Maybe it was my Catholic upbringing, but I am Bible ignorant.
My art history background has ensured that I'd seen depictions of the severed head of John the Baptist countless times by Caravaggio, Titian, Botticelli, Masaccio, Rembrandt and any number of lesser painters.
But did I know why he'd been beheaded? Tragically, no.
So you can imagine my excitement when I saw that upstart theater company TheaterLab was producing two nights of Oscar Wilde's "Salome: A Wilde Experiment."
I gathered Pru and we were at SPARC in time to claim good seats and chatter beforehand. After a few minutes, the woman next to me got up to move so I asked if it was something I'd said. "No, but this lady offered to buy me a drink so I'm going to sit next to her," she said as she left.
Perfectly understandable.
The evening began with TheaterLab's directors announcing the upcoming season which will begin with "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" in October, a major cause for excitement.
On top of that, they've started an Indie Go Go campaign to raise the 35K necessary to renovate their new home, which will be called the Basement (because it is) and be right in my neighborhood in the Arts District.
Asking that we contribute whatever we could afford, directors DJ and Annie said naming rights were available for everything in the theater. "If you give us enough money, you can even rename us," DJ claimed presumably speaking for Annie as well.
What Pru and I hadn't realized was that tonight's show was a bootleg production, meaning the actors were given their scripts less than a month ago and told to memorize, find their own costume and props and hope for the best.
They came together only this week and rehearsed for just eleven hours, the play's director James Ricks informed us. "Unlike with bootleg Shakespeare, the actors can't call for lines tonight. If anyone gets lost or confused, we'll just sit back and watch and enjoy."
Obviously a bible-illiterate such as myself wouldn't know the difference.
Except I'm not completely illiterate anymore since now I know the story of Herod and his step-daughter Salome. Or at least I gleaned a few facts from TheaterLab's outstanding interpretation of Wilde.
Herod, a self-centered old goat, must have had a foot fetish or he wouldn't have made Salome take her shoes off to dance.
His wife Herodias was bitter about having married Herod and tired of him ogling her hot daughter.
Salome was bat shit crazy and only wanted the one man who had no interest in her, like so many nubile, hot young women.
See, kids, bible study can be fun!
Now I can finally truly appreciate those masterworks depicting the head of John the Baptist in a way I never could before. You can't imagine how relieved I am to know the back story.
And then for something completely different, I got myself to the Roosevelt for a night of funk, soul, R &; B and garage 45s played by my favorite neighborhood record store owner, Marty.
Bartender T. greeted me with, "Karen!" and in short order, Espolon on the rocks.
Not long after, a woman asked if I was the Karen of "I Could Go on and On" and a friendship was born. It wasn't the first time a blog reader had recognized me, but it was the longest time a reader chatted with me.
She and her husband were delightful, familiar with my life and fun to talk to, too. She kept apologizing for knowing so much about my life (how are your new windows? the river sounds like it's a beautiful place) but I was flattered to talk to a regular reader.
From there, there were so many high points: a favorite drummer with whom I spent the evening discussing the role of the bass in R & B and the state of the dating world while drinking Espolon, the chef who had two great secrets to share, the server/photographer I hadn't expected to see, the mixologist who shifted me from tequila to mezcal ("why would you drink the same thing twice in a row?") once he got off work and showed up at the bar with his boss the chef, the biking pioneer who now drinks (a first!) and the musician/businessman talking about the challenges of keeping a girlfriend happy and saying it was all worth it.
The music was killer, all vintage soul that I only wish I knew but mostly didn't and too long played too softly until I went over to DJ Marty and asked that the volume of the music exceed that of the chattering masses and he accommodated me despite concerns about the Church Hill neighbors.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, last call was announced and classic Spinners came on.
There's always a chance a tiny spark will remain
and sparks turn into flames, yea
and love can burn once again
Whenever you call me, I'll be there
If it's a good time, I'll be there.
Showing posts with label Mercy heavy soul and funk dance party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mercy heavy soul and funk dance party. Show all posts
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Mercy Me!
"Allow yourself to be changed by the experience."
So said the bathroom wall at Pasture where they were doing their first-ever Mercy! Heavy Soul and Funk Dance Party.
I love the idea of restaurants re-purposing themselves after dining hours, so I couldn't resist stopping by for some bubbles and heavy soul.
As I sipped my Vinho Verde, I felt hands squeezing my shoulders and unexpectedly there were two friends.
"We were driving by when I saw you walking down the street and I said, I know that walk! Let's follow her," he said, explaining away their stalking me right into Pasture to say hello.
It seemed only natural to tell them to stay and hear the vinyl stylings of Troy and Marty, knowing that they remembered a world before mp3s.
So they ordered cosmos and we dissected their restaurant experiences tonight (the first was an epic fail and the second not up to usual).
Next thing I knew, the modster walked in (looking groovy, as always) with his girlfriend and we took some time to marvel over the array of DJs spinning around town tonight.
After they moved on, the boys and I went back to full-on attention to the music, which was spot on.
Did I recognize the songs being played? I did not.
Well, except for a brief remix of Hall and Oates' "She's Gone," which also got the attention of chef Jason Alley who asked to see the actual 45 record.
Did I hear classic soul stylings that exactly matched the era of the best soul music? I did.
Next thing I knew, I heard my name being called only to find a friend I'd known years ago who had since moved to Florida.
The last time I'd seen her a couple of years ago, she'd recently been cuckolded by her husband and said she had just reconnected with a Londoner she'd known in college.
They'd set off on a road trip to see if they were compatible.
Looking at her, I knew the answer before I asked the question, but I had to ask anyway.
