One way or another, I'm living a song.
Mac and I walked this morning, the first time since Folk Fest and though the river is still high, we were able to get on the pipeline. It apparently made Mac so happy (frisky?) that she decided to vault the log that's been laying across the pipeline for months now.
I was just glad to be walking after missing so many daily constitutionals lately. Well, that or less nervy. Or agile.
After so much bad pizza lately in service of my hired mouth, when the work day was over, I headed directly to Riverside Drive for the most scenic route I know to stellar pizza. Add in having to wait on Forest Hill Avenue for a freight train to pass and I couldn't have asked for a more pleasant change of scenery.
At the counter of Giustino's Pizza, I joined two women having wine and pizza while discussing life and art. When the server overheard one say she was a fourth grade teacher, she asked her what she taught, resulting in a response of the expected subjects: science, social studies, math. When the server asked if she taught art, the woman looked sad. "No, but maybe if I'd gone that route and taught art, I'd be happier now. Everyone loves going to art class."
Do they? What if she had gone that route and was still miserable at 27 or 28, whatever age she was? I wonder what her solution would be then?
As I sat there eating my Bianca pizza, listening to a soundtrack of old favorite bands like Local Natives and Arcade Fire, a guy sat down at the counter and smiled hello. A male customer comfortably clad in sweats and ball cap came in to pick up his pie and - my guess? - head directly to his couch. A woman arrived to to buy a $50 gift certificate and all I could think was what a fabulous present that would be.
Happy birthday, here's the equivalent of 4 or 5 Giustino pizzas. Score.
After ditching the wheels, I meandered over to Black Iris Gallery, getting stuck behind a slow walker. Not wanting to be rude, I crossed the street at the nearest corner so I could go at my own pace. Mid-block, he crossed, too. Looks like we had the same idea, I said. Smiling, he agreed.
At least now I was in front.
When I got to Black Iris, I had time to check out the Diane Clement ("The Old Artist with the Dragon Tattoo") show of action paintings - think Jackson Pollak - primarily done outdoors and on raw canvas.
From the very first piece, a large format, unframed canvas of blues, white, arcs of black and red dots that could have either been a brilliant July sky at the river seen through trees or a view approaching a glacier with ice floes all around. And yet it was abstract.
Nearby hung a painting that was as different as could be. Mostly white over washes of blue near the top and blue-green near the bottom, it had small rectangles of mauve, rust and gold scattered around. The artist's words, "As much as I love heavy paint and texture, weightless layers give the elements flight and space."
What she said.
"Fitful and I Like It" was a smaller, darker action painting perfectly described in its title. And then, looking at it, it hit me: Diane Clement is as much a storyteller as a painter Each painting was a story.
From "My Homage to ADD" to her commentary about a tangle of colors and drips, "I see ships' masts under predawn" to "The Bright Side of the Dark Side," this artist found meaning in whatever her gestures wrought. Never mind all the additional interpretations by anyone who saw them, so we're talking endless possibilities in non-representational art.
I'd come for music and been given an amuse bouche of art. Am I lucky or what?
When I finally made it to the bar, a small wood-paneled room in the back where I've seen dozens of shows, I found a ridiculously small crowd. One of the Black Iris guys asked my opinion of waiting for more people to arrive (I had all night, although, shhh, in my heart of hearts, I don't believe in punishing the punctual) as a few people trickled in.
Overhead, the sound system was pumping out the unlikeliest of mixes with the Supremes' "Come See About Me," Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly" and, be still my heart, the Stylistics' "Stone in Love with You."
Who makes such a mix? And may I shake your hand?
At the bar, one of the band members was talking to a local about what a find Black Iris is. To explain, he compared it to a few bars he favors just north of the Nashville city limits. "So they're not on Air BnB or Uber or Trip Advisor's radar, which is good because you don't want them to blow up or they won't be fun anymore," he said. "You only know about them if you live there or someone tells you."
A small group was mingling nearby and the subject of where everyone was from came up. A tall brunette turned to me to include me in the question and before long we were talking about how D.C. has changed, especially the U Street corridor and around the 9:30 Club. That led us to how you hold on to your city - her Nashville, my Richmond - even as it's changing around you and becoming suddenly cool by outsiders' standards.
Engrossed as I can get in conversation, I shouldn't have been surprised when, after we'd covered several topics, she introduced herself as Chandra, coincidentally, one of the Watson Twins whom I'd come to see. When her sister Leigh appeared in matching snakeskin ankle boots, I knew it was show time.
The Watson Twins were only in my neighborhood tonight because they're on tour with Pokey Lafarge and Pokey's not playing the next two nights. "And we wanted to play music!" Leigh said.
I'm not going to claim I knew a lot of the Watson Twins' music, although certainly I heard plenty of that album "Rabbit Fur Coat" that they did with Jenny Lewis back in 2006. But I do know that no one harmonizes like family and an awful lot of people have used them to sing back-up on their records because of the beauty of their voices blended.
That was enough for me.
And since there were barely a dozen of us, chairs magically appeared in the dim, candlelit room with the faux spiderwebs stretching from wall to chandelier to bar and we all sat down to what felt like a private show, though it was open to the public. Chandra played acoustic guitar, Leigh did the snapping, clapping and tambourine playing and they'd brought along Brad (the guy espousing North Nashville) to handle electric guitar duties beautifully.
Leigh gave the audience their RVA story first. Growing up in Louisville, they'd become fans of Richmond punk band the Veil and saw them every time they came through town. Along the way, they imagined Richmond as this epic punk town, while their first visit proved it was just a great town with a good vibe.
Their new album "Duo," out last week and the first of their eight albums to be written together, provided much of tonight's set list, including the first song "Hustle and Shake." They said it was autobiographical about the difficulties of the music business but it was the sound of their voices harmonizing that took the breath of listeners and caused a delay in applause as we sat there with jaws dropped.
After doing "Playing Hearts," they told a story of their 92-year old grandma listening to the lyric, "I want it all, I want it now," and commenting to them, "I know how you feel!" as only a nonagenarian could. For "Crybaby," they took mics in hand and swung and danced in time as they sang the heartbreak lyrics.
A highlight was their cover of the Cure's "Just Like Heaven," which had been used in a sex scene in a bathtub in a vampire film, spurring hopes that it would be their big breakthrough. But the song required a harmonica and when Chandra went to find hers and couldn't, Leigh offered hers.
Looking right at the audience, Chandra announced, "The only thing we don't share is harmonicas and men." Boom.
The twins were hugely appreciative of the people who'd come out on a Monday night, saying, "When we sell out the National, don't worry about buying a ticket because every one of you is getting a VIP ticket on us!" Sounds good to me.
To introduce "Rolling Thunder," they explained - because it was always they, never just one talking, each finishing the other's thoughts...or correcting her - that it was about when your town starts to be taken over by developers and corporations and little local businesses you've loved go away so new places can take their place. About the 21st century evolution of urban life.
"We have 26 cranes in Nashville at any given time," Leigh observed, noting that a town isn't defined by that. "People are the authenticity of a town."
All I know is, sitting in candlelight at Black Iris listening to those two angelic voices after scarfing one of Giustino's pies felt pretty damn authentic. And given that it's Richmond, the pipeline and freight train didn't hurt, either.
Let the thunder roll.
Showing posts with label black iris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label black iris. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
It's a Beautiful Night in the Neighborhood
We pause now for a barely veiled tribute to our sponsor, Jackson Ward. Best Monday night 'hood ever.
Because, unless you have a recording studio/art gallery that does candle-lit micro-shows for 30 or fewer music lovers within a three-block walk - the Tiny Bar series at Black Iris - on the deadest night of the week, I seriously doubt you've got more going on where you live.
Swedish musician/Baltimore transplant Hanna Olivegreen was the draw on a night where fog and drizzle were battling it out for dominance, but my mod-looking new (old) raincoat was up to the challenge. Running into a friend, I complimented him on his leaner frame and he volleyed back with, "You're looking pretty fly, by the way."
Behold the power of a thrift store find and someone who appreciates that '60s Carnaby Street look.
Since the show hadn't begun, I paused to check out the art show up front, a collection of small works by various artists, full of bright colors and a lightness completely unlike Black Iris' usual aesthetic. More like 1708 Gallery next door, which, it turned out, is whose show it actually was, part of an upcoming fundraiser.
"No, these are definitely not my colors," laughed the gallerist when I asked about the uncharacteristic art on his walls. "Look, I'm even keeping the lights lower to offset the color," he said, turning the lights up to make his point.
One that attracted me that he'd have ignored was "Hostage," an image of a green potted cactus atop a pink cardboard box with a towering microphone pointed ominously at the poor, prickly thing and a massive recording device in the background, all set against sunny orange and white stripes.
Succulent as hostage, it was hilarious and ridiculously colorful at the same time.
The other piece that demanded my attention could've been a woodcut or a drawing and showed a monochromatic image of a large stylized bush, some geese and two multi-cultural looking people, both in elaborately multi-patterned coats, their faces reminiscent of Renaissance illustrations.
Its gradations of black would have been soothing to the gallerist's eye, but it was the modern interpretation of a classic construct that sucked me in.
Back at the tiny bar, I said hello to the few people I knew and settled in next to the vintage store owner across the street. She asked if I'd heard Hanna's voice and assured me I was going to be impressed when I did. I was already admiring the singer's long dirty blond braid and groovy red Indian-style shirt. So '70s.
Marveling at what we were about to see on a soggy Monday after the most depressing inauguration on record (really, he has to bring in "clappers" to assure a scripted response to his rantings?), I said I couldn't imagine anyone had anything more compelling to do in Richmond tonight than this show.
"Right?" she asked rhetorically. "Hello, McFly?"
Performing as HOW, Hanna and her Baltimore band - singer Iris, cellist Zack and drummer Mike - begin with the wooziest of piano sounds, instantly putting me in mind of Baltimore's Beach House and on board immediately.
From there, they proceed to take us deep into an atmosphere of experimental, world music and lounge, with the two women harmonizing like angels while trance-like rhythms and mad percussion pulled the audience along.
There was a break before the second set which allowed time for me to hear about a mutual friend and former bachelor extraordinaire who decided to ask his sweetie to move in by giving her a vintage ring, but he didn't have a box. That's how he showed up at my friend's store in search of the best possible ring box, which had to be chosen carefully because he was going to have to see it every day if she said yes.
We agreed this showed a level of foresight and consideration not often exhibited by his people.
