not phonetically.
"We have powdered sugar beg-nets," she said and I explained that she might want to pronounce beignets differently. The other choice was a semi-fredo and given the weather, we opted for the warm option.
They were more like beignet nuggets than true beignets, but with a caramel sauce for dipping, quite a nice finish to our meal.
Maybe it was that Friend was having wine with lunch, but at one point, he took my hand and told me he'd missed seeing me.
It had only been a month, but he said it felt like longer since I'd been out of town and unavailable even if he'd had time to get together, which he hadn't.
But I guess when you're jonesing for a fix, you're not thinking logically.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
I Would Walk 800 Miles
After ten days of holiday celebrating and vacationing, today was just another day in the life.
Put on some "Undeniably Mauve" lipstick, go for a walk and put your life in gear again.
I finally got back to working, interviewing a curator, scheduling another with a musician tomorrow and taking my hired mouth out for a meal.
Eating alone has its distinct pleasures, none more so than listening to and/or joining the conversations of strangers and tonight I lucked into a couple of good ones.
When one of the guys mentioned a band he used to be in back in the day, the other guy knew the bass player of that band and within minutes they were doing the back and forth to determine possible shared friends.
They threw out the names of lots of former local bands (Modern Groove Syndicate being one of the few I recognized) before segueing into stories about the glory days.
You know, the '80s.
One guy shared how he'd bought a '50s Jeep ("Left over from the Korean war") back in his heyday and done all kinds of irresponsible things with it.
One story was about how he'd left Sidewalk Cafe and driven home on the sidewalks all the way. Get it? He seemed to think this was hilarious.
But the coup de gras was how he'd offered this girl a ride home in his jeep after a long night of drinking at the old Bogart's ("I wasn't drunk, really!") and how on the way there, she'd fallen out of the Jeep.
"Wait, was her name Jennifer?" the other guy asked mid-story, as if he recalled a Jennifer falling out of a Jeep 30 years ago.
"No, man, no," Jeep guy said, eager to finish. "So she falls out and I have to pull over and yank her back in, right in front of a cop car to get her home."
The other guy nods in appreciation.
"Yea, those were the days, back when a girl could fall out of your Jeep and the cops didn't give a shit. Man, I loved the '80s."
I couldn't have ordered better entertainment.
When I left it was for the VMFA to hear the Mary Hermann Garcia Group, notable because the band's trombone and percussionist was Antonio Garcia, director of the Jazz Studies program at VCU.
Conveniently, he seems to have fallen in love with and married a singer for his quartet and tonight they were playing sambas, bossa novas and standards at the Jazz cafe.
Thinking that between New Year's eve and the rainy evening it would be a slow night for jazz, I was immediately proven wrong when I got to Best cafe to find the room mobbed, leaving standing room only.
Standing where I at least had a good view of the band, Mary said it was their last song before a break. "Our last song is 'Lover Come Back," she said sweetly.
"And I'm going to play it faster than I have a right to," Antonio said with a big grin and damned if he didn't do just that.
I soon saw a familiar face when a J-Ward neighbor walked by on the way to score a second round for her and her husband. "We've got an extra chair at our table, come join us," she invited.
On the way to their table, I saw one of the No BS guys, no doubt there because he came out of VCU under Antonio's tutelage. At another I saw a couple dressed to the nines with her was in a strapless gown, no less.
Besides the expected husband, another couple was at the table when I got there and the woman scrutinized me before saying, "We've met, maybe at Balliceaux? You're the blogger."
Good memory. She and her husband live in Carver, so it was a table of neighbors, albeit not intentionally.
But since we'd all been in the neighborhoods for seven-plus years, it was only natural that we got off talking about the changes we'd seen over the years.
In rapid order, we discussed the influx of students (both VCU and MCV), the hope that Whole Foods does buy the old Sears building, how our Kroger could use a better cheese selection and what everyone thought of Max's and Lucy's, our two newest eateries.
With samba music playing, I looked outside to see rain falling on the reflecting pool and around Chihuly's red reeds, the ones the VMFA recently bought for our own (hooray!) and thought how lucky we are to have this lovely place to hang out in any Thursday and Friday evening we care to.
But then the art geek in me kicked in and rather than stay for the third set, I wanted to go upstairs and see "Clare Leighton: From Pencil to Proof to Press," an exhibit of drawings, woodcuts, posters and even a porcelain piece.
