Swedish Pop Rocks

People who go camping are really intense. That's what was on the TV screen when I walked into Lemaire this evening to meet a friend.

My only basis for agreeing with that sentiment is that a few years back, I had a date with a guy and we were chatting about something unrelated when suddenly he said, "Do you camp? Cause my ex-wife didn't camp and I love to camp." Fairly intense, I thought. First and last date for sure.

My friend was running late so I went ahead and ordered a bottle of Sicilian wine, the 2006 Fuedo Maccari ReNoto Nero d'Alva/Syrah, so her glass was filled and waiting for her when she arrived.

It had been a month since our last date and she'd had both flu and a crisis of relationship in that time. But what she couldn't wait for was details of my recent dates, so we alternated with our stories until we both knew everything that had happened in the other's world.

One of the funniest moments was when a suit walked directly up to us, stopped a foot away and made an abrupt right turn, apparently having just realized that he didn't know us after all. We looked at each other and laughed out loud.

As usual for the two of us, the discussion lasts as long as the bottle and cheese (tonight Midnight Moon and Humbolt Fog) do before we both have places to be, but not before I've been thoroughly grilled.

My plans were at the University of Richmond for a screening of The Desert of Forbidden Art, a documentary about a secret art museum in Soviet Uzbekistan where, in defiance of the KGB, a driven and dedicated curator assembled an enormous collection of paintings by avant-garde artists who settled there after the Russian Revolution in 1917.

This man was such a fanatic about collecting the forbidden art that he made twenty 1700=mile trips to take the art he bought from Moscow to Uzbekistan. Interestingly, most of the artists have no name recognition because of the Soviet government having banned them.

To an art history lover like me, this documentary was fascinating, made more so by all the archival film and still footage the government had taken, stored and forgotten. It fleshed out the historical parts of the film in such a compelling way.

The director, Amanda Pope, took questions afterwards and told of years of trying to get the money to make the film.

Once she saw an out-of-print book of the museum's contents, she was driven by a desire to have Western documentation of the extensive collection for fear that something may happen to the outlying museum and its unparalleled collection; Islamic fundamentalists have been known to destroy art in the region.

The film was a sobering reminder about the role art plays in culture and a gift for the look at some of the magnificent canvasses, many of them never before seen. It'll be interesting to see what kind of response the film gets once it is in theatrical release (it premieres in NYC this weekend).

From the far reaches of UR, I drove to Balliceaux for music, parking the car on Hanover and heading down the street. I was stopped in my tracks in front of Pie by their sign touting avocado nachos- $6. Sold!

I'd never heard of such a thing, but I'm a big avocado fan and a certified nacho lover, so I was game for something different. Inside, there was only one other couple downstairs and I was invited to have my choice of tables.

In no time at all, my nachos were in front of me and showing plenty of sliced avocado throughout. They also had jalapenos, tomatoes, shredded lettuce and the requisite cheese and sour cream, but it was the nature's butter that made these special.

I didn't recognize the music, so I had to inquire of my personable server what it was (DJ Shadow) and that led to a most excellent discussion of music and photography. We discovered we have a mutual admiration for Swedish pop and even exchanged recommendations.

It makes my day when that happens. As I write, I'm listening to Mike Snow at Adam's suggestion, reveling in being introduced to music I'm seriously enjoying because of a chance encounter with another music lover.

At Balliceaux, Ombak's set was already audible when I walked in, but I stopped to chat with Austin who's enjoying rubbing my face in the fact that he's seeing Beach House this weekend and I'm not. I have seen them, but not since "Teen Dream" came out; I adore that album and would love to hear it played live.

Also at the bar was musician Marshall and I made the colossal error in judgment of throwing my arms around him.

Within seconds I was sneezing and he asked, "Are you allegoric to cats?" Um, yes. His jacket was covered in cat hair it turned out and I continued to react to him even as we went into the back room for music.

Ombak is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class. Everyone - Hooten, Jones, Kuhl, Pollard and Ralston- is so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.

Brian Jones was playing Chris Farmer's drum set (Chris was headlining) and noted that it was fun to watch Brian play his set and have to make adjustments throughout because they weren't his usual drums.

I pointed out that given his virtuosity, Brian probably enjoys the challenge of it and both Chris and Marshall agreed.

Farmer's drumming, played to recorded tracks, is hard hitting. A video of a train passing over a camera on the tracks played repeatedly during his first song; it seemed like an apt metaphor for being run over by the sheer amount of energetic sound he produces.

Eventually my sneezing became a royal pain and I excused myself, satisfied at having heard some outstanding music after a delicious take on an old favorite dish, following a moving and revealing documentary once I parted from my friend and some important girl talk.

Just don't call me intense because I don't go camping.

Easy as 1,2,3

I teared up over an imaginary beagle, I laughed my ass off as a friend shared his early dating adventures on stage and I did my best to keep up as a trombonist played both the melody and bass line concurrently. It was a really fun evening.

Beginning at the Empire Theater for the Acts of Faith Theatre Festival Preview, I snagged an aisle seat in a rapidly-filling theater.

The festival is a collaborative effort between the faith and theater communities and even a heathen like me usually finds productions worth checking out at the preview.

Not all the plays done during the festival are overtly religious (Romeo and Juliet) while some clearly have that bent (Godspell). The brief scenes we saw tonight gave a peek into what can be expected from this year's offerings.

