It pays to fall for a soul man early in his career.
From the very first time I'd heard Devon Gilfillian, I was in love with this voice and musicianship. The song "High" was as close to 21st century R&B perfection as I've yet to hear and, believe me, that's a sound I go looking for. But too often, I'm disappointed by overly graphic lyrics that spell out what I'd prefer to hear suggested subtly.
I'm looking at you, Miguel. Love your songs, but not the trashy lyrics.
Then I heard Devon's second single, "Get Out and Get It" and it was full of '70s musical references, showing that young Devon had been well-schooled in the music of my youth. Turns out his Dad is a musician who'd made sure his son listened to lots of Stevie Wonder, Earth Wind and Fire and, perhaps most interestingly, Jimi Hendrix.
So when I saw that Devon was playing the Southern in Charlottesville, I bought tickets without even caring if I had plans that night. Nothing could top hearing that man live in that tiny room. Mac didn't hesitate to jump on board, and a plan was hatched.
After the massive thunderstorm that blew threw today, darkening the sky so that I had to turn on lights to work at 3:00 in the afternoon, the drive to the show was dry and uneventful (if you don't count Mac's penchant for speeding). After she grabbed a slice at Christian's Pizza, we made it to the Southern minutes before opener Carl Anderson took the stage, his leather guitar strap embossed with his name: CARL.
I'd seen Carl before when he opened for Sons of Bill at Capital Alehouse and like that time, his low-key sad songs reminded me of Richmond's own Jonathan Vassar, the Americana master of morose melodies and haunting songwriting. After Carl sang his first song, he took off his glasses, flung them to the stage's carpeted floor and asked of the crowd, "How the hell are you?"
For a Wednesday night crowd - most of which was wearing flip-flops and definitely not a Richmond-looking crowd - which spanned all ages and genders, we were loud and excited to be there listening to his heartfelt Americana, accompanied only by acoustic guitar.
Don't come 'round with the devil on your breath.
He talked abut how happy he was to be playing some dates with Devon since his last tour had been, "just me in the Corolla, getting a little stoned and spending too much time in my head." Heads nodded in understanding.
"I don't know why I took my glasses off," Carl later lamented. "I can't see my set list now. I'm always making things hard on myself." Between his self-deprecation, humor ("I'm going to slow things down here, but looking at my set list, it's amazing I'm still alive. I gotta write some happy songs") and singing songs in character, he was the epitome of a Nashville troubadour.
His song "Pills," sung with a sickeningly sweet fake smile, was not, however, a happy song. And no surprise, he closed with a sad song, but we would have expected nothing less.
You could feel the excitement building during the break.
The stage was already set for Devon's band, three extremely talented (white) Nashville musicians with seriously long hair, jaw-droppingly good back-up singer voices (their harmonies with Devon were nothing short of swoon-worthy) and lots of energy, the better to support Devon's soulful voice, on display from the very first notes.
From the slow jam sound accompanied by Hendrix-like guitar parts (he switched between three different guitars) of "Full Disclosure" to the booty-shaking sound of "Dangerous," Devon had the crowd in the palm of his handsome hand from start to finish. For a musician who's only put out an EP (his full-length album is due to drop soonish), the man oozed confidence.
At one point, Mac and I looked at each other amazed that we were lucky enough to be seeing him in this tiny venue before he blows up, which he inevitably will (Capitol Records wouldn't have signed him so blindingly fast otherwise).
Things got serious when he shared a story of he and his band driving somewhere when a car hit them head-on. The experience had understandably affected him greatly and, like any good songwriter, it had shifted his attitude about life ("You gotta think about what's important in life") and he'd written a song about it called "Stranger."
"Whether someone drives into you at 80 mph or you meet someone and fall in love with them, I'm telling you that one person can completely change your life." Don't I know it. The haunting song was accompanied only by the keys.
Besides the immense talent we were witnessing, it was his (and his bandmates') genuine pleasure in performing that truly made the show. They were clearly having as much fun as we were, except they also got to show off their talent.
That's what's known as a win/win.
Telling the crowd that the band had just completed their first full-length record, Devon asked to play some of the new songs for us before he introduced "The Good Life," as a song about embracing diversity of all kinds.
I just want everyone to love one another
Do you hear what I'm sayin', sisters and brothers?
Yet another great thing about the music was that it encompassed not only plenty of slow jams but just as much hard rockin' thank to Devon's years studying Hendrix (and maybe Buddy Guy?) to shape his guitar stylings. It was never more apparent than during "Troublemaker" when he and the bass player leaned back to back to execute screaming solos together.
Everyone went crazy for his new single, "Get Out and Get It" with its Afro-beat influences. Seems he toured South Africa last year and fell hard for the Afro-beat sound.
Stop asking who's gonna light the fire
Stop asking who's gonna take you higher
I swear, between the socially conscious message and solid funk groove, it could have been the '70s all over again. Mac and I just kept grinning at each other, thrilled to witness it all. At one point, she noted, "He reminds me of Sam Cooke," referring to his heart-melting voice. Uh huh.
After introducing his bandmates, complete with mini bios and effusive compliments, the band went back to playing and Devon took his guitar-playing into the crowd, crouching low as he moved, until he was three feet in front of us. To top that, he then laid down on his back while continuing to play, smiling all the while like he was having the time of his life.
I know we were.
As if we couldn't be any more enamored of this man, when he mentioned that he'd be at the merch table after the show, he promised that he had t-shirts with his cat's picture on them. I'm not even a cat person and I found that charming.
After an hour and a half whipping the crowd into a frenzy, Devon said goodnight before returning, grinning with happiness, for the encore we demanded loudly. More, we wanted so much more.
"Think of the slow dancing days back in the '90s," he instructed. "Then find someone you want to squeeze and let's take it back!" He called his band back onstage to harmonize with him and using only a keyboard accompaniment, began something very '90s sounding that got plenty of people in the room singing along.
All my life, I prayed for someone like you
And I hope that you do love me, too
And I hope you feel the same way, too
Mac's guesses were Boyz 2 Men or New Kids on the Block and I admit I hadn't a clue. Actually, I couldn't have cared less, since anytime this man was singing, I was all ears, whether I recognized it or not. My only (teeny, tiny) regret was that he didn't sing "High," the song that introduced me to him.
Driving home through patches of light fog, I had en epiphany. The good news was we'd just seen a rising star in a room the size of my apartment. The bad news is we know with absolute certainty we'll never get to see him in such a small venue again. And you know what they say: you gotta take the good with the bad.
Do you hear what I'm sayin', sisters and brothers?
Showing posts with label charlottesville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label charlottesville. Show all posts
Thursday, June 6, 2019
Thursday, November 3, 2016
Thank Your Lucky Stars
All the usual suspects - dinner, music - and watching cultural history made, too!
An hour drive on a sumptuously sunny and atypically warm November day landed us on the patio at Public Fish & Oyster in Charlottesville under trees shedding leaves on the table, the chairs and the patio.
It was a fine seasonal touch completely out of sync with the wildly warm weather.
At the top of the chalkboard oyster menu was a siren bivalve that combined a long-time favorite place with my preferred level of brininess. The Hatteras Salts were delicious but not nearly as salty as expected, but Public gets no points from me for serving them with two lame options: cocktail sauce and red wine vinegar rather than a proper mignonette or even horseradish.
Where they did score points was with the solid advice on a sign in the ladies' room reading, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together" ~ Elizabeth Taylor.
I immediately re-applied lipstick and returned to the table in time for a delivery of Sinols Rosato, an easy drinking Spanish pink. I was as together as I was going to get.
Dinner of an autumn salad loaded with arugula, pomegranate, apple, fennel, candied nuts and hunks of creamy Mycella Bleu was a winning way to eat Fall, while roasted Mission figs with Caramont Farms chevre, almond and honey was downright decadent. And while the lobster meat was plentiful, the overly dense roll containing that meat on my lobster roll was a questionable choice.
I barely finished my totally predictable flourless chocolate torte dessert when we we changed location to a bar table at Fitzroy, the better to catch the start of the final game of the World Series.
The funny part is, if you were to ask anyone who knows me, friend or family, they'd have likely taken a bet that I would most definitely not be watching a baseball game tonight or any night.
Oh, ye of little faith.
We were only able to watch an hour of it before heading over to the Jefferson Theater at 9:00 for the reason we were in the mountains in the first place: Beach House.
I've got a long history with this dream pop band, having seen them as openers back in 2007 at the Norva (can't recall the headliners, though), having bought a ticket to see them in Charlottesville in May 2012 and then not gone, and then seeing them for the first time as headliners in September 2012.
The floor was getting crowded when I took up my usual post near the sound booth, finding a fan to chat with within spitting distance (of course I didn't verify that ability). Unlike my nine-year history with the band, he'd only discovered them a year and a half ago, necessitating him going back to investigate their full discography.
His conclusion was that "Teen Dream" was their masterpiece, a conclusion long-time fans already agreed upon.
When I asked him about his first show, he said it had been Blink 182 ("I know, old school, right?" says this guy who couldn't have even been a gleam in his Daddy's eye when the band formed in '92) with My Chemical Romance, a band I'd also seen back in 2008 (although technically, I'd gone for the opener, Muse).
Like the previous Beach House shows, there are a few rules. Minimal light on the band, minimal between-song banter. They're here to play and nothing more. Like 2012, they teased us with gems from "Teen Dream" such as "10 Mile Stereo" and "Take Care," although this tour, they're leaving out the more bombastic "Norway." Pity.
They did one song they hadn't played in three years "from the set list you all contributed to," a fact of which I'd been unaware. Had I known I could put in my two cents' worth, you can be assured I would have.
With no opening act and no chit-chatting with the crowd, we were in and out of the Jefferson Theater in an hour and a half and back at the Fitzroy to catch the end of the baseball game in a room that seemed to be evenly split between rabid Chicago and Cleveland fans.
Feeling optimistic, we weren't the only people in the room to order a bottle of bubbly.
When the game ended tied and had to go to extra innings and then a rain delay, we stayed, despite the hour drive still ahead. How do you walk away from watching a team trying to make up for 108 years of failure?
Not to mention that Aroldis Chapman was some kind of cute with that smile of his.
One of the more satisfying aspects about watching the game was knowing that out on the Northern Neck, my octogenarian parents were undoubtedly still up, too, cheering a team none of us usually care about but who certainly seem to have earned their post-midnight moment in the sun.
Presumably without the drink or the lipstick, they'd pulled themselves together admirably. All I'd done was cheer and clap.
Hey, Chicago, what do you say? The Cubs have gone and won today.
An hour drive on a sumptuously sunny and atypically warm November day landed us on the patio at Public Fish & Oyster in Charlottesville under trees shedding leaves on the table, the chairs and the patio.
It was a fine seasonal touch completely out of sync with the wildly warm weather.
At the top of the chalkboard oyster menu was a siren bivalve that combined a long-time favorite place with my preferred level of brininess. The Hatteras Salts were delicious but not nearly as salty as expected, but Public gets no points from me for serving them with two lame options: cocktail sauce and red wine vinegar rather than a proper mignonette or even horseradish.
Where they did score points was with the solid advice on a sign in the ladies' room reading, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together" ~ Elizabeth Taylor.
I immediately re-applied lipstick and returned to the table in time for a delivery of Sinols Rosato, an easy drinking Spanish pink. I was as together as I was going to get.
Dinner of an autumn salad loaded with arugula, pomegranate, apple, fennel, candied nuts and hunks of creamy Mycella Bleu was a winning way to eat Fall, while roasted Mission figs with Caramont Farms chevre, almond and honey was downright decadent. And while the lobster meat was plentiful, the overly dense roll containing that meat on my lobster roll was a questionable choice.
I barely finished my totally predictable flourless chocolate torte dessert when we we changed location to a bar table at Fitzroy, the better to catch the start of the final game of the World Series.
The funny part is, if you were to ask anyone who knows me, friend or family, they'd have likely taken a bet that I would most definitely not be watching a baseball game tonight or any night.
Oh, ye of little faith.
We were only able to watch an hour of it before heading over to the Jefferson Theater at 9:00 for the reason we were in the mountains in the first place: Beach House.
I've got a long history with this dream pop band, having seen them as openers back in 2007 at the Norva (can't recall the headliners, though), having bought a ticket to see them in Charlottesville in May 2012 and then not gone, and then seeing them for the first time as headliners in September 2012.
The floor was getting crowded when I took up my usual post near the sound booth, finding a fan to chat with within spitting distance (of course I didn't verify that ability). Unlike my nine-year history with the band, he'd only discovered them a year and a half ago, necessitating him going back to investigate their full discography.
His conclusion was that "Teen Dream" was their masterpiece, a conclusion long-time fans already agreed upon.
When I asked him about his first show, he said it had been Blink 182 ("I know, old school, right?" says this guy who couldn't have even been a gleam in his Daddy's eye when the band formed in '92) with My Chemical Romance, a band I'd also seen back in 2008 (although technically, I'd gone for the opener, Muse).
Like the previous Beach House shows, there are a few rules. Minimal light on the band, minimal between-song banter. They're here to play and nothing more. Like 2012, they teased us with gems from "Teen Dream" such as "10 Mile Stereo" and "Take Care," although this tour, they're leaving out the more bombastic "Norway." Pity.
They did one song they hadn't played in three years "from the set list you all contributed to," a fact of which I'd been unaware. Had I known I could put in my two cents' worth, you can be assured I would have.
With no opening act and no chit-chatting with the crowd, we were in and out of the Jefferson Theater in an hour and a half and back at the Fitzroy to catch the end of the baseball game in a room that seemed to be evenly split between rabid Chicago and Cleveland fans.
Feeling optimistic, we weren't the only people in the room to order a bottle of bubbly.
When the game ended tied and had to go to extra innings and then a rain delay, we stayed, despite the hour drive still ahead. How do you walk away from watching a team trying to make up for 108 years of failure?
Not to mention that Aroldis Chapman was some kind of cute with that smile of his.
One of the more satisfying aspects about watching the game was knowing that out on the Northern Neck, my octogenarian parents were undoubtedly still up, too, cheering a team none of us usually care about but who certainly seem to have earned their post-midnight moment in the sun.
Presumably without the drink or the lipstick, they'd pulled themselves together admirably. All I'd done was cheer and clap.
Hey, Chicago, what do you say? The Cubs have gone and won today.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Suddenly I Can See Blue Skies
Never turn down an invitation for a road trip.
Do I want to go to a show? Probably. Do I want to go to a show in another town? Always.
Donning my finest rainy day attire - hot pink raincoat, green and pink floral rubber boots - we set off for Charlottesville, making our way through a traffic jam and skittish drivers despite the rain being over. Why must people overuse their brakes when pavement gets wet?
En route we decided to make our way to Belmont rather than the downtown mall for dinner, choosing the Local's inviting, dark ambiance once we were there (and obviously seduced by their adjacent wine room with its old outside sign saying "Betty's Beauty Salon" overhead).
Inside, we were asked if we were with the such and such party (meaning the unruly cluster of men in sports coats at the bar) and when we demurred, led upstairs to the charming (and well-heated) patio space enclosed by windows.