I had the focus gallery to myself, at least until the gowned woman and her date strolled in, but they seemed less interested in art than each other and soon abandoned me for a more private gallery.
As a reader, I loved seeing some of the illustrations Leighton did for Thomas Hardy's book, "The Return of the Native," even more impressive when seen in a first edition copy of the book under glass.
Talk about a nerd's wet dream - rare book plus art after music. Thanks, Thursday.
I read where Leighton traveled to Dorset, the book's setting, to get a feel for the heaths where the book was set before she drew them.
Nice research trip if you can get it.
There were two watercolors, both delicately exquisite, the colors soft and inviting and a couple of pieces she'd done in New England, one of "Clam Diggers" and another of "Lobstering," done on a porcelain plate.
My favorite was a poster for "Week End Walks. 800 miles of these in London's country," advertising a set of three books, "Available at station bookstalls."
Bookstalls, now that's a wonderfully antiquated word.
Apparently Leighton did a fair amount of posters because she felt there was no distinction between fine art and commercial art and that art should be available through all different modes of production.
Amen to that or we economically-challenged would never have a shot at owning any.
Likewise, she was an artist who participated in subscription print clubs, an idea first conceived of in the mid-19th century and revived during the Depression to promote the affordability of prints and help artists make a living.
Clubs commissioned limited edition prints from artists for subscribers. Voila! The democratization of art.
Just one more piece of brilliance put into play during an economic downturn to help the creative class continue to eat, stay warm and sleep indoors. Count me as a full supporter.
In my favorite "only a woman" moment, there was a print called "The Baptising" done in 1952 when Leighton traveled through the south to get ideas for a series of illustrations.
Coming upon a scene of people gathered around a woman holding a baby standing in the river with a minister on a hot August Sunday, Clare did what any self-respecting artist caught pencil-less would do.
She pulled out her lipstick and a scrap of old paper and put down a sketch of the scene which she turned into the engraving in front of me months later.
Never underestimate the uses of lipstick. Or find yourself out without it.
Just in case you're lucky enough that a man whisks you off to a gallery where it ends up on him instead of you.
Undeniably one of my goals.
Put on some "Undeniably Mauve" lipstick, go for a walk and put your life in gear again.
I finally got back to working, interviewing a curator, scheduling another with a musician tomorrow and taking my hired mouth out for a meal.
Eating alone has its distinct pleasures, none more so than listening to and/or joining the conversations of strangers and tonight I lucked into a couple of good ones.
When one of the guys mentioned a band he used to be in back in the day, the other guy knew the bass player of that band and within minutes they were doing the back and forth to determine possible shared friends.
They threw out the names of lots of former local bands (Modern Groove Syndicate being one of the few I recognized) before segueing into stories about the glory days.
You know, the '80s.
One guy shared how he'd bought a '50s Jeep ("Left over from the Korean war") back in his heyday and done all kinds of irresponsible things with it.
One story was about how he'd left Sidewalk Cafe and driven home on the sidewalks all the way. Get it? He seemed to think this was hilarious.
But the coup de gras was how he'd offered this girl a ride home in his jeep after a long night of drinking at the old Bogart's ("I wasn't drunk, really!") and how on the way there, she'd fallen out of the Jeep.
"Wait, was her name Jennifer?" the other guy asked mid-story, as if he recalled a Jennifer falling out of a Jeep 30 years ago.
"No, man, no," Jeep guy said, eager to finish. "So she falls out and I have to pull over and yank her back in, right in front of a cop car to get her home."
The other guy nods in appreciation.
"Yea, those were the days, back when a girl could fall out of your Jeep and the cops didn't give a shit. Man, I loved the '80s."
I couldn't have ordered better entertainment.
When I left it was for the VMFA to hear the Mary Hermann Garcia Group, notable because the band's trombone and percussionist was Antonio Garcia, director of the Jazz Studies program at VCU.
Conveniently, he seems to have fallen in love with and married a singer for his quartet and tonight they were playing sambas, bossa novas and standards at the Jazz cafe.
Thinking that between New Year's eve and the rainy evening it would be a slow night for jazz, I was immediately proven wrong when I got to Best cafe to find the room mobbed, leaving standing room only.
Standing where I at least had a good view of the band, Mary said it was their last song before a break. "Our last song is 'Lover Come Back," she said sweetly.
