You Don't Even Have to Say It

Don't be so sure I have plans.

Everybody assumes my schedule is jam-packed every minute of every evening - it's even been referred to as CSS, as in "crowded social schedule" - but in reality, many nights  find me with multiple options but no actual commitments.

Which means when a friend phones at 3:30 saying he's decided he wants to celebrate his birthday eve tonight and asking if I can join him and a favorite couple at 6, I enthusiastically say yes.

Think about that question. Can I join three good friends in two and a half hours for an evening of good food, drink and conversation? Must be a rhetorical question.

The plan was to meet at Rappahannock and I was the first to arrive, staking out seats on the far side of the bar and soon joined by the birthday boy toting two bottles of French Chardonnay (2006 and 2009) to enliven the festivities.

Before long the happy couple arrived and we learned that tonight was also the 13 year anniversary of their first date, so everyone had something to celebrate. For me, Friday night with friends was plenty.

Jumping right in with the intimacy of good friends and some vague details about the birthday boy's recent sex life, the 2006 wine was poured, revealing a very slightly oxidized nose and leading to discussion of wine and women past their prime but still worth savoring.

You know I had a few things to say on that subject.

It was the birthday celebrant's first time at Rappahannock so we began by diving into oysters on the half shell: butter Rapphannocks, slightly salty Stingrays, Old Saltes and, as a treat from the great north, Blue Hill Bay oysters from Maine, tasting like a mouth full of saltwater when a wave knocks you down. Divine.

Half of us (okay, me and the birthday boy) thought that the wine paired better with the saltier oysters while the other two thought the opposite.

It didn't matter what anyone thought because in no time at all, both were history.

We took an educational detour for a lesson in oxidation with a glass of sherry (but made no converts in the process) and the pork and pickles plate with pork rillettes and country pate, both nice enough but safe tasting.

"Needs more liver!" the celebrant pronounced and I agreed. Both seemed to have come from innocuous cuts like pork shoulder and lacked any real earthiness or rustic qualities, tastes well seek out.

Opening the 2009 Chardonnay, we found far more minerality, a much lighter color and a lovely choice to go with first a ceviche and then rockfish and barcat oyster bourride, a satisfying bowl with potatoes, garlic and a poached egg in a sop-worthy broth.

Sopping vehicles became the topic as the merits of Billy Bread and Sub Rosa were compared.

As usual with this crowd, a lot of the talk centered on food, drink and going out and before long we found ourselves listing future occasions for get togethers.

An authentic Ukrainian meal. A guest bartender competition party. A blind wine tasting. A trip to Merroir for the one who's never been. A mezcal tasting.

We could come up with countless reasons to hang out and put things in our mouths. And, no, we're not creepy swingers.

By then Rappahannock was completely full, so we decided to hit the road, with our first stop being Art 6 to see Helena Magnusson Ogburn's vibrantly colored, texturally dynamic painting show.

Funniest thing I was told about the artist? "She was so happy when she discovered hinges," a reference to several pieces that incorporated sections of brass hinges into the exuberant works.

My second favorite thing was that she paints every single day, a tenacity I respect.

The show was large with paintings of many sizes and we took our time seeing them all as they wound up the staircase, each of us choosing a favorite and explaining to the others why.

It's not enough to have an opinion with this group. You have to be able to defend it, too.

At one point, a girl walked by wearing abbreviated shorts she had no business wearing and before I could even form the words, my friend grinned and said, "You don't even have to say it."

It's a good friend who already knows how you're going to judge a stranger's shorts with just a look.

From Art 6 it was a quick hop, skip and a jump through the rain showers to Saison which was hopping, too. Perhaps too much so because all three of my companions were disappointed with their cocktails while I had no problem whatsoever with my Espolon.

Sometimes keeping things simple is the way to go.

Somehow a discussion of making moonshine led to my friend sharing some Russian history about Peter and Catherine the Great (who, I have to admit, sounded pretty interesting), at least until her man insisted on saving me from the educational tangent.

What? They don't teach us that stuff in America.

We nibbled on oxtail sopes before finding our passion in tender and fragrant chicken a la brassa, its smoky broth a sensory delight we drank with spoons until it was gone.

