Even bad ears can't mistake loud for anything else.
My ears may have only just recovered from Wednesday's rock and roll extravaganza, but I'd barely started across the bridge to Brown's Island this morning when I noticed how much higher the canal was. And I mean higher than yesterday.
Walking across the island, my ears soon alerted me that James was raging. At first, I doubted them because I'd walked the pipeline yesterday and the river had been the same as it's been for months: low and calm.
Man, not today, though.
Dipping down to the edges of the island, I was nothing short of gobsmacked at how high and fast-moving the river was compared to a mere 24 hours ago.
Places where I knew rapids existed were now tumultuous explosions of water that engulfed many of the rock landmarks the kayakers use. The bases of train bridge supports where I often see birds stading were engulfed in swirling water.
The rock outcropping where Mac and I used to dip our feet (before we saw a snake there and abandoned it) was completely inaccessible, with water completely covering the rocks we use to get there. What the hell?
And although I was alone, I sensed that the James' volume would have prohibited conversation if I had had a walking companion, so I tried talking loudly to no one, only to be drowned out entirely. I couldn't hear my own voice.
It was a startling enough change from yesterday for me to come home and do some research. Yesterday when I'd walked, the James had been at 3.71 feet, while today it had risen to 5.65 feet. I walk the river practically every day and I'd never seen such a dramatic change in one day: two feet more of water! Craziness.
Also, I can't wait to go back tomorrow to see what's up.
Tonight was about noise of a different nature. Weeks ago, I'd bought a ticket for San Fermin at the Broadberry and while the venue isn't my favorite, I'll take my chamber pop where I can get it.
The evening started at Sabai (park once, party twice) which was understandably hopping given it was prime time Friday night and there was a show next door, with the added bonus of a classic R&B soundtrack of songs like "Brickhouse" and "Whip It."
I was a little surprised that the garage doors were rolled up (and the massive screens in place) given that the temperature had already dropped to 59 on its way to 47 tonight. I was prepared, though, wearing two tank tops, a sweater and a jean jacket. And a scarf for good measure.
But I adjusted, leaving my jacket on throughout dinner, while the screens afforded me a view of the Halloween costume street theater parading by as I chowed down on the Pad Se Ew with chicken recommended to me by the server as her favorite.
Walking in, the Broadberry was surprisingly uncrowded, despite openers Gracie and Rachel taking the stage within minutes. Not only did the blond Gracie wear white, but her keyboards, mic stand and cord were white, whereas brunette Rachel played a violin with the usual black accouterments. Their drummer Ricky used an abbreviated drum set and mallets to punctuate their songs, despite his name not being included in the band's.
"Most of our songs are about death," Gracie announced, not a huge surprise given the songs' haunting sound. "This next one is as close to a love song as we get. It's about a stalker and it's called, "Run." Even more impressive was their choral arrangement of a former high school buddy and now rapper Kreayshawn's "Gucci, Gucci," a masterful reworking of a rap about basic bitches. Positively brilliant.
They shared that it was the last night of an eight-city tour, making those in the room feel like we got everything they had left at this point. Their set ended on one perfect note and each threw their hands up in the air to signal "the end."
"San Fermin is next and there's a lot of them," Gracie warned us. "They're really beautiful people."
During the shortest of breaks, I spoke to two people - a server at Laura Lee's and a clarinetist/saxophonist friend and both said the same thing: why was this show so pitifully under-attended? Well, first, it had gotten zero advertising and, second, a lot of Halloween events were going on tonight.
Still, a shame given that a band the caliber of NPR darlings San Fermin was playing for a paltry $14 tonight.
Lined up onstage were "a Telly, a Strat and a P-bass," according to a nearby fan (well, you don't think I could tell, do you?) and it was tough to imagine where the musicians would all fit around all the gear.
The band's eight members - baritone sax, trumpet, drums, guitar, violin, keyboards, two vocalists who also both played guitar - came out with no fanfare to demonstrate how easily they were able to move around each other despite how tight it was.
Vocalist Allen Tate completely won over the room with his baritone and casual charisma, eschewing the high drama of his female counterpart Charlene Kaye for sincerity and the occasional beating of his heart with his hand as he sang.
There was a definite sense that it was the last night of the tour and that they were all really enjoying themselves as they played songs off their past two records as well as the new "Belong." It was truly a highlight hearing "Emily" sung live in Tate's seductive tones.
Let's forget about it, oh
Leave it all alone tonight
And we're waiting on a moment when it feels right
Don't want to talk about it, oh, no
All the credit for the songs and arrangements goes to Yale graduate and keyboard player Ellis Ludwig-Leone, who was easily the most low-key person onstage, except that he beamed a lot, as if proud of his efforts doing the geek work.
Meanwhile, the entire band looked pleased when audience members sang along on choruses.
Their encore ended with "Jackrabbit," with Kaye changing the line "When you're lost in the woods" to "When you're lost in Richmond," setting off a frenzy of cheers as the voices and instruments reached a glorious finale.
To my bad ears, they weren't nearly as loud as the river had been this morning. But at the end of the day, San Fermin made for a mighty fine bookend to what James had begun.
I any case, it felt right.
Showing posts with label broadberry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label broadberry. Show all posts
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Friday, July 7, 2017
Something Shimmering and White
I have to appreciate a willing partner-in-music.
While I don't get a sense that Australian psych-rock from the '90s is your thing, if you'd like to join me tonight, the Church are playing at the Broadberry.
Well, you know, I was saying just the other day that I hadn't seen a good '90s Australian psych-rock show in ages.
Also, a sense of humor.
When we'd walked to Texas Beach in the morning, it had been muggy and cloudy (also great justification for lounging against a rock near rushing water in the river so we could walk back with wet shorts), but by evening the sky was blue, the humidity had dropped and we wanted to eat outside.
Suiting our needs to a T, the patio at Lalo's Cocina beckoned, even as the hostess looked uncertain about our request to dine al fresco. After checking with a superior for the okay, we were led back outside where we had a terrific view of the quickly shifting cloudscape.
Our dimpled, pierced server was delightful, sharing that she was new and we were her first ever patio table. We promised to be gentle.
She was only slightly flummoxed when, after we'd asked for a bottle of Vina Galana Verdejo, she returned with a bottle of Avinyo Petillant, explaining sheepishly that they were out of Verdejo. We cheered her up considerably when we embraced the easy-drinking prickly wine.
Hell, I'd have ordered it in the first place if it had been listed on the menu.
As we sat there sipping in the evening breeze, we noshed through guacamole (although not prepared tableside, like it used to be), shrimp and avocado salad and well-seasoned quesadillas of beef and chicken as the older crowd we knew to be headed to the same show began arriving.
Seems lots of people hadn't been to a good '80s Australian psych-rock show in ages, either.
When you're talking about a band that's been around for 37 years, you're also talking about a band of middle-aged men. There are myriad upsides to that: the show, slated to begin at 8, began on time. The volume was ideal, such that no earplugs were required, a major switch from the 3 young buck bands we'd seen just the other night. And the whole shebang was over by 10:00.
It's like the Church had read their aging fan base's concert wish list and complied with them all.
But for those of us who didn't care when the show began or ended, or what the volume was, the real treat was watching these guys who've played together so long execute their music flawlessly. There were three guitarists (including a 12-string - be still my heart - two of whom were introduced as "lead guitar") and no two were ever playing the same thing at the same time.
There was a fair amount of glammy vocal delivery, keyboards augmented all that guitar sound and while the band occasionally took off in showy directions, they never failed to rein it in and bring the song back around to its original structure. They were pros.
And, unlike the youngster bands we'd heard the other night, these guys hadn't studied rock star posturing, they'd been doing it since Reagan was president.
Practically between every song, the guitarists changed guitars, but never in a way that interrupted the flow of the set. Between song banter was comfortable, not cumbersome.
"Imagine it's summer 1990 and you turn on the radio and it's the perfect song," said lead singer Steve. "This is the song after that one." Or, another time, "This is the third song."
I think we've already established that I appreciate a man with a fine sense of humor. Meanwhile, the crowd ate it up.
Even though I knew to expect it, it was still unpleasant when the band began "Under the Milky Way" and every other person in the crowd raised their phone to shoot video of it rather than just listening and enjoying.
Not us. I reveled in hearing the band's shimmering guitar sound live while my companion appreciated their musical chops, showmanship and songcraft. I got to hear a band I'd liked for decades and he walked out impressed by his first '90s Australian psych-rock band.
Imagine it's summer 2017 and you walk out of a stellar show, there's a nearly full moon in the sky and you still have the rest of the evening ahead of you under the Milky Way tonight.
It's almost like I'd been led here despite my destination. My, but that worked out well.
While I don't get a sense that Australian psych-rock from the '90s is your thing, if you'd like to join me tonight, the Church are playing at the Broadberry.
Well, you know, I was saying just the other day that I hadn't seen a good '90s Australian psych-rock show in ages.
Also, a sense of humor.
When we'd walked to Texas Beach in the morning, it had been muggy and cloudy (also great justification for lounging against a rock near rushing water in the river so we could walk back with wet shorts), but by evening the sky was blue, the humidity had dropped and we wanted to eat outside.
Suiting our needs to a T, the patio at Lalo's Cocina beckoned, even as the hostess looked uncertain about our request to dine al fresco. After checking with a superior for the okay, we were led back outside where we had a terrific view of the quickly shifting cloudscape.
Our dimpled, pierced server was delightful, sharing that she was new and we were her first ever patio table. We promised to be gentle.
She was only slightly flummoxed when, after we'd asked for a bottle of Vina Galana Verdejo, she returned with a bottle of Avinyo Petillant, explaining sheepishly that they were out of Verdejo. We cheered her up considerably when we embraced the easy-drinking prickly wine.
Hell, I'd have ordered it in the first place if it had been listed on the menu.
As we sat there sipping in the evening breeze, we noshed through guacamole (although not prepared tableside, like it used to be), shrimp and avocado salad and well-seasoned quesadillas of beef and chicken as the older crowd we knew to be headed to the same show began arriving.
Seems lots of people hadn't been to a good '80s Australian psych-rock show in ages, either.
When you're talking about a band that's been around for 37 years, you're also talking about a band of middle-aged men. There are myriad upsides to that: the show, slated to begin at 8, began on time. The volume was ideal, such that no earplugs were required, a major switch from the 3 young buck bands we'd seen just the other night. And the whole shebang was over by 10:00.
It's like the Church had read their aging fan base's concert wish list and complied with them all.
But for those of us who didn't care when the show began or ended, or what the volume was, the real treat was watching these guys who've played together so long execute their music flawlessly. There were three guitarists (including a 12-string - be still my heart - two of whom were introduced as "lead guitar") and no two were ever playing the same thing at the same time.
There was a fair amount of glammy vocal delivery, keyboards augmented all that guitar sound and while the band occasionally took off in showy directions, they never failed to rein it in and bring the song back around to its original structure. They were pros.
And, unlike the youngster bands we'd heard the other night, these guys hadn't studied rock star posturing, they'd been doing it since Reagan was president.
Practically between every song, the guitarists changed guitars, but never in a way that interrupted the flow of the set. Between song banter was comfortable, not cumbersome.
"Imagine it's summer 1990 and you turn on the radio and it's the perfect song," said lead singer Steve. "This is the song after that one." Or, another time, "This is the third song."
I think we've already established that I appreciate a man with a fine sense of humor. Meanwhile, the crowd ate it up.
Even though I knew to expect it, it was still unpleasant when the band began "Under the Milky Way" and every other person in the crowd raised their phone to shoot video of it rather than just listening and enjoying.
Not us. I reveled in hearing the band's shimmering guitar sound live while my companion appreciated their musical chops, showmanship and songcraft. I got to hear a band I'd liked for decades and he walked out impressed by his first '90s Australian psych-rock band.
Imagine it's summer 2017 and you walk out of a stellar show, there's a nearly full moon in the sky and you still have the rest of the evening ahead of you under the Milky Way tonight.
It's almost like I'd been led here despite my destination. My, but that worked out well.
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Sunshine, Everybody Loves the Sunshine
There are a lot of people out there who are lazy and disinterested in life. I think it's great that you have such a sense of adventure and curiosity.
