Walk alone (you already heard about that). Work alone (two deadlines). Eat alone (Garnett's, but at least the cook was wearing a navy captain's hat and I walked into "This Must Be the Place" playing on the stereo).
After a while, all that alone gets old.
That's when you call up a friend and ask if they'll come out and play with you.
And if they're someone who knows you well and wants to make you happy, they woo you with Pinotage Rose and fresh figs.
Driving over to pick up my date, I saw a horse drawn carriage pulling a smiling couple up Robinson Street toward Monument Avenue.
Both of the carriage drivers wore top hats and tuxes. The couple were making goo-goo eyes at each other.
Must be love.
The crowd at Dogwood Dell was small but mighty when we arrived with our contraband Riebeek Rose, a bag of figs freshly plucked off Friend's backyard fig tree and chairs.
We were there to see "Spite Marriage," a 1929 silent comedy with the handsome Buster Keaton. The kicker was that live music was being provided by Ben Miller, he of Ghost Light after party fame and a ridiculously talented pianist.
We took our place one row behind Ben, who was outfitted in a tuxedo t-shirt, and spread out our picnic blanket.
The Pinotage Rose was lovely, well-chilled and boasting flavors of cherries and strawberries, a treat from someone who knew my taste.
The film soon began while I dove into the fresh figs, devouring three within the first ten minutes of the film.
Call me a fig pig.
Ben had thoughtfully chosen the perfect music for the story of a lowly pants presser who falls in love with a Broadway star.
"Dixieland," "When the Saints Go Marching In," he had all the corny bases covered.
The story centered around a simple man who worshiped an actress in a play about life on a plantation.
Every southern cliche was trotted out - "A scratch is nothing to a southern gentleman" - as our heroine fought off northern soldiers while pining for her true southern love.
Of course, the northern soldier was evil - "Remember, gal, there's only one way to save him"- sending her beau off to the barn to be shot.
The movie had its lessons, too, such as, "There's only one cure for love: marriage and suicide," a rather dire reaction to attraction if you ask me, but then, I'm a northerner.
Ben kept us entertained with the appropriate songs: "We're in the Money" when our hero marries the actress and a personal favorite, "Shall We Dance?" when the newlyweds celebrate at Cafe la Boheme," a hangout "for actors and those with money."
We watched our heroine resort to a drunken fit of jealousy when her man takes up with another, younger woman and heard the archaic command, "Douse the lights."
When's the last time you heard anyone use the verb "douse"? Exactly.
During the scene on the yacht when Keaton tries to woo the actress, Ben played Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer," to great effect.
Fortunately for fans of romance, the object of her affection comes to his senses, telling the actress, "You should have known that woman meant nothing to me. I love you, dear."
I'm still waiting for a man to refer to me as "dear."
Things got dramatic when the action switched to the ship and the boiler caught fire ("Save me! Save me, dear!") and the weather turned bad ("A squall!" - another terrific, underused word), forcing our hero to hang from masts, put out fires and bail water.
Never fear, he not only squelched all the problems aboard ship (mainly by hitting every man with a bottle over the head and knocking him out) but won our heroine's heart.
The end.
I've seen my fair share of silent movies, but few as romantic as this gem. Add in the moon moving from tree to tree over the Dell and it turned out to be a lovely way to spend an evening sipping Pinotage.
After dropping off my companion, I soldiered on alone to Commercial Taphouse to hear the Scott Clark 4-tet.
Everyone I know in the local jazz world is concerned that now that Commercial has been bought by An of Mekong, the sublime evenings of jazz will be history.
I hope that's not true, but in case it is, I didn't want to miss hearing one of my favorite local jazz groups perform for what may be the last time there.
Unexpectedly, I found several friends - a guitarist, a trombonist, a teacher, a songbird - although I was discouraged to hear they no longer carry any decent tequilas.
Sorry, I don't want to have to drink wine while listening to jazz. I will, but I don't want to. Not a good sign, friends.
From Mingus ("Weird Nightmare") to Scott Clark originals ("Plum"), it was an evening of killer jazz riffs, the quartet as tight and on point as I've ever heard them.