People came and went before the second set, which registered as more neo-'70s pop/tribal/improvisation, some songs so raucous Ines was stamping her foot and playing tambourine, Mike was hitting every surface in sight while Zack was plucking the cello for all it was worth, his bow ignored.
Sucking in the room's energy, re-imagining it and continuously changing directions, the sound was irresistible.
It was the equivalent of being seduced and washed clean, all in a candlelit room over an hour and a half.
So I'm quite sure that hearing a killer band perform on a slow night alone would show up your neighborhood, but it was also the 3-year anniversary party for the Rogue Gentlemen, a few blocks away and also in J-Ward.
Selfishly since I'm going on 11 years here, I'm all for any business that puts down roots and stays.
Adding to the incentive to congratulate a neighbor business was the stupidly delicious Mean Bird fried chicken ("With sliced cucumber vinaigrette slices to make you feel better about yourself," I was assured), upbeat rap and slow jams thanks to Deejay Krispy Leek and a drink that delivered exactly what I asked for: complex and sassy. The sage leaf was pure bonus.
I congratulated the owner on his longevity and recent marriage and he hinted at plans in the works. Word is the big lot diagonally across is about to be developed with retail, a quantum leap from just three years ago when Jackson Street was considered the far reaches of the neighborhood. Yet they proved that wrong.
But although it works here, we agreed there would be no way of conveying the J-Ward vibe of Rogue Gentlemen to any other area. A new concept would be in order.
The place was packed with some celebratory types in birthday hats, a table full of bespectacled brunette nerd types (pre-med, dental?) who gave off a socially awkward vibe but are no doubt brilliant and clusters of beards licking chicken-greased fingers and sucking back cocktails.
Wiping my own greasy fingers, I can assure you it most definitely did not feel like just another wet Monday evening in a fascist state. The benefits of a lively, walkable neighborhood, no matter the night, can not be overstated.
Take me away, Jackson Ward, because you really are the best. All I can do is try to look fly enjoying it. Failing that, there's always complex and sassy.
Because, unless you have a recording studio/art gallery that does candle-lit micro-shows for 30 or fewer music lovers within a three-block walk - the Tiny Bar series at Black Iris - on the deadest night of the week, I seriously doubt you've got more going on where you live.
Swedish musician/Baltimore transplant Hanna Olivegreen was the draw on a night where fog and drizzle were battling it out for dominance, but my mod-looking new (old) raincoat was up to the challenge. Running into a friend, I complimented him on his leaner frame and he volleyed back with, "You're looking pretty fly, by the way."
Behold the power of a thrift store find and someone who appreciates that '60s Carnaby Street look.
Since the show hadn't begun, I paused to check out the art show up front, a collection of small works by various artists, full of bright colors and a lightness completely unlike Black Iris' usual aesthetic. More like 1708 Gallery next door, which, it turned out, is whose show it actually was, part of an upcoming fundraiser.
"No, these are definitely not my colors," laughed the gallerist when I asked about the uncharacteristic art on his walls. "Look, I'm even keeping the lights lower to offset the color," he said, turning the lights up to make his point.
One that attracted me that he'd have ignored was "Hostage," an image of a green potted cactus atop a pink cardboard box with a towering microphone pointed ominously at the poor, prickly thing and a massive recording device in the background, all set against sunny orange and white stripes.
Succulent as hostage, it was hilarious and ridiculously colorful at the same time.
The other piece that demanded my attention could've been a woodcut or a drawing and showed a monochromatic image of a large stylized bush, some geese and two multi-cultural looking people, both in elaborately multi-patterned coats, their faces reminiscent of Renaissance illustrations.
Its gradations of black would have been soothing to the gallerist's eye, but it was the modern interpretation of a classic construct that sucked me in.
Back at the tiny bar, I said hello to the few people I knew and settled in next to the vintage store owner across the street. She asked if I'd heard Hanna's voice and assured me I was going to be impressed when I did. I was already admiring the singer's long dirty blond braid and groovy red Indian-style shirt. So '70s.
Marveling at what we were about to see on a soggy Monday after the most depressing inauguration on record (really, he has to bring in "clappers" to assure a scripted response to his rantings?), I said I couldn't imagine anyone had anything more compelling to do in Richmond tonight than this show.
"Right?" she asked rhetorically. "Hello, McFly?"
Performing as HOW, Hanna and her Baltimore band - singer Iris, cellist Zack and drummer Mike - begin with the wooziest of piano sounds, instantly putting me in mind of Baltimore's Beach House and on board immediately.
From there, they proceed to take us deep into an atmosphere of experimental, world music and lounge, with the two women harmonizing like angels while trance-like rhythms and mad percussion pulled the audience along.
There was a break before the second set which allowed time for me to hear about a mutual friend and former bachelor extraordinaire who decided to ask his sweetie to move in by giving her a vintage ring, but he didn't have a box. That's how he showed up at my friend's store in search of the best possible ring box, which had to be chosen carefully because he was going to have to see it every day if she said yes.
We agreed this showed a level of foresight and consideration not often exhibited by his people.
People came and went before the second set, which registered as more neo-'70s pop/tribal/improvisation, some songs so raucous Ines was stamping her foot and playing tambourine, Mike was hitting every surface in sight while Zack was plucking the cello for all it was worth, his bow ignored.
Sucking in the room's energy, re-imagining it and continuously changing directions, the sound was irresistible.
It was the equivalent of being seduced and washed clean, all in a candlelit room over an hour and a half.
So I'm quite sure that hearing a killer band perform on a slow night alone would show up your neighborhood, but it was also the 3-year anniversary party for the Rogue Gentlemen, a few blocks away and also in J-Ward.
Selfishly since I'm going on 11 years here, I'm all for any business that puts down roots and stays.
Adding to the incentive to congratulate a neighbor business was the stupidly delicious Mean Bird fried chicken ("With sliced cucumber vinaigrette slices to make you feel better about yourself," I was assured), upbeat rap and slow jams thanks to Deejay Krispy Leek and a drink that delivered exactly what I asked for: complex and sassy. The sage leaf was pure bonus.
I congratulated the owner on his longevity and recent marriage and he hinted at plans in the works. Word is the big lot diagonally across is about to be developed with retail, a quantum leap from just three years ago when Jackson Street was considered the far reaches of the neighborhood. Yet they proved that wrong.
But although it works here, we agreed there would be no way of conveying the J-Ward vibe of Rogue Gentlemen to any other area. A new concept would be in order.
The place was packed with some celebratory types in birthday hats, a table full of bespectacled brunette nerd types (pre-med, dental?) who gave off a socially awkward vibe but are no doubt brilliant and clusters of beards licking chicken-greased fingers and sucking back cocktails.
Wiping my own greasy fingers, I can assure you it most definitely did not feel like just another wet Monday evening in a fascist state. The benefits of a lively, walkable neighborhood, no matter the night, can not be overstated.
Take me away, Jackson Ward, because you really are the best. All I can do is try to look fly enjoying it. Failing that, there's always complex and sassy.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Minimalistic Gallery Hopping
For a Jackson Ward resident, I've been woefully absent at recent First Fridays.
I fixed that tonight, managing to hit Candela Gallery for their mobbed Indie Photobook showcase, ADA Gallery for Geo Necro, where 86 artists collectively imagined a dungeon and Black Iris for the latest in their Tiny Bar series.
The Brian Jones Trio was set to play, the candles were lit and people filled the room to hear the piano, upright bass and drum combo expend some energy in pursuit of filling the multiple-story room with a tribute to the Purple One, a piece called "Ghost Hand" in which Brian usually plays piano but didn't and other fine examples of Friday night jazz.
Before long, pianist Daniel was unstoppable, scissoring his body to create sound, exploding off the bench with passionate playing, drummer Brian was mopping sweat off his face and head and bassist Russell was grinning with pleasure at defiant rhythmic change-ups.
The mostly young crowd bobbed their heads and yelled "Ow, ow, ow!" when things got especially good.
Not content to stop there, I went to Gallery 5 for the VCU Senior Communication Art student show, which was naturally mobbed with young VCU types.
Behind me, a man looking at Julia Moore's illustration of lizard limb regeneration asked the little girl with him, "Have you ever caught a salamander?' and when she answered in the negative, he told her that you could catch one, cut its foot off and it would grow back.
"Isn't that mean?" the child asked plaintively, but the man was already on to another piece of art. Bending down, I told her that yes, it was mean and that she should never do such a thing. Ever.
Forget stranger danger, how about Bad Dad syndrome?
But a theme for the show was emerging as I looked at Timothy Pfeiffer's "A Shooter's Mother," a haunting image of a woman hugging a hooded, black-cloaked figure holding two guns. On another wall was Alicia Wendling's Minimalistic Horror Poster series, the eyeless images staring out at the viewer. Smith's black and white-toned oil painting called "Suckers" depicted a group of WW II soldiers gambling away their earnings.
Bleak world aside aside, a few seniors had apparently escaped the doom and gloom of their nihilistic childhoods and it showed in their art, like Caroline Bivens' exquisite botanical illustrations of golden beets, which were positively life-affirming compared to limbs and murderers.
Downstairs, Atlanta's Hello Ocho's jazz-not-jazz psych rock was just getting cranked up, the vibes and synth ensuring I'd stay for their set, which meandered through all kinds of musical planes as they wove their spell through the room to end my evening.
First Friday, I was overdue to catch up with you.
I fixed that tonight, managing to hit Candela Gallery for their mobbed Indie Photobook showcase, ADA Gallery for Geo Necro, where 86 artists collectively imagined a dungeon and Black Iris for the latest in their Tiny Bar series.
The Brian Jones Trio was set to play, the candles were lit and people filled the room to hear the piano, upright bass and drum combo expend some energy in pursuit of filling the multiple-story room with a tribute to the Purple One, a piece called "Ghost Hand" in which Brian usually plays piano but didn't and other fine examples of Friday night jazz.
Before long, pianist Daniel was unstoppable, scissoring his body to create sound, exploding off the bench with passionate playing, drummer Brian was mopping sweat off his face and head and bassist Russell was grinning with pleasure at defiant rhythmic change-ups.
The mostly young crowd bobbed their heads and yelled "Ow, ow, ow!" when things got especially good.
Not content to stop there, I went to Gallery 5 for the VCU Senior Communication Art student show, which was naturally mobbed with young VCU types.
