Liner Notes to My Life

Better to begin with books and music and move on to blood and guts.

Local musician Plunky Branch was doing a reading of his new book at the Black History Museum three blocks from my apartment and, sunshine aside, I couldn't think of a single reason why I wouldn't want to be there.

The self-deprecating Plunky led off by telling the nearly full room, "Thirty minutes ago, I was wishing for two people to show up." And then some.

Apparently when a musician keeps journals for years, by the time he's a septuagenarian (a damn handsome one still in great shape at that), he's got the makings of a pretty good book, which he referred to as "the longest and most elaborate liner notes to my work" and "the book to accompany my music."

That makes perfect sense to a music nerd like me.

As much a performance as a reading, with Plunky playing songs on one of his three saxophones while his son provided additional sounds and old photographs and music videos played on a screen behind him, the afternoon also included him talking and reading excerpts from "Juju Jazz Funk and Oneness."

To this fan of cultural history, the old photos and videos were fascinating because I could almost guess the era by how Plunky and his band were dressed: in dashikis, shirtless, in suits with shirts unbuttoned halfway down his chest, with an Afro, with braids, whatever.

Decades unfolded before our eyes.

In order to clarify the book's title, he explained that it referenced his music: juju refers to everything African, jazz to the art music of the first half of the 20th century, funk to the second half ("funky is sex and sweat") and oneness is the music of the 21st century.

After 50 years of performing, 27 albums and 400 songs, he admitted to being pretty proud of himself as an independent musician, though he did acknowledge how much more receptive European audiences are to black Americans. He blamed it on our shallowness need for the newest thing while Europeans revered long histories and elders who have proven themselves.

Sometimes he alternated playing sax with singing, as he did on "The Meaning of Life is Love," never missing a beat when he segued back to talking about favorite saxes (he gets the best reactions from playing soprano sax, but prefers the tenor sax for small, up-close shows) or favorite venues (the smaller, the better, though he's more nervous playing for 10 people than 10,000).

One of his fondest memories was opening for a free show by Ray Charles downtown. "Everybody was there because it was Ray Charles and free, so why wouldn't they?" Indeed.

Saying his French agent had teased him for always talking when he's in France about how great Richmond is, he also recalled going to segregated Richmond public schools and how he'd been taught not to look at white people.

Sad (and telling) as that statement is, I wasn't the least bit surprised since when I'd moved to Richmond in 1986, I'd been shocked to find that black men wouldn't meet my eyes walking down the street.

He closed out with "Drop: African Rhythm Remix," which he said had been his most popular song, before people lined up to buy his book, which he said he'd be happy to sign. The man oozed such grace and gratitude about his life so far - along with a certainty that the best is yet to come - that he was practically a poster child for following your passion.

So how do I follow such an upbeat afternoon? With comedy and simulated murder, naturally.

Walking over to Comedy Coalition for "Slasher: The Improvised Horror Movie," the last thing I expected after paying my admission was to be handed a plastic poncho to protect me from impending blood splatters, but there it was.

It was going to be that kind of evening, sort of like a GWAR show without the semen, just the blood.

And by poncho, they really meant the equivalent of a yellow trash bag with a hood, making for an audience sheathed in plastic. One of the Coalition troupe stopped to talk to the trio next to me and informed us that we were definitely in the splatter zone.

"Oh, boy, that's why we came!" one shrieked. Silly me, I came to laugh.

"Slasher" turned out to be a hilarious send-up of so many dated movies and '80s songs, I lost track. It opened with "Careless Whisper" at a high school prom with blood being poured on the unpopular girl who then gets murderous, so there was "Carrie."

But five years later, when young Kelly - with a top knot ponytail and sparkly red Scrunchie - goes to live with her Dad (cue "Father Figure") in a double-wide, he explains that there's no dancing in their town because of the prom murders, so then we were in "Footloose" territory.