"And I'm going to play it faster than I have a right to," Antonio said with a big grin and damned if he didn't do just that.
I soon saw a familiar face when a J-Ward neighbor walked by on the way to score a second round for her and her husband. "We've got an extra chair at our table, come join us," she invited.
On the way to their table, I saw one of the No BS guys, no doubt there because he came out of VCU under Antonio's tutelage. At another I saw a couple dressed to the nines with her was in a strapless gown, no less.
Besides the expected husband, another couple was at the table when I got there and the woman scrutinized me before saying, "We've met, maybe at Balliceaux? You're the blogger."
Good memory. She and her husband live in Carver, so it was a table of neighbors, albeit not intentionally.
But since we'd all been in the neighborhoods for seven-plus years, it was only natural that we got off talking about the changes we'd seen over the years.
In rapid order, we discussed the influx of students (both VCU and MCV), the hope that Whole Foods does buy the old Sears building, how our Kroger could use a better cheese selection and what everyone thought of Max's and Lucy's, our two newest eateries.
With samba music playing, I looked outside to see rain falling on the reflecting pool and around Chihuly's red reeds, the ones the VMFA recently bought for our own (hooray!) and thought how lucky we are to have this lovely place to hang out in any Thursday and Friday evening we care to.
But then the art geek in me kicked in and rather than stay for the third set, I wanted to go upstairs and see "Clare Leighton: From Pencil to Proof to Press," an exhibit of drawings, woodcuts, posters and even a porcelain piece.
I had the focus gallery to myself, at least until the gowned woman and her date strolled in, but they seemed less interested in art than each other and soon abandoned me for a more private gallery.
As a reader, I loved seeing some of the illustrations Leighton did for Thomas Hardy's book, "The Return of the Native," even more impressive when seen in a first edition copy of the book under glass.
Talk about a nerd's wet dream - rare book plus art after music. Thanks, Thursday.
I read where Leighton traveled to Dorset, the book's setting, to get a feel for the heaths where the book was set before she drew them.
Nice research trip if you can get it.
There were two watercolors, both delicately exquisite, the colors soft and inviting and a couple of pieces she'd done in New England, one of "Clam Diggers" and another of "Lobstering," done on a porcelain plate.
My favorite was a poster for "Week End Walks. 800 miles of these in London's country," advertising a set of three books, "Available at station bookstalls."
Bookstalls, now that's a wonderfully antiquated word.
Apparently Leighton did a fair amount of posters because she felt there was no distinction between fine art and commercial art and that art should be available through all different modes of production.
Amen to that or we economically-challenged would never have a shot at owning any.
Likewise, she was an artist who participated in subscription print clubs, an idea first conceived of in the mid-19th century and revived during the Depression to promote the affordability of prints and help artists make a living.
Clubs commissioned limited edition prints from artists for subscribers. Voila! The democratization of art.
Just one more piece of brilliance put into play during an economic downturn to help the creative class continue to eat, stay warm and sleep indoors. Count me as a full supporter.
In my favorite "only a woman" moment, there was a print called "The Baptising" done in 1952 when Leighton traveled through the south to get ideas for a series of illustrations.
Coming upon a scene of people gathered around a woman holding a baby standing in the river with a minister on a hot August Sunday, Clare did what any self-respecting artist caught pencil-less would do.
She pulled out her lipstick and a scrap of old paper and put down a sketch of the scene which she turned into the engraving in front of me months later.
Never underestimate the uses of lipstick. Or find yourself out without it.
Just in case you're lucky enough that a man whisks you off to a gallery where it ends up on him instead of you.
Undeniably one of my goals.
Bubbling Over
Forget black-eyed peas for new year's day. Kroger had sold out by noon.
A moot point since I'd gotten invited to a Prosecco and prime rib party to celebrate the first day of 2014 and even though it was to be all couples except me, I RSVP'd with a resounding yes.
Good luck comes with more than just black-eyed peas, you know.
I was the last to show up and as I made the rounds to say hello, heard that three bottles of bubbles had been consumed before my arrival.
Is that just a champagne buzz or are you people really glad to see me?
Everyone had stories to share about what they'd done with their Christmas vacation - skiing in Aspen, seeing "Austin Powers" on the big screen, eating a birthday dinner at Mekong while Mekong Express played - while music as varied as Amos Lee and CSNY played at a volume loud enough to feel party-like.
Save me from parties where the music is low or non-existent.
