Recycling West Virginia

Earth Day is all in how you look at it.

Pie was celebrating today as a recycling day by offering $1 PBRs, meaning lots to recycle by the end of the night.

At least I'm guessing that was the point.

My fellow celebrant and I are not PBR drinkers, so we inquired about a bottle of wine.

The bartender looked confused and said that he thought the owner might keep some of his bottles around and that whatever it was, "he drinks it all the time."

With a ringing endorsement like that, how could we not want him to find a bottle of whatever the boss keeps around?

It was a perfectly fine Cotes du Rhone, even if we weren't contributing much to the recycling effort.

We vacillated between the Greek and basil salad, eventually choosing a large basil because I wasn't in the mood for feta.

When the salad arrived, the kitchen had considerately split the salad onto two plates.

What had been split, however, was a Greek salad, not a basil.

We didn't say a word.

Pie is a place with a screen always on, but once we came in, the bartender had at least cranked up the music, perhaps sensing my dislike of screens in restaurants.

I'd have to say the high (or was it low?) point musically was Pretty Lights' remix of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," which every time we were sure was about to end, cranked back up leaving us laughing at a seemingly endless take on West Virginia.

I had to admit, it was recycling, albeit of a song.

When we got around to ordering pie, it was the Pamparius with pepperoni, red stag onions, ricotta and mozzarella, chosen mainly for the pig and onions, not that the red stag part meant anything to us.

Meanwhile, the crowd around us seemed less interested in pizza and more concerned about creating recycling with which to celebrate Earth Day.

Somebody had to do it and we sure weren't being much help.

Conversation revolved around celebrity chefs both of the pop-up variety and of course of the Bourdain variety, what with his impending visit tomorrow night.

I saw Bourdain speak back in 2007 in D.C. and I was convinced then that I was the sole person in the room who hadn't ever seen his TV show.

And although he'd been an excellent storyteller, once was enough, so I'd turned down not one, but two, invitations to go tomorrow while my fellow pie-eater had every intention of being there.

Pizza long gone, we left the PBR drinkers to their noble cause and went to Ipanema for dessert.

There I found a friend patiently biding her time waiting for draft night to start and I teased her because Monday nights tends to be a sausage-fest of guys and here she was waiting out the minutes till it began.

I told her she was a credit to our fair sex.

It wasn't long before the guys started straggling in, so we took a bar table and ordered Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba and a slice of chocolate coconut cake, one of my very favorite WPA cakes.

Since there were no screens, the music was far more to my taste, and everyone was drinking out of taps not cans, it ended up being the antithesis of our last stop.

The conversation centered on travel, his trip to Prague and mine to Italy, not the sites explored or the art seen, but various meals enjoyed in both places.

Because honestly, doesn't it always come down to food in the end?

And, for the record, by the end of the night we had managed to contribute a couple of bottles to the recycling effort.

Two people can only do so much, even on Earth Day.

An Advice for You

Just to be clear, I did my Superbowl duty.

I made a batch of chili today. With corn muffins, even.

That bit of athletic patriotism done, I did what any red-blooded nerd would do for the first half of game day.

I went to see a Brazilian movie.

It was part of UR's international film series, which I hadn't been to in almost a year, so I knew I'd be in the company of other gym class dropouts.

In fact, my fellow Brazilian cinephile bet me there'd be less than ten people at the screening.

I knew better and guessed 35.

For the record, there were 39 including us.

The film, Riscado (which means craft), was about an actress who works for an event company impersonating celebrities while trying to further her acting career.

Marilyn Monroe, Carmen Miranda, Betty Paige. She did them all.

And not because she particularly looked like them, even in costume, but her acting skills sold them.

The film had a decided European sensibility, something I loved, from the opening shots of the actress smoking on her balcony while Brazilian music played and she stared directly into the camera to intermittent, random artsy shots.

And by that, I mean slo-mo non sequiter shots of hands in a sink or a woman in a pool set to music.

My only complaint with the film was the half-assed subtitles with glaring mistakes in them for anyone with even a slipshod command of the English language.

"Live it on the floor" instead of "leave."

Damn became dam. Seems showed up as seams.

But sometimes the subtitles' fractured translations were quite charming, as in, "An advice for you. Enjoy it a lot."

The movie had some highly comic moments, but at its heart it was a drama about a woman staying true to her passion, acting, despite lectures from landladies, not enough money and a fear her time was running out to make it.