This gorgeous warm weather is almost enough to make you forget who's running the country.
My heat's been turned off since yesterday morning, my windows flung wide open for two days and shorts have already become my new daytime normal. It was a delightfully sweaty walk around Belle Isle and environs, followed by a trip to the polls to vote (I was #69, for what that's worth) for my house of delegates representative.
Exiting my polling place, both the two people handing out campaign materials - one supporting Regie Ford, the other John Barclay - thanked me for voting but it was the Ford supporter who said, "I see you walk by my house every day and you are moving!"
Not to quibble, but isn't that the whole point of walking?
Spending all afternoon writing meant I had a soundtrack of Jackson Ward reveling in a glorious February day with the sounds of skateboarders, radios turned up with car windows down and the hum of small planes cruising overhead, all the delightful distractions of having the outside coming in on a winter's day.
All of which was merely prelude to a much anticipated evening.
Christmas gifts are supposed to be thoughtful so what could be better for a music lover than the gift of a show? Especially when it's the first of a four-show tour where the other cities are (wait for it) London, Paris and New York.
Just to be clear, I'd have adored seeing one of the other shows but honestly, that would have been a bit pricey for a Christmas present. Besides, then you'd have to have the whole when-is-it-okay-to-travel-with-someone discussion and experience has proven that opinions differ wildly on that subject.
Instead we parked once and partied thrice by meeting at Lalo's Cocina for tacos and travel conversation (yea or nay?) before sidling over to the Broadberry to see Richmond's own Matthew E. White along with London songbird Flo Morrissey perform songs from their new cover duets album, "Gentlewoman, Ruby Man."
Backed by Big Cat, the name Matt's given his usual RVA crew of stellar musicians (Pinson on drums, Cameron on bass, Alan on guitar and Devonne on keyboards), the Yank and the Brit delivered beautifully-conceived covers compellingly re-imagined without concern for genre.
Matt said the French were terribly impressed that they'd included Nino Ferrer's "Looking for You," a song that was chosen after Flo got it on her Spotify discovery playlist, a fact he insisted wasn't especially cool. Charlotte Gainsbourg's "Heaven Can Wait" came out heavenly indeed, while "Grease" became a whole new animal with their thoughtful rendition of the darker lyrics.
There ain't no danger we can go too far
We start believing now that we can be who we are
A standout moment was hearing Leonard Cohen's "Suzanne" sung live so soon after losing him, but nothing rocked my socks quite like their take on the Velvet Underground's "Sunday Morning," with Devonne's retro-sounding keyboard and Alan showing off the lead rock guitar chops Matt had praised earlier ("They're aren't many left").
Early dawning
Sunday morning
It's all the wasted years
So close behind
Matt's hushed vocals were a killer counterpoint to Flo's clear tones as they wove through the assortment of covers that swung from vintage '60s and '70s to the au courant Frank Ocean and James Blake songs they'd chosen for this project.
It won't ever get old, not in my soul
Not in my spirit, keep it alive
The good news at the Broadberry was the addition of the new restrooms (I'll ignore for the moment the guy coming out of the ladies' room) so it's no longer necessary to fight your way through the audience to relieve yourself, but the bad news was that it was so sticky hot inside the venue - partially my fault for not standing still - that I alternated eating the last of the ice cubes in my cup with using them to cool myself.
An even better solution turned out to be a leisurely nightcap at Sabai with vintage soul playing and a chance to mull over the myriad possibilities of change. Wasted years aside, I'd been reminded that you can't always sleep nine hours if you want to see the sun rise.
Good advice, but I have some of my own. Souls won't get old when fueled by a sense of adventure and curiosity.
Take it from #69.
This gorgeous warm weather is almost enough to make you forget who's running the country.
My heat's been turned off since yesterday morning, my windows flung wide open for two days and shorts have already become my new daytime normal. It was a delightfully sweaty walk around Belle Isle and environs, followed by a trip to the polls to vote (I was #69, for what that's worth) for my house of delegates representative.
Exiting my polling place, both the two people handing out campaign materials - one supporting Regie Ford, the other John Barclay - thanked me for voting but it was the Ford supporter who said, "I see you walk by my house every day and you are moving!"
Not to quibble, but isn't that the whole point of walking?
Spending all afternoon writing meant I had a soundtrack of Jackson Ward reveling in a glorious February day with the sounds of skateboarders, radios turned up with car windows down and the hum of small planes cruising overhead, all the delightful distractions of having the outside coming in on a winter's day.
All of which was merely prelude to a much anticipated evening.
Christmas gifts are supposed to be thoughtful so what could be better for a music lover than the gift of a show? Especially when it's the first of a four-show tour where the other cities are (wait for it) London, Paris and New York.
Just to be clear, I'd have adored seeing one of the other shows but honestly, that would have been a bit pricey for a Christmas present. Besides, then you'd have to have the whole when-is-it-okay-to-travel-with-someone discussion and experience has proven that opinions differ wildly on that subject.
Instead we parked once and partied thrice by meeting at Lalo's Cocina for tacos and travel conversation (yea or nay?) before sidling over to the Broadberry to see Richmond's own Matthew E. White along with London songbird Flo Morrissey perform songs from their new cover duets album, "Gentlewoman, Ruby Man."
Backed by Big Cat, the name Matt's given his usual RVA crew of stellar musicians (Pinson on drums, Cameron on bass, Alan on guitar and Devonne on keyboards), the Yank and the Brit delivered beautifully-conceived covers compellingly re-imagined without concern for genre.
Matt said the French were terribly impressed that they'd included Nino Ferrer's "Looking for You," a song that was chosen after Flo got it on her Spotify discovery playlist, a fact he insisted wasn't especially cool. Charlotte Gainsbourg's "Heaven Can Wait" came out heavenly indeed, while "Grease" became a whole new animal with their thoughtful rendition of the darker lyrics.
There ain't no danger we can go too far
We start believing now that we can be who we are
A standout moment was hearing Leonard Cohen's "Suzanne" sung live so soon after losing him, but nothing rocked my socks quite like their take on the Velvet Underground's "Sunday Morning," with Devonne's retro-sounding keyboard and Alan showing off the lead rock guitar chops Matt had praised earlier ("They're aren't many left").
Early dawning
Sunday morning
It's all the wasted years
So close behind
Matt's hushed vocals were a killer counterpoint to Flo's clear tones as they wove through the assortment of covers that swung from vintage '60s and '70s to the au courant Frank Ocean and James Blake songs they'd chosen for this project.
It won't ever get old, not in my soul
Not in my spirit, keep it alive
The good news at the Broadberry was the addition of the new restrooms (I'll ignore for the moment the guy coming out of the ladies' room) so it's no longer necessary to fight your way through the audience to relieve yourself, but the bad news was that it was so sticky hot inside the venue - partially my fault for not standing still - that I alternated eating the last of the ice cubes in my cup with using them to cool myself.
An even better solution turned out to be a leisurely nightcap at Sabai with vintage soul playing and a chance to mull over the myriad possibilities of change. Wasted years aside, I'd been reminded that you can't always sleep nine hours if you want to see the sun rise.
Good advice, but I have some of my own. Souls won't get old when fueled by a sense of adventure and curiosity.
Take it from #69.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Something for Us All
No evening should probably end with someone yelling, "It's like the running of the bulls!" to a crowd trying to exit a venue.
Especially when there are people in that crowd who admit to having no strong feelings about anything or anyone. As the maitre d' said in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," I weep for the future.
My original plans for tonight got rescheduled, leaving me to punt, although it wasn't much of a challenge given that Wild Nothing was playing the Broadberry tonight. I had my ticket by 2:45.
Walking in just after Charlie Hilton and her band got started, there was no doubt I was in the right place given the sound: hazy guitars, surging synths, female-penned lyrics and a voice detached yet pointed in its word choices.
After a couple of slow songs, she announced, "Enough of that sad stuff, here's a love song," and did "Let's Go To a Party," a club-ready song that got some of us dancing:
I'm only happy when I'm dancing
When I'm dancing for you
Please don't think about it
We don't want that here
Her look - long bangs, dark hair past her shoulders - immediately reminded me of Karen Carpenter's but I realized that to the two young beards in plaid falling hard for her in front of me, the frame of reference was more likely Zooey Deschanel.
A minor point, but with her skirt and colorful jacket, she was looking pretty groovy and her delicate hand gestures as she sang only added to the appeal. Besides, young men should worship at the altar of female guitarists/singers as part of their music education. Hello, Julianna Hatfield et al.
I was sorry when the band's set ended because of how much I was enjoying them, but that's why there's a merch table, right?
Waiting for Wild Nothing to set up, I tried to engage a guy standing nearby alone by asking whether he was waiting for someone or just standing out of the fray like me.
"I'm looking for people I know so I can spot them before they see me," he said as if this were perfectly logical. When I commented that all his people looked alike, he nodded. "It's a hip town." It was news to him that it hadn't always been.
A woman walked by and he acknowledged that he knew her but hadn't spoken because he really didn't want to have an interaction. She circled back and they exchanged words, but when she left, his comment was, "That wasn't so bad. I could talk to her again."
He sounded surprised. Curious about why he had no interest in human interactions, I asked point blank. Nothing. No broken home, no annoying siblings, no clear emotional trauma. So what were his happiest childhood memories, I asked.
"Being in front of the computer," he says without irony or awareness.
Asking why he'd come, he said it was his fifth or sixth time seeing Wild Nothing. He'd bought his ticket three months ago, not mid-afternoon like me. Clearly a music lover.
Yet when I inquired what his first concert had been, he had no clue. "It's all been a blur since the first one," he explained. And the first one was...?
2010. He's 24 now and already his show history is one blobby history but no specific memories. I wasn't accepting it, so I asked for the last really great show he saw.
Archers of Loaf last Fall "wasn't too bad," he admits. Frankly, I see that as damning with faint praise and insisted on hearing about at least one show he'd rate higher than not bad.
And then the kicker. "I don't have a lot of strong feelings," he tells me. "About anything." I'm not sure which is more tragic: how they've turned out or that they know it and accept it.
Fortunately, it was time for Wild Nothing, whom I'd last seen on a shirt-soaking August day in 2012 at Strange Matter around the time "Nocturne" was released and singer Jack had found it necessary to form a band so he could tour the album he'd recorded all by himself.
That night, I'd recognized lots of faces in the crowd, but tonight nary a one and, in fact, it felt like a lot of infrequent show-goers with bad manners.
Let's just say it wasn't the kind of crowd who would have sweated out three bands in an un-airconditioned venue four years ago to hear Wild Nothing.
My solution was moving away from the talkers and those who spent 97% of their time looking down and texting, so I could better enjoy the dream pop I'd come for.
When he said they were going to play an older song, the crowd cheered. "It's not that old!" he admonished them, but I was more than happy to enjoy washed out gems like "Paradise" and "Nocturne."
What struck me as odd was that while there was a handful of people moving to the very danceable music, most people were rooted in place like tree trunks. How can you hear those guitars and synths and not want to move your body?
Because Jack grew up in Williamsburg and had gone to school in Blacksburg, there was a large family contingent present, perched high in the raised, former VIP area and yelling corny things to him onstage, as only family can do.
One of the last songs was also from Nocturne, "Only Heather."
Misunderstood yet she's good, I can tell
Though everyone tells me I'm under her spell
I'll never leave her, they don't know our deal
It's better to fake than to love her for real
Cause only Heather
Yeah, only Heather
Can make me feel this way
At least he feels something. That's more than I can say about my young friend without feelings. But "It's better to fake than to love her for real"? Why feel when you can fake?
Please don't think about it, we don't want that here. Cue weeping for the future.
Especially when there are people in that crowd who admit to having no strong feelings about anything or anyone. As the maitre d' said in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," I weep for the future.
My original plans for tonight got rescheduled, leaving me to punt, although it wasn't much of a challenge given that Wild Nothing was playing the Broadberry tonight. I had my ticket by 2:45.
Walking in just after Charlie Hilton and her band got started, there was no doubt I was in the right place given the sound: hazy guitars, surging synths, female-penned lyrics and a voice detached yet pointed in its word choices.