Yep, living together in Florida and still wildly happy together.
But she had an addendum to the story.
After our last meeting, where I'd heard her fairy tale story of moving on after a disastrous end to her marriage, she'd met up with a friend the next day to tell her the news.
Midway through, the friend stopped her. "I read about this on a blog today," she informed my amazed friend.
While I hadn't used names, the story was easily recognizable, especially for anyone hearing it directly from the source.
My friend was a little amazed at my reach, but not half as much as a few days later when she tried telling a coworker about what had happened and she, too, said she'd read it on my blog.
"So apparently you have a wide readership," my friend laughed.
I was just happy she could laugh about it, but I reminded her that the story she'd told me had been one of the most romantic I'd ever heard
And considering this was back in my heartbroken, no dating period, I remember being bowled over to think that anyone could find such love and luck with someone she had known twenty-some years earlier.
They just hadn't explored it well enough then and now they were, to great success.
What blogger worth her salt wouldn't have shared that kind of romance?
I like to think I'm at least worth my salt.
Once we caught up, I returned to my friends at the bar, both of whom were finding a lot to like about the music being played.
First of all, nothing sounds like vinyl, and if you can't get into vintage soul (lots of horns and harmonies, and, post-disco, string arrangements), part of you is already dead.
I ran into others I knew - a beer rep looking to dance, a local chef looking to share opinions - and we talked about the Richmond restaurant scene ("It's the next wave of new restaurants that'll decide how Richmond goes," he predicted).
A few people were starting to dance in the aisle between the bar and booths, but for the most part, by the time I left, full-on dancing hadn't happened.
But it was the first Pasture dance party attempt after adding the sound baffling to the ceiling, so it was more of a trial run.
I'm looking forward to the next one as much for the excellent music as for the random people I run into there.
After a hot afternoon at the river and a warm evening making ice cream, all I'd set out for was wine and funk.
Instead, I'd followed the advice of the bathroom sage and allowed my evening to be changed by the various experiences delivered by Mercy!
After a busy Saturday, you take your wisdom where ever you find it.
So said the bathroom wall at Pasture where they were doing their first-ever Mercy! Heavy Soul and Funk Dance Party.
I love the idea of restaurants re-purposing themselves after dining hours, so I couldn't resist stopping by for some bubbles and heavy soul.
As I sipped my Vinho Verde, I felt hands squeezing my shoulders and unexpectedly there were two friends.
"We were driving by when I saw you walking down the street and I said, I know that walk! Let's follow her," he said, explaining away their stalking me right into Pasture to say hello.
It seemed only natural to tell them to stay and hear the vinyl stylings of Troy and Marty, knowing that they remembered a world before mp3s.
So they ordered cosmos and we dissected their restaurant experiences tonight (the first was an epic fail and the second not up to usual).
Next thing I knew, the modster walked in (looking groovy, as always) with his girlfriend and we took some time to marvel over the array of DJs spinning around town tonight.
After they moved on, the boys and I went back to full-on attention to the music, which was spot on.
Did I recognize the songs being played? I did not.
Well, except for a brief remix of Hall and Oates' "She's Gone," which also got the attention of chef Jason Alley who asked to see the actual 45 record.
Did I hear classic soul stylings that exactly matched the era of the best soul music? I did.
Next thing I knew, I heard my name being called only to find a friend I'd known years ago who had since moved to Florida.
The last time I'd seen her a couple of years ago, she'd recently been cuckolded by her husband and said she had just reconnected with a Londoner she'd known in college.
They'd set off on a road trip to see if they were compatible.
Looking at her, I knew the answer before I asked the question, but I had to ask anyway.
Yep, living together in Florida and still wildly happy together.
But she had an addendum to the story.
After our last meeting, where I'd heard her fairy tale story of moving on after a disastrous end to her marriage, she'd met up with a friend the next day to tell her the news.
Midway through, the friend stopped her. "I read about this on a blog today," she informed my amazed friend.
While I hadn't used names, the story was easily recognizable, especially for anyone hearing it directly from the source.
My friend was a little amazed at my reach, but not half as much as a few days later when she tried telling a coworker about what had happened and she, too, said she'd read it on my blog.
"So apparently you have a wide readership," my friend laughed.
I was just happy she could laugh about it, but I reminded her that the story she'd told me had been one of the most romantic I'd ever heard
And considering this was back in my heartbroken, no dating period, I remember being bowled over to think that anyone could find such love and luck with someone she had known twenty-some years earlier.
They just hadn't explored it well enough then and now they were, to great success.
What blogger worth her salt wouldn't have shared that kind of romance?
I like to think I'm at least worth my salt.
Once we caught up, I returned to my friends at the bar, both of whom were finding a lot to like about the music being played.
First of all, nothing sounds like vinyl, and if you can't get into vintage soul (lots of horns and harmonies, and, post-disco, string arrangements), part of you is already dead.
I ran into others I knew - a beer rep looking to dance, a local chef looking to share opinions - and we talked about the Richmond restaurant scene ("It's the next wave of new restaurants that'll decide how Richmond goes," he predicted).
A few people were starting to dance in the aisle between the bar and booths, but for the most part, by the time I left, full-on dancing hadn't happened.
But it was the first Pasture dance party attempt after adding the sound baffling to the ceiling, so it was more of a trial run.
I'm looking forward to the next one as much for the excellent music as for the random people I run into there.
After a hot afternoon at the river and a warm evening making ice cream, all I'd set out for was wine and funk.
Instead, I'd followed the advice of the bathroom sage and allowed my evening to be changed by the various experiences delivered by Mercy!
After a busy Saturday, you take your wisdom where ever you find it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
