You know I'm not myself when I can't recall the last time I saw live music.
I know I haven't seen any in 2018 and looking back at my calendar, if you don't count plays, looks like it was early November.
All I can say is, that may be the longest stretch I've gone in years without seeing a band and I'm not proud of it.
So tonight I was among the music lovers who crowded Sub Rosa Bakery to see the Low Branches reunion, not to mention Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands opening up for them. For those not familiar with these two stellar local bands, allow me to clarify: first we heard JV& TB, a male trio singing sad songs, followed by TLB, a female-fronted trio singing sad songs.
Because if there is anything I need these days to reinforce my mood, it's sad songs.
Chairs and stools had been assembled to face the twinkle light-draped front windows and door and the room hushed quickly once Jonathan strapped on his guitar, greeted the crowd made up of lots of old friends from the Listening Room days - where I'd gotten to know both these bands - and began with the instantly recognizable "Days Go By."
With Nate (of bagel fame) on upright bass and doing harmonies and Curtis on pedal steel, the band did "You Were Gone," one of several songs off their new EP just released last month. You know, I've been listening to Jonathan make music since 2007 and his songs still move me every time.
Meanwhile, people kept arriving, making their way to the counter for wine and wedging themselves into any available spaces left. Jonathan lightened the mood after a group came in and quickly found seats, saying, "Now that my in-laws are here, we'll restart that one!"
Favorite lyric: We both crossed the line, but I can't remember who pushed who.
They closed their set with the very new "The Truth" with the timeless acknowledgment, "Change is the only thing that stays the same." Please don't remind me.
The break afterward allowed the latecomers to mingle with the punctual crowd and before long, the volume was such that you had to lean in to hear the person you were talking to. Two friends I chatted with have gotten pregnant since I last saw them and another had her one month-old with her.
I was delighted to chat with the scuba-diving artist who used to keep bees because we hadn't seen each other in over a year. Curious about why that was, she posited that it's her early bedtime to accommodate an early morning yoga schedule, leading to a discussion of how we both require 9 hours sleep a night.
She thought it might also be related to her absence on Facebook now that her social media platform of choice is Instagram. Asking if I used it, she was tickled pink to learn I'd just joined the Instagram fam a week ago. "Now we'll see each other there!" she predicted.
A musician friend I've known for 8 years now came over and asked me sotto voce why I wasn't blogging. Her question caught me completely off guard, although I didn't hesitate to tell her how flattered I was that she'd noticed. "Of course I noticed," she exclaimed. "Reading your blog is a regular part of my day and I miss it!" She even uses it as a reference to check on when things happened.
It's not like other close friends haven't asked me about the absence of my daily posts, but she wanted to know why. Without having put it into sentences before, I answered with words I didn't know my brain had formulated.
I'm really low right now and if I were to blog, it would be with a very different voice than my readers are accustomed to. I couldn't feign a cheerfulness or optimism I'm not feeling anymore and I told her that I don't think my readers would want to read the words of this mood and that voice.
"Well, I want to read your words no matter what the voice," she said, offering up perhaps the kindest response imaginable.
Jonathan, talking to friends about when the last time the Low Branches had played, turned to me and asked when it was. I wasn't exactly sure, but when I saw Christina, the heart and soul of the Low Branches, she laughed and said, "Well, you would know because whenever it was, you wrote about our final show."
The blog again. Seems I've been charged with keeping a record of Richmond goings-on.
Then it was showtime. "We're going to play some old songs and some new songs," Christina announced, her guitar on her crossed legs. "I have a lot to say."
Like with Jonathan, I recognized old songs such as "Like a Glove" and loved hearing new ones like "Down to the Church" and "The Stranger." It's always moving when she sings her lament-like cover of Dolly Parton's "Jolene," which I hadn't heard in years. Fittingly, today was Dolly's birthday, so Christina wished her a happy birthday.
Christina's got such a beautifully effortless voice and hushed way of singing and she mentioned that she thought her guitar was too loud (it wasn't), but two guitars and keyboards complemented the band's serene, introspective and meandering aesthetic.
"Thanks to Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands," she said after her final song. "It's just like old times!"
In terms of seeing two of my favorite long-time local bands, yes. In terms of life, I only wish.
Showing posts with label Sub Rosa Bakery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sub Rosa Bakery. Show all posts
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Monday, July 17, 2017
Celebrating Life and Happiness
I've apparently been mistaken for missing in action.
When I (finally after 3 years) posted a new profile photo on Facebook the other day, certain friends wasted no time in weighing in.
There you are! I've been looking for you.
Where have you been?
Well, let's see, just yesterday I was, as usual, all over the place.
In the morning I was down walking by the river, at least right up until I made a pit stop on the way home at Rapp Session for a lobster roll and an orgeat lemonade, quite possibly the most exquisite summer lunch known to woman.
In the afternoon, I was at Firehouse Theater with Mac for their collaboration with TheatreLab on "Heathers: The Musical," a riff on the late '80s black comedy classic about mean girl high school cliques.
As a card-carrying nerd in high school, I knew nothing of such popularity.
The play was a hoot, from a slo-mo fight scene to an ode to 7-11 and Slurpees ("Happiness comes when everything's numb"). Of course the '80s references were rampant: Bono at Live Aid, Air Supply, watching porn on Cinemax (or is that Skinemax?).
And when else but the '80s would a high school girl announce, "I'm, hot, pissed and on the pill?" On a fashion sidenote, in a play full of adorable '80s looks, it was the Heather played by Michaela Nicole who took top prize for most fabulous hair and cutest skirt (a split yellow skirt with a yoke that I'd love to own).
Easily the most hilarious scene concerned the fathers' reactions to the apparent suicide of their sons, two testosterone-fueled jocks.
I don't know what was funnier, the lyrics of "Dead Gay Son" sung by Billy Christopher Maupin and Eddie Webster as the fathers ("Well, I never cared for homos much until I reared me one") or Maupin's Dad shuffle dance in celebration of his new-found appreciation for the two stray rhinestones on the Lord's big purse.
Great stuff. It's no wonder the show's run has been extended.
In the evening, I was at Sub Rosa for the latest in their natural wine series of Sub Rosato pop-ups with the added bonus of Miramar playing.
Since it wasn't my firstrodeo music show at Sub Rosa, I knew full well my date and I should arrive well in advance to score a good table and avail ourselves of the 8 groovy bio-dynamic wines being featured.
Rather than choose from a list created by a pro (the savvy Virginia), we opted to work our way across the list from sparkling through white, Rose and red, while noshing on every single thing on the pop-up menu: buttery tarts of goat cheese, dill and tomato, a charcuterie board, bread and olive oil and housemade chips.
Be still, my cholesterol.
Starting with Omero Moretti, an organic, unfiltered Umbrian and a classic Cremant du Jura, we moved through the wildly contrasting Sepp Moser Gruner Veltliner and Benito Santos "Pago de Xoan" Rias Baixas.
It was our loss to miss out on the Spanish Rose because it had already sold out, so we enjoyed a Virginian instead (Rosemont's unfiltered Rose) along with a faux Rose, a Kir Royale made with the Jura we'd already had.
It wasn't much of a sacrifice, I have to say.
Meanwhile, the trio of Miramar was effortlessly enchanting the room with boleros, Brazilian songs and original music, all set to the keyboard accompaniment of national treasure Marlyse Simmons, who managed to do it despite the setting sun through the window making things a tad warm for her.
Singer Laura Ann, looking fabulous in an orange sherbet-colored dress with orange pumps - because only she would have orange pumps - made sure to remind the crowded room that despite the happy sound to some songs, they were all basically unhappy.
"Here we are celebrating life and happiness through sadness, as we do," Laura said while Rei shook his maracas in agreement.
Late in the set, percussion arrived courtesy of Giustino and his bongos, making for a thrilling addition to an already sublime sound. It looked like hot work, though, and he'd pull out his handkerchief between songs to wipe sweat from his head.
That's a dedicated musician right there.
Lots of friends crowded into the bakery: the Turkish singer, her Russian guitarist and his Italian fashion blogger girlfriend, the jazz critic, the dance party enthusiast, practically the entire Dutch & Co. crew, the reporter.
It was a party for those in the know.
Back at our table, we sipped the lovely Te Mata Gamay Noir from Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, coincidentally also the home of the winemaker I'd squired around last month. I can't wait to tell him I'm still drinking his local juice.
What I can't do is provide prior notice to my Facebook friends of where I'm out and about on any given day or night.
That said, if you're looking for me, I can be found. Just ask in advance and I'll tell you where.
But MIA? Only if you don't know where to look.
When I (finally after 3 years) posted a new profile photo on Facebook the other day, certain friends wasted no time in weighing in.
There you are! I've been looking for you.
Where have you been?
Well, let's see, just yesterday I was, as usual, all over the place.
In the morning I was down walking by the river, at least right up until I made a pit stop on the way home at Rapp Session for a lobster roll and an orgeat lemonade, quite possibly the most exquisite summer lunch known to woman.
In the afternoon, I was at Firehouse Theater with Mac for their collaboration with TheatreLab on "Heathers: The Musical," a riff on the late '80s black comedy classic about mean girl high school cliques.
As a card-carrying nerd in high school, I knew nothing of such popularity.