Clearly certain problems transcend cultures.

We left UR essentially for VCU, our second half happening being Live at Ipanema.

Walking up Grace Street, we noticed the signboard in front of Strange Matter read, "Yes, we'll be showing the sports ball game."

They sounded about as into it as I was.

Happily, Ipanema has no televisions for watching sports ball.

What they did have was dessert, so we scored some fine WPA Bakery banana/coconut cake and Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for The Black Brothers to get set up.

Before long, I could smell the incense burning.

With no announcement, much less fanfare, the quartet (guitar, drums, bass, trumpet) began playing their pastiche of indie/jazz/blues/rock as people continued to come in the door.

It was my third time seeing them, so while I know what to expect, I am still pleasantly surprised when the horn kicks in or the drumming gets especially jazzy.

Singer and guitarist Justin's voice was on point right from the first song with the lyric, "This time I'm getting it right."

The four-piece was squished into the front alcove and at times Justin's guitar neck threatened to knock into Lucas' horn mic and eventually it caught a cord of it.

When he introduced the next song as being called "Warsaw," I immediately wondered which Warsaw he might mean, at least right up until he sang, "This is a prison song."

Oh, that Warsaw.

Franklin Massey and his acoustic guitar joined the band in the already-cramped front for one song, making for an even denser sound.

Their last song was about escaping to West Virginia and from the first guitar notes, it sounded to me like a driving song, as in a windows-rolled-down kind of driving song.

Which, on a cold February night, seems like something very pleasurable to imagine.

So I took the Brazilian's advice and enjoyed it a lot.

Dizzy in the Head

Only an idiot would go to the Roosevelt at 6:30 on a Saturday night.

Guilty as charged, but that's what the bench by the kitchen is for.

Eventually a seat opened up at the bar and White Hall Cab Franc in hand, I appropriated it while my partner in crime stood nearby.

I watched as the woman next to me tasted a wine, rejected it, tasted another and rejected it and finally gave up, saying, "Maybe it's my taste buds. Can I see your cocktail list?"

Or maybe it's that she wasn't aware of the all-Virginia wine list and was expecting a big California or Australian wine.

Silly woman.

Bartender Brandon, whom I'd seen play with his band, Sea of Storms, for the first time the other night, thanked me for coming to his show.

I felt reassured seeing him back as the mild-mannered guy I used to know.

Our order of crispy fried spicy pork rinds arrived on baking parchment, much like the fried onions we'd been served in Florence before dinner one night, and they got everyone's attention at the bar.

One guy immediately pointed and asked, "What are those?" and I barely answered before another guy asked me the same.

When I told him, he responded, "Not too worried about fat, are you?"

It's Saturday night, I reminded him.

Sheesh.

The airy rinds had an addictive spiciness to them so we tore through them.

I don't want to brag, but it wasn't long before two more plates of rinds came out for the people on either side of us.

Next came lamb neck crostini with pickled cranberries and it was like in those romantic movies where all of a sudden time slows.

The combination of earthy, spicy lamb set off by the piquancy of the pickled cranberries on toasted bread made the conversations around me go faint and the lights dim.

I have been and continue to be Lee Gregory's unabashed groupie for all these years for just that reason.

It was so good it gave me nerve.

One of tonight's specials was rockfish with pork cheeks, farro, red cabbage and Parmesan, but I wasn't in the mood for rockfish, having had an all-seafood lunch yesterday.

A polite request to bartender T. resulted in a big yes from the kitchen to deliver the cheeks and farro without the fish.

I don't care if you like cheeks or even know what farro is, the dish was out of this world.

Even the micro-greens on top enhanced the deep flavor of the cheeks and the nutty, toothsome texture of the farro.

Meanwhile, the dining room was bustling non-stop and the well-chosen music of the hillbilly/rockabilly variety kept the energy in the room  going musically.

For the next course, we chose the pork belly over refried black lentils with a soft-cooked egg and salsa verde.

Some might question why two people would order what we did, but bartender T. never wavered. "All pork all the time," he chuckled. "I like it."

Later, the woman next to me mentioned it was her first time there, and asked what I'd eaten.

After I told her, she looked surprised, saying, "Boy, you must really like pork."

Oh, does it show?

"Is this woman bothering you?" bartender Brandon asked tongue in cheek of my new curious friend.

