It's not every night I get all gussied up to go stand with a roomful of people on dates and listen to songs by Nickelback and Dr. Dre.
But then, Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox has never come to town before.
My ticket had been procured months ago, part of a May extravaganza since canceled. Familiar faces abounded: the restaurant owner, the actress, the Man About Town, the ad agency owner, the teachers, all dressed to the nines.
Using piano, upright bass, drums, sax and trombone, Scott Bradlee turns ubiquitous pop songs into jazz and swing versions using three female singers (one of whom was a world class whistler), one male singer, an emcee who also danced and sang and a phenomenal female tap dancer.
The females made as many costume changes as Cher.
The audience does its part by donning vintage-style dresses, high heels and way cuter ensembles than I've ever seen at the National. Like a Prince show for which I've been known to wear lingerie, I knew enough to dress appropriately for this band with black and blue and lace.
No doubt about it, the arrangements are outstanding, the execution flawless and the dance moves synchronized. It's a show. Only problem? I don't listen to popular radio, so I had no idea about a lot of the songs, although I did glean that a rearranged Usher song is pretty damn hilarious.
To wit, "If you dance on a pole, that don't make you a 'ho." Actually hearing lyrics and not just production changes everything.
Make no mistake, I recognized a fair number of tunes. "Sweet Child o' Mine," complete with tap dancing was pretty righteous. Hearing "Hey, Jude" whistled got the crowd waving their arms in the air. And Queen, any Queen song, caused a massive singalong.
Not ashamed to say I loved hearing three Taylor Swift songs - a slow burn of "Blank Space," a sultry "Shake It Off" and a gender-shifting "Style" - make the set list. Thanks, I think I will sing along.
One of the female singers played the bad girl role all evening, taunting men in the front row (taking off one guy's glasses and asking, "Do you put the "rich" in Richmond? From that answer then, I guess you put the "virgin" in Virginia?") and advising a couple of young girls, "Remember, you are too fabulous for just one husband!"
Giving the band a break, Scott did a piano mash-up of audience suggestions: Madonna, Sinatra, Queen and Beck, a testament to the man's piano chops and ability to improvise. He was an interesting one to watch because every time the band began a new song, he was looking at the crowd as if to gauge how well the song was going over.
Often, it was a mixed bag because the crowd was so diverse- much like a Prince show, all ages and colors - so many who recognized Guns 'n Roses didn't know from Maroon 5.
The encore, of course, was the song that probably brought PMJ (as the stands in front of the horn section read) to the attention of many in the audience - "All About That (Upright) Bass."
Only instead of one woman playing bass and singing like in the video, we got three women alternately doing vocals and the (single and eligible, we were told) bass player handling bass duties.
More than once, both Bradlee and the emcee reminded the crowd that if you don't like music you're hearing, change it, which is, of course, exactly what they do with pop songs, taking them and making them something entirely different.
Don't like it, change it. Now there's a philosophy I can get behind, whether we're talking music or husbands.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Friday, May 15, 2015
Rose Rumble
Every minute of the rest of your life has been scheduled for you - and it's a long series of arbitrary, solitary tasks.
That's the definition of hell, also known as what would psychologically destroy an ENFP, a personality group to which I belong, at least according to Myers Briggs. And it's pretty much spot on.
Friends joke about my "prehistoric Blackberry," also known as my date book, because they know it contains jottings about events and plans as soon as tomorrow and as far away as months from now. But make no mistake, there are plenty of blank spaces.
I like it that way.
Last minute offers come up, plans change and sometimes, just sometimes, I get an offer I don't want to refuse. Hence the built-in availability.
I know I'm not the most responsible adult you'll ever meet. And even if I didn't, it's been pointed out to me.
My strengths are a good attitude, a way with people and my pleasure in being a good audience. Some nights, I get complimented on my dancer-like attire, my confidence and my ability to corral human stock and that's enough.
Most intriguing comment overheard at Amuse: "I was wondering who that was touching my butt."
Best thing I put in my mouth at Acacia: fried sugar toads over an incredible charred corn relish.
Most unexpected words from a stranger sipping a beer at Cask: "You've got a way of making people pay attention to you."
Secco yielded a charming new couple who told me Glaswegian jokes and friended me before I even got home, a scientist in a pink shirt who asked if I'd be wearing heels when we went out (a subject we did not discuss) and a young woman who wants me to teach her how to sew on a button (so she can stop throwing button-less shirts away).
More than one person raved about my wrangling skills. You should have seen me marching them down the Boulevard and Cary Street like a champ. Did I mention I have five younger sisters whom I've been wrangling since I was a toddler?
Thanks to strangers and friends alike, the 2015 Rose crawl, my fifth, was a blast. Just don't expect me to repeat myself again anytime soon.
Unless you're talking about drinking Rose. Solitary, even, sometimes.
That's the definition of hell, also known as what would psychologically destroy an ENFP, a personality group to which I belong, at least according to Myers Briggs. And it's pretty much spot on.
Friends joke about my "prehistoric Blackberry," also known as my date book, because they know it contains jottings about events and plans as soon as tomorrow and as far away as months from now. But make no mistake, there are plenty of blank spaces.
I like it that way.
Last minute offers come up, plans change and sometimes, just sometimes, I get an offer I don't want to refuse. Hence the built-in availability.
I know I'm not the most responsible adult you'll ever meet. And even if I didn't, it's been pointed out to me.
My strengths are a good attitude, a way with people and my pleasure in being a good audience. Some nights, I get complimented on my dancer-like attire, my confidence and my ability to corral human stock and that's enough.
Most intriguing comment overheard at Amuse: "I was wondering who that was touching my butt."
Best thing I put in my mouth at Acacia: fried sugar toads over an incredible charred corn relish.
Most unexpected words from a stranger sipping a beer at Cask: "You've got a way of making people pay attention to you."
Secco yielded a charming new couple who told me Glaswegian jokes and friended me before I even got home, a scientist in a pink shirt who asked if I'd be wearing heels when we went out (a subject we did not discuss) and a young woman who wants me to teach her how to sew on a button (so she can stop throwing button-less shirts away).
More than one person raved about my wrangling skills. You should have seen me marching them down the Boulevard and Cary Street like a champ. Did I mention I have five younger sisters whom I've been wrangling since I was a toddler?
Thanks to strangers and friends alike, the 2015 Rose crawl, my fifth, was a blast. Just don't expect me to repeat myself again anytime soon.
Unless you're talking about drinking Rose. Solitary, even, sometimes.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Whenever I Call You Friend
Friendship happens when you're not looking for it.
My first best friend took the position using the direct route. My family - and I only had three sisters, not five, at that point - was moving from an apartment in D.C. into a new house in Maryland. A little girl knocked on our side door and inquired of my mother, "Do you have any little girls I can play with?"
Little did she know that she'd hit the mother lode. Cindy Smith was five years old and serendipitously, so was I. We became friends that May day and remained so for years.
Of course, these days if an unattended five-year old knocked on someone's door, they'd probably call Child Protective Services on the parents, but back then, even a five-year old was allowed to walk two houses to inquire after friends.
In college, I worked part-time at a department store and on a night when store employees were taking inventory, a process that lasted until midnight and involved as much laughter as work, I was sent to the hosiery department to help out.
The college girl working the department looked none too pleased to see me when I showed up. Once we became friends, she admitted that she'd hated me on sight. My sin? Apparently I looked like the type of girl she disdained.
Before long, we were sharing life stories, learning to drink together and spending every warm day laid out in the sun hoping to achieve the perfect tan. Even when she moved many states away, our bond stayed strong and we were always able to pick up conversation as if it had been days and not months or even years since we'd last confided in each other.
Work delivered me another girlfriend back in the '90s when I was managing editor and she was art director of a couple of monthly papers. Even when the publisher decided her services were no longer needed (although they definitely were), we'd discovered so much in common over shared deadlines working at her studio on southside that we carried on outside of the publishing world.
Our friendship of almost two decades continues unabated, having weathered break-ups, the trials and tribulations of having sisters and acceptance of the aging process, meanwhile road-tripping to Washington, D.C., Baltimore and the Outer Banks in between our monthly wine-down conversation marathons.
Over the last six tumultuous years, I've stumbled onto new friends while out and about, hardly surprising given my vigorous social schedule. Out is where you found me.
One time I went to meet a casual friend only to find that she'd invited Pru, a woman I'd met a few years back, to join us. Pru and I clicked immediately and that friendship took off while the other withered and died. You know when it's right.
Another time at a party, the hostess came up to me to tell me how much she loved my blog for its positivity and particularly its odd slant given my detachment from mainstream media. When I found out she was a Gemini, too, you could almost hear the heavenly chorus of angels singing above us.
Some friendships are just meant to be.
Months ago, a blog reader messaged me saying she'd like to join me for my daily walk if I was amenable. Somehow, I lost that message until last week when I responded, albeit four months late, with a heartfelt yes.
Since she'd left comments on my blog before, I knew a little about her (such as she didn't like going out alone and took inspiration from my many solo outings), including that she was an avid walker. Today we met at the Oregon Hill overlook to walk together, both happy to have a companion, agreeing that most people we know can't/won't walk as far as we like to.
Five plus miles later, we'd had a satisfying walk on the Pipeline Trail, down to Great Shiplock Park and Chapel Island before meandering up through downtown during worker bee lunch hour. Despite how recently we'd first laid eyes on each other, we had almost non-stop conversation getting acquainted.
Best sign seen on our walk: Our beer is as cold as your ex-boyfriend's heart.
Doubtful.
By the end of our adventure, I was asking if we could walk again and even meet up for an evening since she doesn't like flying solo and I'm always looking for company.
I may be a Luddite, but look at me, a blog reader may become a friend.
Arriving home, I found a message from another reader suggesting we do lunch. I agreed post-haste to his invitation because life has proven I have absolutely no idea where new friends may come from.
Chances are they aren't going to knock on my door and ask if there's anybody to play with. Too bad because I'd love that.
My first best friend took the position using the direct route. My family - and I only had three sisters, not five, at that point - was moving from an apartment in D.C. into a new house in Maryland. A little girl knocked on our side door and inquired of my mother, "Do you have any little girls I can play with?"
Little did she know that she'd hit the mother lode. Cindy Smith was five years old and serendipitously, so was I. We became friends that May day and remained so for years.
Of course, these days if an unattended five-year old knocked on someone's door, they'd probably call Child Protective Services on the parents, but back then, even a five-year old was allowed to walk two houses to inquire after friends.
In college, I worked part-time at a department store and on a night when store employees were taking inventory, a process that lasted until midnight and involved as much laughter as work, I was sent to the hosiery department to help out.
The college girl working the department looked none too pleased to see me when I showed up. Once we became friends, she admitted that she'd hated me on sight. My sin? Apparently I looked like the type of girl she disdained.
Before long, we were sharing life stories, learning to drink together and spending every warm day laid out in the sun hoping to achieve the perfect tan. Even when she moved many states away, our bond stayed strong and we were always able to pick up conversation as if it had been days and not months or even years since we'd last confided in each other.
Work delivered me another girlfriend back in the '90s when I was managing editor and she was art director of a couple of monthly papers. Even when the publisher decided her services were no longer needed (although they definitely were), we'd discovered so much in common over shared deadlines working at her studio on southside that we carried on outside of the publishing world.
Our friendship of almost two decades continues unabated, having weathered break-ups, the trials and tribulations of having sisters and acceptance of the aging process, meanwhile road-tripping to Washington, D.C., Baltimore and the Outer Banks in between our monthly wine-down conversation marathons.
Over the last six tumultuous years, I've stumbled onto new friends while out and about, hardly surprising given my vigorous social schedule. Out is where you found me.
One time I went to meet a casual friend only to find that she'd invited Pru, a woman I'd met a few years back, to join us. Pru and I clicked immediately and that friendship took off while the other withered and died. You know when it's right.
Another time at a party, the hostess came up to me to tell me how much she loved my blog for its positivity and particularly its odd slant given my detachment from mainstream media. When I found out she was a Gemini, too, you could almost hear the heavenly chorus of angels singing above us.
Some friendships are just meant to be.
Months ago, a blog reader messaged me saying she'd like to join me for my daily walk if I was amenable. Somehow, I lost that message until last week when I responded, albeit four months late, with a heartfelt yes.
Since she'd left comments on my blog before, I knew a little about her (such as she didn't like going out alone and took inspiration from my many solo outings), including that she was an avid walker. Today we met at the Oregon Hill overlook to walk together, both happy to have a companion, agreeing that most people we know can't/won't walk as far as we like to.
Five plus miles later, we'd had a satisfying walk on the Pipeline Trail, down to Great Shiplock Park and Chapel Island before meandering up through downtown during worker bee lunch hour. Despite how recently we'd first laid eyes on each other, we had almost non-stop conversation getting acquainted.
Best sign seen on our walk: Our beer is as cold as your ex-boyfriend's heart.
Doubtful.
By the end of our adventure, I was asking if we could walk again and even meet up for an evening since she doesn't like flying solo and I'm always looking for company.
I may be a Luddite, but look at me, a blog reader may become a friend.
Arriving home, I found a message from another reader suggesting we do lunch. I agreed post-haste to his invitation because life has proven I have absolutely no idea where new friends may come from.
Chances are they aren't going to knock on my door and ask if there's anybody to play with. Too bad because I'd love that.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
After So Many Years
I know I write this blog with the unavoidable biases of a 20th century refugee now living in the 21st.
Even when I'm reminiscing or sharing an anecdote from my past, it's tinged by how we, as a culture, interpret the world in 2015. In my case, you also have to allow for my gross eccentricities, but even then, often my take on life reeks of the here and now.
My annual trek to the beach can usually be counted as one of my favorite weeks of the year and understandably so. Certain pleasures - the outside shower, the long walks on the beach, the contentment of hearing the ocean night and day- carry over year to year while new experiences surprise and delight.
Coming to the cottage in May instead of July means first crack at the new pack of clothespins in the third kitchen drawer. If that doesn't sound like a treat to you, then clearly you've never known the hausfrau satisfaction of hanging wet garments out to dry on the clothesline in the salty breeze. By Independence Day, rust is showing itself on the clothespins. Not so now.
Our earlier arrival also meant that we practically had the beach to ourselves, with only a few visitors in residence nearby. Shells were abundant, unlike later in the season when they're picked over by early morning scavengers while I sleep in.
Lingering over a crescent-shaped bed of shells one morning, I look up to see a man playing bagpipes on his deck directly in front of me. It's a rare shell-gathering expedition when I'm serenaded by bagpipes for half an hour as I take my time searching for just the right specimens while he plays to the ocean and me.
And there's the reading, the pure, unadulterated self-indulgence of spending hours doing nothing but reading a book. I read on the beach, in the porch swing, in the big rattan chair on the screened porch, on the front sunset porch, on the couch after dark and in bed before I sleep.
After nine days, I've read five books and it's a disparate lot.
I begin with Gully Wells' 2011 memoir, "The House in France," about an ex-pat family's years in London during the swinging '60s and the house in Provence to which they return as a family for many years. It's a positively glamorous lifestyle I'll never know (neither Robert Kennedy nor Christopher Hitchens ever dropped by my parent's house), making for fascinating reading.
From there, I take on a 1964 book called "Edith Wharton 1862-1937," part biography and part literary analysis. What catches my attention here is the perspective. Author Olivia Coolidge is writing from a crucial point in women's history, only a year after Betty Friedan's seminal treatise, "The Feminine Mystique."
So while Coolidge is trying to explain the mind of a women who'd been nominated for the Nobel prize in Literature 30-some years before, many of her explanations are colored by the '60s, not Edith Wharton's era.
I don't know what I expected from a 1973 biography of Clark Gable, "Long Live the King," but surely not to read the word "groovy" as many times as I did. Written only a dozen years after Gable died, author Lyn Tornabene, had the distinct advantage of being able to talk to people the actor had flirted with, worked alongside and known.
The humor was courtesy of the interviewees' oh-so 1973 dialog, as they attempted to put a hip angle on a man born in 1901 and dead by the start of the tumultuous '60s. Not hip and the 400-page book showed me enough about the man to know that he would have hated being described that way.
And talk about dated! William Saroyan's "The Human Comedy," written in 1943, is about a world that no longer exists, a world where mothers accept the sacrifice of a son to war as part of their duty to country and even boys under the age of ten are referred to as 'men.' Everyone is in this together and pulls together for a greater good.
Ancient history, in other words. Perhaps most interestingly, it's the book that was made into the film "Ithaca" and filmed in Richmond last year. I'll be curious to see how the dated concepts are seen through the prism of 2015 when it comes out.
My final read of vacation was a 2009 novel picked up at the Kill Devil Hills library used book sale after I finished all the books I'd brought with me.
I'm not even sure why I selected it. I rarely read current fiction, I'd never heard of the author despite a cover squib saying, "One of the best writers in America~ Washington Post" and the cover photograph of angst-ridden millennnials is just the sort of rot I abhor. And don't get me started on a main character whose iPod has more musical importance to him than his stereo.
"The Song is You" has turned out to be the beach read over which my mind (and possibly heart) are most entwined. The main character, a mid-40s man still deeply attached to music, is trying to figure out how to be happy after some huge personal losses.
References to music thread throughout ("It took some more beer and listening to the Sundays before the illusion of randomness melted away"), catnip to a music lover such as myself. "He swung through his collection with what he felt was random compulsion, one song paused and blinking its consumed time after less than a minute because a chord or a voice or the liner notes reminded him of another song."
I have done that musical tangent game many a time myself.
Which is to say that the book captured me to the point that I began rationing out my reading the last two days, unwilling to go home knowing the ending. No, I meted out the pages, particularly saving the last 30 for once I was home. I want the pleasure of this book, this offbeat romance, the music that defines the anti-hero, to be something I got to savor at home and not just at the beach.
Because life at the beach is illusory, wonderful but unsustainable and now I'm back and things feel different. Because they are.
Maybe the song is me.
Even when I'm reminiscing or sharing an anecdote from my past, it's tinged by how we, as a culture, interpret the world in 2015. In my case, you also have to allow for my gross eccentricities, but even then, often my take on life reeks of the here and now.
My annual trek to the beach can usually be counted as one of my favorite weeks of the year and understandably so. Certain pleasures - the outside shower, the long walks on the beach, the contentment of hearing the ocean night and day- carry over year to year while new experiences surprise and delight.
Coming to the cottage in May instead of July means first crack at the new pack of clothespins in the third kitchen drawer. If that doesn't sound like a treat to you, then clearly you've never known the hausfrau satisfaction of hanging wet garments out to dry on the clothesline in the salty breeze. By Independence Day, rust is showing itself on the clothespins. Not so now.
Our earlier arrival also meant that we practically had the beach to ourselves, with only a few visitors in residence nearby. Shells were abundant, unlike later in the season when they're picked over by early morning scavengers while I sleep in.
Lingering over a crescent-shaped bed of shells one morning, I look up to see a man playing bagpipes on his deck directly in front of me. It's a rare shell-gathering expedition when I'm serenaded by bagpipes for half an hour as I take my time searching for just the right specimens while he plays to the ocean and me.