After a couple of slow songs, she announced, "Enough of that sad stuff, here's a love song," and did "Let's Go To a Party," a club-ready song that got some of us dancing:
I'm only happy when I'm dancing
When I'm dancing for you
Please don't think about it
We don't want that here
Her look - long bangs, dark hair past her shoulders - immediately reminded me of Karen Carpenter's but I realized that to the two young beards in plaid falling hard for her in front of me, the frame of reference was more likely Zooey Deschanel.
A minor point, but with her skirt and colorful jacket, she was looking pretty groovy and her delicate hand gestures as she sang only added to the appeal. Besides, young men should worship at the altar of female guitarists/singers as part of their music education. Hello, Julianna Hatfield et al.
I was sorry when the band's set ended because of how much I was enjoying them, but that's why there's a merch table, right?
Waiting for Wild Nothing to set up, I tried to engage a guy standing nearby alone by asking whether he was waiting for someone or just standing out of the fray like me.
"I'm looking for people I know so I can spot them before they see me," he said as if this were perfectly logical. When I commented that all his people looked alike, he nodded. "It's a hip town." It was news to him that it hadn't always been.
A woman walked by and he acknowledged that he knew her but hadn't spoken because he really didn't want to have an interaction. She circled back and they exchanged words, but when she left, his comment was, "That wasn't so bad. I could talk to her again."
He sounded surprised. Curious about why he had no interest in human interactions, I asked point blank. Nothing. No broken home, no annoying siblings, no clear emotional trauma. So what were his happiest childhood memories, I asked.
"Being in front of the computer," he says without irony or awareness.
Asking why he'd come, he said it was his fifth or sixth time seeing Wild Nothing. He'd bought his ticket three months ago, not mid-afternoon like me. Clearly a music lover.
Yet when I inquired what his first concert had been, he had no clue. "It's all been a blur since the first one," he explained. And the first one was...?
2010. He's 24 now and already his show history is one blobby history but no specific memories. I wasn't accepting it, so I asked for the last really great show he saw.
Archers of Loaf last Fall "wasn't too bad," he admits. Frankly, I see that as damning with faint praise and insisted on hearing about at least one show he'd rate higher than not bad.
And then the kicker. "I don't have a lot of strong feelings," he tells me. "About anything." I'm not sure which is more tragic: how they've turned out or that they know it and accept it.
Fortunately, it was time for Wild Nothing, whom I'd last seen on a shirt-soaking August day in 2012 at Strange Matter around the time "Nocturne" was released and singer Jack had found it necessary to form a band so he could tour the album he'd recorded all by himself.
That night, I'd recognized lots of faces in the crowd, but tonight nary a one and, in fact, it felt like a lot of infrequent show-goers with bad manners.
Let's just say it wasn't the kind of crowd who would have sweated out three bands in an un-airconditioned venue four years ago to hear Wild Nothing.
My solution was moving away from the talkers and those who spent 97% of their time looking down and texting, so I could better enjoy the dream pop I'd come for.
When he said they were going to play an older song, the crowd cheered. "It's not that old!" he admonished them, but I was more than happy to enjoy washed out gems like "Paradise" and "Nocturne."
What struck me as odd was that while there was a handful of people moving to the very danceable music, most people were rooted in place like tree trunks. How can you hear those guitars and synths and not want to move your body?
Because Jack grew up in Williamsburg and had gone to school in Blacksburg, there was a large family contingent present, perched high in the raised, former VIP area and yelling corny things to him onstage, as only family can do.
One of the last songs was also from Nocturne, "Only Heather."
Misunderstood yet she's good, I can tell
Though everyone tells me I'm under her spell
I'll never leave her, they don't know our deal
It's better to fake than to love her for real
Cause only Heather
Yeah, only Heather
Can make me feel this way
At least he feels something. That's more than I can say about my young friend without feelings. But "It's better to fake than to love her for real"? Why feel when you can fake?
Please don't think about it, we don't want that here. Cue weeping for the future.
Friday, May 6, 2016
A Complicated Lover of Poetry
Ye gads! Some people gave up on my blog.
Tonight a friend asked why I'd stopped, lamenting the loss of the cultural record-keeping I've done for the past seven years. Turns out he was fully unaware that I'd eventually started up again and can once more waste time on the state's dime catching up.
The post-Prince rain continues and for the briefest of moments, I considered staying in tonight to work but too much was happening to follow through on that momentary responsible whim.
Tonight's installment of Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia was a rainy evening book launch for "Monticello in Mind: 50 Contemporary Poems on Jefferson" and featured nine readers, some reading their own work, some not, and the book's editor, who referred to TJ as, "A very complicated lover of poetry who also happened to be a Founding Father."
Rita Dove's poem "What Doesn't Happen" was about Jefferson in Paris, while Elizabeth Sydel Morgan's "Symmetry" concerned the man's dialog between his head and heart. Virginia's poet laureate Ron Smith read his "Mr. Jefferson Speaks of Rapture: Natural Bridge, Virginia" and David Wojahn called himself the caboose (he was the final reader) before reading his poem, "Jefferson Composing His Bible" - wherein he eliminated all the miracles making for a far shorter version - and sharing that when TJ had lady troubles, he'd copy out poetry to quiet his mind.
Straight down Broad I went after the Jefferson fest for Sunset at the Hof, knowing full well that today's rain would preclude any sunset viewing from the rooftop bar, but hoping it wouldn't dampen the kickoff party for the renovated Hofheimer Building.
Of course I dug the history of the Mediterranean-style copper-domed building, formerly a rug cleaning business that used the rooftop to air dry rugs in the days before dryers. The mosaic tile were leftovers from building the Mosque and it has a bit of that feeling to it, albeit on a less grand scale.
So I climbed the historic steps (marked as such even) to the loft, where an exhibit of Todd Hale's high gloss paintings - one used manipulated film stills from "Fantasia" - took a backseat to the see and be seen crowd mingling in the vast space.
I gave them points for the architectural drawings of the building lining the hallway to the bathrooms, while upstairs, the enormous rooftop space delivered views in every direction, although not quite as far as Jackson Ward. Once the bar is completed, it's going to be a lovely place to hang out, assuming I can stand the crowd.
We'll chalk it up to synchronicity that Richmond had zero rooftop bars forever and now we'll have three almost simultaneously.
From Scott's Addition, I was barely a spit away from the Broadberry and the kickoff event for Virginia Tourism's "Virginia is for Music Lovers" campaign - conceived of by my former music buddy who'd invited me - which involved three bands (No BS was playing when I walked in), two drink tickets per person and, inexplicably, Cow Tails (as gross a candy as I can imagine, yet a friend was scheming to take any leftovers home).
There was also rock candy on a stick, one of those old fashioned treats I thought had slipped into complete obscurity but is apparently still a thing, at least at certain events.
Tourism merch abounded, but I settled for a button to add to the grouping on my lapel.
The ongoing (purple) rain necessitated a discussion of Prince which yielded one of the best stories imaginable. Explaining how Prince had been part of his life at every turn, a friend shared his youthful obsession with Prince's "Batman" album.
Of all the hilarious details that came out of his mouth, by far the best was, "I bullied my friends into doing the bat dance in a Batman play done on our BMX bikes."
The visual alone was Prince-worthy.
There were just the right number of people in the room: it felt lively but wasn't uncomfortable to move around. The words, "Virginia is for Music Lovers" had been painted on an upper wall, making a statement for years to come.
Ruby-throated Galax singer Dori Freeman was new to many of us but her spellbinding voice hushed the crowd in attention before more than a few people rushed over en masse to buy her new record of dreamy songs and honest lyrics.
My former neighbor and now mayoral candidate was there, so I paused to remind him that he used to be at far more shows before he began running for mayor. I discussed the imminent East End Festival with a trombone player of note who's also a member of the Folk Fest committee.
While lavishly-maned Avers rocked the room, a stylish friend explained why she's given away her larger clothes now that she's discovered the seductive pleasures of compliments and feeling better. A fellow writer and I commiserated about assignments, deadlines and bad copy editing.
An art conservationist recalled a trip riding shotgun to chaperone art in transit, trapped in an un-air-conditioned truck with Ann Coulter on the radio the entire time, clearly one of the nine circles of hell.
And that, my Bat-dancing friend, is as much as is going in the blog for tonight. But I am back.
Tonight a friend asked why I'd stopped, lamenting the loss of the cultural record-keeping I've done for the past seven years. Turns out he was fully unaware that I'd eventually started up again and can once more waste time on the state's dime catching up.
The post-Prince rain continues and for the briefest of moments, I considered staying in tonight to work but too much was happening to follow through on that momentary responsible whim.
Tonight's installment of Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia was a rainy evening book launch for "Monticello in Mind: 50 Contemporary Poems on Jefferson" and featured nine readers, some reading their own work, some not, and the book's editor, who referred to TJ as, "A very complicated lover of poetry who also happened to be a Founding Father."
Rita Dove's poem "What Doesn't Happen" was about Jefferson in Paris, while Elizabeth Sydel Morgan's "Symmetry" concerned the man's dialog between his head and heart. Virginia's poet laureate Ron Smith read his "Mr. Jefferson Speaks of Rapture: Natural Bridge, Virginia" and David Wojahn called himself the caboose (he was the final reader) before reading his poem, "Jefferson Composing His Bible" - wherein he eliminated all the miracles making for a far shorter version - and sharing that when TJ had lady troubles, he'd copy out poetry to quiet his mind.
Straight down Broad I went after the Jefferson fest for Sunset at the Hof, knowing full well that today's rain would preclude any sunset viewing from the rooftop bar, but hoping it wouldn't dampen the kickoff party for the renovated Hofheimer Building.
Of course I dug the history of the Mediterranean-style copper-domed building, formerly a rug cleaning business that used the rooftop to air dry rugs in the days before dryers. The mosaic tile were leftovers from building the Mosque and it has a bit of that feeling to it, albeit on a less grand scale.
So I climbed the historic steps (marked as such even) to the loft, where an exhibit of Todd Hale's high gloss paintings - one used manipulated film stills from "Fantasia" - took a backseat to the see and be seen crowd mingling in the vast space.
I gave them points for the architectural drawings of the building lining the hallway to the bathrooms, while upstairs, the enormous rooftop space delivered views in every direction, although not quite as far as Jackson Ward. Once the bar is completed, it's going to be a lovely place to hang out, assuming I can stand the crowd.
We'll chalk it up to synchronicity that Richmond had zero rooftop bars forever and now we'll have three almost simultaneously.
From Scott's Addition, I was barely a spit away from the Broadberry and the kickoff event for Virginia Tourism's "Virginia is for Music Lovers" campaign - conceived of by my former music buddy who'd invited me - which involved three bands (No BS was playing when I walked in), two drink tickets per person and, inexplicably, Cow Tails (as gross a candy as I can imagine, yet a friend was scheming to take any leftovers home).
There was also rock candy on a stick, one of those old fashioned treats I thought had slipped into complete obscurity but is apparently still a thing, at least at certain events.
Tourism merch abounded, but I settled for a button to add to the grouping on my lapel.
The ongoing (purple) rain necessitated a discussion of Prince which yielded one of the best stories imaginable. Explaining how Prince had been part of his life at every turn, a friend shared his youthful obsession with Prince's "Batman" album.
Of all the hilarious details that came out of his mouth, by far the best was, "I bullied my friends into doing the bat dance in a Batman play done on our BMX bikes."
The visual alone was Prince-worthy.
There were just the right number of people in the room: it felt lively but wasn't uncomfortable to move around. The words, "Virginia is for Music Lovers" had been painted on an upper wall, making a statement for years to come.
Ruby-throated Galax singer Dori Freeman was new to many of us but her spellbinding voice hushed the crowd in attention before more than a few people rushed over en masse to buy her new record of dreamy songs and honest lyrics.
My former neighbor and now mayoral candidate was there, so I paused to remind him that he used to be at far more shows before he began running for mayor. I discussed the imminent East End Festival with a trombone player of note who's also a member of the Folk Fest committee.