So the evening ends alone, but only after some superb entertainment.
Still waiting for someone to ask, "Shall we dance?"
Showing posts with label commercial taphouse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label commercial taphouse. Show all posts
Monday, August 4, 2014
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Ready to Commit
Good times never seemed so good as a Sunday with nothing more than music on the menu.
Not willing to wait for today's date to get ready, I showed up all but unannounced with a bottle of Kuentz-Bas Riesling and a good attitude.
On the agenda for today was brunch with Diamond Heist at Cary Street Cafe and I intended to catch as much of the band as possible. Except that once we cracked the bottle of spicy and lush mouth-watering Riesling, the "dressing drink" period took away some of the urgency, if you know what I mean.
Eventually, we made it to Cary Street Cafe where an almost full house was swinging to the sounds of classic Neil Diamond songs, which I'm totally into.
I could blame it on my parents who took me to a Neil Diamond concert in 1979 or I could just admit that I appreciate the man's Tin Pan Alley talent and leave it at that.
We found seats at the bar, right in front of the "I See Drunk People" sign and to the right of the ice cold Jagermiester shots tap, appropriating a stool from a nearby table where it was being wasted as a purse holder.
"This is a song about a chair," lead singer Will joked before I began sipping my 1800 to "I Am, I Said."
I think it was while I was eating my Brazilian black bean soup that a photographer appeared and began shooting pictures of people at the bar, saying, "I wait till food gets near the mouth." You know, because few things are as attractive as people chewing.
Nudging me, my date whispered, "See, I told you it was a Dead bar," pointing at a skull behind the bar. Do I care about the Dead when "Sweet Caroline" is being sung? Or ever? I do not.
Unfortunately, we'd arrived not long before the band's break and while it gave us an opportunity to eat, the bonus was that Will (aka Neil) was working the room and stopped by to chat.
His "diamond"-encrusted collar and initial applique didn't go half as far at establishing his Neil credibility as his voice did, with the same distinctive low, gravel-filled sound that defined all those hits.
Once Diamond Heist took the stage again, we heard "Hello Again" and "Holly, Holy," two classics.
But, as Will pointed out, one thing Neil was known for was writing for other singers, so they then did "Red, Red Wine."
After the melancholy "Solitary Man," Will quipped, "If you didn't notice Rebecca's vibraslap solo, she'll do it again." What's key there is that I now know what that thing is called.
Introducing "If You Know What I Mean," off the "Beautiful Noise" album (yep, have it on vinyl), he called it "an oddly arranged album produced by Robbie Robertson." Afterwards, the drummer cracked, "We're going to call a mulligan on that one. Who wrote the set list?"
"Music is hard," Will told us before doing "Shiloh" (dubbing it afterwards, "Success with an awkward moment there"). Meanwhile, a girl came in, sat down at the bar and was handed a copy of a crossword puzzle with no words exchanged.
She worked diligently on it for 15 minutes, slid it across the bar and then turned to watch the band as if her work here was now finished.
"If anyone knows how to polka, this is the standard Neil Diamond polka song," he said about the song, "Beautiful Noise,"
And with what is probably the finest band solicitation I've ever heard, Will announced, "Like most fourteen year olds, we're on Facebook, so if you're ready to commit, we have a page."
How did we commit before the Facebook era anyway?
I'd have to say my only regret of the afternoon was not dancing to "I'm a Believer," but you can be sure that'll never happen again. We live, we learn.
During "Coming to America," the crowd got seriously into it (or perhaps were sufficiently drunk by then) to shout "today!" along with the band. "You are too kind," the drummer said at the end. "Because I f*cked that last one up."
The guy was hysterical.
The final offering, "Song Sung Blue," was a full-on singalong but the crowd was unwilling to accept that the fun was over.
"We literally know one more Neil Diamond song," Will said, half apologetically and they tore into "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show," a killer closer.
I mean, really. Who else on earth could sell a line such as, "Pack up the babies and grab the old ladies"? Who? No one but Neil, that's who.