Everyone's a comedian at the Roosevelt. Maybe that's why I like it so much.

I saw the director of the VMFA patiently waiting for a table and came *this* close to going over and telling him about the unbridled enthusiasm I'd encountered at the museum yesterday, here, but refrained.

After all, the man was out on a Saturday night and who was I to talk work with him?

So I did not become the woman that bothered him, just for the record.

Our meal had been just another reminder of how the Roosevelt kitchen just keeps on knocking my socks off, even on a stupid busy night when I had no business being there to add to the mayhem.

For shame, I'm a more experienced eater than that.

But, alas, we couldn't eat dessert there because the night was young and the Blood Brothers were both in town.

That required a change of venue to Ipanema, where the Brothers promised, "Wax sides to move your back sides!"

Irresistible, right?

Jamie and Duane used to do a regular gig before Duane abandoned River City for the Big Apple, so I have to catch them when I can.

Driving to Ipanema, Grace Street was backed up like a funeral was going by, but we don't do those at night, so it had to be something else.

We'd timed it perfectly; the VCU game had just ended.

Some of the game-goers decided to drown their sorrows at Ips, so the place was filling up quickly.

I grabbed a stool and my fellow criminal waited patiently for another to clear.

Then it was on to mixed berry pie a la mode with a couple of glasses of Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for the brothers to get set up.

Ah, simple pleasures.

The place was getting mobbed with distraught fans, a large birthday group and people like us who'd come for the wax sides.

I overheard a guy behind me tell his friend, "Dude, I'm telling you, in another 20 years, Richmond is going to be like a real city."

Someone needs to sit that boy down for a talk and tell him a thing or two, but it wasn't going to be me, at least tonight.

Finally the music started and because they're playing vinyl, the sound was wonderfully distinctive, even more so given the low-slung ceilings, so reminiscent of listening to records in somebody's basement.

Fact is, I only recognized a very few of the '60s and early '70s garage/soul/psych/pop rock they played, but I can totally wiggle my backside to almost all of it.

But I pat myself on the back when I hear the Who's "Can't Explain" or the Yardbirds "For Your Love," and recognize them on the first few notes.

Soon people begin dancing over by the turntables, but we are tucked into a corner by the brick wall, so I content myself with dancing in my seat, a fact my companion points out.

Better here than not at all.

It's like the fatty pork rinds.

It is, after all, Saturday night.

Be Still, My Oscillating Heart

If you're going to take someone on a first date and impress them, tonight was the time to do it.

It was the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema and Way, Shape or Form was playing.

The name meant nothing to me but Allen, the guy who chooses the bands and records the show, has an unerring ear for choosing the best local music to showcase.

So my companion and I made sure to arrive in time to grab a prime seat and munch on some focaccia and sip Dolcetta d'Alba while the band set up.

My carefully-laid plan was for naught, though, when all at once an influx of people, no doubt fans and friends of the band, showed up en masse and my view was lost.

On the bright side, a girlfriend showed up unexpectedly, so her company helped compensate for the tallest man on earth deciding to stand directly in front of me.

It was about 30 seconds in when the music-lover I'd brought with me turned, grinned and acknowledged, "This is right up your alley. This is Karen music."

And, boy, was it ever.

Ipanema is a small space and the band was a four-piece with drums.

While the drummer definitely qualified as a hard-hitter and he'd covered his drums to soften the sound, it was the interesting time signatures that got my attention.

"The drummer is holding it down," my friend said.

I admit I'm a sucker for electronica and the band's poppy songs used it brilliantly to move the songs forward.

The jazzy guitars did the same, never too loud or intrusive, but always winding their way into my ear.

There was so much going on that I felt like I was listening to math rock filtered through a pop punk aesthetic (and I say pop punk rather than just pop due to their ages) and the result was speaking to my inner music geek directly.

I was pretty much in heaven, but as I soon noticed, so were the people on either side of me.

Some songs had lyrics, some didn't, but the rapt crowd was as engaged with one as the other.

As I listened to leader Troy's confessional-sounding vocals, I marveled at how I hadn't yet heard of these guys.

I am, after all, out hearing live music three or four nights a week.

Let's just say I've already put their vinyl release show into my calendar (or, as my fellow Gemini called it, my "prehistoric Blackberry."), very much looking forward to hearing a longer set next time.