Behind me, a man looking at Julia Moore's illustration of lizard limb regeneration asked the little girl with him, "Have you ever caught a salamander?' and when she answered in the negative, he told her that you could catch one, cut its foot off and it would grow back.
"Isn't that mean?" the child asked plaintively, but the man was already on to another piece of art. Bending down, I told her that yes, it was mean and that she should never do such a thing. Ever.
Forget stranger danger, how about Bad Dad syndrome?
But a theme for the show was emerging as I looked at Timothy Pfeiffer's "A Shooter's Mother," a haunting image of a woman hugging a hooded, black-cloaked figure holding two guns. On another wall was Alicia Wendling's Minimalistic Horror Poster series, the eyeless images staring out at the viewer. Smith's black and white-toned oil painting called "Suckers" depicted a group of WW II soldiers gambling away their earnings.
Bleak world aside aside, a few seniors had apparently escaped the doom and gloom of their nihilistic childhoods and it showed in their art, like Caroline Bivens' exquisite botanical illustrations of golden beets, which were positively life-affirming compared to limbs and murderers.
Downstairs, Atlanta's Hello Ocho's jazz-not-jazz psych rock was just getting cranked up, the vibes and synth ensuring I'd stay for their set, which meandered through all kinds of musical planes as they wove their spell through the room to end my evening.
First Friday, I was overdue to catch up with you.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Smart Enough
Let's get this out of the way right off the bat: I voted.
Some things are just non-negotiable, like eating deviled eggs on National Deviled Egg Day (yesterday, and, yes, I did, at Shoryuken, if you must know) and voting is one of them.
Other activities are optional.
But since I'd missed Matmos' show last night at Black Iris, I consoled myself with seeing them at The Depot, where they drew a huge crowd, played some of their music and videos and gave what was loosely termed an "artists' talk."
Note quotations.
VCU sound artist Stephen Vitiello began by welcoming the throngs, saying, "For those of you smart enough to come, welcome."
Drew, who did the lion's share of talking about the electronic music duo's music and creative process, while his partner in life and music, Martin, provided the low-voiced, hilarious color commentary, began by skewering the notion of the artist's talk, saying it was all about pleasuring the artist.
To prove his point, he squeezed his own nipples as he spoke.
After playing one of their songs from "The Rose Has Teeth in the Mouth of the Beast," - during which they both laid down on mats on the floor, causing a flurry of students to snap photos with their phones - Drew explained its genesis.
"Anyone here ever hard of the Germs?" he inquired and I wasn't the only one to raise my hand. "Anyone here have a germ burn?"
Not a soul did, understandable given the age of the group, but also that a Germ burn used to be acquired by allowing self-loathing and closeted lead singer Darby to hold a lighted cigarette to a fan's wrist to mark them.
The tie-in to the song? The manipulated sounds we'd heard were of Drew's wrist being burnt, his cries of pain and Martin shaving his head. Honestly, it had just sounded like really interesting electronic music to my unsophisticated ear.
His point was that there is sound for sound's sake and sound that delivers information. Clearly we all felt differently about the song after learning what we were hearing.
Talking about their show last night, Drew said they purposely push for autonomy of sound by using quad sound, making it impossible for people in the audience to record. "So if you do record it, your file will sound like shit," Drew said with obvious delight. "That's our insistence on presence in the moment."
Sigh. My heroes.
He made the point that he didn't want to be the old man yelling and shaking his fist at Soundcloud, but that the huge audio sound in the room was the point of being at the show.
Their breakthrough was a piece that was based on manipulating amplified crayfish nerve tissue and, yes, you read that right. "As a result of that song, we were called scientists of sound and surgeons of sound and so we were given all this credit we didn't deserve."
Humility is a beautiful thing.
They loved working with Bjork, who told them that she wanted their collaboration to be like Utopia with no suffering. "Yea, we want this job," they told her happily.
Drew, a tenured Shakespeare professor at Johns Hopkins, was a fascinating speaker, never losing his thread no matter how many tangents he took, but his best line came near the end.
"No one would go to a restaurant that only served mussel meat and bouillon cubes and that's what EDM is." I may like some EDM, but I like this analogy even better.
Although it had been a beautiful, blue sky kind of afternoon when I'd walked up the steps to the Depot, by the time I got out it was dark and getting cooler by the minute. Meanwhile, I am counting the days until March 6th when we spring forward and life gets warm and bright again.
Tonight was the Valentine's Community Conversation, this month on the topic of housing, particularly public and affordable.
Looking at photographs from the Valentine's extensive collection, we saw many dilapidated wood frame houses - or maybe shacks would be a better word - in Carver and on Second Street in Jackson Ward, houses in such awful shape it broke your heart to think people lived in them. Many, we learned had dirt floors.
I learned a new architecture term - dogtrot house - and saw examples on Moore Street, which I'd passed by on my walk this very morning. Two one story wooden structures connected by a breezeway, this was the first I'd ever heard of such a thing, although I'd seen something similar in Carver and wondered about it.
We saw the Carverettes, a youth group, cleaning up the neighborhood in the '60s, a scale model of what Randolph would look like from the '70s and the first Habitat for Humanity house in Richmond, built in Church Hill in 1990.
Truth be told, I could look at old photographs of the city for the entire two-hour community conversation, but that's not how this works.
Instead we use handheld devices to find out the demographics of the room (always a whiter representation than the actual city and usually more females than representative) and then break into small groups to discuss issues related to the topic.
Tonight it was fact or fiction statements about housing and welfare, house values and HUD. Our group had a terrific advantage in Lillian, who actually lived in public housing and could give us a hard-won feel for what that life was like.
The expert panel brought together the impressive TK (40+ years in the job) from Richmond Redevelopment and Housing Authority, Bernard and David from the Better Housing Coalition (photographs of the Cary and Meadow area before their residential and retail redevelopment projects were downright scary) and Jane from Habitat, who said prospective homeowners are expected to take classes and put in 350 hours of sweat equity to qualify for a mortgage.
Probably the most compelling discussions were about inclusionary housing - where a percentage of affordable housing is built along with market housing - and how race and politics play such a huge role in making those decisions.
Even once the evening ended, I was there for another 20 minutes talking with a woman who challenged what the benefit was to mixing people from affordable and market housing in the same neighborhood or complex.
As someone who moved from a very suburban white bread, homogeneous community into a very diverse urban one, I have extremely strong opinions on the subject.
With my intellect stimulated, I moved on to mindless fun. Tonight I'd been invited to the preview of the new Vagabond restaurant in the old Coda space next to the National.
I arrived late enough that every crumb of food that had been put out was long gone, but enough people remained to socialize with, including the chef's wife, newly blond, the real estate agent I run into everywhere and the former critic whom I'm always happy to see.
Curious about how they'd transformed the enormous space, I was charmed by a red textured and partially stenciled wall, another with crystals and constellations painted on and everywhere, small touches - flowers, glasses, framed art from the old Magpie - that gave a sense of personality to the two floors.
Airlift cocktail in hand, I got a tour from the chef - the easy access directly to the floor of the National and the VIP section is awfully appealing - and settled in to chat with a foodie and a restaurateur.
This is how I learned that when Daniel Ratcliffe was in town, he ate repeatedly at Buckhead's (bleu cheese-crusted fillet every time) and Osaka, but drank at neither, having given up the sauce a few years ago. I knew he'd been in town - I'd seen his bus parked at Quirk Hotel - but heard he'd begun at the Jefferson and decided to move.
Hardly surprising. Of course Harry Potter would prefer funky over staid.
After a protracted discussion of adopting country dogs and bringing them to the city, why the "Gilmore Girls" is such a good source for fashion tips (her statement, not mine, since I've never seen the show) and a thorough analysis of "Burnt" (saw it last night after the ramen, steamed buns and deviled eggs) with the restaurateur who'd seen it at Cinebistro, I decided I'd had enough fun for one night.
An invitation to join the talkers for a nightcap at Heritage failed to change my mind.
Maybe it was depression. I'd just been told that Republicans had held onto the Virginia Senate.
At least it wasn't my fault. I voted.
Some things are just non-negotiable, like eating deviled eggs on National Deviled Egg Day (yesterday, and, yes, I did, at Shoryuken, if you must know) and voting is one of them.
Other activities are optional.
But since I'd missed Matmos' show last night at Black Iris, I consoled myself with seeing them at The Depot, where they drew a huge crowd, played some of their music and videos and gave what was loosely termed an "artists' talk."
Note quotations.
VCU sound artist Stephen Vitiello began by welcoming the throngs, saying, "For those of you smart enough to come, welcome."
Drew, who did the lion's share of talking about the electronic music duo's music and creative process, while his partner in life and music, Martin, provided the low-voiced, hilarious color commentary, began by skewering the notion of the artist's talk, saying it was all about pleasuring the artist.
To prove his point, he squeezed his own nipples as he spoke.
After playing one of their songs from "The Rose Has Teeth in the Mouth of the Beast," - during which they both laid down on mats on the floor, causing a flurry of students to snap photos with their phones - Drew explained its genesis.
"Anyone here ever hard of the Germs?" he inquired and I wasn't the only one to raise my hand. "Anyone here have a germ burn?"
Not a soul did, understandable given the age of the group, but also that a Germ burn used to be acquired by allowing self-loathing and closeted lead singer Darby to hold a lighted cigarette to a fan's wrist to mark them.
The tie-in to the song? The manipulated sounds we'd heard were of Drew's wrist being burnt, his cries of pain and Martin shaving his head. Honestly, it had just sounded like really interesting electronic music to my unsophisticated ear.
His point was that there is sound for sound's sake and sound that delivers information. Clearly we all felt differently about the song after learning what we were hearing.
Talking about their show last night, Drew said they purposely push for autonomy of sound by using quad sound, making it impossible for people in the audience to record. "So if you do record it, your file will sound like shit," Drew said with obvious delight. "That's our insistence on presence in the moment."
Sigh. My heroes.
He made the point that he didn't want to be the old man yelling and shaking his fist at Soundcloud, but that the huge audio sound in the room was the point of being at the show.
Their breakthrough was a piece that was based on manipulating amplified crayfish nerve tissue and, yes, you read that right. "As a result of that song, we were called scientists of sound and surgeons of sound and so we were given all this credit we didn't deserve."
Humility is a beautiful thing.
They loved working with Bjork, who told them that she wanted their collaboration to be like Utopia with no suffering. "Yea, we want this job," they told her happily.