Because a night away feels like an occasion, we began with crisp, citrusy Cap Classique Colmant Brut Reserve (a nod to trips to South Africa of yore) and a cheese plate generously laid out with five cheeses - goat, cheddar, bleu, Brie and Swiss - including three from Virginia (they are called The Local, after all). While we worked that lovely combination down, the group of salesmen-looking sports coats from the bar arrived upstairs and settled at the table behind us.
Much ordering of Cabernet Sauvignon and hushed phone calls about the day's business ensued. Almost all of them wore wedding rings and almost all of them seemed to be overdoing it on a night out. They were a cliche, in other words.
We ignored them, choosing our entrees which seemed to arrive in a twinkling of an eye. A special of lamb shanks with potatoes and green beans went to my fellow road tripper and I'd chosen the buttermilk Tabasco-braised local chicken with mashed potatoes and horseradish poppy seed slaw. Braised and crispy, yes, please.
Each of us thought we'd made the right choice but if you ask me, how can can you beat a crispy thigh, drumstick and wing? Impossible.
By then, the patio space had begun to fill up with all sorts of Monday night revelers: a four top of a certain age who never stopped conversing and laughing, a couple of 20-somethings where she kept pulling out her phone for fear of missing out, a lively table of friends enjoying each other loudly - making us just another table of people happy to be out at the start of the week.
Keeping the bubbly thread going since we had an hour to kill, we stayed local with Veritas' creamy "Scintilla" to accompany a banana split for dessert. Not typically a split fan, I was seduced by the caramelized bananas, the three distinctive flavors of house-made ice cream (blackberry, blueberry and peanut butter with chocolate chip) under a blanket of chocolate sauce and whipped cream.
Not your average banana split, am I right?
Between the split and the local bubbles delaying us, by the time we got to the Southern, T. Hardy Morris and his band were already playing. Much as I hate to miss an opening act, we'd been having too much fun to get there sooner, although I was glad to catch part of their set with its lovely pedal steel.
During the break, I headed out to wait in line for the bathroom. A guy joined me, asking if there were lines for men and women. Before I could answer, a bathroom door opened and I looked at him.
"No, you go ahead first," he said gallantly. "You're beautiful-er." That's the kind of man I want to wait in a bathroom line with.
Jessica Lea Mayfield - a waif with a guitar -came out joined by a bassist and a drummer, looking wan (surely she never sees the sun) with the blondest bob and briefest bangs.
She didn't have a lot of stage presence (she is only 25, after all), but after the second song, she inquired of an audience member, "What are you talking about? Tell me the secret!"
You can't handle the secret, honey.
Her set was an amalgamation of her earlier acoustic, confessional stuff and songs from her latest album, which sounds like it came directly from the Nirvana era with gloriously grungey guitar sounds.
"Are you guys having fun?" she asked of the unfortunately small crowd. "Cause this next song is called 'No Fun." Some might say her voice is no fun, bordering on a monotone with just enough edge to keep it interesting. And always, plenty of soul-baring in the lyrics.
"This is a song about having to do the dishes, do the laundry and kill yourself before your husband gets home." An amusing take on a song, even more so when she introduced the bass player Jessie as her husband ("He legally agreed to love me forever").
She was clearly getting off on the newer material, channeling her inner grunge ("I'm an awkward girl"- join the club, my dear) with raucous guitar and occasionally 12-string (be still, my heart). Some songs shimmered, others raged, but every one shone with her distinctive voice.
For the encore, she came back alone, sitting on the lip of the stage and singing, "You've got a stranglehold on my heart." Could I hope to hear anything more romantic?
Husband Jessie came out for the last song, playing guitar for her and singing along, just the two of them on the edge of the stage with the small crowd gathered around. Their voices melded beautifully to close out the night.
Sure, then we were looking at an hour's drive home, but there was so much to talk about. Jessica Lea. All that grunge. A fabulous meal. The clarity of the stars in the sky. The loss of clarity as we approached Richmond.
Even an awkward girl couldn't have asked for a beautiful-er evening.
Do I want to go to a show? Probably. Do I want to go to a show in another town? Always.
Donning my finest rainy day attire - hot pink raincoat, green and pink floral rubber boots - we set off for Charlottesville, making our way through a traffic jam and skittish drivers despite the rain being over. Why must people overuse their brakes when pavement gets wet?
En route we decided to make our way to Belmont rather than the downtown mall for dinner, choosing the Local's inviting, dark ambiance once we were there (and obviously seduced by their adjacent wine room with its old outside sign saying "Betty's Beauty Salon" overhead).
Inside, we were asked if we were with the such and such party (meaning the unruly cluster of men in sports coats at the bar) and when we demurred, led upstairs to the charming (and well-heated) patio space enclosed by windows.
Because a night away feels like an occasion, we began with crisp, citrusy Cap Classique Colmant Brut Reserve (a nod to trips to South Africa of yore) and a cheese plate generously laid out with five cheeses - goat, cheddar, bleu, Brie and Swiss - including three from Virginia (they are called The Local, after all). While we worked that lovely combination down, the group of salesmen-looking sports coats from the bar arrived upstairs and settled at the table behind us.
Much ordering of Cabernet Sauvignon and hushed phone calls about the day's business ensued. Almost all of them wore wedding rings and almost all of them seemed to be overdoing it on a night out. They were a cliche, in other words.
We ignored them, choosing our entrees which seemed to arrive in a twinkling of an eye. A special of lamb shanks with potatoes and green beans went to my fellow road tripper and I'd chosen the buttermilk Tabasco-braised local chicken with mashed potatoes and horseradish poppy seed slaw. Braised and crispy, yes, please.
Each of us thought we'd made the right choice but if you ask me, how can can you beat a crispy thigh, drumstick and wing? Impossible.
By then, the patio space had begun to fill up with all sorts of Monday night revelers: a four top of a certain age who never stopped conversing and laughing, a couple of 20-somethings where she kept pulling out her phone for fear of missing out, a lively table of friends enjoying each other loudly - making us just another table of people happy to be out at the start of the week.
Keeping the bubbly thread going since we had an hour to kill, we stayed local with Veritas' creamy "Scintilla" to accompany a banana split for dessert. Not typically a split fan, I was seduced by the caramelized bananas, the three distinctive flavors of house-made ice cream (blackberry, blueberry and peanut butter with chocolate chip) under a blanket of chocolate sauce and whipped cream.
Not your average banana split, am I right?
Between the split and the local bubbles delaying us, by the time we got to the Southern, T. Hardy Morris and his band were already playing. Much as I hate to miss an opening act, we'd been having too much fun to get there sooner, although I was glad to catch part of their set with its lovely pedal steel.
During the break, I headed out to wait in line for the bathroom. A guy joined me, asking if there were lines for men and women. Before I could answer, a bathroom door opened and I looked at him.
"No, you go ahead first," he said gallantly. "You're beautiful-er." That's the kind of man I want to wait in a bathroom line with.
Jessica Lea Mayfield - a waif with a guitar -came out joined by a bassist and a drummer, looking wan (surely she never sees the sun) with the blondest bob and briefest bangs.
She didn't have a lot of stage presence (she is only 25, after all), but after the second song, she inquired of an audience member, "What are you talking about? Tell me the secret!"
You can't handle the secret, honey.
Her set was an amalgamation of her earlier acoustic, confessional stuff and songs from her latest album, which sounds like it came directly from the Nirvana era with gloriously grungey guitar sounds.
"Are you guys having fun?" she asked of the unfortunately small crowd. "Cause this next song is called 'No Fun." Some might say her voice is no fun, bordering on a monotone with just enough edge to keep it interesting. And always, plenty of soul-baring in the lyrics.
"This is a song about having to do the dishes, do the laundry and kill yourself before your husband gets home." An amusing take on a song, even more so when she introduced the bass player Jessie as her husband ("He legally agreed to love me forever").
She was clearly getting off on the newer material, channeling her inner grunge ("I'm an awkward girl"- join the club, my dear) with raucous guitar and occasionally 12-string (be still, my heart). Some songs shimmered, others raged, but every one shone with her distinctive voice.
For the encore, she came back alone, sitting on the lip of the stage and singing, "You've got a stranglehold on my heart." Could I hope to hear anything more romantic?
Husband Jessie came out for the last song, playing guitar for her and singing along, just the two of them on the edge of the stage with the small crowd gathered around. Their voices melded beautifully to close out the night.
Sure, then we were looking at an hour's drive home, but there was so much to talk about. Jessica Lea. All that grunge. A fabulous meal. The clarity of the stars in the sky. The loss of clarity as we approached Richmond.
Even an awkward girl couldn't have asked for a beautiful-er evening.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Reflections After Karen
From the ocean to the mountains in a matter of hours.
I may have had to leave the beach, but I had a good time awaiting me at home.
Well, not immediately, since I needed to scrape the layers of beach gunk off my body and hair, but once cleaned up, I had a date to go to Charlottesville for dinner and a show.
If I'm going to give up surf and sand, that's the way to do it.
A few weeks ago I'd seen that the Clientele was playing the Southern and been intrigued by both their sound (reverb-drenched, art and literature-based lyrics) and their story (formed in '97, broke up in '11, back together because Merge re-released their debut album).
I'd invited a date to join me, bought tickets and been looking forward to it ever since.
After failure to find a park (don't ask), we wound up at the C & O for dinner, only to be informed that it was restaurant week. Not our first choice, but not disastrous, either.
To get things started well, we had flutes of Virginia Fizz in the downstairs bar (with the rustically uneven wooden bar surface) where couples were already eating the three-course menu.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
In a fine display of date cooperation while drinking Rose, we would each eat half of what was on our plates and then swap so as to taste two dishes for each course.
That's how marinated heirloom tomatoes with mesclun and pesto complemented by the creamiest burrata atop creamed corn was traded for beef sirloin carpaccio with truffle aioli, arugula and hashed potatoes.
Roasted halibut with ciopinno sauce, saffron rouille and summer herbs got switched with pork saltimbocca with sage and Fontina over a summer panzanella salad.
There was less sharing when dessert came, probably because I scarfed my chocolate gateaux with salted caramel and frozen peanut nougat while he lingered over his cheese plate.
My appetite has been called many things, but seldom ladylike.
Walking out of the restaurant, as if on cue, fat raindrops began falling so we ducked into an alcove to stay dry. After waiting for about ten minutes for the driving rain to stop, we wised up and went inside what turned out to be the Melting Pot.
Since it only made sense to drink something once we sat down at the bar, we did, killing time until the rain stopped and we could make it to the show.
We'd missed part of Borrowed Beams of Light's opening set, but caught enough to hear a definite '70s influence.
Then it was the Clientele, taking the stage in that low-key British way to play music, including a lot of songs from that first album - really a compilation of singles - that's now being celebrated with Merge Records' reissue of it.
The songs are gorgeous (I'd been listening to it all the way to and from the beach) in that smart, yet melancholy way where you love the sound but if you listen closely, it's a tad sad. And very smart.
I don't know about the rest of the room, but I know I was happy when they played "Reflections After Jane," an ode to a woman loved and lost.
Actually, I was happy with the entire evening. It had been a long day, for sure, and driving back from the beach only to hit the road for the mountains may have been a bit ambitious (my date generously let me sleep on the way back), but I had such a terrific time anyway.
Dare I say it? I'm happy to be back.
I may have had to leave the beach, but I had a good time awaiting me at home.
Well, not immediately, since I needed to scrape the layers of beach gunk off my body and hair, but once cleaned up, I had a date to go to Charlottesville for dinner and a show.
If I'm going to give up surf and sand, that's the way to do it.
A few weeks ago I'd seen that the Clientele was playing the Southern and been intrigued by both their sound (reverb-drenched, art and literature-based lyrics) and their story (formed in '97, broke up in '11, back together because Merge re-released their debut album).
I'd invited a date to join me, bought tickets and been looking forward to it ever since.
After failure to find a park (don't ask), we wound up at the C & O for dinner, only to be informed that it was restaurant week. Not our first choice, but not disastrous, either.
To get things started well, we had flutes of Virginia Fizz in the downstairs bar (with the rustically uneven wooden bar surface) where couples were already eating the three-course menu.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
In a fine display of date cooperation while drinking Rose, we would each eat half of what was on our plates and then swap so as to taste two dishes for each course.
That's how marinated heirloom tomatoes with mesclun and pesto complemented by the creamiest burrata atop creamed corn was traded for beef sirloin carpaccio with truffle aioli, arugula and hashed potatoes.
Roasted halibut with ciopinno sauce, saffron rouille and summer herbs got switched with pork saltimbocca with sage and Fontina over a summer panzanella salad.
There was less sharing when dessert came, probably because I scarfed my chocolate gateaux with salted caramel and frozen peanut nougat while he lingered over his cheese plate.
My appetite has been called many things, but seldom ladylike.
Walking out of the restaurant, as if on cue, fat raindrops began falling so we ducked into an alcove to stay dry. After waiting for about ten minutes for the driving rain to stop, we wised up and went inside what turned out to be the Melting Pot.
Since it only made sense to drink something once we sat down at the bar, we did, killing time until the rain stopped and we could make it to the show.
We'd missed part of Borrowed Beams of Light's opening set, but caught enough to hear a definite '70s influence.
Then it was the Clientele, taking the stage in that low-key British way to play music, including a lot of songs from that first album - really a compilation of singles - that's now being celebrated with Merge Records' reissue of it.
The songs are gorgeous (I'd been listening to it all the way to and from the beach) in that smart, yet melancholy way where you love the sound but if you listen closely, it's a tad sad. And very smart.
I don't know about the rest of the room, but I know I was happy when they played "Reflections After Jane," an ode to a woman loved and lost.
Actually, I was happy with the entire evening. It had been a long day, for sure, and driving back from the beach only to hit the road for the mountains may have been a bit ambitious (my date generously let me sleep on the way back), but I had such a terrific time anyway.
Dare I say it? I'm happy to be back.
Friday, June 13, 2014
It's Only Dancing
Despite it being National Verdejo day, I drank no Verdejo.
What I did do was accept a date to take a road trip to Charlottesville to see Jeremy Messersmith at the Southern.
The closer to C-ville we got, the more we saw the sun until the gray skies of Richmond were lost in the rear-view mirror.
On the way, we discussed the article "The 30 Places to Eat in Virginia Before You Die," taking issue with some and, at least in my case, eager to try others. More reasons for road trips, yes!
Once arrived, we walked to South Street Brewery for a bite to eat before the show, joining a crowd of beer drinkers at the bar but opting instead for a bottle of local Potter's Craft cider, pale, tart and very dry.
Spotting blue nachos on the menu, I decided to make my dinner of the elevated bar staple. My favorite nachos involve blue chips and black beans, onions (these had both red onions and scallions) and cheese. Black and blues, as one now defunct RVA restaurant used to call them.
They're harder to find than you might think, since few places use blue chips and most pile on lettuce and tomatoes when I want neither, while onions of any kind are missing in action.
So despite having no interest in brews, I had a delightful brewery dinner, including a great view of an unexpected downpour outside the big front windows.
When the rain stopped and the sun returned, we made a dash for the Southern on the downtown mall, joining a suspiciously small group of people there. Maybe the weather was delaying people. Surely more people were coming to the show than this?
Let's put it this way: we walked in and found tall seats with a clear view of the stage to sit in and this is a venue where every time I've been, it's been a standing crowd with tall people blocking my view.