Once at her new high school, she tries to fit in among a "Breakfast Club" cast of misfits (complete with a guy in pushed up sleeves and pink sunglasses, Walkman in hand), including a closet lesbian who immediately falls for her.

Meanwhile, Kelly and her new BFF worship at the altar of Patrick Swayze and there are dancing lessons involved (to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun"), so we may have veered dangerously near "Dirty Dancing," too.

But no matter what cheesy movie was being mocked, the constant thread was our original prom murderer, still in her blood-stained pink lace prom dress, showing up to kill kids for no more reason than making out in the woods or talking to a locker room mirror or taking boxes off a stock room shelf.

"It's just coincidence," Kelly keeps insisting to her sheriff Dad and her new friends. "It's not because we're dancing!" Which, by the way, was also hilarious to watch, a la Elaine on "Seinfeld."

Every time our prom girl got murderous, a masked figure in white stood behind her and squirted copious amounts of fake blood at the intended victim, so before long the walls and floor, not to mention the actors, were slipping and sliding in red, their clothes spotted and stained.

And yet, despite so much to look at, a guy near me sat there looking at his phone through his poncho for long stretches of time. I only wish a squirt of blood had been aimed right at him keep him present in the moment, say, when Huey Lewis and the News' "Power of Love" was being played.

Talk about your wake-up call.

Because the comedy troupe is made up of millennials, despite an '80s focus there were 21st century details, like a guy working on learning the difference between Brandi Carlisle and Belinda Carlisle (though we did get a great rendition of "Heaven on Earth" out of it) and a male student coming out to his sister. Not so much onscreen in the '80s.

And, of course, in the final scene with Dad stabbed ("It's just a flesh wound") and Kelly, still in her very '80s prom dress complete with massive shoulder pads, are driving back to their trailer, who should rise up from the back seat but prom girl, despite Dad having emptied his gun into her face back at the high school.

Lesson learned? Guilty feet have got no rhythm and please leave your ponchos at the door.

Sweet dreams are made of this...

Nothing Lasts Forever

When they go low, we go high.

When our embarrassment of a leader using the first day of Black History Month to air grievances and mouth off about himself in lieu of thoughtful commentary about our country's racial history, or even current race relations starts the day, it's impossible not to cringe.

What kind of an egomaniacal twit begins a Black History Month speech with, "Well, the election it came out really well," and goes on to boast about future wins? And saying that abolitionist Frederick Douglass "did an amazing job" only confirms that he has no clue who the man was, much less what he did.

All a person can do is try to carry on with the best intentions.

So first that meant walking over to the Black History Museum for a preview of the new exhibit, "Murry DePillars: Double Vision," a retrospective of the work of a black man dedicated to both his art and education as Dean of VCU's School of the Arts for nearly 20 years.

Covering 43 years of work, I was immediately drawn to firebrand pieces such as 1968's "Aunt Jemima," showing the stereotypical figure in apron and headscarf bare-breasted and bursting out of the box of pancake mix, a spatula in her black-gloved hand. Responding to the events of the day, the background of the piece shows stars, but a closer look reveals that they're the stars on Chicago Police badges, referencing the raid on Black Panther headquarters there that year.

Or "Uncle Remus," with the titular subject emerging Samson-like from the book that bears his name, while the landscape of American culture - history textbooks, Native Americans - lies in ruins at his feet. Meanwhile, Brer Rabbit raises his gloved fist in solidarity.

Amazing, yes, but also not the kind of art you can look at and soon forget. And most definitely not the kind of art that would speak to the new administration.

Lunch involved meeting an old friend in a two-seater booth at Can Can for massive salads and even more enormous chocolate crepes filled with Nutella and Amaretto mousse while talking about the revisions he's just finished on his books and how the book covers now need to be updated as well.

Seems it's all about whatever sells.

Our most interesting conversation centered around relationships, which is interesting because in the 25 years we've been friends, I've never known him to be in one. Nevertheless, being a guy, he's an expert.

