If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result, then the definition of stupidity is doing something in the most time-consuming and arduous kind of way. Repeatedly.
Welcome to Foto Boy and I trying to go to the theater tonight.
When he comes to pick me up, I point out the obvious: we should be walking. At 3/4 of a mile, and knowing that there are two events at CenterStage tonight, it only makes sense.
Still, we drive.
And drive. And slow down looking for parking spaces and go down streets clogged with other motorists. Drive down the same streets repeatedly with the same result (see above): no spaces. A couple of times, we got close to Main Street, a major mistake considering this is opening night for Folk Fest.
Yes, he's my friend, but he's also got a "Y" chromosome, so when I tried to gently suggest we head away from CenterStage and away from the Folk Fest (ergo, north or west), he got crotchety and insisted I let him find parking.
Only problem was he was so flustered he wasn't even thinking by this point, say, roughly 20 minutes into the endeavor. We could have walked over from my apartment and started back in that much time.
Finally, he agreed to cross Broad and we found a space on the first block. Time elapsed: 25 minutes.
Only problem was, we were still five blocks from the Gottwald Playhouse and this is not a man who can keep up with my walking pace, much less my pace when it's curtain time and we're blocks away.
Bless his heart, he tried, though, huffing and puffing all the way up until an usher on the sidewalk asked, "Comedy or Dracula?" and I answered for him. At Will Call, the woman said they'd held the curtain for five minutes, so the play was just now beginning.
Our only saving grace was the other three people who were as late as we were.
We were told to stand on the sides until we got the nod to sit, but we were so near the stage that I, at least, was immediately swallowed up in the action onstage, where force meat was being mentioned. When the usher came to fetch us and lead us to seats, it took a second for me to make the transition back to reality.
But made it I did, so I could be fully present to accept, as we walked up steps to reach our seats, that we were those annoying, oblivious people - who had somehow not allowed enough time to park on a Friday night when half of Richmond would be downtown - who were now obstructing their view getting seated.
Sigh. I believe the proper term for us is "rubes."
One reason I'd been eager not to miss so much as a minute of Quill Theatre's production of "Dracula" is that (for shame) I really don't know much about the story because I'd definitely never read Bram Stoker's novel.
And this was a 1996 adaptation by Steven Dietz, so I'm still not entirely certain if the story I got is the same as the original 1897 version. Thankfully, a lot of the language had the more formal feel of the 19th century, so it may have been original.
It was far sexier than I expected and much funnier, like when Dracula says, "The Huns were despicable but they did make good wine!" but also groovier (signs read: "Haze will be used") and more poignant ("What of the great un-beautiful multitudes?").
And the biggest surprise? How limited Count Dracula's role was. Oh, sure, he was talked about plenty, but onstage infrequently, albeit imposingly in his all-black Goth ensembles.
My logical side objected when suitors would provide the necessary blood transfusions to their weakened beloveds with no concern for blood type and my inner art historian was annoyed when Leonardo was referred to as "da Vinci," his hometown and not his name at all.
And why did all the women have on period tops yet pants rather than skirts, on the bottom?
But theater, as we know, is about suspension of belief after all, so I suspended in order to appreciate the multi-level set, the moody lighting and the way the cast completely inhabited their roles.
I'm a tad better informed on the legend of Dracula as a result.
Walking back to the car, Foto Boy was busy explaining how tired he was, so he couldn't possibly accompany me to the Carnival of 5 Fires at Gallery 5 to watch the fire performers before driving home.
Which is exactly why, after spotting a free parking space across from GWAR Bar, I didn't hesitate to tell him to pull into it and accompany me for a short while. After 7 years of friendship with this guy, I knew he'd be glad to have gone once we got there.
"You think you know me so well, don't you?" he said in his smarmiest voice as we got out of the car, but the truth is, I do know him pretty well and, at the very least, way better than his girlfriend of less than a year does.
So my answer was yes.
Only problem was, we got up to the closed street just as the ringmaster was closing down the show and sending people to the afterparty at Strange Matter.
"It's time to get out of the street, get on to the sidewalk and pick up your trash!" he exhorted the great beautiful and un-beautiful multitudes, many of whom wore gypsy-like threads. "Our street permit just ended!"
Ah, but that wasn't all.
"And don't forget to vote! It's an important election this year! Don't forget to drink water...you know, our bodies are mostly made of water! And be nice to people because it's the right thing to do!"
So while we didn't get to see any fire performers, we at least saw the burning torches resting by the stage as he outlined the ABCs of life to remind those who needed them.
The only one he left out was, "Don't bother driving when walking is faster and easier!"
Needless to say, I walked home. Whether Foto Boy made it home or is still looking for a parking space, I really can't say.
Showing posts with label centerstage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label centerstage. Show all posts
Saturday, October 8, 2016
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Dressed to Kill
No parasol shame.
If that isn't already a thing, I'm calling it right here. There are so many reasons - the strength of the late afternoon summer sun, my experienced skin, hello, common sense - to carry an umbrella when I choose to walk outside and don't care to wear a hat.
The last few days, it's become a new habit to bring my own shade, like I did tonight for nearly a mile to meet Pru and Beau for dinner at Lucca Enoteca. The occasion was cashing in one of my birthday presents, namely a ticket for tonight's Eddie Izzard show across the street at CenterStage.
I'd nudged Beau about dinner reservations last week, knowing that half the show's attendees wouldn't think that far ahead. Not only did they not, some were foolish enough to walk into the packed restaurant as late as 7:00 and think they were going to be seated.
Fools.
We, on the other hand, were tucked in a corner table in the front window, away from the fray and with a fine view of the growing mob of Izzard fans directly in our sight lines. Color us surprised that people began lining up to get in two hours before the performance even began.
Not us. We devoted 99% of those hours to eating and drinking, aided and abetted by the affable bartender subbing as our server because of the full house, while being honest enough to share that despite the kitchen staff being well-coordinated and running up to speed, the front of the house was green and struggling a tad.
A large tad.
It didn't affect us as I introduced them to Lucca's sublime octopus and potato salad, or as we munched through a meat and cheese tray and an exquisitely flavorful salad of beets, golden raisins and pistachios before polishing off one crostada, hazelnut, and two panna cottas under macerated fruit.
Passing through the harried-looking staff replete, we made it across the street with time to spare.
Now it's confession time. When Beau had gifted me with a ticket for this show for my birthday back in May, I had zero idea who Eddie Izzard was. It's not like I wasn't grateful for the gift, just clueless about what it was.
My benefactors were amazed at my ignorance.
"Well, did you at least look him up on YouTube to get an idea what to expect?" Pru asked logically. Of course I didn't. Would I look at a trailer before going to see an unknown film? Not on your life.
When the usher who seated us admitted that she had no idea who he was (but that the show had sold out), I confided to her that I didn't know either, that I was just there because of a birthday present.
"Ooh, happy birthday!" she squealed.
With no idea of what to expect, I was delighted by it all. The light show, the backdrop of a large target with a man's form on it (so Bond!), Eddie coming out with a bowler hat and cane before tossing them away, all of it.
"He's dead sexy," Pru had warned me, as if ten seconds of watching him wouldn't have told me so.
But that initial excitement was trumped many times over once he began sharing his thoughts, riffing on everything and letting loose a stream of simply yet brilliantly-stated opinions about gods, politics and transvestites, among which he counts himself.
Did I mention there was even Virginia humor?
He blasted the three holdouts to the metric system: Liberia, Myanmar and that other third world country, the U.S. He reminded us that Britain had a civil war first. He insisted that he gave Richmond its first German comedy sketch. "Lord of the Rings" was dissected with a chicken deciding to keep the ring.
How many comedians are able to work in Charles I, "It's A Wonderful Life" and the Magna Carta into their act? I love my comedy with a side of European history ("What do you mean you lost France?").
Within minutes, I was worshiping at the feet of this intellectual liberal with even more opinions than me, plus a penchant for make-up that began at age four. Thank heavens I had on fabulous Berry Seductive lip stain so I could hold up my head in front of this wondrous specimen.
His was just such a wickedly smart humor.
"Humanity can go backwards," he began. "As shown by a recent referendum vote in my country. So now you know how to vote in your election." Weighted pause. "I'm not telling you what to do, but do not vote for Donald Trump."
Cheers and applause.
There was an entire bit on the use of the term "et voila" and its practical application, a recurring joke throughout the night. He discoursed on how the English language developed so oddly that four seemingly similar words - cough, bough, dough and through - could each be pronounced differently.
When non-English speakers question how we understand the differences in pronunciation given nearly identical spellings, he nailed the English/American response. "We just know."
Pru and I about lost it when he explained himself as an "action transvestite," someone who digs both action movies and make-up commercials. "Yippee-ki-yay, motherf*cker," he purred.
Particularly hilarious were his rants about gods, which detoured into human sacrifice, god's absence at every major crisis in the world and the problems of being a transvestite in biblical times.