While lavishly-maned Avers rocked the room, a stylish friend explained why she's given away her larger clothes now that she's discovered the seductive pleasures of compliments and feeling better. A fellow writer and I commiserated about assignments, deadlines and bad copy editing.
An art conservationist recalled a trip riding shotgun to chaperone art in transit, trapped in an un-air-conditioned truck with Ann Coulter on the radio the entire time, clearly one of the nine circles of hell.
And that, my Bat-dancing friend, is as much as is going in the blog for tonight. But I am back.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Darken My Door
I, of all people, understand the difficulty in getting to five years.
In this case, the anniversary was between blogger Andrew and the music-loving community. His blog, RVA Playlist, was turning five years old. I didn't mention to Andrew that my blog had turned five in February 2014 and you didn't see me throwing parties for myself, now did you?
The party wasn't starting until 8, so I met a friend at Sabai, the new Thai street food place and tiki bar practically next door to the Broadberry where the show was happening. They've just recently opened, so it was just a brief stop to get the lay of the land.
They won major points for a '70s soul soundtrack that featured multiple Barry White songs, Spinners and Honey Cone doing "Want Ads." I kid you not, people were breaking into song at the bar. Me, I was just reliving my youth in music.
Adding to the feel-good vibe were a couple of well-executed cocktails, my friend's Death is a Lie, a euphoric combination of mezcal, grapefruit bitters and a twist, while my zingy daiquiri was creamy with Gosling rum, egg white, blackberry brandy and orgeat for notes of almond syrup. Yes, look at me, drinking a real cocktail. I also had a couple of shrimp skewers bathed in Thai spices for a tasty clearing of my sinus cavity.
For his anniversary show, Andrew had chosen bands he'd known for years, bands in some cases I'd introduced him to originally. First up was Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands, tonight a trio of upright bass, guitar and pedal steel, and Andrew mentioned from the stage that I'd been the one who'd first exposed him to Jonathan. So there was a little public recognition thrown in for good measure tonight.
Jonathan's never met a sad song he couldn't write and tonight's were as beautiful as anything I've heard of his, perhaps made all the more so for the mournful sound of the pedal steel. Favorite lyric: "Please, darken my door," a line made even more poignant because of his harmonizing with bass player Nate.
The crowd around the stage area was a respectful one for their set while the people who'd come to chatter remained in the back by the bar, making everybody happy for the most part. See, we can all get along.
I'd expected loads of familiar faces tonight and during the break, I caught up with some of the infrequent faces: the singer who'd already had her own show this week, the country-hopping sound engineer I hadn't seen in close to a year, the dance party maven, the happy couple.
After a predictable forever for Goldrush to set up, they played a particularly rocking set full of new and newer material, including a song Prabir had written about his assault on the street, "It's All in the Past." I salute someone for being able to make lemonade out of those kinds of lemons.
Another time, he dedicated the next song to Andrew, saying it was because, "This is what we'll be doing to him after our set. The song is called "Search and Destroy." Once Andrew delivered tequila shots to the stage, I'd have sworn I saw Willis hitting his drums even harder than usual (was that a flying drumstick?) and Matt's bass resonating in my innards. Good stuff.
They closed with "Human Evolution," notable in that three horn players from No BS Brass Band - Reggie, David and Marcus - joined them for it. Know what? Goldrush sounds good with horns. In fact, a cute girlfriend said, "All music sounds better with horns. Every kind of music."
During the break, I got into a fascinating discussion with a friend who explained that he and his cohabitating girlfriend have separate silverware trays. That's right, they each use their own flatware for eating. Neither liked the other's and it seemed silly to buy new.
Odd as this sounded to me, a friend shared that when she got married, they bought a new set because neither liked each other's, either. He preferred a minimalist design and she had specific fork issues. "We found a simple pattern that met my fork needs (yes, fork needs) and problem solved," she said. That's a marriage that will probably go the distance with that kind of compromising skills.
Once No BS Brass Band got set up to play, I moved to the elevated VIP section (despite being a nobody) so I could see over the crowd. The great thing about the Broadberry stage is that it accommodates the many guys and their horns in No BS, a larger than usual group.
Drummer Lance was behind them, yes, but he got an extended solo so we could watch him unobstructed and other times, he just stood on his stool to lord over all those horns. His distinctive vocals also served as a reminder that he was back there.
They did a brand new song called "3 a.m. Bounce" and Reggie seemed especially pleased when it got a rousing reaction. They're just so tight for being so many people, it's hard not to be impressed. Oh, and P.S., I introduced Andrew to them, too.
Their set was more or less a non-stop dance party, as they always are, but the crowd was smaller than at their typical shows, no doubt a factor of the hour on a school night. Still, everyone who stayed was glad they did.
All in all, it was a pretty wonderful anniversary party except for one thing. There was no cake. I don't want to make it sound like I came for cake - I really wanted to see the bands, of course - but a cake really makes a party. Andrew explained that his cake baker had an unfortunate accident, but try telling my sweet tooth that.
Fortunately, we did get a prize to take home, a fifth anniversary RVA Playlist mix of 20 songs (although I personally have only heard 15 of the bands live) that represent the Richmond music scene. On the liner notes, my name was included as one of the people Andrew thanked for love and support. Aww, shucks, who needs cake when they've got recognition?
So happy anniversary, RVA Playlist. Five years is a lot of posts (believe me, I know) and a lot of local music featured over the years. We both know I've probably been at more of those shows you wrote about than you were, but we've already had that conversation.
And here's a fun fact: the anniversary gift for five years is silverware. Separate or shared forks, Andrew? Having made it five years, it's your choice.
In this case, the anniversary was between blogger Andrew and the music-loving community. His blog, RVA Playlist, was turning five years old. I didn't mention to Andrew that my blog had turned five in February 2014 and you didn't see me throwing parties for myself, now did you?
The party wasn't starting until 8, so I met a friend at Sabai, the new Thai street food place and tiki bar practically next door to the Broadberry where the show was happening. They've just recently opened, so it was just a brief stop to get the lay of the land.
They won major points for a '70s soul soundtrack that featured multiple Barry White songs, Spinners and Honey Cone doing "Want Ads." I kid you not, people were breaking into song at the bar. Me, I was just reliving my youth in music.
Adding to the feel-good vibe were a couple of well-executed cocktails, my friend's Death is a Lie, a euphoric combination of mezcal, grapefruit bitters and a twist, while my zingy daiquiri was creamy with Gosling rum, egg white, blackberry brandy and orgeat for notes of almond syrup. Yes, look at me, drinking a real cocktail. I also had a couple of shrimp skewers bathed in Thai spices for a tasty clearing of my sinus cavity.
For his anniversary show, Andrew had chosen bands he'd known for years, bands in some cases I'd introduced him to originally. First up was Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands, tonight a trio of upright bass, guitar and pedal steel, and Andrew mentioned from the stage that I'd been the one who'd first exposed him to Jonathan. So there was a little public recognition thrown in for good measure tonight.
Jonathan's never met a sad song he couldn't write and tonight's were as beautiful as anything I've heard of his, perhaps made all the more so for the mournful sound of the pedal steel. Favorite lyric: "Please, darken my door," a line made even more poignant because of his harmonizing with bass player Nate.
The crowd around the stage area was a respectful one for their set while the people who'd come to chatter remained in the back by the bar, making everybody happy for the most part. See, we can all get along.
I'd expected loads of familiar faces tonight and during the break, I caught up with some of the infrequent faces: the singer who'd already had her own show this week, the country-hopping sound engineer I hadn't seen in close to a year, the dance party maven, the happy couple.
After a predictable forever for Goldrush to set up, they played a particularly rocking set full of new and newer material, including a song Prabir had written about his assault on the street, "It's All in the Past." I salute someone for being able to make lemonade out of those kinds of lemons.
Another time, he dedicated the next song to Andrew, saying it was because, "This is what we'll be doing to him after our set. The song is called "Search and Destroy." Once Andrew delivered tequila shots to the stage, I'd have sworn I saw Willis hitting his drums even harder than usual (was that a flying drumstick?) and Matt's bass resonating in my innards. Good stuff.
They closed with "Human Evolution," notable in that three horn players from No BS Brass Band - Reggie, David and Marcus - joined them for it. Know what? Goldrush sounds good with horns. In fact, a cute girlfriend said, "All music sounds better with horns. Every kind of music."
During the break, I got into a fascinating discussion with a friend who explained that he and his cohabitating girlfriend have separate silverware trays. That's right, they each use their own flatware for eating. Neither liked the other's and it seemed silly to buy new.
Odd as this sounded to me, a friend shared that when she got married, they bought a new set because neither liked each other's, either. He preferred a minimalist design and she had specific fork issues. "We found a simple pattern that met my fork needs (yes, fork needs) and problem solved," she said. That's a marriage that will probably go the distance with that kind of compromising skills.
Once No BS Brass Band got set up to play, I moved to the elevated VIP section (despite being a nobody) so I could see over the crowd. The great thing about the Broadberry stage is that it accommodates the many guys and their horns in No BS, a larger than usual group.
Drummer Lance was behind them, yes, but he got an extended solo so we could watch him unobstructed and other times, he just stood on his stool to lord over all those horns. His distinctive vocals also served as a reminder that he was back there.
They did a brand new song called "3 a.m. Bounce" and Reggie seemed especially pleased when it got a rousing reaction. They're just so tight for being so many people, it's hard not to be impressed. Oh, and P.S., I introduced Andrew to them, too.
Their set was more or less a non-stop dance party, as they always are, but the crowd was smaller than at their typical shows, no doubt a factor of the hour on a school night. Still, everyone who stayed was glad they did.
All in all, it was a pretty wonderful anniversary party except for one thing. There was no cake. I don't want to make it sound like I came for cake - I really wanted to see the bands, of course - but a cake really makes a party. Andrew explained that his cake baker had an unfortunate accident, but try telling my sweet tooth that.
Fortunately, we did get a prize to take home, a fifth anniversary RVA Playlist mix of 20 songs (although I personally have only heard 15 of the bands live) that represent the Richmond music scene. On the liner notes, my name was included as one of the people Andrew thanked for love and support. Aww, shucks, who needs cake when they've got recognition?
So happy anniversary, RVA Playlist. Five years is a lot of posts (believe me, I know) and a lot of local music featured over the years. We both know I've probably been at more of those shows you wrote about than you were, but we've already had that conversation.
And here's a fun fact: the anniversary gift for five years is silverware. Separate or shared forks, Andrew? Having made it five years, it's your choice.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Happy Times, Heavy Times
You can't go home again, right?
Maybe not, but today proved you can go back and see the X-rated animated movie your first boyfriend took you to see.
As part of the James River Film Festival, "Fritz the Cat" was showing at the Byrd. Munching my popcorn, waiting for it to start, I overheard a guy who looked like a VCU senior say, "Yea, I learned about it when I took an animation course junior year."
JRFF kingpin Mike Jones stopped to speak to the guy nearest me, saying he looked familiar. "I was in your film class years ago," the guy said.
It seemed everyone had a different reason for coming to see a pornographic cartoon today.
The movie's introduction was provided courtesy of a cultural history professor from Randolph Macon whose topic was, "How 'Fritz the Cat' started the sexual revolution in Richmond."
Opening at the stately and staid Loew's Theater, he emphasized that it was not considered date fare. Fortunately, my boyfriend and I were living 100 miles north, so we hadn't known that (or been too young to care).
It began ominously enough with writer and director Ralph Bakshi's voice saying, "Hey, yea, the 1960s? Happy times, heavy times" and diving right into all the big issues of the day: drugs, free love, race relations, college life, politics and hedonism.
So many jokes -"I've already heard 16 versions of 'Lemon Tree" -couldn't have resonated with the younger members of today's audience.
All the characters were animals (cops were pigs, of course, including one who was Jewish) and the dialog topical - "The president, after conferring with Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir, has agreed to send more arms to Israel, based on the return of New York City and Los Angeles to the United States."
Cars had clutches and Howard Johnson's always served a reliably good steak. When someone told you to have some joy puffs, they meant take a hit on the hash pipe.
