Punctuality Violations

To be punctual or not to be punctual, that is the question.

After dinner in service of my hired mouth, Mac and I headed to Northside for House Story, a chance to tour Hollybrook, a Gordon Van-Tine kit house from 1912, and hear from its owners about the stately home.

Because Mac and I like to snoop around strangers' homes.

Despite arriving moments after 6:00 when the event began, there were already lots of cars parked out front. Approaching the deep front porch - complete with living and dining areas on either side - we stopped to be checked in and wound up lingering to admire the magnificent porch. It was if there were two entire additional rooms on the front of that house, albeit with only one wall, a sheer curtain for another and open on the other two sides.

Once ushered inside the house, we made our way from room to room to admire the details of house kit life. The idea that we were inside a home that had originally arrived in Richmond on a box car in 12,000 pieces was hard to wrap our heads around. This was no CLH (a technical term we heard for "crummy little house") but a very stately, obviously highly customized kit house.

Having been built in 1912, it boasted one of my favorite qualities in a home: cross ventilation, thanks to scores of generously-sized windows - including on either side of the front door - that opened. Even bathroom windows were as wide as doors, not like those stingy little windows that became all the rage once air conditioning was standard issue.

This kit house had three floors with an artist's studio on the top floor, accessed by a curved staircase. Even with my limited knowledge of kit houses, I'm pretty sure that wasn't part of the original plan. In fact, there were so many stylish upgrades - a winding staircase, ornate tiled fireplace and wooden detailing - that it was clear that this was more of a launching pad for a kit house than anything ever seen in a catalog.

Here's where our punctuality got questionable. We'd toured the entire house twice, but it still wasn't time for the speakers, so we looked for ways to kill time, eventually settling into the living portion of the front porch to chat. "Yea, next time we don't need to be so punctual," Mac noted.

Her point was valid.

Eventually, the current owners took to the steps to regale us with what they knew about the house, which they'd bought in 1998 while expecting their third child. The real estate agent had been a half hour late, leaving the husband to cool his heels on the porch, but by the time she arrived, he was completely sold on the porch and told her he knew he'd have to buy the house to get it.

The couple apologized for the state of the large yard because, unlike the original owners, they aren't devoted gardeners. "Actually, we're in clear violation of Virginia state policy because we have only one azalea," the wife joked.

Kit house expert Rosemary Thornton spoke next, getting a laugh when she said, "For an architectural historian, I get an awful lot of hate mail." She went on to explain that the kits were dropped off at railroad stations within a mile or two of their destination and the purchasers had 48 hours to move the 12,000 pieces home. Her pronouncement? "This is a very grand kit house."

What she said.

After the talk, we headed out into what was a perfectly gorgeous evening, still sunny and 70 degrees, but Mac had been at work since 7 a.m. and was finished. I thought I was too, at least until I got home and couldn't think of a single reason not to walk over to Black Iris for music courtesy of their Tiny Bar series. The Scott Clark 4-tet was playing and I've been a fan of his for a decade.

Walking into the gallery, I was greeted by Scott and the man behind the Tiny Bar series, who cocked an eyebrow and said, "Karen, it's been a minute. How are you?"

Seems I can't go anywhere these days without my recent absences being noted, but despite that, the three of us fell into conversation about doom jazz (new to me), Scott's upcoming record release and art show (I own one of his paintings) and, most importantly of all, when was tonight's show going to start? Since it's common knowledge, my preference for punctual shows came up, leading to the inevitable point: why punish the punctual and reward the latecomers?

Because that's the way the music world works in Richmond, Karen, that's why.

But an executive decision was reached that the show would go on at 8:15 and I was invited to walk upstairs through the studios and admire my host's woodworking skills by checking out some furniture he'd made to kill some time until then.

Afterward, I headed to the tiny bar and ran into several familiar musician faces. For a change, there were no candles illuminating the tiny bar, but the lights were soon dimmed for the Scott Clark 4-tet's performance, but not before we were reminded of the rules: respect the performers and please, no flash photography.

Playing a combination of original material ("Quiet" featured a magnificent bass part set to hushed drumming) and covers, including the second movement of Sibileus' Second Symphony, which Scott had heard on a classical radio station (only because he couldn't find any baseball on the radio) and decided to arrange for the quartet, the band dazzled the crowd.