"What did transvestites do in those days? Say I wanna wear Mary Magdalene's outfit!" (Response: "You already are!")
The Kracken made several appearances including one where it came out and started stamping on things willy-nilly. "Basically, right wing foreign policy," he joked to prolonged clapping.
I saw an usher tell a guy to quit filming the show and not long after, Eddie called out a guy in the third row, saying, "Is someone taking photos? Please turn that thing off so you stop bothering your neighbors and stop doing it every few seconds or it's a video!"
How refreshing to expect the audience to stay in the moment.
An extended segment on the folly of dressage - he called it "like riding into a cabinet and parking" - showed his command of physical humor while saying it made the horses look sneaky like burglars demonstrated his offbeat wit.
"There's no burglary in dressage," he deadpanned. Nor is there any shame in coming late in the game to the Eddie Izzard fan club.
How do you know if a smart man with razor sharp humor is worth walking miles for under your parasol? You just know.
If that isn't already a thing, I'm calling it right here. There are so many reasons - the strength of the late afternoon summer sun, my experienced skin, hello, common sense - to carry an umbrella when I choose to walk outside and don't care to wear a hat.
The last few days, it's become a new habit to bring my own shade, like I did tonight for nearly a mile to meet Pru and Beau for dinner at Lucca Enoteca. The occasion was cashing in one of my birthday presents, namely a ticket for tonight's Eddie Izzard show across the street at CenterStage.
I'd nudged Beau about dinner reservations last week, knowing that half the show's attendees wouldn't think that far ahead. Not only did they not, some were foolish enough to walk into the packed restaurant as late as 7:00 and think they were going to be seated.
Fools.
We, on the other hand, were tucked in a corner table in the front window, away from the fray and with a fine view of the growing mob of Izzard fans directly in our sight lines. Color us surprised that people began lining up to get in two hours before the performance even began.
Not us. We devoted 99% of those hours to eating and drinking, aided and abetted by the affable bartender subbing as our server because of the full house, while being honest enough to share that despite the kitchen staff being well-coordinated and running up to speed, the front of the house was green and struggling a tad.
A large tad.
It didn't affect us as I introduced them to Lucca's sublime octopus and potato salad, or as we munched through a meat and cheese tray and an exquisitely flavorful salad of beets, golden raisins and pistachios before polishing off one crostada, hazelnut, and two panna cottas under macerated fruit.
Passing through the harried-looking staff replete, we made it across the street with time to spare.
Now it's confession time. When Beau had gifted me with a ticket for this show for my birthday back in May, I had zero idea who Eddie Izzard was. It's not like I wasn't grateful for the gift, just clueless about what it was.
My benefactors were amazed at my ignorance.
"Well, did you at least look him up on YouTube to get an idea what to expect?" Pru asked logically. Of course I didn't. Would I look at a trailer before going to see an unknown film? Not on your life.
When the usher who seated us admitted that she had no idea who he was (but that the show had sold out), I confided to her that I didn't know either, that I was just there because of a birthday present.
"Ooh, happy birthday!" she squealed.
With no idea of what to expect, I was delighted by it all. The light show, the backdrop of a large target with a man's form on it (so Bond!), Eddie coming out with a bowler hat and cane before tossing them away, all of it.
"He's dead sexy," Pru had warned me, as if ten seconds of watching him wouldn't have told me so.
But that initial excitement was trumped many times over once he began sharing his thoughts, riffing on everything and letting loose a stream of simply yet brilliantly-stated opinions about gods, politics and transvestites, among which he counts himself.
Did I mention there was even Virginia humor?
He blasted the three holdouts to the metric system: Liberia, Myanmar and that other third world country, the U.S. He reminded us that Britain had a civil war first. He insisted that he gave Richmond its first German comedy sketch. "Lord of the Rings" was dissected with a chicken deciding to keep the ring.
How many comedians are able to work in Charles I, "It's A Wonderful Life" and the Magna Carta into their act? I love my comedy with a side of European history ("What do you mean you lost France?").
Within minutes, I was worshiping at the feet of this intellectual liberal with even more opinions than me, plus a penchant for make-up that began at age four. Thank heavens I had on fabulous Berry Seductive lip stain so I could hold up my head in front of this wondrous specimen.
His was just such a wickedly smart humor.
"Humanity can go backwards," he began. "As shown by a recent referendum vote in my country. So now you know how to vote in your election." Weighted pause. "I'm not telling you what to do, but do not vote for Donald Trump."
Cheers and applause.
There was an entire bit on the use of the term "et voila" and its practical application, a recurring joke throughout the night. He discoursed on how the English language developed so oddly that four seemingly similar words - cough, bough, dough and through - could each be pronounced differently.
When non-English speakers question how we understand the differences in pronunciation given nearly identical spellings, he nailed the English/American response. "We just know."
Pru and I about lost it when he explained himself as an "action transvestite," someone who digs both action movies and make-up commercials. "Yippee-ki-yay, motherf*cker," he purred.
Particularly hilarious were his rants about gods, which detoured into human sacrifice, god's absence at every major crisis in the world and the problems of being a transvestite in biblical times.
"What did transvestites do in those days? Say I wanna wear Mary Magdalene's outfit!" (Response: "You already are!")
The Kracken made several appearances including one where it came out and started stamping on things willy-nilly. "Basically, right wing foreign policy," he joked to prolonged clapping.
I saw an usher tell a guy to quit filming the show and not long after, Eddie called out a guy in the third row, saying, "Is someone taking photos? Please turn that thing off so you stop bothering your neighbors and stop doing it every few seconds or it's a video!"
How refreshing to expect the audience to stay in the moment.
An extended segment on the folly of dressage - he called it "like riding into a cabinet and parking" - showed his command of physical humor while saying it made the horses look sneaky like burglars demonstrated his offbeat wit.
"There's no burglary in dressage," he deadpanned. Nor is there any shame in coming late in the game to the Eddie Izzard fan club.
How do you know if a smart man with razor sharp humor is worth walking miles for under your parasol? You just know.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Listen 'Til the End
Ask me and I'm yours.
A friend had tickets for Ira Glass, part of the UR Modlin series at Centerstage, and needed a date. Always happy to substitute for a husband, I walked over in the last of the evening sunlight so she wouldn't have to pick me up.
I was greeted by a couple of friends loitering near the entrance, promising to meet up with one for dinner and discussing mac and cheese devotion with the other. Behind them was my date, waiting for me.
Turns out we had terrific seats in the sixth row of a sold out theater, hardly a surprise since she'd gotten the tickets months ago. We got busy catching up about her toddler who has developed a devotion to Taylor Swift's videos, although she noted that he prefers her early work.
I thought that was hilarious.
Not Ira Glass hilarious, but then I readily admit to being partial to a handsome middle-aged man with a big brain and outstanding sense of humor.
Our beloved Ira took the stage in darkness saying, "The thing you have to understand is it's radio." Major laughter.
He kept on talking on a darkened stage, admitting that he'd wanted to do the entire show in darkness but UR wouldn't let him. "Seeing people in the stories is overrated."
Once the lights were up, he began a brief history of "This American Life," saying that it was the first NPR show that you didn't listen to because it made you a better person.
He talked a lot about the power of humor (something he had in abundance) using some of his past broadcasts, such as the a story about the war in Afghanistan.that began with an interview with the woman whose job it was to refill the vending machines aboard an aircraft carrier. All day.
Cracking himself up, he shared a story about a high school student who bought weed for the new girl at school only to have her turn out to be a cop. The punchline of that story was that Ira had had it turned into a musical, parts of which we heard. The lyrics came straight from the student's dialog.
That Ira is brilliant.
A fair amount of time and discussion was spent on "vocal fry," a manner of speaking common to young women these days. The problem is how offensive older listeners find it with NPR receiving scads of complaints after using younger journalists with the distinctive register.
The story concludes with a respected linguist alluding to the evolution of language and saying, "It only bothers old people." Funny, but complaints to NPR about vocal fry dried up as soon as that story ran.
That said, my friend found their voices lacking authority and professionalism and I thought they sounded like teen-aged twits, which makes us both old.
Roaming the stage as he talked, Ira explained structuring a story (much like a good detective novel), using a broadcast about a New Zealand girl who'd been bitten by a shark as an example of knowing the outcome of the story but not the good part of the story (cue narrative suspense).
Wanna know Ira's goal? It's that if you tune into his show, you won't be able to turn it off until the end.
I about lost it when he talked about how his parents didn't want him to go into public radio. "They wanted me to be a doctor. Why? Because we're Jews."
Demonstrating his parents' sense of humor, he said they took out a classified ad in the Baltimore Sun advertising a job for him. Leaning toward the audience, he said, "Classified ads, they were like Craig's List printed on paper and delivered to your house." Not sure if the UR students got it or not.
He posited that the "topic sentence industrial complex" was responsible for story structure not being taught in schools. To a language nerd, that kind of comment makes a girl swoon.