When opener Big Scary, an Australian duo, came out, the audience was only a dozen strong, a pretty pathetic showing, which was too bad because the band's sound was all over the place with something to please everyone.
Through songs such as the garage rock-y "Gladiator" to the more melancholy "Belgian Blues" to "Phil Collins," which used a drum pad to the interplay of Tom and Joanna's vocals over a languidly-paced song structure reminding me of the XX, it was all interesting enough to want to hear what they would do next.
Luckily, more people arrived during the break so when Jeremy Messersmith and his band mates took the stage, the crowd had maybe tripled. Not great, not enough, but a tad better.
You could say Jeremy makes nerd music or you could say he makes smart pop music or you could say his offbeat songwriting topics are his strength. All of that's true.
With a guitarist, bassist, keyboard player and drummer, Jeremy played both acoustic and electric guitar and used his beautiful voice to engage the crowd almost immediately.
The band played through several songs - "Tourniquet" about him being just that for a girl and "Knots" about falling for a girl drummer.
But the song that grabbed me and wouldn't let go was "It's Only Dancing," a charging lament about holding a girl in his arms who doesn't belong to him.
I pull you close, hold my breath
Feel your heartbeat through your summer dress
Shuffle our feet slowly to the stereo
With the band in high gear behind him, the song could have been an outtake from a '90s-era Bo Deans song, all roots rock swagger and energy. Magnificent.
Soon the band left Jeremy onstage alone and he asked for requests from the audience, and while there weren't many of us, there were enough real fans to throw out 7 or 8 suggestions, throwing him off.
"Usually one person makes a request," he admitted. "Because no one knows my songs that well."
The last request shouted out was for "Tatooine," which he explained had been written when he began to wonder if he could ever love someone as much as he'd loved "Star Wars" as a kid. "This song was my way of working through that."
Calling it the best love song he'd written, they did "I Want to be Your One Night Stand," but his sense of humor was just as evident on "I Need a Hit Man for My Heart."
Saying he took the title from a motivational poster he'd seen, "Someday, Someone" was the barn burner of a finale.
Someday someone will love the f*ck out of you
Love your crazy point of view
Love you when you're feeling blue
They'll love everything you do
Someone true
Someday soon
When they finished it, Jeremy said that now was the time that they were supposed to go offstage and wait for 20 minutes but that that was stupid and he wasn't going to do it. "Because I respect your time too much," he said as introduction for the encore.
Nerdy and considerate, a real catch!
Of course they began with the exuberant "Ghost," a song so clever and smart that it's bound to get played more on the radio.
If there's a line I will cross it, no lesson I will learn
Even if I'm standing on it, no bridge that I won't burn
They finished out the encore with the keyboard-driven "Violet," a song that drew from equal parts Beach Boys and Partridge Family, a pop gem with dark but hopeful lyrics sung with the most incredible vocal harmonies sounding so sunny I had to smile just listening.
Or maybe that was just my reaction to a fabulous quickie getaway evening with words and music by my favorite kind of man: smart and funny.
The kind you want to be so much more than a one night stand because he loves my point of view.
And if he brings Verdejo, all the better.
What I did do was accept a date to take a road trip to Charlottesville to see Jeremy Messersmith at the Southern.
The closer to C-ville we got, the more we saw the sun until the gray skies of Richmond were lost in the rear-view mirror.
On the way, we discussed the article "The 30 Places to Eat in Virginia Before You Die," taking issue with some and, at least in my case, eager to try others. More reasons for road trips, yes!
Once arrived, we walked to South Street Brewery for a bite to eat before the show, joining a crowd of beer drinkers at the bar but opting instead for a bottle of local Potter's Craft cider, pale, tart and very dry.
Spotting blue nachos on the menu, I decided to make my dinner of the elevated bar staple. My favorite nachos involve blue chips and black beans, onions (these had both red onions and scallions) and cheese. Black and blues, as one now defunct RVA restaurant used to call them.
They're harder to find than you might think, since few places use blue chips and most pile on lettuce and tomatoes when I want neither, while onions of any kind are missing in action.
So despite having no interest in brews, I had a delightful brewery dinner, including a great view of an unexpected downpour outside the big front windows.
When the rain stopped and the sun returned, we made a dash for the Southern on the downtown mall, joining a suspiciously small group of people there. Maybe the weather was delaying people. Surely more people were coming to the show than this?
Let's put it this way: we walked in and found tall seats with a clear view of the stage to sit in and this is a venue where every time I've been, it's been a standing crowd with tall people blocking my view.
When opener Big Scary, an Australian duo, came out, the audience was only a dozen strong, a pretty pathetic showing, which was too bad because the band's sound was all over the place with something to please everyone.
Through songs such as the garage rock-y "Gladiator" to the more melancholy "Belgian Blues" to "Phil Collins," which used a drum pad to the interplay of Tom and Joanna's vocals over a languidly-paced song structure reminding me of the XX, it was all interesting enough to want to hear what they would do next.
Luckily, more people arrived during the break so when Jeremy Messersmith and his band mates took the stage, the crowd had maybe tripled. Not great, not enough, but a tad better.
You could say Jeremy makes nerd music or you could say he makes smart pop music or you could say his offbeat songwriting topics are his strength. All of that's true.
With a guitarist, bassist, keyboard player and drummer, Jeremy played both acoustic and electric guitar and used his beautiful voice to engage the crowd almost immediately.
The band played through several songs - "Tourniquet" about him being just that for a girl and "Knots" about falling for a girl drummer.
But the song that grabbed me and wouldn't let go was "It's Only Dancing," a charging lament about holding a girl in his arms who doesn't belong to him.
I pull you close, hold my breath
Feel your heartbeat through your summer dress
Shuffle our feet slowly to the stereo
With the band in high gear behind him, the song could have been an outtake from a '90s-era Bo Deans song, all roots rock swagger and energy. Magnificent.
Soon the band left Jeremy onstage alone and he asked for requests from the audience, and while there weren't many of us, there were enough real fans to throw out 7 or 8 suggestions, throwing him off.
"Usually one person makes a request," he admitted. "Because no one knows my songs that well."
The last request shouted out was for "Tatooine," which he explained had been written when he began to wonder if he could ever love someone as much as he'd loved "Star Wars" as a kid. "This song was my way of working through that."
Calling it the best love song he'd written, they did "I Want to be Your One Night Stand," but his sense of humor was just as evident on "I Need a Hit Man for My Heart."
Saying he took the title from a motivational poster he'd seen, "Someday, Someone" was the barn burner of a finale.
Someday someone will love the f*ck out of you
Love your crazy point of view
Love you when you're feeling blue
They'll love everything you do
Someone true
Someday soon
When they finished it, Jeremy said that now was the time that they were supposed to go offstage and wait for 20 minutes but that that was stupid and he wasn't going to do it. "Because I respect your time too much," he said as introduction for the encore.
Nerdy and considerate, a real catch!
Of course they began with the exuberant "Ghost," a song so clever and smart that it's bound to get played more on the radio.
If there's a line I will cross it, no lesson I will learn
Even if I'm standing on it, no bridge that I won't burn
They finished out the encore with the keyboard-driven "Violet," a song that drew from equal parts Beach Boys and Partridge Family, a pop gem with dark but hopeful lyrics sung with the most incredible vocal harmonies sounding so sunny I had to smile just listening.
Or maybe that was just my reaction to a fabulous quickie getaway evening with words and music by my favorite kind of man: smart and funny.
The kind you want to be so much more than a one night stand because he loves my point of view.
And if he brings Verdejo, all the better.
Friday, January 25, 2013
I Got It
Not sure which was more random, Stonewall Jackson or The Stranger.
With a show in Charlottesville tonight, the plan was to hit White Hall Vineyards, eat dinner and hear fuzzed out music.
Kind of a perfect day, actually.
By a lucky coincidence, it had snowed lightly last night so heading into the mountains was a visual treat.
Fields and pastures were covered in a thin layer of snow so barns sat on white against the brilliant blue sky.
In some shadier patches of curving back roads, there was even still ice on the road at late afternoon.
Arriving at White Hall, we found neither cars nor people.
Apparently the weather had closed them down tight, which wasn't a problem except I'd been hoping to use their, ahem, facilities.
Back up the road we went to Stinson Vineyards, a tiny boutique winery at the foot of the mountains.
The kind of place where you pull up to the tasting room and the owners come running from their house across the driveway.
It was that 1790 house, the one they're busy refurbishing, that had hosted Stonewall Jackson during the Valley campaign. His troops had slept on the lawn.
As if that historical tidbit wasn't cool enough, it turned out that the original vines had been planted 40 years ago by Gabriele Rausse, one of my very favorite Virginia winemakers.
The Mrs. did the tasting with us, saying that she and her husband had moved down from Bethesda and that their daughter was the winemaker.
When her husband heard I was a native Washingtonian, we compared births only to find that we'd been born in the same hospital.
Small world.
We tasted through a Provencal-style Rose, a non-oak monster Chardonnay, both red and white table wines, a lovely Meritage, a late harvest Petit Manseng and a port-style Imperialis, made with Tannat, a rustic grape I'd discovered through a Uruguayan winemaker and loved.
Unexpectedly, we also had a bonus red, Tusk Mountain Vineyards' La Tour d'Afton, a Bordeaux-style blend.
Tusk's wines are not available to the public, but the engineer/winemaker allows Stinson to round out their list with his.
So a pit stop at Stinson had served up all kinds of unexpected treats.
Dinner followed at the Blue Moon Diner, mainly to avoid the downtown mall and because they had so many great album covers in the window.
I'm not going to lie, it was a little cool at our window table, but the vibe was relaxed and clearly most people were regulars with names the staff knew.
Shrimp dumplings came with cabbage and angry mayo, an apt name for a habanero-infused mayo.
While eating them, we realized that Billy Joel's "The Stranger" album was on.
Not a song, or two, but the entire album, which I'd never heard.
When I asked, our sever said he'd been "grandfathered in as the DJ" and he'd chosen the music, gesturing to the long rows of record albums in the two front windows.
I gotta say, any time a Richmond restaurant wants to jump on this trend and play records during dinner service, I will be your devoted fan.
Given temperatures in the teens, I wanted the chicken pot pie, made with Polyface farms organic chicken, carrots, peas, corn, celery and onions with a puff pastry crust.
Personally, I'd rather have traditional biscuit crust on a pot pie, but the choice wasn't mine.
Digging in deep to the little Dutch oven, I found a bottom layer of mashed potatoes under the meaty pot pie, a filling and welcome addition to a dish that easily served two.
We finished with Barry White on the stereo and the grills-wich, as classic a diner dessert as I could imagine.
Grilled Krispy Kreme donuts were topped with Chaps ice cream (a local thing) and chocolate syrup.
It certainly wasn't ice cream weather, but the grilled doughnuts turned out to be far tastier than you might expect.
On the other hand, I don't need to eat them again any time soon.
As I got up to leave, I heard my name called and there were two Richmond friends having dinner at the bar.
Smaller world.
From there, we headed to the Jefferson to see Yo La Tengo, where I was certain I'd see more people I knew.
I didn't even get inside before spotting an "old rocker" (his words, not mine) at the box office.
Inside, I found a couple of young rockers I knew.
The pace was crawling with familiar faces.
Not enough to sell out, which surprised me, but a good-sized crowd nonetheless.
The stage was set with three green wooden trees before the three members of YLT came out.
"Our Way to Fall" set the tone for the first set with a simple acoustic bent that carried through till intermission.
All slow songs, no screaming feedback. Highly suspicious for YLT.
And the devoted audience got it, shutting up entirely.
It was beautiful.
In between songs, a fan called out a request and leader Ira said, "That doesn't exactly fit the format," before pausing.
"Although I don't know why I said that. We have an a capella version of that song that would knock your socks off."
Of course they do. Only Yo la Tengo.
A few songs more in and Ira told the crowd, "I'm sorry to see the Jefferson go."
What was this?
"Every venue Yo La Tengo has played in Charlottesville has closed. So either this is Yo la Tengo's last show in Charlottesville or this place is closing."
Yo la Tengo humor.
But come to think of it, I'd seen them five yars ago at the Satellite Ballroom and that was long-gone. Hmmm...
Before their last song, Ira said they were going to take a break, move some shrubbery and come back for a second set.
As my guitarist friend had guessed after the very first song, the plan was for the second set to be full on electric.
They came screaming back with "Nothing to Hide" and all the fuzz the crowd had hoped for.
Well, we're gonna wait, wait
See what comes after
Wait, wait, harder not faster
As I heard the first notes of "Sugarcube," my guitarist friend leaned in and beamed. "That's my guitar."
I'm sure he meant the brand not that instrument.
"Little Honda" got cranked up until it exploded into a guitar solo with Ira playing his guitar in the air, on the floor and swinging it 360 degrees around to make sound.
First gear, it's alright
Second gear, hang on tight
Third gear, ain't I right?
Faster, it's all right
Only Yo la Tengo cover a Beach Boys motorcycle song.
Meanwhile, a distressingly large number of twenty-somethings around me plugged their ears with their fingers.
Really, kids? If not now, when?
Haven't you heard that youth is when you destroy your hearing with loud shows?
After feeding our feedback frenzy, the band said goodnight and stayed away until it seemed unlikely they'd come back.
When they did, it was as their alter-ego, Condo Fucks, a proto-punk band who played "Whatcha Gonna Do About It?" with snarl and volume.
Explaining that Condo had been on hiatus, Ira announced some new material and they did "Bastards of Love."
Because there's nowhere to go after a Condo Fucks set, they finished with a simple version of The Troggs' "With a Girl Like You," sung simply by Georgia.
It was as far away from their screaming guitar sound as could be had, making it the perfect finish.
Only Yo la Tengo.
Completely satisfied, we went to leave, only to have them return for one last song before calling it a night.
A cold night. It was thirteen degrees on the way home from the show.
And totally worth venturing out on such a frigid night.
At least with a girl like me. Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba.
With a show in Charlottesville tonight, the plan was to hit White Hall Vineyards, eat dinner and hear fuzzed out music.
Kind of a perfect day, actually.
By a lucky coincidence, it had snowed lightly last night so heading into the mountains was a visual treat.
Fields and pastures were covered in a thin layer of snow so barns sat on white against the brilliant blue sky.
In some shadier patches of curving back roads, there was even still ice on the road at late afternoon.
Arriving at White Hall, we found neither cars nor people.
Apparently the weather had closed them down tight, which wasn't a problem except I'd been hoping to use their, ahem, facilities.
Back up the road we went to Stinson Vineyards, a tiny boutique winery at the foot of the mountains.
The kind of place where you pull up to the tasting room and the owners come running from their house across the driveway.
It was that 1790 house, the one they're busy refurbishing, that had hosted Stonewall Jackson during the Valley campaign. His troops had slept on the lawn.
As if that historical tidbit wasn't cool enough, it turned out that the original vines had been planted 40 years ago by Gabriele Rausse, one of my very favorite Virginia winemakers.
The Mrs. did the tasting with us, saying that she and her husband had moved down from Bethesda and that their daughter was the winemaker.
When her husband heard I was a native Washingtonian, we compared births only to find that we'd been born in the same hospital.
Small world.