After I saw a few songs of a Diamond Heist show a few weeks ago, I was telling a friend how much I'd enjoyed it and how I intended to go back and see them again. She was incredulous.
"You? You, Miss Must Have New Music, Miss Hates Classic Rock likes a Neil Diamond cover band? Who are you and what have you done with Karen?"
Please. The songs are classic '60s and '70s pop and, as far as I'm concerned, a blast to hear played live.
My parents would be so proud.
Once the band was finished there, so were we. With a couple hours to kill before the next band I wanted to go see, we decided a bottle of Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose and a cheese plate in the garden were in order.
Besides investigating the four kinds of mint - apple, pepper, spear and lemon - growing back there (a regular mojito garden) we got into a philosophical discussion of the proper length of time in a relationship before a man should propose.
My friend had some real life experience to back up her opinion about the danger of a man waiting too long to ask. You snooze, you lose, according to her.
When we left for Commercial Taphouse, we detoured through an alley where I was enchanted to see the most magnificent alley garden I've ever witnessed. And this town has some doozies.
This guy's beds, containers and trellises were breathtaking, with lisianthus (which I've always found tough to grow), stargazer lilies, bougainvillea, orchids, and the first artichoke plants I'd ever seen. Oh, yes, and zinnia,s gourds, tomatoes, herbs and who knows what all.
He had it all - topiary, bee hives, statuary, a koi pond, espaliered fruit trees- and apparently the time to maintain it all because everything looked lush and beautiful, as if we weren't in the middle of a dry spell.
Tearing ourselves away from his wonderland, we continued on, coming across two guys sitting at a table behind McCormack's Whisky Grill who wanted to know where we were headed.
Luckily for us, they approved of us going to Commercial for music and let us pass.
We managed to nab the last table inside (after two grown men apparently raised by wolves snatched the table we were headed for) where Loversville was already breaking hearts and twanging hard, the pedal steel just wringing out every aching note as lead singer Cassandra and her beehive held down the vintage look.
Having seen them before, I was more than ready for old school country music a la Patsy Cline, George Jones, and Everly Brothers. You know, gems like "It's the Bottle Talking,""I'll Do My Crying in the Rain" and the always popular "Pick Me Up On Your Way Down."
They just don't write 'em like that anymore, do they?
"We got an accordion in the house," Cassandra said and we were treated to a drop-in accordion player on the next few songs. Next thing we knew, the pedal steel player switched to fiddle and it was practically a jamboree.
In tribute to Tommy Ramone's recent demise, they even did a Ramones song, at which point my friend told me she'd seen them at the Boathouse in Norfolk in 1993. I had no idea.
The things you find out about a person when you spend seven hours with them.
Or maybe that was just the bottle talking.
Not willing to wait for today's date to get ready, I showed up all but unannounced with a bottle of Kuentz-Bas Riesling and a good attitude.
On the agenda for today was brunch with Diamond Heist at Cary Street Cafe and I intended to catch as much of the band as possible. Except that once we cracked the bottle of spicy and lush mouth-watering Riesling, the "dressing drink" period took away some of the urgency, if you know what I mean.
Eventually, we made it to Cary Street Cafe where an almost full house was swinging to the sounds of classic Neil Diamond songs, which I'm totally into.
I could blame it on my parents who took me to a Neil Diamond concert in 1979 or I could just admit that I appreciate the man's Tin Pan Alley talent and leave it at that.
We found seats at the bar, right in front of the "I See Drunk People" sign and to the right of the ice cold Jagermiester shots tap, appropriating a stool from a nearby table where it was being wasted as a purse holder.
"This is a song about a chair," lead singer Will joked before I began sipping my 1800 to "I Am, I Said."
I think it was while I was eating my Brazilian black bean soup that a photographer appeared and began shooting pictures of people at the bar, saying, "I wait till food gets near the mouth." You know, because few things are as attractive as people chewing.
Nudging me, my date whispered, "See, I told you it was a Dead bar," pointing at a skull behind the bar. Do I care about the Dead when "Sweet Caroline" is being sung? Or ever? I do not.