Honestly, watching the film, none of it was familiar. My only memory of it had been of sex and drugs and there was plenty of that, but everything else about it had been forgotten. Or more likely, it just resonated differently now than it had in high school.
Over a massive supper of southern comfort food with a favorite guitarist at a crowded restaurant, we talked about memorable teachers from our past and why some people occupy a place in your mind for decades and others don't last a month.
Stuffed to the gills, we parted company so I could make a show at the Broadberry.
Hometown boy Matt White was playing a sold out show as part of his current tour behind the new album, "Fresh Blood," so I knew I was guaranteed plenty of familiar faces for company.
It was obvious they were expecting a crowd when I walked to find all the tables in the back of the room had been removed, something I hadn't yet seen at the Broadberry. Already the place was half full.
In no time, I ran into the photographer and his wife on their first overnight away from their toddler. Unused to a night out, they'd already made a caffeine stop to boost their alertness and were shooting for a major sleep-in tomorrow morning, say 7:30.
Sleeping in until 7:30, how cute is that?
My former neighbor said hello, bragging that he would be seeing Dylan for the first time tomorrow night after almost 60 years on the planet. He was clearly excited about the show, even if he did refer to Dylan's last record as "his Mel Torme phase."
The print-maker and photographer, always good for some stimulating conversation, offered reading recommendations (Ben Lerner's "10:04") and commentary after hearing I'd seen "Fritz the Cat" today ("Young people now take no pleasure in sex, no joy").
The jazz critic said hello, having scored a last minute ticket because he, like so many people mistakenly thought the show wouldn't sell out. So like Richmond to think that way.
Sleepwalkers were the opener and their pastiche of rock, soul and everything but the kitchen sink was a crowd-pleasing way to start the night. When I mentioned that I was most partial to their soul-inflected songs, a friend and Richmond native pointed out that that material sounded like what she had heard in this same venue 30 years ago.
Richmond has apparently had a scene long enough now that reminiscing is possible.
I'd have been shocked not to run into the dance party enthusiast whom I rewarded with my biggest smile when I saw him approaching, only to have another guy assume my effusiveness was for him ("Sorry, for just a second there, I thought you meant me") and he was in fine fettle.
Already he'd been to Hardywood for a show by Nelly Kate, Dave Watkins and Gull ("It was like the best kind of Colloquial Orchestra show"), the opening of the new Shoryuken Ramen ("Sean the bartender was making amazing drinks. I've never had a sake-based drink before") and now he was abuzz to see Matt White.
"I feel like Richmond is dating me today and it's great!" he grinned, a mild sake buzz somewhat apparent. He even allowed that there was a dance party later at Strange Matter and if he enjoyed that, he might let Richmond have its way with him.
Most surprising of everyone I saw was the father of triplets who'd seemingly dropped off the face of the earth when they were born. Tonight there were noticeable streaks of gray in his red beard ("It's the Obama effect, I went white overnight"), which I teased him about, causing his friend to tell me I was cruel.
Matt's drummer Pinson came to the bar to get a last minute gin, waiting nervously for the bartender to return with his credit card because he needed to get backstage and dressed for their set.
"I've got to change and it's always a game not to be the last one in to change." He got his card back and bolted for the back.
A couple of guys were left in his wake and shared that they were new to the venue. "It's not like a dirty punk club," one said, clearly surprised. I explained that it had previosuly been a gay club, hence the chandeliers, VIP section and massive lighting system.
"Do you work here? Are you in the band? Are you the owner of this place?" they wanted to know. No, no and no. How about I've just been here before, guys?
Leaving the talking crowd in the back, I moved much closer to the stage for Matt's gospel rock tinged set and a straight shot view of the musicians, three of whom I met as long ago as 2007. In fact, when he introduced the band, he referred to them as hometown heroes.
His first album, "Big Inner" landed him on all kinds of best of lists ("It took us further and faster than we expected") and "Big Love" got a huge crowd reaction tonight, one of many if you count that lots of us were dancing to practically every song.
Matt spoke often of how good it felt to be playing at home tonight after a month on the road. "If I were playing in other cities, I'd hate that people were talking. But this is Richmond and that's what Richmond does. It's refreshing."
Saying that as an introvert, he hated being told by bands to participate, so he'd vowed never to make his audiences do that. But for "Feeling Good is Good Enough," he offered the option of singing along on the "ya yas" if we were so inclined. "But no pressure if you don't want to."
Almost everyone did.
He talked about how fantastic Richmond's music scene is and how lucky we are, saying he tells audiences that in every city they play. Then they played "Will You Love Me?"
The answer from the blissed out crowd came back an enthusiastic affirmative. Because, yes, in some cases, you can go home again.
Maybe not, but today proved you can go back and see the X-rated animated movie your first boyfriend took you to see.
As part of the James River Film Festival, "Fritz the Cat" was showing at the Byrd. Munching my popcorn, waiting for it to start, I overheard a guy who looked like a VCU senior say, "Yea, I learned about it when I took an animation course junior year."
JRFF kingpin Mike Jones stopped to speak to the guy nearest me, saying he looked familiar. "I was in your film class years ago," the guy said.
It seemed everyone had a different reason for coming to see a pornographic cartoon today.
The movie's introduction was provided courtesy of a cultural history professor from Randolph Macon whose topic was, "How 'Fritz the Cat' started the sexual revolution in Richmond."
Opening at the stately and staid Loew's Theater, he emphasized that it was not considered date fare. Fortunately, my boyfriend and I were living 100 miles north, so we hadn't known that (or been too young to care).
It began ominously enough with writer and director Ralph Bakshi's voice saying, "Hey, yea, the 1960s? Happy times, heavy times" and diving right into all the big issues of the day: drugs, free love, race relations, college life, politics and hedonism.
So many jokes -"I've already heard 16 versions of 'Lemon Tree" -couldn't have resonated with the younger members of today's audience.
All the characters were animals (cops were pigs, of course, including one who was Jewish) and the dialog topical - "The president, after conferring with Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir, has agreed to send more arms to Israel, based on the return of New York City and Los Angeles to the United States."
Cars had clutches and Howard Johnson's always served a reliably good steak. When someone told you to have some joy puffs, they meant take a hit on the hash pipe.
Honestly, watching the film, none of it was familiar. My only memory of it had been of sex and drugs and there was plenty of that, but everything else about it had been forgotten. Or more likely, it just resonated differently now than it had in high school.
Over a massive supper of southern comfort food with a favorite guitarist at a crowded restaurant, we talked about memorable teachers from our past and why some people occupy a place in your mind for decades and others don't last a month.
Stuffed to the gills, we parted company so I could make a show at the Broadberry.
Hometown boy Matt White was playing a sold out show as part of his current tour behind the new album, "Fresh Blood," so I knew I was guaranteed plenty of familiar faces for company.
It was obvious they were expecting a crowd when I walked to find all the tables in the back of the room had been removed, something I hadn't yet seen at the Broadberry. Already the place was half full.
In no time, I ran into the photographer and his wife on their first overnight away from their toddler. Unused to a night out, they'd already made a caffeine stop to boost their alertness and were shooting for a major sleep-in tomorrow morning, say 7:30.
Sleeping in until 7:30, how cute is that?
My former neighbor said hello, bragging that he would be seeing Dylan for the first time tomorrow night after almost 60 years on the planet. He was clearly excited about the show, even if he did refer to Dylan's last record as "his Mel Torme phase."
The print-maker and photographer, always good for some stimulating conversation, offered reading recommendations (Ben Lerner's "10:04") and commentary after hearing I'd seen "Fritz the Cat" today ("Young people now take no pleasure in sex, no joy").
The jazz critic said hello, having scored a last minute ticket because he, like so many people mistakenly thought the show wouldn't sell out. So like Richmond to think that way.
Sleepwalkers were the opener and their pastiche of rock, soul and everything but the kitchen sink was a crowd-pleasing way to start the night. When I mentioned that I was most partial to their soul-inflected songs, a friend and Richmond native pointed out that that material sounded like what she had heard in this same venue 30 years ago.
Richmond has apparently had a scene long enough now that reminiscing is possible.
I'd have been shocked not to run into the dance party enthusiast whom I rewarded with my biggest smile when I saw him approaching, only to have another guy assume my effusiveness was for him ("Sorry, for just a second there, I thought you meant me") and he was in fine fettle.
Already he'd been to Hardywood for a show by Nelly Kate, Dave Watkins and Gull ("It was like the best kind of Colloquial Orchestra show"), the opening of the new Shoryuken Ramen ("Sean the bartender was making amazing drinks. I've never had a sake-based drink before") and now he was abuzz to see Matt White.
"I feel like Richmond is dating me today and it's great!" he grinned, a mild sake buzz somewhat apparent. He even allowed that there was a dance party later at Strange Matter and if he enjoyed that, he might let Richmond have its way with him.
Most surprising of everyone I saw was the father of triplets who'd seemingly dropped off the face of the earth when they were born. Tonight there were noticeable streaks of gray in his red beard ("It's the Obama effect, I went white overnight"), which I teased him about, causing his friend to tell me I was cruel.
Matt's drummer Pinson came to the bar to get a last minute gin, waiting nervously for the bartender to return with his credit card because he needed to get backstage and dressed for their set.
"I've got to change and it's always a game not to be the last one in to change." He got his card back and bolted for the back.
A couple of guys were left in his wake and shared that they were new to the venue. "It's not like a dirty punk club," one said, clearly surprised. I explained that it had previosuly been a gay club, hence the chandeliers, VIP section and massive lighting system.
"Do you work here? Are you in the band? Are you the owner of this place?" they wanted to know. No, no and no. How about I've just been here before, guys?
Leaving the talking crowd in the back, I moved much closer to the stage for Matt's gospel rock tinged set and a straight shot view of the musicians, three of whom I met as long ago as 2007. In fact, when he introduced the band, he referred to them as hometown heroes.
His first album, "Big Inner" landed him on all kinds of best of lists ("It took us further and faster than we expected") and "Big Love" got a huge crowd reaction tonight, one of many if you count that lots of us were dancing to practically every song.
Matt spoke often of how good it felt to be playing at home tonight after a month on the road. "If I were playing in other cities, I'd hate that people were talking. But this is Richmond and that's what Richmond does. It's refreshing."
Saying that as an introvert, he hated being told by bands to participate, so he'd vowed never to make his audiences do that. But for "Feeling Good is Good Enough," he offered the option of singing along on the "ya yas" if we were so inclined. "But no pressure if you don't want to."
Almost everyone did.
He talked about how fantastic Richmond's music scene is and how lucky we are, saying he tells audiences that in every city they play. Then they played "Will You Love Me?"
The answer from the blissed out crowd came back an enthusiastic affirmative. Because, yes, in some cases, you can go home again.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Time to Give It Up
Pancakes. It really is all about the pancakes. Okay, and the horns.
Yes, it's Shrove Tuesday and sure, that means Lent begins tomorrow but as a card-carrying heathen with no stake in any of that, all I really care about is having pancakes for dinner the night before Ash Wednesday.
Despite the cold, my plan was to walk over to 821 Cafe for a plate of Fat Tuesday flapjacks, some slathered in butter and syrup and some drowning in butter and strawberry jam. As you may have determined, with me and pancakes it's all about the butter.
I mean, it's not like I'm going to actually fast for Lent so I'll be having just as much butter for the next 40 days as the last, but I like to think it's the thought that counts.
Although 821 wasn't nearly as mobbed as I'd anticipated (although apparently this afternoon it had been a certifiable zoo), the majority of the tables were occupied. I went straight to the counter for a stool next to a young couple.
Waiting for my order to come out and reading a magazine, it suddenly occurred to me that the music was all wrong for 821. For some reason, the dulcet tones of Patsy Cline replaced the usual thrash. It was so odd I asked the bartender for the scoop.
Apparently the breakfast crew likes classic country and while he stipulated that he had very little overlap with their taste, this was the one record they all liked. "It's so sad," he said, explaining his attraction to it. "Don't worry, we'll be back to something obnoxious right after this."
I was fine with Patsy Cline, even more so when he brought my food, three plate-sized pancakes and an order of bacon. Now we were talking. I ate the first half with syrup and the second with jam, a habit I learned from my Dad, but even so, I couldn't manage to eat them all.