We tasted through a Provencal-style Rose, a non-oak monster Chardonnay, both red and white table wines, a lovely Meritage, a late harvest Petit Manseng and a port-style Imperialis, made with Tannat, a rustic grape I'd discovered through a Uruguayan winemaker and loved.
Unexpectedly, we also had a bonus red, Tusk Mountain Vineyards' La Tour d'Afton, a Bordeaux-style blend.
Tusk's wines are not available to the public, but the engineer/winemaker allows Stinson to round out their list with his.
So a pit stop at Stinson had served up all kinds of unexpected treats.
Dinner followed at the Blue Moon Diner, mainly to avoid the downtown mall and because they had so many great album covers in the window.
I'm not going to lie, it was a little cool at our window table, but the vibe was relaxed and clearly most people were regulars with names the staff knew.
Shrimp dumplings came with cabbage and angry mayo, an apt name for a habanero-infused mayo.
While eating them, we realized that Billy Joel's "The Stranger" album was on.
Not a song, or two, but the entire album, which I'd never heard.
When I asked, our sever said he'd been "grandfathered in as the DJ" and he'd chosen the music, gesturing to the long rows of record albums in the two front windows.
I gotta say, any time a Richmond restaurant wants to jump on this trend and play records during dinner service, I will be your devoted fan.
Given temperatures in the teens, I wanted the chicken pot pie, made with Polyface farms organic chicken, carrots, peas, corn, celery and onions with a puff pastry crust.
Personally, I'd rather have traditional biscuit crust on a pot pie, but the choice wasn't mine.
Digging in deep to the little Dutch oven, I found a bottom layer of mashed potatoes under the meaty pot pie, a filling and welcome addition to a dish that easily served two.
We finished with Barry White on the stereo and the grills-wich, as classic a diner dessert as I could imagine.
Grilled Krispy Kreme donuts were topped with Chaps ice cream (a local thing) and chocolate syrup.
It certainly wasn't ice cream weather, but the grilled doughnuts turned out to be far tastier than you might expect.
On the other hand, I don't need to eat them again any time soon.
As I got up to leave, I heard my name called and there were two Richmond friends having dinner at the bar.
Smaller world.
From there, we headed to the Jefferson to see Yo La Tengo, where I was certain I'd see more people I knew.
I didn't even get inside before spotting an "old rocker" (his words, not mine) at the box office.
Inside, I found a couple of young rockers I knew.
The pace was crawling with familiar faces.
Not enough to sell out, which surprised me, but a good-sized crowd nonetheless.
The stage was set with three green wooden trees before the three members of YLT came out.
"Our Way to Fall" set the tone for the first set with a simple acoustic bent that carried through till intermission.
All slow songs, no screaming feedback. Highly suspicious for YLT.
And the devoted audience got it, shutting up entirely.
It was beautiful.
In between songs, a fan called out a request and leader Ira said, "That doesn't exactly fit the format," before pausing.
"Although I don't know why I said that. We have an a capella version of that song that would knock your socks off."
Of course they do. Only Yo la Tengo.
A few songs more in and Ira told the crowd, "I'm sorry to see the Jefferson go."
What was this?
"Every venue Yo La Tengo has played in Charlottesville has closed. So either this is Yo la Tengo's last show in Charlottesville or this place is closing."
Yo la Tengo humor.
But come to think of it, I'd seen them five yars ago at the Satellite Ballroom and that was long-gone. Hmmm...
Before their last song, Ira said they were going to take a break, move some shrubbery and come back for a second set.
As my guitarist friend had guessed after the very first song, the plan was for the second set to be full on electric.
They came screaming back with "Nothing to Hide" and all the fuzz the crowd had hoped for.
Well, we're gonna wait, wait
See what comes after
Wait, wait, harder not faster
As I heard the first notes of "Sugarcube," my guitarist friend leaned in and beamed. "That's my guitar."
I'm sure he meant the brand not that instrument.
"Little Honda" got cranked up until it exploded into a guitar solo with Ira playing his guitar in the air, on the floor and swinging it 360 degrees around to make sound.
First gear, it's alright
Second gear, hang on tight
Third gear, ain't I right?
Faster, it's all right
Only Yo la Tengo cover a Beach Boys motorcycle song.
Meanwhile, a distressingly large number of twenty-somethings around me plugged their ears with their fingers.
Really, kids? If not now, when?
Haven't you heard that youth is when you destroy your hearing with loud shows?
After feeding our feedback frenzy, the band said goodnight and stayed away until it seemed unlikely they'd come back.
When they did, it was as their alter-ego, Condo Fucks, a proto-punk band who played "Whatcha Gonna Do About It?" with snarl and volume.
Explaining that Condo had been on hiatus, Ira announced some new material and they did "Bastards of Love."
Because there's nowhere to go after a Condo Fucks set, they finished with a simple version of The Troggs' "With a Girl Like You," sung simply by Georgia.
It was as far away from their screaming guitar sound as could be had, making it the perfect finish.
Only Yo la Tengo.
Completely satisfied, we went to leave, only to have them return for one last song before calling it a night.
A cold night. It was thirteen degrees on the way home from the show.
And totally worth venturing out on such a frigid night.
At least with a girl like me. Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Soggy Sal and Grand Passion
I took the handoff from last night.
Since I'd so enjoyed the Del Fosse Cuvee Laurent I'd been drinking, why not a leisurely drive to the source of it to taste the rest of Del Fosse's wines?
I took it as a sign when this morning's weather morphed from a light rain when I walked to sunshine an hour later.
A plan was hatched and a willing partner in crime found.
The trip to Lovingston to visit Del Fosse Winery was a study in naked mountains since the trees out there were leafless against the landscape.
We were the only visitors at the winery, although our pourer assured us that they'd been getting all kinds of day trippers since the weather turned warm this week.
I'd been especially excited when we'd arrived to see signs pointing to "Trails," only to learn that the trails are closed at the moment.
It's killing wild animals season, so I'll have to return after the first week in January to ensure an errant bullet doesn't harsh my wine mellow.
With no trails to walk, we did the full reserve tasting of fourteen wines.
Our pourer was knowledgeable but she had the squeaky voice of a seven-year old girl, making for an interesting contrast when discussing tannins and structure.
When all was said and done (or poured out), I still liked the Cuvee Laurent, but it was the Petit Verdot that came back to Richmond with us.
We'd lingered long enough that dusk was approaching when we left, so we hit the road for Charlottesville.
After wandering around the UVA area (no one on earth could mistake a UVA student for a VCU student, that's for sure), we made tracks for the downtown mall.
Not wanting to repeat ourselves, we ended up at Sal's Caffe Italia, the kind of place with old black and white photographs of (presumably) Sal's family covering an entire wall.
The music was a given: Sinatra, big band, Louie Armstrong.
We went just as conventional with the meal.
An Italian salad was overdressed, but had olives and anchovies to compensate.
A quattro gusti pizza promised artichokes, ham, anchovies and sliced tomatoes, a promise it didn't fulfill because the tomatoes were of the canned variety and the juices leaked out everywhere making a soggy mess of the flavorful crust.
Sal, you need to be paying more attention here, buddy.
Those people on the wall would not be happy with a plate full of soggy crust.
As long as we were right there, it seemed like a good idea to see a movie, too.
Walking into the theater, a woman standing outside talking loudly on her phone promised, "I can get you two or three hundred dollars," leaving us to wonder what that situation was all about.
I'll never know because I went to the ladies' room only to discover a scale that read, "Check your weight! Stand still on scale and deposit coin" in bold, red letters.
Weight, schmate.
With Milk Duds and tickets for "Anna Karenina" in hand, we joined a small group in theater #3.
Three were two teen-aged girls very busy texting, three middle-aged woman who discussed the movie throughout and a 20-something guy behind us who made bored noises loudly throughout the film.
Which was kind of hard to understand given how the classic Tolstoy story played out onscreen.
Stuffy historical drama it was not.
The brilliance came from using playwright Tom Stoppard as the screenwriter.
I was reminded of Stoppard's play "Arcadia," with its time and location shifts because this one shifted from a crumbling theater where some of the action plays out on stage to the real world and back and forth throughout.
But even if the guy was bored or confused by that, I thought there was too much eye candy to look at to be as bored as he sounded.
The sets were sumptuous - opera boxes, grand ballrooms, elegant train compartments.
The costumes were exquisite - the face veils! the muffs! the hats!
Even the dancing was like nothing I'd ever seen, with elaborate hand and arm gestures occupying the ball goers as they waltzed around the floor.
And the cinematography was a work of art - long, continuous shots instead of quick cuts and 360-degree angles on the dance floor that made me feel I was being led around the floor by a dashing cavalry officer.
And, of course, because of their terrific sexual chemistry, there was the language of love.
When Count Vronsky is eager to see Anna, he goes to an art museum because he thinks she will be there.
"I didn't know you were an art lover," a friend says to him.
"I am prepared to be," he answers emphatically.
To the texting teens, that line probably didn't even get noticed.
With the three women, one of them probably said, "Yea, he says that now, but just wait, honey."
And the guy behind me, well, he just yawned.
Not me. After Tolstoy and Stoppard, I am prepared to be anything I need to be.
Well, anything except the doomed lover who throws herself in front of a train.
I am nothing if not practical.
Since I'd so enjoyed the Del Fosse Cuvee Laurent I'd been drinking, why not a leisurely drive to the source of it to taste the rest of Del Fosse's wines?
I took it as a sign when this morning's weather morphed from a light rain when I walked to sunshine an hour later.
A plan was hatched and a willing partner in crime found.
The trip to Lovingston to visit Del Fosse Winery was a study in naked mountains since the trees out there were leafless against the landscape.
We were the only visitors at the winery, although our pourer assured us that they'd been getting all kinds of day trippers since the weather turned warm this week.
I'd been especially excited when we'd arrived to see signs pointing to "Trails," only to learn that the trails are closed at the moment.
It's killing wild animals season, so I'll have to return after the first week in January to ensure an errant bullet doesn't harsh my wine mellow.
With no trails to walk, we did the full reserve tasting of fourteen wines.
Our pourer was knowledgeable but she had the squeaky voice of a seven-year old girl, making for an interesting contrast when discussing tannins and structure.
When all was said and done (or poured out), I still liked the Cuvee Laurent, but it was the Petit Verdot that came back to Richmond with us.
We'd lingered long enough that dusk was approaching when we left, so we hit the road for Charlottesville.
After wandering around the UVA area (no one on earth could mistake a UVA student for a VCU student, that's for sure), we made tracks for the downtown mall.
Not wanting to repeat ourselves, we ended up at Sal's Caffe Italia, the kind of place with old black and white photographs of (presumably) Sal's family covering an entire wall.
The music was a given: Sinatra, big band, Louie Armstrong.
We went just as conventional with the meal.
An Italian salad was overdressed, but had olives and anchovies to compensate.
A quattro gusti pizza promised artichokes, ham, anchovies and sliced tomatoes, a promise it didn't fulfill because the tomatoes were of the canned variety and the juices leaked out everywhere making a soggy mess of the flavorful crust.
Sal, you need to be paying more attention here, buddy.
Those people on the wall would not be happy with a plate full of soggy crust.
As long as we were right there, it seemed like a good idea to see a movie, too.
Walking into the theater, a woman standing outside talking loudly on her phone promised, "I can get you two or three hundred dollars," leaving us to wonder what that situation was all about.
I'll never know because I went to the ladies' room only to discover a scale that read, "Check your weight! Stand still on scale and deposit coin" in bold, red letters.
Weight, schmate.
With Milk Duds and tickets for "Anna Karenina" in hand, we joined a small group in theater #3.
Three were two teen-aged girls very busy texting, three middle-aged woman who discussed the movie throughout and a 20-something guy behind us who made bored noises loudly throughout the film.
Which was kind of hard to understand given how the classic Tolstoy story played out onscreen.
Stuffy historical drama it was not.
The brilliance came from using playwright Tom Stoppard as the screenwriter.
I was reminded of Stoppard's play "Arcadia," with its time and location shifts because this one shifted from a crumbling theater where some of the action plays out on stage to the real world and back and forth throughout.
But even if the guy was bored or confused by that, I thought there was too much eye candy to look at to be as bored as he sounded.
The sets were sumptuous - opera boxes, grand ballrooms, elegant train compartments.
The costumes were exquisite - the face veils! the muffs! the hats!
Even the dancing was like nothing I'd ever seen, with elaborate hand and arm gestures occupying the ball goers as they waltzed around the floor.
And the cinematography was a work of art - long, continuous shots instead of quick cuts and 360-degree angles on the dance floor that made me feel I was being led around the floor by a dashing cavalry officer.
And, of course, because of their terrific sexual chemistry, there was the language of love.
When Count Vronsky is eager to see Anna, he goes to an art museum because he thinks she will be there.
"I didn't know you were an art lover," a friend says to him.
"I am prepared to be," he answers emphatically.
To the texting teens, that line probably didn't even get noticed.
With the three women, one of them probably said, "Yea, he says that now, but just wait, honey."
And the guy behind me, well, he just yawned.
Not me. After Tolstoy and Stoppard, I am prepared to be anything I need to be.
Well, anything except the doomed lover who throws herself in front of a train.
I am nothing if not practical.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Like Shooting Fish in a Barrel
The guy with the bottle of wine approved of our Monday.
Not that I need other people's approval, but he offered it up unsolicited.
Anyway, "pretty good" is probably in the eye of the beholder, but on a hot Monday, it's hard to beat a drive to Charlottesville for an easy escape plan.
Stop #1 was Chiles Peach Orchard, passing Beagle Gap (causing me to think of my dearly departed beagle) on the winding country road that led to the orchard.
Between the cloud cover and a light breeze, it was actually a fine day to pick peaches, so we started in the main orchard where the fruit of yellow peaches was more accurately a reddish blush-color.
We agreed that the view of the rows of trees leading up and over the hill was positively Italian looking.
The trees were loaded and, with no one else in sight, we began picking fruit, intending to use it to make peach ice cream once it ripens.
It's a no-brainer; I've seen grown men go weak at the knees at the mention of peach ice cream.
Next we walked up the road a bit to the orchard where we could pick donut peaches, those lovely heirloom varieties that, to quote a peach-lover, "are smaller and cost more but are totally worth it."
Even with my peach allergy which limits how many and how often I can eat them, I'll still eat a ripe donut peach this time of year.
What's a swollen tongue and an itchy mouth when compared to the sublime taste of a ripe peach in July?
By the time we finished picking, we had nearly ten pounds of fruit and a light rain had begun so we got ourselves back to the Chile's store for cover.
Next thing we knew, it was starting to thunder over the mountaintop, so we decided to stay put and enjoy a fresh peach milkshake on the store's porch.
Sitting at a picnic table under an umbrella facing the mountains drinking peaches and cream and watching a train thread its way through the mountainous track in a steadily-falling rain is top-notch goofing off.
Eventually, we made our way to the car and set our sights on nearby King Family Winery, no easy task in what became a driving rain.
After a short roadside stop to wait out the worst of the thunderstorm, we made it to King just as another storm began pounding the polo fields.
It didn't bother us. We'd wanted to get some wine anyway (Crose Rose and Loreley), so we decided to do a tasting in the meantime.
Since our last visit for a polo match in early June, the new Viognier and Chardonnay had been released, thus providing the justification for a thorough tasting.