We got a lesson in the FCC and obscenity - you can call someone a dick once, but not four times in a story- and in Ira's opinion, a child hearing an obscene word "doesn't turn him into a criminal or a UR student," although he offered no proof of this.
His point that radio is an empathy machine that shows "us" what it's like to be "them" was well argued.
During the Q & A, a wanna-be journalism student asked him what she should do and he suggested she make work whether she gets paid for it or not (I see this as unlikely but it's true) and to keep plugging even when she's no good.
As an example, he played a clip from his seventh year in radio when he was 27. "This is to show you that I sucked," he said and he did. His story was boring and went nowhere, but he then proceeded to retell it to us in a livelier, more interesting manner, more like the Ira we know today.
Proof positive that even the mighty handsome Ira had to develop his talent and voice. But them don't we all?
After over two hours, Ira said goodnight and my date and I headed to Lucy's to talk.
When the bartender spread out menus - wine, cocktails, food - in front of us, the owner came up behind him. "Are you thinking of ordering food?" she asked. Um, no?
"Good, because if you did, I think the kitchen guys might start crying." Well they certainly didn't need that after a busy night.
Instead we sipped the crisp and lovely Famille Perrin Rose while rehashing our love fest with Ira. She showed me some of her favorite podcasts.
A guy came up to the bar to ask a question about cider, looked at me and thought he knew me. I'd thought the same about him but couldn't place him. Aha, Valentine's Day, that was it. His memory got more points than mine.
My date and I outlasted all the other tables before she announced, "I'm going to sleep good tonight."
Spoken like a true vocal fry hater.
A friend had tickets for Ira Glass, part of the UR Modlin series at Centerstage, and needed a date. Always happy to substitute for a husband, I walked over in the last of the evening sunlight so she wouldn't have to pick me up.
I was greeted by a couple of friends loitering near the entrance, promising to meet up with one for dinner and discussing mac and cheese devotion with the other. Behind them was my date, waiting for me.
Turns out we had terrific seats in the sixth row of a sold out theater, hardly a surprise since she'd gotten the tickets months ago. We got busy catching up about her toddler who has developed a devotion to Taylor Swift's videos, although she noted that he prefers her early work.
I thought that was hilarious.
Not Ira Glass hilarious, but then I readily admit to being partial to a handsome middle-aged man with a big brain and outstanding sense of humor.
Our beloved Ira took the stage in darkness saying, "The thing you have to understand is it's radio." Major laughter.
He kept on talking on a darkened stage, admitting that he'd wanted to do the entire show in darkness but UR wouldn't let him. "Seeing people in the stories is overrated."
Once the lights were up, he began a brief history of "This American Life," saying that it was the first NPR show that you didn't listen to because it made you a better person.
He talked a lot about the power of humor (something he had in abundance) using some of his past broadcasts, such as the a story about the war in Afghanistan.that began with an interview with the woman whose job it was to refill the vending machines aboard an aircraft carrier. All day.
Cracking himself up, he shared a story about a high school student who bought weed for the new girl at school only to have her turn out to be a cop. The punchline of that story was that Ira had had it turned into a musical, parts of which we heard. The lyrics came straight from the student's dialog.
That Ira is brilliant.
A fair amount of time and discussion was spent on "vocal fry," a manner of speaking common to young women these days. The problem is how offensive older listeners find it with NPR receiving scads of complaints after using younger journalists with the distinctive register.
The story concludes with a respected linguist alluding to the evolution of language and saying, "It only bothers old people." Funny, but complaints to NPR about vocal fry dried up as soon as that story ran.
That said, my friend found their voices lacking authority and professionalism and I thought they sounded like teen-aged twits, which makes us both old.
Roaming the stage as he talked, Ira explained structuring a story (much like a good detective novel), using a broadcast about a New Zealand girl who'd been bitten by a shark as an example of knowing the outcome of the story but not the good part of the story (cue narrative suspense).
Wanna know Ira's goal? It's that if you tune into his show, you won't be able to turn it off until the end.
I about lost it when he talked about how his parents didn't want him to go into public radio. "They wanted me to be a doctor. Why? Because we're Jews."
Demonstrating his parents' sense of humor, he said they took out a classified ad in the Baltimore Sun advertising a job for him. Leaning toward the audience, he said, "Classified ads, they were like Craig's List printed on paper and delivered to your house." Not sure if the UR students got it or not.
He posited that the "topic sentence industrial complex" was responsible for story structure not being taught in schools. To a language nerd, that kind of comment makes a girl swoon.
We got a lesson in the FCC and obscenity - you can call someone a dick once, but not four times in a story- and in Ira's opinion, a child hearing an obscene word "doesn't turn him into a criminal or a UR student," although he offered no proof of this.
His point that radio is an empathy machine that shows "us" what it's like to be "them" was well argued.
During the Q & A, a wanna-be journalism student asked him what she should do and he suggested she make work whether she gets paid for it or not (I see this as unlikely but it's true) and to keep plugging even when she's no good.
As an example, he played a clip from his seventh year in radio when he was 27. "This is to show you that I sucked," he said and he did. His story was boring and went nowhere, but he then proceeded to retell it to us in a livelier, more interesting manner, more like the Ira we know today.
Proof positive that even the mighty handsome Ira had to develop his talent and voice. But them don't we all?
After over two hours, Ira said goodnight and my date and I headed to Lucy's to talk.
When the bartender spread out menus - wine, cocktails, food - in front of us, the owner came up behind him. "Are you thinking of ordering food?" she asked. Um, no?
"Good, because if you did, I think the kitchen guys might start crying." Well they certainly didn't need that after a busy night.
Instead we sipped the crisp and lovely Famille Perrin Rose while rehashing our love fest with Ira. She showed me some of her favorite podcasts.
A guy came up to the bar to ask a question about cider, looked at me and thought he knew me. I'd thought the same about him but couldn't place him. Aha, Valentine's Day, that was it. His memory got more points than mine.
My date and I outlasted all the other tables before she announced, "I'm going to sleep good tonight."
Spoken like a true vocal fry hater.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Requiem for Beauty Rest
If ever anyone doubted the musical quality of life in this town, I offer the following.
At 4:00, I had no plans. None materialized by 5:00 or even 6:00.
So by 6:30, I knew I needed to start working towards something to do until the late night birthday party I was attending began.
As I showered, I considered my options, looking for low cost.
I could go to a movie or for that same ten bucks, I could go hear the Richmond Symphony.
At 7:15, I left for CenterStage and by 7:30, had purchased a $10 ticket.
By 7:35, I was settled into the very back row with an empty seat next to me.
Before long it was filled by a guy who'd driven in 40 minutes from the far reaches of Hanover County.
When I asked what had brought him out on this slushy evening, he got right to the point.
"I was trying to decide whether to go to a movie or come hear some friends play music, so I decided on this."
Bingo. Here was tonight's soul mate.
Like me, he didn't mind being in the cheap seats.
"I don't need to see their faces," he said with a smile. "Hi, I'm Steve."
Turns out he's roommates with one of the symphony's viola players.
"People ask if that isn't really cool, getting to hear classical music all the time," he said. "But it's a viola, so I hear a lot of background stuff, but never any melodies. And lots of scales."
Before long, the concert began and the new concertmaster was introduced.
And there he was, the guy I'd met at the Mardi Gras party Tuesday, the one whom I'd heard say, "Where are the single women?" just before the host introduced us.
Let's just say he was way more dressed up tonight.
To get us in the mood for tonight's piece de resistance, first we heard Mozart's overture for "The Magic Flute."
I saw my friend Matt, the symphony's librarian and a bass player, come onstage with music and I knew it wasn't the last I'd see of him tonight.
Next came what conductor Erin Freeman described as "a sonic journey," composed in 2007 by John Hedges and called, "Prayers of Rain and Wind."
The cool part was that Hedges had written the concerto for double bass player Joseph Conyers, who also happened to be in the house.
And playing for us tonight.
Hedges had written the piece for Conyers, a weather freak.
It began with "Summer Rain Fantasia," a rendering of a muggy, humid night, a lovely thing to evoke on this frigid evening.
Conyers' bass then offers up a prayer, "Hymn," to the weather gods and a gentle rain begins, followed by horns announcing the hurricane.
It started with winds (think "The Wizard of Oz") and moves on to the eye of the storm and you could almost feel the release as the sky exploded sonically.
For me, it was a lot like watching the weather from my balcony, knowing that the oppressive heat will eventually give way to the release of a good thunderstorm.
After intermission, we got the reason every seat was full tonight.
The symphony, along with the Richmond Symphony Chorus (all 140 of them) and four soloists, was doing Mozart's "Requiem."
My knowledge of classical music is embarrassingly shallow, but even I knew that it was Mozart's last work and left unfinished when he kicked the bucket.
It was an incredibly moving piece that got a standing ovation afterwards.
Walking out, a woman behind me said, "It was all I could do not to sing along."
I only wish I was savvy enough to wish for the same.