Swift Creek Mill Theater is doing Once on This Island, which the emcee noted she had once performed in as part of an all-white Canadian cast. "Hey, we work with what we have up there."

Richmond Triangle Players are doing This Beautiful City, a play about an evangelical group that explores the separation of church and state, a subject on which I feel strongly.

Firehouse Theater is doing Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead about the Peanuts gang a few years on. The scene we saw involved CB discovering that Snoopy has become rabid and eaten Woodstock, an indication that he has to have his old beagle put down.

I got way more emotional than I should have when CB said that he just knew when Snoopy "didn't come bounding out of his red doghouse" that things were bad. Don't remind me.

Some moments were unintentionally comedic, like when the lead actor of The Choices of a Traveler walked on stage, and a gleeful voice in the audience squealed "Daddy!" to the delight of the crowd.

All in all, the festival looks to be presenting some provocative theater this spring and all the productions will offer an audience discussion after one of the performances. I, for one, like to talk back after seeing a play.

Conveniently, my second stop was just around the corner form the Empire and as I rounded the corner, I ran into friends leaving Comfort for the same show ("Look at you, switching those hips," I was told. No, I'm just walking fast because it's fricking freezing out here).

Gallery 5 was hosting the Comedy Coalition's Richmond Famous event. This is an evening where a local personality shares some true stories from their life and then the improv group goes for the soft underbelly of the story and improvises with scenes and characters stolen from the guest's stories.

Tonight's victim/guest was Kevin Clay, the tireless guy behind the GayRVA website and events and also a friend of mine. Kevin had bravely brought his college dating journal to share with the audience and it was a touchingly hilarious.

He told of trying to impress a date with a meticulously-assembled Easter basket, only to discover that the guy was Jewish. Oops.

He planned to reveal his heart's desire to another crush on top of the Empire State Building and when that didn't work out, he made a flow chart in his journal explaining why not.

You can imagine what ripe material this was for the lightening quick improvisational skills of RCC; two of them denied their love to each other using not only flow charts, but Venn diagrams, bar graphs and all kinds of geeky visual aids while the audience roared.

It was especially fun because I was in the front row, as were Kevin's boyfriend and best friend, both of whom laughed the loudest at Kevin's tales of being a 12-year old girl in a college guy's body.

By the time the comedy was over, I was starving and music-starved, so I went to Sprout to satisfy both needs. I love how they continue to keep the kitchen open for show-goers.

There was no way I was passing up the Blue Point oyster and mushroom quiche over mixed local greens with a balsamic reduction, a new item on the menu.

Even the bartender looked at it and said, "I haven't had that but it looks really, really good." It was and the peppery greens and dense, sweet balsamic were a nice contrast to the rich creaminess of the quiche.

I ran into a couple of musician friends (Sprout's shows are always full of them), providing the resources to answer any musical questions I might have during the evening, not to mention satisfying my conversational needs.

Tonight's show was billed as dueling soloists and performing first was Bryan Hooten (No BS Brass band, Ombak, Fight the Big Bull) on trombone and and then Chris Farmer on drums (with keyboards and loop), with a vague promise of something collaborative after that.

Bryan worked hard tonight, getting red-faced and sweaty and playing so fast and hard that you could hear the spit collecting in his instrument. Periodically he spit it out because he didn't have time to swallow it.

He improvised to a couple of pieces, did a most creative version of Ellington's "In a Sentimental Mood" and tore it up with a take on Herbie Hancock's "Chameleon."

Mid-song, I looked over at my multi-instrumentalist friend (who plays sax) to find him laughing. "I can't believe he's playing he melody and the bass line at the same time," he said by way of explaining his chuckling. It was quite a unique sound, that's for sure.

Between sets I got a piece of chocolate truffle cake and chatted with my friends. They were both getting antsy waiting to hear Chris do his magic on the drums.

And he was impressive, wrapping energetic drumming around those robot keys of his. My drummer friend told me that Chris is a big Brian Eno fan and I could almost hear that.

He also said he's a pocket rhythm drummer as if I understood that, but there wasn't time to have it explained during the performance, so that'll be another of my dumb non-musician questions next time we talk.

The crowd was full of serious head-bobbing Farmer lovers, including one annoying and tall guy who positioned himself in the very front, blocking everyone's view and taking endless pictures ("He's my main man!").

At one point, he even stepped up on the stage and then did a "stage dive," jumping five inches to the floor and bumping into people. Another oldster kept yelling for the Kinks. Spare me, both of you.

After the final collaboration with Bryan augmented by a friend of Chris' named Clint on keys and knob-turning, I went to pay my bill (the bartender: "I'm going to try that oyster quiche you had!" You should do that, my friend). Another excellent show and meal at Sprout.

I ran into one of the guys from Fight the Big Bull at the bar and we fell into a discussion of Keith Richards' autobiography (which he's reading and I've read excerpts from) and the British emphasis on the blues.

He was particularly disgusted that a much younger fellow sax player who had just left had confused Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. "But he's only 24, so what does he know?" Unlike me, he probably knows what pocket rhythm drumming is.

In my defense, though, I've never once confused Zeppelin and Floyd. Or, like the guy in tonight's crowd who compared a piece to Emerson, Lake and Palmer and then corrected himself to say Radiohead, confused those two.

So I've got that going for me. Which begs the question, is there anyone out there who will think that's enough?

Of course there is.