And there's the reading, the pure, unadulterated self-indulgence of spending hours doing nothing but reading a book. I read on the beach, in the porch swing, in the big rattan chair on the screened porch, on the front sunset porch, on the couch after dark and in bed before I sleep.
After nine days, I've read five books and it's a disparate lot.
I begin with Gully Wells' 2011 memoir, "The House in France," about an ex-pat family's years in London during the swinging '60s and the house in Provence to which they return as a family for many years. It's a positively glamorous lifestyle I'll never know (neither Robert Kennedy nor Christopher Hitchens ever dropped by my parent's house), making for fascinating reading.
From there, I take on a 1964 book called "Edith Wharton 1862-1937," part biography and part literary analysis. What catches my attention here is the perspective. Author Olivia Coolidge is writing from a crucial point in women's history, only a year after Betty Friedan's seminal treatise, "The Feminine Mystique."
So while Coolidge is trying to explain the mind of a women who'd been nominated for the Nobel prize in Literature 30-some years before, many of her explanations are colored by the '60s, not Edith Wharton's era.
I don't know what I expected from a 1973 biography of Clark Gable, "Long Live the King," but surely not to read the word "groovy" as many times as I did. Written only a dozen years after Gable died, author Lyn Tornabene, had the distinct advantage of being able to talk to people the actor had flirted with, worked alongside and known.
The humor was courtesy of the interviewees' oh-so 1973 dialog, as they attempted to put a hip angle on a man born in 1901 and dead by the start of the tumultuous '60s. Not hip and the 400-page book showed me enough about the man to know that he would have hated being described that way.
And talk about dated! William Saroyan's "The Human Comedy," written in 1943, is about a world that no longer exists, a world where mothers accept the sacrifice of a son to war as part of their duty to country and even boys under the age of ten are referred to as 'men.' Everyone is in this together and pulls together for a greater good.
Ancient history, in other words. Perhaps most interestingly, it's the book that was made into the film "Ithaca" and filmed in Richmond last year. I'll be curious to see how the dated concepts are seen through the prism of 2015 when it comes out.
My final read of vacation was a 2009 novel picked up at the Kill Devil Hills library used book sale after I finished all the books I'd brought with me.
I'm not even sure why I selected it. I rarely read current fiction, I'd never heard of the author despite a cover squib saying, "One of the best writers in America~ Washington Post" and the cover photograph of angst-ridden millennnials is just the sort of rot I abhor. And don't get me started on a main character whose iPod has more musical importance to him than his stereo.
"The Song is You" has turned out to be the beach read over which my mind (and possibly heart) are most entwined. The main character, a mid-40s man still deeply attached to music, is trying to figure out how to be happy after some huge personal losses.
References to music thread throughout ("It took some more beer and listening to the Sundays before the illusion of randomness melted away"), catnip to a music lover such as myself. "He swung through his collection with what he felt was random compulsion, one song paused and blinking its consumed time after less than a minute because a chord or a voice or the liner notes reminded him of another song."
I have done that musical tangent game many a time myself.
Which is to say that the book captured me to the point that I began rationing out my reading the last two days, unwilling to go home knowing the ending. No, I meted out the pages, particularly saving the last 30 for once I was home. I want the pleasure of this book, this offbeat romance, the music that defines the anti-hero, to be something I got to savor at home and not just at the beach.
Because life at the beach is illusory, wonderful but unsustainable and now I'm back and things feel different. Because they are.
Maybe the song is me.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Let Me Outshine the Moon
Age is all the rage right now.
That ridiculous Microsoft #HowOldRobot thing that's everywhere at the moment claims to be able to judge your age from a photograph. Apparently it needs some work because a 35-year old friend was told she looked 63 (she looks 30 in real life).
And what does it tell me when I give it my Facebook profile picture? That I'm a 29-year old female. It is to laugh.
I'm not saying that there aren't parts of me that act more like a 29-year old than my real age. Going out every night, attending so many music shows, hell, even my lack of fiscal conservatism could be considered more stereotypical of a younger person.
But my face? Sorry, that's a face that's seen a lot more than 29 years of life. It's experienced far more things than any 29-year old has had time to. And I don't have a problem with that.
However, it does point to some serious issues with #HowOldRobot. Work on it, geek squad, and get back with me.
Sunday morning, an observer might have guessed that I was more like 10 years old when I woke after only seven hours of sleep instead of my usual nine. The reason was pure excitement. I was leaving for the beach today and my annual week at the little oceanfront cottage that's been my destination since the '90s.
Itinerary: walk on the beach, read on the beach, eat, drink, sleep. Listen to the ocean 24/7.
Up early, I spent the morning doing the last of the packing and loading the car, eager to be on the lesser roads I take to the Outer Banks. The three-hour trip down is the kick-off to vacation, but since I was traveling solo, it's also an excuse to stop wherever I want, eat at roadside haunts that grab my attention and generally indulge myself.
I passed the Nina and the Pinta down off of Dock Street in my pursuit of Route 5 and ultimately 460, where I pulled into Adams Country Store with the Editors' "Open You Arms (and Welcome)" blasting my arrival.
Inside, a man with one eye on the race greets me from his stool behind the bin of hog jowls that that sit as sentry at the door as I head to the back case for an RC Cola. Behind the counter up front is a woman who eyes me warily until I announce without being asked that I want a ham sandwich with mustard.
Holding that cold bottle of RC as I cruise down 460 taking long pulls off of it, I am soon in the midst of a major caffeine buzz, hardly surprising since I don't drink coffee and rarely soda. It's kind of ideal right now, though, this buzz: cruising down the road on the way to the ocean under a bright blue sky and afternoon sun make me feel like I'm embarking on an adventure.
The geography captures my eye the whole way down because I'm looking at a very different landscape than I did all those years I came in July. The green of the trees is much lighter and more tender-looking, fresher. I pass a couple of old duffers tooling along, one in a restored Model T and the other in a '66 Mustang. They feel like they're on an adventure, too.
I wind up riding next to a Land Rover where the girl in the passenger seat is methodically wiping (probably last year's sand) out the inside of the same model boom box as I have, notable mainly because it's so groovy looking, curved and aerodynamic. Hers is white and mine is bright blue (a Valentine's Day present last decade) but there's no mistaking the groovy factor. We are sisters.
After passing Frog Island Seafood year after year, this time I stopped for lunch, chatting with a table of ROMEOS as my crabcake sandwich (made with Frog Island crab, they say) and onion rings are prepared.
The couple in front of me to order have a look and the server asked if they're riding today. "Yep," the Mr. says while the Mrs. tells her how perfect the weather is for it. It's the kind of day that could make any activity better.
At the cottage, there was good news and bad news. For the last couple of years, there have been window A/C units, eliminating a breeze from one window in every bedroom. I rail against it every year in the guest journal. Who takes a house right on the ocean and then closes the window so you can't hear it?
But on the "watch out for Mother Nature" front, the beaches north and south are severely eroded, much, much narrower than I've ever seen them after a lifetime of summers here. Scary narrow in some places. During high tide, the water was lapping the house's stilts.
A look down later while lathering up in the outdoor shower off the big, screened porch revealed how much closer the sand under the house is than it was last year. Dredging can't start too soon, if you ask me.
After an hour setting the little cottage to rights, or at least ordering it the way that gives me the most pleasure, I am joined by my favorite beach partner, who'd also stopped at Adams. Beds made, we set out for a walk.
The peace and quiet of being here in early May is extraordinary. Most houses, especially the biggest ones, aren't occupied. People walking down the beach are an occasional diversion, not the endless parade they are in July. The water is too cold for any but the school-age children who on their only beach vacation this year.
Of all the unlikely coincidences, it's restaurant week down here, something I go out of my way to avoid in Richmond, but here it's just a reminder of how off-season it is right now.
At our favorite dive bar, we run into the same plumber as last year, except this year he provides the insider's tour and we got to experience the blue room.
The two closest places, Run Down Café (which is anything but, although it was in the mid-'90s) and Ocean Boulevard (starting strong with a appetizer of lamb shoulder with sorghum-glazed spring vegetables) both check out as intact and open. A new place in the old piano bar produced a tomato pie with pimento cheese that was stellar and I'm no pimento cheese worshipper.
Walking the beach is far more exercise than in the past because the sand has so little time when the ocean isn't lapping at it to dry out. I began a memoir, "The House in France" that's already delivering a peek into an ex-pat world I've never known. One afternoon nap so far and it was a doozy.
The first night here was a full moon, the moon making distinct shadows on the floor of the screened porch, a brilliant white light that lit up the ocean, too.
Real life intrudes when my partner in crime has to return to the city shortly after Tuesday dawns pink and perfect. My next visitors don't come for days.
It'll be interesting to see what I do with so much time alone here.
That ridiculous Microsoft #HowOldRobot thing that's everywhere at the moment claims to be able to judge your age from a photograph. Apparently it needs some work because a 35-year old friend was told she looked 63 (she looks 30 in real life).
And what does it tell me when I give it my Facebook profile picture? That I'm a 29-year old female. It is to laugh.
I'm not saying that there aren't parts of me that act more like a 29-year old than my real age. Going out every night, attending so many music shows, hell, even my lack of fiscal conservatism could be considered more stereotypical of a younger person.
But my face? Sorry, that's a face that's seen a lot more than 29 years of life. It's experienced far more things than any 29-year old has had time to. And I don't have a problem with that.
However, it does point to some serious issues with #HowOldRobot. Work on it, geek squad, and get back with me.
Sunday morning, an observer might have guessed that I was more like 10 years old when I woke after only seven hours of sleep instead of my usual nine. The reason was pure excitement. I was leaving for the beach today and my annual week at the little oceanfront cottage that's been my destination since the '90s.
Itinerary: walk on the beach, read on the beach, eat, drink, sleep. Listen to the ocean 24/7.
Up early, I spent the morning doing the last of the packing and loading the car, eager to be on the lesser roads I take to the Outer Banks. The three-hour trip down is the kick-off to vacation, but since I was traveling solo, it's also an excuse to stop wherever I want, eat at roadside haunts that grab my attention and generally indulge myself.
I passed the Nina and the Pinta down off of Dock Street in my pursuit of Route 5 and ultimately 460, where I pulled into Adams Country Store with the Editors' "Open You Arms (and Welcome)" blasting my arrival.
Inside, a man with one eye on the race greets me from his stool behind the bin of hog jowls that that sit as sentry at the door as I head to the back case for an RC Cola. Behind the counter up front is a woman who eyes me warily until I announce without being asked that I want a ham sandwich with mustard.
Holding that cold bottle of RC as I cruise down 460 taking long pulls off of it, I am soon in the midst of a major caffeine buzz, hardly surprising since I don't drink coffee and rarely soda. It's kind of ideal right now, though, this buzz: cruising down the road on the way to the ocean under a bright blue sky and afternoon sun make me feel like I'm embarking on an adventure.
The geography captures my eye the whole way down because I'm looking at a very different landscape than I did all those years I came in July. The green of the trees is much lighter and more tender-looking, fresher. I pass a couple of old duffers tooling along, one in a restored Model T and the other in a '66 Mustang. They feel like they're on an adventure, too.
I wind up riding next to a Land Rover where the girl in the passenger seat is methodically wiping (probably last year's sand) out the inside of the same model boom box as I have, notable mainly because it's so groovy looking, curved and aerodynamic. Hers is white and mine is bright blue (a Valentine's Day present last decade) but there's no mistaking the groovy factor. We are sisters.
After passing Frog Island Seafood year after year, this time I stopped for lunch, chatting with a table of ROMEOS as my crabcake sandwich (made with Frog Island crab, they say) and onion rings are prepared.
The couple in front of me to order have a look and the server asked if they're riding today. "Yep," the Mr. says while the Mrs. tells her how perfect the weather is for it. It's the kind of day that could make any activity better.
At the cottage, there was good news and bad news. For the last couple of years, there have been window A/C units, eliminating a breeze from one window in every bedroom. I rail against it every year in the guest journal. Who takes a house right on the ocean and then closes the window so you can't hear it?
But on the "watch out for Mother Nature" front, the beaches north and south are severely eroded, much, much narrower than I've ever seen them after a lifetime of summers here. Scary narrow in some places. During high tide, the water was lapping the house's stilts.
A look down later while lathering up in the outdoor shower off the big, screened porch revealed how much closer the sand under the house is than it was last year. Dredging can't start too soon, if you ask me.
After an hour setting the little cottage to rights, or at least ordering it the way that gives me the most pleasure, I am joined by my favorite beach partner, who'd also stopped at Adams. Beds made, we set out for a walk.
The peace and quiet of being here in early May is extraordinary. Most houses, especially the biggest ones, aren't occupied. People walking down the beach are an occasional diversion, not the endless parade they are in July. The water is too cold for any but the school-age children who on their only beach vacation this year.
Of all the unlikely coincidences, it's restaurant week down here, something I go out of my way to avoid in Richmond, but here it's just a reminder of how off-season it is right now.
At our favorite dive bar, we run into the same plumber as last year, except this year he provides the insider's tour and we got to experience the blue room.
The two closest places, Run Down Café (which is anything but, although it was in the mid-'90s) and Ocean Boulevard (starting strong with a appetizer of lamb shoulder with sorghum-glazed spring vegetables) both check out as intact and open. A new place in the old piano bar produced a tomato pie with pimento cheese that was stellar and I'm no pimento cheese worshipper.
Walking the beach is far more exercise than in the past because the sand has so little time when the ocean isn't lapping at it to dry out. I began a memoir, "The House in France" that's already delivering a peek into an ex-pat world I've never known. One afternoon nap so far and it was a doozy.
The first night here was a full moon, the moon making distinct shadows on the floor of the screened porch, a brilliant white light that lit up the ocean, too.
Real life intrudes when my partner in crime has to return to the city shortly after Tuesday dawns pink and perfect. My next visitors don't come for days.
It'll be interesting to see what I do with so much time alone here.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
All Kinds of Crazy
If you're going to spend an evening experiencing family dysfunction, best to eat first.
But, honestly, nothing could have prepared me for such a visceral experience.
My date and I met at Bistro 27, not at the appointed time (I'd already e-mailed him to move it back 15 minutes) and not at the rescheduled time (I was running late after a last minute errand) but a mere 75 minutes before curtain time.
Luckily, with the November Theater a half block away, the Bistro 27 staff are pros at ensuring customers make their play on time and we sailed through duck confit barbecue sliders (on housemade biscuits, yum) with beets and Brie, a shrimp, avocado and red pepper salad over greens, the bistro steak and a chocolate torte and were picking up our tickets at will call by 7:55.
I think that's what the theatrical community calls good timing.
Cadence Theater Company is producing Sam Shepard's "A Lie of the Mind," a play neither of us knew a thing about. While I usually prefer it that way, my date is known to research and tell all at dinner. Today he'd been subsumed with yard work and brought no factoids to the table.
Just as well. Turns out it was the sort of play you need to experience not bone up on.
The simple wooden set was topped by a platform on which three musicians - keyboards, guitar, fiddle - performed to begin and then sometimes during scenes. It lent a strong sense of location to the story.
At the center of the play were Jake and Beth, both played to dysfunctional perfection by Landon Nagel and McLean Jesse, a married couple in a bad place. Jake has beaten up Beth so badly he assumes he's killed her.
From there, they spiral in different and yet the same directions, each back to their respective crazy (because aren't they all?) families. Home is good because everybody loves you there, or at least accepts you.
But home is also where everyone reverts to long-circumscribed roles, meaning adult children often act and are treated more like their youthful selves. Mothers fret over grown children's problems and siblings maintain long-held secrets.
Of course, in Sam Shepard's world, this happens in the heartland (Idaho, Montana and, most surprisingly, southern California) and the dialog reflects that with phrases such as "you bet your bippy," "darn tootin" and other colloquialisms. "You change streams faster than a trout in heat," Beth's Dad, Baylor, says.
Besides terrific source material, the play boasts a strong and vibrant cast, a necessity of sorts because there is no one main character. Everyone has a story line, everyone is seriously messed up in one way or another, everyone hurts.
When Baylor mistakes Jake's brother for a deer and shots him through the leg, he becomes a virtual prisoner in their house after a blizzard begins. With a bloody hole in his leg and in intense pain, Alexander Sapp as Frankie becomes immobilized on their couch, a witness to another family's major dysfunction.
If you think it's hard to deal with your own family's issues, try having a front row seat for someone else's. No thank you.
His reaction mirrored the audiences' because as the lengthy play - three hours - unfolded, the absurdity of all these relationships and reactions became obvious.
Who acts like that? Oh, that's right, my family. Your family. Everyone's family.
The two mothers couldn't have been more different and yet were just as damaged, just in different ways. Jake's mother Lorraine was bitter after her alcoholic husband (after all, it is a Sam Shepard play) abandons the family. Beth's mother is the obsequious wife, obeying her bully of a husband out of habit rather than love and reminding everyone to stop screaming.
This wasn't a play with a slow build to a big finish, rather it exploded every step of the way as damaged people tried to go about their daily lives.
We've all known mothers who dote on problem sons or blustery old-school fathers who expect the entire household to do their bidding. And sadly, we all know of battered women willing to return to their abuser.
Once again, Cadence has hit it out of the park with a play that will leave its audiences bowled over with the talent onstage and thinking long and hard about the issues raised. The play may have been written in 1986, but the struggles of dealing with family and developing a sense of self outside it are timeless.
I'm guessing that's why I saw so many theater people at the show tonight.
During a scene where Beth's brother Mike has just shot a deer, he comes onstage with a half a dead deer. He's taken the antlers for himself and brought the rest of the animal for his father to clean and dress for meat.
When the lights came up at intermission, the woman near me, herself the artistic director at another theater company, turned to her date and observed dryly, "At least now I know where I can find half a dead deer if I need one."
Darn tootin'. We all take something different from a Sam Shepard play.
But, honestly, nothing could have prepared me for such a visceral experience.
My date and I met at Bistro 27, not at the appointed time (I'd already e-mailed him to move it back 15 minutes) and not at the rescheduled time (I was running late after a last minute errand) but a mere 75 minutes before curtain time.
Luckily, with the November Theater a half block away, the Bistro 27 staff are pros at ensuring customers make their play on time and we sailed through duck confit barbecue sliders (on housemade biscuits, yum) with beets and Brie, a shrimp, avocado and red pepper salad over greens, the bistro steak and a chocolate torte and were picking up our tickets at will call by 7:55.
I think that's what the theatrical community calls good timing.
Cadence Theater Company is producing Sam Shepard's "A Lie of the Mind," a play neither of us knew a thing about. While I usually prefer it that way, my date is known to research and tell all at dinner. Today he'd been subsumed with yard work and brought no factoids to the table.
Just as well. Turns out it was the sort of play you need to experience not bone up on.
The simple wooden set was topped by a platform on which three musicians - keyboards, guitar, fiddle - performed to begin and then sometimes during scenes. It lent a strong sense of location to the story.