Unfortunately, we'd arrived not long before the band's break and while it gave us an opportunity to eat, the bonus was that Will (aka Neil) was working the room and stopped by to chat.
His "diamond"-encrusted collar and initial applique didn't go half as far at establishing his Neil credibility as his voice did, with the same distinctive low, gravel-filled sound that defined all those hits.
Once Diamond Heist took the stage again, we heard "Hello Again" and "Holly, Holy," two classics.
But, as Will pointed out, one thing Neil was known for was writing for other singers, so they then did "Red, Red Wine."
After the melancholy "Solitary Man," Will quipped, "If you didn't notice Rebecca's vibraslap solo, she'll do it again." What's key there is that I now know what that thing is called.
Introducing "If You Know What I Mean," off the "Beautiful Noise" album (yep, have it on vinyl), he called it "an oddly arranged album produced by Robbie Robertson." Afterwards, the drummer cracked, "We're going to call a mulligan on that one. Who wrote the set list?"
"Music is hard," Will told us before doing "Shiloh" (dubbing it afterwards, "Success with an awkward moment there"). Meanwhile, a girl came in, sat down at the bar and was handed a copy of a crossword puzzle with no words exchanged.
She worked diligently on it for 15 minutes, slid it across the bar and then turned to watch the band as if her work here was now finished.
"If anyone knows how to polka, this is the standard Neil Diamond polka song," he said about the song, "Beautiful Noise,"
And with what is probably the finest band solicitation I've ever heard, Will announced, "Like most fourteen year olds, we're on Facebook, so if you're ready to commit, we have a page."
How did we commit before the Facebook era anyway?
I'd have to say my only regret of the afternoon was not dancing to "I'm a Believer," but you can be sure that'll never happen again. We live, we learn.
During "Coming to America," the crowd got seriously into it (or perhaps were sufficiently drunk by then) to shout "today!" along with the band. "You are too kind," the drummer said at the end. "Because I f*cked that last one up."
The guy was hysterical.
The final offering, "Song Sung Blue," was a full-on singalong but the crowd was unwilling to accept that the fun was over.
"We literally know one more Neil Diamond song," Will said, half apologetically and they tore into "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show," a killer closer.
I mean, really. Who else on earth could sell a line such as, "Pack up the babies and grab the old ladies"? Who? No one but Neil, that's who.
After I saw a few songs of a Diamond Heist show a few weeks ago, I was telling a friend how much I'd enjoyed it and how I intended to go back and see them again. She was incredulous.
"You? You, Miss Must Have New Music, Miss Hates Classic Rock likes a Neil Diamond cover band? Who are you and what have you done with Karen?"
Please. The songs are classic '60s and '70s pop and, as far as I'm concerned, a blast to hear played live.
My parents would be so proud.
Once the band was finished there, so were we. With a couple hours to kill before the next band I wanted to go see, we decided a bottle of Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose and a cheese plate in the garden were in order.
Besides investigating the four kinds of mint - apple, pepper, spear and lemon - growing back there (a regular mojito garden) we got into a philosophical discussion of the proper length of time in a relationship before a man should propose.
My friend had some real life experience to back up her opinion about the danger of a man waiting too long to ask. You snooze, you lose, according to her.
When we left for Commercial Taphouse, we detoured through an alley where I was enchanted to see the most magnificent alley garden I've ever witnessed. And this town has some doozies.
This guy's beds, containers and trellises were breathtaking, with lisianthus (which I've always found tough to grow), stargazer lilies, bougainvillea, orchids, and the first artichoke plants I'd ever seen. Oh, yes, and zinnia,s gourds, tomatoes, herbs and who knows what all.
He had it all - topiary, bee hives, statuary, a koi pond, espaliered fruit trees- and apparently the time to maintain it all because everything looked lush and beautiful, as if we weren't in the middle of a dry spell.
Tearing ourselves away from his wonderland, we continued on, coming across two guys sitting at a table behind McCormack's Whisky Grill who wanted to know where we were headed.
Luckily for us, they approved of us going to Commercial for music and let us pass.