Drew, a tenured Shakespeare professor at Johns Hopkins, was a fascinating speaker, never losing his thread no matter how many tangents he took, but his best line came near the end.
"No one would go to a restaurant that only served mussel meat and bouillon cubes and that's what EDM is." I may like some EDM, but I like this analogy even better.
Although it had been a beautiful, blue sky kind of afternoon when I'd walked up the steps to the Depot, by the time I got out it was dark and getting cooler by the minute. Meanwhile, I am counting the days until March 6th when we spring forward and life gets warm and bright again.
Tonight was the Valentine's Community Conversation, this month on the topic of housing, particularly public and affordable.
Looking at photographs from the Valentine's extensive collection, we saw many dilapidated wood frame houses - or maybe shacks would be a better word - in Carver and on Second Street in Jackson Ward, houses in such awful shape it broke your heart to think people lived in them. Many, we learned had dirt floors.
I learned a new architecture term - dogtrot house - and saw examples on Moore Street, which I'd passed by on my walk this very morning. Two one story wooden structures connected by a breezeway, this was the first I'd ever heard of such a thing, although I'd seen something similar in Carver and wondered about it.
We saw the Carverettes, a youth group, cleaning up the neighborhood in the '60s, a scale model of what Randolph would look like from the '70s and the first Habitat for Humanity house in Richmond, built in Church Hill in 1990.
Truth be told, I could look at old photographs of the city for the entire two-hour community conversation, but that's not how this works.
Instead we use handheld devices to find out the demographics of the room (always a whiter representation than the actual city and usually more females than representative) and then break into small groups to discuss issues related to the topic.
Tonight it was fact or fiction statements about housing and welfare, house values and HUD. Our group had a terrific advantage in Lillian, who actually lived in public housing and could give us a hard-won feel for what that life was like.
The expert panel brought together the impressive TK (40+ years in the job) from Richmond Redevelopment and Housing Authority, Bernard and David from the Better Housing Coalition (photographs of the Cary and Meadow area before their residential and retail redevelopment projects were downright scary) and Jane from Habitat, who said prospective homeowners are expected to take classes and put in 350 hours of sweat equity to qualify for a mortgage.
Probably the most compelling discussions were about inclusionary housing - where a percentage of affordable housing is built along with market housing - and how race and politics play such a huge role in making those decisions.
Even once the evening ended, I was there for another 20 minutes talking with a woman who challenged what the benefit was to mixing people from affordable and market housing in the same neighborhood or complex.
As someone who moved from a very suburban white bread, homogeneous community into a very diverse urban one, I have extremely strong opinions on the subject.
With my intellect stimulated, I moved on to mindless fun. Tonight I'd been invited to the preview of the new Vagabond restaurant in the old Coda space next to the National.
I arrived late enough that every crumb of food that had been put out was long gone, but enough people remained to socialize with, including the chef's wife, newly blond, the real estate agent I run into everywhere and the former critic whom I'm always happy to see.
Curious about how they'd transformed the enormous space, I was charmed by a red textured and partially stenciled wall, another with crystals and constellations painted on and everywhere, small touches - flowers, glasses, framed art from the old Magpie - that gave a sense of personality to the two floors.
Airlift cocktail in hand, I got a tour from the chef - the easy access directly to the floor of the National and the VIP section is awfully appealing - and settled in to chat with a foodie and a restaurateur.
This is how I learned that when Daniel Ratcliffe was in town, he ate repeatedly at Buckhead's (bleu cheese-crusted fillet every time) and Osaka, but drank at neither, having given up the sauce a few years ago. I knew he'd been in town - I'd seen his bus parked at Quirk Hotel - but heard he'd begun at the Jefferson and decided to move.
Hardly surprising. Of course Harry Potter would prefer funky over staid.
After a protracted discussion of adopting country dogs and bringing them to the city, why the "Gilmore Girls" is such a good source for fashion tips (her statement, not mine, since I've never seen the show) and a thorough analysis of "Burnt" (saw it last night after the ramen, steamed buns and deviled eggs) with the restaurateur who'd seen it at Cinebistro, I decided I'd had enough fun for one night.
An invitation to join the talkers for a nightcap at Heritage failed to change my mind.
Maybe it was depression. I'd just been told that Republicans had held onto the Virginia Senate.
At least it wasn't my fault. I voted.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
You Can Do Anything
The beauty of Richmond is that there's always something worth doing.
It's just another Tuesday night, right? The students have high-tailed it out of town with classes being cancelled, the suburbanites are holed up in their junior McMansions, afraid to venture out, and with everything going on this week, it's easy to throw up your hands and say why bother.
But then I see that Dave Watkins is playing at Black Iris, not even three blocks from my house and I know a perfect Tuesday night has fallen into my lap. The crowd is definitely smaller than usual - maybe 40 people - but it's a quality bunch.
I barely have time to say hello to the professor who's curated the gallery show when Dave, his dulcitar and his massive pedal board begin filling the gallery with something I've never heard from him before. Dynamic to the max and very controlled, hearing this different sound from him is a wonder for long-time fans like me.
With one of his unique light shows playing behind him, Dave has curated a total experience.
By the end of his set, there are elements of his usual improvisational sound with lots of looping, but it also feels like we are experiencing a subtle shift in his musical direction and that's exciting. It is definitely some of, if not the, best playing I've heard out of the dozens of his performances I've attended.
I only wish more out-of-towners were in the house tonight to help spread the gospel of Dave Watkins.
During the break, I get a chance to mingle. The photographer and I talk about Fall breathing down our necks. The busker thanks me for the article I wrote about her, saying it brought in a much larger crowd to her last show. The cook says business is Carytown has been painfully slow and we commiserate over the plethora of available parking in our beloved J-Ward this week.
"It's emptier than when the students are on break!" he laments. It's true.
Next up is tonight' touring band, the Andrew Weathers Ensemble, a singer/guitarist accompanied by a cellist. Of note is that they are from Oakland and are currently both barefoot on stage.
For their set, Dave puts on a nature slide show and soon leaves blow in the breeze and birds flit across Andrew's face as he sings.
Theirs is a kind of mournful experimental folk with the sadness of the cello matched only by Andrew's weary-sounding vocals. It's a fusion of indie and folk with just enough hints of Appalachia and drone. Suddenly I understand why they're barefoot.
I already know why I'm here. Beautiful music is being made in this unnaturally quiet city tonight.
Those who bother to venture out are rewarded. We are the lucky ones.
It's just another Tuesday night, right? The students have high-tailed it out of town with classes being cancelled, the suburbanites are holed up in their junior McMansions, afraid to venture out, and with everything going on this week, it's easy to throw up your hands and say why bother.
But then I see that Dave Watkins is playing at Black Iris, not even three blocks from my house and I know a perfect Tuesday night has fallen into my lap. The crowd is definitely smaller than usual - maybe 40 people - but it's a quality bunch.
I barely have time to say hello to the professor who's curated the gallery show when Dave, his dulcitar and his massive pedal board begin filling the gallery with something I've never heard from him before. Dynamic to the max and very controlled, hearing this different sound from him is a wonder for long-time fans like me.
With one of his unique light shows playing behind him, Dave has curated a total experience.
By the end of his set, there are elements of his usual improvisational sound with lots of looping, but it also feels like we are experiencing a subtle shift in his musical direction and that's exciting. It is definitely some of, if not the, best playing I've heard out of the dozens of his performances I've attended.
I only wish more out-of-towners were in the house tonight to help spread the gospel of Dave Watkins.
During the break, I get a chance to mingle. The photographer and I talk about Fall breathing down our necks. The busker thanks me for the article I wrote about her, saying it brought in a much larger crowd to her last show. The cook says business is Carytown has been painfully slow and we commiserate over the plethora of available parking in our beloved J-Ward this week.
"It's emptier than when the students are on break!" he laments. It's true.
Next up is tonight' touring band, the Andrew Weathers Ensemble, a singer/guitarist accompanied by a cellist. Of note is that they are from Oakland and are currently both barefoot on stage.
For their set, Dave puts on a nature slide show and soon leaves blow in the breeze and birds flit across Andrew's face as he sings.
Theirs is a kind of mournful experimental folk with the sadness of the cello matched only by Andrew's weary-sounding vocals. It's a fusion of indie and folk with just enough hints of Appalachia and drone. Suddenly I understand why they're barefoot.
I already know why I'm here. Beautiful music is being made in this unnaturally quiet city tonight.
Those who bother to venture out are rewarded. We are the lucky ones.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Dance the Night Away
On this, National Women's Equality Day, it's fitting I read that the New York Times describes Madonna as a crusader, willing or not, against ageism.
Because after all, how can we have true equality if we consider one person less (take your pick) attractive, interesting, viable, capable, sexual or otherwise simply because of the year they were born?
I'm not a pop star, so I've never had the need to continuously shock and titillate, but I can completely relate to her mission to kick down the doors so younger women won't have to deal with ageism. Unlike Madonna, I'm not going to lift my skirt to show my fishnet-covered bottom, but I'm part of the sisterhood that believes that if I wanted to, I have as much right as a 22-year old to do so.
Madge and I, we're in the trenches together.
Except that she performs for thousands and I walk around Jackson Ward, taking advantage of what's happening in the 'hood. Tonight's later start could be attributed to all kinds of things - my father's first kidney stone, two cats taking up residence on the roof outside my balcony, and last minute news that I've got a guest coming for the weekend - but by the time I did get away, age was not a factor in my plans.
Gallery 5's chalkboard announced that it was game night -"Chess or whatever else you are into!" (doubtful) - as I strolled over to Saison Market for some cultural observation and a bite before the show. Minimal reward on the former: one mute couple, both on their laptops, and three people playing cards with the two guys still teaching the girl the game loudly.
And why weren't they at game night a block away?
I took the little two-top in the center near the (hipster alert) vermouth selection, taking in the reliably interesting soundtrack as I enjoyed a $5 glass of wine (Domaine Guion Bourgueil Cuvee) with brightly-colored and artistically-plated lamb belly with cantaloupe soubise, curried granola, fennel and shallot.
And by belly, I mean thick strips of lamb bacon to die for. When the server tried to take my plate when I still had one perfect bite left - belly, shallot, cantaloupe, granola - I shook my head like I meant it. "Oops, sorry, I should've realized," he apologized, smiling, hands over his head as if he were being held up.
From there, I walked down to Black Iris because if Olivia Neutron-John was giving an unbridled performance three blocks from home, I needed to be part of that.