Steve wished me a good evening and I had no doubt it would be since I was heading to a musician friend's birthday party at Patrick Henry Pub in Church Hill.
Turns out it was a multi-person party, with not one, but four people being feted, of which I knew two.
There were probably only 25 people when I arrived, but that number soon grew.
As if the birthdays weren't enough to celebrate, it was also Saturday night, so everywhere I turned, I got interesting if not inebriated conversation.
A woman told me about her shoplifting blind aunt who used to take her with her to Woolworth's when she was a child.
"She'd always have a cigarette hanging out of her mouth," she said. It's quite a visual.
Overheard near the bar: "Back in high school drama class, she supported Bush/Cheney, but now she says she didn't, but I know she did."
When the subject of tequila came up, the talented Herschel made a face, saying he couldn't stand the burning sensation going down.
When I asked if he'd tried good tequilas, he looked at me like I was an idiot.
"I'm Prabir's brother. Of course I've tasted every tequila."
Someone walked up to the guy next to me and inquired, "Are you rolling in the deep?" to which my friend responded, "I don't even know what that means."
And, yes, Matt showed up again, this time sans tux, and there was a protracted discussion of attending a bris, something I did once and intend to never repeat.
The party's hosts had promised food "to soak up the alcohol," and I, for one, couldn't resist the array of potato skins, meatballs and wings.
Now, that's party food.
After a few hours with the DJ spinning the Ramones and the like, our attention was called.
"Does everyone know what we're celebrating?" one of our hosts asked.
It's a good bet that most people did not.
I know that when I had walked into the pub next to a stranger and asked if he was coming to Willis' party and he had said, "Who's Willis?"
So that was clarified for all who weren't overly loopy at this point. and then the live entertainment began.
Everyone's favorite ukulele player who wears a ninja hat, Herschel, then proceeded to play while birthday boy Willis held the mic and did interpretive dance.
There was "Beauty Rest," about a girl who was ugly on the outside, but working on it.
Aren't we all?
He introduced the next song by saying, "It's weird that the way you move has so much attraction. So this is like a sex advice column."
Rile #1 was, "Don't talk."
Rule #2 was, "Shake that ass."
So you see where this song was going.
Meanwhile, Willis danced to Herschel's beat, moving the mic up to his mouth and down to his uke and inciting the crowd to sing the "na-na-na" chorus when appropriate.
His last song was dedicated to several friends who'd died, taking Herschel on a tangent about children dying before their parents.
His suggested solution was not to have children.
But then he sang Randy Newman's "Losing You" beautifully and his lecture was forgotten.
Performance over, the DJ cranked it up again and the party started back in earnest.
I wiled away some time with the smokers on the front porch before deciding to slide back down the hill and call it a night.
It had been a hell of a night's entertainment for ten bones.
And how often do you get wings and Mozart on the same night?
At 4:00, I had no plans. None materialized by 5:00 or even 6:00.
So by 6:30, I knew I needed to start working towards something to do until the late night birthday party I was attending began.
As I showered, I considered my options, looking for low cost.
I could go to a movie or for that same ten bucks, I could go hear the Richmond Symphony.
At 7:15, I left for CenterStage and by 7:30, had purchased a $10 ticket.
By 7:35, I was settled into the very back row with an empty seat next to me.
Before long it was filled by a guy who'd driven in 40 minutes from the far reaches of Hanover County.
When I asked what had brought him out on this slushy evening, he got right to the point.
"I was trying to decide whether to go to a movie or come hear some friends play music, so I decided on this."
Bingo. Here was tonight's soul mate.
Like me, he didn't mind being in the cheap seats.
"I don't need to see their faces," he said with a smile. "Hi, I'm Steve."
Turns out he's roommates with one of the symphony's viola players.
"People ask if that isn't really cool, getting to hear classical music all the time," he said. "But it's a viola, so I hear a lot of background stuff, but never any melodies. And lots of scales."
Before long, the concert began and the new concertmaster was introduced.
And there he was, the guy I'd met at the Mardi Gras party Tuesday, the one whom I'd heard say, "Where are the single women?" just before the host introduced us.
Let's just say he was way more dressed up tonight.
To get us in the mood for tonight's piece de resistance, first we heard Mozart's overture for "The Magic Flute."
I saw my friend Matt, the symphony's librarian and a bass player, come onstage with music and I knew it wasn't the last I'd see of him tonight.
Next came what conductor Erin Freeman described as "a sonic journey," composed in 2007 by John Hedges and called, "Prayers of Rain and Wind."
The cool part was that Hedges had written the concerto for double bass player Joseph Conyers, who also happened to be in the house.
And playing for us tonight.
Hedges had written the piece for Conyers, a weather freak.
It began with "Summer Rain Fantasia," a rendering of a muggy, humid night, a lovely thing to evoke on this frigid evening.
Conyers' bass then offers up a prayer, "Hymn," to the weather gods and a gentle rain begins, followed by horns announcing the hurricane.
It started with winds (think "The Wizard of Oz") and moves on to the eye of the storm and you could almost feel the release as the sky exploded sonically.
For me, it was a lot like watching the weather from my balcony, knowing that the oppressive heat will eventually give way to the release of a good thunderstorm.
After intermission, we got the reason every seat was full tonight.
The symphony, along with the Richmond Symphony Chorus (all 140 of them) and four soloists, was doing Mozart's "Requiem."
My knowledge of classical music is embarrassingly shallow, but even I knew that it was Mozart's last work and left unfinished when he kicked the bucket.
It was an incredibly moving piece that got a standing ovation afterwards.
Walking out, a woman behind me said, "It was all I could do not to sing along."
I only wish I was savvy enough to wish for the same.
Steve wished me a good evening and I had no doubt it would be since I was heading to a musician friend's birthday party at Patrick Henry Pub in Church Hill.
Turns out it was a multi-person party, with not one, but four people being feted, of which I knew two.
There were probably only 25 people when I arrived, but that number soon grew.
As if the birthdays weren't enough to celebrate, it was also Saturday night, so everywhere I turned, I got interesting if not inebriated conversation.
A woman told me about her shoplifting blind aunt who used to take her with her to Woolworth's when she was a child.
"She'd always have a cigarette hanging out of her mouth," she said. It's quite a visual.
Overheard near the bar: "Back in high school drama class, she supported Bush/Cheney, but now she says she didn't, but I know she did."
When the subject of tequila came up, the talented Herschel made a face, saying he couldn't stand the burning sensation going down.
When I asked if he'd tried good tequilas, he looked at me like I was an idiot.
"I'm Prabir's brother. Of course I've tasted every tequila."
Someone walked up to the guy next to me and inquired, "Are you rolling in the deep?" to which my friend responded, "I don't even know what that means."
And, yes, Matt showed up again, this time sans tux, and there was a protracted discussion of attending a bris, something I did once and intend to never repeat.
The party's hosts had promised food "to soak up the alcohol," and I, for one, couldn't resist the array of potato skins, meatballs and wings.
Now, that's party food.
After a few hours with the DJ spinning the Ramones and the like, our attention was called.
"Does everyone know what we're celebrating?" one of our hosts asked.
It's a good bet that most people did not.
I know that when I had walked into the pub next to a stranger and asked if he was coming to Willis' party and he had said, "Who's Willis?"
So that was clarified for all who weren't overly loopy at this point. and then the live entertainment began.
Everyone's favorite ukulele player who wears a ninja hat, Herschel, then proceeded to play while birthday boy Willis held the mic and did interpretive dance.
There was "Beauty Rest," about a girl who was ugly on the outside, but working on it.
Aren't we all?
He introduced the next song by saying, "It's weird that the way you move has so much attraction. So this is like a sex advice column."
Rile #1 was, "Don't talk."
Rule #2 was, "Shake that ass."
So you see where this song was going.
Meanwhile, Willis danced to Herschel's beat, moving the mic up to his mouth and down to his uke and inciting the crowd to sing the "na-na-na" chorus when appropriate.
His last song was dedicated to several friends who'd died, taking Herschel on a tangent about children dying before their parents.
His suggested solution was not to have children.
But then he sang Randy Newman's "Losing You" beautifully and his lecture was forgotten.
Performance over, the DJ cranked it up again and the party started back in earnest.
I wiled away some time with the smokers on the front porch before deciding to slide back down the hill and call it a night.
It had been a hell of a night's entertainment for ten bones.
And how often do you get wings and Mozart on the same night?
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Feeling It
If you pour, they will come.
And they were pouring at Bistro 27 for a holiday wine tasting, so I went.
You know it's going to be a fun time when you walk in and the hostess drops her jaw, saying, "Your tights are hawt!"
I wasn't sure I'd know anyone at the tasting besides the two wine reps pouring, but I ran into a wine-loving couple I've known for years and a bartender/gardener and his beloved, so there were a few familiar faces on hand.
But the wine was the thing so I tasted a few of them, although never got close to tasting the entire dozen.
Judging by the increasing decibel level and ever-widening smiles, though, plenty of people did the full twelve.