As a bonus, our pourer had a just-opened bottle of the 2009 Petit Verdot which he deigned to share with us.
I know it's not a grape everyone can get into, but it suits me in that way that Pinotage or Norton does.
We mentioned the train we'd just seen at the orchard and were surprised when he said he knew nothing of any nearby trains.
What? We'd been there for an afternoon and we knew about them. How could he not?
Luckily another employee walked out then and overheard us.
And he had the scoop on trains in the area.
Seems that one Claudius Crozet had been responsible for engineering the tunnels through the Blue Ridge to allow trains to cross the mountains.
The town of Crozet had grown up to house the workers who built the tunnel (before dynamite, it should be noted), he said.
So there was our mid-afternoon history lesson.
Our pourer asked where we were from and what we were doing and upon hearing our itinerary, observed, "Peaches, wine and food. Sounds like a perfect goof-off day."
It got even better when we left King Family to head into Charlottesville, passing through not one but two rainbows, one so low it appeared to be coming out of a nearby grove of trees.
We followed the end of the rainbow to Star Hill Park for happy hour on a blanket-covered bench in a deserted grassy field.
And while there were munchies, it soon became clear that our farm labor activities required more sustenance, so we drove to the downtown mall.
Agreeing to make one full loop of the mall before choosing a dinner destination, we took our time looking in shop windows and at menus before deciding on Citizen Burger Bar.
Honestly, it was as simple as I liked the way their hours were written on the white brick wall outside.
Sometimes, I'm so easy.
But I must have been hungry, too, because I was willing to overlook one of my pet peeves, the annoying four screens over the bar.
And that was before I heard that the music was all grunge, all the time, with only one side trip to Counting Crows.
Veritas sauvignon blanc allowed us to keep drinking local.
A wedge salad was notable for its Neuske's bacon and roasted garlic cloves.
Unlike at Burger Bach where the choices are "pink" and "not pink," here we had those two options plus "red."
And since it was grass-fed beef, we went red.
The Citizen burger had Gruyere cheese, black onion, rosemary aioli, iceberg and tomato on a brioche bun and getting it "red" had been the right call.
By the time the music got to Screaming Trees, we were ready to go foraging on the mall for dessert.
Splendora's Gelato lured us in and I went all Italian all the time with two scoops, one of Bacio (chocolate hazelnut crunch) and one of Stracciatella (dark chocolate flakes in cream).
If it sounds like a lot of butterfat, it was, but some people got a whopping four scoops, so I could have been far more indulgent and fit right in.
Driving home with the sky full of stars, so much easier to see so far out, was the perfect ending to a day where the hardest thing we'd done was pull fruit off of low-hanging branches.
There's a metaphor there, but I'll leave that for the non-goof-offs to figure out.
Not that I need other people's approval, but he offered it up unsolicited.
Anyway, "pretty good" is probably in the eye of the beholder, but on a hot Monday, it's hard to beat a drive to Charlottesville for an easy escape plan.
Stop #1 was Chiles Peach Orchard, passing Beagle Gap (causing me to think of my dearly departed beagle) on the winding country road that led to the orchard.
Between the cloud cover and a light breeze, it was actually a fine day to pick peaches, so we started in the main orchard where the fruit of yellow peaches was more accurately a reddish blush-color.
We agreed that the view of the rows of trees leading up and over the hill was positively Italian looking.
The trees were loaded and, with no one else in sight, we began picking fruit, intending to use it to make peach ice cream once it ripens.
It's a no-brainer; I've seen grown men go weak at the knees at the mention of peach ice cream.
Next we walked up the road a bit to the orchard where we could pick donut peaches, those lovely heirloom varieties that, to quote a peach-lover, "are smaller and cost more but are totally worth it."
Even with my peach allergy which limits how many and how often I can eat them, I'll still eat a ripe donut peach this time of year.
What's a swollen tongue and an itchy mouth when compared to the sublime taste of a ripe peach in July?
By the time we finished picking, we had nearly ten pounds of fruit and a light rain had begun so we got ourselves back to the Chile's store for cover.
Next thing we knew, it was starting to thunder over the mountaintop, so we decided to stay put and enjoy a fresh peach milkshake on the store's porch.
Sitting at a picnic table under an umbrella facing the mountains drinking peaches and cream and watching a train thread its way through the mountainous track in a steadily-falling rain is top-notch goofing off.
Eventually, we made our way to the car and set our sights on nearby King Family Winery, no easy task in what became a driving rain.
After a short roadside stop to wait out the worst of the thunderstorm, we made it to King just as another storm began pounding the polo fields.
It didn't bother us. We'd wanted to get some wine anyway (Crose Rose and Loreley), so we decided to do a tasting in the meantime.
Since our last visit for a polo match in early June, the new Viognier and Chardonnay had been released, thus providing the justification for a thorough tasting.
As a bonus, our pourer had a just-opened bottle of the 2009 Petit Verdot which he deigned to share with us.
I know it's not a grape everyone can get into, but it suits me in that way that Pinotage or Norton does.
We mentioned the train we'd just seen at the orchard and were surprised when he said he knew nothing of any nearby trains.
What? We'd been there for an afternoon and we knew about them. How could he not?
Luckily another employee walked out then and overheard us.
And he had the scoop on trains in the area.
Seems that one Claudius Crozet had been responsible for engineering the tunnels through the Blue Ridge to allow trains to cross the mountains.
The town of Crozet had grown up to house the workers who built the tunnel (before dynamite, it should be noted), he said.
So there was our mid-afternoon history lesson.
Our pourer asked where we were from and what we were doing and upon hearing our itinerary, observed, "Peaches, wine and food. Sounds like a perfect goof-off day."
It got even better when we left King Family to head into Charlottesville, passing through not one but two rainbows, one so low it appeared to be coming out of a nearby grove of trees.
We followed the end of the rainbow to Star Hill Park for happy hour on a blanket-covered bench in a deserted grassy field.
And while there were munchies, it soon became clear that our farm labor activities required more sustenance, so we drove to the downtown mall.
Agreeing to make one full loop of the mall before choosing a dinner destination, we took our time looking in shop windows and at menus before deciding on Citizen Burger Bar.
Honestly, it was as simple as I liked the way their hours were written on the white brick wall outside.
Sometimes, I'm so easy.
But I must have been hungry, too, because I was willing to overlook one of my pet peeves, the annoying four screens over the bar.
And that was before I heard that the music was all grunge, all the time, with only one side trip to Counting Crows.
Veritas sauvignon blanc allowed us to keep drinking local.
A wedge salad was notable for its Neuske's bacon and roasted garlic cloves.
Unlike at Burger Bach where the choices are "pink" and "not pink," here we had those two options plus "red."
And since it was grass-fed beef, we went red.
The Citizen burger had Gruyere cheese, black onion, rosemary aioli, iceberg and tomato on a brioche bun and getting it "red" had been the right call.
By the time the music got to Screaming Trees, we were ready to go foraging on the mall for dessert.
Splendora's Gelato lured us in and I went all Italian all the time with two scoops, one of Bacio (chocolate hazelnut crunch) and one of Stracciatella (dark chocolate flakes in cream).
If it sounds like a lot of butterfat, it was, but some people got a whopping four scoops, so I could have been far more indulgent and fit right in.
Driving home with the sky full of stars, so much easier to see so far out, was the perfect ending to a day where the hardest thing we'd done was pull fruit off of low-hanging branches.
There's a metaphor there, but I'll leave that for the non-goof-offs to figure out.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Full Moon over Phantogram
What happened was I won.
One minute I was listening to public radio and then I was caller number five and got two tickets to Phantogram.
I then traded one of those tickets for a ride to Charlottesville and the pleasure of my company.
When you're suddenly gifted with tickets to a show you were considering seeing anyway, you have to make the most of it.
The drive to Charlottesville took us straight through hard rain and back out in about a minute.
Our destination was Starr Hill State Park, which I'm sure even most of Charlottesville doesn't know about, was positively sylvan.
Tucked away in a neighborhood of the tiniest houses on the narrowest streets, it was a grassy field.
The simplest of parks. A field.
Okay, with a garden including trees, Johnny Jump-ups and weeds near the back. And two benches at the top of the hill where the park sign was.
Benches are for park amateurs.
We spread a blanket facing the little woods for a Spanish/South African culture exchange (Manchego and Mulderbosch Rose).
The sky went from overcast to bright blue to roiling storm clouds while we enjoyed grapes on the grass.
But music called and dinner first, so we made our way to the mall.
We ended up at Bijou, a place I hadn't been since 2001 when I ate there with an old boyfriend during the Virginia Film Festival.
It was the year I heard Gena Rowlands speak.
To be honest, it didn't seem to have changed in a decade.
At the bar we had the distinct pleasure of being served by the host, also known as the owner's son.
It was his first might and he admitted he stumbled a few times. Luckily, not with the Prosecco.
I found his learning curve endearing.
Describing tonight's soup, he said it was a chilled tomato with crab when it was actually a charred tomato with crab.
"I was wrong," he came back soon after saying. "It's hot soup not cold."
We got it anyway, finding tons of crabmeat inside the thick broth,
A blue cheese salad was just that, more stinky cheese than anything (greens, candied walnuts, blueberry vinaigrette), which suited us fine.
Tuna ceviche tacos with ginger cucumber salsa, creme fraiche and baby greens in crispy flatbread taco shells had good crunch and flavor.
"They've been on the menu forever," the bartender said. "We can't take them off."
I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been on the menu last time I was in.
Dessert was a last minute call and two people said it was a house favorite.
Grilled banana bread with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce won't win any novelty awards, but delivered meal-end sweet.
The odyssey ended at the Jefferson Theater where I walked in and the wristband guy immediately began giving me one.
Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I asked, being a good, law-abiding citizen.
"Nah," he said, waving his hand and smiling. "I've seen you in here before."
Frequency makes it easier to flout the law apparently.
Openers Ki: Theory were playing their high energy electronica when we found our places in front of the sound booth.
Known for his remixes, we were treated to his of Ladytron's "Runaway."
In between sets, we were amused to see that coming soon were The Police (Experience) and Squeeze (Us), adequate cover band names perhaps but not in the league of Even Better Than the Real Thing.
And I'm not just saying that because my friend is The Edge.
A couple of WRIR DJs came in and said hello and with the other friend I'd seen earlier, I thought it was a decent RVA representation.
We were (I'm presuming) all there for Phantogram's beat-driven psych/dream pop.
They'd already earned points with me by citing Cocteau Twins, the Beatles and Sonic Youth as influences.
All my limited musical vocabulary can say is, whatever their guitar influences were, I was on board.
Swirling guitars (screaming post-punk like sometimes), spacey keyboards (what everybody's doing these days), lots of echo (Karen lovers her music from a cave) and airy vocals.
They were courtesy of the fishnetted keyboardist/singer Sarah, she of the swinging bob and expressive legs.
Nancy Wilson's legacy will live forever.
Saying,"We haven't played this in a long time," they played "Voices" and the crowd's enthusiasm seemed to please her.
The lights were integral to the set, the patterns and colors making it sometimes feel like a dance party in an abandoned building.
They encored with "Nightlife" and the show was over by 10:42.
Street beat psych pop bands wrap it up early in C-ville on a Monday night.
Fortunately, it left plenty of time to admire that huge, full moon hanging over the mountains on the drive home.
And once in my apartment, I found moonlit-flooded rooms in both the front and back.
We call that a winning evening.
One minute I was listening to public radio and then I was caller number five and got two tickets to Phantogram.
I then traded one of those tickets for a ride to Charlottesville and the pleasure of my company.
When you're suddenly gifted with tickets to a show you were considering seeing anyway, you have to make the most of it.
The drive to Charlottesville took us straight through hard rain and back out in about a minute.
Our destination was Starr Hill State Park, which I'm sure even most of Charlottesville doesn't know about, was positively sylvan.
Tucked away in a neighborhood of the tiniest houses on the narrowest streets, it was a grassy field.
The simplest of parks. A field.
Okay, with a garden including trees, Johnny Jump-ups and weeds near the back. And two benches at the top of the hill where the park sign was.
Benches are for park amateurs.
We spread a blanket facing the little woods for a Spanish/South African culture exchange (Manchego and Mulderbosch Rose).
The sky went from overcast to bright blue to roiling storm clouds while we enjoyed grapes on the grass.
But music called and dinner first, so we made our way to the mall.
We ended up at Bijou, a place I hadn't been since 2001 when I ate there with an old boyfriend during the Virginia Film Festival.
It was the year I heard Gena Rowlands speak.
To be honest, it didn't seem to have changed in a decade.
At the bar we had the distinct pleasure of being served by the host, also known as the owner's son.
It was his first might and he admitted he stumbled a few times. Luckily, not with the Prosecco.
I found his learning curve endearing.
Describing tonight's soup, he said it was a chilled tomato with crab when it was actually a charred tomato with crab.
"I was wrong," he came back soon after saying. "It's hot soup not cold."
We got it anyway, finding tons of crabmeat inside the thick broth,
A blue cheese salad was just that, more stinky cheese than anything (greens, candied walnuts, blueberry vinaigrette), which suited us fine.
Tuna ceviche tacos with ginger cucumber salsa, creme fraiche and baby greens in crispy flatbread taco shells had good crunch and flavor.
"They've been on the menu forever," the bartender said. "We can't take them off."
I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been on the menu last time I was in.
Dessert was a last minute call and two people said it was a house favorite.
Grilled banana bread with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce won't win any novelty awards, but delivered meal-end sweet.
The odyssey ended at the Jefferson Theater where I walked in and the wristband guy immediately began giving me one.
Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I asked, being a good, law-abiding citizen.
"Nah," he said, waving his hand and smiling. "I've seen you in here before."
Frequency makes it easier to flout the law apparently.
Openers Ki: Theory were playing their high energy electronica when we found our places in front of the sound booth.
Known for his remixes, we were treated to his of Ladytron's "Runaway."
In between sets, we were amused to see that coming soon were The Police (Experience) and Squeeze (Us), adequate cover band names perhaps but not in the league of Even Better Than the Real Thing.
And I'm not just saying that because my friend is The Edge.
A couple of WRIR DJs came in and said hello and with the other friend I'd seen earlier, I thought it was a decent RVA representation.
We were (I'm presuming) all there for Phantogram's beat-driven psych/dream pop.
They'd already earned points with me by citing Cocteau Twins, the Beatles and Sonic Youth as influences.
All my limited musical vocabulary can say is, whatever their guitar influences were, I was on board.
Swirling guitars (screaming post-punk like sometimes), spacey keyboards (what everybody's doing these days), lots of echo (Karen lovers her music from a cave) and airy vocals.
They were courtesy of the fishnetted keyboardist/singer Sarah, she of the swinging bob and expressive legs.
Nancy Wilson's legacy will live forever.
Saying,"We haven't played this in a long time," they played "Voices" and the crowd's enthusiasm seemed to please her.
The lights were integral to the set, the patterns and colors making it sometimes feel like a dance party in an abandoned building.
They encored with "Nightlife" and the show was over by 10:42.
Street beat psych pop bands wrap it up early in C-ville on a Monday night.
Fortunately, it left plenty of time to admire that huge, full moon hanging over the mountains on the drive home.
And once in my apartment, I found moonlit-flooded rooms in both the front and back.