The play was a hoot, from a slo-mo fight scene to an ode to 7-11 and Slurpees ("Happiness comes when everything's numb"). Of course the '80s references were rampant: Bono at Live Aid, Air Supply, watching porn on Cinemax (or is that Skinemax?).
And when else but the '80s would a high school girl announce, "I'm, hot, pissed and on the pill?" On a fashion sidenote, in a play full of adorable '80s looks, it was the Heather played by Michaela Nicole who took top prize for most fabulous hair and cutest skirt (a split yellow skirt with a yoke that I'd love to own).
Easily the most hilarious scene concerned the fathers' reactions to the apparent suicide of their sons, two testosterone-fueled jocks.
I don't know what was funnier, the lyrics of "Dead Gay Son" sung by Billy Christopher Maupin and Eddie Webster as the fathers ("Well, I never cared for homos much until I reared me one") or Maupin's Dad shuffle dance in celebration of his new-found appreciation for the two stray rhinestones on the Lord's big purse.
Great stuff. It's no wonder the show's run has been extended.
In the evening, I was at Sub Rosa for the latest in their natural wine series of Sub Rosato pop-ups with the added bonus of Miramar playing.
Since it wasn't my first
Rather than choose from a list created by a pro (the savvy Virginia), we opted to work our way across the list from sparkling through white, Rose and red, while noshing on every single thing on the pop-up menu: buttery tarts of goat cheese, dill and tomato, a charcuterie board, bread and olive oil and housemade chips.
Be still, my cholesterol.
Starting with Omero Moretti, an organic, unfiltered Umbrian and a classic Cremant du Jura, we moved through the wildly contrasting Sepp Moser Gruner Veltliner and Benito Santos "Pago de Xoan" Rias Baixas.
It was our loss to miss out on the Spanish Rose because it had already sold out, so we enjoyed a Virginian instead (Rosemont's unfiltered Rose) along with a faux Rose, a Kir Royale made with the Jura we'd already had.
It wasn't much of a sacrifice, I have to say.
Meanwhile, the trio of Miramar was effortlessly enchanting the room with boleros, Brazilian songs and original music, all set to the keyboard accompaniment of national treasure Marlyse Simmons, who managed to do it despite the setting sun through the window making things a tad warm for her.
Singer Laura Ann, looking fabulous in an orange sherbet-colored dress with orange pumps - because only she would have orange pumps - made sure to remind the crowded room that despite the happy sound to some songs, they were all basically unhappy.
"Here we are celebrating life and happiness through sadness, as we do," Laura said while Rei shook his maracas in agreement.
Late in the set, percussion arrived courtesy of Giustino and his bongos, making for a thrilling addition to an already sublime sound. It looked like hot work, though, and he'd pull out his handkerchief between songs to wipe sweat from his head.
That's a dedicated musician right there.
Lots of friends crowded into the bakery: the Turkish singer, her Russian guitarist and his Italian fashion blogger girlfriend, the jazz critic, the dance party enthusiast, practically the entire Dutch & Co. crew, the reporter.
It was a party for those in the know.
Back at our table, we sipped the lovely Te Mata Gamay Noir from Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, coincidentally also the home of the winemaker I'd squired around last month. I can't wait to tell him I'm still drinking his local juice.
What I can't do is provide prior notice to my Facebook friends of where I'm out and about on any given day or night.
That said, if you're looking for me, I can be found. Just ask in advance and I'll tell you where.
But MIA? Only if you don't know where to look.
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Pop Arias and Beach Goth
Take me away, Indian Summer.
Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.
The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.
I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.
"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.
With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.
If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.
The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."
During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.
Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.
With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.
Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.
One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?
Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.
Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.
There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.
When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.
Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.
It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.
Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.
My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.
My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.
Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.
"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"
So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.
But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.
By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.
Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling
That I just can't lose
After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.
When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.
For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.
"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.
After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.
"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.
The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.
When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.
I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.
Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.
The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.
I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.
"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.
With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.
If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.
The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."
During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.
Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.
With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.
Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.
One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?
Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.
Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.
There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.
When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.
Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.
It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.
Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.
My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.
My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.
Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.
"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"
So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.
But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.
By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.
Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling
That I just can't lose
After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.
When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.
For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.
"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.
After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.
"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.
The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.
When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.
I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
January in the Rearview Mirror
Could there be a bigger treat than waking up on January 31 to a predicted high of 66 degrees?
While I was already looking forward to brunch plans in Carytown, it never occurred to me we'd be able to eat on the sunny patio or that I'd be inclined to walk there. Double score. Also, totally weird to be wearing a skort and t-shirt while still climbing over massive snow piles on the north side of the streets.
Knowing that Dixie Donuts closes in two weeks, there was no way I was walking by it without dipping inside for a doughnut. I may live far closer to Sugar Shack, but I far prefer Dixie's doughnuts.
The guy in line in front of me was dithering about his choice because as a newcomer to Richmond, it was his first time in, but he finally decided, telling the owner that he'd be back every Sunday after church to try all the other varieties.
"We close after Valentine's Day," she told him and his face fell, as mine would've if I hadn't already known. Somehow, the owner remembered me from our ages-ago meeting at Cask Cafe as I ordered a my usual: a chocolate chocolate doughnut (but not, it should be noted, a chocolate chocolate chocolate doughnut because I'm not a jimmies fan).
Walking home, the streets were buzzing with everyone who'd been trapped inside last weekend, strolling, running, porch drinking, dog-walking, biking, eating outside and generally just hanging out in the sunshine. It was glorious.
My first order of business once I got home was opening all seven windows in my house, which means opening storm windows, too, but completely worth the double duty. Coming a week after the near-blizzard, I'd have done pretty much anything to access fresh, warm air.
I no sooner got the apartment opened up than I left for Sub Rosa to hear some '60s Turkish music.
Yeni Nostalji was playing a set and, as you might expect on a sunny, warm winter day, people were out and about in Church Hill withsome, like me, stopping by specifically because of Christina's dulcet tones and Vlad's beautiful guitar playing, but also others seeking the best breads in town.
The bakery was filling up quickly when I arrived to find a stool behind the wide open door. Unfortunately, one idiot closed it on his way out and after that, everyone followed suit, trapping the hot air from Evrim's wood-fired oven and putting a glow on everyone's face in minutes.
But who's going to complain when Yeni Nostalji are playing their exquisite take on Turkish pop? A foursome came in and stood right next to the musicians, riveted, even dancing a little in place. Turns out they were Turkish students, paying Christina the ultimate compliment by praising her Turkish accent before they left.
Most of us couldn't determine that, but just being in a place that sounded and smelled so good on this beautiful last day of January was more than enough.
Thanks, Mother Nature, for the payback. Double or nothing tomorrow?
While I was already looking forward to brunch plans in Carytown, it never occurred to me we'd be able to eat on the sunny patio or that I'd be inclined to walk there. Double score. Also, totally weird to be wearing a skort and t-shirt while still climbing over massive snow piles on the north side of the streets.
Knowing that Dixie Donuts closes in two weeks, there was no way I was walking by it without dipping inside for a doughnut. I may live far closer to Sugar Shack, but I far prefer Dixie's doughnuts.
The guy in line in front of me was dithering about his choice because as a newcomer to Richmond, it was his first time in, but he finally decided, telling the owner that he'd be back every Sunday after church to try all the other varieties.
"We close after Valentine's Day," she told him and his face fell, as mine would've if I hadn't already known. Somehow, the owner remembered me from our ages-ago meeting at Cask Cafe as I ordered a my usual: a chocolate chocolate doughnut (but not, it should be noted, a chocolate chocolate chocolate doughnut because I'm not a jimmies fan).
Walking home, the streets were buzzing with everyone who'd been trapped inside last weekend, strolling, running, porch drinking, dog-walking, biking, eating outside and generally just hanging out in the sunshine. It was glorious.
My first order of business once I got home was opening all seven windows in my house, which means opening storm windows, too, but completely worth the double duty. Coming a week after the near-blizzard, I'd have done pretty much anything to access fresh, warm air.
I no sooner got the apartment opened up than I left for Sub Rosa to hear some '60s Turkish music.
Yeni Nostalji was playing a set and, as you might expect on a sunny, warm winter day, people were out and about in Church Hill withsome, like me, stopping by specifically because of Christina's dulcet tones and Vlad's beautiful guitar playing, but also others seeking the best breads in town.
The bakery was filling up quickly when I arrived to find a stool behind the wide open door. Unfortunately, one idiot closed it on his way out and after that, everyone followed suit, trapping the hot air from Evrim's wood-fired oven and putting a glow on everyone's face in minutes.
But who's going to complain when Yeni Nostalji are playing their exquisite take on Turkish pop? A foursome came in and stood right next to the musicians, riveted, even dancing a little in place. Turns out they were Turkish students, paying Christina the ultimate compliment by praising her Turkish accent before they left.
Most of us couldn't determine that, but just being in a place that sounded and smelled so good on this beautiful last day of January was more than enough.
Thanks, Mother Nature, for the payback. Double or nothing tomorrow?
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day
Love is dead. Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy announced their conscious uncoupling today.
Even an optimist like me has to have her faith in happily ever after shaken a bit by that. Who's next, Mom and Dad?