Tonight's ended way too soon and Troy said, "It's really packed in here. Thanks! We have t-shirts for sale, long sleeves for the cool times."

Except that the room was anything but cool because of the mass of humanity who had crowded in to hear these guys.

Mingling afterwards, I was curious as to what Troy had been listening to and wasn't the least surprised to hear that we'd both been to Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.

Even later still, I ran into a favorite friend coming in, only to learn he'd been on a date there the whole time.

He'd brought his date for dinner and music, and she, being a relative newcomer to Richmond's scene, had marveled at what a great show it had been, wondering how often stuff like this happened.

"Pretty much all the time, if you know where to go," my bearded friend had assured her.

All I can say is if a guy took me on a first date to an intimate show at Ipanema featuring a local band as talented/catchy/listenable as Way, Shape or Form, I'd ask him for a second date.

And that's saying something.

Rock and Roll Will Never Die

I admit it, I'm one of those people who has little use for classic rock.

Maybe it's an age thing, but I have no interest in hearing songs I've been hearing for decades.

But I still wanted to see "Neil Young Journeys."

While I'm not a rabid Neil Young fan, I am a fan and I did see him many moons ago (okay, the '70s) as part of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.

But on a Monday night at the Westhampton, there were few fans to be found.

Fact is, it was me and three middle-aged men.

There were so few of us that you could hear crickets chirping.

And I don't mean that metaphorically; there were clearly crickets in the theater.

The Jonathan Demme-directed documentary begins appropriately in "a town in north Ontario," much like Young did.

Driving around his hometown before the show, he points out the school named after his father.

Hilariously, he tells a story of where and how he blew up a turtle (firecracker in its butt), chuckling and saying, "So my environmental roots are not that deep."

It's the kind of low-key humor he uses throughout the film.

But there are sober moments, too, especially when he's shown singing "Ohio" and clips of the Kent State massacre are shown over him.

The footage of peacefully protesting and then terrified running college students is still deeply disturbing.

The shot ends with individual photographs of the four victims and their lifespans, much like tombstones.

It was touching that Young still makes a case for certain causes.

He seems so comfortable in his own skin, even for  66-year old who's smoked a lot of weed over a long period.

Following his brother to the site of their childhood house, he praises him. "My brother is driving the perfect speed, not too fast, not too slow. It's just beautiful."

I am also one of those people who appreciates a well-paced and not overly fast drive.

The scenes of him driving around his hometown before playing a show at Massey Hall are interspersed with scenes of his show that night.

It was just Young with no backing musicians but with plenty of instruments: multiple guitars, a piano and organ, not to mention our house crickets.

And his voice was in fine fettle; he hit every note on "After the Goldrush," pumping the organ in accompaniment and giving me chills for how much his voice resembled what I'd heard all those years ago.

While I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised at a magisterial version of the classic "I Believe in You," I think all of us were sure we'd hear "My My, Hey Hey" and we did.

Demme's camera angles were often interesting or odd (duh), giving us the bottom half of his grizzly face, his open mouth or peeking around instruments.

Because it had been so long since I'd seen Young live, the film was like an almost-concert, giving me the sense of having seen him again.

When he leaves the stage at the end of the show, he goes backstage where he sucks orange slices, gulps coffee and drinks part of a beer.

It wouldn't be my choice of post-show indulgence, but the man moves lithely and without any of the cumbersome effort of some people his age.

He encored with "Walk with Me" and the seminal "Helpless" before pulling the plug on his amp and walking offstage to thunderous applause.

Even the credits provided entertainment.

One said "Burgers and Fries provided by In-n-Out Burger."

Always credit your burgers.

A musical experience like that requires post-film conversation, so just after the rain surprised everyone on the streets, we ducked into Ipanema for wine and desert.

Normally I avoid the sausagefest at Ips on Monday night, preferring to let boys drink draughts with their own kind, but it worked out fine.

We got pear/blueberry pie a la mode and a bottle of Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba at the far end of the bar.

The medium-bodied wine had light tannins, balanced acidity and a nose of red fruits, making it the ideal wine to transition us into slightly cooler weather.

But rather than finish it amongst the suds drinkers, the bottle followed us home to the porch and a view of the lightly falling rain.

A view, yes, but the sound of the rain was lost to crickets chirping.

Only Neil Young can compete with the sound of crickets on a September night.