We managed to nab the last table inside (after two grown men apparently raised by wolves snatched the table we were headed for) where Loversville was already breaking hearts and twanging hard, the pedal steel just wringing out every aching note as lead singer Cassandra and her beehive held down the vintage look.
Having seen them before, I was more than ready for old school country music a la Patsy Cline, George Jones, and Everly Brothers. You know, gems like "It's the Bottle Talking,""I'll Do My Crying in the Rain" and the always popular "Pick Me Up On Your Way Down."
They just don't write 'em like that anymore, do they?
"We got an accordion in the house," Cassandra said and we were treated to a drop-in accordion player on the next few songs. Next thing we knew, the pedal steel player switched to fiddle and it was practically a jamboree.
In tribute to Tommy Ramone's recent demise, they even did a Ramones song, at which point my friend told me she'd seen them at the Boathouse in Norfolk in 1993. I had no idea.
The things you find out about a person when you spend seven hours with them.
Or maybe that was just the bottle talking.
Monday, April 21, 2014
I Had a Dream Last Night
Perhaps I didn't celebrate 4/20 appropriately.
What was I thinking working in the garden all day when I should have been one toke over the line? On the plus side, I did get to see my favorite beagle for a while.
Given that today was Easter (he's back!), I was grateful that Secco was even open, walking in to find a soft-spoken painter chatting with a cheese whiz/wine expert. He's one of my favorite people with whom I can discuss food and art.
After considering the same Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose that I'd had last night, I went with something new, a Nebbiolo-based Rose.
Music was spot on - Band of Horses, Fleet Foxes and a live version of Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)," as perfect a piece of poetry as David Byrne has ever written.
I'd brought the Sunday Washington Post for entertainment, finding in it a piece about taking gondola lessons in Venice, a less expensive way to traverse the canals, not to mention the thrill of doing it yourself.
First up was a chicken liver mousse with rosemary mustard and pickled currants, a delicately earthy chicken liver mousse so light and airy it could have floated away.
To up the decadence factor, we followed with a buckwheat crepe stuffed with duck confit, slivers of asparagus, honey and grapefruit, challenging only because it was tough to get all the components in one bite, but well worth it when I did.
It was strange how dead Carytown was, with few people walking by and an overall sense that everyone was somewhere else. I guess that meant that Secco was full of heathens, among which I count myself.
A trio came in looking like they'd escaped from Easter on Parade with colorful shorts and bow ties, ordered a bottle of red wine and almost immediately had to have it bagged to go when they told their server, "Oooh, our ride will be here sooner than we thought!" There was almost a little squeal at the end.
With no ride forthcoming, cheese seemed the way to go for our last course and so I chose Goot Essa mountain valley sharp cheddar, Appalachian Alpine-style cow cheese from Galax (not just for fiddlers!) and Olli's wild boar salami, always one of my soft spots, with a golden raisin chutney and the house apple butter.
That and the Op-Ed section and I was in heaven.
But a newspaper only gets you so far entertainment-wise, so the next stop was Commercial Taphouse for the B-Snap-tet Easter throw down.
The quartet - bass, drums, guitar and sax- were deep into it when we arrived and I scored a Hornitos while the woman in front of me (wearing a spangly headband across her forehead a la Olivia Newton John in the "Physical" days) turned around and gave me the hairy eyeball for no reason.
Too bad we'd taken so long eating that we only caught a few songs, including the devastating "The Strange Charmer," one of the songs off their upcoming record recently recorded at Minimum Wage Studios with Lance Koehler.
I was especially taken with bassist Brian hitting the bass strings with a stick to achieve an eastern-sounding effect.
It was a shame when they ended their set, maybe not for them, but for those of us who'd arrived later and missed much of it.
When I asked to make sure of the name of the song "The Strange Charmer," one of the musicians said, "She can call it whatever she wants to."
That's the reward of being a heathen who goes to hear music on Easter when decent folks are home with family.
Or doing the 4/20 thing, if you know what I mean.
I love the passing of time
never for money,
always for love
Cover up and say goodnight
Goodnight.