But this one was lots of fun, with a picaresque turn into pink with Mumm Brut Rose, a little restaurant gossip and conversation about the eating and biking pleasures of Boston and Cambridge.
Soon a ceramic boat of shrimp arrived, but only after a discussion of how old the Old Bay in the house might be (new enough, it turned out), horseradish levels were discussed and adjusted in the cocktail sauce ("Every bite should clear your sinuses," according to the curly-haired one) and the visitor from Maryland proclaimed that the shrimp from Libbie market surpasses what she can get at the Annapolis seafood market.
Holiday-induced hyperbole perhaps, but the crustaceans were exceptional and steamed to the point of just done enough and not one bit more.
There were several architectural history lovers in the group, so I told tales of the Frank Lloyd Wright buildings I'd seen in Florida and was rewarded with details about one guy's pilgrimage to see Falling Water. Twice.
It's a very good party when I am listening to a man describe the corner windows of a Wright house.
One of the couples had just seen "Julie and Julia" and been taken with how late in life Julia had found the love of her life and her passion for what she wanted to do.
What I recalled from seeing the movie when it came out was how it made me immediately read Child's "My Life in France," which turned out unexpectedly to be one of the most romantic love stories I've ever read.
One woman's takeaway had been that Julia was always loopy when filming her TV show. Well, sure, that's certainly one way to enjoy your work.
Over succulent prime rib barely cooked to medium rare, I was asked why I don't use Twitter (can't limit myself to 140 characters- "No, that's a valid point with you," someone said) which led to a discussion of Hemingway, kissing in cars and why restaurants should not serve bubbly in coupe glasses.
The obscenely rich cheese sauce was such a hit that people were using it on meat, vegetable and rice, some even dredging bread in it, resulting in questions about its origins.
Seems our hostess had asked a cook at Libbie market for a cheese sauce and he'd obligingly whipped one up right in front of her.
White sauce, grated cheese, boom, done.
Someone told a hysterical story about going into a trendy, new restaurant in Baltimore and asking for lemon in her water. The haughty, twenty-something server informed her that lemons weren't locally in season, so they didn't have any.
Wrong thing to say. The woman asked if the coffee was local. Or the potatoes. Or...Needless to say, lemons were procured from the bar immediately for her water.
Don't challenge an analytical mind. They always have a counter-argument.
When we finally pushed ourselves away from the table, it was only to re-situate ourselves in a bigger room for Poilvert-Jacques champagne, an elegantly floral sipper to accompany a dessert tray of baklava, cupcakes and pumpkin bread.
Every baked bite, like the shrimp, prime rib and cheese sauce, had come from Libbie market. It's a wonder the woman was even able to move away from Richmond and leave her beloved market behind.
I'm not sure if it was the bubbles or the sugar rush, but the conversation eventually deteriorated to one about Google's far-reaching tentacles and how that'll inevitably lead to micro-chips being inserted into nether regions to keep track of men behaving badly.
I couldn't make this stuff up. One minute it's Hemingway and, as a guest pointed out, the next it's d*ck chips.
Our host scored major points with several guests by playing the Ennio Morricone soundtrack to "A Fistful of Dollars," a film I'd never seen despite much of the music sounding vaguely familiar.
That whistling, the epic swelling choruses, the crystalline sound of whips cracking, it all added a dramatic backdrop to the many La Marca Prosecco-fueled conversations then going on in the room.
Not quite as traditional as hoppin' john for good luck in the new year, but a party of smart people, terrific food and endless bubbles portends good things for 2014.
For better or for worse, though, if you're interested, you'll have to hear about them in way more than 140 characters.
A moot point since I'd gotten invited to a Prosecco and prime rib party to celebrate the first day of 2014 and even though it was to be all couples except me, I RSVP'd with a resounding yes.
Good luck comes with more than just black-eyed peas, you know.
I was the last to show up and as I made the rounds to say hello, heard that three bottles of bubbles had been consumed before my arrival.
Is that just a champagne buzz or are you people really glad to see me?
Everyone had stories to share about what they'd done with their Christmas vacation - skiing in Aspen, seeing "Austin Powers" on the big screen, eating a birthday dinner at Mekong while Mekong Express played - while music as varied as Amos Lee and CSNY played at a volume loud enough to feel party-like.
Save me from parties where the music is low or non-existent.