Setting aside personal concerns for the greater good, I walked over to 1708 Gallery for tonight's talk and dinner on BridgePark. Although it hadn't been all that long since I'd attended a community conversation on BridgePark, tonight's was less a meeting and more of a social.
In other words, there was a cash bar.
More importantly to me, there was also a week-long exhibit devoted to a model, sketches, a film and enlarged photographs of the proposed BridgePark connecting the green spaces of the state capital to the river and Manchester.
The challenge was being able to see these ideas brought to the gallery's walls and floor space given the crush of warm bodies filling 1708. It wasn't the same crowd that had attended the last meeting in Manchester. No, this was a far artsier crowd and with drinks in hand, the feeling was more of one big cocktail party.
Not that there's anything wrong with an art meet and greet.
Gallerists and arty types abounded, along with young families, river devotees and BridgePark's growing following.
One large photo of the James at sunset made comparisons:
The Seine
The Arno
The James
Another showed two eagles facing off in mid-air. It read:
Food, Music. Fun.
And eagle battles.
After the crowd was nicely lubricated, organizer Ted got the crowd's attention - no easy task amid all the kvetching - and did a shorter presentation than the one I'd seen last.
He admitted to our collective love affair with the old train bridge piers in the river (we can't deny it). He spoke of making better use of an under-utilized bridge. To really grab the crowd, he showed a photo of the July 4th fireworks taken from the bridge.
When all of a sudden technology failed him and the images wouldn't move forward, a guy near me shouted out, "Kill the DJ!" I thought it was funny. Device again working, we finished the presentation with no further good-natured heckling.
Then and only then were people allowed to go through the food line, enjoying a repast curated by the Underground Kitchen, cooked by Chef Carly Herring with food supplied from Belmont Butchery, Renew Richmond, Shalom Farms and VSU with a charming row of vases holding mostly pink zinnias courtesy of Tricycle Gardens lining the center of the table.
Conveniently, I'd stationed myself near the food table for the presentation, so it wasn't far to be the second person in line (behind the tiny woman with the sleeping child in her arms). Beef vegetable soup, beautifully balanced kale salad with Feta and craisins in a honey dressing, a simply dressed tomato and onion salad that tasted like the tomatoes had been in the ground this morning and the heel a loaf of Sub Rosa's brown bread filled up my plate.
We'd been told that the reason for the large communal table was so that we might sit next to a stranger (something I do on a fairly frequent basis, btw) and build community by discussing our impressions and hopes for BridgePark with others also interested in the project.
I sat down with empty chairs on either side of me.
Her backside had barely hit the chair when the woman next to me introduced herself and I recognized her as a rock climber who'd expressed concerns about losing the southside climbing wall in the plans for the park. She confirmed her love of climbing, informing me that we were one of the rare cities who had natural climbing places downtown.
We'd already heard from Ted that we were one of two state capitals with eagle habitats downtown. And don't get us started on our Class IV rapids downtown or we might go on for days.
Another woman sat down next to her, explaining that she was a lawyer who'd known Ted before he stopped lawyering to run the BridgePark non-profit. Next came a familiar face - a WRIR DJ who also plays around town as a DJ - across from me, but I couldn't very well send him on his way just because I knew him, could I? I spotted the Man About Town standing in the food line holding lemonade for a young damsel.
Carly's soup with Belmont Butchery's beef in the starring role was ridiculously appealing given that it was still 90+ degrees outside. Sub Rosa's bread soaked up every bit of broth. I chatted with my new friends about BridgePark's possibilities.
To accompany our meal, Rodney the Soul Singer crooned at the front of the room as the film showing the majesty of the James played behind us. Everywhere around me, people were busy eating and talking about the concept of a bridge park in Richmond.
They were putting on a good show, but I'm willing to bet that under those lively facades, their hearts were aching with the depressing news of Kermit and Piggy's breakup. What hope is there for the rest of us?
As far as moi is concerned, sometimes you just have to eat a chocolate chip/macadamia/coconut cookie and call it a day.
Even an optimist like me has to have her faith in happily ever after shaken a bit by that. Who's next, Mom and Dad?
Setting aside personal concerns for the greater good, I walked over to 1708 Gallery for tonight's talk and dinner on BridgePark. Although it hadn't been all that long since I'd attended a community conversation on BridgePark, tonight's was less a meeting and more of a social.
In other words, there was a cash bar.
More importantly to me, there was also a week-long exhibit devoted to a model, sketches, a film and enlarged photographs of the proposed BridgePark connecting the green spaces of the state capital to the river and Manchester.
The challenge was being able to see these ideas brought to the gallery's walls and floor space given the crush of warm bodies filling 1708. It wasn't the same crowd that had attended the last meeting in Manchester. No, this was a far artsier crowd and with drinks in hand, the feeling was more of one big cocktail party.
Not that there's anything wrong with an art meet and greet.
Gallerists and arty types abounded, along with young families, river devotees and BridgePark's growing following.
One large photo of the James at sunset made comparisons:
The Seine
The Arno
The James
Another showed two eagles facing off in mid-air. It read:
Food, Music. Fun.
And eagle battles.
After the crowd was nicely lubricated, organizer Ted got the crowd's attention - no easy task amid all the kvetching - and did a shorter presentation than the one I'd seen last.
He admitted to our collective love affair with the old train bridge piers in the river (we can't deny it). He spoke of making better use of an under-utilized bridge. To really grab the crowd, he showed a photo of the July 4th fireworks taken from the bridge.
When all of a sudden technology failed him and the images wouldn't move forward, a guy near me shouted out, "Kill the DJ!" I thought it was funny. Device again working, we finished the presentation with no further good-natured heckling.
Then and only then were people allowed to go through the food line, enjoying a repast curated by the Underground Kitchen, cooked by Chef Carly Herring with food supplied from Belmont Butchery, Renew Richmond, Shalom Farms and VSU with a charming row of vases holding mostly pink zinnias courtesy of Tricycle Gardens lining the center of the table.
Conveniently, I'd stationed myself near the food table for the presentation, so it wasn't far to be the second person in line (behind the tiny woman with the sleeping child in her arms). Beef vegetable soup, beautifully balanced kale salad with Feta and craisins in a honey dressing, a simply dressed tomato and onion salad that tasted like the tomatoes had been in the ground this morning and the heel a loaf of Sub Rosa's brown bread filled up my plate.
We'd been told that the reason for the large communal table was so that we might sit next to a stranger (something I do on a fairly frequent basis, btw) and build community by discussing our impressions and hopes for BridgePark with others also interested in the project.
I sat down with empty chairs on either side of me.
Her backside had barely hit the chair when the woman next to me introduced herself and I recognized her as a rock climber who'd expressed concerns about losing the southside climbing wall in the plans for the park. She confirmed her love of climbing, informing me that we were one of the rare cities who had natural climbing places downtown.
We'd already heard from Ted that we were one of two state capitals with eagle habitats downtown. And don't get us started on our Class IV rapids downtown or we might go on for days.
Another woman sat down next to her, explaining that she was a lawyer who'd known Ted before he stopped lawyering to run the BridgePark non-profit. Next came a familiar face - a WRIR DJ who also plays around town as a DJ - across from me, but I couldn't very well send him on his way just because I knew him, could I? I spotted the Man About Town standing in the food line holding lemonade for a young damsel.
Carly's soup with Belmont Butchery's beef in the starring role was ridiculously appealing given that it was still 90+ degrees outside. Sub Rosa's bread soaked up every bit of broth. I chatted with my new friends about BridgePark's possibilities.
To accompany our meal, Rodney the Soul Singer crooned at the front of the room as the film showing the majesty of the James played behind us. Everywhere around me, people were busy eating and talking about the concept of a bridge park in Richmond.
They were putting on a good show, but I'm willing to bet that under those lively facades, their hearts were aching with the depressing news of Kermit and Piggy's breakup. What hope is there for the rest of us?
As far as moi is concerned, sometimes you just have to eat a chocolate chip/macadamia/coconut cookie and call it a day.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Nothing to Do
It's rare that I swap day for night. Rarer still when I get up to an empty page in my datebook.
So with absolutely nothing planned for any part of the day or night, I punted, also known as trolling Facebook to see what I'd been invited to while I'd been out of town so much lately.
Barely over a week since my last live music show at a bakery, I returned to Sub Rosa for an afternoon of music by Yeni Nostalji Lite, which is to say vocalist Christina, guitarist Vlad and, on a few songs, Tim on acoustic guitar. It was such a casual performance that they were all seated in the big front window.
Vases of zinnia, marigolds and sunflowers sat on every table, all of which were occupied, in some cases with groups of strangers. I spotted the Italian speaker at the bar, a French food-loving teacher in the back and waited, knowing that the artist would make the effort to come over for a hug and to say hello.
He did.
Between Sub Rosa's usual Sunday business and patrons who came for music but also got seduced by the baked offerings, it was pretty much a constant line at the counter, breaking up my view from a stool butted up against the glass of that counter.
Not that I could blame anyone.
Despite having already eaten, I was unable to resist the siren song of roasted pepper quiche calling to me from behind the glass next to me. "Karen, eat me, eat me..." it wailed directly to me. The guy sitting next to me approved of my choice, noting, "I look forward to that quiche every week." Tellingly, his plate contained nothing but crumbs.