A man came up to me and said he recognized me from an art and poetry event at VMFA and asked why I'd been there.
It seemed like an odd line but it turned out he was a poet, so he was thrilled to hear I was a poetry lover.
By the time I woke up this morning, he'd already e-mailed me, promising to send along some of his poetry.
Chef Carlos and I were particularly taken with the 2009 Vega Tinto Douro, a plummy and complex wine for fans of Portuguese style.
When I was poured the 2009 Gaspirini Venegazzu Cabernet, I was reminded of what I like about Italian wines.
The guy next to me took a sip of the same and observed, "It's just beautiful and not overly tannic. I hate those."
The kind that smack you in the head the next morning, I asked, guessing why he felt that way.
"Exactly!" he said. "Although I'm a man, so sometimes I need a smack upside the head."
I told him he was one of the evolved ones if he realized that he occasionally needs a smack upside the head, whether literally or figuratively speaking.
"I am one of the evolved ones," he said, his red face smiling broadly.
I ran into my favorite multiple beagle owner and heard tales of her dog leaning his paws on her shoulders as she sat on the couch working on her computer.
The mental image was adorable.
A short, older man walked up to me at one point and shyly said, "I love your nylons."
What is this, 1945?
It should give you some idea of his age that he even used the term "nylons."
"Not many women could pull them off," he said, winking.
I took my taste of Coltibuono "Cetamura" Chianti and eased over to the other side of the room.
Wine sips makes for loose lips, I guess.
For me, it turned out to be a wine tasting with far more conversation than tasting, but sometimes that's exactly what I want.
From there, I went to pick up a fellow balletomane to go see "The Nutcracker" at Center Stage.
So there we were, surrounded by little girls in party dresses and giant hair bows, amongst what appeared to be a sold out crowd watching Richmond Ballet's perennial cash cow.
I've been a ballet-goer for so long that I remember some of the company members when they were apprentices or trainees.
But as we know, youth is a gift of nature and age is a work of art.
Witness the wonder of Susan Massey, a long-time teacher at Richmond Ballet, and still limber, expressve and impressive as Dr. Silberhaus' mother, despite being no spring chicken.
And it is a beautiful production of the holiday chestnut with jewel-colored costumes, monumental sets and dancing of all levels and kinds.
Perhaps most surprisingly, the cast was by far the most diverse I've ever seen in Richmond,
At the party that starts the ballet, families were mixes of black and white, with even little Clara played by an African American, something I never thought I'd see in Richmond.
Bravo, Richmond Ballet, for finally stepping into the 21st century where everyone is not white.
During intermission, I ran into my favorite dulcitar player in the lobby and my favorite bass clarinet player in the orchestra pit.
As intermissions go, seeing the two of them made it way better than a mere bathroom break.
The second act is such fun, with its snake charmer, dancing bear with his incredibly sharp dancing moves despite the bulky costume and the elaborate Chinese dragon, eye candy all.
By the time that act ended, the little girl next to us was sound asleep in her mother's lap and the tween-age boy on the other side was busily drawing robotic monsters in his sketchbook.
So maybe they were a little young for ballet, even one that had us out on the street by 9:10.
As a wine tasting, polka-dancing friend had told me earlier at 27, "It doesn't feel like Christmas to me until I see "The Nutcracker."
I may not have drunk much wine and I certainly can't polka, but walking out afterwards under the twinkling CenterStage marquee, I had to agree with her.
And, who knows, maybe I'll get some hawt nylons from Santa.
And they were pouring at Bistro 27 for a holiday wine tasting, so I went.
You know it's going to be a fun time when you walk in and the hostess drops her jaw, saying, "Your tights are hawt!"
I wasn't sure I'd know anyone at the tasting besides the two wine reps pouring, but I ran into a wine-loving couple I've known for years and a bartender/gardener and his beloved, so there were a few familiar faces on hand.
But the wine was the thing so I tasted a few of them, although never got close to tasting the entire dozen.
Judging by the increasing decibel level and ever-widening smiles, though, plenty of people did the full twelve.
A man came up to me and said he recognized me from an art and poetry event at VMFA and asked why I'd been there.
It seemed like an odd line but it turned out he was a poet, so he was thrilled to hear I was a poetry lover.
By the time I woke up this morning, he'd already e-mailed me, promising to send along some of his poetry.
Chef Carlos and I were particularly taken with the 2009 Vega Tinto Douro, a plummy and complex wine for fans of Portuguese style.
When I was poured the 2009 Gaspirini Venegazzu Cabernet, I was reminded of what I like about Italian wines.
The guy next to me took a sip of the same and observed, "It's just beautiful and not overly tannic. I hate those."
The kind that smack you in the head the next morning, I asked, guessing why he felt that way.
"Exactly!" he said. "Although I'm a man, so sometimes I need a smack upside the head."
I told him he was one of the evolved ones if he realized that he occasionally needs a smack upside the head, whether literally or figuratively speaking.
"I am one of the evolved ones," he said, his red face smiling broadly.
I ran into my favorite multiple beagle owner and heard tales of her dog leaning his paws on her shoulders as she sat on the couch working on her computer.
The mental image was adorable.
A short, older man walked up to me at one point and shyly said, "I love your nylons."
What is this, 1945?
It should give you some idea of his age that he even used the term "nylons."
"Not many women could pull them off," he said, winking.
I took my taste of Coltibuono "Cetamura" Chianti and eased over to the other side of the room.
Wine sips makes for loose lips, I guess.
For me, it turned out to be a wine tasting with far more conversation than tasting, but sometimes that's exactly what I want.
From there, I went to pick up a fellow balletomane to go see "The Nutcracker" at Center Stage.
So there we were, surrounded by little girls in party dresses and giant hair bows, amongst what appeared to be a sold out crowd watching Richmond Ballet's perennial cash cow.
I've been a ballet-goer for so long that I remember some of the company members when they were apprentices or trainees.
But as we know, youth is a gift of nature and age is a work of art.
Witness the wonder of Susan Massey, a long-time teacher at Richmond Ballet, and still limber, expressve and impressive as Dr. Silberhaus' mother, despite being no spring chicken.
And it is a beautiful production of the holiday chestnut with jewel-colored costumes, monumental sets and dancing of all levels and kinds.
Perhaps most surprisingly, the cast was by far the most diverse I've ever seen in Richmond,
At the party that starts the ballet, families were mixes of black and white, with even little Clara played by an African American, something I never thought I'd see in Richmond.
Bravo, Richmond Ballet, for finally stepping into the 21st century where everyone is not white.
During intermission, I ran into my favorite dulcitar player in the lobby and my favorite bass clarinet player in the orchestra pit.
As intermissions go, seeing the two of them made it way better than a mere bathroom break.
The second act is such fun, with its snake charmer, dancing bear with his incredibly sharp dancing moves despite the bulky costume and the elaborate Chinese dragon, eye candy all.
By the time that act ended, the little girl next to us was sound asleep in her mother's lap and the tween-age boy on the other side was busily drawing robotic monsters in his sketchbook.
So maybe they were a little young for ballet, even one that had us out on the street by 9:10.
As a wine tasting, polka-dancing friend had told me earlier at 27, "It doesn't feel like Christmas to me until I see "The Nutcracker."
I may not have drunk much wine and I certainly can't polka, but walking out afterwards under the twinkling CenterStage marquee, I had to agree with her.
And, who knows, maybe I'll get some hawt nylons from Santa.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Going to the Rodeo
If you wear a dress, you will get your man.
And if you plan on going to an outdoor show, the temperature will drop and it will rain.
I passed on my ticket to less of a weather wimp and regrouped.
Plan B was a non-brainer; Richmond Ballet and Richmond Symphony were doing an evening called "Wild Wild West."
Given my limited pocketbook, my seat was in the nosebleed section (also known as the Second Dress Center), notable mainly because the girl behind me had a nosebleed during the performance.
The first piece was "Pops Hoe-Down" and featured dancers from the School of Richmond Ballet and their Minds in Motion program.
It's a piece of music I've heard many times and always get a kick out of, with its racing fiddles and oddball assortment of sounds.
Pop goes the weasel.
When the symphony finished the rousing performance, conductor Steven Smith yelled, "Yee-ha!" making for a spirited way to begin an evening in the west.
That was followed by two pieces without dance, John Williams' rousing Overture to "The Cowboys" and the Copland-inspired "Prairie Morning."
With the Williams piece came the next surprise; we were treated to live video of the symphony members playing projected onto a screen on the stage.
We saw close-ups of musicians in cowboy hats, neckerchiefs and Western shirts, which was fun.
But the treat was seeing things like the bassoon, oboe and all kinds of unusual percussion played close up.
Someone must have figured that if we didn't have dance, we needed a visual.
Stunning was Philip Glass' "Runaway Horses" and the ballet's tour de force interpretation of it for five dancers.
Male and female wore brown costumes, the women tossed their hair like manes, and they all galloped around like colts in a field.
This was not your West End blue hair's ballet.