We call that a winning evening.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Bringing Down the Dark Horse
Sometimes you have to sacrifice a gala for a road trip.
In this case, a road trip on a gloriously warm February evening for a drive under a sliver of a yellow moon to Charlottesville to see a swoon-worthy band.
I've been told by someone who should know that my taste in music leans toward the swoon.
So when a friend invited me to the Governor's Cup Gala tonight, I had to decline citing the ticket I bought a month and a half ago to see Other Lives, a band I'd first heard here, at the Southern.
Arriving on the Downtown Mall, I ducked into a Mexican hole-in-the wall for Baja-style fish tacos (lightly breaded tilapia with lime-cumin slaw and pico de gallo), queso and chips and a couple of the most wonderful house made Mexican chocolate icebox cookies imaginable.
At the Southern, I ran into a friend from Richmond who'd also been at the Black Iris show. She and some friends had been smart enough to get a room at a B & B tonight to avoid the drive home.
Note to self: do same for next C-ville show if at all possible.
Australian band Wim was the opener and they couldn't have been a better fit with Other Lives.
"We've come a very long way to entertain you," the lead singer said.
Their glam folk had a layered sound that rose up to meet his big voice (and dramatic hand gestures), but it was the four-part harmonies that won my heart.
That and the way the guitarist used a bow to play his guitar on certain songs.
The singer had a huge key chain on, noting, "It's very jangly, isn't it? I should use it like some kind of percussive instrument."
During the break, people were talking about how interesting and well-done their set had been.
It was then that my friend introduced me to a C-ville friend she'd suggested come to the show.
We ended up chatting for a while about music and Richmond (coincidentally, he used to live on Grace Street and had some great stories about it).
He'd found Wim to be "too frou-frou" for his taste and I had to assume that it was the glam element it had.
Despite our difference in musical opinion, he was kind enough to hold my spot while I ran to the bathroom.
There, the guy in front of me in line asked if I'd decided to come out tonight just to hear music.
No, I explained, I'd come to hear Other Lives. "Oh?" he said, suddenly seeing me in a new light.
He'd seen them open for Delta Spirit a couple of years ago and had liked them so much more than the headliner.
He was thrilled to have found a kindred soul and talked my ear off about the band before disappearing into the loo.
And then Other Lives came out and I was in full swoon mode.
How do I love thee, Other Lives? Let me count the ways.
I love your castanets, your trumpet, your three violins on any given song, your harmonica, your bells, your French horn, your cello.
I love seeing the drummer put his sticks down and play the clarinet.
I love seeing one member with a guitar slung around his body, holding his violin in his left hand and playing the trumpet with his right. And that's when he wasn't playing piano or keyboards.
Sigh. That's practically a music fan's wet dream.
Unlike the last time I'd seen the band, there was no Ramones cover, but we got to hear much more of their new album, "Tamer Animals" to beautiful effect.
They closed out their set with "Desert" before bandleader Jesse came back for one solo song and the band rejoined him.
"We loved playing here for you guys," Jesse said. "It feels real, so intimate. It's important for us to experience this."
No doubt he was thinking of their upcoming gig opening for the first leg of Radiohead's tour, where the crowd won't be two feet from their faces.
But I can't complain. I've now seen them in a room with thirty people and again with maybe a hundred and been blown away both times.
No doubt they had the same effect on Radiohead.
As I drove home under a canopy of stars before I hit the bright lights of RVA, I couldn't help but think about what a stellar night it had been, both musically and with the spectacular scenery of the skies on this unseasonably warm night.
But we're all just an end to a simple thing
And it's all you see, it's all you see
We're just tamer animals
I'm with Jesse. It's important to experience these things.
In this case, a road trip on a gloriously warm February evening for a drive under a sliver of a yellow moon to Charlottesville to see a swoon-worthy band.
I've been told by someone who should know that my taste in music leans toward the swoon.
So when a friend invited me to the Governor's Cup Gala tonight, I had to decline citing the ticket I bought a month and a half ago to see Other Lives, a band I'd first heard here, at the Southern.
Arriving on the Downtown Mall, I ducked into a Mexican hole-in-the wall for Baja-style fish tacos (lightly breaded tilapia with lime-cumin slaw and pico de gallo), queso and chips and a couple of the most wonderful house made Mexican chocolate icebox cookies imaginable.
At the Southern, I ran into a friend from Richmond who'd also been at the Black Iris show. She and some friends had been smart enough to get a room at a B & B tonight to avoid the drive home.
Note to self: do same for next C-ville show if at all possible.
Australian band Wim was the opener and they couldn't have been a better fit with Other Lives.
"We've come a very long way to entertain you," the lead singer said.
Their glam folk had a layered sound that rose up to meet his big voice (and dramatic hand gestures), but it was the four-part harmonies that won my heart.
That and the way the guitarist used a bow to play his guitar on certain songs.
The singer had a huge key chain on, noting, "It's very jangly, isn't it? I should use it like some kind of percussive instrument."
During the break, people were talking about how interesting and well-done their set had been.
It was then that my friend introduced me to a C-ville friend she'd suggested come to the show.
We ended up chatting for a while about music and Richmond (coincidentally, he used to live on Grace Street and had some great stories about it).
He'd found Wim to be "too frou-frou" for his taste and I had to assume that it was the glam element it had.
Despite our difference in musical opinion, he was kind enough to hold my spot while I ran to the bathroom.
There, the guy in front of me in line asked if I'd decided to come out tonight just to hear music.
No, I explained, I'd come to hear Other Lives. "Oh?" he said, suddenly seeing me in a new light.
He'd seen them open for Delta Spirit a couple of years ago and had liked them so much more than the headliner.
He was thrilled to have found a kindred soul and talked my ear off about the band before disappearing into the loo.
And then Other Lives came out and I was in full swoon mode.
How do I love thee, Other Lives? Let me count the ways.
I love your castanets, your trumpet, your three violins on any given song, your harmonica, your bells, your French horn, your cello.
I love seeing the drummer put his sticks down and play the clarinet.
I love seeing one member with a guitar slung around his body, holding his violin in his left hand and playing the trumpet with his right. And that's when he wasn't playing piano or keyboards.
Sigh. That's practically a music fan's wet dream.
Unlike the last time I'd seen the band, there was no Ramones cover, but we got to hear much more of their new album, "Tamer Animals" to beautiful effect.
They closed out their set with "Desert" before bandleader Jesse came back for one solo song and the band rejoined him.
"We loved playing here for you guys," Jesse said. "It feels real, so intimate. It's important for us to experience this."
No doubt he was thinking of their upcoming gig opening for the first leg of Radiohead's tour, where the crowd won't be two feet from their faces.
But I can't complain. I've now seen them in a room with thirty people and again with maybe a hundred and been blown away both times.
No doubt they had the same effect on Radiohead.
As I drove home under a canopy of stars before I hit the bright lights of RVA, I couldn't help but think about what a stellar night it had been, both musically and with the spectacular scenery of the skies on this unseasonably warm night.
But we're all just an end to a simple thing
And it's all you see, it's all you see
We're just tamer animals
I'm with Jesse. It's important to experience these things.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Tasting Like a Girl
Sometimes it's not where you go, but just that you're getting away.
A friend was in need of a road trip and sent me a list of options (National Zoo, Natural History Museum, river, Southern MD for crabs, and on and on), telling me to choose our destination.
I chose wineries and dinner in Charlottesville and we set off shortly after mid-day with ham biscuits and cookies in the cooler.
The bitch of it was that we hit a nearly one hour back-up twenty minutes outside of C-ville. So we sat, munched and chatted while waiting for the traffic to merge and move.
The delay changed our plans and we began our odyssey at King Family Vineyards, a stunning location from the moment we pulled in.
Bellying up to the tasting bar, we agreed to taste whatever they were pouring; sadly, that did not include the Cab Franc or Petite Verdot, two of my favorite grapes.
I liked the Crose' Rose' done in the Provence style, and the 2009 Meritage done in a Bordeaux style, but surprisingly, my/our favorite was the Loreley, a 2009 dessert wine.
Not to gush, but this "straw wine" (rather than an ice wine), a blend of Viognier and Petit Manseng, had to be one of the most delicately beautiful wines I've ever tasted.
Before I could self-edit, I described it as, "Tasting like a girl," and both our pourer and my companion agreed enthusiastically that that was a perfect description.
Tasting of tangerine, peach and gingerbread, it had the most beautiful aroma and a creamy mouth feel, but none of the excessive sugar you'd expect.
We were so impressed with it that we got two glasses of it and went outside to find a shaded table and enjoy it at our leisure.
King Family has a beautiful piece of property at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and we watched horses on the polo field as we sipped (they have weekly polo matches there on Sunday) and chatted.
A glass apiece was not sufficient, however, and we got two bottles so we could each have access to this creamy delight at home.
From there we backtracked across C-ville to Keswick Vineyards to see what they had to offer.
Their Italian grape Verdejo impressed us greatly with its drinkability and grassy notes. It was the best kind of summer wine.
The 2009 Petite Verdot had a big nose smelling of violets and with good tannins. I could see why it had won a Silver at the Virginia Governor's Cup.
But once again, we were blown away by their dessert offering, the 2009 Nektar, a dessert wine of 100% Viognier.
Neither of us are particularly inclined to dessert wines, but this high alcohol (14%) and high sugar (10%) beauty tasted like liquid apricots. Two more bottles were purchased, along with some Verdejo,
In spite of ourselves, we had become dessert wine fiends for a day and we had no idea what that was about.
While our charming pourer was having us taste Chocolate/Norton sauce over cookies (divine, really, but then I've always been a fan of the Norton grape), it occurred to me that he could be of assistance in our dinner plans.
We'd planned to return to C-ville for dinner, but I began to think that we were actually closer to Gordonsville. Correct, he confirmed. That settled it.
So it was that we went to the charming French bistro Pomme for dinner, a place I hadn't been in over five years, despite having had a superb meal there last time.
We were given the front window seat and our young server Ben was eager to be of assistance.
I asked for a glass of Ma Couleur Cotes de Provence Rose after teasing him about the few Virginia wines on the list. My friend settled on a Cotes de Rhone.
Young Ben told us the specials and there was no resisting the fish terrine, made with monkfish, sole, shrimp, scallops and red and yellow peppers with a basil aioli. I am a complete sucker for a seafood terrine.
And it was delightful, creamy ad tasting of the sea with big chunks of peppers and a house-made mayonnaise drizzled over the whole slice.
With some crusty bread, it made for a delicacy of a first course.
Ben kept trying to move us along and we kept taking our time, assuring him that we had no place to be, which seemed to perplex him.
We ordered the Hugl Gruner Veltliner to give him something to do and he ended up abdicating this responsibility to someone else. Apparently locating Austrian wine was beyond him.
House salads followed next, elevated by the soft butter lettuces and the chopped beets. They were so perfectly dressed that it led to a discussion of the scourge of overdressed restaurant salads.
The two of us negotiated about entrees, finally settling on the classic fillet de sole St. Germain (lightly breaded sole with Meuniere butter) and one of the evening's specials, fillet Mignon with lobster.
We shared these two dishes, admiring the perfection of the sole and wishing the fillet had been a tad more rare. The lobster meat was sweet and plentiful.
Eventually we stopped eating to save room for dessert, although they were out of two of their best.
The manager stopped by to pour us more wine and I commented to him on the absence of a good Virginia dessert wine on their list.
As it turned out, they were only temporarily out of the Loreley and would soon have it back on the dessert wine listing. Their stock grew hugely in our eyes when we heard this.
Despite the holes in the dessert menu, we made do with a special, Edelweiss cake (white chocolate and raspberry cake), and the perennial standby, chocolate lava cake.
The Edelweiss was the star, impressing my friend (who had visited Austria and come back desolate about dessert here) and even me, the white chocolate hater.
My friend had a coffee since he had to drive back, but being the considerate and thoughtful friend that he is, he chose a route to please me.
Instead of the obvious I-64, we came back on a secondary road, Route 33, winding our way rhrough countryside and small towns.
With daylight lasting so long, we had wonderful views of heat lightening and hills as we tore around curves and over rickety bridges (he has a fast car and a lead foot).
And he's a good and long-time friend. Did I tell him that I had a a fun day? I did, because I had.
Could I also have imagined spending that day doing the exact same thing with another? I could.
Sometimes people need to get away and the "with whom" has multiple options.
Sometimes just getting away is enough.
A friend was in need of a road trip and sent me a list of options (National Zoo, Natural History Museum, river, Southern MD for crabs, and on and on), telling me to choose our destination.
I chose wineries and dinner in Charlottesville and we set off shortly after mid-day with ham biscuits and cookies in the cooler.
The bitch of it was that we hit a nearly one hour back-up twenty minutes outside of C-ville. So we sat, munched and chatted while waiting for the traffic to merge and move.
The delay changed our plans and we began our odyssey at King Family Vineyards, a stunning location from the moment we pulled in.
Bellying up to the tasting bar, we agreed to taste whatever they were pouring; sadly, that did not include the Cab Franc or Petite Verdot, two of my favorite grapes.
I liked the Crose' Rose' done in the Provence style, and the 2009 Meritage done in a Bordeaux style, but surprisingly, my/our favorite was the Loreley, a 2009 dessert wine.
Not to gush, but this "straw wine" (rather than an ice wine), a blend of Viognier and Petit Manseng, had to be one of the most delicately beautiful wines I've ever tasted.
Before I could self-edit, I described it as, "Tasting like a girl," and both our pourer and my companion agreed enthusiastically that that was a perfect description.
Tasting of tangerine, peach and gingerbread, it had the most beautiful aroma and a creamy mouth feel, but none of the excessive sugar you'd expect.
We were so impressed with it that we got two glasses of it and went outside to find a shaded table and enjoy it at our leisure.
King Family has a beautiful piece of property at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and we watched horses on the polo field as we sipped (they have weekly polo matches there on Sunday) and chatted.
A glass apiece was not sufficient, however, and we got two bottles so we could each have access to this creamy delight at home.
From there we backtracked across C-ville to Keswick Vineyards to see what they had to offer.
Their Italian grape Verdejo impressed us greatly with its drinkability and grassy notes. It was the best kind of summer wine.
The 2009 Petite Verdot had a big nose smelling of violets and with good tannins. I could see why it had won a Silver at the Virginia Governor's Cup.
But once again, we were blown away by their dessert offering, the 2009 Nektar, a dessert wine of 100% Viognier.
Neither of us are particularly inclined to dessert wines, but this high alcohol (14%) and high sugar (10%) beauty tasted like liquid apricots. Two more bottles were purchased, along with some Verdejo,
In spite of ourselves, we had become dessert wine fiends for a day and we had no idea what that was about.
While our charming pourer was having us taste Chocolate/Norton sauce over cookies (divine, really, but then I've always been a fan of the Norton grape), it occurred to me that he could be of assistance in our dinner plans.
We'd planned to return to C-ville for dinner, but I began to think that we were actually closer to Gordonsville. Correct, he confirmed. That settled it.
So it was that we went to the charming French bistro Pomme for dinner, a place I hadn't been in over five years, despite having had a superb meal there last time.
We were given the front window seat and our young server Ben was eager to be of assistance.