I walked in as opener Louie, Louie from Philly finished their soundcheck and announced that the show was beginning. With age comes wisdom to know just when to show up to catch the opening band.
Good for me 'cause their all-girl reverb-heavy garage/psych/pop was right up my alley, catchy, guitar-driven and with that distinctive "music from a cave" sound I adore. Already happy shaking my non fishnet-covered booty to their energetic sound, my night was made with the one-two (covers) punch of the BeeGees' "To Love Somebody" followed by an extended take on Tommy James' classic,"Crimson and Clover," effects-laden guitar making for orgasmic ears.
It was during that medley that the dance party king spotted me and came over to share his enthusiasm for the band. "If Quentin Tarantino had a band, this is what it would sound like," he hypothesized. Yes, and there would be dancing, so we'd both be happy.
I was intrigued to hear about a recent dinner party he'd attended, its purpose being to bring people together to have more than quick, superficial conversations, the kind so common in bars and at shows. I lament that occasions must be created specifically to ensure such discourse, but I'd rather that than to think it didn't happen at all.
Explaining to the dance enthusiast that there was a time when conversations easily went deeper because no one was lost in their device, I saw a look of regret cross his face. Clearly that's a world he barely recalls.
What we share in common, though, is a love of availing ourselves of whatever the city has going on. Not for us the lifestyles of the cocooning couples and buried-up-to-their-eyeballs parents who rarely go out. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
"This is what I want to be doing on a Wednesday night," he said decidedly. "I don't want to be at home watching TV." Preach it, brother.
In no time, Anna Nasty of Chain and the Gang took the stage to deliver what should rightfully be called performance art. All synths, drumbeats and flying black hair, she crafted a sound that was secondary to the visuals and lighting effects.
On some songs, she whipped her hair side to side in one head-jerking motion while on others she did a proper up and down head-banging. Would her set have been as compelling without the hair? Chances are, no.
A gallerist friend walked by pushing ear plugs in his ears and asking if I needed some, not realizing it wasn't my first rodeo. I don't leave the house without a pair in my bag...just in case. Rarely used, but there if absolutely necessary, like Maxwell Smart's shoe phone (aged cultural reference #1).
It took me only a few minutes of the fast and furious set before I pulled out my plugs in a half-hearted attempt to be kinder to my ears.
Tonight's room was testament to the return of VCU students, with lots of fresh-scrubbed (and artfully dirty) faces in the crowd. That said, there was a small but confused subset of people who left after the first 15 minutes, not willing to take a chance on something they hadn't expected.
What they were missing was that it was loud, almost hypnotic plus she was selling it 100% so where else would you want to be on this Wednesday night?
Then came aged cultural reference #2. "If the computer Hal from "2001" had a band, this would be it," my friend concluded and I could laugh, but not disagree.
Madonna's gone on record - Instagram, even - as saying age won't slow her down.
Shut up, jealous bitches! I hope you are as fun-loving and adventurous as me when you're my age!!!! Hahahhaha let's see!"
I don't even need to see. Time makes you bolder, even children get older and I'm getting older, too. Let's see how you feel about age when it's you. Looking forward to hearing, "Oops, sorry, should've realized."
Raising hands over head not required.
Because after all, how can we have true equality if we consider one person less (take your pick) attractive, interesting, viable, capable, sexual or otherwise simply because of the year they were born?
I'm not a pop star, so I've never had the need to continuously shock and titillate, but I can completely relate to her mission to kick down the doors so younger women won't have to deal with ageism. Unlike Madonna, I'm not going to lift my skirt to show my fishnet-covered bottom, but I'm part of the sisterhood that believes that if I wanted to, I have as much right as a 22-year old to do so.
Madge and I, we're in the trenches together.
Except that she performs for thousands and I walk around Jackson Ward, taking advantage of what's happening in the 'hood. Tonight's later start could be attributed to all kinds of things - my father's first kidney stone, two cats taking up residence on the roof outside my balcony, and last minute news that I've got a guest coming for the weekend - but by the time I did get away, age was not a factor in my plans.
Gallery 5's chalkboard announced that it was game night -"Chess or whatever else you are into!" (doubtful) - as I strolled over to Saison Market for some cultural observation and a bite before the show. Minimal reward on the former: one mute couple, both on their laptops, and three people playing cards with the two guys still teaching the girl the game loudly.
And why weren't they at game night a block away?
I took the little two-top in the center near the (hipster alert) vermouth selection, taking in the reliably interesting soundtrack as I enjoyed a $5 glass of wine (Domaine Guion Bourgueil Cuvee) with brightly-colored and artistically-plated lamb belly with cantaloupe soubise, curried granola, fennel and shallot.
And by belly, I mean thick strips of lamb bacon to die for. When the server tried to take my plate when I still had one perfect bite left - belly, shallot, cantaloupe, granola - I shook my head like I meant it. "Oops, sorry, I should've realized," he apologized, smiling, hands over his head as if he were being held up.
From there, I walked down to Black Iris because if Olivia Neutron-John was giving an unbridled performance three blocks from home, I needed to be part of that.
I walked in as opener Louie, Louie from Philly finished their soundcheck and announced that the show was beginning. With age comes wisdom to know just when to show up to catch the opening band.
Good for me 'cause their all-girl reverb-heavy garage/psych/pop was right up my alley, catchy, guitar-driven and with that distinctive "music from a cave" sound I adore. Already happy shaking my non fishnet-covered booty to their energetic sound, my night was made with the one-two (covers) punch of the BeeGees' "To Love Somebody" followed by an extended take on Tommy James' classic,"Crimson and Clover," effects-laden guitar making for orgasmic ears.
It was during that medley that the dance party king spotted me and came over to share his enthusiasm for the band. "If Quentin Tarantino had a band, this is what it would sound like," he hypothesized. Yes, and there would be dancing, so we'd both be happy.
I was intrigued to hear about a recent dinner party he'd attended, its purpose being to bring people together to have more than quick, superficial conversations, the kind so common in bars and at shows. I lament that occasions must be created specifically to ensure such discourse, but I'd rather that than to think it didn't happen at all.
Explaining to the dance enthusiast that there was a time when conversations easily went deeper because no one was lost in their device, I saw a look of regret cross his face. Clearly that's a world he barely recalls.
What we share in common, though, is a love of availing ourselves of whatever the city has going on. Not for us the lifestyles of the cocooning couples and buried-up-to-their-eyeballs parents who rarely go out. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
"This is what I want to be doing on a Wednesday night," he said decidedly. "I don't want to be at home watching TV." Preach it, brother.
In no time, Anna Nasty of Chain and the Gang took the stage to deliver what should rightfully be called performance art. All synths, drumbeats and flying black hair, she crafted a sound that was secondary to the visuals and lighting effects.
On some songs, she whipped her hair side to side in one head-jerking motion while on others she did a proper up and down head-banging. Would her set have been as compelling without the hair? Chances are, no.
A gallerist friend walked by pushing ear plugs in his ears and asking if I needed some, not realizing it wasn't my first rodeo. I don't leave the house without a pair in my bag...just in case. Rarely used, but there if absolutely necessary, like Maxwell Smart's shoe phone (aged cultural reference #1).
It took me only a few minutes of the fast and furious set before I pulled out my plugs in a half-hearted attempt to be kinder to my ears.
Tonight's room was testament to the return of VCU students, with lots of fresh-scrubbed (and artfully dirty) faces in the crowd. That said, there was a small but confused subset of people who left after the first 15 minutes, not willing to take a chance on something they hadn't expected.
What they were missing was that it was loud, almost hypnotic plus she was selling it 100% so where else would you want to be on this Wednesday night?
Then came aged cultural reference #2. "If the computer Hal from "2001" had a band, this would be it," my friend concluded and I could laugh, but not disagree.
Madonna's gone on record - Instagram, even - as saying age won't slow her down.
Shut up, jealous bitches! I hope you are as fun-loving and adventurous as me when you're my age!!!! Hahahhaha let's see!"
I don't even need to see. Time makes you bolder, even children get older and I'm getting older, too. Let's see how you feel about age when it's you. Looking forward to hearing, "Oops, sorry, should've realized."
Raising hands over head not required.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Couldn't Ask for Better
I don't even know how I could pick my favorite moment of the evening.
It might be when I walked into Lunch for the Shoryuken Ramen pop-up at 5:03 (three minutes after they opened) and took a seat at the end of the counter.
The lovely Asian-looking woman behind the counter looked at me and said, "Your hair looks great! Who does it?" When I said it was me, she asked if I was a hairdresser. Ha! I explained that I've been cutting it myself for a year and a half and just learned how to blow dry in 2014. Still, she raved.
To someone who was raised by a mother who preached that "if your hair doesn't look good, it doesn't matter about the rest of how you look because that's all people will remember," this was heady stuff. I thanked her repeatedly.
Then I ordered a bowl of tonight's special, wontononmen, opting for shio (salty) over shoyu (soy sauce) in the fragrant chicken-based broth with scallions, bok choy, noodles and wontons of pork and shrimp. After a liberal sprinkling of Nanami Togarashi, I inhaled every bit, saving the plumpest wonton for my last bite.
While it was my first visit to the pop-up in residence at Lunch until the end of February, I heard several people mention they'd been there before, including two people who'd gone last night. The place, admittedly tiny, was completely full by 5:30 and I could see why the friend who used to live in China had said the small size made it feel like a true noodle bar.
All except the music maybe - that was vintage Cars, Bowie and Police - but as far as I was concerned, it was the ideal thing for noodle-slurping.
One of the servers showed off her new high-waisted jeans to another server and I admired them, too, telling her they looked like a favorite pair of mine circa 1984. "Ooh, I love the '80s," she squealed.
As I'd hoped, I was sated and out of there by 5:45, en route to the Valentine for the first of their 2015 Community Conversations series, this year at the newly renovated museum itself instead of all over town like last year's.
This year's theme is changing neighborhoods and tonight's topic was Highland Park. I arrived just before things got started and spotted the Man About Town, who swept over to say hello.
"Your hair looks fabulous!" he told me. "Very 21st century!" What was going on with my hair tonight? A girl could get used to all these compliments.
The session began with the little handheld devices used for polling to determine the demographic of the audience. First question? "What do you think of the Cowboys beating the Lions?"
Like 63% of the audience, I clicked "E" for "Really, you're starting a community conversation with a question about football?" I could have just as easily clicked "I hate the Cowboys," but I hate to miss a chance at humor.