Our final stop of the evening was for dessert because what's a birthday without sweets? The birthday boy was presented with obscure beers from the happy couple while accepting nothing more than sincere wishes from me.

Standing on the sidewalk under umbrellas saying goodnight, I reminded my friends that it never hurts to check with me at the last minute to see if I'm busy.

Hey, I've got no problem chucking my CSS when the party's this good.

Winding Down with a Bug

I wasn't sure what to expect from First Fridays Version 2.0.

Instead of 7:00-10:00, the new hours were 5:00 - 9:00. Vendors and musicians had to be off the street at 9 p.m. and no parking was allowed on Broad Street, not that that affected me.

But as someone who usually made early plans and didn't begin artwalking until after 8:00, it represented quite a change for me.

Never let it be said that Karen can't change. So around 6:30, I left Jackson Ward Central (my apartment) to see what was what.

What I had forgotten was that it was August, so First Fridays was already a pale imitation of itself due to the time of year.

ADA Gallery was closed. I'd seen the show at Ghostprint last night. Metro had music out front. Quirk's show was a carryover I'd already seen.

And the police presence was huge. Before I even got to Broad Street, I happened on two of RVA's mounted squad stationed at Marshall and Madison. You know, just in case.

But honestly, the mounted squad is in J-Ward on a regular basis (some of the guys even recognize me), so that wasn't all that noteworthy.

But up on Broad, it was uniform city.

I commented to one of Richmond's finest that they sure were out in force tonight and he grinned and said, "That's because we knew you were coming."

Now they're teaching these guys PR skills?

I assured him that, as a J-Ward resident, I had no qualms about the neighborhood, but was glad to know that others might feel better about their presence.

From there I went to Art 6 for the Judy Rifka show because I knew that this Manhattan-based artist came out of the same scene that produced Keith Haring and Jean Michel-Basquiat.

"Judy Rifka Posted" took over the entire gallery, top and bottom. Downstairs, the enormous wall painting was the star alongside prints of her "paper monsters."

Done in a loose hand in black and blue, two figures emerged from trees, leaves and other vague squiggles.

The figures had an historical look to them (breeches, apron), but the overall effect reminded me as much of Raoul Dufy as anything I could think of.

I made a stop at Bistro 27 because, on walking by, I saw a nearly empty bar. Further proof that it was an August First Friday.

Sipping a glass of Tenuta San Pietro Gavi de Gavi, I listened to the chef's tales of eating and escalators on his recent trip to China.

Scorpions and Peking duck in Peking seemed to be the least impressive meals.

Afterwards, I meandered over to Gallery 5, although not for the August Fest tasting of Virginia microbrews that clearly drew so many people there.

But I made my way through the madness to see "Enigmages," a show by artist Mr. Visions of an array of images from a girl with a black eye to jazz musicians to Poe.

The moment I finished, though, I wanted out of the mass of beer-swilling humanity. It was hotter in there than it was outside.

So slthough Gallery 5 was having music, I had my sights set on another show.

Over at Cellar Door, Frank Rourk, flamenco guitarist extraordinaire, had put together a program so unique that I wouldn't have missed it.

It was a re imagining of Philip Glass' "Metamorphosis," originally written for solo piano from music used in a theatrical production of Kafka's "The Metamorphosis."

Frank had redone the five-movement piece for guitar, hand drums, bass and flute.

As if that wasn't impressive enough, he and two other artists had created artwork (and posters for sale) that also tied into "The Metamorphosis."

Even the programs were works of art, each signed and numbered (I got 16/40) with art on both front and back.

Every seat was taken and, both surprisingly and thankfully, the audience treated the performance like a listening room.

It wasn't just me. People paid rapt attention to the musicians, following the rise and fall of the  musical imagery.

All except for one very drunk guy who first talked loudly over the music and then actually went and stood directly in front of Frank as he played. He was maybe a foot from the musicians.

But like any good drunk, he allowed himself to be led away and eventually found a table to sit out the rest of the performance.

The entire audience breathed a sigh of relief and went back to savoring the unique interpretation of a piano work on guitar, flute, bass and drums.