I asked for a glass of Ma Couleur Cotes de Provence Rose after teasing him about the few Virginia wines on the list. My friend settled on a Cotes de Rhone.
Young Ben told us the specials and there was no resisting the fish terrine, made with monkfish, sole, shrimp, scallops and red and yellow peppers with a basil aioli. I am a complete sucker for a seafood terrine.
And it was delightful, creamy ad tasting of the sea with big chunks of peppers and a house-made mayonnaise drizzled over the whole slice.
With some crusty bread, it made for a delicacy of a first course.
Ben kept trying to move us along and we kept taking our time, assuring him that we had no place to be, which seemed to perplex him.
We ordered the Hugl Gruner Veltliner to give him something to do and he ended up abdicating this responsibility to someone else. Apparently locating Austrian wine was beyond him.
House salads followed next, elevated by the soft butter lettuces and the chopped beets. They were so perfectly dressed that it led to a discussion of the scourge of overdressed restaurant salads.
The two of us negotiated about entrees, finally settling on the classic fillet de sole St. Germain (lightly breaded sole with Meuniere butter) and one of the evening's specials, fillet Mignon with lobster.
We shared these two dishes, admiring the perfection of the sole and wishing the fillet had been a tad more rare. The lobster meat was sweet and plentiful.
Eventually we stopped eating to save room for dessert, although they were out of two of their best.
The manager stopped by to pour us more wine and I commented to him on the absence of a good Virginia dessert wine on their list.
As it turned out, they were only temporarily out of the Loreley and would soon have it back on the dessert wine listing. Their stock grew hugely in our eyes when we heard this.
Despite the holes in the dessert menu, we made do with a special, Edelweiss cake (white chocolate and raspberry cake), and the perennial standby, chocolate lava cake.
The Edelweiss was the star, impressing my friend (who had visited Austria and come back desolate about dessert here) and even me, the white chocolate hater.
My friend had a coffee since he had to drive back, but being the considerate and thoughtful friend that he is, he chose a route to please me.
Instead of the obvious I-64, we came back on a secondary road, Route 33, winding our way rhrough countryside and small towns.
With daylight lasting so long, we had wonderful views of heat lightening and hills as we tore around curves and over rickety bridges (he has a fast car and a lead foot).
And he's a good and long-time friend. Did I tell him that I had a a fun day? I did, because I had.
Could I also have imagined spending that day doing the exact same thing with another? I could.
Sometimes people need to get away and the "with whom" has multiple options.
Sometimes just getting away is enough.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Sweating It Out with Arcade Fire
Many things were epic about tonight's show by the Arcade Fire, including the music and my sweat.
Well, not just my sweat, but every stinking person's sweat who crowded into Charlottesville's pavilion for a last minute show, scheduled for the band as they make their way to headline Bonnaroo beginning Thursday and then leaving for a show in Portugal. How did we get so lucky?
The show was general admission, despite some chairs being available. What that meant was that the line started forming some time before I arrived at 5:00 (the gates were supposed to open at 6) and rapidly grew in the late afternoon sunshine.
Once inside, many people made a beeline for the floor, hoping to be as close as possible to the band. Go for it, I thought.
Although I'm usually a stander at shows, the thought of being in that crush of sweaty flesh seemed less than appealing.
I scored a seat in the front row of chairs not even half the way back and was fully satisfied, knowing I'd be standing anyway, but at least no could could be pushing against me from behind.
My seat mates were a couple of girls from Raleigh, devoted show-goers who travel to various cities to see the bands that interest them. My kind of music lovers for sure.
Turns out that they too had seen the Arcade Fire back in 2007 on the "Neon Bible" tour when I saw them in D.C.
Like me, they considered that show, with the National as openers, an all-time top three evening. I still remember how it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye because it was so jaw-droppingly amazing.
The surprise was that although they were from North Carolina, they'd never heard of the opening band, Bowerbirds, band of which I'm very fond.
But once the band began playing their folky Americana with its aching songwriting and lovely harmonies, the girls were on board. The band remind me of an amalgamation of some of RVA's similar bands with violins, accordion and glockenspiel.
I ran into loads of Richmonders- a favorite photographer and his music-loving wife, a bluegrass musician, an event organizer, a bartender, a waiter, another photographer, a talented drummer and several others, none of whom seemed in the least bit surprised to see me there.
Watching all the sweaty bodies move around, I decided my favorite t-shirt was the one saying "Bacon, the gateway meat." I wanted to talk to the guy only because I liked his shirt.
When the Arcade Fire finally took the stage to much shrieking and applause, leader Winn Butler said, "It's so nice to be in temperate weather. It's been so cold in Montreal this spring. It's good to sweat."
Good thing he felt that way because we were all sweating standing still and once the band began, there was no standing still.
And by sweaty, I mean my sundress was wet, as were my bra and underwear and that was definitely a first for me. Sweat poured off of everyone in the still night air. And no one cared.
Naturally they began with a song off the new album "The Suburbs," followed it with a song from "Neon Bible" and then went to my favorite, "Funeral," their first. They jumped around all night from album to album, satisfying all.
At one point Butler put down his guitar and went to the piano, observing, "There's always sweat on the piano, but not always blood." Duly noted.
I didn't smell my first whiff of weed until near the end, during a personal favorite, "Rebellion (Lies)."
People say that your dreams
are the only things that save ya.
Come on baby in our dreams,
we can live on misbehavior
Given the lack of air movement, the scent hung in the air until everyone's body odors overtook it. It was just the way of the night.
Or maybe it was just the epic quality of the song and the intensity the band brought to tonight's Bonnaroo warm-up show that made it tough to focus on anything but the music, not to mention the epic heat.
As I walked out, I saw a girl looking wan and weak sitting next to a bag of ice with her hands laying on it, clearly seeking to cool down. I think I'd have sat on it or embraced it instead.
It would have been tough to cool down after that performance any night, but tonight it was impossible. I know; I drove home with all the windows down, hoping to dry my damp dress and undies.
There's nothing like a road trip to let your mind wander and mine was wandering and dreaming in all kinds of epic directions tonight.
Because dreams are the only thing that save ya.
I heard it in a song, so it must be true.
Well, not just my sweat, but every stinking person's sweat who crowded into Charlottesville's pavilion for a last minute show, scheduled for the band as they make their way to headline Bonnaroo beginning Thursday and then leaving for a show in Portugal. How did we get so lucky?
The show was general admission, despite some chairs being available. What that meant was that the line started forming some time before I arrived at 5:00 (the gates were supposed to open at 6) and rapidly grew in the late afternoon sunshine.
Once inside, many people made a beeline for the floor, hoping to be as close as possible to the band. Go for it, I thought.
Although I'm usually a stander at shows, the thought of being in that crush of sweaty flesh seemed less than appealing.
I scored a seat in the front row of chairs not even half the way back and was fully satisfied, knowing I'd be standing anyway, but at least no could could be pushing against me from behind.
My seat mates were a couple of girls from Raleigh, devoted show-goers who travel to various cities to see the bands that interest them. My kind of music lovers for sure.
Turns out that they too had seen the Arcade Fire back in 2007 on the "Neon Bible" tour when I saw them in D.C.
Like me, they considered that show, with the National as openers, an all-time top three evening. I still remember how it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye because it was so jaw-droppingly amazing.
The surprise was that although they were from North Carolina, they'd never heard of the opening band, Bowerbirds, band of which I'm very fond.
But once the band began playing their folky Americana with its aching songwriting and lovely harmonies, the girls were on board. The band remind me of an amalgamation of some of RVA's similar bands with violins, accordion and glockenspiel.
I ran into loads of Richmonders- a favorite photographer and his music-loving wife, a bluegrass musician, an event organizer, a bartender, a waiter, another photographer, a talented drummer and several others, none of whom seemed in the least bit surprised to see me there.
Watching all the sweaty bodies move around, I decided my favorite t-shirt was the one saying "Bacon, the gateway meat." I wanted to talk to the guy only because I liked his shirt.
When the Arcade Fire finally took the stage to much shrieking and applause, leader Winn Butler said, "It's so nice to be in temperate weather. It's been so cold in Montreal this spring. It's good to sweat."
Good thing he felt that way because we were all sweating standing still and once the band began, there was no standing still.
And by sweaty, I mean my sundress was wet, as were my bra and underwear and that was definitely a first for me. Sweat poured off of everyone in the still night air. And no one cared.
Naturally they began with a song off the new album "The Suburbs," followed it with a song from "Neon Bible" and then went to my favorite, "Funeral," their first. They jumped around all night from album to album, satisfying all.
At one point Butler put down his guitar and went to the piano, observing, "There's always sweat on the piano, but not always blood." Duly noted.
I didn't smell my first whiff of weed until near the end, during a personal favorite, "Rebellion (Lies)."
People say that your dreams
are the only things that save ya.
Come on baby in our dreams,
we can live on misbehavior
Given the lack of air movement, the scent hung in the air until everyone's body odors overtook it. It was just the way of the night.
Or maybe it was just the epic quality of the song and the intensity the band brought to tonight's Bonnaroo warm-up show that made it tough to focus on anything but the music, not to mention the epic heat.
As I walked out, I saw a girl looking wan and weak sitting next to a bag of ice with her hands laying on it, clearly seeking to cool down. I think I'd have sat on it or embraced it instead.
It would have been tough to cool down after that performance any night, but tonight it was impossible. I know; I drove home with all the windows down, hoping to dry my damp dress and undies.
There's nothing like a road trip to let your mind wander and mine was wandering and dreaming in all kinds of epic directions tonight.
Because dreams are the only thing that save ya.
I heard it in a song, so it must be true.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Chang Redux
I could look at it as a double couple date or as being a fifth wheel. The former has a much nicer ring, I think.
Despite it only having been a week since my last trip to Peter Chang's in Charlottesville, I was more than happy to be driven out there again for another heated meal.
With a table of five instead of two, there were even more opportunities to taste around the menu. There were some repeats from my last week's dinner (scallion bubble pancakes, dry-fried eggplant) and some new options to consider.
The funniest moment came when we were ordering our first course and my friend asked for the crispy fried pork belly. Like a movie character in a slow-motion scene, I looked up from my menu and said "Nooooooooooooooooooooo!" more forcefully than I should have. He canceled the order.
After our affable server left, I explained that I'd had it last week and that there was no fat to it, just crispy bits deep-fried. Laughing, he said, "Well then, I don't want it but it was totally worth it to see that look on your face and hear you react like that."
I'd been told that now that Mrs. Chang has arrived that the steamed pork buns were stellar (she's a pastry chef) so we got them. The fat little dumplings were nicely done, but nothing unusual.
The special of spicy deep-fried assorted mushrooms was similar to the eggplant but earthier tasting because of the mushrooms. The Sichuan bang bang shrimp had all the overt and subtle heat you'd expect and a wholly different flavor when eaten with a piece of cilantro.
And then the hot, hot heat arrived.
The one repeated entree was the Jing Jiang shredded duck with pancakes, which I recommended to my mixologist friend who was seeking a duck dish. He loved it and I felt relieved to have steered him well.
One of the spicy food lovers got another special, the duck consomme in (enormous) ceramic pot, a combination of duck, pork meatballs, fresh mushrooms and clear noodles.
Although she knew it was non-spicy, she wanted more heat and added a good amount of chili sauce to it to raise the heat index. The tiny little meatballs and generous pieces of duck, not to mention duck broth, made it heartier than your average soup.
The closest thing to a disappointment was the shredded pork with hot peppers which, while quite tasty, wasn't the least spicy despite the menu indicating differently. He made sure to add some chili oil before having the rest boxed up to take home.
My beef tendon and tripe in chili sauce, the only room temperature dish, was very spicy with the thin slices of tendon and tripe soaking up all that chili oil.
And before the squeamish types react, had you tasted it and not known, the tripe would have been just another interesting bite.
The heat seeker took the prize with her braised fish with chili peppers in hot pot dish. Arriving in a metal bowl over a flame, the heat from this one was the spiciness, not the temperature.
She took one bite, turned bright red and reacted open-mouthed to the heat. Her jean jacket was soon removed. Turning to her non-spicy loving beau, she insisted he try it, knowing if it challenged her, he would be dead meat.
He soldiered on, acknowledging its tastiness but sweating profusely, and after we all tasted it, we agreed that while it did pack a wallop, it was mainly on the finish and that dissipated shortly thereafter. Nonetheless, beers were soon ordered.
Consensus was that this was the knockout dish, flavorful and dramatic.
Not a one of us finished our second course, despite much sharing and tasting. "Bring us fifty to-go boxes," our ringleader said; the duck consomme alone took two containers.
The three of us who had been to Chang's before agreed that this visit delivered far better across the board than either of our previous visits. With such an extensive menu, perhaps knowing what not to order is paramount.
But that said, with the wide array of food on our table, there were clear and distinct flavors in every dish. This is not a one sauce/preparation fits all kind of place.
The most challenging part is the hour-ride home whilst in a food coma. But as we all know, Peter Chang never sticks around anyplace for long, so we may as well enjoy his cooking while we can.
Or at least that's how I'll justify it the next time a couple or two invites me to head to the mountains for another heated dinner with them.
Color me a well-satisfied fifth wheel.
Despite it only having been a week since my last trip to Peter Chang's in Charlottesville, I was more than happy to be driven out there again for another heated meal.
With a table of five instead of two, there were even more opportunities to taste around the menu. There were some repeats from my last week's dinner (scallion bubble pancakes, dry-fried eggplant) and some new options to consider.
The funniest moment came when we were ordering our first course and my friend asked for the crispy fried pork belly. Like a movie character in a slow-motion scene, I looked up from my menu and said "Nooooooooooooooooooooo!" more forcefully than I should have. He canceled the order.
After our affable server left, I explained that I'd had it last week and that there was no fat to it, just crispy bits deep-fried. Laughing, he said, "Well then, I don't want it but it was totally worth it to see that look on your face and hear you react like that."
I'd been told that now that Mrs. Chang has arrived that the steamed pork buns were stellar (she's a pastry chef) so we got them. The fat little dumplings were nicely done, but nothing unusual.
The special of spicy deep-fried assorted mushrooms was similar to the eggplant but earthier tasting because of the mushrooms. The Sichuan bang bang shrimp had all the overt and subtle heat you'd expect and a wholly different flavor when eaten with a piece of cilantro.
And then the hot, hot heat arrived.
The one repeated entree was the Jing Jiang shredded duck with pancakes, which I recommended to my mixologist friend who was seeking a duck dish. He loved it and I felt relieved to have steered him well.
One of the spicy food lovers got another special, the duck consomme in (enormous) ceramic pot, a combination of duck, pork meatballs, fresh mushrooms and clear noodles.
Although she knew it was non-spicy, she wanted more heat and added a good amount of chili sauce to it to raise the heat index. The tiny little meatballs and generous pieces of duck, not to mention duck broth, made it heartier than your average soup.
The closest thing to a disappointment was the shredded pork with hot peppers which, while quite tasty, wasn't the least spicy despite the menu indicating differently. He made sure to add some chili oil before having the rest boxed up to take home.
My beef tendon and tripe in chili sauce, the only room temperature dish, was very spicy with the thin slices of tendon and tripe soaking up all that chili oil.
And before the squeamish types react, had you tasted it and not known, the tripe would have been just another interesting bite.