I'd gotten my quiche along with a Pentiman's rose lemonade because it was a hot day, never more obvious than when a woman walked outside and promptly fainted. The Turkish folk songs stopped mid-note and several people rushed outside to help her.
Turns out she'd gone for a long bike ride this morning but hadn't had anything to eat or drink. Foolish girl. She was packed off into her boyfriend's SUV and taken to an undisclosed location, presumably to fuel her body so it didn't give up on her again.
Yeni Nostalji returned to playing things such as 300-year old anti-war songs sung in obscure Turkish dialects (a guy in front of me leans over to his partner and wonders, "What language are they singing in?") with Christina shaking her armful of silver bangles when percussion was needed.
At the counter, the line continued with my favorite customer being the guy who began by asking what everything was and then ordering one of everything - seeded braids, almond croissants, shortbread cookies, chocolate croissants, beef borek - except quiche because I'd gotten the last one.
The attentive audience laughed when Christina announced, "I'm sorry, but this song is typically a duet so I'm going to have to sing a love song to myself." Never was baker (and fellow bandmate) Evrim so missed.
No woman should have to sing a love song to herself.
They ended their set with the same song with which they'd begun, making for perfect Turkish symmetry.
Leaving Church Hill for Jackson Ward, I'd decided to go see TheatreLab's production of "The Altruists" because I'd been hearing so much good about it and they were offering a great deal today. Patrons had only to roll a die and pay whatever the roll was plus five. I rolled a "6" so I paid $11 for my ticket.
The only problem was, I mistakenly assumed everyone had done the same until the woman next to me, a scientist who always enjoys the theater but too rarely makes the time to see it, shared that she'd paid full price ordering her ticket online earlier this afternoon.
Oops. This is why they say loose lips sink ships, Karen.
I spotted a few more familiar faces - an actor, a critic - before the lights went down and the audience was thrown into the back seat of a bus that was already hurtling down the road at breakneck speed.
McLean Jesse was chewing scenery and picking her teeth with the splinters as the actress Sydney (who plays a character named Montana Beach in a soap opera called, what else, "Montana Beach") who is telling off her unfaithful boyfriend Swallow as he sleeps the sleep of the drunk in bed.
"I see now I was just drunk with sex!" she shrieks at the unresponsive Swallow. "No man's perfect, but some are better."
This is the only thing that gives the straight females of the world a reason to keep trying.
In another bedroom, her brother Ronald is professing his love to Lance, a male prostitute, not that Ronald knew that when they hooked up. Already he's in love.
And in the third bedroom of the cleverly designed set, we see that Swallow (played at fever pitch as an unrepentant womanizer by Evan Nasteff, wearing a "F*ck SeaWorld" t-shirt) is just waking up after a drunken night of sex with Cybil, the purported lesbian.
So who was Sydney yelling at in that bed then?
Everyone but Sydney here is an aspiring activist (she doesn't like sweating or too much sun exposure), eager to attend protests and have a part in changing the big, bad world.
The problem is, they only want to do it if it's easy and convenient. Most of the time, none of them can even recall what this week's protest is about. Black lesbian rights or gay Latinos? School funding or government free cheese?
They all claim to want to do the right thing, but they all sponge off Sydney's money, using her house and car for "the cause" and with no acknowledgement of the bigger picture.
Sydney has done a bad thing, a criminal act, but they put their collective consciences on the back burner and protect her rather than losing their cash cow.
If, as John Mayer sang, "Numb is the new deep," these "altruists" are as deep as the ocean. It's tough not to sell your soul down the river when surrounded by nothing but people with no moral compass.
TheaterLAB has done it again, choosing a play with strong and thought-provoking dialog executed by a cast so strong it's impossible to shine a light on just one when all five shone in their roles. The set was brilliant, each room expressing its owner's life and place in the world. Lighting design played a starring role as the action shifted from one room to another at the drop of a hat.
I'd lucked into a fabulous afternoon of ensemble acting at its strongest.
Even after a walk to Cafe 821 for dinner set to a little thrash, I was home by 8:30. As in, before 9:00. Looks like I'll finish my beach read tonight, miles from the sound of the ocean.
Heard some beautiful live music, laughed and winced to a smart play and ate out twice. No days are perfect, but for one that began with an empty slate, I'd say I did pretty well.
Don't go getting any wild ideas about me, though. I still think nights are way better.
So with absolutely nothing planned for any part of the day or night, I punted, also known as trolling Facebook to see what I'd been invited to while I'd been out of town so much lately.
Barely over a week since my last live music show at a bakery, I returned to Sub Rosa for an afternoon of music by Yeni Nostalji Lite, which is to say vocalist Christina, guitarist Vlad and, on a few songs, Tim on acoustic guitar. It was such a casual performance that they were all seated in the big front window.
Vases of zinnia, marigolds and sunflowers sat on every table, all of which were occupied, in some cases with groups of strangers. I spotted the Italian speaker at the bar, a French food-loving teacher in the back and waited, knowing that the artist would make the effort to come over for a hug and to say hello.
He did.
Between Sub Rosa's usual Sunday business and patrons who came for music but also got seduced by the baked offerings, it was pretty much a constant line at the counter, breaking up my view from a stool butted up against the glass of that counter.
Not that I could blame anyone.
Despite having already eaten, I was unable to resist the siren song of roasted pepper quiche calling to me from behind the glass next to me. "Karen, eat me, eat me..." it wailed directly to me. The guy sitting next to me approved of my choice, noting, "I look forward to that quiche every week." Tellingly, his plate contained nothing but crumbs.
I'd gotten my quiche along with a Pentiman's rose lemonade because it was a hot day, never more obvious than when a woman walked outside and promptly fainted. The Turkish folk songs stopped mid-note and several people rushed outside to help her.
Turns out she'd gone for a long bike ride this morning but hadn't had anything to eat or drink. Foolish girl. She was packed off into her boyfriend's SUV and taken to an undisclosed location, presumably to fuel her body so it didn't give up on her again.
Yeni Nostalji returned to playing things such as 300-year old anti-war songs sung in obscure Turkish dialects (a guy in front of me leans over to his partner and wonders, "What language are they singing in?") with Christina shaking her armful of silver bangles when percussion was needed.
At the counter, the line continued with my favorite customer being the guy who began by asking what everything was and then ordering one of everything - seeded braids, almond croissants, shortbread cookies, chocolate croissants, beef borek - except quiche because I'd gotten the last one.
The attentive audience laughed when Christina announced, "I'm sorry, but this song is typically a duet so I'm going to have to sing a love song to myself." Never was baker (and fellow bandmate) Evrim so missed.
No woman should have to sing a love song to herself.
They ended their set with the same song with which they'd begun, making for perfect Turkish symmetry.
Leaving Church Hill for Jackson Ward, I'd decided to go see TheatreLab's production of "The Altruists" because I'd been hearing so much good about it and they were offering a great deal today. Patrons had only to roll a die and pay whatever the roll was plus five. I rolled a "6" so I paid $11 for my ticket.
The only problem was, I mistakenly assumed everyone had done the same until the woman next to me, a scientist who always enjoys the theater but too rarely makes the time to see it, shared that she'd paid full price ordering her ticket online earlier this afternoon.
Oops. This is why they say loose lips sink ships, Karen.
I spotted a few more familiar faces - an actor, a critic - before the lights went down and the audience was thrown into the back seat of a bus that was already hurtling down the road at breakneck speed.
McLean Jesse was chewing scenery and picking her teeth with the splinters as the actress Sydney (who plays a character named Montana Beach in a soap opera called, what else, "Montana Beach") who is telling off her unfaithful boyfriend Swallow as he sleeps the sleep of the drunk in bed.
"I see now I was just drunk with sex!" she shrieks at the unresponsive Swallow. "No man's perfect, but some are better."
This is the only thing that gives the straight females of the world a reason to keep trying.
In another bedroom, her brother Ronald is professing his love to Lance, a male prostitute, not that Ronald knew that when they hooked up. Already he's in love.
And in the third bedroom of the cleverly designed set, we see that Swallow (played at fever pitch as an unrepentant womanizer by Evan Nasteff, wearing a "F*ck SeaWorld" t-shirt) is just waking up after a drunken night of sex with Cybil, the purported lesbian.
So who was Sydney yelling at in that bed then?
Everyone but Sydney here is an aspiring activist (she doesn't like sweating or too much sun exposure), eager to attend protests and have a part in changing the big, bad world.
The problem is, they only want to do it if it's easy and convenient. Most of the time, none of them can even recall what this week's protest is about. Black lesbian rights or gay Latinos? School funding or government free cheese?
They all claim to want to do the right thing, but they all sponge off Sydney's money, using her house and car for "the cause" and with no acknowledgement of the bigger picture.
Sydney has done a bad thing, a criminal act, but they put their collective consciences on the back burner and protect her rather than losing their cash cow.
If, as John Mayer sang, "Numb is the new deep," these "altruists" are as deep as the ocean. It's tough not to sell your soul down the river when surrounded by nothing but people with no moral compass.