Introducing Rossini's Finale from "Overture to Guillaume Tell," Smith mentioned how much classical music has infiltrated popular culture.
The moment it began, heads began to nod as people recognized it as the Lone Ranger's theme.
In a similar vein, we heard "Wolf's Fiddle," described as "dueling fiddle sections," a rarely heard pleasure, and one that caused my seatmates to want to talk about the differences in violins and fiddles.
Ending the first half was Bernstein's "Suite from The Magnificent Seven," instantly recognizable to the audience.
With its swelling and soaring score, I wasn't surprised to see many of the musicians smiling broadly as they played.
During intermission I scored dessert downstairs and as I ate my chocolate cupcake, a guy approached me.
"Your husband should have told you that you have chocolate on your chin," he said, as if he was concerned about my dirty face.
Honestly, I don't think he was.
Back in my seat with a clean face, we began with Sunrise from "Grand Canyon Suite" before arriving at the evening's highlight.
Agnes de Mille's "Rodeo" set to Aaron Copland's music is one of my all-time favorite ballets, uniquely American, but I hadn't seen it performed in over a decade.
It's amazing how a Jewish guy who lived in Brooklyn managed to capture the essence of the American West so adeptly.
"Rodeo" is subtitled "The Courting at Burnt Ranch," so there was plenty of lovesickness, boys showing off and endless partner changing, all things wooing related.
It is, in simplest terms, a ballet about how to find the right man.
And Copland's score with traditional folk songs throughout is a distinct pleasure to hear performed live.
Likewise the rambunctious ballet, which oozes with boy/girl tension.
The Cowgirl does everything she can think of to try to get the attention of the Head Wrangler while more feminine girls effortlessly get their cowboys.
But does the big, obvious guy win her? Nope, it's the tap-dancing champion roper who eventually steals her heart, scooping her up at the hoe-down.
And kissing her. First tentatively and then good and hard.
No surprise there. She'd finally ditched her cowgirl duds for a bright red dress.
Truth is, with the right dress, a man won't even notice if you have chocolate on your chin.
Or, if he's the right one, he'll just wipe it off and go right on kissing you.
That's how they do it in the wild, wild west.
I know. I saw it at the ballet.
And if you plan on going to an outdoor show, the temperature will drop and it will rain.
I passed on my ticket to less of a weather wimp and regrouped.
Plan B was a non-brainer; Richmond Ballet and Richmond Symphony were doing an evening called "Wild Wild West."
Given my limited pocketbook, my seat was in the nosebleed section (also known as the Second Dress Center), notable mainly because the girl behind me had a nosebleed during the performance.
The first piece was "Pops Hoe-Down" and featured dancers from the School of Richmond Ballet and their Minds in Motion program.
It's a piece of music I've heard many times and always get a kick out of, with its racing fiddles and oddball assortment of sounds.
Pop goes the weasel.
When the symphony finished the rousing performance, conductor Steven Smith yelled, "Yee-ha!" making for a spirited way to begin an evening in the west.
That was followed by two pieces without dance, John Williams' rousing Overture to "The Cowboys" and the Copland-inspired "Prairie Morning."
With the Williams piece came the next surprise; we were treated to live video of the symphony members playing projected onto a screen on the stage.
We saw close-ups of musicians in cowboy hats, neckerchiefs and Western shirts, which was fun.
But the treat was seeing things like the bassoon, oboe and all kinds of unusual percussion played close up.
Someone must have figured that if we didn't have dance, we needed a visual.
Stunning was Philip Glass' "Runaway Horses" and the ballet's tour de force interpretation of it for five dancers.
Male and female wore brown costumes, the women tossed their hair like manes, and they all galloped around like colts in a field.
This was not your West End blue hair's ballet.
Introducing Rossini's Finale from "Overture to Guillaume Tell," Smith mentioned how much classical music has infiltrated popular culture.
The moment it began, heads began to nod as people recognized it as the Lone Ranger's theme.
In a similar vein, we heard "Wolf's Fiddle," described as "dueling fiddle sections," a rarely heard pleasure, and one that caused my seatmates to want to talk about the differences in violins and fiddles.
Ending the first half was Bernstein's "Suite from The Magnificent Seven," instantly recognizable to the audience.
With its swelling and soaring score, I wasn't surprised to see many of the musicians smiling broadly as they played.
During intermission I scored dessert downstairs and as I ate my chocolate cupcake, a guy approached me.
"Your husband should have told you that you have chocolate on your chin," he said, as if he was concerned about my dirty face.
Honestly, I don't think he was.
Back in my seat with a clean face, we began with Sunrise from "Grand Canyon Suite" before arriving at the evening's highlight.
Agnes de Mille's "Rodeo" set to Aaron Copland's music is one of my all-time favorite ballets, uniquely American, but I hadn't seen it performed in over a decade.
It's amazing how a Jewish guy who lived in Brooklyn managed to capture the essence of the American West so adeptly.
"Rodeo" is subtitled "The Courting at Burnt Ranch," so there was plenty of lovesickness, boys showing off and endless partner changing, all things wooing related.
It is, in simplest terms, a ballet about how to find the right man.
And Copland's score with traditional folk songs throughout is a distinct pleasure to hear performed live.
Likewise the rambunctious ballet, which oozes with boy/girl tension.
The Cowgirl does everything she can think of to try to get the attention of the Head Wrangler while more feminine girls effortlessly get their cowboys.
But does the big, obvious guy win her? Nope, it's the tap-dancing champion roper who eventually steals her heart, scooping her up at the hoe-down.
And kissing her. First tentatively and then good and hard.
No surprise there. She'd finally ditched her cowgirl duds for a bright red dress.
Truth is, with the right dress, a man won't even notice if you have chocolate on your chin.
Or, if he's the right one, he'll just wipe it off and go right on kissing you.
That's how they do it in the wild, wild west.
I know. I saw it at the ballet.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Begin My Blisteringly Fast Romantic Period
It was my last time subbing for Mom and I knew it.
That is, my last couple date for the symphony because my friend's Mom (whose ticket I was using) will soon be back in town and she'll be wanting to go to the rest of the season with her son and his girlfriend.
So she'll be the one meeting them for dinner beforehand.
For our last symphony date, I chose Chez Foushee for dinner and was rewarded with a window table right over the heat vent.
Our server kept asking if it was getting too warm but after the bitter cold and driving wind outside, I thought it felt divine.
In my perfect world, there's always a heat vent under the table.
Considering we'd walked in without a reservation and every table was taken except the one we got for which they'd just moments before had a cancellation, we were pretty damn lucky.
We began with a bottle of Mont Marcal Cava because it's always a party when the three of us get together.
Given the chill factor, I began with a zesty tomato soup as creamy as a bisque and with spiced croutons floating on top.
I decided that the perfect accompaniment was the Comte "grilled cheese" with wild mushrooms and beef marrow.
The earthy mushrooms and marrow atop thick-slices of bread and smothered in the slightly sweet and oh-so strong Gruyere-like cheese, made for the most adult of grilled cheeses.
My friend's girlfriend, born and raised in the Museum District, had fond memories of the space, recalling when it housed her hairdresser's salon.
"The shampoo station used to be right over there," she said pointing to the side. She's always a treasure trove of tidbits about RVA before I got here.
We didn't have time for dessert, so we left craving it and heading to CenterStage.
Tonight's program went something like this: minimalist, romantic, romantic.
Naturally the minimalist was the American and the romantics the Europeans.
"The Chairman Dances" by John Adams and written in 1985 was conceived of as a prelude to the opera "Nixon in China."
No, really.
Not surprisingly, it had a soundtrack feel to it, but I found plenty to like in the twelve-minute piece.
Mendelssohn's "Die Erste Walpurgisnacht" offered up three soloists and the Richmond Symphony Chorus for a dramatic piece about druids and Christians and fairies and sacrifices.
You know, the usual things poets write about.
My friend Homes, ever the musician, observed afterwards, "You don't often get to see that many down bows in one piece."
I'm sure that's true and I'm equally sure I'd never have noticed.
After intermission and a spirited discussion of dessert options, we got to the main event, Beethoven's "Seventh Symphony."
Fast best describes the movements of the piece and the program even said some parts were "blisteringly so."
Watching my friend Matt Gold play double bass, I loved seeing his handsome head move with emphasis in the blistering parts.
I know for a fact what a fan of Romantic Period composers he is.
By mutual decision, we decided to stop at Pasture when we left the theater and score some long-awaited dessert.
Bellying up to the bar, we got a bottle of Ruffino Prosecco and a couple of chocolate candy bars, that fabulous dessert of chocolate that stops just short of fudge with hazelnut crunch, Nutella and chocolate that Pasture does so well.
I may have enjoyed it even more than usual given that there had been such a gap between my savory and sweet courses.
There's a lot to be said for anticipation.
By the same token, there's a lot to be said for blisteringly fast, at least when it comes to some things.
Like Beethoven. Or better yet, a romantic period.