When he brought the subject up, it was with a plan (because he writes books about the best way to do things, so he's always thinking in terms of results) for how to ascertain compatibility after meeting a potential soulmate.

His plan? Once seriously attracted to someone, both parties need to write down three things they either must have or can't abide in a relationship and then swap lists to see whether they're issues the other is willing to compromise on.

His list? No high maintenance (he doesn't want to have to call someone every day), no jealous types (non-negotiable) and must be into eating somewhat healthily (this is clearly subjective since I know he doesn't eat breakfast and you know what they say about the most important meal of the day).

We bantered this subject around for so long that we began playing the what-if game. What if she's willing to take a text or email instead of a call, could he stand doing that daily? What if meeting a friend for lunch results in her giving him the silent treatment?

Compromise is all about concessions.

He's been telling me for ages that he wants to try walking with me - for so long it feels like a running gag - so once out on the sidewalk, he tells me to demonstrate the speed at which I typically walk so he can gauge whether or not he's ready to try.

Despite being in platform boots, I set off at my usual four miles per hour.

"Wow, that is kind of fast, but I'm willing to give it a shot," he tells me, although he's also a weather wimp, so I'll have to pick a temperate day. I also promise to give him a day's notice, but he wants at least two.

I'm starting to think it'll be a miracle if this outing ever takes place.

Back at my desk and busy at work, I am more than a tad surprised when an unexpected job offer comes in - not a writing job, but an editing job in one of my favorite places. It gives me pause, but I'd have to move. Am I up for that?

In the immortal words of Scarlett O'Hara, "I'll think about that tomorrow."

Continuing the day's theme, I head to Cabell Library for a lecture entitled, "Is Shakespeare Beyond Race?" with GWU professor Ayanna Thompson talking about the history of race in Shakespeare and the state of diversity in it today.

The room is a diverse mix of students and the public, a fine showing for the first day of Black History Month and even a bit of a rebuke to the verbal diarrhea of our clueless leader.

Seems that 19th century black actors would don "whiteface" to perform roles such as Shylock, Macbeth and King Lear so that audiences wouldn't have to deal with seeing a black character in a classical play.

Some of the best photos and facts concerned the Federal Theater Project, part of FDR's Works Progress Administration, and its groundbreaking 1936 production of an all-black "Macbeth."

Man, how radical that must have seemed even during that socially radical time.

Thompson spoke at length about casting choices and how despite theater companies professing to use more diverse casts, the facts show a different story. Artistic directors are still afraid of alienating well-off, old, white theater audiences with too much diversity in casting.

"It's not necessary to cater to old white audiences anymore because they're not going to last forever," she said. She sited Oregon Shakespeare as an example because although their casting is about 50% people of color and 50% white, their audiences are 99% white.

What's wrong with this picture?

It was funny during the Q & A, every single person who was handed the mic began by thanking her for speaking today. "You guys are so southern polite!" she said sounding surprised.

You want southern polite, go to the Byrd Theater with a musician friend to see "To Kill a Mockingbird" like I did tonight, and you'll be taken back to the days of yes, ma'ams and yes, sirs and children who know they are supposed to speak to every adult they see in a respectful manner.

But besides polite, you'll also get a reminder of just how all-encompassing white privilege was in 1932 when the film was set, with liberal use of the n-word, a white mob looking for vigilante justice and a prosecutor's sheer incredulity that a black man could possibly feel sorry for a white woman.

You want to talk amazing, let's talk how relevant so much of the film's message still is.

Or, if you're my droll friend, you come out wondering if Jem really rolls Scout in that tire toward Boo Radley's house or if they used a stunt double, sketching out possible scenarios for my amusement. So much for deep cultural insight.

On the other hand, every day that begins with another presidential fiasco should end with this much laughter.

Going to the Rec

Jackson Ward, the more I get to know you, the more crazy about you I am.

While today was officially my second visit to the new Black History Museum located in the former colored troops' armory, it was my first actually taking in the exhibits, although the upstairs galleries were closed because they're installing the next temporary exhibition right now.