TheaterLAB has done it again, choosing a play with strong and thought-provoking dialog executed by a cast so strong it's impossible to shine a light on just one when all five shone in their roles. The set was brilliant, each room expressing its owner's life and place in the world. Lighting design played a starring role as the action shifted from one room to another at the drop of a hat.
I'd lucked into a fabulous afternoon of ensemble acting at its strongest.
Even after a walk to Cafe 821 for dinner set to a little thrash, I was home by 8:30. As in, before 9:00. Looks like I'll finish my beach read tonight, miles from the sound of the ocean.
Heard some beautiful live music, laughed and winced to a smart play and ate out twice. No days are perfect, but for one that began with an empty slate, I'd say I did pretty well.
Don't go getting any wild ideas about me, though. I still think nights are way better.
Friday, July 24, 2015
As the Evening Sun Goes Down
It's a little after 8 and I can hear the band sound-checking as I approach the bakery.
Inside Sub Rosa, I score a stool from the dwindling number still unoccupied and say hello to the southern-drawling Bijou champion, who lets me in on two fabulous upcoming movie events, one classic, one unreleased.
After sharing my enthusiasm for both events, I leave him when I spot pastries on the nearby counter. It's been a fabulous but long day and I haven't yet had dinner.
From a selection of delectable looking breads, knots and croissants, I choose a fat salami and Gruyere croissant, placed artfully on a stoneware plate by owner Evrim. I can tell by its buttery sheen that multiple napkins are in order.
Standing there as he prepares my plate, I overhear a woman talking about her trip to St. Martin's and its nude beach. When I think I hear her talking about a man on the beach with not just braided pubic hair, but beads braided into his pubic hair, I can't help but insert myself into the conversation.
The visual is unsettling. "It's so disturbing, I hesitated to say it aloud," she apologizes. "How much do you have to pay someone to spend that much time doing that to your, um, pubes?"
As much as they'll pay, I would imagine.
Sticking a needle in my mind's eye and returning to my stool, my fingers got shiny and my belly progressively happier as I ate the savory roll. I got a look of surprise and delight from the singer of Turkish songs when she walked in and an inquiry from the recently arrived film professor of, "What's in that?" as he pointed to my croissant. Apparently, the pleasure I was taking in my dinner wasn't lost on him.
I love being an inspiration to other eaters.
Sub Rosa isn't a big place and it continued to fill up, even after the Paul Watson Quintet - Paul on cornet trumpet, Steve on guitar, Tadd on double bass and Pippin ("The man I call Mr. Essential," Paul said) on drums - began knocking the crowd's socks off with their talent.
From inside, I saw my favorite jeweler/Viet Nam vet (tonight wearing a cowboy hat) at the front door, and he was waved around, entering through the back door. He wasn't the only one.
As talented as Paul is on horn, he's also got a terrific baritone voice and used it often tonight as he showcased material off his latest album.
After all these years
and 10,000 beers
Tell me, what do you see?
It was while the band was rocking out to "These Words" that I realized that the bakery was a gorgeous place for this show, with the sun setting behind us and the soft yellow glow of lights along the wall illuminating a crowd sitting on chairs, stools, the floor and standing. One guy even perched on the counter.
Just as I was noticing all this, Paul must have been, too, saying, "This is a timely song," and began singing, "When that evening sun goes down, that's the time I love the best," a slow and sweet song.
Massive applause followed an instrumental piece featuring Paul on cornet, and he took the moment to announce, "I want to remind you about our little merch display. It only represents 40 years, that's all. They say the best things in life are free, but they're really $19.95."
Paul's longevity in the business is well-known. Just last weekend, I'd seen a film from the early '80s that he'd voiced, his distinctive baritone a pleasure to listen to.
Behind me were two guys visiting from D.C. and it took me no time to find out they lived in Dupont Circle (R and Connecticut), my old neighborhood (21 and N). Turns out they'd come down for scuba diving lessons in Petersburg (I didn't ask) and to see this show. They already have plans to come back in August.
That's how far some people come for a Paul Watson show. No surprise there.
The band's finale was a Mark Linkous song, "All Night Home," a nod to his recordings with Sparklehorse. The crowd listened reverently before he ended the evening by introducing the band.
But the full house was having none of it, demanding "One more!" until the band obliged with a song that included the evocative lyric, "How the youthful harlots curse..." Don't they, though?
With the show now officially over, bakery owner Evrim took the mic, saying what a magical evening it had been. As he'd told us, they only do occasional shows for very special performers, which is why I try not to miss them.
"Feel free to relax for a while," Evrim said. "A while, like three minutes. Then the bakers have to go to bed."
And while I'm not a baker, I had bed in my sights, too. It's exhausting having as much fresh air and fun as I've had the past two days.
When's the last time I said that?
Inside Sub Rosa, I score a stool from the dwindling number still unoccupied and say hello to the southern-drawling Bijou champion, who lets me in on two fabulous upcoming movie events, one classic, one unreleased.
After sharing my enthusiasm for both events, I leave him when I spot pastries on the nearby counter. It's been a fabulous but long day and I haven't yet had dinner.
From a selection of delectable looking breads, knots and croissants, I choose a fat salami and Gruyere croissant, placed artfully on a stoneware plate by owner Evrim. I can tell by its buttery sheen that multiple napkins are in order.
Standing there as he prepares my plate, I overhear a woman talking about her trip to St. Martin's and its nude beach. When I think I hear her talking about a man on the beach with not just braided pubic hair, but beads braided into his pubic hair, I can't help but insert myself into the conversation.
The visual is unsettling. "It's so disturbing, I hesitated to say it aloud," she apologizes. "How much do you have to pay someone to spend that much time doing that to your, um, pubes?"
As much as they'll pay, I would imagine.
Sticking a needle in my mind's eye and returning to my stool, my fingers got shiny and my belly progressively happier as I ate the savory roll. I got a look of surprise and delight from the singer of Turkish songs when she walked in and an inquiry from the recently arrived film professor of, "What's in that?" as he pointed to my croissant. Apparently, the pleasure I was taking in my dinner wasn't lost on him.
I love being an inspiration to other eaters.
Sub Rosa isn't a big place and it continued to fill up, even after the Paul Watson Quintet - Paul on cornet trumpet, Steve on guitar, Tadd on double bass and Pippin ("The man I call Mr. Essential," Paul said) on drums - began knocking the crowd's socks off with their talent.
From inside, I saw my favorite jeweler/Viet Nam vet (tonight wearing a cowboy hat) at the front door, and he was waved around, entering through the back door. He wasn't the only one.
As talented as Paul is on horn, he's also got a terrific baritone voice and used it often tonight as he showcased material off his latest album.
After all these years
and 10,000 beers
Tell me, what do you see?
It was while the band was rocking out to "These Words" that I realized that the bakery was a gorgeous place for this show, with the sun setting behind us and the soft yellow glow of lights along the wall illuminating a crowd sitting on chairs, stools, the floor and standing. One guy even perched on the counter.
Just as I was noticing all this, Paul must have been, too, saying, "This is a timely song," and began singing, "When that evening sun goes down, that's the time I love the best," a slow and sweet song.
Massive applause followed an instrumental piece featuring Paul on cornet, and he took the moment to announce, "I want to remind you about our little merch display. It only represents 40 years, that's all. They say the best things in life are free, but they're really $19.95."
Paul's longevity in the business is well-known. Just last weekend, I'd seen a film from the early '80s that he'd voiced, his distinctive baritone a pleasure to listen to.
Behind me were two guys visiting from D.C. and it took me no time to find out they lived in Dupont Circle (R and Connecticut), my old neighborhood (21 and N). Turns out they'd come down for scuba diving lessons in Petersburg (I didn't ask) and to see this show. They already have plans to come back in August.
That's how far some people come for a Paul Watson show. No surprise there.
The band's finale was a Mark Linkous song, "All Night Home," a nod to his recordings with Sparklehorse. The crowd listened reverently before he ended the evening by introducing the band.
But the full house was having none of it, demanding "One more!" until the band obliged with a song that included the evocative lyric, "How the youthful harlots curse..." Don't they, though?
With the show now officially over, bakery owner Evrim took the mic, saying what a magical evening it had been. As he'd told us, they only do occasional shows for very special performers, which is why I try not to miss them.
"Feel free to relax for a while," Evrim said. "A while, like three minutes. Then the bakers have to go to bed."
And while I'm not a baker, I had bed in my sights, too. It's exhausting having as much fresh air and fun as I've had the past two days.
When's the last time I said that?
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Angels' Songs, Wild Imaginings
The place: A popular bakery in Church Hill, Sub Rosa, subbing for Istanbul in the '60s.
The cast: Friends and fans of Yeni Nostalji, a band devoted to performing new interpretations of Turkish pop classics along with some original compositions at their inaugural performance.
The stars: Christina, she of the haunting vocals and Low Branches fame, Evrim, baker extraordinaire and handsome Turkish guitarist/vocalist and Jeff, husband of a Turkish woman, playing all other parts.
The scene: Some people have arrived early enough to occupy the few chairs set up for the audience, but people continue to arrive until every inch of the bakery floor is supporting someone. People are not only standing behind the counter, they're standing outside on the sidewalk to listen through the open door on this beautiful Sunday night.