That is, my last couple date for the symphony because my friend's Mom (whose ticket I was using) will soon be back in town and she'll be wanting to go to the rest of the season with her son and his girlfriend.
So she'll be the one meeting them for dinner beforehand.
For our last symphony date, I chose Chez Foushee for dinner and was rewarded with a window table right over the heat vent.
Our server kept asking if it was getting too warm but after the bitter cold and driving wind outside, I thought it felt divine.
In my perfect world, there's always a heat vent under the table.
Considering we'd walked in without a reservation and every table was taken except the one we got for which they'd just moments before had a cancellation, we were pretty damn lucky.
We began with a bottle of Mont Marcal Cava because it's always a party when the three of us get together.
Given the chill factor, I began with a zesty tomato soup as creamy as a bisque and with spiced croutons floating on top.
I decided that the perfect accompaniment was the Comte "grilled cheese" with wild mushrooms and beef marrow.
The earthy mushrooms and marrow atop thick-slices of bread and smothered in the slightly sweet and oh-so strong Gruyere-like cheese, made for the most adult of grilled cheeses.
My friend's girlfriend, born and raised in the Museum District, had fond memories of the space, recalling when it housed her hairdresser's salon.
"The shampoo station used to be right over there," she said pointing to the side. She's always a treasure trove of tidbits about RVA before I got here.
We didn't have time for dessert, so we left craving it and heading to CenterStage.
Tonight's program went something like this: minimalist, romantic, romantic.
Naturally the minimalist was the American and the romantics the Europeans.
"The Chairman Dances" by John Adams and written in 1985 was conceived of as a prelude to the opera "Nixon in China."
No, really.
Not surprisingly, it had a soundtrack feel to it, but I found plenty to like in the twelve-minute piece.
Mendelssohn's "Die Erste Walpurgisnacht" offered up three soloists and the Richmond Symphony Chorus for a dramatic piece about druids and Christians and fairies and sacrifices.
You know, the usual things poets write about.
My friend Homes, ever the musician, observed afterwards, "You don't often get to see that many down bows in one piece."
I'm sure that's true and I'm equally sure I'd never have noticed.
After intermission and a spirited discussion of dessert options, we got to the main event, Beethoven's "Seventh Symphony."
Fast best describes the movements of the piece and the program even said some parts were "blisteringly so."
Watching my friend Matt Gold play double bass, I loved seeing his handsome head move with emphasis in the blistering parts.
I know for a fact what a fan of Romantic Period composers he is.
By mutual decision, we decided to stop at Pasture when we left the theater and score some long-awaited dessert.
Bellying up to the bar, we got a bottle of Ruffino Prosecco and a couple of chocolate candy bars, that fabulous dessert of chocolate that stops just short of fudge with hazelnut crunch, Nutella and chocolate that Pasture does so well.
I may have enjoyed it even more than usual given that there had been such a gap between my savory and sweet courses.
There's a lot to be said for anticipation.
By the same token, there's a lot to be said for blisteringly fast, at least when it comes to some things.
Like Beethoven. Or better yet, a romantic period.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
A Little Night Music
I played a mother surrogate tonight.
It's not like it sounds. My friend Holmes has three season tickets to the Symphony. He usually takes his girlfriend and his Mom.
But Mom's in Florida at the moment, so I was runner-up for the pleasure of dinner and Masterworks.
We met up at Arcadia, took our positions at the bar and had a splendid time drinking the Cline Cashmere Red Blend and catching up.
Because they're inescapable these days, we began with the deviled eggs, here served over basil gremolata.
Holmes continues to insist that $6 for three egg halves is a bit much, but it seems to be the going rate all over town.
I started with the apple and arugula salad with candied walnuts, bleu cheese and cider apple vinaigrette, regretting only that the kitchen was over-generous with the dressing.
The black tiger shrimp ceviche over polenta with shaved greens and orange curry oil, a dainty portion, followed, but it was the girlfriend's Braveheart Black Angus strip steak that stole the show.
We also gave a nod to the obscenely rich potato pave with thyme and Parmesan.
As we sat there enjoying our food, the bartender popped a bottle of bubbly and Holmes commented, "It's like a woman sighing."
For a guy who was told by a date once to watch "The Notebook" because he wasn't romantic enough, I found that sentiment quite poetic.
It also led to us getting glasses of Cava to accompany our chocolate torte with chocolate gelato.
The torte oozed butter in the best possible way and the gelato was sticky with the heavy creaminess that defines good gelato.
Good thing we had the crisp-tasting Cava to cut that richness.
We barely made it up to Center Stage after lingering over our final course but managed to slide into our seats minutes before showtime.
When the concert mistress walked out to begin things, Holmes commented, "How does she play in those shoes?"
She did have on cute shoes, no doubt about it. But when you have to wear conservative black onstage, your shoes are your only outlet for razzle-dazzle.
I usually defer to him on musical matters since he's a talented viola (and guitar) player, but before I could do so, he went on, "And look at the third chair's shoes!"
Hers were the tallest of stilettos and yet she seemed to have no problem whatsoever playing her instrument.
The program was definitely an interesting one, beginning with Piazzolla's extended tango in five parts, "Tangazo," written in 1968.
I loved everything about it: the knocking on the violins, the tapping of the bows to the instruments, the alternate slow and quick tango pace.
I'm sure that that was an analogy for something.
Applauding afterwards, I turned to Holmes to rave about it and he responded, "He should have scored a Bond movie!"
Yea, a Bond movie's seduction scenes, for sure.
Next up was the featured player of the evening. Guesting was guitarist Jason Vieaux on Rodrigo's "Concierto de Arnjuez for Guitar and Orchestra."
When Vieaux walked out in an open-collared black shirt, Holmes sniffed, "Man, if I'd known, I'd have left the bolo at home."
In fact, he looked quite dapper in his black shirt and black bolo, a gift from his absent mother.
The piece went back and forth between the soloing guitar and the orchestra, highlighting Vieaux's virtuosity.
During intermission, I ran into local rocker Prabir with his Mom (clearly good sons take their Moms to the Symphony) and learned that they'd been as thrilled with that first piece as I'd been.
Prabir said he'd been eagerly anticipating hearing it ever since he found out it was being performed tonight.
Okay, good, so it wasn't just my overactive glands responding to the seductive music of an Argentinian from a family of Italian immigrants.
We returned to Bolcom's "Commedia for (Almost) 18th--Century Orchestra," written in 1971 and based on the idea that the bite of a tarantula can only be relieved by music.
With its unexpected sounds and references to traditional classical music, it offered something for every taste.
Conspicuously absent during the piece were the concert mistress, the second violin and the cello soloist, all of whom reappeared at the end of the piece, having played their parts off-stage.
Just a composer's idea of comedy, I'm figuring.
Last up was Mozart's "Symphony No. 39," which meant nothing to me but thrilled Holmes since he'd heard No. 40 performed before but never No. 39.
I only wish my musical savvy extended to knowing which Mozart pieces I've heard played live.
Hell, I'm lucky he even deigns me worthy to accompany him given my appalling lack of classical music knowledge.
More realistically, I'm lucky Mom's out of town every January.
It's not like it sounds. My friend Holmes has three season tickets to the Symphony. He usually takes his girlfriend and his Mom.
But Mom's in Florida at the moment, so I was runner-up for the pleasure of dinner and Masterworks.
We met up at Arcadia, took our positions at the bar and had a splendid time drinking the Cline Cashmere Red Blend and catching up.
Because they're inescapable these days, we began with the deviled eggs, here served over basil gremolata.
Holmes continues to insist that $6 for three egg halves is a bit much, but it seems to be the going rate all over town.
I started with the apple and arugula salad with candied walnuts, bleu cheese and cider apple vinaigrette, regretting only that the kitchen was over-generous with the dressing.
The black tiger shrimp ceviche over polenta with shaved greens and orange curry oil, a dainty portion, followed, but it was the girlfriend's Braveheart Black Angus strip steak that stole the show.
We also gave a nod to the obscenely rich potato pave with thyme and Parmesan.
As we sat there enjoying our food, the bartender popped a bottle of bubbly and Holmes commented, "It's like a woman sighing."
For a guy who was told by a date once to watch "The Notebook" because he wasn't romantic enough, I found that sentiment quite poetic.
It also led to us getting glasses of Cava to accompany our chocolate torte with chocolate gelato.
The torte oozed butter in the best possible way and the gelato was sticky with the heavy creaminess that defines good gelato.
Good thing we had the crisp-tasting Cava to cut that richness.
We barely made it up to Center Stage after lingering over our final course but managed to slide into our seats minutes before showtime.
When the concert mistress walked out to begin things, Holmes commented, "How does she play in those shoes?"
She did have on cute shoes, no doubt about it. But when you have to wear conservative black onstage, your shoes are your only outlet for razzle-dazzle.
I usually defer to him on musical matters since he's a talented viola (and guitar) player, but before I could do so, he went on, "And look at the third chair's shoes!"