At the center of the play were Jake and Beth, both played to dysfunctional perfection by Landon Nagel and McLean Jesse, a married couple in a bad place. Jake has beaten up Beth so badly he assumes he's killed her.
From there, they spiral in different and yet the same directions, each back to their respective crazy (because aren't they all?) families. Home is good because everybody loves you there, or at least accepts you.
But home is also where everyone reverts to long-circumscribed roles, meaning adult children often act and are treated more like their youthful selves. Mothers fret over grown children's problems and siblings maintain long-held secrets.
Of course, in Sam Shepard's world, this happens in the heartland (Idaho, Montana and, most surprisingly, southern California) and the dialog reflects that with phrases such as "you bet your bippy," "darn tootin" and other colloquialisms. "You change streams faster than a trout in heat," Beth's Dad, Baylor, says.
Besides terrific source material, the play boasts a strong and vibrant cast, a necessity of sorts because there is no one main character. Everyone has a story line, everyone is seriously messed up in one way or another, everyone hurts.
When Baylor mistakes Jake's brother for a deer and shots him through the leg, he becomes a virtual prisoner in their house after a blizzard begins. With a bloody hole in his leg and in intense pain, Alexander Sapp as Frankie becomes immobilized on their couch, a witness to another family's major dysfunction.
If you think it's hard to deal with your own family's issues, try having a front row seat for someone else's. No thank you.
His reaction mirrored the audiences' because as the lengthy play - three hours - unfolded, the absurdity of all these relationships and reactions became obvious.
Who acts like that? Oh, that's right, my family. Your family. Everyone's family.
The two mothers couldn't have been more different and yet were just as damaged, just in different ways. Jake's mother Lorraine was bitter after her alcoholic husband (after all, it is a Sam Shepard play) abandons the family. Beth's mother is the obsequious wife, obeying her bully of a husband out of habit rather than love and reminding everyone to stop screaming.
This wasn't a play with a slow build to a big finish, rather it exploded every step of the way as damaged people tried to go about their daily lives.
We've all known mothers who dote on problem sons or blustery old-school fathers who expect the entire household to do their bidding. And sadly, we all know of battered women willing to return to their abuser.
Once again, Cadence has hit it out of the park with a play that will leave its audiences bowled over with the talent onstage and thinking long and hard about the issues raised. The play may have been written in 1986, but the struggles of dealing with family and developing a sense of self outside it are timeless.
I'm guessing that's why I saw so many theater people at the show tonight.
During a scene where Beth's brother Mike has just shot a deer, he comes onstage with a half a dead deer. He's taken the antlers for himself and brought the rest of the animal for his father to clean and dress for meat.
When the lights came up at intermission, the woman near me, herself the artistic director at another theater company, turned to her date and observed dryly, "At least now I know where I can find half a dead deer if I need one."
Darn tootin'. We all take something different from a Sam Shepard play.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Do You Appreciate My Company?
Sometimes having a fabulous night is purely circumstantial.
The only thing set in stone was an early dinner. My date wanted sushi and I wanted to try the new Akida, recently moved from its long-time Robinson Street location to the Devil's Triangle.
Early as we were, every table was taken so we took up residence at the sushi bar and were soon joined by other stragglers. After both ordering Combo #4, our server brought miso soup within seconds, but the surprise was when one of the sushi chefs handed us each a salad, saying it was with his compliments.
Akida's food never disappoints and tonight's cucumber roll, avocado roll and four chef-selected pieces of sushi - yellowtail, salmon, tuna and mackerel - all tasted amazingly fresh. And who doesn't appreciate a good sinus cavity-cleansing when you take in just a tad too much wasabi?
Much as we wanted to linger over wine, a line had formed at the door for seats and we felt too guilty to camp out. Pity.
Back in Jackson Ward, I made tracks for First Friday.
First stop: ADA gallery for Bruce Wilhelm's "Paintings/Props/Intermediaries," 60 colorful mixed media paintings hanging on a huge wall, related sort of, and not.
Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was "Signes and Symboles," with ethereal work by two female artists I'd seen before, Catherine Brooks and Tifenn Python. The news there was about Ghostprint's upcoming pop-up at the Cookie Factory. I'm looking forward to art on that side of town for a change.
At Candela Gallery's new show, I couldn't get over the sheer number of people (okay, students probably) on their phones rather than looking at Daniel Leivick's striking photographic exhibit, "Heliopolis."
On the couch at the front of the gallery, a couple sat, arms and thighs touching, both staring fixated at their cell phones and exchanging zero conversation. What's the point?
Fortunately, once I made my way to the back gallery, there were plenty of intense-looking student/photographer types peering intently at the satellite photos over which Leivick has inserted images of complex civilizations.
"Ooh, that thing that looks like an ant is a car!" one co-ed squealed after studying a photo from two inches away.
Circumstance delivered me a surprise upon leaving when I heard the most incredible voice coming out of Souleil, a vintage boutique I'd never even noticed before.
Standing against a deep orange partition, a woman was playing guitar and singing, pulling in almost everyone who heard her from the street. Listening, I perused the racks of clothing only to find so many styles and fabrics I remember from the '70s. Granny dress complete with lace? Check. India print tops and dresses? Yup. Maxi skirts? Oh, yea.
At one point, the singer motioned to a guy who'd come in, saying, "You wannna freestyle for the people?" and sure enough, he stepped up and began rapping while she filled in with background song. I stayed through it all.
Heading to Gallery 5, I passed Comfort, where a drummer friend was taking someone's order at a table in the front window and waved at me in recognition. Poor thing, working First Fridays is no fun, I know.
Showing at G5 was "Communication Arts Senior Exhibit," which meant scads of people (even some parents) and a wide-ranging show. Honestly, what surprised me most was that several students had done botanical illustrations for their senior projects. They were exquisite, but who knew kids today were even into that?
Downstairs, I caught part of Manatree's set, enjoying their youthful energy and as always, impressed with their musicianship, obvious pleasure at playing and short, fast songs. Because I've seen them plenty of times, I had no guilt about not staying for their whole set and, besides, I had a new gallery to check out.
30/60/90 had intrigued me from the first time I saw those numbers painted on the door because it gave no clue to what it was. Only after talking to someone did I learn it was a gallery and then I was impressed because it's off the beaten gallery path.
Walking in, the overhead music was loud, the art was eclectic and it reminded me of some of the more DIY galleries that inhabited Brook Road 7 or 8 years ago such as Transmission Gallery.
There was a large sculpture made of lampshade frames with orange yarn and fabric woven over the edges. A pipe in the gallery had been yarn-bombed. A line of ceramic snails made its way along the staircase ledge.
Busy taking in such varied art, I didn't even hear the group arrive, but all of a sudden, a cadre of activists gathered at the front of the gallery holdings signs saying, "#blacklivesmatter" and sequentially began reading a treatise about Baltimore's situation.
Everyone in the room listened and applauded. After they concluded, they disappeared as silently as they'd come.
I'd decided to make a pit stop at GWAR Bar since it was practically next door and I figured the odds were low that it would be inundated with suburban art walkers since they rarely like loud metal offending their delicate eardrums.
It was busier than I expected, but not so much so I didn't find a stool and order Espolon easily.
The guy in the next stool said hello and dramatically laid his hand palm down on the bar next to me. Unsure if this an international symbol for something with which I was not familiar, I did the same. What's up with that, mister?
"Just checking your marital status," he explained, grinning widely. "So you're not married?" So you're not blind?
Conversation revealed that he'd been there already for hours, having come from work, but he also lives in the neighborhood, so he considers GWAR Bar his hangout bar. That seems to be true of most of the men I've met there.
Maybe it was all that after-work drinking, but it took him no time at all to begin steering the conversation to men and women, the pitfalls of dating, the importance of not waiting too long to have sex in a relationship and a dozen other topics he needed to get off his chest.
When he asked me, apropos of nothing, if I liked wine, I naturally said yes, not seeing the landmine I was stepping in. I deflected his invitation by explaining that I was going to a show shortly and he departed soon after.
That left me to sip my Espolon and watch the movie playing on the screen over the bar. I had no idea what it was, so when a guy took the stool next to me, I asked.
He looked at me incredulously, saying, "It's 'Dawn Till Dusk,' a Quentin Tarantino movie. It's really old." Of course I had to ask what he considered really old. "Mid-nineties. I was in, like fifth grade and I'm in my mid 30s now. Look how young George Clooney is," he said.
Oh, I'd already picked up on that (35 can be a really attractive age for men).
My new friend introduced himself as Jay and after shaking my hand, turned to the bartender. "She's never seen 'Dawn Till Dusk," he marveled. Minutes later, as a bloodbath erupted on the screen, he leaned in and warned me that we were coming up on the ending.
It was a good thing because I was tired of seeing people explode.
Naturally he had to ask why I hadn't seen it (I don't know, better movies to see in 1996?), amazed that I don't watch movies on TV. Knowing I could top that, I said I didn't have a cell phone and his jaw dropped.
That was a ten-minute conversation, but it finished satisfyingly, with him acknowledging, "I get it, you want to be in control of being bothered." Bingo.
He, too, said GWAR Bar is his bar, so when I left for the show, we shook hands, knowing we may very well see each other there again.
Back at Gallery 5, I caught the last five songs of Claire Morgan's set, wedging myself through the huge crowd to enjoy their well-crafted songs. I swear, they get better every time I see them.
Next up was Brooklyn's Ava Luna and while they set up, I scanned the crowd, always a source of entertainment.
One guy had on a t-shirt with the last two lines of Keats' "Ode to a Grecian Urn" on it.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth and all ye need to know
One guy had on a red satin KTVO jacket. Another guy had on a hoodie, the back reading, "Start jumping out of planes," with a drawing of bodies splattered on the ground.
I spotted the VCU professor I shared a few dates with 13 years ago. I recall introducing him to tequila and him not handling it very well. I waved hello and found a spot across the room.
Ava Luna (two girls, three guys) came out looking like your usual indie rock outfit with two guitars, bass, keys and drums. Right off the bat, they got major points for having three vocalists and the slinkiest of grooves.
It was soon apparent that Ava Luna's sound was heavily soul-influenced and the crowd responded by grooving in place almost constantly. Really, it was impossible not to.
Behind me, I overheard a guy observe, "It's like dirty hippie prom music," but he looked to be about 28, so I'm not sure he knew from dirty hippies.
What I heard was more Prince-influenced with front man Carlos invoking the master with his falsetto and smooth delivery while a distinctive bass line carried him along. But just when I thought I had them pegged as neo-soul, they threw me for a loop.
Melding post-punk, almost jazz-like elements, terrific harmonies, high drama and abrupt tempo changes, this was a band that was constantly surprising the crowd, who loved it. The way this quintet played off each other screamed talent and practice.
One thing that occurred to me was that no one in Richmond sounds anything like these guys. Which is a shame, because I was crazy about what I was hearing.
Late in the set, I spotted a drummer friend and his wife, who looked to be enjoying Ava Luna as much as I was. Joining them, we marveled that this was a free show.
They said that this was their second time seeing the band and they'd been blown away the first time just like me. They were just so good at what they were doing.
Ah, but my friend had intel about that. Seems that Carlos' Dad had been a soul DJ back in the '70s, so he'd grown up with this music.That explained a lot.
When the band said it was their last song and then they'd be at the merch table, my friend said, "Uh-uh, this won't be your last song." It was clear that the audience wouldn't accept that.
Sure enough, they left the stage, the canned music came up and the crowd yelled "one more song" until they returned, already halfway to the table by the time they realized.
"Usually when the house music come on, people just disperse," Carlos said from the stage. "Not Richmond."
Indeed. They played us one more song that ended with chanting and dissonance but still felt soulful before heading to the merch table and effectively ending the night.
I headed in the same direction, intent on buying a CD, only to find a line already formed. A guy came up to Carlos, telling him he couldn't find the band's van outside. "Never mind, I'll deal with that later." Looking at me, he said, "I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment."
I bet. After I bought my CD, I raved about their sound and asked about his Dad.
"Yea, he was a soul DJ." he said smiling and shrugging his shoulders. "So my music's circumstantial."
No more so than that it was at the ninth place I wound up tonight that I got lost in some of the finest grooves I've heard in ages. I call that hella good circumstances.
The only thing set in stone was an early dinner. My date wanted sushi and I wanted to try the new Akida, recently moved from its long-time Robinson Street location to the Devil's Triangle.
Early as we were, every table was taken so we took up residence at the sushi bar and were soon joined by other stragglers. After both ordering Combo #4, our server brought miso soup within seconds, but the surprise was when one of the sushi chefs handed us each a salad, saying it was with his compliments.
Akida's food never disappoints and tonight's cucumber roll, avocado roll and four chef-selected pieces of sushi - yellowtail, salmon, tuna and mackerel - all tasted amazingly fresh. And who doesn't appreciate a good sinus cavity-cleansing when you take in just a tad too much wasabi?
Much as we wanted to linger over wine, a line had formed at the door for seats and we felt too guilty to camp out. Pity.
Back in Jackson Ward, I made tracks for First Friday.
First stop: ADA gallery for Bruce Wilhelm's "Paintings/Props/Intermediaries," 60 colorful mixed media paintings hanging on a huge wall, related sort of, and not.
Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was "Signes and Symboles," with ethereal work by two female artists I'd seen before, Catherine Brooks and Tifenn Python. The news there was about Ghostprint's upcoming pop-up at the Cookie Factory. I'm looking forward to art on that side of town for a change.
At Candela Gallery's new show, I couldn't get over the sheer number of people (okay, students probably) on their phones rather than looking at Daniel Leivick's striking photographic exhibit, "Heliopolis."
On the couch at the front of the gallery, a couple sat, arms and thighs touching, both staring fixated at their cell phones and exchanging zero conversation. What's the point?
Fortunately, once I made my way to the back gallery, there were plenty of intense-looking student/photographer types peering intently at the satellite photos over which Leivick has inserted images of complex civilizations.
"Ooh, that thing that looks like an ant is a car!" one co-ed squealed after studying a photo from two inches away.
Circumstance delivered me a surprise upon leaving when I heard the most incredible voice coming out of Souleil, a vintage boutique I'd never even noticed before.
Standing against a deep orange partition, a woman was playing guitar and singing, pulling in almost everyone who heard her from the street. Listening, I perused the racks of clothing only to find so many styles and fabrics I remember from the '70s. Granny dress complete with lace? Check. India print tops and dresses? Yup. Maxi skirts? Oh, yea.
At one point, the singer motioned to a guy who'd come in, saying, "You wannna freestyle for the people?" and sure enough, he stepped up and began rapping while she filled in with background song. I stayed through it all.
Heading to Gallery 5, I passed Comfort, where a drummer friend was taking someone's order at a table in the front window and waved at me in recognition. Poor thing, working First Fridays is no fun, I know.
Showing at G5 was "Communication Arts Senior Exhibit," which meant scads of people (even some parents) and a wide-ranging show. Honestly, what surprised me most was that several students had done botanical illustrations for their senior projects. They were exquisite, but who knew kids today were even into that?
Downstairs, I caught part of Manatree's set, enjoying their youthful energy and as always, impressed with their musicianship, obvious pleasure at playing and short, fast songs. Because I've seen them plenty of times, I had no guilt about not staying for their whole set and, besides, I had a new gallery to check out.
30/60/90 had intrigued me from the first time I saw those numbers painted on the door because it gave no clue to what it was. Only after talking to someone did I learn it was a gallery and then I was impressed because it's off the beaten gallery path.
Walking in, the overhead music was loud, the art was eclectic and it reminded me of some of the more DIY galleries that inhabited Brook Road 7 or 8 years ago such as Transmission Gallery.
There was a large sculpture made of lampshade frames with orange yarn and fabric woven over the edges. A pipe in the gallery had been yarn-bombed. A line of ceramic snails made its way along the staircase ledge.
Busy taking in such varied art, I didn't even hear the group arrive, but all of a sudden, a cadre of activists gathered at the front of the gallery holdings signs saying, "#blacklivesmatter" and sequentially began reading a treatise about Baltimore's situation.
Everyone in the room listened and applauded. After they concluded, they disappeared as silently as they'd come.
I'd decided to make a pit stop at GWAR Bar since it was practically next door and I figured the odds were low that it would be inundated with suburban art walkers since they rarely like loud metal offending their delicate eardrums.
It was busier than I expected, but not so much so I didn't find a stool and order Espolon easily.
The guy in the next stool said hello and dramatically laid his hand palm down on the bar next to me. Unsure if this an international symbol for something with which I was not familiar, I did the same. What's up with that, mister?
"Just checking your marital status," he explained, grinning widely. "So you're not married?" So you're not blind?
Conversation revealed that he'd been there already for hours, having come from work, but he also lives in the neighborhood, so he considers GWAR Bar his hangout bar. That seems to be true of most of the men I've met there.
Maybe it was all that after-work drinking, but it took him no time at all to begin steering the conversation to men and women, the pitfalls of dating, the importance of not waiting too long to have sex in a relationship and a dozen other topics he needed to get off his chest.
When he asked me, apropos of nothing, if I liked wine, I naturally said yes, not seeing the landmine I was stepping in. I deflected his invitation by explaining that I was going to a show shortly and he departed soon after.
That left me to sip my Espolon and watch the movie playing on the screen over the bar. I had no idea what it was, so when a guy took the stool next to me, I asked.
He looked at me incredulously, saying, "It's 'Dawn Till Dusk,' a Quentin Tarantino movie. It's really old." Of course I had to ask what he considered really old. "Mid-nineties. I was in, like fifth grade and I'm in my mid 30s now. Look how young George Clooney is," he said.
Oh, I'd already picked up on that (35 can be a really attractive age for men).
My new friend introduced himself as Jay and after shaking my hand, turned to the bartender. "She's never seen 'Dawn Till Dusk," he marveled. Minutes later, as a bloodbath erupted on the screen, he leaned in and warned me that we were coming up on the ending.
It was a good thing because I was tired of seeing people explode.
Naturally he had to ask why I hadn't seen it (I don't know, better movies to see in 1996?), amazed that I don't watch movies on TV. Knowing I could top that, I said I didn't have a cell phone and his jaw dropped.
That was a ten-minute conversation, but it finished satisfyingly, with him acknowledging, "I get it, you want to be in control of being bothered." Bingo.
He, too, said GWAR Bar is his bar, so when I left for the show, we shook hands, knowing we may very well see each other there again.
Back at Gallery 5, I caught the last five songs of Claire Morgan's set, wedging myself through the huge crowd to enjoy their well-crafted songs. I swear, they get better every time I see them.
Next up was Brooklyn's Ava Luna and while they set up, I scanned the crowd, always a source of entertainment.
One guy had on a t-shirt with the last two lines of Keats' "Ode to a Grecian Urn" on it.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth and all ye need to know
One guy had on a red satin KTVO jacket. Another guy had on a hoodie, the back reading, "Start jumping out of planes," with a drawing of bodies splattered on the ground.