Midway through, I saw a familiar face approaching and there was fellow Jackson Ward neighbor and rock star Prabir, coming to inquire what had brought me out tonight. Gesturing at my plate o' pancakes, I reminded him that it was Shrove Tuesday and as a lapsed Catholic, my sacred duty to eat them.
"What's Shrove?" he asked, always eager to learn. Penance, sin, absolution, something along those lines.
When I asked why he was there, he said he'd come to eat with an old friend before meeting a new friend later. Since the "old" friend is married, I guessed that the new one was not, resulting in him making an analogy about how uncomplicated wearing my familiar pink scarf was versus putting on a new scarf and it changing who I was. What?
In other words, I feel fairly certain that he was hoping to get lucky with the later date.
I overheard the woman next to me say to her partner (who was busy on his phone) in a robotic and soothing voice, "No, honey, I've been hanging on your every word since our first date." I waited for the punch line or his reaction and none came.
Turning to her, I told her that I didn't even know her but I loved that she was able to say that even semi-convincingly without looking at him, breaking into laughter or expecting a reaction from him. He looked up and assured me it wasn't true. She corrected him and said that it was a shame that she was the only one who believed it.
Ah, the pleasures of stranger conversation.
I took the long way home, strolling through campus and hearing snippets of student chatter ("Hey, Liz, you wanna go bowling with us?"), meaning every other word was "like" and everything sounded like a question ("So we're really comfortable with each other?"). Tomorrow's leaders.
It's funny, but what struck me walking home was that it just wasn't that cold, or at least it didn't feel that cold, despite being in the 20s. After the arctic-like temperatures over the weekend, 28 feels pretty good.
But not good enough to walk another two miles for music, so I warmed up the car to go to the Broadberry for the Mardis Gras Getdown with the Big Payback and Sleepwalkers. "Bring yo' beads!" the event invitation instructed.
I had no beads, but I felt pretty sure I'd be able to score some.
Nevertheless, I showed up, money in hand, to buy admission from the two guys at the door, only to be asked for ID. I rolled my eyes and claimed not to have it, since they could tell I was plenty legal.
"Really, you don't have it?" asked the younger and more timid of the two. Nope, sure don't, I lied.
"No ID, we're just going to have to spank you!" the other guy says and the first guy looks highly uncomfortable. I think he was appalled at the guy's choice of words.
"She's seen Fifty Shades of Gray," he said, grinning at me. Nope, sure haven't. "But you know," he went on. Yes, I know a spanking reference when I hear one. I was given a wristband and allowed to enter.
Inside, beads were being distributed and placed on tables for grabbing. A handful of people had taken tonight's theme to heart when deciding what to wear, so there were colorful feather boas, hats with feathers and metallic dresses.
The one fashion statement I couldn't fathom was one I'd also seen last night at GWAR Bar: jean shorts and tights. I'm aware of this look but when it's below freezing (and last night snowing), I have difficulty understanding the choice.
Waiting for Sleepwalkers to start, I took a seat on the banquette to people watch. I saw very few people I knew despite some of Richmond's well-known jazz musicians being in the band. It could have been as simple as the snow keeping people away.
I call those people weather wimps.
I'd heard one song by Sleepwalkers on the radio and kind of liked it, but I really had no idea what their sound was like. After listening to their set, I still don't.
Their influences were all over the place with songs pulling from the Jackson 5, Led Zeppelin and a lot of '70s radio. What they did have was multiple singers and great energy and enthusiasm for their music. I would guess they also had older siblings who exposed them to their records.
During the break after their set, a couple I knew arrived and we chatted for a while. They'd just come from the VCU game which the team had apparently won handily. That was good news. said the non-sports person.
It seemed to take the Big Payback forever to get set up, but when your repertoire is pulled from the James Brown catalog, I guess everything has to be just so. Nine musicians and a lead singer dressed nattily in a suit took control of tonight's Mardi Gras festivities.
I bet it didn't take more than 30 seconds before the crowd began dancing, unable to resist two drummers, two guitarists and a horn section. The singer had nailed all the JB moves and vocal inflections (fortunately he didn't wear a bad wig mimicking the Godfather of Soul's hideous hair) to do a thoroughly convincing job onstage.
Our only job on the floor was to dance and swing our beads (I had pink and green strands) and frankly, it was harder not to dance than just to go with it. I saw one guy stand like a stone while his partner tore it up in front of him, but he was the exception.
The singer didn't hog all the spotlight, calling out to others for solos - "Come on, Suzy," to the sax player and "Get down, Bobby!" to the trumpet player. He even called local singer Sam Reed up on stage to sing a few songs and no one is going to complain about hearing her powerhouse of a voice.
He also called for some whisky shots for the band because, you know, sometimes that's what the spirit needs. Meanwhile we just kept dancing.
For that matter, we danced away Shrove Tuesday and were still dancing into Ash Wednesday, despite it technically now being Lent.
Oh, well. We probably all deserve a good spanking for that.
Yes, it's Shrove Tuesday and sure, that means Lent begins tomorrow but as a card-carrying heathen with no stake in any of that, all I really care about is having pancakes for dinner the night before Ash Wednesday.
Despite the cold, my plan was to walk over to 821 Cafe for a plate of Fat Tuesday flapjacks, some slathered in butter and syrup and some drowning in butter and strawberry jam. As you may have determined, with me and pancakes it's all about the butter.
I mean, it's not like I'm going to actually fast for Lent so I'll be having just as much butter for the next 40 days as the last, but I like to think it's the thought that counts.
Although 821 wasn't nearly as mobbed as I'd anticipated (although apparently this afternoon it had been a certifiable zoo), the majority of the tables were occupied. I went straight to the counter for a stool next to a young couple.
Waiting for my order to come out and reading a magazine, it suddenly occurred to me that the music was all wrong for 821. For some reason, the dulcet tones of Patsy Cline replaced the usual thrash. It was so odd I asked the bartender for the scoop.
Apparently the breakfast crew likes classic country and while he stipulated that he had very little overlap with their taste, this was the one record they all liked. "It's so sad," he said, explaining his attraction to it. "Don't worry, we'll be back to something obnoxious right after this."
I was fine with Patsy Cline, even more so when he brought my food, three plate-sized pancakes and an order of bacon. Now we were talking. I ate the first half with syrup and the second with jam, a habit I learned from my Dad, but even so, I couldn't manage to eat them all.
Midway through, I saw a familiar face approaching and there was fellow Jackson Ward neighbor and rock star Prabir, coming to inquire what had brought me out tonight. Gesturing at my plate o' pancakes, I reminded him that it was Shrove Tuesday and as a lapsed Catholic, my sacred duty to eat them.
"What's Shrove?" he asked, always eager to learn. Penance, sin, absolution, something along those lines.
When I asked why he was there, he said he'd come to eat with an old friend before meeting a new friend later. Since the "old" friend is married, I guessed that the new one was not, resulting in him making an analogy about how uncomplicated wearing my familiar pink scarf was versus putting on a new scarf and it changing who I was. What?
In other words, I feel fairly certain that he was hoping to get lucky with the later date.
I overheard the woman next to me say to her partner (who was busy on his phone) in a robotic and soothing voice, "No, honey, I've been hanging on your every word since our first date." I waited for the punch line or his reaction and none came.
Turning to her, I told her that I didn't even know her but I loved that she was able to say that even semi-convincingly without looking at him, breaking into laughter or expecting a reaction from him. He looked up and assured me it wasn't true. She corrected him and said that it was a shame that she was the only one who believed it.
Ah, the pleasures of stranger conversation.
I took the long way home, strolling through campus and hearing snippets of student chatter ("Hey, Liz, you wanna go bowling with us?"), meaning every other word was "like" and everything sounded like a question ("So we're really comfortable with each other?"). Tomorrow's leaders.
It's funny, but what struck me walking home was that it just wasn't that cold, or at least it didn't feel that cold, despite being in the 20s. After the arctic-like temperatures over the weekend, 28 feels pretty good.
But not good enough to walk another two miles for music, so I warmed up the car to go to the Broadberry for the Mardis Gras Getdown with the Big Payback and Sleepwalkers. "Bring yo' beads!" the event invitation instructed.
I had no beads, but I felt pretty sure I'd be able to score some.
Nevertheless, I showed up, money in hand, to buy admission from the two guys at the door, only to be asked for ID. I rolled my eyes and claimed not to have it, since they could tell I was plenty legal.
"Really, you don't have it?" asked the younger and more timid of the two. Nope, sure don't, I lied.
"No ID, we're just going to have to spank you!" the other guy says and the first guy looks highly uncomfortable. I think he was appalled at the guy's choice of words.
"She's seen Fifty Shades of Gray," he said, grinning at me. Nope, sure haven't. "But you know," he went on. Yes, I know a spanking reference when I hear one. I was given a wristband and allowed to enter.
Inside, beads were being distributed and placed on tables for grabbing. A handful of people had taken tonight's theme to heart when deciding what to wear, so there were colorful feather boas, hats with feathers and metallic dresses.
The one fashion statement I couldn't fathom was one I'd also seen last night at GWAR Bar: jean shorts and tights. I'm aware of this look but when it's below freezing (and last night snowing), I have difficulty understanding the choice.
Waiting for Sleepwalkers to start, I took a seat on the banquette to people watch. I saw very few people I knew despite some of Richmond's well-known jazz musicians being in the band. It could have been as simple as the snow keeping people away.
I call those people weather wimps.
I'd heard one song by Sleepwalkers on the radio and kind of liked it, but I really had no idea what their sound was like. After listening to their set, I still don't.
Their influences were all over the place with songs pulling from the Jackson 5, Led Zeppelin and a lot of '70s radio. What they did have was multiple singers and great energy and enthusiasm for their music. I would guess they also had older siblings who exposed them to their records.
During the break after their set, a couple I knew arrived and we chatted for a while. They'd just come from the VCU game which the team had apparently won handily. That was good news. said the non-sports person.
It seemed to take the Big Payback forever to get set up, but when your repertoire is pulled from the James Brown catalog, I guess everything has to be just so. Nine musicians and a lead singer dressed nattily in a suit took control of tonight's Mardi Gras festivities.
I bet it didn't take more than 30 seconds before the crowd began dancing, unable to resist two drummers, two guitarists and a horn section. The singer had nailed all the JB moves and vocal inflections (fortunately he didn't wear a bad wig mimicking the Godfather of Soul's hideous hair) to do a thoroughly convincing job onstage.
Our only job on the floor was to dance and swing our beads (I had pink and green strands) and frankly, it was harder not to dance than just to go with it. I saw one guy stand like a stone while his partner tore it up in front of him, but he was the exception.
The singer didn't hog all the spotlight, calling out to others for solos - "Come on, Suzy," to the sax player and "Get down, Bobby!" to the trumpet player. He even called local singer Sam Reed up on stage to sing a few songs and no one is going to complain about hearing her powerhouse of a voice.
He also called for some whisky shots for the band because, you know, sometimes that's what the spirit needs. Meanwhile we just kept dancing.
For that matter, we danced away Shrove Tuesday and were still dancing into Ash Wednesday, despite it technically now being Lent.
Oh, well. We probably all deserve a good spanking for that.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Blow by Blow
I knew I'd made the right choice of what to do tonight when I saw how many musicians were in the room.
A lot of really good ones.
The Broadberry was hosting trumpeter Rex Richardson's dual CD release party tonight and just about every table and chair in the place was already taken when I got there. Plenty of people were standing in front of the stage, too, and more continued to arrive.
No surprise there because Rex is kind of a big deal, a phenomenal musician whether he's blowing on a trumpet, coronet, flugelhorn or whatever.
My interest in tonight's program had its seeds in a show I'd gone to at the Singleton Center back in 2006 when Rex had been playing in a group called Rhythm and Brass. Memorably, that night's program had ranged from the Beatles to Radiohead with bits of everything in between.
That was the night I'd fallen for his trumpet playing (I might have even been that person who went up to him afterwards and gushed a bit).