After determining that the crowd was overwhelmingly white and that most of us had never lived in Highland Park, we broke into small groups for discussion of our HP memories.
Of the six people in my group (including city councilwoman Ellen Robertson), half had no experience with the neighborhood and that group included me. What I did have was a story my Dad had told me about his youth in HP, so I shared that.
He'd been a teenager, it was after baseball practice and he and a friend had gone to sit on a knoll in HP and drink beers while watching the windows of a nearby house. It was a favorite perch because the woman in the house was known to undress with the lights on. This night she did and so did the man in the room with her.
It was after they got into bed and started getting it on that Dad saw another man - apparently the husband -enter the bedroom, start yelling and shoot the man in bed. When I'd asked Dad what he'd done after that, he said he and his friend had finished their beers and gone home to bed.
When I finished the story (one Dad has told me a dozen times over the years), everyone in my group was agog. "You win!" two of them said and everyone nodded enthusiastically, even the councilwoman. It wasn't even my memory, just an old chestnut I'd been hearing since childhood about my father's Richmond childhood.
Once the small group sessions broke up, facilitator Matt asked if anyone had a story to share and everyone in my group pointed to me. After telling it again to the entire room, a man in the back said, "Was that the 2600 block of Third Avenue?"
Holy cow, small world. The man turned out to be a long-time HP resident who shared tales of a bucolic period in HP's history when people kept chickens and rabbits in their back yard ("We watched people wring their necks. Those were good years.") and streetcars (7 cents a ride) gave way to buses (8 cents per ride) and everyone had to scrape up another penny to ride.
A man who'd moved to HP in the late '60s and raised his family there told of an old-timer in the neighborhood who'd come by when he was painting his house. His advice was never to paint the whole house at once since it would only need repainting. Better to paint two sides this time and two sides in a few years. "To this day, I still do it that way," the man concluded.
Can I just say how much I enjoy these community conversations for stories just such as those?
The Hat got up and filled our heads with fun factoids about HP, how architecturally intact it still was because the highway didn't cut through it (unlike my beloved Jackson Ward). Brian from H.O.M.E. said his would be the most boring part of the program and explained that between 2007 and 2010, HP had the highest foreclosure rate in the city (103 out of 852 houses). Not boring.
From the councilwoman and a representative from the Better Housing Coalition, we learned that the same things that attracted people to HP 100 years ago (proximity to downtown, a feeling of being removed from the bustle of city) still hold true. The problem is that 21st century families no longer need or can afford five-bedroom houses with 5,000 square feet.
Like cheesy suburban developments being built in the counties now, HP had all been built relatively quickly, between 1890 and 1920. The neighborhood has the highest concentration of Queen Anne and Victorian houses in the area.
I was getting worried we were going to run out of time for my favorite part of these conversations, the show and tell that Valentine director Bill Martin does using old photos from the collection to talk about the neighborhood, but he slid it in right at the end.
It was amazing to see Victorian families standing in front of these large houses with no close neighbors and a streetcar running down the middle of the street.
When the evening ended, the man who'd guessed the location of my father's story approached me and said, "I'm pretty sure I know your Dad. What's his name?" I told him. "Where'd he live?" I had no idea. We walked out together, confirming my father's age and discovering that they'd both gone to the old John Marshall High School.
I can not wait to tell my father about this man I met because I blabbed about his story. I expect he'll be as tickled as I was.
Still high from that encounter, I headed directly to Black Iris for an evening of music and film which had just begun as I walked in.
As soon as I opened the door, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Nelly Kate's exquisite voice and quickly found a place among the packed crowd.
It was so good to hear her singing after her "year of saying no" when she cut way back on performing. She had new material and the crowd ate it up, not to mention Dave Watkins' ever more sophisticated light projections behind her to add to the total audio/visual experience.
I would never talk while Nelly was singing, but I was thrilled to find that the audience was not only silent but intent on the performance. It's safe to say that anyone who'd never heard her before was rendered speechless, so perhaps that was it.
When she finished, people rushed to the bar and I took the opportunity to socialize with all kinds of friends - the theater couple, the band photographer, the WRIR DJ, the cute couple band mates and, yes, once again the Man About Town.
I spotted four people like me who'd come from the Valentine. Even the actor formerly known as Hedwig was there, providing me with the too-infrequent pleasure of his witty company as we caught up after months.
The guy I always see at shows was there ("Hello, young lady") and detailed his recent ten-day stay in New Orleans for me. He'd stayed in the Marigny, had access to a bike (logging 20 miles in one day) and seen 30 bands in 10 days. Then he'd come home and slept for two weeks.
Coincidentally, another friend also whispered about his recent trip to NOLA when Todd Chandler's film, "Carnival Conquest" began. Beginning with imagery of a Carnival cruise ship in an industrial canal, smaller boats eventually overtook the behemoth while Todd played accompanying music.
Another short film, "Bovina," began with clouds, followed by a night sky, fireworks and ended with a huge bonfire while "Shore Birds" showed just that.
"Salvage Title" showed a giant piece of machinery scooping up cars and buses in a junkyard, sort of a post-industrial Japanese horror creature consuming its victims.
What was cool about all his films (besides how beautifully shot they were) was that he kept the recorded sounds from the filming - the boom of the fireworks, the crash of the surf, the growl of the machinery- but layered appropriate live music over it.
During the break after his films, more friends showed up, including the dance party enthusiast who'd also been to the ramen pop-up tonight but only after they'd sold out of the incredible wontononmen I'd had. They'd still had the vegetarian version, but, like me, he didn't want that.
Even a first-timer like me knew enough to bee there minutes after opening and he's a veteran of several visits, so he should have known better.
Mirah and her guitar were the evening's headliner (Todd accompanied her) and it was soon apparent that she had plenty of die-hard fans in the audience. Not all that surprising since I'd read that she's been making music since the late '90s.
Her voice, an airy soprano that worked the microphone with nuance and longing, could have probably sung the phone book and sounded wonderful, but she was doing a lot of material from her 2014 album, "Changing Light" instead.
Favorite lyric: "You are a season I will not find again."
If the audience had been respectful for the first two acts, they were worshipful for Mirah, calling out song titles and singing the la-la refrain when she asked them to. "You're being very quiet. I couldn't ask for better," she said, flattering us.
Sometimes she took requests and once she responded, "I am playing some old songs. Maybe not all the ones some of you wish I'd play..." Her voice had such a pure sweetness and finger-picking both her guitars, she created little worlds with every song.
Offering up a consolation prize, as she called, she said she was going to do a cover, one she'd recently done at a house show where no one recognized it. "It made us feel like the cool kids, " she beamed as Todd readied the keyboard.
We're never done killing time
Can I kill it with you
Until the veins run red and blue?
Their version of Lorde's "400 Lux" was absolutely killer, Mirah's supple voice being answered with Todd's responses of "And I like you" and the telling "You buy me orange juice."
When so few people knew what it was, she was delighted. "That makes us the coolest 40-year olds ever!"
Not sure I can choose the coolest part of a very cool evening. Maybe the rest of my group was right. I do win.
It might be when I walked into Lunch for the Shoryuken Ramen pop-up at 5:03 (three minutes after they opened) and took a seat at the end of the counter.
The lovely Asian-looking woman behind the counter looked at me and said, "Your hair looks great! Who does it?" When I said it was me, she asked if I was a hairdresser. Ha! I explained that I've been cutting it myself for a year and a half and just learned how to blow dry in 2014. Still, she raved.
To someone who was raised by a mother who preached that "if your hair doesn't look good, it doesn't matter about the rest of how you look because that's all people will remember," this was heady stuff. I thanked her repeatedly.
Then I ordered a bowl of tonight's special, wontononmen, opting for shio (salty) over shoyu (soy sauce) in the fragrant chicken-based broth with scallions, bok choy, noodles and wontons of pork and shrimp. After a liberal sprinkling of Nanami Togarashi, I inhaled every bit, saving the plumpest wonton for my last bite.
While it was my first visit to the pop-up in residence at Lunch until the end of February, I heard several people mention they'd been there before, including two people who'd gone last night. The place, admittedly tiny, was completely full by 5:30 and I could see why the friend who used to live in China had said the small size made it feel like a true noodle bar.
All except the music maybe - that was vintage Cars, Bowie and Police - but as far as I was concerned, it was the ideal thing for noodle-slurping.
One of the servers showed off her new high-waisted jeans to another server and I admired them, too, telling her they looked like a favorite pair of mine circa 1984. "Ooh, I love the '80s," she squealed.
As I'd hoped, I was sated and out of there by 5:45, en route to the Valentine for the first of their 2015 Community Conversations series, this year at the newly renovated museum itself instead of all over town like last year's.
This year's theme is changing neighborhoods and tonight's topic was Highland Park. I arrived just before things got started and spotted the Man About Town, who swept over to say hello.
"Your hair looks fabulous!" he told me. "Very 21st century!" What was going on with my hair tonight? A girl could get used to all these compliments.
The session began with the little handheld devices used for polling to determine the demographic of the audience. First question? "What do you think of the Cowboys beating the Lions?"
Like 63% of the audience, I clicked "E" for "Really, you're starting a community conversation with a question about football?" I could have just as easily clicked "I hate the Cowboys," but I hate to miss a chance at humor.
After determining that the crowd was overwhelmingly white and that most of us had never lived in Highland Park, we broke into small groups for discussion of our HP memories.
Of the six people in my group (including city councilwoman Ellen Robertson), half had no experience with the neighborhood and that group included me. What I did have was a story my Dad had told me about his youth in HP, so I shared that.
He'd been a teenager, it was after baseball practice and he and a friend had gone to sit on a knoll in HP and drink beers while watching the windows of a nearby house. It was a favorite perch because the woman in the house was known to undress with the lights on. This night she did and so did the man in the room with her.
It was after they got into bed and started getting it on that Dad saw another man - apparently the husband -enter the bedroom, start yelling and shoot the man in bed. When I'd asked Dad what he'd done after that, he said he and his friend had finished their beers and gone home to bed.
When I finished the story (one Dad has told me a dozen times over the years), everyone in my group was agog. "You win!" two of them said and everyone nodded enthusiastically, even the councilwoman. It wasn't even my memory, just an old chestnut I'd been hearing since childhood about my father's Richmond childhood.