A small group of people who'd arrived just before I did joined me to watch a 30-minute film about the neighborhood narrated by people who'd resided, gone to school and lived their full lives here.

Several of them recalled when the armory had been used as a rec center and enlargements of old black and white photos on the wall spoke to the nights it became a destination for mixers, socials and dances, with the women wearing stylish '40s and '50s strapless dresses with full skirts and tulle petticoats.

One woman recalled growing up on St. James Street, skating the block and playing outside all day with the dozens of other children who lived there, while mothers carried out their domestic duties indoors.

Another talked about what a big deal it had been to him when Armstrong High School had gotten a black principal. Oliver Hill, Jr. recalled seeing his mother walking a picket line to integrate Miller and Rhoads' tearoom.

But my favorite source was the man who ticked off where the businesses of life used to sit in J-Ward. He said there were two grocers, one at Clay and Prentice (a street I've never even heard of) and one at Brook and Clay.

Given what I know about Brook Road's legacy as a shopping route for farmers in the county, I wasn't at all surprised that Brook and Clay was also the site of Max's Drug Store (as opposed to Standard Drug at First and Broad), John D's Bar, Cameron's Service Station and Hall's Bar, the latter a tad further up on Brook.

This guy reminisced about taking dates to High's Ice Cream Shop at Second and Clay after church services. Several people mentioned Ebenezer Baptist and Sixth Mt. Zion as hubs of local activity.

Hill, who'd been part of the integration of Chandler Middle School, remembered being appalled at then-Virginia social studies textbooks, which portrayed slavery as a benign institution where everyone was just one big happy family.

Right, except some members of the family were bought and paid for.

Walking out of the auditorium after the film, one of the men looked up at the ceiling and said, "This used to be my old gym."

As I was soon to learn in the galleries, the armory had been converted to Monroe Elementary for colored kids in 1898, used as housing and a recreation center for black troops during WW II and used by various schools for its gym and facilities after that.

Many of the displays are touch screen, using old photographs, prints and drawings along with narrative to explain important eras: Emancipation, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, Massive Resistance and Civil Rights, although being of an age, I'd just as soon look at the objects framed on the wall as on a lighted screen,

Let's face it, few things resonate the same on a screen as the actual object does. Looking at a leather slave collar with metal rings and a lock is a far more visceral (and disturbing) experience and one I agreed was best seen in real life.

Lean in when it gets uncomfortable, that's the advice I took away from the race relations round table discussion I went to at this very building last month.

But photo choices were strong, too, like the one of a black man with his toddler on his shoulders holding a protest sign reading, "President Johnson, Go to Selma NOW!" which spoke volumes compared to the picture of white kids protesting busing on Franklin Street in 1970, looking like petulant racists-in-the-making.

One thing that stood out about the Civil Rights era scenes was how nicely dressed the protesters were. The male VUU students at the sit-in at Woolworth's lunch counter wore overcoats and hats. You don't even see that at the symphony or opera anymore.

In the word nerd category, I was delighted to discover that J-Ward once had a resident and business owner (a shoe store at 506 E. Broad) at the turn of the century named St. James Gilpin, whose name wound up both on a street and public housing.

I wasn't entirely surprised to learn that a mailman named Victor Green had written something called the "Green Book for Black Travelers," listing out by location beauty salons, night clubs, restaurants, service stations and lodging that welcomed (rather than embarrassed or refused service to) black customers.

That said, I was incredulous that the book was still being printed as late as 1966. Except I shouldn't have been because of a story I'd heard at a history lecture a while back.

When LBJ and Lady Bird moved into the White House, they needed someone to drive their beagles from Texas to Washington and the black staffer they asked to do it expressed concern about where along the route would be safe and willing to lodge a black man, much less a black man with beagles.

So 1966, yea, our ugly past really is as unfortunately recent as that.

But what the galleries at the beautifully renovated Black History Museum really demonstrate is what a rich neighborhood I live in and how important it is to acknowledge the people, buildings and businesses that helped shape the fabric of Richmond.