I spotted the VCU professor I shared a few dates with 13 years ago. I recall introducing him to tequila and him not handling it very well. I waved hello and found a spot across the room.
Ava Luna (two girls, three guys) came out looking like your usual indie rock outfit with two guitars, bass, keys and drums. Right off the bat, they got major points for having three vocalists and the slinkiest of grooves.
It was soon apparent that Ava Luna's sound was heavily soul-influenced and the crowd responded by grooving in place almost constantly. Really, it was impossible not to.
Behind me, I overheard a guy observe, "It's like dirty hippie prom music," but he looked to be about 28, so I'm not sure he knew from dirty hippies.
What I heard was more Prince-influenced with front man Carlos invoking the master with his falsetto and smooth delivery while a distinctive bass line carried him along. But just when I thought I had them pegged as neo-soul, they threw me for a loop.
Melding post-punk, almost jazz-like elements, terrific harmonies, high drama and abrupt tempo changes, this was a band that was constantly surprising the crowd, who loved it. The way this quintet played off each other screamed talent and practice.
One thing that occurred to me was that no one in Richmond sounds anything like these guys. Which is a shame, because I was crazy about what I was hearing.
Late in the set, I spotted a drummer friend and his wife, who looked to be enjoying Ava Luna as much as I was. Joining them, we marveled that this was a free show.
They said that this was their second time seeing the band and they'd been blown away the first time just like me. They were just so good at what they were doing.
Ah, but my friend had intel about that. Seems that Carlos' Dad had been a soul DJ back in the '70s, so he'd grown up with this music.That explained a lot.
When the band said it was their last song and then they'd be at the merch table, my friend said, "Uh-uh, this won't be your last song." It was clear that the audience wouldn't accept that.
Sure enough, they left the stage, the canned music came up and the crowd yelled "one more song" until they returned, already halfway to the table by the time they realized.
"Usually when the house music come on, people just disperse," Carlos said from the stage. "Not Richmond."
Indeed. They played us one more song that ended with chanting and dissonance but still felt soulful before heading to the merch table and effectively ending the night.
I headed in the same direction, intent on buying a CD, only to find a line already formed. A guy came up to Carlos, telling him he couldn't find the band's van outside. "Never mind, I'll deal with that later." Looking at me, he said, "I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment."
I bet. After I bought my CD, I raved about their sound and asked about his Dad.
"Yea, he was a soul DJ." he said smiling and shrugging his shoulders. "So my music's circumstantial."
No more so than that it was at the ninth place I wound up tonight that I got lost in some of the finest grooves I've heard in ages. I call that hella good circumstances.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Bring on May Flowers
That sound you heard was April not letting the screen door hit her in the ass as she moved on.
Is it me or did April just blow by in the blink of an eye? Part of it was that I was down and out sick for the first two days, vomiting at home and at MVC like a champ. Maybe part of it is attributable to the week I spent playing tourist in Memphis and Oxford.
Even so, man, this month left me in the dust.
In fact, tonight's get-together was originally planned for April 1 but I'd had to cancel on my two less extroverted girlfriends lest I retch on them. It took us a month to reschedule and it worked out even better because the one with the real job is off tomorrow, meaning we could do more than just eat.
After much back and forth, we decided that after dinner we'd see a movie, something the three of us have never done. The pop culture queen suggested "Mall Cop" but Irefused steered her to "Woman in Gold" because you can never go wrong with Helen Mirren. Plus it was playing at 9:10, giving us plenty of time for eating and catching up first.
After deferring to me for a restaurant choice (and dropping hints about margaritas and guacamole), we met at Lalo's Cocina, a place new to both of them although I'd already been three times. Even so, I was surprised to walk in to find a jazz combo playing on a Thursday evening.
I'm always happy to hear live music.
The friend who'd requested margs and guac was soon watching as table-side guacamole was made to her specifications (more cilantro than I might have chosen) while she sipped a margarita not overly sweet. The braided one ordered a combo plate heavy on cheese and vegetables ("I know you like meat, Karen") and I was happy with black bean nachos, not on the menu, but an accommodation by the kitchen.
Gardening was a major topic because the reason my friend is off work tomorrow is to go to the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden plant sale. The other one is thinking of going back to school to get another degree, this one in horticulture. To their delight, I told them about a terrarium workshop that's going on this Saturday.
I taught myself gardening years ago by reading books for inspiration and trial and error. In the past, I had large perennial borders but am perfectly happy now with a very small flower garden out front, an array of clay containers leading to my front door and window boxes inside.
Just enough but not so much upkeep that it cuts into my play time. They'll learn.
One particularly interesting topic of conversation was the study released today that says that people stop listening to new music around age 33. "Everyone I know is obviously an exception to this wacky study," the marg drinker posited.
She's right. In fact, such a goofy study made me realize how fortunate I am that few of my friends are the kind of people who have given up on new music. Some may have limited exposure to it, maybe only NPR (not that there's anything wrong with that), but when they hear something fresh they like, they seek it out.
That said, we do have a new coffee shop nearby called Classic Rock Coffee for those who need some Skynyrd with their Joe, so based on science, I guess that means the customers will all be 34+.
Jobs came up because one friend is interviewing in hopes of leaving a poorly-managed department and the other is under-employed, looking for more hours and job satisfaction that doesn't involve a computer.
I shared that the subject of an article I wrote recently thanked me, adding, "You have a cool job." Cool is in the eye of the beholder, but I like what I do a lot. What most people don't realize is that I do it for subsistence pay and I'm fine with that.
But most people want a higher standard of living, so they wind up in jobs that give them no satisfaction, navigating office politics and putting up with co-worker "frenemies." I'd rather be poor.
Of course we talked about Balliceaux closing for the summer. It's a topic on every music-lover and musician's lips since it was announced. Everyone agrees that the back room and booker Chris are too big an asset to the music scene to accept that it might go away forever.
The musician in our midst talked about what great energy the space has, something I've witnessed countless times at shows there. As a fan, all I can say is I've seen some amazing acts play that back room - Hey Marseilles, Kings Go Forth, Lake Street Dive - that would have skipped Richmond if not for Chris and Balliceaux.
Needless to say, we were getting pretty worked up about all this when suddenly we noticed the time and had to hustle to make the movie. Art history, here we come.
In line to buy our tickets, we hit a glitch: there was no 9:10 screening. What the...?
Two of us had checked the theater's website and both seen "Woman in Gold" listed at 9:10 Thursday, yet the ticket sellers were informing us that it just wasn't so.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, since when can't you believe everything you read on the Internet?
For all I know, they announced it in April and I was too scattered to notice.
Is it me or did April just blow by in the blink of an eye? Part of it was that I was down and out sick for the first two days, vomiting at home and at MVC like a champ. Maybe part of it is attributable to the week I spent playing tourist in Memphis and Oxford.
Even so, man, this month left me in the dust.
In fact, tonight's get-together was originally planned for April 1 but I'd had to cancel on my two less extroverted girlfriends lest I retch on them. It took us a month to reschedule and it worked out even better because the one with the real job is off tomorrow, meaning we could do more than just eat.
After much back and forth, we decided that after dinner we'd see a movie, something the three of us have never done. The pop culture queen suggested "Mall Cop" but I
After deferring to me for a restaurant choice (and dropping hints about margaritas and guacamole), we met at Lalo's Cocina, a place new to both of them although I'd already been three times. Even so, I was surprised to walk in to find a jazz combo playing on a Thursday evening.
I'm always happy to hear live music.
The friend who'd requested margs and guac was soon watching as table-side guacamole was made to her specifications (more cilantro than I might have chosen) while she sipped a margarita not overly sweet. The braided one ordered a combo plate heavy on cheese and vegetables ("I know you like meat, Karen") and I was happy with black bean nachos, not on the menu, but an accommodation by the kitchen.
Gardening was a major topic because the reason my friend is off work tomorrow is to go to the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden plant sale. The other one is thinking of going back to school to get another degree, this one in horticulture. To their delight, I told them about a terrarium workshop that's going on this Saturday.
I taught myself gardening years ago by reading books for inspiration and trial and error. In the past, I had large perennial borders but am perfectly happy now with a very small flower garden out front, an array of clay containers leading to my front door and window boxes inside.
Just enough but not so much upkeep that it cuts into my play time. They'll learn.
One particularly interesting topic of conversation was the study released today that says that people stop listening to new music around age 33. "Everyone I know is obviously an exception to this wacky study," the marg drinker posited.
She's right. In fact, such a goofy study made me realize how fortunate I am that few of my friends are the kind of people who have given up on new music. Some may have limited exposure to it, maybe only NPR (not that there's anything wrong with that), but when they hear something fresh they like, they seek it out.
That said, we do have a new coffee shop nearby called Classic Rock Coffee for those who need some Skynyrd with their Joe, so based on science, I guess that means the customers will all be 34+.
Jobs came up because one friend is interviewing in hopes of leaving a poorly-managed department and the other is under-employed, looking for more hours and job satisfaction that doesn't involve a computer.
I shared that the subject of an article I wrote recently thanked me, adding, "You have a cool job." Cool is in the eye of the beholder, but I like what I do a lot. What most people don't realize is that I do it for subsistence pay and I'm fine with that.
But most people want a higher standard of living, so they wind up in jobs that give them no satisfaction, navigating office politics and putting up with co-worker "frenemies." I'd rather be poor.
Of course we talked about Balliceaux closing for the summer. It's a topic on every music-lover and musician's lips since it was announced. Everyone agrees that the back room and booker Chris are too big an asset to the music scene to accept that it might go away forever.
The musician in our midst talked about what great energy the space has, something I've witnessed countless times at shows there. As a fan, all I can say is I've seen some amazing acts play that back room - Hey Marseilles, Kings Go Forth, Lake Street Dive - that would have skipped Richmond if not for Chris and Balliceaux.
Needless to say, we were getting pretty worked up about all this when suddenly we noticed the time and had to hustle to make the movie. Art history, here we come.
In line to buy our tickets, we hit a glitch: there was no 9:10 screening. What the...?
Two of us had checked the theater's website and both seen "Woman in Gold" listed at 9:10 Thursday, yet the ticket sellers were informing us that it just wasn't so.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, since when can't you believe everything you read on the Internet?
For all I know, they announced it in April and I was too scattered to notice.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Psychedelic Pineapple Collective
My evening took me down a gravel and grass path to the '70s.
Technically speaking, it was a friend's birthday celebration but it was also a chance to show off their recently purchased Southside house and property. All I'd been told was that it was across from a park and needed a lot of work.
Finding it was the first challenge because while I saw 2716 and 2720, I saw nothing in between. Except above mentioned path. To quote Talking Heads, this must be the place.
Wrangling armfuls of stuff - spinach avocado dip, a bag of "really seedy" (actually the name) crackers, a blue hydrangea for the birthday girl's new garden, a jean jacket for once the sun went down - I joined two friends in taking the path to the party.
Passing a large camper (sold but not yet picked up), we soon came to the ramshackle house (originally 1780, addition 1800). This house pre-dates everything around it, having been built when Manchester was a separate city and the grid had not yet been extended that far. Old as dirt.
Nearby was a circle of seats and cushions around a fire pit, while behind that was the sweetest little camper painted dusty blue (matching the color on my host's knuckles) and their current living quarters.
Asked if I wanted a tour, I signed on to hear about their plans to grow indigenous perennials and fruit trees on the front acreage. On the back 40, they plan to convert the former shed to a tiny house they'll live in and the carport will become a studio and place for gardening classes.
As for the aging house, after renovations their intention is to rent out the two upstairs bedrooms to like-minded souls and use the large room downstairs as a community space. A summer kitchen using a gray water system will be built outdoors.
My only question was where will the outdoor shower be?
So, yes, it'll be an earth-friendly farming collective in the city. I felt like I was right back in the '70s, loving everything about the whole, groovy plan.
There were only about eight people at the party when I arrived, but already conversation was getting real. The mother of a toddler was explaining to another woman the miracle of childbirth, complete with open knees, saying giving birth was basically the same as sex, only better. "It's the ultimate sex."
Immediately, the birthday girl challenged her on how she knew how good someone's sex was and that maybe childbirth isn't better than some people's "getting busy" mode. I was in her camp.
People kept arriving with contributions for the vegetarian food table, soon groaning under an assortment of salads, bean dips and salsas, cheeses, fruits and casseroles. The unlikely crowd favorite turned out to have come from a funeral.
Well, if there's going to be a wake and folks are going to bring food, you may as well pick up fresh ideas for group meals.
This one was Paula Deen's pineapple casserole and as disgusting as that sounds, I have to say it was quite tasty, no doubt due to the abundance of cheddar, Ritz cracker crumbs and buttah, as Paula would say.
Rock solid southern funeral eating at its best.
A table held libations, a cassette deck player and a box of cassettes (Beatles, Phil Collins, a mix tape, natch) which were played throughout the night, although at times it was turned down to accommodate nearby conversations.
Toting buckets, flats of squash seedlings and pies from WPA, a girl showed up with party favors: bunches of carrots and bags of spinach from Tricycle Gardens where she works. Adult party favors, so much better than kazoos and bubble gum.
More than once, I was asked how I'd met the birthday girl and for the life of me, I couldn't recall. Probably a show, but I really wasn't sure. Midway through the night, it hit me.
It was her silent film-loving boyfriend I'd first met back in 2007 at one of his Silent Music Revival events. He was the reason I'd gotten into silent films. That was it.
I met a yoga teacher and another woman who'd done her yoga training in Colorado, only to feel like it didn't translate once she got back to Virginia. A passionate 5th grade teacher lamented the frustrations of having to teach to standardized tests.
Upon learning that my parents lived on the northern neck, a favorite couple told me about a friend they'd known who'd also lived there. No longer, because he committed suicide (or his wife killed him, if you believe the scuttlebutt).
Seems that he was loaded. He'd ended up down there because he'd run his boat into a mud flat on the Carrotoman river and his solution was to buy all the land around the mud. He wanted a circus, so he created and paid for an annual I Love America Festival, complete with elephants.
Because we all want to celebrate how much we love our country with America's indigenous species, the elephant. Hilarious!
Talking about the annual James River Batteau Festival, one long-time participant shared that while she wears a long skirt on the boat, her costume is hardly period correct.
"There's a guy on another batteau who dresses to the period in Revolutionary War clothing down to the details. He looked at me and said I was a "far-be," as in, "far be it from historically accurate." Not that she cares when she and her fellow boat mates are wrangling a shallow, flat-bottomed boat down the James River for a week.
I got a recommendation for a new Philly band, Foxhound, with ties to another musician I've seen several times, Chris Kasper. Described as psychedelic Appalachian folk music, I was assured I'd like it a lot. Now I'll need to hear it and find out.
Once the sun set, a fire was lit as people continued to arrive, take the tour and chat with each other. What was so interesting was how far away from the city it all felt, surrounded as we were by land and greenery (lots and lots of mulberry trees). Yet, at the end of the path and across the street, a night baseball game was happening on a lit field with fans shouting their team support.
You just wouldn't know it from where we stood.
The birthday girl told me some great stories she'd been told by the owner of the house, who'd bought it back in the rough and tumble '80s when Richmond was a very different city.
To discourage crackheads from squatting on his property, he'd gone out and shot five bucks, decapitated them and placed the five heads on stakes around the property to ward off unwelcome visitors. I can't imagine they smelled too good come summer.
She said when they'd first asked to look at the house before they bought it, the owner had admitted he'd lost the house keys while using a scythe (!) to trim the grass in the yard. Undaunted, they'd propped a ladder against the rickety old wooden porch and climbed through an upstairs window to gain access to look at the house ("I can't believe we did that!").
The funniest part of that story is that when they returned after buying it, they found that a homeless man had picked the lock and gained entry, although not yet moved in. Basically, he'd saved them a locksmith's fee.
"I shouldn't tell you this," she went on, looking around, "But a friend suggested we christen the camper the "stabbin' cabin." When her partner was informed of this, he cringed, saying that when he gets lucky, he never thinks of it as stabbing. Good man.
Besides, stabbin' cabin doesn't flow with the feel-good vibe of their sprawling compound.
Unable to resist, I told a similarly-aged friend that everything from stepping into the camper to the sense of community and shared goals felt like deja vu. She nodded. "It's just how we lived back then."
Everyone who heard the master plan for the property was impressed, many complimenting it as the wave of the future, energy efficient and green in most every possible way. The whole idea of a collective suggests a group of like-minded people doing their part to be part of the solution, not the problem.
I think we called it a commune back in the '70s and there was no craft beer or pineapple casserole. But otherwise, take me home, country roads.
And don't come a-knockin' if the van is a-rockin'.
Technically speaking, it was a friend's birthday celebration but it was also a chance to show off their recently purchased Southside house and property. All I'd been told was that it was across from a park and needed a lot of work.
Finding it was the first challenge because while I saw 2716 and 2720, I saw nothing in between. Except above mentioned path. To quote Talking Heads, this must be the place.
Wrangling armfuls of stuff - spinach avocado dip, a bag of "really seedy" (actually the name) crackers, a blue hydrangea for the birthday girl's new garden, a jean jacket for once the sun went down - I joined two friends in taking the path to the party.
Passing a large camper (sold but not yet picked up), we soon came to the ramshackle house (originally 1780, addition 1800). This house pre-dates everything around it, having been built when Manchester was a separate city and the grid had not yet been extended that far. Old as dirt.
Nearby was a circle of seats and cushions around a fire pit, while behind that was the sweetest little camper painted dusty blue (matching the color on my host's knuckles) and their current living quarters.
Asked if I wanted a tour, I signed on to hear about their plans to grow indigenous perennials and fruit trees on the front acreage. On the back 40, they plan to convert the former shed to a tiny house they'll live in and the carport will become a studio and place for gardening classes.
As for the aging house, after renovations their intention is to rent out the two upstairs bedrooms to like-minded souls and use the large room downstairs as a community space. A summer kitchen using a gray water system will be built outdoors.
My only question was where will the outdoor shower be?
So, yes, it'll be an earth-friendly farming collective in the city. I felt like I was right back in the '70s, loving everything about the whole, groovy plan.
There were only about eight people at the party when I arrived, but already conversation was getting real. The mother of a toddler was explaining to another woman the miracle of childbirth, complete with open knees, saying giving birth was basically the same as sex, only better. "It's the ultimate sex."
Immediately, the birthday girl challenged her on how she knew how good someone's sex was and that maybe childbirth isn't better than some people's "getting busy" mode. I was in her camp.
People kept arriving with contributions for the vegetarian food table, soon groaning under an assortment of salads, bean dips and salsas, cheeses, fruits and casseroles. The unlikely crowd favorite turned out to have come from a funeral.
Well, if there's going to be a wake and folks are going to bring food, you may as well pick up fresh ideas for group meals.
This one was Paula Deen's pineapple casserole and as disgusting as that sounds, I have to say it was quite tasty, no doubt due to the abundance of cheddar, Ritz cracker crumbs and buttah, as Paula would say.
Rock solid southern funeral eating at its best.