Once the small group sessions broke up, facilitator Matt asked if anyone had a story to share and everyone in my group pointed to me. After telling it again to the entire room, a man in the back said, "Was that the 2600 block of Third Avenue?"
Holy cow, small world. The man turned out to be a long-time HP resident who shared tales of a bucolic period in HP's history when people kept chickens and rabbits in their back yard ("We watched people wring their necks. Those were good years.") and streetcars (7 cents a ride) gave way to buses (8 cents per ride) and everyone had to scrape up another penny to ride.
A man who'd moved to HP in the late '60s and raised his family there told of an old-timer in the neighborhood who'd come by when he was painting his house. His advice was never to paint the whole house at once since it would only need repainting. Better to paint two sides this time and two sides in a few years. "To this day, I still do it that way," the man concluded.
Can I just say how much I enjoy these community conversations for stories just such as those?
The Hat got up and filled our heads with fun factoids about HP, how architecturally intact it still was because the highway didn't cut through it (unlike my beloved Jackson Ward). Brian from H.O.M.E. said his would be the most boring part of the program and explained that between 2007 and 2010, HP had the highest foreclosure rate in the city (103 out of 852 houses). Not boring.
From the councilwoman and a representative from the Better Housing Coalition, we learned that the same things that attracted people to HP 100 years ago (proximity to downtown, a feeling of being removed from the bustle of city) still hold true. The problem is that 21st century families no longer need or can afford five-bedroom houses with 5,000 square feet.
Like cheesy suburban developments being built in the counties now, HP had all been built relatively quickly, between 1890 and 1920. The neighborhood has the highest concentration of Queen Anne and Victorian houses in the area.
I was getting worried we were going to run out of time for my favorite part of these conversations, the show and tell that Valentine director Bill Martin does using old photos from the collection to talk about the neighborhood, but he slid it in right at the end.
It was amazing to see Victorian families standing in front of these large houses with no close neighbors and a streetcar running down the middle of the street.
When the evening ended, the man who'd guessed the location of my father's story approached me and said, "I'm pretty sure I know your Dad. What's his name?" I told him. "Where'd he live?" I had no idea. We walked out together, confirming my father's age and discovering that they'd both gone to the old John Marshall High School.
I can not wait to tell my father about this man I met because I blabbed about his story. I expect he'll be as tickled as I was.
Still high from that encounter, I headed directly to Black Iris for an evening of music and film which had just begun as I walked in.
As soon as I opened the door, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Nelly Kate's exquisite voice and quickly found a place among the packed crowd.
It was so good to hear her singing after her "year of saying no" when she cut way back on performing. She had new material and the crowd ate it up, not to mention Dave Watkins' ever more sophisticated light projections behind her to add to the total audio/visual experience.
I would never talk while Nelly was singing, but I was thrilled to find that the audience was not only silent but intent on the performance. It's safe to say that anyone who'd never heard her before was rendered speechless, so perhaps that was it.
When she finished, people rushed to the bar and I took the opportunity to socialize with all kinds of friends - the theater couple, the band photographer, the WRIR DJ, the cute couple band mates and, yes, once again the Man About Town.
I spotted four people like me who'd come from the Valentine. Even the actor formerly known as Hedwig was there, providing me with the too-infrequent pleasure of his witty company as we caught up after months.
The guy I always see at shows was there ("Hello, young lady") and detailed his recent ten-day stay in New Orleans for me. He'd stayed in the Marigny, had access to a bike (logging 20 miles in one day) and seen 30 bands in 10 days. Then he'd come home and slept for two weeks.
Coincidentally, another friend also whispered about his recent trip to NOLA when Todd Chandler's film, "Carnival Conquest" began. Beginning with imagery of a Carnival cruise ship in an industrial canal, smaller boats eventually overtook the behemoth while Todd played accompanying music.
Another short film, "Bovina," began with clouds, followed by a night sky, fireworks and ended with a huge bonfire while "Shore Birds" showed just that.
"Salvage Title" showed a giant piece of machinery scooping up cars and buses in a junkyard, sort of a post-industrial Japanese horror creature consuming its victims.
What was cool about all his films (besides how beautifully shot they were) was that he kept the recorded sounds from the filming - the boom of the fireworks, the crash of the surf, the growl of the machinery- but layered appropriate live music over it.
During the break after his films, more friends showed up, including the dance party enthusiast who'd also been to the ramen pop-up tonight but only after they'd sold out of the incredible wontononmen I'd had. They'd still had the vegetarian version, but, like me, he didn't want that.
Even a first-timer like me knew enough to bee there minutes after opening and he's a veteran of several visits, so he should have known better.
Mirah and her guitar were the evening's headliner (Todd accompanied her) and it was soon apparent that she had plenty of die-hard fans in the audience. Not all that surprising since I'd read that she's been making music since the late '90s.
Her voice, an airy soprano that worked the microphone with nuance and longing, could have probably sung the phone book and sounded wonderful, but she was doing a lot of material from her 2014 album, "Changing Light" instead.
Favorite lyric: "You are a season I will not find again."
If the audience had been respectful for the first two acts, they were worshipful for Mirah, calling out song titles and singing the la-la refrain when she asked them to. "You're being very quiet. I couldn't ask for better," she said, flattering us.
Sometimes she took requests and once she responded, "I am playing some old songs. Maybe not all the ones some of you wish I'd play..." Her voice had such a pure sweetness and finger-picking both her guitars, she created little worlds with every song.
Offering up a consolation prize, as she called, she said she was going to do a cover, one she'd recently done at a house show where no one recognized it. "It made us feel like the cool kids, " she beamed as Todd readied the keyboard.
We're never done killing time
Can I kill it with you
Until the veins run red and blue?
Their version of Lorde's "400 Lux" was absolutely killer, Mirah's supple voice being answered with Todd's responses of "And I like you" and the telling "You buy me orange juice."
When so few people knew what it was, she was delighted. "That makes us the coolest 40-year olds ever!"
Not sure I can choose the coolest part of a very cool evening. Maybe the rest of my group was right. I do win.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Follow Me
Every year, the holidays get in the way of my cultural life. Ho, ho, ho.
See, the problem is, I don't like to shop any time of year, much less when the whole world is out there doing it.
But I went out and played consumer today, even buying a gift so large it fit in neither my backseat nor my trunk.
Just as the employee who'd carried it to my car was suggesting he take it back inside so I could get my money back, I had a holiday brainstorm.
What were the chances a stranger would do me a Christmas favor?
Curious to find out, I walked up to a man getting into a shiny truck and asked if I led, would he mind schlepping my humongous gift back to J-Ward for me.
Only after I asked a favor of someone I didn't know did it occur to me to introduce myself.
Long story short, John agreed and dutifully followed me home, wished me a merry Christmas and disappeared, probably never to be heard from again.
Kind of warms your heart, doesn't it?
But it's not just shopping that dominates these days. I don't mind the occasional party, but they're not terribly occasional this month.
So with friends and family on tap for the foreseeable future, tonight was all about me.
I started at one of my long-time favorite places where I knew I'd be guaranteed two things: black bean nachos and thrash.
821 was pretty slow when I got there and claimed a seat at the bar, but the thrash was blasting and I refused the menu when it was offered.
I don't need no stinkin' menu.
Before long, I was joined on both sides by pairs of beer-drinking women, one telling me how bad the food had been at 525 at the Berry Burk and the other talking about how hard it is to Christmas shop and not buy stuff for yourself.
I really don't have that problem. Meanwhile, I plugged away at the mound of beans, cheese and chips, thinking how even the anemic-looking tomato chunks and bright green shreds of lettuce had a holiday look.
Fortunately, the music was very un-holiday-like.
When I left 821, it was for Black Iris, who get my vote for the most compelling new cultural space and gallery.
Tonight they were doing a talk by photographer Tod Seelie, whose new book, "Bright Nights: Photographs of Another New York" had recently shown up in Time magazine as one of the best photo books of the year.
Before we got down to the talk, there was mingling, food and beer with Marty from Steady Sounds playing (non-holiday) music (but not thrash).
It was during that time I got a chance to talk to some of the Black Iris people about the "Low Frequency Travel Agency" show they've currently got going on that had rocked my world, here.
I was thrilled to hear one of the Black Iris guys refer to my travel log observations as "poetic." And here I thought I was just another woman with a musical suitcase.
But then I was sad to hear musician Nelly Kate, who'd written and sung the music in the suitcases, talk about how she lets so many people know about her artistic endeavors, but can only count on about ten of them to make the effort to participate.
Out of hundreds. That's pretty tragic.
The talk began with Tod saying how hard it was to summarize a book's worth of photographs shot in New York representing fifteen years of work, a valid point, while photos from the book showed on the wall behind him.
Explaining that he didn't work like a traditional photojournalist, scheduling shoots and asking permission, he went on to tell stories about the scenes and subculture he shot, always seeking to convey a sense of narrative in his photos.
There were parties in Harlem basements, scenes from the annual Bike Kill (which looked a lot like Richmond's annual Slaughterama), lots of punk shows and other DIY-style happenings.
"My goal is to make the photograph as much like being there as possible," he explained, having been inspired by his first punk show which, he said, demonstrated to him that there was a world of options out there that were much bigger than he had imagined.
His stories of becoming part of the subculture were fascinating for how they illuminated Nelly Kate's earlier point.
It's all there for the taking, but you have to make the effort to put yourself into it.
Tod talked about how he and a group of people had decided to set up a speakeasy in an abandoned water tower.
Unlike some of the stuff he did that lasted only one night, the speakeasy was a six-week undertaking that began with a "starter cell" of people and a need for secrecy, so no online posting, surely a challenge for many.
The starter cell people were each given a watch with instructions for the speakeasy for them to give to one person as an invitation, so the group grew but without the originators knowing who might be invited.
We heard about a four-year project where "junk rafts," impressive-looking creations made of anything and everything, were built and sailed down four different waterways.
During the Q & A, someone asked Tod if he ever had trouble getting people to let him shoot.
Saying that he took the "invisible fly on the wall approach," he thought his success had to do with not getting up in people's faces to shoot.
The subcultures in NYC he was talking about were all ones that exist here, albeit probably not as multi-cultural or in numbers as large, but we've definitely got a strong bike culture, there's plenty of dumpster-diving that goes on, I've been to pop-up alley bars and DIY house and yard shows are regular events.
Tod's book showed the multiple layers of a city's culture as seen through the lens of one guy who went to the city to go to school and became so entranced and entrenched with the place that he didn't leave.