I especially liked when the trumpet player went up on his toes when blowing a particularly high note.

When they finished, I chatted with the sax player who'd recently read "The Gig Economy," a subject he and I know well. He was curious if I ever got work as a result of my blog (yep), but I explained that I also get work because of the work I've already done. We agreed no one works a job for life anymore, so it's all about figuring out how many different ways you can earn money.

Then it was back to music with New York City's Signal Problems, a four piece who'd come to play one longer piece called "Love Letter" in an intimate setting. That involved the musicians doing spoken word ("Regrettable," "Please pick up," "Heart," "Say I'm sorry") between and sometimes over the music part of the piece. They even made the room work for them when the trumpeter would move side to side keeping time, causing the century old floor to creak rhythmically under his feet.

At one point, a latecomer pulled out his phone and took a flash photo of the band playing and almost immediately another guy leaned over to him and whispered something. My guess would be, "No flash photography, you idiot!"

And you know what? If he'd been punctual, he'd have known that. Just an observation.

On Richmond Time

I should know better.

You'd think years of going to music shows would teach me to be less punctual. But the FB event page was firm. "Music starts at 8 and is over at 10." Clear enough, right?

Wrong. My long-time music buddy Andrew had recently written a piece for RVA News pondering why live music never starts on time in Richmond. But since I'd read it, I'd been to three shows that had not only started on time, but I'd missed part of each one because I hadn't quite bought in to the revised start time ethos.

Tonight I intended to miss nothing at Black Iris and instead wound up with 45 minutes on my hand before the first band, Cherry Pitts, took the stage. I was put to good use, though, playing door (wo)man, taking people's money, checking their IDs and marking their hand with my official Sharpie to help out a friend who kept getting called away from his front door position.

In between, we talked about how Richmond's tardy shows punish the punctual and reward those operating on Richmond time. He brought up how some bands never evolve, musically or personally, using GWAR as an exception. A girl came in and told me she loved my hair, always nice to hear.

Two girls came in, paid their money and were about to leave the vestibule and enter the venue where Cherry Pitts were playing when one turned and asked me if the show was almost over. When I said that the band was on their fourth song and that they were the first band, she looked relieved and surprised. She knew she was late.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that the pop punk band was only doing a seven-song set, a fact. I knew only because one of the members had borrowed the Sharpie to write the set list and I'd marveled at its brevity. But of course, punk songs are always short, fast and loud, as the Pitts knew.

And by loud, I mean over-amplified to the max (this from the woman who long ago lost her hearing by attending far too many shows), making it tough to fully appreciate their well-executed music. When my friend asked if I needed ear plugs, I pulled mine out of my bag but also stayed in the vestibule for their set.

You know it's loud when I take precautions.

It was an interesting crowd. A bartender I know came in, commenting that he hadn't seen me in a while. A talented songwriter arrived, proving that he was 30 by showing me his ID. A cute musician couple showed up. Best outfit award went to a girl in black and white zigzag shorts with an aqua blue bustier topped by a big blue bow across her chest.

I did make it inside for Digital Leather's synth-based set, though. The five of them didn't fit on the stage, so the singer/guitarist stood in front of it, face to face with the crowd.

Directly in front of him was a slightly older guy who'd arrived almost as early as I had, disappeared and then resurfaced just as the music started. Once Digital Leather began playing, this guy proved to be an unstoppable dancer.

He didn't take up a lot of space, but he about shook his head loose from his neck with every drumbeat and his limp arms were in complete service to the wild convulsions of his torso. It was truly impressive to see and I'm going to go out on a limb and say it wasn't his first DL show.

After a while, a few other people began dancing around him, moving across the floor flailing, while he stayed rooted in place dancing. They lost energy after one song while he didn't stop until the band did and by then, they were soaked in sweat, the drummer's long, straight hair plastered to his skull.

And you know what? As promised, the show was over right around 10-ish. For people like Andrew who claim to be old and have day jobs, this must have been very good news, while for some of us, it was more like, okay, what do we do now?

Maybe RVA is getting the hang of this live music thing after all.

You Read That Right

You miss something the first time around, you go back and catch it later.