A table held libations, a cassette deck player and a box of cassettes (Beatles, Phil Collins, a mix tape, natch) which were played throughout the night, although at times it was turned down to accommodate nearby conversations.
Toting buckets, flats of squash seedlings and pies from WPA, a girl showed up with party favors: bunches of carrots and bags of spinach from Tricycle Gardens where she works. Adult party favors, so much better than kazoos and bubble gum.
More than once, I was asked how I'd met the birthday girl and for the life of me, I couldn't recall. Probably a show, but I really wasn't sure. Midway through the night, it hit me.
It was her silent film-loving boyfriend I'd first met back in 2007 at one of his Silent Music Revival events. He was the reason I'd gotten into silent films. That was it.
I met a yoga teacher and another woman who'd done her yoga training in Colorado, only to feel like it didn't translate once she got back to Virginia. A passionate 5th grade teacher lamented the frustrations of having to teach to standardized tests.
Upon learning that my parents lived on the northern neck, a favorite couple told me about a friend they'd known who'd also lived there. No longer, because he committed suicide (or his wife killed him, if you believe the scuttlebutt).
Seems that he was loaded. He'd ended up down there because he'd run his boat into a mud flat on the Carrotoman river and his solution was to buy all the land around the mud. He wanted a circus, so he created and paid for an annual I Love America Festival, complete with elephants.
Because we all want to celebrate how much we love our country with America's indigenous species, the elephant. Hilarious!
Talking about the annual James River Batteau Festival, one long-time participant shared that while she wears a long skirt on the boat, her costume is hardly period correct.
"There's a guy on another batteau who dresses to the period in Revolutionary War clothing down to the details. He looked at me and said I was a "far-be," as in, "far be it from historically accurate." Not that she cares when she and her fellow boat mates are wrangling a shallow, flat-bottomed boat down the James River for a week.
I got a recommendation for a new Philly band, Foxhound, with ties to another musician I've seen several times, Chris Kasper. Described as psychedelic Appalachian folk music, I was assured I'd like it a lot. Now I'll need to hear it and find out.
Once the sun set, a fire was lit as people continued to arrive, take the tour and chat with each other. What was so interesting was how far away from the city it all felt, surrounded as we were by land and greenery (lots and lots of mulberry trees). Yet, at the end of the path and across the street, a night baseball game was happening on a lit field with fans shouting their team support.
You just wouldn't know it from where we stood.
The birthday girl told me some great stories she'd been told by the owner of the house, who'd bought it back in the rough and tumble '80s when Richmond was a very different city.
To discourage crackheads from squatting on his property, he'd gone out and shot five bucks, decapitated them and placed the five heads on stakes around the property to ward off unwelcome visitors. I can't imagine they smelled too good come summer.
She said when they'd first asked to look at the house before they bought it, the owner had admitted he'd lost the house keys while using a scythe (!) to trim the grass in the yard. Undaunted, they'd propped a ladder against the rickety old wooden porch and climbed through an upstairs window to gain access to look at the house ("I can't believe we did that!").
The funniest part of that story is that when they returned after buying it, they found that a homeless man had picked the lock and gained entry, although not yet moved in. Basically, he'd saved them a locksmith's fee.
"I shouldn't tell you this," she went on, looking around, "But a friend suggested we christen the camper the "stabbin' cabin." When her partner was informed of this, he cringed, saying that when he gets lucky, he never thinks of it as stabbing. Good man.
Besides, stabbin' cabin doesn't flow with the feel-good vibe of their sprawling compound.
Unable to resist, I told a similarly-aged friend that everything from stepping into the camper to the sense of community and shared goals felt like deja vu. She nodded. "It's just how we lived back then."
Everyone who heard the master plan for the property was impressed, many complimenting it as the wave of the future, energy efficient and green in most every possible way. The whole idea of a collective suggests a group of like-minded people doing their part to be part of the solution, not the problem.
I think we called it a commune back in the '70s and there was no craft beer or pineapple casserole. But otherwise, take me home, country roads.
And don't come a-knockin' if the van is a-rockin'.
Why We're Friends
Three women, two of whom have never met, walk into a bar.
Two hours later, they know more about each other's lives than some men know about their girlfriends. Comedy or tragedy?
After our last planned date got snowed out, a friend I met last summer but hadn't seen since the State Fair suggested she kill two birds with one stone. That meant meeting two friends for one dinner and I was one of them.
Over happy hour at the Mill, I got to know her friend as we talked about heavy stuff: mortality, life's wake-up calls and emergency room visits. Turns out we were all born within three weeks of each other, so perhaps that accounted for some of the compatibility. That or the 9-ounce wine pours.
Both enjoyed the house BLT while lamenting that we're not yet to tomato season while I tried the avocado halves stuffed with grilled shrimp and corn salsa (alas, no fresh corn in that salsa, either). More mindful than some of us, they declined dessert while I happily lapped up a bowl of Bev's double chocolate ice cream.
Just supporting the local, that's all.
I left them peering in windows on MacArthur Boulevard while I made my way back to Jackson Ward and the Hippodrome Theater.
Tonight was 5th Wall's second annual preview and party fundraiser and knowing how much fun I'd had at it last year, I didn't want to be late. My date, though still pining for Pru in Paris, was dutifully awaiting my arrival out front.
Inside, we found our names on a table near the stage with a great vantage point for the entertainment.
Our host was Eva DeVirgilis dressed as the emcee from "Cabaret" and she greeted us with "Willkommen," and was eventually joined by the company.
Eva revels in being bossy and wasted no time mentioning the silent auction, saying, "Go ahead and show off and buy something for your lover." I sure wouldn't have minded someone buying a massage or weekend getaway for me. As luck would have it, no lovers were present.
From there, the audience was treated to a series of musical numbers and scenes from 5th Wall productions past and present.
Always guaranteed to hit it out of the park, Matt Shofner killed it with "Hitchhiking Across America," holding up a cardboard sign ("I like boys!") midway through the song about meeting guys on the road. Behind me, I heard a woman sigh, saying, "He's sooo good!" Yes, he is.
After the song, he took a bow, grabbed the sign held it up again and pointed at it, just in case any nice potential husbands in the audience had missed the point.
Our hostess Eva encouraged us to check our programs for information about what we were seeing. "And if you want to know about any of the performers, buy 'em a drink!" Works for writers, too, by the way.
A scene from "H2O" reminded me how powerful and thought-provoking that play had been.
Brittany Simmons used her big voice and best comedic powers to sing "I Could Be Jewish for You," getting belly laughs from the Jewish friend behind me.
Seeing the incredibly strong cast of "The Lyons" do a scene (even without Jacqueline Jones' magnificent red wig) was further proof of what a superb production that had been, while seeing a snippet of "Human Terrain" made me regret having been too busy to see it.
Much as I enjoyed seeing scenes from plays I'd liked so much, it was even cooler seeing previews from upcoming productions.
"Uncanny Valley" was described as a play about two humans and a robot ("In our mind's eye, we are forever young"), but most interesting was when my date, a certifiable technology nerd, explained that uncanny valley described the discomfort humans feel when faced with a human-like (but not human) creation.
Had I gone to the preview alone, I'd never have known that factoid. Pays to have friends who date smart men.
During intermission, the Hatted Man About Town dropped by to chat. When I explained that I had my date by default because his beloved was in Paris, the hatted one pulled from his wealth of knowledge to inform us that both Paris (the original walled city, at least) and Richmond are approximately 60 square miles.
"It's all about density," he explained, setting off some pretty funny riffing on the pleasures of density.
Mid-laughter, a man approached the table and addressed the hatted one. "Hi, we're friends on Facebook but we've never met." My night was made when the hat responded, "Then why are we friends?"
As one who refuses to accept a friend request from people I don't know in real life, it was a question after my own heart and pretty hilarious to boot.
We left him with his new friend to peruse the silent auction items and bid where appropriate before intermission ended.
The second act began memorably. "We're fine with you masturbating, Gerard," Melissa Johnston Price said to major laughter in a scene from the upcoming "Body Awareness," which looks fierce ("You're 55 and you've never read "Crime and Punishment!").
Mental note: see this play.
Desiree Roots did the classic "My Funny Valentine" off of her latest album, "Don't Ever Stop Dreaming," wowing the crowd with her beautiful voice while Carl Lester dazzled on jazz guitar.
It looks like we'll get another provocative Israel Horovitz play this season, "Unexpected Tenderness," an impassioned look at the anger-driven patriarch of a family with some impressive acting talent.
Artistic director Carol Piersol took the stage in sequins, raving about the past year being the best ever for a theater company's first year, a fact verified by anyone who'd been in the audience. You know, like me.
The final portion of the evening was left in the capable red finger-nailed hands of Miss Georgia Rogers Farmer, the blond queen of sass and sweetness. Or, as she put it, "I'm slutty, I'm a domestic goddess and a teacher. I hope you can learn a few things tonight." Oh, yes, and a big red flower tucked behind her ear. Classic.
That meant she began with a song about the wonders of not eating meat that segued into a brassy interlude about the pleasures of bacon ("fried heaven in a pan") and being willing to wring a pig's neck to get it.
"I told myself I wouldn't make anything for tonight, but I couldn't help myself," she explained, handing out to the audience two trays of chocolate-covered bacon for us to pass around. "If there's any left, my seat is right over there," she said pointing.
There wasn't.
I considered myself lucky when she did the '30s classic, "I Only Have Eyes for You," a personal favorite that was followed by "Sing for Your Supper" with stellar back-up by Carolyn Meade and Katrinah Carol-Lewis, all clad in feathered headbands with birds attached.
But the real gem, the number that had to be seen to be believed, was her version of the Black Eyed Peas' "Boom Boom Pow," complete with grinding, booty shaking and memorable lyrics such as, "Shittin' on y'all, you with the boom boom."
The evening got its final pop with the entire company doing Sondheim's "Old Friend," a tribute to the power of the people in the room, most of whom were Firehouse Theater supporters who followed Carol Piersol and BC Maupin on their inspired path to create 5th Wall.
Most friends fade
or they don't make the grade
New ones are quickly made
and in a pinch, sure, they'll do
But us old friends
what's to discuss, old friend?
Here's to us
Who's like us?
Damn few
Fortunately, there's far more than a damn few rooting for another outstanding season of 5th Wall productions.
So what happens when a woman walks into a bar to meet a fairly new friend and a brand new friend and then walks into a theater to meet another fairly new friend?
There's lots to discuss. Here's to us.
Two hours later, they know more about each other's lives than some men know about their girlfriends. Comedy or tragedy?
After our last planned date got snowed out, a friend I met last summer but hadn't seen since the State Fair suggested she kill two birds with one stone. That meant meeting two friends for one dinner and I was one of them.
Over happy hour at the Mill, I got to know her friend as we talked about heavy stuff: mortality, life's wake-up calls and emergency room visits. Turns out we were all born within three weeks of each other, so perhaps that accounted for some of the compatibility. That or the 9-ounce wine pours.
Both enjoyed the house BLT while lamenting that we're not yet to tomato season while I tried the avocado halves stuffed with grilled shrimp and corn salsa (alas, no fresh corn in that salsa, either). More mindful than some of us, they declined dessert while I happily lapped up a bowl of Bev's double chocolate ice cream.
Just supporting the local, that's all.
I left them peering in windows on MacArthur Boulevard while I made my way back to Jackson Ward and the Hippodrome Theater.
Tonight was 5th Wall's second annual preview and party fundraiser and knowing how much fun I'd had at it last year, I didn't want to be late. My date, though still pining for Pru in Paris, was dutifully awaiting my arrival out front.
Inside, we found our names on a table near the stage with a great vantage point for the entertainment.
Our host was Eva DeVirgilis dressed as the emcee from "Cabaret" and she greeted us with "Willkommen," and was eventually joined by the company.
Eva revels in being bossy and wasted no time mentioning the silent auction, saying, "Go ahead and show off and buy something for your lover." I sure wouldn't have minded someone buying a massage or weekend getaway for me. As luck would have it, no lovers were present.
From there, the audience was treated to a series of musical numbers and scenes from 5th Wall productions past and present.
Always guaranteed to hit it out of the park, Matt Shofner killed it with "Hitchhiking Across America," holding up a cardboard sign ("I like boys!") midway through the song about meeting guys on the road. Behind me, I heard a woman sigh, saying, "He's sooo good!" Yes, he is.
After the song, he took a bow, grabbed the sign held it up again and pointed at it, just in case any nice potential husbands in the audience had missed the point.
Our hostess Eva encouraged us to check our programs for information about what we were seeing. "And if you want to know about any of the performers, buy 'em a drink!" Works for writers, too, by the way.
A scene from "H2O" reminded me how powerful and thought-provoking that play had been.
Brittany Simmons used her big voice and best comedic powers to sing "I Could Be Jewish for You," getting belly laughs from the Jewish friend behind me.
Seeing the incredibly strong cast of "The Lyons" do a scene (even without Jacqueline Jones' magnificent red wig) was further proof of what a superb production that had been, while seeing a snippet of "Human Terrain" made me regret having been too busy to see it.
Much as I enjoyed seeing scenes from plays I'd liked so much, it was even cooler seeing previews from upcoming productions.
"Uncanny Valley" was described as a play about two humans and a robot ("In our mind's eye, we are forever young"), but most interesting was when my date, a certifiable technology nerd, explained that uncanny valley described the discomfort humans feel when faced with a human-like (but not human) creation.
Had I gone to the preview alone, I'd never have known that factoid. Pays to have friends who date smart men.
During intermission, the Hatted Man About Town dropped by to chat. When I explained that I had my date by default because his beloved was in Paris, the hatted one pulled from his wealth of knowledge to inform us that both Paris (the original walled city, at least) and Richmond are approximately 60 square miles.
"It's all about density," he explained, setting off some pretty funny riffing on the pleasures of density.
Mid-laughter, a man approached the table and addressed the hatted one. "Hi, we're friends on Facebook but we've never met." My night was made when the hat responded, "Then why are we friends?"
As one who refuses to accept a friend request from people I don't know in real life, it was a question after my own heart and pretty hilarious to boot.
We left him with his new friend to peruse the silent auction items and bid where appropriate before intermission ended.
The second act began memorably. "We're fine with you masturbating, Gerard," Melissa Johnston Price said to major laughter in a scene from the upcoming "Body Awareness," which looks fierce ("You're 55 and you've never read "Crime and Punishment!").
Mental note: see this play.
Desiree Roots did the classic "My Funny Valentine" off of her latest album, "Don't Ever Stop Dreaming," wowing the crowd with her beautiful voice while Carl Lester dazzled on jazz guitar.
It looks like we'll get another provocative Israel Horovitz play this season, "Unexpected Tenderness," an impassioned look at the anger-driven patriarch of a family with some impressive acting talent.
Artistic director Carol Piersol took the stage in sequins, raving about the past year being the best ever for a theater company's first year, a fact verified by anyone who'd been in the audience. You know, like me.
The final portion of the evening was left in the capable red finger-nailed hands of Miss Georgia Rogers Farmer, the blond queen of sass and sweetness. Or, as she put it, "I'm slutty, I'm a domestic goddess and a teacher. I hope you can learn a few things tonight." Oh, yes, and a big red flower tucked behind her ear. Classic.
That meant she began with a song about the wonders of not eating meat that segued into a brassy interlude about the pleasures of bacon ("fried heaven in a pan") and being willing to wring a pig's neck to get it.
"I told myself I wouldn't make anything for tonight, but I couldn't help myself," she explained, handing out to the audience two trays of chocolate-covered bacon for us to pass around. "If there's any left, my seat is right over there," she said pointing.
There wasn't.
I considered myself lucky when she did the '30s classic, "I Only Have Eyes for You," a personal favorite that was followed by "Sing for Your Supper" with stellar back-up by Carolyn Meade and Katrinah Carol-Lewis, all clad in feathered headbands with birds attached.
But the real gem, the number that had to be seen to be believed, was her version of the Black Eyed Peas' "Boom Boom Pow," complete with grinding, booty shaking and memorable lyrics such as, "Shittin' on y'all, you with the boom boom."
The evening got its final pop with the entire company doing Sondheim's "Old Friend," a tribute to the power of the people in the room, most of whom were Firehouse Theater supporters who followed Carol Piersol and BC Maupin on their inspired path to create 5th Wall.
Most friends fade
or they don't make the grade
New ones are quickly made
and in a pinch, sure, they'll do
But us old friends
what's to discuss, old friend?
Here's to us
Who's like us?
Damn few
Fortunately, there's far more than a damn few rooting for another outstanding season of 5th Wall productions.
So what happens when a woman walks into a bar to meet a fairly new friend and a brand new friend and then walks into a theater to meet another fairly new friend?
There's lots to discuss. Here's to us.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Be My Angels of Rock in 2/4
The problem with going out of town is that once you get back, you're scrambling to catch up.
Yesterday, I'd driven out to the sticks, past bright green fields with a gold-ish cast thanks to the filtered sun of a cloudy afternoon, with Tears for Fears' "Elemental" blasting. Rolling down my car window when I came to a horse pasture, I serenaded the horses at the top of my lungs with "Good Night Song."
Get some honesty
Take the best of me and then the rest let go
In every situation with its tireless rage
Step outside your cage and let the real fool show
I wouldn't subject any humans to the sound of my singing voice, but horses (and dogs) don't judge. Or if they do, they keep it to themselves.
Being in the country yielded the usual things: hearty walks, a visit from a drunken neighbor, listening to music and the pleasures of fire-stoking in front of the fire pit and alas, too little conversation.
Back in the city today, I played catch up with work, exchanging bon mots with Pru in Paris and making plans for the week. Every girl wants her dance card full.
Looking for something fun for tonight, I spied a $2 show at Capital Ale House (notable mainly because yesterday I ate at Sedona taphouse and the world knows I couldn't give a fig about taps) with Alison Self opening and Tennessee's Lost Dog Street Band headlining. Bingo.
Although I've been to scads of free shows, I always wish that instead of gratis, they'd charge a measly $2 at the door instead like tonight's. It's only fair to place some monetary value on people performing, even if it is a last minute show. They're still sharing their talent.
Arriving just as the show was supposed to start, I caught a break because it hadn't, allowing me time to order food - Maryland crab soup and a chimichurri steak salad - before it did. I hate to be "that guy" talking to the server while someone's singing.
Alison Self took the stage and briefly considered not using the mic for the small crowd, but did anyway. Her big voice took charge of the room and she kicked the evening off by saying, "Go ahead and talk if you want to."
I didn't, although there was some soup slurping and chewing going on at my table.
You never get a bad set from Alison, whether it's Kitty Wells covers ("Honky Tonk Angels"), an original waltz ("When I Feel Weak, I Pour a Strong Drink") or Tanya Tucker ("Blood Red and Going Down").
Laughing, she told the crowd, "None of my songs are happy. They're country songs!" She also pointed out that she shouldn't drink beer when she's playing cause it makes her burp. I'm inclined to think that just adds to the country feel of it all.
Kind of like when she was singing about paying for past mistakes with bitter tears, inserting the line, "And bitter beers." Probably the same ones that made her burp.