The heat seeker took the prize with her braised fish with chili peppers in hot pot dish. Arriving in a metal bowl over a flame, the heat from this one was the spiciness, not the temperature.
She took one bite, turned bright red and reacted open-mouthed to the heat. Her jean jacket was soon removed. Turning to her non-spicy loving beau, she insisted he try it, knowing if it challenged her, he would be dead meat.
He soldiered on, acknowledging its tastiness but sweating profusely, and after we all tasted it, we agreed that while it did pack a wallop, it was mainly on the finish and that dissipated shortly thereafter. Nonetheless, beers were soon ordered.
Consensus was that this was the knockout dish, flavorful and dramatic.
Not a one of us finished our second course, despite much sharing and tasting. "Bring us fifty to-go boxes," our ringleader said; the duck consomme alone took two containers.
The three of us who had been to Chang's before agreed that this visit delivered far better across the board than either of our previous visits. With such an extensive menu, perhaps knowing what not to order is paramount.
But that said, with the wide array of food on our table, there were clear and distinct flavors in every dish. This is not a one sauce/preparation fits all kind of place.
The most challenging part is the hour-ride home whilst in a food coma. But as we all know, Peter Chang never sticks around anyplace for long, so we may as well enjoy his cooking while we can.
Or at least that's how I'll justify it the next time a couple or two invites me to head to the mountains for another heated dinner with them.
Color me a well-satisfied fifth wheel.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Pigging Out at Peter Chang's
When out of the blue the person sitting on your couch suggests dinner at Peter Chang's, there's only one question that needs to be asked.
Is Peter Chang cooking tonight?
A quick phone call (no, of course not by me) revealed that he was and that was all the motivation we needed to hop in the car and go to Charlottesville on a beautiful late Easter afternoon.
And although the parade of food is all kind of a blur now, it's the very best kind of blur.
So many great dishes and not nearly big enough a stomach to consume it all.
But you don't drive an hour for dinner if you're not going to taste everything that hits the table and, for two people, we did a damn fine job if I do say so myself.
Our server was sweet but warned us when we ordered the High Desert Sparkling Malbec that he routinely has a tough time opening these bottles.
We assured him that he could just bring the bottle to the table and we could take it from there.
After watching the process, he said, "Oh, so you screw and turn? I get it."
Yes, Grasshopper, learn these lessons and use them as you go forward.
I also discovered he's in a reggae rock band and that their CD release show is coming up in Richmond, to which he offered up an invitation.
Music, it's always there just under the surface.
Because of the extensive menu, we ordered a few things just to buy some time.
The dry-fried eggplant with chiles in the breading was exquisitely light without any sort of wetness or greasiness; it was definitely the best-tasting eggplant I have ever eaten.
And the Dan-Dan noodles with pork had a deep rich flavor tasting of Sichuan peppercorns.
The crispy pork belly wasn't at all what we expected, fried up crispy with no trace of the soft fattiness that usually defines pork belly;as a result, it was our least favorite.
We want fat!
The large group at the next table was quieting the kid contingent with what looked like bread balloons, so we ordered what turned out to be scallion bubble pancakes.
I actually burned my knuckles punching the heat out of a pancake, but it was well worth it.
With the accompanying Chinese curry dipping sauce, they were downright addictive.
My knuckles will heal.
Next came the boneless whole fish with pine nuts, which we figured was a Chang thing despite it being tilapia.
The scored and fried head-on fish sat on a delicate orange sauce that didn't have the cloying sweetness we expected given the color.
The sauteed baby lamb with red peppers was our half-hearted nod to today's holiday, but way more interesting.
The medallions of lamb were succulent without an overbearing heat.
The Jing Jiang shredded duck with onions, water chestnuts and carrots was served with pancakes for the best roll ups imaginable.
The crispy freshness of the onions worked beautifully with the richness of the duck
Four appetizers, three entrees, two people.
You do the math.
We had boxes and boxes to take with us when we finally called it quits.
Eight hours later, I'm back on my couch and wondering, what just happened?
Is Peter Chang cooking tonight?
A quick phone call (no, of course not by me) revealed that he was and that was all the motivation we needed to hop in the car and go to Charlottesville on a beautiful late Easter afternoon.
And although the parade of food is all kind of a blur now, it's the very best kind of blur.
So many great dishes and not nearly big enough a stomach to consume it all.
But you don't drive an hour for dinner if you're not going to taste everything that hits the table and, for two people, we did a damn fine job if I do say so myself.
Our server was sweet but warned us when we ordered the High Desert Sparkling Malbec that he routinely has a tough time opening these bottles.
We assured him that he could just bring the bottle to the table and we could take it from there.
After watching the process, he said, "Oh, so you screw and turn? I get it."
Yes, Grasshopper, learn these lessons and use them as you go forward.
I also discovered he's in a reggae rock band and that their CD release show is coming up in Richmond, to which he offered up an invitation.
Music, it's always there just under the surface.
Because of the extensive menu, we ordered a few things just to buy some time.
The dry-fried eggplant with chiles in the breading was exquisitely light without any sort of wetness or greasiness; it was definitely the best-tasting eggplant I have ever eaten.
And the Dan-Dan noodles with pork had a deep rich flavor tasting of Sichuan peppercorns.
The crispy pork belly wasn't at all what we expected, fried up crispy with no trace of the soft fattiness that usually defines pork belly;as a result, it was our least favorite.
We want fat!
The large group at the next table was quieting the kid contingent with what looked like bread balloons, so we ordered what turned out to be scallion bubble pancakes.
I actually burned my knuckles punching the heat out of a pancake, but it was well worth it.
With the accompanying Chinese curry dipping sauce, they were downright addictive.
My knuckles will heal.
Next came the boneless whole fish with pine nuts, which we figured was a Chang thing despite it being tilapia.
The scored and fried head-on fish sat on a delicate orange sauce that didn't have the cloying sweetness we expected given the color.
The sauteed baby lamb with red peppers was our half-hearted nod to today's holiday, but way more interesting.
The medallions of lamb were succulent without an overbearing heat.
The Jing Jiang shredded duck with onions, water chestnuts and carrots was served with pancakes for the best roll ups imaginable.
The crispy freshness of the onions worked beautifully with the richness of the duck
Four appetizers, three entrees, two people.
You do the math.
We had boxes and boxes to take with us when we finally called it quits.
Eight hours later, I'm back on my couch and wondering, what just happened?
Friday, July 16, 2010
Road Tripping to Eat Lee's Skate
I've made no secret of my devotion to Chef Lee Gregory (formerly of Six Burner), both to his cooking and his low-key personality.
I was truly bummed when he left RVA for western pastures, here.
So it was an easy decision to drive to Charlottesville to meet a friend there and have dinner at his kitchen-of-the-moment, Blue Light Grill tonight.
It was also Restaurant Week (also known as Amateur Week; call it what you will), but I didn't let that deter me.
As it turned out, despite the downtown mall being mobbed like I've never seen it, BLG was actually quite civilized during the dinner hours we were there.
I began my evening by catching up with Lee as he worked in the restaurant's open kitchen.
What I wanted to know, of course, was when he'd be coming back to RVA and he told me what's happening on that front.
And of course we talked about food, glorious food.
I have to give C-ville credit; if all the restaurant menus for Restaurant Week are as creative and extensive as BLG's, they've got us beat hands down in that department.
Four appetizer choices, six entrees and three desserts, with a price tag of $26.
Pairings were available with each course; a flight was $20.
And Lee's imprint was all over the menu (pork belly, BBQ, bleu cheese/red cabbage slaw) so that made me happy to see.
Friend got the three Virginia oysters on the half shell with cuke mignonette and I started with the crab hushpuppies with red pepper honey butter.
The hushpuppies were full of crab and when smeared with that sweet butter, a truly indulgent first course.
I'd considered getting the beet and goat cheese terrine with apple puree and pistachio brittle, except a few questions to our server revealed that it wasn't a true terrine.
Drat the luck.
The entree choices ranged from veggie crepes to BBQ beef short ribs (oh, I was sorely tempted), but I couldn't resist the pan seared skate with green beans, fingerling potato salad and almond brown butter.
It's so rare that I find skate on the menu that I have to have it when I do.
Friend got the grilled mahi mahi over white bean, pork belly and mussel ragout and as good as it was, my skate was the star of the evening with its slivered almond crust and to-die-for potato salad.
For dessert my friend, not a dessert person, ordered the trifle with buttermilk pound cake, fresh local peaches and lime mascarpone.
I skipped over the chocolate panna cotta with bourbon/caramel sauce for the butterscotch goat cheese custard with apple puree and was complimented by our server for having chosen the dessert Lee considers his best.
He'll get no argument from me on that. It was heavenly.
So here's a thought: why not take a page from C-ville's book and move RVA's Restaurant Week to summertime, too?
It seems like a far better time to stimulate independent restaurant business than October when patrons already seem more plentiful.
Who knows, it could even become an anticipated component of the staycation, at least until this interminable recession lets up.
When I went to leave, Lee asked me what I was going to do next.
Music was a possibility, I told him, or perhaps a drink.
I started raving about the food I'd eaten, but he shrugged it off, thanking me again and again for coming in to see him.
"I'll be back, " I told him, taking my leave.
He knows I mean it; his answer was a big smile from under the red baseball cap.
My devotion is still firmly in place.
I was truly bummed when he left RVA for western pastures, here.
So it was an easy decision to drive to Charlottesville to meet a friend there and have dinner at his kitchen-of-the-moment, Blue Light Grill tonight.
It was also Restaurant Week (also known as Amateur Week; call it what you will), but I didn't let that deter me.
As it turned out, despite the downtown mall being mobbed like I've never seen it, BLG was actually quite civilized during the dinner hours we were there.
I began my evening by catching up with Lee as he worked in the restaurant's open kitchen.
What I wanted to know, of course, was when he'd be coming back to RVA and he told me what's happening on that front.
And of course we talked about food, glorious food.
I have to give C-ville credit; if all the restaurant menus for Restaurant Week are as creative and extensive as BLG's, they've got us beat hands down in that department.
Four appetizer choices, six entrees and three desserts, with a price tag of $26.
Pairings were available with each course; a flight was $20.
And Lee's imprint was all over the menu (pork belly, BBQ, bleu cheese/red cabbage slaw) so that made me happy to see.
Friend got the three Virginia oysters on the half shell with cuke mignonette and I started with the crab hushpuppies with red pepper honey butter.
The hushpuppies were full of crab and when smeared with that sweet butter, a truly indulgent first course.
I'd considered getting the beet and goat cheese terrine with apple puree and pistachio brittle, except a few questions to our server revealed that it wasn't a true terrine.
Drat the luck.
The entree choices ranged from veggie crepes to BBQ beef short ribs (oh, I was sorely tempted), but I couldn't resist the pan seared skate with green beans, fingerling potato salad and almond brown butter.
It's so rare that I find skate on the menu that I have to have it when I do.
Friend got the grilled mahi mahi over white bean, pork belly and mussel ragout and as good as it was, my skate was the star of the evening with its slivered almond crust and to-die-for potato salad.
For dessert my friend, not a dessert person, ordered the trifle with buttermilk pound cake, fresh local peaches and lime mascarpone.
I skipped over the chocolate panna cotta with bourbon/caramel sauce for the butterscotch goat cheese custard with apple puree and was complimented by our server for having chosen the dessert Lee considers his best.
He'll get no argument from me on that. It was heavenly.
So here's a thought: why not take a page from C-ville's book and move RVA's Restaurant Week to summertime, too?
It seems like a far better time to stimulate independent restaurant business than October when patrons already seem more plentiful.
Who knows, it could even become an anticipated component of the staycation, at least until this interminable recession lets up.
When I went to leave, Lee asked me what I was going to do next.
Music was a possibility, I told him, or perhaps a drink.
I started raving about the food I'd eaten, but he shrugged it off, thanking me again and again for coming in to see him.
"I'll be back, " I told him, taking my leave.
He knows I mean it; his answer was a big smile from under the red baseball cap.
My devotion is still firmly in place.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Dinner at Mas and Stargazing, Too
I don't know about you, but I think weather like this is practically an invitation for a road trip.
I asked Beer Geek Friend to join me tonight, but he already had beer dinner plans (no surprise, really, some weeks he has two, once three in one week!).
He did, however, counter with a suggestion that we do an afternoon trip today to a couple of wineries.
But, alas, I had a late afternoon appointment.
Not wanting to give up the road trip dream, I asked P.B. Friend to join me and he was game for a drive to Charlottesville for dinner at Mas.
There are so many pleasures to Mas really: the low-light ambiance, the long, wide bar and comfortable stools, the superior tapas and, tonight, Al Green on the sound system.
I knew I loved the place, but it was P.B.F.'s first time there and he said he thought it was terrific.
We took our time eating through courses, cheese and bread here, Chorizo there, bacon-wrapped dates, olives of all kinds, spreads, meats and more bread.
So many distinctive flavors called for a big, earthy wine, which led to choosing the Bodegas Alvarez y Diez Valmoro Crianza.
I really liked this wine.
For dessert, we each got the flourless chocolate torte made with Venezuelan chocolate, with a lovely, creamy mouth feel and a dark, dark chocolate flavor.
We were so full and quite content by this time, so we sat and chatted for a good, long time while I drank wine and he sipped cappuccino, just savoring the meal.
P.B.F. is such a sweet guy and he understands exactly where my head and heart are, so he's a great one to discuss life with.
The other benefit of the trip, besides the excellent meal, was being far enough out to see plenty of stars for the Leonidid meteor showers tonight.
Filmy cloud layer aside, the view was much better out that way than here.
Besides, star gazing aids digestion, I've heard.
And, if not, it certainly put a fine finish on a delicious meal.
I asked Beer Geek Friend to join me tonight, but he already had beer dinner plans (no surprise, really, some weeks he has two, once three in one week!).
He did, however, counter with a suggestion that we do an afternoon trip today to a couple of wineries.
But, alas, I had a late afternoon appointment.
Not wanting to give up the road trip dream, I asked P.B. Friend to join me and he was game for a drive to Charlottesville for dinner at Mas.
There are so many pleasures to Mas really: the low-light ambiance, the long, wide bar and comfortable stools, the superior tapas and, tonight, Al Green on the sound system.
I knew I loved the place, but it was P.B.F.'s first time there and he said he thought it was terrific.
We took our time eating through courses, cheese and bread here, Chorizo there, bacon-wrapped dates, olives of all kinds, spreads, meats and more bread.
So many distinctive flavors called for a big, earthy wine, which led to choosing the Bodegas Alvarez y Diez Valmoro Crianza.
I really liked this wine.
For dessert, we each got the flourless chocolate torte made with Venezuelan chocolate, with a lovely, creamy mouth feel and a dark, dark chocolate flavor.
We were so full and quite content by this time, so we sat and chatted for a good, long time while I drank wine and he sipped cappuccino, just savoring the meal.
P.B.F. is such a sweet guy and he understands exactly where my head and heart are, so he's a great one to discuss life with.
The other benefit of the trip, besides the excellent meal, was being far enough out to see plenty of stars for the Leonidid meteor showers tonight.
Filmy cloud layer aside, the view was much better out that way than here.
Besides, star gazing aids digestion, I've heard.
And, if not, it certainly put a fine finish on a delicious meal.
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