Meaning I finally got to see Scorsese's "Mean Streets" not just at the theater, but on 35 mm thanks to VCU Cinematheque.

I arrived in time to get a great seat and spent the time waiting reading an article in the Washington Post (physical copy) entitled, "Why Digital Natives Prefer Reading in Print. Yes, You Read That Right," while all around me, I saw not a single millennial reading on anything other than a device.

But apparently it's been researched and the resulting evidence compiled in a book proving what anyone over the age of 40 already knew: people who read online skim, are easily distracted (ooh, a Facebook message!) and don't comprehend what they read as well as they do when reading print.

Tell me something I didn't already know.

The theater was especially crowded tonight and I had to think that was because Scorsese's first major film was on the bill. That said, I saw at least 8 or 10 people walk out mid-film.

Naturally, I knew next to nothing about the story, although even I was savvy enough to recognize dozens of things directors have stolen from this movie and used repeatedly over the years. It was even clearer how many of Scorsese's bag of tricks had their seeds in this film about the neighborhood where he grew up.

And of course there were all those fabulous 1973 details: mailboxes that were still red and blue, bars that didn't serve tequila, cops smoking on the street, chefs smoking in the kitchen.

Italian restaurants with pictures of JFK, RFK and the Pope on the walls. Every man wore a watch and carried a handkerchief (handy when they wanted to sit down on a tombstone in a graveyard). Slurs were thrown at blacks, Jews and women with the casual nature of a different time.

As for the cinematography, elements of red ran throughout the entire film, punctuating the bars, restaurants and streets of the city, an echo perhaps of all the blood.

After having seen "Taxi Driver" for the first time a few years ago, I knew to expect an even younger DeNiro and he was, all angles and youthful coiled energy, but I was totally unprepared for how freaking young Harvey Keitel looked. He would have been 34 at the time and his face and abs were as chiseled as a model's. I don't remember that Harvey at all.

Another big surprise was all that '50s and '60s girl group music that underpinned such a gritty story. I suppose I'd been expecting '70s music which wouldn't have offered nearly the contrast that oldies did.

Now that I've seen it, I'd guess that the reason I didn't see it back when it came out was because of a perception that it was violent (which it was) and dominated by men's stories (ditto), but I can finally overlook all that to place it in the context of the time.

Once again, the film professor who usually steers these screenings was absent, meaning no thoughtful discussion afterwards, something I would have enjoyed except I didn't have time for it tonight. I didn't want to have to choose between film dissection and music legend and fortunately, I didn't have to.

I made it to Black Iris a few minutes before the Ar-Kaics got started. When I first saw them nearly two years ago at Steady Sounds, they'd been a young trio who made a lot of noise with three chords. Since, they've become a quartet who make a lot of noise with three chords and short song titles (either about the pleasure of love or the pain), but are noticeably tighter these days.

They sometimes lacked in between-song banter, as in, "This is a little song about getting my way. It's called "Getting My Way."  Or, the more humorous, "This song is called "I Don't Need Your Love" and it was on our first 45 so many years ago. It still holds up well."

"So" is a relative term here.

After their scream-filled rambunctious set, I ran into a friend who was more than happy to dive into discussion of "Mean Streets," a film he'd seen in a film class and been strongly impressed by.

Since I could have run into any number of friends who barely recalled it or hadn't formed such well-considered opinions about its place in the Scorsese canon, I felt fortunate that he was the one there.

And of course he was there. Like me, he knew enough to want to see Chain and the Gang, the latest project of D.C.'s Ian Svenonius, he of Nation of Ulysses and The Make-Up.

A while back, I'd seen Ian do a wide-ranging talk at Candela Gallery about his latest book about breaking into the music world, followed by a seance. He'd bemoaned the absence of candles.

Naturally I was curious to hear such a man's music, described by some as "crime rock." Hilarious.

Appropriately, he  was dressed in a shiny suit and skinny tie with female guitarist (who'd come down on Amtrak today) and bassist and a talented drummer anchoring it all. Like any good rock star, he shook his dark curly hair a lot, jumped off the low stage into the crowd to sing and dropped to his knees as appropriate.

And, you gotta love it, they began with the band's theme song.

He instructed us to keep tonight a secret, "Don't text anyone, don't call anyone about what's happening here. It's our little secret."