Hers were the tallest of stilettos and yet she seemed to have no problem whatsoever playing her instrument.
The program was definitely an interesting one, beginning with Piazzolla's extended tango in five parts, "Tangazo," written in 1968.
I loved everything about it: the knocking on the violins, the tapping of the bows to the instruments, the alternate slow and quick tango pace.
I'm sure that that was an analogy for something.
Applauding afterwards, I turned to Holmes to rave about it and he responded, "He should have scored a Bond movie!"
Yea, a Bond movie's seduction scenes, for sure.
Next up was the featured player of the evening. Guesting was guitarist Jason Vieaux on Rodrigo's "Concierto de Arnjuez for Guitar and Orchestra."
When Vieaux walked out in an open-collared black shirt, Holmes sniffed, "Man, if I'd known, I'd have left the bolo at home."
In fact, he looked quite dapper in his black shirt and black bolo, a gift from his absent mother.
The piece went back and forth between the soloing guitar and the orchestra, highlighting Vieaux's virtuosity.
During intermission, I ran into local rocker Prabir with his Mom (clearly good sons take their Moms to the Symphony) and learned that they'd been as thrilled with that first piece as I'd been.
Prabir said he'd been eagerly anticipating hearing it ever since he found out it was being performed tonight.
Okay, good, so it wasn't just my overactive glands responding to the seductive music of an Argentinian from a family of Italian immigrants.
We returned to Bolcom's "Commedia for (Almost) 18th--Century Orchestra," written in 1971 and based on the idea that the bite of a tarantula can only be relieved by music.
With its unexpected sounds and references to traditional classical music, it offered something for every taste.
Conspicuously absent during the piece were the concert mistress, the second violin and the cello soloist, all of whom reappeared at the end of the piece, having played their parts off-stage.
Just a composer's idea of comedy, I'm figuring.
Last up was Mozart's "Symphony No. 39," which meant nothing to me but thrilled Holmes since he'd heard No. 40 performed before but never No. 39.
I only wish my musical savvy extended to knowing which Mozart pieces I've heard played live.
Hell, I'm lucky he even deigns me worthy to accompany him given my appalling lack of classical music knowledge.
More realistically, I'm lucky Mom's out of town every January.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
This Wooing is Too Urgent
You don't want to be late for a three-century old play long regarded as a hoax and just last year authenticated as based on a Shakespeare original. Or at least nerds like me don't.
Which presented a problem since I got home from gallivanting late and didn't walk out the door until almost 6:30; curtain time at CenterStage was 7:30. What to do?
To the rescue was my nearest neighborhood joint, the Belvidere. Two short blocks and I was in my usual stool (the one from which I've met and talked to so many people), explaining my predicament. No problem, I was assured.
Tonight's soup was their spectacular vegetarian French onion, although I scoffed when told, "We can make it vegan if you want." No cheese on French onion soup? No, thanks. Full cheese, please.
It's such a well-made soup with a surprising depth of flavor for being animal-free. I suspect that they wave a hunk o' beef over the pot while they're making it, much the way my friend waves a bottle of vermouth around the room when he's making a martini.
Following the soup were roasted red and golden beets with Maytag bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens, always a filling and satisfying dish. Because my mother never gave me beets growing up, I continue to seek them out as an adult to compensate for that gross childhood omission.
I was fed, paid and climbing into my car by 7:10, a remarkable feat considering I'd enjoyed a fair amount of conversation with owner Dave before leaving.
Aside from an always excellent evening of comedy or drama, there are two delights of Richmond Shakespeare's' staged readings. The price of admission includes a glass of wine (I chose the Cab) and there's a dessert bar (I had the chocolate eclair). Not that I need enticements to see Shakespeare, but it's icing on the (chocolate) cake, so to speak.
Tonight's staged reading of "Double Falsehood or the Distrest Lovers" marks the first production in this country; Richmond slipped in under the wire as it's about to be produced in NYC and was done in London in January. First Picasso and now "Double Falsehood." This city's coolness meter just burst its bulb.
Who is it that woos at this late hour?
The play, written in the early 18th century is an adaptation of a lost play called "Cardenio," written by Shakespeare and John Fletcher. It included many of Shakespeare's usual devices, girls dressed as boys, lovers kept apart, as well as the distinctive meter and vocabulary.
Passion in women is short in waking and strong in effort.
What was particularly noticeable were the 18th century updates intended to appeal to a different audience than Shakespeare's, like the rape of the humble, but virtuous country girl. And unlike the master's plays, there were bad people in the bucolic country.
Love is contagious and it hurts my brain.
Because it was a reading and not a full production, the actors were working with scripts and even stands for the scripts, the first time I'd seen that. They used them to good effect, though, raising and lowering the stands as suited what they were doing as they spoke or if they were trying to be hidden.
I can't get this false man's memory out of my head.
A staged reading means limited props and interaction, but there's always enough to captivate. During the shepherd scene, the actors wore shearling caps with ear flaps and the head shepherd, (who salaciously licked the young shepherd's hand to demonstrate his lust), had a fake shearling piece over his shoulder.
Let them alone. They're almost starved for kisses.
Music was courtesy of the actor who could simulate a beat box and speeches from windows and balconies above were delivered by actors standing on their chairs.
Will you be ruled by me? Kill yourself!
How could the authenticity of the origins of this play ever have been doubted? By the end, the good and noble brother brings everyone together: the distraught fathers who thought they'd lost their children and the two sets of lovers who could now be joined in nuptials. All's well that ends well.
Being a hopeless romantic, I admit to getting great satisfaction from seeing distrest love resolved. Not so the epilogue, which opined, "Heaven defend us from these moral plays."
Heavenly defense not necessary.
Which presented a problem since I got home from gallivanting late and didn't walk out the door until almost 6:30; curtain time at CenterStage was 7:30. What to do?
To the rescue was my nearest neighborhood joint, the Belvidere. Two short blocks and I was in my usual stool (the one from which I've met and talked to so many people), explaining my predicament. No problem, I was assured.
Tonight's soup was their spectacular vegetarian French onion, although I scoffed when told, "We can make it vegan if you want." No cheese on French onion soup? No, thanks. Full cheese, please.
It's such a well-made soup with a surprising depth of flavor for being animal-free. I suspect that they wave a hunk o' beef over the pot while they're making it, much the way my friend waves a bottle of vermouth around the room when he's making a martini.
Following the soup were roasted red and golden beets with Maytag bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens, always a filling and satisfying dish. Because my mother never gave me beets growing up, I continue to seek them out as an adult to compensate for that gross childhood omission.
I was fed, paid and climbing into my car by 7:10, a remarkable feat considering I'd enjoyed a fair amount of conversation with owner Dave before leaving.
Aside from an always excellent evening of comedy or drama, there are two delights of Richmond Shakespeare's' staged readings. The price of admission includes a glass of wine (I chose the Cab) and there's a dessert bar (I had the chocolate eclair). Not that I need enticements to see Shakespeare, but it's icing on the (chocolate) cake, so to speak.
Tonight's staged reading of "Double Falsehood or the Distrest Lovers" marks the first production in this country; Richmond slipped in under the wire as it's about to be produced in NYC and was done in London in January. First Picasso and now "Double Falsehood." This city's coolness meter just burst its bulb.
Who is it that woos at this late hour?
The play, written in the early 18th century is an adaptation of a lost play called "Cardenio," written by Shakespeare and John Fletcher. It included many of Shakespeare's usual devices, girls dressed as boys, lovers kept apart, as well as the distinctive meter and vocabulary.
Passion in women is short in waking and strong in effort.
What was particularly noticeable were the 18th century updates intended to appeal to a different audience than Shakespeare's, like the rape of the humble, but virtuous country girl. And unlike the master's plays, there were bad people in the bucolic country.
Love is contagious and it hurts my brain.
Because it was a reading and not a full production, the actors were working with scripts and even stands for the scripts, the first time I'd seen that. They used them to good effect, though, raising and lowering the stands as suited what they were doing as they spoke or if they were trying to be hidden.
I can't get this false man's memory out of my head.
A staged reading means limited props and interaction, but there's always enough to captivate. During the shepherd scene, the actors wore shearling caps with ear flaps and the head shepherd, (who salaciously licked the young shepherd's hand to demonstrate his lust), had a fake shearling piece over his shoulder.
Let them alone. They're almost starved for kisses.
Music was courtesy of the actor who could simulate a beat box and speeches from windows and balconies above were delivered by actors standing on their chairs.
Will you be ruled by me? Kill yourself!
How could the authenticity of the origins of this play ever have been doubted? By the end, the good and noble brother brings everyone together: the distraught fathers who thought they'd lost their children and the two sets of lovers who could now be joined in nuptials. All's well that ends well.
Being a hopeless romantic, I admit to getting great satisfaction from seeing distrest love resolved. Not so the epilogue, which opined, "Heaven defend us from these moral plays."
Heavenly defense not necessary.
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