The libations: Turkish all the way. The choices are Efes beer or raki, an anise flavored liqueur that is considered the national alcoholic beverage of Turkey. Mixed with a little water, it becomes cloudy and the source of a mildly dream-like buzz (think absinthe) and is naturally my choice.
The friends: Not surprisingly, I run into lots of people I know. The baker/teacher, the poet (date-less for a change), the dance party enthusiast, the musician and jewelry maker happy couple, even the young duo who used to live in my building and whom I haven't seen in a couple of years.
The Hair: Christina and Evrim have been styled by a Church Hill salon, Seven Hills, and while Evrim's is dapperly arranged to complement his mustache, Christina looks like a vision from 1966 with part of her long hair arranged on top of her head and the rest hanging down as a backdrop for her big earrings.
The music: Turkish songs of love, loss and happiness, or at least that's what I hear in the inflections of a language I do not know. Each song is more beautiful than the last and as the evening sky's deep blue gives way to navy blue, it is easy to forget we are in Church Hill.
Evrim says, "I want to thank Christina for re-introducing me to these songs." They do "Love Story (Where Do I Begin?)" and while I can hear the English words in my head, the Turkish ones are infinitely more beautiful.
The review: It's hard to conceive that this is their first time playing out. The trio is so comfortable with each other, their music so much a part of them and the vibe they create that surely they must have been playing these songs at a dim, smoky Turkish bar in another life.
Sipping raki listening to Turkish pop music in a bakery in Church Hill. Could there be a lovelier Sunday evening?
The cast: Friends and fans of Yeni Nostalji, a band devoted to performing new interpretations of Turkish pop classics along with some original compositions at their inaugural performance.
The stars: Christina, she of the haunting vocals and Low Branches fame, Evrim, baker extraordinaire and handsome Turkish guitarist/vocalist and Jeff, husband of a Turkish woman, playing all other parts.
The scene: Some people have arrived early enough to occupy the few chairs set up for the audience, but people continue to arrive until every inch of the bakery floor is supporting someone. People are not only standing behind the counter, they're standing outside on the sidewalk to listen through the open door on this beautiful Sunday night.
The libations: Turkish all the way. The choices are Efes beer or raki, an anise flavored liqueur that is considered the national alcoholic beverage of Turkey. Mixed with a little water, it becomes cloudy and the source of a mildly dream-like buzz (think absinthe) and is naturally my choice.
The friends: Not surprisingly, I run into lots of people I know. The baker/teacher, the poet (date-less for a change), the dance party enthusiast, the musician and jewelry maker happy couple, even the young duo who used to live in my building and whom I haven't seen in a couple of years.
The Hair: Christina and Evrim have been styled by a Church Hill salon, Seven Hills, and while Evrim's is dapperly arranged to complement his mustache, Christina looks like a vision from 1966 with part of her long hair arranged on top of her head and the rest hanging down as a backdrop for her big earrings.
The music: Turkish songs of love, loss and happiness, or at least that's what I hear in the inflections of a language I do not know. Each song is more beautiful than the last and as the evening sky's deep blue gives way to navy blue, it is easy to forget we are in Church Hill.
Evrim says, "I want to thank Christina for re-introducing me to these songs." They do "Love Story (Where Do I Begin?)" and while I can hear the English words in my head, the Turkish ones are infinitely more beautiful.
The review: It's hard to conceive that this is their first time playing out. The trio is so comfortable with each other, their music so much a part of them and the vibe they create that surely they must have been playing these songs at a dim, smoky Turkish bar in another life.
Sipping raki listening to Turkish pop music in a bakery in Church Hill. Could there be a lovelier Sunday evening?
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Dine and Dyad
What a beautiful night of community!
It began with the benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery at the Roosevelt, where chefs from Pasture, Secco, Julep, Aziza, Magpie, Heritage and, of course, the Roosevelt's own chef Lee made enough food for an army.
Knowing that between the very worthy cause and a buffet made by this crew, this was going to be major draw, I wisely arrived at 5:33 for the 5:30 event.
Foolish me.
They'd opened the doors at 5:27 and the line was already out the door with people lined up (a line lasting the next hour and a half) to pay $20 and wait as long as it took to go through the chow line.
Not me.
I paid and went to find a bar stool and glass of water.
Doing so, a server with an enormous tray of Chef Lee's fried chicken made her way through the mob, headed for the buffet table.
Without even thinking about it, I leaned in to her, inquired if I could grab a piece and got a smiling nod.
Forget that I didn't have a plate, or flatware, I was thrilled.
Sitting in my stool, I made do with bev naps as I tore into the steaming fried chicken.
Licking my fingers afterwards, I spotted Aziza's cream puffs sitting at the end of the bar and making my way there, made off with one of those.
The room was so warm with April and people that the ganache was melting on my fingers.
Yum.
When I returned to my seat, I noticed the guy now in the stool next to me busy with dinner.
Clearly he was doing things the right way with a full plate of food and not individual items eaten out of hand.
But I didn't hold that against him and he turned out to be a great conversationalist, a treat for me.
He got high points for telling me that I didn't have a cell phone.
I thought him terribly astute, but he corrected me, "It's not laying on the bar. Look around here. If you had one, it'd be out."
That may have been the point when he mentioned that I was odd.
He was there because of Sub Rosa's owner Evrim because they share a Turkish descent and the occasional conversation where he can exercise his pidgin Turkish.
So there was his reason for being at the benefit and I'm sure every other person there had their own reason, whether neighbors, customers and or just eager to help out.
The sense of community in the room was almost palpable.
Someone had donated two kegs of handcrafted beer - an Earl Grey brown ale and a black IPA- and the bartenders were wisely pouring it as fast as they could so as to have cups of it ready when people ordered it.
At one point, they were doing the equivalent of firemen passing buckets of water from team to team, with one bartender handing off two cups to the next bartender who then passed them off to a server for delivery.
Team work par excellence.
Chef Randy from Julep had stopped by and been sucked into the madness, helping Lee in the kitchen when the onslaught arrived en masse.
It wasn't long before the food began running out, a fact politely explained to latecomers, most of whom took it well.
There was the one group who copped an attitude, complaining that they'd driven in from the West end and even using the f-word to express their displeasure, but complaining because a benefit runs out of food seems incredibly petty, not to mention overly-entitled.
But for the other 98% of the attendees, there was much smiling, laughing, talking to Evrim and support for both his bakery and making sure the tenants above him are taken care of.
It was a beautiful thing to behold.
I lingered till the staff began eating, just in case they needed help with anything, but they seemed to have everything under control once the eaters left.
From there I moved on to another community, the musical one, at Bainbridge Collective.
The house show was called Dyad: A Night of Wine and Acoustic Music for Two and featured three bands, each comprised of a man and a woman.
The wine was all from Virginia, something I've never once seen in all my years of show-going, so there was Jefferson, Trump, St. Michele and Horton, among many others.
In a nod to the evening's theme, I went with Horton Norton, as indigenous as it gets.
We began on the back porch of the house with conversation and shared pleasure about the warm, spring weather.
Pittsburgh duo Broken Fences were the reason for the evening as they made a stop in Richmond on their current tour and they were happily sitting on a porch couch talking about how much they like Richmond.
Eventually, the show began in the main room and we took seats so that locals Dalliance could start.
He played guitar and they both sang, a delight because they both had such incredible voices for the literate songs they sang.
I was sorry when they got to their last song "Near" so quickly but laughed when guitarist Kendall said in a martyred voice, "I like this song with lots of reverb, but I guess I can do it acoustic."
He could, they did and I was sorry to see them go.
The reason for the evening, Broken Fences, was next, and I hadn't seen them since June 2011, back at the now-defunct Sprout.
They began by saying they'd arrived early to our fair city, allowing time to rework an old song they hadn't played in a while and half-apologizing in advance for it.
All I heard was two more amazing voices combined in ethereal harmonies for gentle folk songs.
Afterwards, they promised they'd go back to singing songs they knew better.
On "Song for You," Dalliance's Kendall added in foot stomping while Lobo Marino's Laney did thigh slapping, causing Broken Fence's Guy to thank them for the percussion when the song finished.
They mentioned that for a change they were getting to spend two nights in Richmond instead of rising at the crack of dawn to make it to the next city, so they had plans to go to Belle Isle tomorrow.
Boy, if they think they like Richmond now, they're never going to want to leave after a sunny day on the river.
They said the next song was begun before their dog got sick and finished the day before they had to put him down.
It was exquisite, heartbreaking and when it was over, someone said, "I'm sad," while someone else said, "Must be the wine's making me a little teary, too."
I know I was sitting there choking up thinking about the beloved beagle I'd had to put down a few years ago.
Saying, "Let's have some levity," they launched into a newer song, "The Glass is Gone" before finishing with "Stormy Clouds," as evocative as you'd imagine with that title and their voices.
Now that we're older
Can we stand still
And let the world unfurl?
We certainly can.
The other thing we can (and should) do is get this duo to play the Listening Room so dozens of people can hear their intense-sounding songs and incredible voices.
Last up was Lobo Marino playing their usual eastern-influenced tribal music, only this time in front of a black and white wall hanging with flashing colored Christmas lights underneath it.
Way cool.
Everyone in the room was having a blast as Jameson and Laney rolled through some of their songs, including one in Spanish and the much-requested, "Celebrate."