Huh. Sounds an awful lot like all those people I know who came to VCU and somehow never left.
I just hope they appreciate that we have many elements of NYC's vibrant counter-culture without the madding crowds and mile-high rents. And the best way to keep the scene vibrant is for people to be part of it.
In fact, the best thing Tod said tonight could be my motto.
"Being a participant and a supporter of the scene is just as important as being a documentarian."
I like to think of myself as all three...buoyed by the kind of nerve that has me asking strangers for holiday favors.
Come to think of it, our little caravan with the unruly gift sticking up out of stranger John's truck would have made a great photograph.
'Cause you know, the lights are bright in Richmond, too.
See, the problem is, I don't like to shop any time of year, much less when the whole world is out there doing it.
But I went out and played consumer today, even buying a gift so large it fit in neither my backseat nor my trunk.
Just as the employee who'd carried it to my car was suggesting he take it back inside so I could get my money back, I had a holiday brainstorm.
What were the chances a stranger would do me a Christmas favor?
Curious to find out, I walked up to a man getting into a shiny truck and asked if I led, would he mind schlepping my humongous gift back to J-Ward for me.
Only after I asked a favor of someone I didn't know did it occur to me to introduce myself.
Long story short, John agreed and dutifully followed me home, wished me a merry Christmas and disappeared, probably never to be heard from again.
Kind of warms your heart, doesn't it?
But it's not just shopping that dominates these days. I don't mind the occasional party, but they're not terribly occasional this month.
So with friends and family on tap for the foreseeable future, tonight was all about me.
I started at one of my long-time favorite places where I knew I'd be guaranteed two things: black bean nachos and thrash.
821 was pretty slow when I got there and claimed a seat at the bar, but the thrash was blasting and I refused the menu when it was offered.
I don't need no stinkin' menu.
Before long, I was joined on both sides by pairs of beer-drinking women, one telling me how bad the food had been at 525 at the Berry Burk and the other talking about how hard it is to Christmas shop and not buy stuff for yourself.
I really don't have that problem. Meanwhile, I plugged away at the mound of beans, cheese and chips, thinking how even the anemic-looking tomato chunks and bright green shreds of lettuce had a holiday look.
Fortunately, the music was very un-holiday-like.
When I left 821, it was for Black Iris, who get my vote for the most compelling new cultural space and gallery.
Tonight they were doing a talk by photographer Tod Seelie, whose new book, "Bright Nights: Photographs of Another New York" had recently shown up in Time magazine as one of the best photo books of the year.
Before we got down to the talk, there was mingling, food and beer with Marty from Steady Sounds playing (non-holiday) music (but not thrash).
It was during that time I got a chance to talk to some of the Black Iris people about the "Low Frequency Travel Agency" show they've currently got going on that had rocked my world, here.
I was thrilled to hear one of the Black Iris guys refer to my travel log observations as "poetic." And here I thought I was just another woman with a musical suitcase.
But then I was sad to hear musician Nelly Kate, who'd written and sung the music in the suitcases, talk about how she lets so many people know about her artistic endeavors, but can only count on about ten of them to make the effort to participate.
Out of hundreds. That's pretty tragic.
The talk began with Tod saying how hard it was to summarize a book's worth of photographs shot in New York representing fifteen years of work, a valid point, while photos from the book showed on the wall behind him.
Explaining that he didn't work like a traditional photojournalist, scheduling shoots and asking permission, he went on to tell stories about the scenes and subculture he shot, always seeking to convey a sense of narrative in his photos.
There were parties in Harlem basements, scenes from the annual Bike Kill (which looked a lot like Richmond's annual Slaughterama), lots of punk shows and other DIY-style happenings.
"My goal is to make the photograph as much like being there as possible," he explained, having been inspired by his first punk show which, he said, demonstrated to him that there was a world of options out there that were much bigger than he had imagined.
His stories of becoming part of the subculture were fascinating for how they illuminated Nelly Kate's earlier point.
It's all there for the taking, but you have to make the effort to put yourself into it.
Tod talked about how he and a group of people had decided to set up a speakeasy in an abandoned water tower.
Unlike some of the stuff he did that lasted only one night, the speakeasy was a six-week undertaking that began with a "starter cell" of people and a need for secrecy, so no online posting, surely a challenge for many.
The starter cell people were each given a watch with instructions for the speakeasy for them to give to one person as an invitation, so the group grew but without the originators knowing who might be invited.
We heard about a four-year project where "junk rafts," impressive-looking creations made of anything and everything, were built and sailed down four different waterways.
During the Q & A, someone asked Tod if he ever had trouble getting people to let him shoot.
Saying that he took the "invisible fly on the wall approach," he thought his success had to do with not getting up in people's faces to shoot.
The subcultures in NYC he was talking about were all ones that exist here, albeit probably not as multi-cultural or in numbers as large, but we've definitely got a strong bike culture, there's plenty of dumpster-diving that goes on, I've been to pop-up alley bars and DIY house and yard shows are regular events.
Tod's book showed the multiple layers of a city's culture as seen through the lens of one guy who went to the city to go to school and became so entranced and entrenched with the place that he didn't leave.
Huh. Sounds an awful lot like all those people I know who came to VCU and somehow never left.
I just hope they appreciate that we have many elements of NYC's vibrant counter-culture without the madding crowds and mile-high rents. And the best way to keep the scene vibrant is for people to be part of it.
In fact, the best thing Tod said tonight could be my motto.
"Being a participant and a supporter of the scene is just as important as being a documentarian."
I like to think of myself as all three...buoyed by the kind of nerve that has me asking strangers for holiday favors.
Come to think of it, our little caravan with the unruly gift sticking up out of stranger John's truck would have made a great photograph.
'Cause you know, the lights are bright in Richmond, too.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Pack a Musical Bag and Go
Set aside an hour and a half and I can guarantee you an utterly unique and completely brilliant adventure that'll be part urban scavenger hunt, part site-specific musical experience and in all likelihood, move you in the process.
Black Iris on Broad Street is the host for "Low Frequency Travel Agency," the source for this splendid undertaking, whereby you schedule an appointment to pick up a suitcase and map.
The map directs you on a journey through the city and the suitcase holds the speaker and a map; you push a button for the location and hear an original composition by the incomparable Nelly Kate specifically written for that place.
Included in the suitcase is a journal for you to record your impressions- musical, nature, urbanscape or whatever you want- of each experience if you so choose.
I was amazed that a woman with an old, green suitcase with music pouring out of it didn't merit more attention, but that's the beauty of this undertaking: it's really about you, the music created for these places and how it all moves you, passersby be damned.
Instructed to tuck into the entrance of a hanger, I was presented with a view of Richmond I'd never seen before, yet barely a mile from my house.
Taking a listen at a place on the river I'd never been to, I was greeted by a stray cat and a sign informing me it's illegal to keep herring because of an unexplained drop in their numbers in the mid-Atlantic.
Sitting on a bench smack in the middle of three streets, I saw not another soul and felt worlds away from humanity.
When instructed to pick a tunnel, I ignored the ones with water rushing through and the dry ones for the only one that had a bit of both.
And every piece of music Nelly had written for the locations made for a transcendent moment when experienced in situ, sometimes mirroring the feel of the place and other times reminding you of its history or future.
I came back from my urban trek feeling like I had seen the city in a whole new way.
The nearest thing I've ever experienced was Doug Aitken's "Song 1" projected on the Hirshorn, with images of people singing, driving, working and playing cards set to the classic song "I Only Have Eyes for You" and sung by everyone from Beck and Devendra Banhart to James Murphy and John Legend.
And as magnificent as that had been, this tops that because it's all about Richmond. A local space, a local musician and six choice Richmond spots with their own musical soundtrack.
You only have until December 20th to check out a suitcase and it's as easy as e-mailing Black Iris (benjamin@blackiris.tv) and telling them the day and time you want yours. Free, of course.
I promise it'll be the best thing you'll do all week and probably all month. Bravo, Black Iris and Nelly Kate.
During my urban escapade, I happened to park beside a car with a bumper sticker that said it all.
Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.
Music in a suitcase can be heard in Richmond and it's there, waiting for you to experience.
Do it. It'll be an unforgettable trip, I promise.
Black Iris on Broad Street is the host for "Low Frequency Travel Agency," the source for this splendid undertaking, whereby you schedule an appointment to pick up a suitcase and map.
The map directs you on a journey through the city and the suitcase holds the speaker and a map; you push a button for the location and hear an original composition by the incomparable Nelly Kate specifically written for that place.
Included in the suitcase is a journal for you to record your impressions- musical, nature, urbanscape or whatever you want- of each experience if you so choose.
I was amazed that a woman with an old, green suitcase with music pouring out of it didn't merit more attention, but that's the beauty of this undertaking: it's really about you, the music created for these places and how it all moves you, passersby be damned.
Instructed to tuck into the entrance of a hanger, I was presented with a view of Richmond I'd never seen before, yet barely a mile from my house.
Taking a listen at a place on the river I'd never been to, I was greeted by a stray cat and a sign informing me it's illegal to keep herring because of an unexplained drop in their numbers in the mid-Atlantic.
Sitting on a bench smack in the middle of three streets, I saw not another soul and felt worlds away from humanity.
When instructed to pick a tunnel, I ignored the ones with water rushing through and the dry ones for the only one that had a bit of both.
And every piece of music Nelly had written for the locations made for a transcendent moment when experienced in situ, sometimes mirroring the feel of the place and other times reminding you of its history or future.
I came back from my urban trek feeling like I had seen the city in a whole new way.
The nearest thing I've ever experienced was Doug Aitken's "Song 1" projected on the Hirshorn, with images of people singing, driving, working and playing cards set to the classic song "I Only Have Eyes for You" and sung by everyone from Beck and Devendra Banhart to James Murphy and John Legend.
And as magnificent as that had been, this tops that because it's all about Richmond. A local space, a local musician and six choice Richmond spots with their own musical soundtrack.
You only have until December 20th to check out a suitcase and it's as easy as e-mailing Black Iris (benjamin@blackiris.tv) and telling them the day and time you want yours. Free, of course.
I promise it'll be the best thing you'll do all week and probably all month. Bravo, Black Iris and Nelly Kate.
During my urban escapade, I happened to park beside a car with a bumper sticker that said it all.
Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.
Music in a suitcase can be heard in Richmond and it's there, waiting for you to experience.
Do it. It'll be an unforgettable trip, I promise.
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