I may be nothing more than one tiny little thread in that, but hearing the stories and seeing the photographs seems like a most excellent way to begin the leaning-in process.

Jackson Ward for the win.

I'll Take History Over Football

No, I don't really care about football, but before you write me off as a girly girl, I understand the game, can follow and even appreciate it on occasion and was raised in a family of season ticket-holders, so I've been to my fair share of NFL games (and shivered my way through three hours on the 50-yard line).

I just can't be bothered anymore.

But today would have been the annual Armstrong-Walker Football Classic, a long-time Richmond tradition I'd heard about from several old-timers in my neighborhood (yet another perk of living in such a diverse 'hood).

The two schools began the tradition in 1938 and it ended in 1978 with Walker's closing.

Last year the event was revived with two semi-pro teams playing as a fundraiser at VUU. Noble, but not quite the same.

The rivalry between these two once-exclusively black schools was apparently legendary and the Classic and its attendant events a cultural phenomena that used to draw 25,000+ fans to the traditional Saturday after Thanksgiving game and festivities.

So while I had no interest in attending today's game, it seemed like an ideal time to check out the Pride Over Prejudice: Armstrong and Maggie L. Walker High Schools in Their Time exhibit at the Black History Museum.

But not until after a trip to Roy's Big Burger where, once again, everyone eating in their cars was male. I just don't get it. Girls like cheeseburgers, too; I know it..

But I digress.

I'm a sucker for historical exhibits full of photographs and artifacts and this one, given its local angle, had plenty of both.

Armstrong opened first as an all-black school but quickly became overcrowded, necessitating double shifts for students for five years.

Walker was built in 1938 to alleviate the overcrowding and was more of a vocational school whereas Armstrong was more academically-oriented.

And by vocational, I mean these kids were being taught all the best trades of the day: shoe-repairing, tailoring, masonry, barbering as well as the usual beauty shop and cooking skills.

Significantly, Walker was also the first Virginia school to have an African-American principal and faculty.

Photographs from Armstrong's yearbook showed a smiling group of Cafeteria Staff Custodians and another of them passing out 35-cent hot lunches to students in line.

Students in Armstrong's cooking classes all wore the traditional toque blanche.

They took classes in Negro History long before African-American studies was even a blip on the horizon.

It was interesting to see the progression of the students' and faculty's hair and clothing style as the cultural revolution of the 60s showed itself in their evolving looks.

Afros got bigger and bigger (including L. Doug Wilder's) and demure skirts and blouses gave way to girls in bell-bottoms and guys in fringed vests and platform shoes.

Early photos from school dances (some at the Mosque) showed the girls in full-length formals with tiaras, while later ones showed a guy in tight jeans doing a split in the middle of the dance floor.

The times they were a-changing.

The exhibit is well worth seeing for the slice-of-life look at Richmond teenagers as well as the peek into how the faculty of these two black schools mitigated the effects of "separate but equal" and the prejudice still so much a part of this city's culture right up through the 70s.

And as long as you're there, don't miss the permanent exhibit on my beloved Jackson Ward.

Be sure to take note that the decorative ironwork along Clay Street's Italianate houses is the largest concentration of ironwork in the state (and some of the finest in the country).

Since I live only a few blocks down Clay Street in one of those Italianate houses with the decorative ironwork, feel free to wave as you leave the museum.

And you can know that, in spirit anyway, I'm welcoming you to RVA's best (and most architecturally intact) neighborhood, J-Ward.

Come back soon.

Stellar Saturday Stroll in Jackson Ward

Hard as it is for me to accept, I know that there are people who only come to Jackson Ward for First Fridays.

Of course, it's their loss; they're missing out on experiencing an area of the city that has much more to offer than just one night's activities.

And while that's only my opinion, apparently it's also the motivation behind the newest reason to get you here, the Saturday Stroll.