She wowed with some Patsy Cline before closing with one of her own, "I Wouldn't Kiss You If I was Whiskey Drunk." I've never been whiskey drunk, but I do understand the sentiment.
After she thanked the audience, someone called out, "Your bangs are perfect!" which was an absolutely true statement. If she cuts them herself, she's got another talent besides just being a honky tonk angel.
Next up was the western duds-wearing duo known as Lost Dog Street Band, with Ashley playing fiddle and Benjamin playing guitar and harmonica as well as drum and tambourine with his feet. Both wore straw hats and she might have even had a gun holster on her belt.
"It's a small crowd, so we'll do a different set, just stuff I want to do," Benjamin told us before educating us on the lingo of train hopping. So that you know, there are hobos, tramps and then there are yeggs, who, we learned, are the criminals of the bunch.
As you might expect from a couple who ride the rails and hitch cross-country, they had story songs as well as some personal favorites by a former collaborator, Nicholas Ridout, whom they called the best songwriter ever. There was even a Rolling Stones cover which I didn't recognize.
They got lots of cheering when they said they were going to do Hank Sr.'s "Lost Highway" and soon couples were two-stepping on the floor in front of the stage.
When their set ended, the crowd called for one more and they obliged with another Ridout because, according to Ashley, "We always close with one of Nicholas' songs."
Too bad or they could have closed with "Good Night Song." Never fear, I wouldn't have considered for a moment singing out loud.
Good night song
Played so wrong
Blame the crowd
They scream so loud so long
Hey, that's for horses.
Yesterday, I'd driven out to the sticks, past bright green fields with a gold-ish cast thanks to the filtered sun of a cloudy afternoon, with Tears for Fears' "Elemental" blasting. Rolling down my car window when I came to a horse pasture, I serenaded the horses at the top of my lungs with "Good Night Song."
Get some honesty
Take the best of me and then the rest let go
In every situation with its tireless rage
Step outside your cage and let the real fool show
I wouldn't subject any humans to the sound of my singing voice, but horses (and dogs) don't judge. Or if they do, they keep it to themselves.
Being in the country yielded the usual things: hearty walks, a visit from a drunken neighbor, listening to music and the pleasures of fire-stoking in front of the fire pit and alas, too little conversation.
Back in the city today, I played catch up with work, exchanging bon mots with Pru in Paris and making plans for the week. Every girl wants her dance card full.
Looking for something fun for tonight, I spied a $2 show at Capital Ale House (notable mainly because yesterday I ate at Sedona taphouse and the world knows I couldn't give a fig about taps) with Alison Self opening and Tennessee's Lost Dog Street Band headlining. Bingo.
Although I've been to scads of free shows, I always wish that instead of gratis, they'd charge a measly $2 at the door instead like tonight's. It's only fair to place some monetary value on people performing, even if it is a last minute show. They're still sharing their talent.
Arriving just as the show was supposed to start, I caught a break because it hadn't, allowing me time to order food - Maryland crab soup and a chimichurri steak salad - before it did. I hate to be "that guy" talking to the server while someone's singing.
Alison Self took the stage and briefly considered not using the mic for the small crowd, but did anyway. Her big voice took charge of the room and she kicked the evening off by saying, "Go ahead and talk if you want to."
I didn't, although there was some soup slurping and chewing going on at my table.
You never get a bad set from Alison, whether it's Kitty Wells covers ("Honky Tonk Angels"), an original waltz ("When I Feel Weak, I Pour a Strong Drink") or Tanya Tucker ("Blood Red and Going Down").
Laughing, she told the crowd, "None of my songs are happy. They're country songs!" She also pointed out that she shouldn't drink beer when she's playing cause it makes her burp. I'm inclined to think that just adds to the country feel of it all.
Kind of like when she was singing about paying for past mistakes with bitter tears, inserting the line, "And bitter beers." Probably the same ones that made her burp.
She wowed with some Patsy Cline before closing with one of her own, "I Wouldn't Kiss You If I was Whiskey Drunk." I've never been whiskey drunk, but I do understand the sentiment.
After she thanked the audience, someone called out, "Your bangs are perfect!" which was an absolutely true statement. If she cuts them herself, she's got another talent besides just being a honky tonk angel.
Next up was the western duds-wearing duo known as Lost Dog Street Band, with Ashley playing fiddle and Benjamin playing guitar and harmonica as well as drum and tambourine with his feet. Both wore straw hats and she might have even had a gun holster on her belt.
"It's a small crowd, so we'll do a different set, just stuff I want to do," Benjamin told us before educating us on the lingo of train hopping. So that you know, there are hobos, tramps and then there are yeggs, who, we learned, are the criminals of the bunch.
As you might expect from a couple who ride the rails and hitch cross-country, they had story songs as well as some personal favorites by a former collaborator, Nicholas Ridout, whom they called the best songwriter ever. There was even a Rolling Stones cover which I didn't recognize.
They got lots of cheering when they said they were going to do Hank Sr.'s "Lost Highway" and soon couples were two-stepping on the floor in front of the stage.
When their set ended, the crowd called for one more and they obliged with another Ridout because, according to Ashley, "We always close with one of Nicholas' songs."
Too bad or they could have closed with "Good Night Song." Never fear, I wouldn't have considered for a moment singing out loud.
Good night song
Played so wrong
Blame the crowd
They scream so loud so long
Hey, that's for horses.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Go Where You Wanna Go
It was mid-afternoon when the invitation to the platter party was extended. Conveniently, I had no plans.
Tee-off time was 6:30. I arrived a bit early with a salad to contribute to dinner, three purchased desserts (chocolate truffle napoleon, German chocolate cupcake, chocolate napoleon; no really) and an armful of records to share with the group.
Mind you, I stopped buying records in 1984 when I got my first CD player, so my selection covered a very minute and youthful stage of my music devotion.
Not the point on a night meant to christen and celebrate Holmes' new (old) turntable. The man known to boast of the width and breadth of his vinyl stores - 45s, EPs and albums - was finally going to have to walk the walk about his superior collection.
The occasion began with Gerard Bertrand Cote de Roses and a selection of singles culled from his eclectic offerings. When one person saw a 45 of the theme to "Love Boat" by Jack Jones, she insisted on hearing it. It sounded nothing like how we remembered it, with a disco interlude that baffled us. Only then did our host realize he had the turntable set on 33 rpm rather than 45. Hilarious.
It wasn't hard to tell what a record geek he had been in his younger days. A bottle green vinyl copy of the Police's "Message in a Bottle," the trio looking like babies on the cover. There was pink vinyl of the Rolling Stones' "Miss You." Madonna's "True Blue" from '88 presaged half of pop music since.
What I hadn't realized was that this portion of the evening was merely the warm-up, the amuse bouche, so to speak, of what was to come.
We were soon herded upstairs for cocktail shrimp and Prosecco, a means of segueing to dinner prep in which everyone participated. Only downside? Upstairs, we were back to CDs.
Brilliantly, Holmes had conceived of a rainy day indoor picnic with a menu of SausageCraft pork belly sausage with onions, potato salad and pasta salad. My spinach, bacon and strawberry salad was the only dish not likely to send us into a food coma.
My job was first cooking the onions and then the sausage while the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds" wound its exquisite harmonies through the many rooms in Holmes' house. Knowing pig pops, I requested an apron of my host and was given a Smithfield hams one his mother had crafted from the bag a ham came in.
It had a red sash and I wore it with pride. Holmes wanted to take a picture.
Musical desserts finished the meal as we took a few bites and passed the sweetie in front of us to the right. Turns out three chocolate desserts is too much for three people after a picnic, but we persevered on with our Prosecco aiding and abetting.
Back downstairs, Homes went back to mumbling, "So cool," every time he did something with the turntable He was particularly impressed with its "stop" button for how it made lifting the needle less brutal. It was obvious the man had been too long without the pleasures of a record player.
As with dessert, we went around in circles, each of us choosing a song (occasionally two if they were on the same album) and the others having no veto power. If we had, I'd have vetoed Ace's "How Long," and missed hearing a once-overplayed song that hasn't sounded so good to my ears since the '70s.
A lot of that was hearing it on vinyl, I have to admit. Even with occasional snap, crackle and pops or skips, the sound quality was everything my ear's memory recalled. Youth.
Out of hearing songs and records we hadn't heard in years or even decades came questions, attempts at remembering factoids and trivia. Frustrated at one point trying to recall who the other two guys in Traffic were, Holmes moves away from the records and says, "People got the Internet, I got my rock book," pulling a dog-eared over-sized paperback from a dusty shelf near a wall of VHS tapes. No, really.
Minutes later the book was disappointing him, void of the names we sought.
Someone chose the '86 Stones single, "One Hit to the Body," a song several of us admitted we'd never even heard. "This is as close to disco as I get," Holmes observed, although the guitar was so distinctively Stones that disco was more of a fleeting impression.
Naturally with people drinking and listening, there were disagreements about tempo (his turntable didn't have settings for 33 and 45 rpm, it had a variable knob so you could change speed incrementally: a DJ's turntable) and pitch.
Several of us got a kick out of an old Charlie Byrd album called, "Let Go" full of '60s pop gems. Although I'd brought Badfinger's "Straight Up" to hear "Baby Blue," I hadn't known until tonight that one of the band members was Paul McCartney's step-brother.
That's a long time to have an album and not know a fact as central as that, don't you think?
One of my picks was Graham Parker's "I'm Just Your Man" and I shared that a guy I dated once told me that the songs' lyrics described exactly how every guy wanted his woman to feel about him. I asked Holmes to listen and opine.
Listening with his eyes closed, he said, "It's Percy Sledge." Well, except it's a skinny English guy and not an American black man, but sure.
I made use of his extensive collection and efficient organizing system by challenging him. When I got a hankering for Roxy Music, he slid sideways and within 10 seconds gave me a handful of Roxy singles.
Someone else wanted Eric Clapton every which way, so we heard Cream, Blind Faith and solo Clapton. On some of the earliest stuff, I barely recognized the guitarist with his Carnaby Street mod clothes.
The Beatles "Help" was significant for the childish notation on the back of the album: "The 1st album bought by Holmes with his own money. Oct. 30, 1965." Given the cover, a discussion of semaphores ensued ("Hey, I was a Boy Scout").
Everyone wanted to know who was doing the cover of "Don't Be Cruel" (Cheap Trick) and everyone could find a favorite on the Hollies' greatest hits record.
Pawing through the shelves of records revealed overlaps: two copies of "Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys" and three of "Rubber Soul" (mono, stereo, import). In the Association album I'd brought were two identical copies of their greatest hits.
I made a gift of the extra to the one who chose to hear "Along Comes Mary" twice in a row. What do I need two copies of it for?
"This is where it all started, ladies," Holmes announced, playing the Bee Gees' "1st" album and "To Love Somebody." FYI, liner notes told me that the brothers were 14 and 12 when they first signed with a label. Fetuses.
Some people occasionally gotloopy uppity about taking turns choosing and even Holmes would show his dissatisfaction with someone's selection by looking at them and asking disdainfully, "Really? That's your choice?"
In other words, the musical taste police were out in full force. Funniest summation: "This whole night's been "Let's Make a Deal." All seven hours of it. No, really.
How long could this go on? As long as record lovers are willing to take turns. Late to the party, but so cool.
Tee-off time was 6:30. I arrived a bit early with a salad to contribute to dinner, three purchased desserts (chocolate truffle napoleon, German chocolate cupcake, chocolate napoleon; no really) and an armful of records to share with the group.
Mind you, I stopped buying records in 1984 when I got my first CD player, so my selection covered a very minute and youthful stage of my music devotion.
Not the point on a night meant to christen and celebrate Holmes' new (old) turntable. The man known to boast of the width and breadth of his vinyl stores - 45s, EPs and albums - was finally going to have to walk the walk about his superior collection.
The occasion began with Gerard Bertrand Cote de Roses and a selection of singles culled from his eclectic offerings. When one person saw a 45 of the theme to "Love Boat" by Jack Jones, she insisted on hearing it. It sounded nothing like how we remembered it, with a disco interlude that baffled us. Only then did our host realize he had the turntable set on 33 rpm rather than 45. Hilarious.
It wasn't hard to tell what a record geek he had been in his younger days. A bottle green vinyl copy of the Police's "Message in a Bottle," the trio looking like babies on the cover. There was pink vinyl of the Rolling Stones' "Miss You." Madonna's "True Blue" from '88 presaged half of pop music since.
What I hadn't realized was that this portion of the evening was merely the warm-up, the amuse bouche, so to speak, of what was to come.
We were soon herded upstairs for cocktail shrimp and Prosecco, a means of segueing to dinner prep in which everyone participated. Only downside? Upstairs, we were back to CDs.
Brilliantly, Holmes had conceived of a rainy day indoor picnic with a menu of SausageCraft pork belly sausage with onions, potato salad and pasta salad. My spinach, bacon and strawberry salad was the only dish not likely to send us into a food coma.
My job was first cooking the onions and then the sausage while the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds" wound its exquisite harmonies through the many rooms in Holmes' house. Knowing pig pops, I requested an apron of my host and was given a Smithfield hams one his mother had crafted from the bag a ham came in.
It had a red sash and I wore it with pride. Holmes wanted to take a picture.
Musical desserts finished the meal as we took a few bites and passed the sweetie in front of us to the right. Turns out three chocolate desserts is too much for three people after a picnic, but we persevered on with our Prosecco aiding and abetting.
Back downstairs, Homes went back to mumbling, "So cool," every time he did something with the turntable He was particularly impressed with its "stop" button for how it made lifting the needle less brutal. It was obvious the man had been too long without the pleasures of a record player.
As with dessert, we went around in circles, each of us choosing a song (occasionally two if they were on the same album) and the others having no veto power. If we had, I'd have vetoed Ace's "How Long," and missed hearing a once-overplayed song that hasn't sounded so good to my ears since the '70s.
A lot of that was hearing it on vinyl, I have to admit. Even with occasional snap, crackle and pops or skips, the sound quality was everything my ear's memory recalled. Youth.
Out of hearing songs and records we hadn't heard in years or even decades came questions, attempts at remembering factoids and trivia. Frustrated at one point trying to recall who the other two guys in Traffic were, Holmes moves away from the records and says, "People got the Internet, I got my rock book," pulling a dog-eared over-sized paperback from a dusty shelf near a wall of VHS tapes. No, really.
Minutes later the book was disappointing him, void of the names we sought.
Someone chose the '86 Stones single, "One Hit to the Body," a song several of us admitted we'd never even heard. "This is as close to disco as I get," Holmes observed, although the guitar was so distinctively Stones that disco was more of a fleeting impression.
Naturally with people drinking and listening, there were disagreements about tempo (his turntable didn't have settings for 33 and 45 rpm, it had a variable knob so you could change speed incrementally: a DJ's turntable) and pitch.
Several of us got a kick out of an old Charlie Byrd album called, "Let Go" full of '60s pop gems. Although I'd brought Badfinger's "Straight Up" to hear "Baby Blue," I hadn't known until tonight that one of the band members was Paul McCartney's step-brother.
That's a long time to have an album and not know a fact as central as that, don't you think?
One of my picks was Graham Parker's "I'm Just Your Man" and I shared that a guy I dated once told me that the songs' lyrics described exactly how every guy wanted his woman to feel about him. I asked Holmes to listen and opine.
Listening with his eyes closed, he said, "It's Percy Sledge." Well, except it's a skinny English guy and not an American black man, but sure.
I made use of his extensive collection and efficient organizing system by challenging him. When I got a hankering for Roxy Music, he slid sideways and within 10 seconds gave me a handful of Roxy singles.
Someone else wanted Eric Clapton every which way, so we heard Cream, Blind Faith and solo Clapton. On some of the earliest stuff, I barely recognized the guitarist with his Carnaby Street mod clothes.
The Beatles "Help" was significant for the childish notation on the back of the album: "The 1st album bought by Holmes with his own money. Oct. 30, 1965." Given the cover, a discussion of semaphores ensued ("Hey, I was a Boy Scout").
Everyone wanted to know who was doing the cover of "Don't Be Cruel" (Cheap Trick) and everyone could find a favorite on the Hollies' greatest hits record.
Pawing through the shelves of records revealed overlaps: two copies of "Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys" and three of "Rubber Soul" (mono, stereo, import). In the Association album I'd brought were two identical copies of their greatest hits.
I made a gift of the extra to the one who chose to hear "Along Comes Mary" twice in a row. What do I need two copies of it for?
"This is where it all started, ladies," Holmes announced, playing the Bee Gees' "1st" album and "To Love Somebody." FYI, liner notes told me that the brothers were 14 and 12 when they first signed with a label. Fetuses.
Some people occasionally got
In other words, the musical taste police were out in full force. Funniest summation: "This whole night's been "Let's Make a Deal." All seven hours of it. No, really.
How long could this go on? As long as record lovers are willing to take turns. Late to the party, but so cool.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Ranchin' and Rappin'
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. I couldn't have asked for a better evening.
The "new" was Rancho T in the former Sprout space where I spent many an evening hearing bands and meeting new friends. "The "old" was Richmond Famous, probably my favorite of all Richmond Comedy Coalition 's regular programs. The "borrowed" was the beau of my pal Pru for the second night in a row and, for lack of anything better, the "blue" was his chariot.
Our evening began with a laugh when he told me that Pru was "jealous" of our outing. Just to be clear here, she spent the day at the Musee d'Orasay and had sent him a shot of a Degas to prove it. And she, the one who is in Paris, was jealous of us? Please.
Like last night, our goal is to bring him up to speed on Richmond restaurants, but we one-upped ourselves tonight by trying a place so new I hadn't been there, either.
Hello, Rancho T.
Parking in their side lot, Beau looked down at the gravel lot and commented on how fresh and new the stones looked. Later we heard it was laid today. Now that's fresh.
Inside, the interior was proof positive why it took two and a half years to open. Every detail was well-conceived and executed, from the southwestern-toned paint palette on the walls to the handsome, handcrafted beer tap system looking like a piece of sculpture to the intricately carved wooden back bar.
As we slid onto two stools near the side door, I saw a familiar smiling face behind the bar ("It's so good to have you in front of me") and by the end of the evening, I'd run into the storytelling queen, the painter, one of the owners, the poetry mistress and the haiku writer. Already, it's a popular place.
Deciding on drinking was as easy as ordering a bottle of the one pink on the menu: Le Rose di Regaleali Sicilia, a deep pink with a nose of rose petals and a rich taste.
Their menu had several things going for it, including affordability and intriguing sounding choices, but it scored highest with me because it offered options.
The pork chop plate was available with one or two chops, providing me with a rare opportunity to have an appropriately-sized entree (after being reminded that I never order entrees). A sunny side up egg topped the tasty chop along with a cilantro salad and chili sauce, with sides of criollo rice and a bowl of escarole and beans.
Beau chose chickpea and spinach chili in guajillo sauce and fortunately, he's the kind of friend who believes that all plates are shared plates. His chili was stellar, a satisfying combo of textures and flavors with just enough heat to announce itself. We divvied up my sides so he could enjoy as much of them as I did.