But this one was lots of fun, with a picaresque turn into pink with Mumm Brut Rose, a little restaurant gossip and conversation about the eating and biking pleasures of Boston and Cambridge.
Soon a ceramic boat of shrimp arrived, but only after a discussion of how old the Old Bay in the house might be (new enough, it turned out), horseradish levels were discussed and adjusted in the cocktail sauce ("Every bite should clear your sinuses," according to the curly-haired one) and the visitor from Maryland proclaimed that the shrimp from Libbie market surpasses what she can get at the Annapolis seafood market.
Holiday-induced hyperbole perhaps, but the crustaceans were exceptional and steamed to the point of just done enough and not one bit more.
There were several architectural history lovers in the group, so I told tales of the Frank Lloyd Wright buildings I'd seen in Florida and was rewarded with details about one guy's pilgrimage to see Falling Water. Twice.
It's a very good party when I am listening to a man describe the corner windows of a Wright house.
One of the couples had just seen "Julie and Julia" and been taken with how late in life Julia had found the love of her life and her passion for what she wanted to do.
What I recalled from seeing the movie when it came out was how it made me immediately read Child's "My Life in France," which turned out unexpectedly to be one of the most romantic love stories I've ever read.
One woman's takeaway had been that Julia was always loopy when filming her TV show. Well, sure, that's certainly one way to enjoy your work.
Over succulent prime rib barely cooked to medium rare, I was asked why I don't use Twitter (can't limit myself to 140 characters- "No, that's a valid point with you," someone said) which led to a discussion of Hemingway, kissing in cars and why restaurants should not serve bubbly in coupe glasses.
The obscenely rich cheese sauce was such a hit that people were using it on meat, vegetable and rice, some even dredging bread in it, resulting in questions about its origins.
Seems our hostess had asked a cook at Libbie market for a cheese sauce and he'd obligingly whipped one up right in front of her.
White sauce, grated cheese, boom, done.
Someone told a hysterical story about going into a trendy, new restaurant in Baltimore and asking for lemon in her water. The haughty, twenty-something server informed her that lemons weren't locally in season, so they didn't have any.
Wrong thing to say. The woman asked if the coffee was local. Or the potatoes. Or...Needless to say, lemons were procured from the bar immediately for her water.
Don't challenge an analytical mind. They always have a counter-argument.
When we finally pushed ourselves away from the table, it was only to re-situate ourselves in a bigger room for Poilvert-Jacques champagne, an elegantly floral sipper to accompany a dessert tray of baklava, cupcakes and pumpkin bread.
Every baked bite, like the shrimp, prime rib and cheese sauce, had come from Libbie market. It's a wonder the woman was even able to move away from Richmond and leave her beloved market behind.
I'm not sure if it was the bubbles or the sugar rush, but the conversation eventually deteriorated to one about Google's far-reaching tentacles and how that'll inevitably lead to micro-chips being inserted into nether regions to keep track of men behaving badly.
I couldn't make this stuff up. One minute it's Hemingway and, as a guest pointed out, the next it's d*ck chips.
Our host scored major points with several guests by playing the Ennio Morricone soundtrack to "A Fistful of Dollars," a film I'd never seen despite much of the music sounding vaguely familiar.
That whistling, the epic swelling choruses, the crystalline sound of whips cracking, it all added a dramatic backdrop to the many La Marca Prosecco-fueled conversations then going on in the room.
Not quite as traditional as hoppin' john for good luck in the new year, but a party of smart people, terrific food and endless bubbles portends good things for 2014.
For better or for worse, though, if you're interested, you'll have to hear about them in way more than 140 characters.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Can't See a Thing in the Sky
Let's see, I've been gone for nearly a week and I got back just in time for New Year's Eve, so you didn't really think I was going to leave my lovely Jackson Ward after just returning to it, did you?
Well, did you?
No, indeed. We've got a brand new restaurant right here in the Ward, so what could be better after my Florida foray than to go a few blocks and bring in 2014 in the 'hood?
Lucy's was the destination and the place was half full but lively when I got there with my dinner date.
The bartender was a familiar face (Balliceaux) and the music's starting point was Sam Cooke, yielding such nuggets as Jackson 5, the Flamingos "I Only Have Eyes for You" and the Supremes "Someday We'll Be Together."
I couldn't have been more pleased to run into a friend, a scooter enthusiast, who immediately suggested she plan a date to take me for a ride in her side car, an offer I readily accepted. I have always wanted to be someone's sidecar ride.