Put aside your concerns because you'll be coming to J-Ward in broad daylight, but you're not going to be disappointed.

These strolls will take place on the third Saturdays of the month and feature all kinds of ways to shop RVA.

And don't we all want to support the local economy?

Businesses are open, artists and craft vendors are located all along the streets and in front of galleries and the restaurants and food carts are ready to feed you; here's your chance to try out the Belvidere @ Broad for lunch, a meal they don't normally serve!

Over at Gallery 5, Amanda's amazing cupcakes are for sale.

Of course there's music; do you have any idea how many musicians live here?

Josh Small was playing today, the hula hoopers were out shimmying and you could have a caricature done.

Galleries had doors flung wide open, inviting you to come in; there was even an artist's talk over at the Black History Museum.

There were artists creating graffiti projects on boards near Quirk Gallery. Bizhan from Gallery 5 was one of the artists spray-painting away and I teased him about going back to his roots; he was a fairly active street artists years ago.

He laughed and acknowledged that he was out of practice and his index finger was already sore.

The other issue was the limitations of the size of the board.

With street art, one tends to have a much bigger "canvas" to work on.

Next month, he's planning to add some wheat pasting to the painting he'll do.

And let me point out that it's really pretty cool to be able to watch street art being created since most of it is done late at night and away from the view of the public.

I only wish Richmond would designate some of its old and derelict buildings for graffiti artists to better visually.

Imagine what a win/win situation it would be to artistically improve the ugly facades and give artists an outlet for their large scale work.

Maybe someday RVA will see the benefit to the city in such an endeavor.

I saw lots of people I knew, neighbors and locals, but there were plenty of visitors, too, out enjoying a beautiful day in Jackson Ward.

Anything that gets people down here to see what we have to offer is a very good thing in my book.

And I know we have some convincing to do; not everyone is as sold on the 'hood as me.

One woman with a stroller suggested to her posse (another family with a stroller), "Let's go eat at Lift. They actually have good sandwiches."

No shit, Sherlock.

We actually have a lot of very good things down here and now there's an easy way for you to check them out.

Just save the third Saturday of the month and we'll knock your socks off, J-Ward style.

Today's Lesson on Michael Jackson

Love him or hate him in his later years, I don't know anyone who could deny the sheer musical brilliance of the early Jackson 5 music. And considering how often I hear Jackson 5 songs on a variety of friends' iPods, clearly the music has stood the test of time.

Today I went to a terrific musicology lecture to close out the "Life and Career of Michael Jackson" exhibit at the Black History Museum, located in beautiful downtown Jackson Ward, not that you shouldn't have already known that. The speaker was Roi Boyd, who teaches at Virginia Union and whose personal collection of artifacts, album covers, posters, magazines and newspapers was on display. Today's lecture was about the Jackson 5's early years and included a whole lot of video clips, music clips and pictures; I found the whole thing fascinating and only vaguely unsettling.

I didn't remember just how powerful a singer and amazing a dancer Jackson was at age 9. Or how disturbing it was to watch a ten year old sing songs of passion and love. And I don't think I ever knew that almost all of their first album, the one with the mega-hit "I Want You Back" on it was cover songs (Sly Stone, Stevie Wonder, Four Tops, Delphonics, Temptations).

We got to see the Jackson 5's audition tape for Berry Gordy from back in 1968 and I marveled at how his dance moves were already so well developed at that early stage. Before the group signed to Motown, they were on Steeltown records and we heard an early recording of a song called "Big Boy" from that label. Amazing stuff.

The exhibit included some concert posters, including a specific hand-made one for the Washington, D.C. Victory Tour, a show for which I had tickets and didn't go; undoubtedly I was the only person in the world who made that choice, at least in D.C.

It was a shame that the lecture didn't attract a bigger crowd given how un-lecture like the experience was. It was more of an audio/visual immersion experience in the Jackson 5 and I'm willing to bet that even non-music geeks would have been into it. For a music and lecture lover like me, it was an hour and a half of pure pleasure.