While we were eating, a couple came in and took the stool beside me, him hovering as they got a drink and chatted. When I heard her ask incredulously how it was that he didn't know about tomorrow's Arbor Day show, I spun around and chimed in, giving aid to the sisterhood.
He stammered something about having seen Avers before, but we made it clear a Pumphouse show was too good to miss. "Sunday is National Pinhole Camera day and I'm bringing mine tomorrow," she told us both. When I shared this with Beau, he quipped, "The best cameras are pinhole cameras."
Best of all, he's not just astute, he's got a sweet tooth. We agreed that the point of savory courses is to set us up for sweet and chose two: orange caramel pie and today's daily dessert, an orange chocolate ancho pie.
The orange caramel was lovely, not overly sweet or orange and divine with the thick caramel smear on the plate. But, holy moley, the chocolate ancho was a religious experience. Extremely dense (one of us would anchor the slice while the other carved off a piece), it registered as deeply chocolate at the start but once swallowed, left behind a cloud of heat in the back of our throats that intensified for the next minute or so.
"Forget hair of the dog," he joked, "That's the hoof of the mule kicking!" There was no better way to describe the delayed heat of each bite. My vote is for it to go on the regular dessert menu, none of this "daily special" business.
Behind us arrived a steady stream of people but we ignored them to share our pasts - my circuitous career and his circuitous personal life - as the place filled up and a line formed by the door. At the bartender's suggestion, I did a walkabout to see the "green room" and what was beyond the sea of bodies near the bar.
All of a sudden, we were pouring the last of the Rose down because we had places to be.
DJ Black Liquid was the featured guest at Richmond Comedy Coalition's "Richmond Famous" and we arrived to take front row seats for the spectacle. I'd heard him play music before but not talk about his life.
He began spinning what he called his "rapper shit stories," saying, "I'm gonna leave the grimiest parts out maybe or maybe not," putting us in stitches almost immediately. "I blink and I wake up and I'm buck naked in a blanket. True story."
Buck naked is a continuing theme when I'm out with Beau it seems. I don't know what to make of that.
Once Black Liquid finished his story, Richmond Comedy Coalition's talented band of improvisers took the stage to riff on it, calling out east coast rappers, thug life, entourages and every other rapper cliche imaginable.
At one point, Black Liquid was doubled over laughing, saying, "Oh, man!" from his chair on the side of the stage.
But he got up to tell another story, this one about how before he gave up drinking and drugging, he wanted to kill everybody. "But you can't kill all your problems."
He and his brother decided to go to South by Southwest where they scored a bottle of Maker's Mark, some PBR ("Because we're from Richmond") and ended up "lost in a sea of white women."
Then it was advice time. "This is some rapper shit," he explained. "If you ever need weed, go to the bathroom."
Needless to say, this provided all kinds of fodder for the comedians who took it and ran with it. There was a skit about stoned out-of-towners endlessly ogling the food cart menus. Uh, what's a Tripe Called Quest taco like?. One boneless thugs and harmony taco, coming up.
"Um, what's in this KRS A-1 Sauce anyway?"
I burst out laughing when one guy asked one of the stoners at the taco truck where he was from and he said Richmond. "How's that whole riverwalk thing going for you there? Any retail yet?" That's some brilliance right there to pull that kind of topical humor out of your ass when you're onstage.
And it wasn't just me. Black Liquid and Beau were laughing at lots of it, too. Leaving, we marveled at how brave and quick they had to be to come up with these skits immediately after hearing the guest's stories.
I couldn't do it, just like I could never sing karaoke. "Me, either. How much would you have to drink to do it?" Beau asked as we walked to the car.
Honestly, enough that I'd wake up buck naked in a blanket in a sea of white women. And that, my friend, is not going to happen.
The "new" was Rancho T in the former Sprout space where I spent many an evening hearing bands and meeting new friends. "The "old" was Richmond Famous, probably my favorite of all Richmond Comedy Coalition 's regular programs. The "borrowed" was the beau of my pal Pru for the second night in a row and, for lack of anything better, the "blue" was his chariot.
Our evening began with a laugh when he told me that Pru was "jealous" of our outing. Just to be clear here, she spent the day at the Musee d'Orasay and had sent him a shot of a Degas to prove it. And she, the one who is in Paris, was jealous of us? Please.
Like last night, our goal is to bring him up to speed on Richmond restaurants, but we one-upped ourselves tonight by trying a place so new I hadn't been there, either.
Hello, Rancho T.
Parking in their side lot, Beau looked down at the gravel lot and commented on how fresh and new the stones looked. Later we heard it was laid today. Now that's fresh.
Inside, the interior was proof positive why it took two and a half years to open. Every detail was well-conceived and executed, from the southwestern-toned paint palette on the walls to the handsome, handcrafted beer tap system looking like a piece of sculpture to the intricately carved wooden back bar.
As we slid onto two stools near the side door, I saw a familiar smiling face behind the bar ("It's so good to have you in front of me") and by the end of the evening, I'd run into the storytelling queen, the painter, one of the owners, the poetry mistress and the haiku writer. Already, it's a popular place.
Deciding on drinking was as easy as ordering a bottle of the one pink on the menu: Le Rose di Regaleali Sicilia, a deep pink with a nose of rose petals and a rich taste.
Their menu had several things going for it, including affordability and intriguing sounding choices, but it scored highest with me because it offered options.
The pork chop plate was available with one or two chops, providing me with a rare opportunity to have an appropriately-sized entree (after being reminded that I never order entrees). A sunny side up egg topped the tasty chop along with a cilantro salad and chili sauce, with sides of criollo rice and a bowl of escarole and beans.
Beau chose chickpea and spinach chili in guajillo sauce and fortunately, he's the kind of friend who believes that all plates are shared plates. His chili was stellar, a satisfying combo of textures and flavors with just enough heat to announce itself. We divvied up my sides so he could enjoy as much of them as I did.
While we were eating, a couple came in and took the stool beside me, him hovering as they got a drink and chatted. When I heard her ask incredulously how it was that he didn't know about tomorrow's Arbor Day show, I spun around and chimed in, giving aid to the sisterhood.
He stammered something about having seen Avers before, but we made it clear a Pumphouse show was too good to miss. "Sunday is National Pinhole Camera day and I'm bringing mine tomorrow," she told us both. When I shared this with Beau, he quipped, "The best cameras are pinhole cameras."
Best of all, he's not just astute, he's got a sweet tooth. We agreed that the point of savory courses is to set us up for sweet and chose two: orange caramel pie and today's daily dessert, an orange chocolate ancho pie.
The orange caramel was lovely, not overly sweet or orange and divine with the thick caramel smear on the plate. But, holy moley, the chocolate ancho was a religious experience. Extremely dense (one of us would anchor the slice while the other carved off a piece), it registered as deeply chocolate at the start but once swallowed, left behind a cloud of heat in the back of our throats that intensified for the next minute or so.
"Forget hair of the dog," he joked, "That's the hoof of the mule kicking!" There was no better way to describe the delayed heat of each bite. My vote is for it to go on the regular dessert menu, none of this "daily special" business.
Behind us arrived a steady stream of people but we ignored them to share our pasts - my circuitous career and his circuitous personal life - as the place filled up and a line formed by the door. At the bartender's suggestion, I did a walkabout to see the "green room" and what was beyond the sea of bodies near the bar.
All of a sudden, we were pouring the last of the Rose down because we had places to be.
DJ Black Liquid was the featured guest at Richmond Comedy Coalition's "Richmond Famous" and we arrived to take front row seats for the spectacle. I'd heard him play music before but not talk about his life.
He began spinning what he called his "rapper shit stories," saying, "I'm gonna leave the grimiest parts out maybe or maybe not," putting us in stitches almost immediately. "I blink and I wake up and I'm buck naked in a blanket. True story."
Buck naked is a continuing theme when I'm out with Beau it seems. I don't know what to make of that.
Once Black Liquid finished his story, Richmond Comedy Coalition's talented band of improvisers took the stage to riff on it, calling out east coast rappers, thug life, entourages and every other rapper cliche imaginable.
At one point, Black Liquid was doubled over laughing, saying, "Oh, man!" from his chair on the side of the stage.
But he got up to tell another story, this one about how before he gave up drinking and drugging, he wanted to kill everybody. "But you can't kill all your problems."
He and his brother decided to go to South by Southwest where they scored a bottle of Maker's Mark, some PBR ("Because we're from Richmond") and ended up "lost in a sea of white women."
Then it was advice time. "This is some rapper shit," he explained. "If you ever need weed, go to the bathroom."
Needless to say, this provided all kinds of fodder for the comedians who took it and ran with it. There was a skit about stoned out-of-towners endlessly ogling the food cart menus. Uh, what's a Tripe Called Quest taco like?. One boneless thugs and harmony taco, coming up.
"Um, what's in this KRS A-1 Sauce anyway?"
I burst out laughing when one guy asked one of the stoners at the taco truck where he was from and he said Richmond. "How's that whole riverwalk thing going for you there? Any retail yet?" That's some brilliance right there to pull that kind of topical humor out of your ass when you're onstage.
And it wasn't just me. Black Liquid and Beau were laughing at lots of it, too. Leaving, we marveled at how brave and quick they had to be to come up with these skits immediately after hearing the guest's stories.
I couldn't do it, just like I could never sing karaoke. "Me, either. How much would you have to drink to do it?" Beau asked as we walked to the car.
Honestly, enough that I'd wake up buck naked in a blanket in a sea of white women. And that, my friend, is not going to happen.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Steady as She Goes
If you're going to borrow someone's beau, better to begin barefoot and buck naked.
It's not as tawdry as all that; I had two theater tickets and he had no plans. All I had to say was "Hey, handsome, wanna go?" to get a response of "All you have to do is call me handsome and you've got me for the evening."
Now I know why his girlfriend calls him easy.
He was gracious enough to pick me up and let me choose where to eat, so I'd say he's not just easy, he's chivalrous, too. I kept it close by directing him to the Rogue Gentlemen, a place he hadn't been before, knowing he likes a well-crafted cocktail.
So while his main squeeze is dining in Paris tonight, I'm broadening his horizons (and eating Chef Aaron's food, of which I'm quite fond), all in the name of friendship.
With an early curtain to catch, we got started as soon as he got off work, nabbing a parking space directly in front of the restaurant and becoming only the fifth and sixth customers inside.
Few places in town make an effort visually with their menu - L'Opossum and Perly's being the exceptions that come to mind - but I'm going to have to put the Rogue Gentlemen's cocktail menu right up there in the running.
Resembling a fan magazine, on the front was a photograph of an impossibly young Richard Gere with headline teases all around, while inside was a fold-out of a more mature Gere in bed, strategically draped with a sheet, each body part numbered to correspond to a cocktail.
That's when my companion succumbed to the passion flower-infused gin-based "Barefoot and Buck Naked" (corresponding to his toes) while I did the usual pink with Jean Luc Columbo "Cape Bleue Rose," a complex pink his sweetheart would have loved.
With the Raconteurs and the like playing overhead, we ate our way through a succession of small plates until sated while he regaled me with tales from his college days and tales from the Treehouse Apartments.
Food-wise, his first choice was roasted artichokes, getting the star treatment with guanciale, dots of saffron custard, fava beans (but no nice Chianti) and hazelnut while I dove right in the deep end with fried chicken skins drizzled in harissa honey, chives and cilantro.
While he might have initially been a tad appalled at my less than healthy pick, he was also soon raving about how well the two dishes complemented each other.
Dare I say my mouth knows what I'm doing?
Once we stopped eating with our fingers (it's fried chicken, for crying out loud), I was treated to photographs he'd been sent of the Alps (coincidentally enough, her comment had been about what a schlep they must have been for the von Trapps to cross; hello "Sound of Music" last night) and my friend's opulent Venetian and Parisian hotels, the latter with a round bedroom.
Much as we adore her, we could only ogle and envy for so long before returning to the business at hand: stuffing our faces.
Sea bass crudo got both our attentions with asparagus and tarragon gremolata, but it was piquancy of the pickled red onions and the creaminess of the roe aioli that made it one of the finest raw dishes I'd ever had.
Salt cod dumplings in fish head broth with pickled shrimp, soffrito, potatoes and olive oil dazzled us least despite the savory broth.
With only a half hour left before we needed to be at the Singleton Center and the restaurant now almost completely full (must have happened while we were gabbing), it was time to move on to a sweet course.
Even from her perch inside a round room in Europe, Pru would have known what I was going to order off the dessert menu and I didn't disappoint.
My dark chocolate cremeux got a savory twist with pickled rhubarb, whipped ricotta and vincotto, nothing more than cooked wine, but sounding much so more exotic in Italian.
Being a man, he somehow preferred his red miso panna cotta with crushed Virginia peanuts, caramelized white chocolate, black sesame honey and lime butterscotch but we both agreed that it was the butterscotch that lifted the custard to something special.
Then, like the wind, we were gone.
Finding parking was challenging because of an unexpected event at the Siegel Center (wait, I thought basketball was over?), but we snagged a spot and he did a pretty decent job of parallel parking for a guy who's lived too long in the hinterlands (can you say Ladysmith?).
High-tailing it to the theater was a trip down Memory Lane for him since it had apparently been eons since he'd walked through campus, not that much of it could look the same as it had in the '80s.
We arrived at the theater just as the ushers had closed the house so we were led upstairs to enter from the top and back so as not to disturb anyone. "Frankenstein: Dawn of a Monster" was about to begin.
The set could not have been any simpler or more central to the stage. Four long sheer drapes hung from a circular metal rod on the ceiling and were used to create a bedroom, a lab and even the great outdoors. It was brilliant.
So was the story, in many ways, which wove together the saga of Mary Shelley's life and that of her literary creation, the monster in "Frankenstein" with many of the themes of her life being transferred to her fiction.
Sad lives make the best stories, of course, and hers was plenty tragic. She was madly in love with the married Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley but he eventually lost interest. She didn't want children but got pregnant only to have her baby die. Her father all but disowned her when she got knocked up, leaving her destitute.
Plenty of fodder there.
Meanwhile, the story of the monster created and then abandoned by its creator had all the inherent tragedy of her own life: abandonment, lack of love, sorrow.
Comic relief came courtesy of Dr. Frankenstein's simple-minded assistants who supplied fresh corpses and drinking songs to wile away the time. Chandler Matkins as Benjamin was notable not just for his excellence in projecting but for his seamless shifts from comedy to drama.
And, speaking of projection, the dapper one and I opted to change seats at intermission, the better to hear the actors with our middle-aged ears (he allowed as how he'd forgotten his ear trumpet). Choosing a seat next to a woman, I commented on the obvious: she had a record album (no cover) on her lap.
Glancing down at it, she said, "They gave it to me when I came in."
"There has to be a story there," my companion said, offering her an opening. Silence. Clearly she had no intention of telling us what it was. Pity.
We passed the time instead talking about how little our perceptions of ourselves have changed since college. How impressed we are when we open the refrigerator and see food and realize we're the ones who made that happen. How we may look older but feel much like we did when we were 20.
That's a story there, too.
It was in the second act that it really became obvious who the standout in the show was: Brandon Sterrett as the Monster. From his early physical awakening as a living creature (limbs awkwardly twitching and falling) to his development as a thinking, feeling being resentful of his lot in life, he was riveting.
That he projected like a pro was icing on the cake to those of a certain age.
We walked out busily discussing the film, which was exactly why I'd invited him to join me for it in Pru's absence. Had she been with me, we'd have been doing the same.
But she's in Paris and I had custody of her easy boyfriend for a night. The barefoot and buck naked part will just be our little secret.
It's not as tawdry as all that; I had two theater tickets and he had no plans. All I had to say was "Hey, handsome, wanna go?" to get a response of "All you have to do is call me handsome and you've got me for the evening."
Now I know why his girlfriend calls him easy.
He was gracious enough to pick me up and let me choose where to eat, so I'd say he's not just easy, he's chivalrous, too. I kept it close by directing him to the Rogue Gentlemen, a place he hadn't been before, knowing he likes a well-crafted cocktail.
So while his main squeeze is dining in Paris tonight, I'm broadening his horizons (and eating Chef Aaron's food, of which I'm quite fond), all in the name of friendship.
With an early curtain to catch, we got started as soon as he got off work, nabbing a parking space directly in front of the restaurant and becoming only the fifth and sixth customers inside.
Few places in town make an effort visually with their menu - L'Opossum and Perly's being the exceptions that come to mind - but I'm going to have to put the Rogue Gentlemen's cocktail menu right up there in the running.
Resembling a fan magazine, on the front was a photograph of an impossibly young Richard Gere with headline teases all around, while inside was a fold-out of a more mature Gere in bed, strategically draped with a sheet, each body part numbered to correspond to a cocktail.
That's when my companion succumbed to the passion flower-infused gin-based "Barefoot and Buck Naked" (corresponding to his toes) while I did the usual pink with Jean Luc Columbo "Cape Bleue Rose," a complex pink his sweetheart would have loved.
With the Raconteurs and the like playing overhead, we ate our way through a succession of small plates until sated while he regaled me with tales from his college days and tales from the Treehouse Apartments.
Food-wise, his first choice was roasted artichokes, getting the star treatment with guanciale, dots of saffron custard, fava beans (but no nice Chianti) and hazelnut while I dove right in the deep end with fried chicken skins drizzled in harissa honey, chives and cilantro.
While he might have initially been a tad appalled at my less than healthy pick, he was also soon raving about how well the two dishes complemented each other.
Dare I say my mouth knows what I'm doing?
Once we stopped eating with our fingers (it's fried chicken, for crying out loud), I was treated to photographs he'd been sent of the Alps (coincidentally enough, her comment had been about what a schlep they must have been for the von Trapps to cross; hello "Sound of Music" last night) and my friend's opulent Venetian and Parisian hotels, the latter with a round bedroom.
Much as we adore her, we could only ogle and envy for so long before returning to the business at hand: stuffing our faces.
Sea bass crudo got both our attentions with asparagus and tarragon gremolata, but it was piquancy of the pickled red onions and the creaminess of the roe aioli that made it one of the finest raw dishes I'd ever had.
Salt cod dumplings in fish head broth with pickled shrimp, soffrito, potatoes and olive oil dazzled us least despite the savory broth.
With only a half hour left before we needed to be at the Singleton Center and the restaurant now almost completely full (must have happened while we were gabbing), it was time to move on to a sweet course.
Even from her perch inside a round room in Europe, Pru would have known what I was going to order off the dessert menu and I didn't disappoint.
My dark chocolate cremeux got a savory twist with pickled rhubarb, whipped ricotta and vincotto, nothing more than cooked wine, but sounding much so more exotic in Italian.
Being a man, he somehow preferred his red miso panna cotta with crushed Virginia peanuts, caramelized white chocolate, black sesame honey and lime butterscotch but we both agreed that it was the butterscotch that lifted the custard to something special.
Then, like the wind, we were gone.