My date, a poet, began by ordering Meinklang Frizzante Rose, a Christmasy-red looking sparkler full of the taste of summer strawberries and, I'll admit it, a perfectly beautiful way to begin a new year's celebration.
I ran into a friend who'd secretly gotten married a few weeks ago and delighted in hearing her stories of their 4 1/2 year romance.
Our first course was an onion tart of slow braised Monrovia Farms beef with goat cheese under micro-greens, maybe a tad under-salted, but lifted with a carrot puree.
The bartender had brought his Christmas puppy in tonight, a sweet, little Dalmatian mix with a pink belly and an eager face, and he pranced around the dining room making friends wherever he stopped.
Chick magnet, I told the bartender.
Next up was a winter salad with beans, a savory combination of kale with a bean salad, white anchovies and orange segments in a shallot vinaigrette, the kale tender yet still toothsome and a lovely complement to the three kinds of beans.
It was a highlight of the evening.
The music was good, there were unexpected friends around and my new year's eve was shaping up beautifully.
While my date ordered a grilled Monrovia Farms rib eye with horseradish sauce, I started with a spicy shrimp cocktail before moving on to northern neck petite crab cakes with remoulade.
When midnight got close, someone turned on the ball drop and with glasses of Prosecco, we toasted a better 2014 with friends new and old.
Notable was that for the first time since 2009, I got kissed on New Year's Eve. For that matter, for the first time since 2009, I had a male date for New Year's Eve.
For the second time today, someone asked me what my new year's resolutions were and yet again I explained that I don't make resolutions.
Here's what I want for 2014.
Neighborhood restaurants filled with friends. Stories of people who celebrate romance. Good food and wine reasonably priced. Music that makes me want to dance. A date and to get kissed again on New Year's Eve 2014.
It's not too much to ask for, now is it? To 2014!
Well, did you?
No, indeed. We've got a brand new restaurant right here in the Ward, so what could be better after my Florida foray than to go a few blocks and bring in 2014 in the 'hood?
Lucy's was the destination and the place was half full but lively when I got there with my dinner date.
The bartender was a familiar face (Balliceaux) and the music's starting point was Sam Cooke, yielding such nuggets as Jackson 5, the Flamingos "I Only Have Eyes for You" and the Supremes "Someday We'll Be Together."
I couldn't have been more pleased to run into a friend, a scooter enthusiast, who immediately suggested she plan a date to take me for a ride in her side car, an offer I readily accepted. I have always wanted to be someone's sidecar ride.
My date, a poet, began by ordering Meinklang Frizzante Rose, a Christmasy-red looking sparkler full of the taste of summer strawberries and, I'll admit it, a perfectly beautiful way to begin a new year's celebration.
I ran into a friend who'd secretly gotten married a few weeks ago and delighted in hearing her stories of their 4 1/2 year romance.
Our first course was an onion tart of slow braised Monrovia Farms beef with goat cheese under micro-greens, maybe a tad under-salted, but lifted with a carrot puree.
The bartender had brought his Christmas puppy in tonight, a sweet, little Dalmatian mix with a pink belly and an eager face, and he pranced around the dining room making friends wherever he stopped.
Chick magnet, I told the bartender.
Next up was a winter salad with beans, a savory combination of kale with a bean salad, white anchovies and orange segments in a shallot vinaigrette, the kale tender yet still toothsome and a lovely complement to the three kinds of beans.
It was a highlight of the evening.
The music was good, there were unexpected friends around and my new year's eve was shaping up beautifully.
While my date ordered a grilled Monrovia Farms rib eye with horseradish sauce, I started with a spicy shrimp cocktail before moving on to northern neck petite crab cakes with remoulade.
When midnight got close, someone turned on the ball drop and with glasses of Prosecco, we toasted a better 2014 with friends new and old.
Notable was that for the first time since 2009, I got kissed on New Year's Eve. For that matter, for the first time since 2009, I had a male date for New Year's Eve.
For the second time today, someone asked me what my new year's resolutions were and yet again I explained that I don't make resolutions.
Here's what I want for 2014.
Neighborhood restaurants filled with friends. Stories of people who celebrate romance. Good food and wine reasonably priced. Music that makes me want to dance. A date and to get kissed again on New Year's Eve 2014.
It's not too much to ask for, now is it? To 2014!
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