That said, he sang a sarcastic rant about our freedoms- press, speech - and another crowd-pleaser called "Mum's the Word" that had people singing and dancing along.

Lyrics aside, the basic garage music itself wasn't difficult, with steady drumming and solid bass lines meant to keep everyone grooving in place against each other. Like a whirling dervish, he never stopped moving either, punctuating some songs with howls that had him bent over backward and screeching them to the ceiling.

Favorite song lyric: "The logic of night," a subject about which I might know something.

The banged bassist joined him on certain songs, adding her distinctive voice to lyrics meant to be mindful but also move your behind. There's no complacency when Ian Svenonius is at the helm.

By the end of their set, he looked mighty sweaty under all that hair and encased in a totally synthetic suit, but the band obligingly came back for a one-song encore to finish off the night.

Since I didn't catch any live '50s and '60s garage rock (although some guitar riffs sounded positively Monkees-like), tonight's show had given me a glimpse of what I'd missed.

Unlike the film, no discussion was called for afterwards. Removing our hot bodies to the cold sidewalk was more than enough to wind down.

Friend and I hugged in the middle of Broad Street and when we lived through that, went our separate ways.

That's the logic of the night.

My Other Life of an Evening

"Just when I think I need to move back to Brooklyn, I find out about something like this and I can't leave Richmond."


"This" was one of those perfect storms where you just had to be there.

Take a band called Other Lives who was supposed to play a three-band bill tonight, but the headliner got asked to do Letterman and they were left gig-less.

Put them in a music studio that's about to change locations and wanted an excuse for a farewell party.

Attached to the studio was a bricked-in patio area with vines covering the walls, fairly lights everywhere and a fire pit roaring in the middle of a circle of chairs.

Invite Pizza Tonight to bake endless pizzas in their mobile brick oven (I had potato rosemary and pepperoni) to accompany the beer and wine provided.

And it was all free.

The evening began on the patio under the stars with libations and mingling.

Amazingly at that point, I only recognized two people despite the crowd being bearded and plaid-shirted.

As pizzas began coming out of the oven, people helped themselves repeatedly.

I did four slices but only after a new acquaintance insisted we go up together and act nonchalant about getting our fourth.

Gluttony strength in numbers.

While chatting afterwards with an engaging guy from Pittsburgh, someone came out and said, "I hear E-Minor!"

Knowing that to be a song from Other Lives' first album, I excused myself from a very interesting conversation and went into the recoding studio for the show.

There were maybe fifty of us for this magical show.

The perfect acoustics of Black Iris Music made for a rapt audience and exquisite sound.

A latecomer told me after the show that when he walked in, he wasn't sure if he was hearing a recording or live music.

Other Lives make beautifully lush music using guitar, cello, piano, bass and drums that had the audience silent with awe for what we were hearing.

As shows go, it was audio perfection.

Lead singer Jesse's voice was deep and rich and the arrangements highlighted the ensemble-ness of the group; they were so much more than just a band.

Asking if the small crowd knew the Ramones' "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue," Jesse said, "This won't be like that. I love Burt Bacharach and I wish we had a trumpet for this."

Joey may be rolling over in his grave but their version of the punk song would have done Burt proud (Jesse noted when in the song the trumpet would have played).

After the song, he said, "We need to add that to all our sets." He had my full vote on that.

He also acknowledged that it was his first time drinking during a show due to the casual atmosphere of the event. "This is not like a real rock show and I really like it," he said.

Since they had been opening for Bon Iver on the West Coast, he knows of what he speaks.

After the mesmerizing set ended, people milled about marveling at what we'd just seen. Many people had arrived late after getting texts from early attendees about what was going on.

Now there were people I knew: members of Zep Repplica and Denali, a Listening Room photographer, a music blogger and not one but two Gallery 5 bartenders who came up and introduced themselves, saying they recognized me.

The irony there is that I almost never drink at a G5 show. Bartenders must be people watchers or else I'm in the bathroom line a little too often.

But even if I hadn't known a soul, I would have counted myself fortunate to have see Other Lives perform in such a small space.

I gave the friend who said he'd been thinking about returning to Brooklyn a hard time when he said it.

Something like this happens in RVA more than most people notice.

And there's no Pizza Tonight in Brooklyn.