Since that show eight years ago, I've seen him many times at VCU's Singleon Center and more recently, when he fronted an evening with the Richmond Symphony. Always on a limited budget, I'd splurged $10 on a next-to-the-last-row ticket for that show and now tonight I was dropping another ten-spot to hear Rex play his newest stuff.
His quintet began without any introduction beyond him blowing his horn to begin "Tell, Tell Me Again" and get the entire room's attention.
After that, he reminded us that CDs were for sale at a table in the back staffed by his beautiful wife Star. "Don't look at her," he warned, "look at the CDs."
After "Red Shift," which he characterized as an angry song, he said, "Now for something less manic," and played a song by the quintet's drummer, Brian Jones. It was the kind of beautiful song you could get lost in and at one point, I noticed a couple of musicians near the bar with their heads bent, not even looking at the stage, just deep in the music.
The man about town stopped by, a drink in each hand, complimented my sweater and asked if he was blocking my view (nope).
Of course Rex dedicated "Seeing Star (Blue Shift)" to "that lady at the back table selling CDs." I was bowled over when they did bassist Randall Pharr's soulful "Blues for David Henry," which they'd apparently also played on a morning TV show "when jazz musicians aren't really awake."
Just as stellar was "Big Sur" ("There's probably a story there but I never asked him") written by Jones that didn't last nearly as long as I would have liked.
Rex thanked the audience repeatedly, clearly thrilled with the size of the crowd that had shown up tonight. And just like that, the quintet portion of the show was over.
A lot of the people who'd been sitting at tables got up and left, but most of them didn't look like the kind of people who spend much time in stand up venues, so it wasn't surprising. Fact is, for a jazz show, it had started unbelievably early (not long after 8) and it was only 9:45 when the second part got rolling.
During the break, I listened to the two guys next to me on the banquette as they raved about the Star Hill Black Sabbath Stout. They were each on their fourth, so they knew of what they spoke.
All of a sudden, there was a plop next to me and a familiar smiling face sat down. It was a woman I'd met at Amuse and since run into all over town.
She was lamenting her recent resolution to only drink on weekends, although she'd had a glass of wine at dinner earlier and another at the bar at the Broadberry, so there was already some resolution bending going on. I empathized, nonetheless.
The second portion of the program was dedicated to "Dukal Bugles," written by Doug Richardson, who led a big band with some of Richmond's best jazz musicians onstage and Rex out front playing a variety of horns.
The piece is a tribute to Duke Ellington and the series of amazing trumpeters he worked with. We got a demonstration of each of the horns and sounds that would be featured before it began, but it was the seamless way Rex segued throughout that demonstrated his virtuosity.
If you weren't looking at the stage, you'd have thought there was a gaggle of horn players taking turns based on the stylistic differences we were hearing.
When it ended, everyone was on their feet and screaming for one more. The big band obliged with Mingus' "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" while the clutch of young VCU music students behind me talked non-stop about the magic going on onstage. I was sorely tempted to tell them to button it.
Boys, boys, boys. Maybe when you're real musicians, you'll take a cue from the guys I saw tonight and just lose yourselves in the music silently.
If not, I'll just have to tell, tell you again. Music this good deserves to be heard. You opinions, not so much.
A lot of really good ones.
The Broadberry was hosting trumpeter Rex Richardson's dual CD release party tonight and just about every table and chair in the place was already taken when I got there. Plenty of people were standing in front of the stage, too, and more continued to arrive.
No surprise there because Rex is kind of a big deal, a phenomenal musician whether he's blowing on a trumpet, coronet, flugelhorn or whatever.
My interest in tonight's program had its seeds in a show I'd gone to at the Singleton Center back in 2006 when Rex had been playing in a group called Rhythm and Brass. Memorably, that night's program had ranged from the Beatles to Radiohead with bits of everything in between.
That was the night I'd fallen for his trumpet playing (I might have even been that person who went up to him afterwards and gushed a bit).
Since that show eight years ago, I've seen him many times at VCU's Singleon Center and more recently, when he fronted an evening with the Richmond Symphony. Always on a limited budget, I'd splurged $10 on a next-to-the-last-row ticket for that show and now tonight I was dropping another ten-spot to hear Rex play his newest stuff.
His quintet began without any introduction beyond him blowing his horn to begin "Tell, Tell Me Again" and get the entire room's attention.
After that, he reminded us that CDs were for sale at a table in the back staffed by his beautiful wife Star. "Don't look at her," he warned, "look at the CDs."
After "Red Shift," which he characterized as an angry song, he said, "Now for something less manic," and played a song by the quintet's drummer, Brian Jones. It was the kind of beautiful song you could get lost in and at one point, I noticed a couple of musicians near the bar with their heads bent, not even looking at the stage, just deep in the music.
The man about town stopped by, a drink in each hand, complimented my sweater and asked if he was blocking my view (nope).
Of course Rex dedicated "Seeing Star (Blue Shift)" to "that lady at the back table selling CDs." I was bowled over when they did bassist Randall Pharr's soulful "Blues for David Henry," which they'd apparently also played on a morning TV show "when jazz musicians aren't really awake."
Just as stellar was "Big Sur" ("There's probably a story there but I never asked him") written by Jones that didn't last nearly as long as I would have liked.
Rex thanked the audience repeatedly, clearly thrilled with the size of the crowd that had shown up tonight. And just like that, the quintet portion of the show was over.
A lot of the people who'd been sitting at tables got up and left, but most of them didn't look like the kind of people who spend much time in stand up venues, so it wasn't surprising. Fact is, for a jazz show, it had started unbelievably early (not long after 8) and it was only 9:45 when the second part got rolling.
During the break, I listened to the two guys next to me on the banquette as they raved about the Star Hill Black Sabbath Stout. They were each on their fourth, so they knew of what they spoke.
All of a sudden, there was a plop next to me and a familiar smiling face sat down. It was a woman I'd met at Amuse and since run into all over town.
She was lamenting her recent resolution to only drink on weekends, although she'd had a glass of wine at dinner earlier and another at the bar at the Broadberry, so there was already some resolution bending going on. I empathized, nonetheless.
The second portion of the program was dedicated to "Dukal Bugles," written by Doug Richardson, who led a big band with some of Richmond's best jazz musicians onstage and Rex out front playing a variety of horns.
The piece is a tribute to Duke Ellington and the series of amazing trumpeters he worked with. We got a demonstration of each of the horns and sounds that would be featured before it began, but it was the seamless way Rex segued throughout that demonstrated his virtuosity.
If you weren't looking at the stage, you'd have thought there was a gaggle of horn players taking turns based on the stylistic differences we were hearing.
When it ended, everyone was on their feet and screaming for one more. The big band obliged with Mingus' "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" while the clutch of young VCU music students behind me talked non-stop about the magic going on onstage. I was sorely tempted to tell them to button it.
Boys, boys, boys. Maybe when you're real musicians, you'll take a cue from the guys I saw tonight and just lose yourselves in the music silently.
If not, I'll just have to tell, tell you again. Music this good deserves to be heard. You opinions, not so much.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Kiss on My List
What a vacation send-off!
A wine rep friend's annual Rose party is always a stellar afternoon/evening devoted to the three dozen or so pink wines and a feast of monumental proportions. Fried chicken, cured meats, ribs, cheese, too many salads and dips to name, spiced shrimp, savory shortbread, caprese and who knows what else.
The party couldn't have begun better because I arrived and deposited my food and wine and went to find my hostess, who looked at me as if she'd never seen me before.
"Your hair!" she exclaimed, staring at me. "You look like a rock star! It looks great!" Any party that begins with someone complimenting my hair - especially while it's growing out - is off to a fine start.
It didn't hurt that the weather was ideal - low humidity, breezy and on the shady side of her house- where in addition to a wagon full of pink wines they had plenty of chairs, cornhole (yes, I played, pathetically, but it's just a game) and surprise, surprise, some Jackson Ward neighbors.
In a perfect world, I would catalog all the impressive pinks I drank, but that's not going to happen, so I'll settle for saying that the variety ranged from Sancerre Rose to Gruet Brut Rose to what tasted and smelled like strawberry KoolAid...in the best possible way.
I talked to a friend about switching from an Outer Banks vacation to Topsail, to another about the distinct pleasures of an outdoor shower (the polar vortex being the only fly in that ointment) and another about how lucky the neighborhood is to have Lucy's.
With Hall & Oates playing in the background, a bottle of pink bubbly got sabered, but I was too busy talking to a friend about the first chef she ever worked with to see the demonstration, although we caught the cheers afterward.
At a party like this, you just can't do it all, though god knows I tried.
All of a sudden I looked up and four hours had passed and I had places to be.
Today is a friend's birthday and we were meeting at the Broadberry to hear Boston's Debo Band, whom I'd last seen at Balliceaux back in Fall of 2010, do their take on Ethiopian funk music.
The wait for the band to start gave us time to chat about all kinds of things- strange men putting their arm around me, the records she'd bought today, a funny ex story - while I sipped Hornitos and admired the birthday girl's cute outfit.
Another friend showed up and joined the party, bringing with her a clutch of friends, all eager to hear the band.
Finally the Debo Band took the stage and we moved up to the front to enjoy them. Playing a lot of new material off their upcoming record, they had the small crowd dancing in no time.
With guitar, bass, five horns including sousaphone, violin, drums and an African singer, they would slip into a groove and just ride it. Sometimes it was as unique as Duke Ellington meets North African folk music, while other times, it got downright funky, even a bit psychedelic when you listened to the guitar.
What that meant was that the birthday girl, our friend and I wasted no time in letting the music move our hips and feet, even while we didn't understand a word of the language the songs were sung in.
Didn't need to. Music is the universal language and whether it was a birthday celebration or pre-vacation revelry, tonight was a night to just go with it.
And tomorrow at this time, as someone at the party pointed out, I'll be doing the same thing (drinking pink) except it'll be with a view of the ocean. Can. Not. Wait.
A wine rep friend's annual Rose party is always a stellar afternoon/evening devoted to the three dozen or so pink wines and a feast of monumental proportions. Fried chicken, cured meats, ribs, cheese, too many salads and dips to name, spiced shrimp, savory shortbread, caprese and who knows what else.
The party couldn't have begun better because I arrived and deposited my food and wine and went to find my hostess, who looked at me as if she'd never seen me before.
"Your hair!" she exclaimed, staring at me. "You look like a rock star! It looks great!" Any party that begins with someone complimenting my hair - especially while it's growing out - is off to a fine start.
It didn't hurt that the weather was ideal - low humidity, breezy and on the shady side of her house- where in addition to a wagon full of pink wines they had plenty of chairs, cornhole (yes, I played, pathetically, but it's just a game) and surprise, surprise, some Jackson Ward neighbors.
In a perfect world, I would catalog all the impressive pinks I drank, but that's not going to happen, so I'll settle for saying that the variety ranged from Sancerre Rose to Gruet Brut Rose to what tasted and smelled like strawberry KoolAid...in the best possible way.
I talked to a friend about switching from an Outer Banks vacation to Topsail, to another about the distinct pleasures of an outdoor shower (the polar vortex being the only fly in that ointment) and another about how lucky the neighborhood is to have Lucy's.
With Hall & Oates playing in the background, a bottle of pink bubbly got sabered, but I was too busy talking to a friend about the first chef she ever worked with to see the demonstration, although we caught the cheers afterward.
At a party like this, you just can't do it all, though god knows I tried.
All of a sudden I looked up and four hours had passed and I had places to be.
Today is a friend's birthday and we were meeting at the Broadberry to hear Boston's Debo Band, whom I'd last seen at Balliceaux back in Fall of 2010, do their take on Ethiopian funk music.
The wait for the band to start gave us time to chat about all kinds of things- strange men putting their arm around me, the records she'd bought today, a funny ex story - while I sipped Hornitos and admired the birthday girl's cute outfit.
Another friend showed up and joined the party, bringing with her a clutch of friends, all eager to hear the band.
Finally the Debo Band took the stage and we moved up to the front to enjoy them. Playing a lot of new material off their upcoming record, they had the small crowd dancing in no time.