Finding parking was challenging because of an unexpected event at the Siegel Center (wait, I thought basketball was over?), but we snagged a spot and he did a pretty decent job of parallel parking for a guy who's lived too long in the hinterlands (can you say Ladysmith?).
High-tailing it to the theater was a trip down Memory Lane for him since it had apparently been eons since he'd walked through campus, not that much of it could look the same as it had in the '80s.
We arrived at the theater just as the ushers had closed the house so we were led upstairs to enter from the top and back so as not to disturb anyone. "Frankenstein: Dawn of a Monster" was about to begin.
The set could not have been any simpler or more central to the stage. Four long sheer drapes hung from a circular metal rod on the ceiling and were used to create a bedroom, a lab and even the great outdoors. It was brilliant.
So was the story, in many ways, which wove together the saga of Mary Shelley's life and that of her literary creation, the monster in "Frankenstein" with many of the themes of her life being transferred to her fiction.
Sad lives make the best stories, of course, and hers was plenty tragic. She was madly in love with the married Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley but he eventually lost interest. She didn't want children but got pregnant only to have her baby die. Her father all but disowned her when she got knocked up, leaving her destitute.
Plenty of fodder there.
Meanwhile, the story of the monster created and then abandoned by its creator had all the inherent tragedy of her own life: abandonment, lack of love, sorrow.
Comic relief came courtesy of Dr. Frankenstein's simple-minded assistants who supplied fresh corpses and drinking songs to wile away the time. Chandler Matkins as Benjamin was notable not just for his excellence in projecting but for his seamless shifts from comedy to drama.
And, speaking of projection, the dapper one and I opted to change seats at intermission, the better to hear the actors with our middle-aged ears (he allowed as how he'd forgotten his ear trumpet). Choosing a seat next to a woman, I commented on the obvious: she had a record album (no cover) on her lap.
Glancing down at it, she said, "They gave it to me when I came in."
"There has to be a story there," my companion said, offering her an opening. Silence. Clearly she had no intention of telling us what it was. Pity.
We passed the time instead talking about how little our perceptions of ourselves have changed since college. How impressed we are when we open the refrigerator and see food and realize we're the ones who made that happen. How we may look older but feel much like we did when we were 20.
That's a story there, too.
It was in the second act that it really became obvious who the standout in the show was: Brandon Sterrett as the Monster. From his early physical awakening as a living creature (limbs awkwardly twitching and falling) to his development as a thinking, feeling being resentful of his lot in life, he was riveting.
That he projected like a pro was icing on the cake to those of a certain age.
We walked out busily discussing the film, which was exactly why I'd invited him to join me for it in Pru's absence. Had she been with me, we'd have been doing the same.
But she's in Paris and I had custody of her easy boyfriend for a night. The barefoot and buck naked part will just be our little secret.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
WWKD
Some 50th celebrations are way better than others.
My friend is celebrating her big birthday in style, with a trip to Paris, a ride on the Orient Express and time in Italy. The last thing I expected was to hear from her while she was gone.
OMG! Girl! I'm drinking the rest of the wine from dinner and Prosecco (lord) but all is well in Venice as it is, back streets, waterways and the square. It's all good. Wish you were here. I kind of channeled you for a minute or two when I was in dire straights here and there. Hmm, what would Karen do? Worked every time.
True, she's in Venice and I'm in Richmond, but her unexpected message made my day. Ask anyone who knows me. I'm a sucker for words.
First it made me stand up a little taller, knowing I was being channeled on the other side of the pond. Then I crossed my fingers hoping that doing what I would do doesn't get her in any trouble. It's been known to happen.
So while she's probably being complimented by Italian men (one of my favorite parts of being in Italy) and drinking great wine (my second favorite part), my evening was spent celebrating the 50th anniversary of "The Sound of Music."
I kid you not.
She's probably eating hand-rolled pasta at some quaint little trattoria on the edge of the square with Italian love songs playing softly in the background while I was digging into black bean nachos at 821 Cafe alongside the bearded, pierced and tattooed crowd while loud thrash music played.
I've got no idea what she might do afterwards - the opera perhaps? an after dinner drink on a corner patio? - but I doubt she had the option of going to one of the 50th anniversary screenings of the restored version of "The Sound of Music" like I did.
That's right, the hills were alive, right here in Richmond.
TCM was presenting the special screenings for two days (this past Sunday and today) for two screenings each day. And, yes, Robert Osborne, looking, and especially sounding, as old as dirt provided the intro and commentary afterwards.
Honestly, I had no expectations of how many people might show up for an over-priced chance to see a 50-year old movie that lasts three hours, but a good-sized number did.
And let's think about that run time for a moment, shall we? Ah, 1965 when audiences had the attention span for films that long. As it was, tonight's audience couldn't have been further removed from the one this movie had been made for, talking whenever they pleased, looking at their cell phones throughout and a few even leaving at intermission.
Some people were clearly raised by wolves.
Me, I just sat back and enjoyed it for all the same reasons I've watched it with pleasure for decades.
Corny or not, I like Rodgers and Hammerstein's songs. Beautifully shot, the scenery of Austria is breathtaking. It's not only based on a true story, but the unlikeliest of romances. And Christopher Plummer at age 35 was, to use a friend's phrase, a good-looking hunk of man meat.
But as many times as I've seen it, apparently I needed Robert Osborne to fill me in on fun facts about the classic.
How Julie Andrews kept getting knocked down from the helicopter's down draft while filming the opening scene on the mountaintop. How using seven kids presented unique problems such as one kid growing six inches during filming and the two youngest losing a total of four teeth during shooting (they capped the lost teeth for continuity's sake). How Plummer was drunk in the last scene.
Hardly surprising that the classically trained actor who referred to the movie as "The Sound of Mucous" needed to tipple to get through the shooting.
Meanwhile, my friend is tippling in Venice and channeling me. That's my kind of 50th celebration.
My friend is celebrating her big birthday in style, with a trip to Paris, a ride on the Orient Express and time in Italy. The last thing I expected was to hear from her while she was gone.
OMG! Girl! I'm drinking the rest of the wine from dinner and Prosecco (lord) but all is well in Venice as it is, back streets, waterways and the square. It's all good. Wish you were here. I kind of channeled you for a minute or two when I was in dire straights here and there. Hmm, what would Karen do? Worked every time.
True, she's in Venice and I'm in Richmond, but her unexpected message made my day. Ask anyone who knows me. I'm a sucker for words.
First it made me stand up a little taller, knowing I was being channeled on the other side of the pond. Then I crossed my fingers hoping that doing what I would do doesn't get her in any trouble. It's been known to happen.
So while she's probably being complimented by Italian men (one of my favorite parts of being in Italy) and drinking great wine (my second favorite part), my evening was spent celebrating the 50th anniversary of "The Sound of Music."
I kid you not.
She's probably eating hand-rolled pasta at some quaint little trattoria on the edge of the square with Italian love songs playing softly in the background while I was digging into black bean nachos at 821 Cafe alongside the bearded, pierced and tattooed crowd while loud thrash music played.
I've got no idea what she might do afterwards - the opera perhaps? an after dinner drink on a corner patio? - but I doubt she had the option of going to one of the 50th anniversary screenings of the restored version of "The Sound of Music" like I did.
That's right, the hills were alive, right here in Richmond.
TCM was presenting the special screenings for two days (this past Sunday and today) for two screenings each day. And, yes, Robert Osborne, looking, and especially sounding, as old as dirt provided the intro and commentary afterwards.
Honestly, I had no expectations of how many people might show up for an over-priced chance to see a 50-year old movie that lasts three hours, but a good-sized number did.
And let's think about that run time for a moment, shall we? Ah, 1965 when audiences had the attention span for films that long. As it was, tonight's audience couldn't have been further removed from the one this movie had been made for, talking whenever they pleased, looking at their cell phones throughout and a few even leaving at intermission.
Some people were clearly raised by wolves.
Me, I just sat back and enjoyed it for all the same reasons I've watched it with pleasure for decades.
Corny or not, I like Rodgers and Hammerstein's songs. Beautifully shot, the scenery of Austria is breathtaking. It's not only based on a true story, but the unlikeliest of romances. And Christopher Plummer at age 35 was, to use a friend's phrase, a good-looking hunk of man meat.
But as many times as I've seen it, apparently I needed Robert Osborne to fill me in on fun facts about the classic.
How Julie Andrews kept getting knocked down from the helicopter's down draft while filming the opening scene on the mountaintop. How using seven kids presented unique problems such as one kid growing six inches during filming and the two youngest losing a total of four teeth during shooting (they capped the lost teeth for continuity's sake). How Plummer was drunk in the last scene.
Hardly surprising that the classically trained actor who referred to the movie as "The Sound of Mucous" needed to tipple to get through the shooting.
Meanwhile, my friend is tippling in Venice and channeling me. That's my kind of 50th celebration.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Forever Is Just a Day
Seven hours in the car today. I covered a lot of ground.
In spite of an early start, it was a beautiful day to drive to the Northern Neck to visit the parental units and see the lilac and Candytuft in bloom.
Among today's accomplishments: planted herbs for Mom on the screened porch, helped Dad locate a nursery that carries the dwarf flowering cherry tree he covets and not only baked a pound cake but taught my clueless mother what patty melts were (they then had them for dinner).
When I got back into Richmond, I had exactly enough time to get cleaned up, answer two e-mails and leave for D.C. Tonight was the Hurray for the Riff Raff show at the 9:30 Club that I'd bought tickets for all the way back on December 16th.
Good things come to those who wait.
While the last thing I wanted to do was climb back in the car, I wasn't about to miss the show. A music critic friend had told me that they'd been spectacular at South By Southwest, impressing those who caught their shows and leaving those who didn't full of regret.
And in what had to be the luckiest of circumstances, I found a parking spot on the side of the venue, four cars from the front door. Not bad at all.
I'd barely found a place near the stage when opener Son Little took the stage. The trio was fronted by lead singer/guitarist Aaron wearing a baseball hat and shirt that said "Rucker" on the front. Since Aaron is black and his bassist and drummer white, the joke could have been a reference to Hootie and the Blowfish. Or not.
All I know is he had a soul-smooth voice and a bluesy guitar while most of the songs were pure pop, well-crafted songs. Even so, he didn't hesitate to mention "kids dying in the streets every day it seems lately," both in lyrics and between song patter.
He was especially excited about playing "Oh, Mother" because the video is being released tomorrow by the Wall Street Journal (he joked about that). "It's got a lot of wolves in it. I get upstaged by wolves."
When he said he was going to play a quiet song so we'd have be quiet, the crowd obeyed. "That's good. If you aren't quiet, I'd have to start abusing the audience."
"Abuse us!" the loudmouth behind me called out. "Now, no," Aaron said, shaking his head in frustration. "Man, I never saw that coming." Mid-way through the quiet song, he moved away from the microphone to center stage and projected out across the room un-amplified.
Favorite song: the heartbreaking "The River."
After his set, I scanned the room, noticing a girl near me with a backless dress and lots of tattoos. In a room full of conservative and prim looking D.C. types, she seemed very Richmond. Then I looked at her date and he actually looked familiar, although I couldn't place him.
After a few minutes, he came over because he'd recognized me, too. It was Zac from the Green Boys and Red Light Rodeo. I told him I always see someone I know when I'm out of town for shows. "That just means you have good taste," he explained matter-of-factly.
For the record, he also made sure to tell me I missed a good show last night at Gallery 5.
After he returned to his friend, I overheard the guy behind me - dressed in a matching tie dye t-shirt and knit cap - tell his companion, "This is so great we can do this on a Tuesday!"
What was so great was that Alynda Lee Segara had just taken the stage alone with her acoustic guitar and thanked us for coming out tonight.
"I'm going to start the set all by myself, if that's okay," she said to a rapt audience who stayed absolutely silent while she sang, "The New San Francisco Bay Blues."
It was a stunning start to a stellar set. Her band came out - keyboards, drums, bass and fiddle - for the second song, "Blue Ridge Mountain," which she called a song about doing more than you thought you could.
I echo that sentiment, albeit not in song given my tuneless voice.
The band's sound was much fuller than on the records I'd heard, a rich complement to hers.
"This is a song about not giving up on your dream," she started and then changed course. "Look at all of you! It's a Tuesday night, do you know that? I never thought this many people would come out to hear me sing!"
The bouncy ode to trouble-making, "I Know It's Wrong (But That's Alright)" got couples dancing and the rest of us moving in place. She dedicated "Body Electric" to the Mayors for Peace participants, with whom she said she'd walked a bit and some of whom were in the house tonight.
Her band was terrific and she'd throw the attention on the fiddle player's solos or the keyboard player's impressive finger work every chance she got. Talking about how close the band was from living in a van together, I envisioned her and the female bass player slipping away on occasion to do girly things. Thrifting, maybe? Talking about the boys?
"I'm one of those un-f*ck the world people," she shared. "Some people say 'f*ck the world' but I say un-f*ck it." With her bangs, long hair and bow barrettes, she looked kind and gentle enough to be on the "un" side of things.
She told us that "Crash on the Highway" had been written while on the road in Germany and missing New Orleans terribly, something that came through in every line.
Saying she was going to do a song about one of her heroes, John Lennon, she said it was also about Yoko. "I'm trying to spread the gospel of Yoko. It's all about love," she said, prefacing the gorgeous song.
Favorite lyric: "Love can make a change in man."
She even thanked the 9:30 Club. "Thank you for the cupcakes. Did you know they do that sometimes?" Sure didn't, but of course they'd do it for someone as charming as she was, someone talented enough to cover Lucinda Williams' "People Talkin" and make it her own.
No one moved when she said goodnight so of course the band came back for a brief encore and another fond farewell to the adoring crowd.
Even the prospect of another two hours in the car couldn't harsh the mellow I had after such a satisfying evening of music. I loved everything about the band's genre-crossing sound.
According to the band's philosophy, that makes me the riff raff. Traveling riff raff at that.
Apparently great taste knows no mileage limitations.
In spite of an early start, it was a beautiful day to drive to the Northern Neck to visit the parental units and see the lilac and Candytuft in bloom.
Among today's accomplishments: planted herbs for Mom on the screened porch, helped Dad locate a nursery that carries the dwarf flowering cherry tree he covets and not only baked a pound cake but taught my clueless mother what patty melts were (they then had them for dinner).
When I got back into Richmond, I had exactly enough time to get cleaned up, answer two e-mails and leave for D.C. Tonight was the Hurray for the Riff Raff show at the 9:30 Club that I'd bought tickets for all the way back on December 16th.
Good things come to those who wait.
While the last thing I wanted to do was climb back in the car, I wasn't about to miss the show. A music critic friend had told me that they'd been spectacular at South By Southwest, impressing those who caught their shows and leaving those who didn't full of regret.
And in what had to be the luckiest of circumstances, I found a parking spot on the side of the venue, four cars from the front door. Not bad at all.
I'd barely found a place near the stage when opener Son Little took the stage. The trio was fronted by lead singer/guitarist Aaron wearing a baseball hat and shirt that said "Rucker" on the front. Since Aaron is black and his bassist and drummer white, the joke could have been a reference to Hootie and the Blowfish. Or not.
All I know is he had a soul-smooth voice and a bluesy guitar while most of the songs were pure pop, well-crafted songs. Even so, he didn't hesitate to mention "kids dying in the streets every day it seems lately," both in lyrics and between song patter.
He was especially excited about playing "Oh, Mother" because the video is being released tomorrow by the Wall Street Journal (he joked about that). "It's got a lot of wolves in it. I get upstaged by wolves."
When he said he was going to play a quiet song so we'd have be quiet, the crowd obeyed. "That's good. If you aren't quiet, I'd have to start abusing the audience."
"Abuse us!" the loudmouth behind me called out. "Now, no," Aaron said, shaking his head in frustration. "Man, I never saw that coming." Mid-way through the quiet song, he moved away from the microphone to center stage and projected out across the room un-amplified.
Favorite song: the heartbreaking "The River."
After his set, I scanned the room, noticing a girl near me with a backless dress and lots of tattoos. In a room full of conservative and prim looking D.C. types, she seemed very Richmond. Then I looked at her date and he actually looked familiar, although I couldn't place him.
After a few minutes, he came over because he'd recognized me, too. It was Zac from the Green Boys and Red Light Rodeo. I told him I always see someone I know when I'm out of town for shows. "That just means you have good taste," he explained matter-of-factly.
For the record, he also made sure to tell me I missed a good show last night at Gallery 5.
After he returned to his friend, I overheard the guy behind me - dressed in a matching tie dye t-shirt and knit cap - tell his companion, "This is so great we can do this on a Tuesday!"
What was so great was that Alynda Lee Segara had just taken the stage alone with her acoustic guitar and thanked us for coming out tonight.
"I'm going to start the set all by myself, if that's okay," she said to a rapt audience who stayed absolutely silent while she sang, "The New San Francisco Bay Blues."
It was a stunning start to a stellar set. Her band came out - keyboards, drums, bass and fiddle - for the second song, "Blue Ridge Mountain," which she called a song about doing more than you thought you could.
I echo that sentiment, albeit not in song given my tuneless voice.
The band's sound was much fuller than on the records I'd heard, a rich complement to hers.
"This is a song about not giving up on your dream," she started and then changed course. "Look at all of you! It's a Tuesday night, do you know that? I never thought this many people would come out to hear me sing!"
The bouncy ode to trouble-making, "I Know It's Wrong (But That's Alright)" got couples dancing and the rest of us moving in place. She dedicated "Body Electric" to the Mayors for Peace participants, with whom she said she'd walked a bit and some of whom were in the house tonight.
Her band was terrific and she'd throw the attention on the fiddle player's solos or the keyboard player's impressive finger work every chance she got. Talking about how close the band was from living in a van together, I envisioned her and the female bass player slipping away on occasion to do girly things. Thrifting, maybe? Talking about the boys?
"I'm one of those un-f*ck the world people," she shared. "Some people say 'f*ck the world' but I say un-f*ck it." With her bangs, long hair and bow barrettes, she looked kind and gentle enough to be on the "un" side of things.
She told us that "Crash on the Highway" had been written while on the road in Germany and missing New Orleans terribly, something that came through in every line.
Saying she was going to do a song about one of her heroes, John Lennon, she said it was also about Yoko. "I'm trying to spread the gospel of Yoko. It's all about love," she said, prefacing the gorgeous song.
Favorite lyric: "Love can make a change in man."
She even thanked the 9:30 Club. "Thank you for the cupcakes. Did you know they do that sometimes?" Sure didn't, but of course they'd do it for someone as charming as she was, someone talented enough to cover Lucinda Williams' "People Talkin" and make it her own.
No one moved when she said goodnight so of course the band came back for a brief encore and another fond farewell to the adoring crowd.
Even the prospect of another two hours in the car couldn't harsh the mellow I had after such a satisfying evening of music. I loved everything about the band's genre-crossing sound.
According to the band's philosophy, that makes me the riff raff. Traveling riff raff at that.
Apparently great taste knows no mileage limitations.
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