Afterwards, Frank likened the interruption to one of John Cage's "chance moments" that become part of the performance.

I liked his thinking on that.

Frank had conceived of this show as the start of a series for people still too keyed up after First Fridays to want to end their evening (a feeling I know well).

He raises an excellent point. With the art fun over by 9:00 now, who won't want to find  someplace cozy like Cellar Door to relax, hear some well-crafted music and enjoy a cold beverage (I opted for Manon Rose)?

Rifka, Kafka, Cage and Glass. Such an intelligent evening for a First Friday.

Surely I gained as many brain cells as I lost.

Welcome to First Fridays Version 2.0 After Hours.

Geeks like me are going to love it.

Play That Folky Music...With Cello

For a summer First Friday, the art walk had a terrific crowd. Maybe it was the beautiful weather.

Beginning at Gallery 5 for Skull Appreciation Day, the upstairs gallery was packed and hot, much hotter than the outside temperature. And I do I like it hot.

The 100+ skulls were about as varied as they could be, ranging from frilly and feminine to organic and growing. From cotton to candy to nails, skulls were covered in just about everything imaginable.

Downstairs, the Girls Rock! RVA exhibit showcased works inspired by women, including photographer/musician Micheal Otley's pictures of female musicians and singers in mid-performance. Sometimes men really are the best interpreters of women.

Since ADA Gallery was closed (coming soon and it better be good) and I'd already seen the excellent show at Ghostprint, I headed to Metro Gallery for their group show with a DJ from RVAlution's Dance Party spinning it loud.

I had the pleasure of running into all kinds of people I knew, including the gentleman farmer whom I intend to write about.

Art 6's Juneteenth exhibit was a timely collection of photographs from the Valentine showing 19th century blacks at church picnics, at home, at an emancipation parade and at school, among other places.  They were stunning for their veracity.

A smaller gallery held pictures from the VMFA of Africans from the 1970s, including a king in full regalia. The format was as different from the photographs as it could be and yet the visual impact just as strong.

After a brief stop at a rogue gallery with live painted models posing perfectly still, I made my way to the Courtyard for music.

Last summer I, like so many others, had felt the loss of music in the charming spot because the series had been discontinued; now it was back.

When I arrived, Lightfields was near the end of their set, playing psychedelic rock with moments drifting close to post-rock. Hmm, were these guys my cup of tea?

A friend said they were a bit jam band-like, but I heard one song I liked and one I could leave, so I can't really say. I was sorry to have missed a cover of "Killing Moon," though.

I was happy to have run into a couple of music geeks friends and set up camp with them. We were there for Chapel Hill's Birds and Arrows, a band I first saw last September at Gallery 5.

That had been an excellent show and why not; the band's combination of amplified acoustic guitar, drums and cello were the perfect sound for some beautiful harmonies.

And unlike at that last show, tonight we were outside, in a courtyard with a painted mural, no humidity and a gentle breeze wafting down from the sky. No folky band could have ordered up a lovelier evening to play.

Lead singer Andrea at one point instructed the crowd, "Use your inner geek and clap along to folk music" and the crowd obliged.

There were pop quizzes and prizes given ("What was Wild Cherry's 1970s hit?" which I knew, but shared the information with a friend rather than the group), including blankets, t-shirts and records. It was a homey touch.

After the show, we stood around chatting with other friends until we were invited to a favorite music couple's nearby condo  (the Emrick Flats were barely a block away) for drinks and nibbles.

Once there, we settled into a satisfying discussion of the local music scene, our hopes for the Hippodrome, Floyd Fest, genital piercing and batteau racing.

A woman who gives house shows because she loves music told us stories of ranting landlords and memorable music (A Good Natured Riot made more at her house than they did at Ashland Coffee & Tea. Sad).

I was excited to hear that some of the upcoming Listening Room shows will be curated by local musicians (a la All Tomorrow's Parties and an idea I adore). Brilliant!

As we sat there, a mixed group of people, some of us meeting for the first time, I was again reminded of how welcoming and interesting the local scene is.

Art walking became music standing and ended with conversation sitting.

Best of all, I never left the 'hood. Jackson Ward had it all, making J-Ward girl a happy person tonight.