Banging on a jug, squeezing a harmonium, or wailing, these two put every bit of their travels into their music.
Laney's effort was so energetic that when the song ended, she looked at the audience and said, "That's it! We're finished."
But she wasn't finished reminding the audience to go buy Broken Fence's CDs and put some gas money in the jar to help them along on their travels.
"Cause Richmond does the right thing when musicians come through this town," Jameson said, stating the obvious.
We do the right thing whether it's out-of-towners or one of our own.
It's what makes this such a fine community.
It began with the benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery at the Roosevelt, where chefs from Pasture, Secco, Julep, Aziza, Magpie, Heritage and, of course, the Roosevelt's own chef Lee made enough food for an army.
Knowing that between the very worthy cause and a buffet made by this crew, this was going to be major draw, I wisely arrived at 5:33 for the 5:30 event.
Foolish me.
They'd opened the doors at 5:27 and the line was already out the door with people lined up (a line lasting the next hour and a half) to pay $20 and wait as long as it took to go through the chow line.
Not me.
I paid and went to find a bar stool and glass of water.
Doing so, a server with an enormous tray of Chef Lee's fried chicken made her way through the mob, headed for the buffet table.
Without even thinking about it, I leaned in to her, inquired if I could grab a piece and got a smiling nod.
Forget that I didn't have a plate, or flatware, I was thrilled.
Sitting in my stool, I made do with bev naps as I tore into the steaming fried chicken.
Licking my fingers afterwards, I spotted Aziza's cream puffs sitting at the end of the bar and making my way there, made off with one of those.
The room was so warm with April and people that the ganache was melting on my fingers.
Yum.
When I returned to my seat, I noticed the guy now in the stool next to me busy with dinner.
Clearly he was doing things the right way with a full plate of food and not individual items eaten out of hand.
But I didn't hold that against him and he turned out to be a great conversationalist, a treat for me.
He got high points for telling me that I didn't have a cell phone.
I thought him terribly astute, but he corrected me, "It's not laying on the bar. Look around here. If you had one, it'd be out."
That may have been the point when he mentioned that I was odd.
He was there because of Sub Rosa's owner Evrim because they share a Turkish descent and the occasional conversation where he can exercise his pidgin Turkish.
So there was his reason for being at the benefit and I'm sure every other person there had their own reason, whether neighbors, customers and or just eager to help out.
The sense of community in the room was almost palpable.
Someone had donated two kegs of handcrafted beer - an Earl Grey brown ale and a black IPA- and the bartenders were wisely pouring it as fast as they could so as to have cups of it ready when people ordered it.
At one point, they were doing the equivalent of firemen passing buckets of water from team to team, with one bartender handing off two cups to the next bartender who then passed them off to a server for delivery.
Team work par excellence.
Chef Randy from Julep had stopped by and been sucked into the madness, helping Lee in the kitchen when the onslaught arrived en masse.
It wasn't long before the food began running out, a fact politely explained to latecomers, most of whom took it well.
There was the one group who copped an attitude, complaining that they'd driven in from the West end and even using the f-word to express their displeasure, but complaining because a benefit runs out of food seems incredibly petty, not to mention overly-entitled.
But for the other 98% of the attendees, there was much smiling, laughing, talking to Evrim and support for both his bakery and making sure the tenants above him are taken care of.
It was a beautiful thing to behold.
I lingered till the staff began eating, just in case they needed help with anything, but they seemed to have everything under control once the eaters left.
From there I moved on to another community, the musical one, at Bainbridge Collective.
The house show was called Dyad: A Night of Wine and Acoustic Music for Two and featured three bands, each comprised of a man and a woman.
The wine was all from Virginia, something I've never once seen in all my years of show-going, so there was Jefferson, Trump, St. Michele and Horton, among many others.
In a nod to the evening's theme, I went with Horton Norton, as indigenous as it gets.
We began on the back porch of the house with conversation and shared pleasure about the warm, spring weather.
Pittsburgh duo Broken Fences were the reason for the evening as they made a stop in Richmond on their current tour and they were happily sitting on a porch couch talking about how much they like Richmond.
Eventually, the show began in the main room and we took seats so that locals Dalliance could start.
He played guitar and they both sang, a delight because they both had such incredible voices for the literate songs they sang.
I was sorry when they got to their last song "Near" so quickly but laughed when guitarist Kendall said in a martyred voice, "I like this song with lots of reverb, but I guess I can do it acoustic."
He could, they did and I was sorry to see them go.
The reason for the evening, Broken Fences, was next, and I hadn't seen them since June 2011, back at the now-defunct Sprout.
They began by saying they'd arrived early to our fair city, allowing time to rework an old song they hadn't played in a while and half-apologizing in advance for it.
All I heard was two more amazing voices combined in ethereal harmonies for gentle folk songs.
Afterwards, they promised they'd go back to singing songs they knew better.
On "Song for You," Dalliance's Kendall added in foot stomping while Lobo Marino's Laney did thigh slapping, causing Broken Fence's Guy to thank them for the percussion when the song finished.
They mentioned that for a change they were getting to spend two nights in Richmond instead of rising at the crack of dawn to make it to the next city, so they had plans to go to Belle Isle tomorrow.
Boy, if they think they like Richmond now, they're never going to want to leave after a sunny day on the river.
They said the next song was begun before their dog got sick and finished the day before they had to put him down.
It was exquisite, heartbreaking and when it was over, someone said, "I'm sad," while someone else said, "Must be the wine's making me a little teary, too."
I know I was sitting there choking up thinking about the beloved beagle I'd had to put down a few years ago.
Saying, "Let's have some levity," they launched into a newer song, "The Glass is Gone" before finishing with "Stormy Clouds," as evocative as you'd imagine with that title and their voices.
Now that we're older
Can we stand still
And let the world unfurl?
We certainly can.
The other thing we can (and should) do is get this duo to play the Listening Room so dozens of people can hear their intense-sounding songs and incredible voices.
Last up was Lobo Marino playing their usual eastern-influenced tribal music, only this time in front of a black and white wall hanging with flashing colored Christmas lights underneath it.
Way cool.
Everyone in the room was having a blast as Jameson and Laney rolled through some of their songs, including one in Spanish and the much-requested, "Celebrate."
Banging on a jug, squeezing a harmonium, or wailing, these two put every bit of their travels into their music.
Laney's effort was so energetic that when the song ended, she looked at the audience and said, "That's it! We're finished."
But she wasn't finished reminding the audience to go buy Broken Fence's CDs and put some gas money in the jar to help them along on their travels.
"Cause Richmond does the right thing when musicians come through this town," Jameson said, stating the obvious.
We do the right thing whether it's out-of-towners or one of our own.
It's what makes this such a fine community.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Stepping Out
It was a low-key night to stay in the neighborhood and see old friends.
Deciding to start at Bistro 27 because I hadn't yet heard Chef Carlos' tales of his recent trip to Paris, I was regaled with details about a dish of pig stomach wrapped in prosciutto and deep-fried.
Be still, my heart.
While he told me of drinking endless Cahors while there (well, he is Brazilian so Malbec's practically in his blood), I went with a Pinot Noir.
I was surprised (although apparently not as surprised as the Parisians) to hear that they'd had snow while he was there.
While hearing his recounting of exquisite sculpture, the tiniest of French bistros and a side trip to Dusseldorf, my companion and I moved on to eating.
There was halibut bobo, a take-off on his mother's recipe for shrimp bobo, delivering succulent, perfectly-cooked halibut in the distinctive sauce of yucca root puree, coconut milk and palm oil, a dish with a decided African influence.
I reveled in the oil and garlic-cooked broccolini, along with bacon-wrapped scallops and lentils (easily my favorite lentils in town) and a taste or two of pappardelle bolognese ("Close your eyes and pretend you're in Italy," the fork's owner instructed me).
Finishing with a one-two punch of panna cotta and chocolate mousse, all of a sudden it was show time.
And not only a show for music's sake, but a benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery, so a very worthy cause.
Fortunately, the show was only two blocks away at Gallery 5, where we walked in to find Patrick Bates playing his second song.
I'd seen the quintet not long ago at the Listening Room and really gotten into their sound, but tonight there were so many talkers in the room that I was glad I already knew what they sounded like.
And I wasn't the only one, since two other people also commented to me that it was a shame people didn't shut up so they could hear the nuances of the music.
Later even drummer Kevin said he was reluctant to use the brushes he'd used last time for fear they wouldn't be heard.
One thing I like about this band (besides Patrick's songs, the bass player's sense of humor and Kevin's drumming), is that the other two people have enough talent between them to play accordion, keyboards, cello and sax.
Now that's versatility.
I ran into a few friends (two drummers, a man-about-town, several former Mermaid Skeletons and a gallerist wearing the grooviest '70s tunic ever) between sets and then the sextet the Clair Morgans took the stage.
I'd listened online to get a feel for their sound and from the first song heard the same energetic indie music live that the MP3s had promised.
Patrick Bates was also in this band playing guitar, bongos and something that looked like a xylophone.
We got a dose of humor when a song began before Clair stopped it, looking sheepish.
"The show was going great until Clair put his capo on the wrong fret," Clair deadpanned, making the capo correction and finishing the song as it was meant to sound.