With guitar, bass, five horns including sousaphone, violin, drums and an African singer, they would slip into a groove and just ride it. Sometimes it was as unique as Duke Ellington meets North African folk music, while other times, it got downright funky, even a bit psychedelic when you listened to the guitar.
What that meant was that the birthday girl, our friend and I wasted no time in letting the music move our hips and feet, even while we didn't understand a word of the language the songs were sung in.
Didn't need to. Music is the universal language and whether it was a birthday celebration or pre-vacation revelry, tonight was a night to just go with it.
And tomorrow at this time, as someone at the party pointed out, I'll be doing the same thing (drinking pink) except it'll be with a view of the ocean. Can. Not. Wait.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Just Like Heaven with Chandeliers
It's not about the bands, it's about the momentous occasion.
Richmond now has a mid-sized venue, something it's been sorely lacking, and tonight was opening night.
When a friend inquired if I was going to the new Broadberry tonight, I asked the same of him. Nope. "I am, among other things, registering my disapproval of them being so goddamn predictable in their booking," he wrote.
Here's the thing, my friend. What matters about the Broadberry is not what bands play the night they open their doors.
What matters is all the bands that can now play Richmond because we have a venue the right size to attract their audience and fill so they don't skip over Richmond and go to Charlottesville.
So quit yer bitching.
After feeding my hired mouth, that's where I went, happily finding loads of familiar music lovers there.
The music writer offered me some of her candied bacon and observed, "All our people are here.". The theater lover complained that he hadn't seen me since Hardywood back in January. Then there was the bass player saying, "My goal is to get Karen to grin." Plus the dimpled drummer, the multi-instrument playing physicist, the lovely hospitality manager. All my people.
And to a person, they all said they were there to celebrate that we have a new venue.
The former Nu nightclub means that the new Broadberry retains far more glitz than your average venue. Four massive chandeliers hang along one wall and the lighting system over the stage is worthy of a drag queen's catwalk.
There were tables and chairs, already filed with seated people, all along the length of the extensive bar with a pit up front for those who wanted to stand to see, hear and dance to the music.
And, perhaps most impressively, there were people of all ages there, a far broader age range than a Camel or Strange Matter show. A really good sign.
While talking to Goldrush's handsome bass player, bandleader Prabir came by, set lists in hand. When I tried to look at them, Mr. Bass insisted that the songs be a surprise.
'There are no surprises in a Goldrush set," Prabir corrected him, a statement I can agree with, having first seen them back in 2009.
The band took the stage and after the first number, "The Exit Song,"Prabir proclaimed, "That's the first song ever played at the Broadberry." As a girl near me noted, the sound was good.
"Anyone bummed about missing the lunar eclipse Monday?" science geek Prabir asked of the noisy room. "We 're going to play a song that says f*ck the clouds!" and played "Pale Blue Dots."
After playing "Roll One," he finished by entreating the audience, "Roll one more, folks. Let's legalize that shit. Let's also legalize critical thinking."
Let's. It's statements like that that and that he uses phrases like "your kith and your kin" in his lyrics that make him a Richmond treasure.
When their set finished, a musician friend walked by and we talked about his upcoming outdoor music series starting up again in a few weeks.
I went to a bunch of them last summer in Scuffletown park and this summer he's expanding the series to all kinds of things, not just music. Ah, the pleasures of outdoor performance.
Prabir wandered by after that, complaining that there weren't enough girls at the show. I pointed out a few within easy reach.
"That one has Daddy issues, that one has three exes, that one can't even pronounce my name," he said, eliminating them all. I suggested he eliminate anyone who didn't understand the phrase "kith and kin" but he told me not to be hasty.
A friend I rarely get to see was sitting at the bar and called me over, surprising me by telling me how much he liked my writing. "I love reading you because you make me feel like I'm there," he said. "All the details you include, the way you talk about what you saw and heard makes it so real." I could have kissed him.
Instead I thanked him and told him I was going back up closer to the stage. "Of course you are," he said grinning.
Black Girls took the stage next, a far more assured band than when I first saw them at Sprout in February 2011.
Just back from a tour of the southeast, with tonight's show being the final night of the tour, the singer asked, "Hey, Richmond, we've been on tour. What's new? Nothing? Cool!" and then launched into a tight set no doubt honed by this recent set of dates.
Two guitarists, bassist, drummer, keyboards and singer, they were all sweating by the third song. Their influences are interesting, shot through with '60s soul, Steely Dan, '70s rock and somehow making it all sound dirty. Snuff rock, they call it.
"Time to get a little looser," the singer called out, hoisting his plastic cup of red wine. "If we don't start now, the night will be over before you know it." Dancing in place began in earnest at this point.
The crowd was thick by now, at least up near the stage where I was and a very short friend and I were continuously being bumped into and stepped on.
A guy with a gorgeous red beard and piercing blue eyes came by me twice, the second time looking me right in the eye and saying, "I just came by to step on your toes again."
Do what you have to do, my friend.
Finally after a string of upbeat songs that had some people all but pogo-ing, the band slowed it down, bringing in a trombone and trumpet for a song I'd have slow danced to if I'd had a date.
They couldn't leave us there, though, so there were two more upbeat danceable songs, including one where one of the guitarists got down into the crowd ("If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"), getting everyone all aflutter.
During the second break, a blogger I'd met a while back joined me, leading to some satisfying music talk about the evolution of soul music, the sheer amount of information available on the liner notes of older albums and the pleasures of flipping through record bins, even if, like me, you don't have a turntable.
Describing his record buying habit as "being so far down the hole, he can't see daylight." he was excited about finding an original Supremes album recently. Needless to say, he was bowled over when I mentioned still having all my old Supremes albums.
Soon after, No BS assembled onstage, minus Reggie Pace who's out of town and whose smiling face and enormous energy were missed and David Hood who was apparently quite sick tonight. Of tonight's bands, this is the one I've been following the longest - since 2007.
Drummer Lance Koehler took charge, instructing the crowd, "We need that rumpus to be shaking!" and taking off with enough brass to ensure that that happened in short order.
One girl, perched on table, danced with every part of her body while sitting down. Most of us just danced in place as Bryan Hooten took the mic and rapped the next song.
"This is like heaven," Lance yelled. "We have chandeliers, we have beer! Here's to the Broadberry!"
It's a toast worth making. We've entered a new stage of Richmond's music scene and it's exciting to think of what's to come.
Tonight wasn't about predictability, it was about celebrating all the bands who will play there in the future.
You can be sure I'll be there with all my kith, getting my toes stepped on and enjoying every moment.
Richmond now has a mid-sized venue, something it's been sorely lacking, and tonight was opening night.
When a friend inquired if I was going to the new Broadberry tonight, I asked the same of him. Nope. "I am, among other things, registering my disapproval of them being so goddamn predictable in their booking," he wrote.
Here's the thing, my friend. What matters about the Broadberry is not what bands play the night they open their doors.
What matters is all the bands that can now play Richmond because we have a venue the right size to attract their audience and fill so they don't skip over Richmond and go to Charlottesville.
So quit yer bitching.
After feeding my hired mouth, that's where I went, happily finding loads of familiar music lovers there.
The music writer offered me some of her candied bacon and observed, "All our people are here.". The theater lover complained that he hadn't seen me since Hardywood back in January. Then there was the bass player saying, "My goal is to get Karen to grin." Plus the dimpled drummer, the multi-instrument playing physicist, the lovely hospitality manager. All my people.
And to a person, they all said they were there to celebrate that we have a new venue.
The former Nu nightclub means that the new Broadberry retains far more glitz than your average venue. Four massive chandeliers hang along one wall and the lighting system over the stage is worthy of a drag queen's catwalk.
There were tables and chairs, already filed with seated people, all along the length of the extensive bar with a pit up front for those who wanted to stand to see, hear and dance to the music.
And, perhaps most impressively, there were people of all ages there, a far broader age range than a Camel or Strange Matter show. A really good sign.
While talking to Goldrush's handsome bass player, bandleader Prabir came by, set lists in hand. When I tried to look at them, Mr. Bass insisted that the songs be a surprise.
'There are no surprises in a Goldrush set," Prabir corrected him, a statement I can agree with, having first seen them back in 2009.
The band took the stage and after the first number, "The Exit Song,"Prabir proclaimed, "That's the first song ever played at the Broadberry." As a girl near me noted, the sound was good.
"Anyone bummed about missing the lunar eclipse Monday?" science geek Prabir asked of the noisy room. "We 're going to play a song that says f*ck the clouds!" and played "Pale Blue Dots."
After playing "Roll One," he finished by entreating the audience, "Roll one more, folks. Let's legalize that shit. Let's also legalize critical thinking."
Let's. It's statements like that that and that he uses phrases like "your kith and your kin" in his lyrics that make him a Richmond treasure.
When their set finished, a musician friend walked by and we talked about his upcoming outdoor music series starting up again in a few weeks.
I went to a bunch of them last summer in Scuffletown park and this summer he's expanding the series to all kinds of things, not just music. Ah, the pleasures of outdoor performance.
Prabir wandered by after that, complaining that there weren't enough girls at the show. I pointed out a few within easy reach.
"That one has Daddy issues, that one has three exes, that one can't even pronounce my name," he said, eliminating them all. I suggested he eliminate anyone who didn't understand the phrase "kith and kin" but he told me not to be hasty.
A friend I rarely get to see was sitting at the bar and called me over, surprising me by telling me how much he liked my writing. "I love reading you because you make me feel like I'm there," he said. "All the details you include, the way you talk about what you saw and heard makes it so real." I could have kissed him.
Instead I thanked him and told him I was going back up closer to the stage. "Of course you are," he said grinning.
Black Girls took the stage next, a far more assured band than when I first saw them at Sprout in February 2011.
Just back from a tour of the southeast, with tonight's show being the final night of the tour, the singer asked, "Hey, Richmond, we've been on tour. What's new? Nothing? Cool!" and then launched into a tight set no doubt honed by this recent set of dates.
Two guitarists, bassist, drummer, keyboards and singer, they were all sweating by the third song. Their influences are interesting, shot through with '60s soul, Steely Dan, '70s rock and somehow making it all sound dirty. Snuff rock, they call it.
"Time to get a little looser," the singer called out, hoisting his plastic cup of red wine. "If we don't start now, the night will be over before you know it." Dancing in place began in earnest at this point.
The crowd was thick by now, at least up near the stage where I was and a very short friend and I were continuously being bumped into and stepped on.
A guy with a gorgeous red beard and piercing blue eyes came by me twice, the second time looking me right in the eye and saying, "I just came by to step on your toes again."
Do what you have to do, my friend.
Finally after a string of upbeat songs that had some people all but pogo-ing, the band slowed it down, bringing in a trombone and trumpet for a song I'd have slow danced to if I'd had a date.
They couldn't leave us there, though, so there were two more upbeat danceable songs, including one where one of the guitarists got down into the crowd ("If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"), getting everyone all aflutter.
During the second break, a blogger I'd met a while back joined me, leading to some satisfying music talk about the evolution of soul music, the sheer amount of information available on the liner notes of older albums and the pleasures of flipping through record bins, even if, like me, you don't have a turntable.
Describing his record buying habit as "being so far down the hole, he can't see daylight." he was excited about finding an original Supremes album recently. Needless to say, he was bowled over when I mentioned still having all my old Supremes albums.
Soon after, No BS assembled onstage, minus Reggie Pace who's out of town and whose smiling face and enormous energy were missed and David Hood who was apparently quite sick tonight. Of tonight's bands, this is the one I've been following the longest - since 2007.
Drummer Lance Koehler took charge, instructing the crowd, "We need that rumpus to be shaking!" and taking off with enough brass to ensure that that happened in short order.
One girl, perched on table, danced with every part of her body while sitting down. Most of us just danced in place as Bryan Hooten took the mic and rapped the next song.
"This is like heaven," Lance yelled. "We have chandeliers, we have beer! Here's to the Broadberry!"
It's a toast worth making. We've entered a new stage of Richmond's music scene and it's exciting to think of what's to come.
Tonight wasn't about predictability, it was about celebrating all the bands who will play there in the future.
You can be sure I'll be there with all my kith, getting my toes stepped on and enjoying every moment.
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