Damn fine.
One of my favorite moments came when one of the guitarists pulled out a drum as Patrick pulled out his bongos, meaning along with drummer Michael, fully half the band was beating on something.
Since a drummer friend had only a few minutes earlier been telling me about his idea for an all-drum music project, I couldn't resist nudging him and getting a big grin in return.
Headlining was Hens, a quintet I'd recently seen for the first time, and one full of big guitar sounds and big talent.
After a few songs, guitarist/singer Josh Hryciak said they'd been jamming on a new song and would go ahead and play it now.
But before that began, he moved center stage and gave us a pelvic wiggle for the ages before returning to play the song.
The man is a showman par excellence.
"That's a baby song," guitarist/singer David Shultz made sure we knew when the song wound down unceremoniously.
Guitarist/singer Marcus Shrock took over vocals for one song, indirectly reminding the crowd what a super-group these guys are with so much talent from time spent in former bands.
The last song was one big extended soundscape, with all of them looking like they were having a blast making music together.
And what could be better than friends (and employees - Josh worked at Sub Rosa) and fans getting together to make and hear music to support the worthiest of causes, a local business?
Knowing that Sub Roa is one step closer to re-opening, that's what.
Deciding to start at Bistro 27 because I hadn't yet heard Chef Carlos' tales of his recent trip to Paris, I was regaled with details about a dish of pig stomach wrapped in prosciutto and deep-fried.
Be still, my heart.
While he told me of drinking endless Cahors while there (well, he is Brazilian so Malbec's practically in his blood), I went with a Pinot Noir.
I was surprised (although apparently not as surprised as the Parisians) to hear that they'd had snow while he was there.
While hearing his recounting of exquisite sculpture, the tiniest of French bistros and a side trip to Dusseldorf, my companion and I moved on to eating.
There was halibut bobo, a take-off on his mother's recipe for shrimp bobo, delivering succulent, perfectly-cooked halibut in the distinctive sauce of yucca root puree, coconut milk and palm oil, a dish with a decided African influence.
I reveled in the oil and garlic-cooked broccolini, along with bacon-wrapped scallops and lentils (easily my favorite lentils in town) and a taste or two of pappardelle bolognese ("Close your eyes and pretend you're in Italy," the fork's owner instructed me).
Finishing with a one-two punch of panna cotta and chocolate mousse, all of a sudden it was show time.
And not only a show for music's sake, but a benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery, so a very worthy cause.
Fortunately, the show was only two blocks away at Gallery 5, where we walked in to find Patrick Bates playing his second song.
I'd seen the quintet not long ago at the Listening Room and really gotten into their sound, but tonight there were so many talkers in the room that I was glad I already knew what they sounded like.
And I wasn't the only one, since two other people also commented to me that it was a shame people didn't shut up so they could hear the nuances of the music.
Later even drummer Kevin said he was reluctant to use the brushes he'd used last time for fear they wouldn't be heard.
One thing I like about this band (besides Patrick's songs, the bass player's sense of humor and Kevin's drumming), is that the other two people have enough talent between them to play accordion, keyboards, cello and sax.
Now that's versatility.
I ran into a few friends (two drummers, a man-about-town, several former Mermaid Skeletons and a gallerist wearing the grooviest '70s tunic ever) between sets and then the sextet the Clair Morgans took the stage.
I'd listened online to get a feel for their sound and from the first song heard the same energetic indie music live that the MP3s had promised.
Patrick Bates was also in this band playing guitar, bongos and something that looked like a xylophone.
We got a dose of humor when a song began before Clair stopped it, looking sheepish.
"The show was going great until Clair put his capo on the wrong fret," Clair deadpanned, making the capo correction and finishing the song as it was meant to sound.
Damn fine.
One of my favorite moments came when one of the guitarists pulled out a drum as Patrick pulled out his bongos, meaning along with drummer Michael, fully half the band was beating on something.
Since a drummer friend had only a few minutes earlier been telling me about his idea for an all-drum music project, I couldn't resist nudging him and getting a big grin in return.
Headlining was Hens, a quintet I'd recently seen for the first time, and one full of big guitar sounds and big talent.
After a few songs, guitarist/singer Josh Hryciak said they'd been jamming on a new song and would go ahead and play it now.
But before that began, he moved center stage and gave us a pelvic wiggle for the ages before returning to play the song.
The man is a showman par excellence.
"That's a baby song," guitarist/singer David Shultz made sure we knew when the song wound down unceremoniously.
Guitarist/singer Marcus Shrock took over vocals for one song, indirectly reminding the crowd what a super-group these guys are with so much talent from time spent in former bands.
The last song was one big extended soundscape, with all of them looking like they were having a blast making music together.
And what could be better than friends (and employees - Josh worked at Sub Rosa) and fans getting together to make and hear music to support the worthiest of causes, a local business?
Knowing that Sub Roa is one step closer to re-opening, that's what.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Double Dutch Yum
'Tis the season to be indulgent.
To that end, the not-yet-open new restaurant Dutch and Co. in Church Hill was offering to-go lunches today.
While they're putting the finishing touches on the restaurant, they decided to tease Richmond with their to-go lunch program.
As a long-time fan of Acacia's very occasional to-go lunch program, I was all about it.
And while I don't usually get up much before lunchtime and Dutch & Co. was only serving from 11:30 to 1:00, it seemed worth making an adjustment for.
So while I didn't get up up until 11, all I had to do was skip my morning oatmeal and fruit to be in Church Hill by 11:40 to collect a brown box.
They were serving right out of the kitchen door onto 27th Street, making for a mix of clandestine and casual.
The guy in line behind me peered around me at the kitchen, saying, "Wow, that's a great ceiling!"
The pressed tin beauty was handsome and, as I said to him, no doubt the dining room will be even more so.
On the menu today was a triumvirate of Church Hill talent.
Meat master Chef Caleb had made sandwiches of housemade country pork pate with Brie, mustard and pickled fennel.
And get this: it was served on Sub Rosa bread, made by the talented baker Evrim a few blocks away.
With the sandwich came a savory salad of mixed greens, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts taking up half the box with its generous portion.
Dessert came courtesy of WPA Bakery, caddy-cornered from Dutch & Co., and encased in a wax-paper envelope.
It was a canele, a small French pastry with a soft center and a nice thick crust.
Yea, so for my first meal of the day, I was happily chowing down on an incredibly rich sandwich along with a mound of seasoned greens less than an hour after I woke up.
And you know what? Neither my stomach nor my body clock objected to country pate before noon.
As a matter of fact, they kind of reveled in it.
Sometimes you just need to start the day as indulgently as possible.
Once I finished, I did my usual walk through the cold, windy air, but with a feeling that the long holiday weekend had officially begun.
Once home, the phone rang and a friend who lives in Church Hill called to give me the inside scoop on a new restaurant in his neighborhood.
Picking pate out my teeth, I told him I was well aware of Dutch & Company.
He was sorry to have missed the tease of a boxed lunch.
I'm only sorry I have to wait to be indulged again by the new kids on the block.
Way to go, Church Hill.
To that end, the not-yet-open new restaurant Dutch and Co. in Church Hill was offering to-go lunches today.
While they're putting the finishing touches on the restaurant, they decided to tease Richmond with their to-go lunch program.
As a long-time fan of Acacia's very occasional to-go lunch program, I was all about it.
And while I don't usually get up much before lunchtime and Dutch & Co. was only serving from 11:30 to 1:00, it seemed worth making an adjustment for.
So while I didn't get up up until 11, all I had to do was skip my morning oatmeal and fruit to be in Church Hill by 11:40 to collect a brown box.
They were serving right out of the kitchen door onto 27th Street, making for a mix of clandestine and casual.
The guy in line behind me peered around me at the kitchen, saying, "Wow, that's a great ceiling!"
The pressed tin beauty was handsome and, as I said to him, no doubt the dining room will be even more so.
On the menu today was a triumvirate of Church Hill talent.
Meat master Chef Caleb had made sandwiches of housemade country pork pate with Brie, mustard and pickled fennel.
And get this: it was served on Sub Rosa bread, made by the talented baker Evrim a few blocks away.
With the sandwich came a savory salad of mixed greens, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts taking up half the box with its generous portion.
Dessert came courtesy of WPA Bakery, caddy-cornered from Dutch & Co., and encased in a wax-paper envelope.
It was a canele, a small French pastry with a soft center and a nice thick crust.
Yea, so for my first meal of the day, I was happily chowing down on an incredibly rich sandwich along with a mound of seasoned greens less than an hour after I woke up.
And you know what? Neither my stomach nor my body clock objected to country pate before noon.
As a matter of fact, they kind of reveled in it.
Sometimes you just need to start the day as indulgently as possible.
Once I finished, I did my usual walk through the cold, windy air, but with a feeling that the long holiday weekend had officially begun.
Once home, the phone rang and a friend who lives in Church Hill called to give me the inside scoop on a new restaurant in his neighborhood.
Picking pate out my teeth, I told him I was well aware of Dutch & Company.
He was sorry to have missed the tease of a boxed lunch.
I'm only sorry I have to wait to be indulged again by the new kids on the block.
Way to go, Church Hill.
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