What was I thinking working in the garden all day when I should have been one toke over the line? On the plus side, I did get to see my favorite beagle for a while.
Given that today was Easter (he's back!), I was grateful that Secco was even open, walking in to find a soft-spoken painter chatting with a cheese whiz/wine expert. He's one of my favorite people with whom I can discuss food and art.
After considering the same Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose that I'd had last night, I went with something new, a Nebbiolo-based Rose.
Music was spot on - Band of Horses, Fleet Foxes and a live version of Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)," as perfect a piece of poetry as David Byrne has ever written.
I'd brought the Sunday Washington Post for entertainment, finding in it a piece about taking gondola lessons in Venice, a less expensive way to traverse the canals, not to mention the thrill of doing it yourself.
First up was a chicken liver mousse with rosemary mustard and pickled currants, a delicately earthy chicken liver mousse so light and airy it could have floated away.
To up the decadence factor, we followed with a buckwheat crepe stuffed with duck confit, slivers of asparagus, honey and grapefruit, challenging only because it was tough to get all the components in one bite, but well worth it when I did.
It was strange how dead Carytown was, with few people walking by and an overall sense that everyone was somewhere else. I guess that meant that Secco was full of heathens, among which I count myself.
A trio came in looking like they'd escaped from Easter on Parade with colorful shorts and bow ties, ordered a bottle of red wine and almost immediately had to have it bagged to go when they told their server, "Oooh, our ride will be here sooner than we thought!" There was almost a little squeal at the end.
With no ride forthcoming, cheese seemed the way to go for our last course and so I chose Goot Essa mountain valley sharp cheddar, Appalachian Alpine-style cow cheese from Galax (not just for fiddlers!) and Olli's wild boar salami, always one of my soft spots, with a golden raisin chutney and the house apple butter.
That and the Op-Ed section and I was in heaven.
But a newspaper only gets you so far entertainment-wise, so the next stop was Commercial Taphouse for the B-Snap-tet Easter throw down.
The quartet - bass, drums, guitar and sax- were deep into it when we arrived and I scored a Hornitos while the woman in front of me (wearing a spangly headband across her forehead a la Olivia Newton John in the "Physical" days) turned around and gave me the hairy eyeball for no reason.
Too bad we'd taken so long eating that we only caught a few songs, including the devastating "The Strange Charmer," one of the songs off their upcoming record recently recorded at Minimum Wage Studios with Lance Koehler.
I was especially taken with bassist Brian hitting the bass strings with a stick to achieve an eastern-sounding effect.
It was a shame when they ended their set, maybe not for them, but for those of us who'd arrived later and missed much of it.
When I asked to make sure of the name of the song "The Strange Charmer," one of the musicians said, "She can call it whatever she wants to."
That's the reward of being a heathen who goes to hear music on Easter when decent folks are home with family.
Or doing the 4/20 thing, if you know what I mean.
I love the passing of time
never for money,
always for love
Cover up and say goodnight
Goodnight.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Musical Coaster
On the busiest eating-out day of the year, it's hard to find a place to just eat.
I mean, I wasn't looking for a Mother's Day kind of meal, just quick sustenance before a show.
Thinking Don't Look Back would fit the bill, I was relieved of that notion simply by stepping in the door.
The place was mobbed with what looked like other Mother's Day refugees.
Rather than join the line of people waiting for a table or bar stool, I opted for eating in the "lounge," a euphemism for the back area with couches and a coffee table.
A couple was deep in discussion about dancing while rapping onstage, something he professed to have experience in while all she'd done was dance professionally.
But, hey, a server came over almost at once and my black bean nachos arrived shortly thereafter.
When the dancers left, they were replaced by a couple waiting for a table and no matter how often they were told they could eat back there, they declined.
Tables mean a lot more to some people than others.
She kept looking covetously at my food but held fast to an endless wait for that magic table.
They finally got it as I was leaving.
My next stop was Commercial Taphouse for the premiere of Pairs, a new music series showcasing classical music in the first half and jazz after intermission.
Organizer Ellen was setting out coasters on each table; one side had the info about Scrio, the avant-garde jazz ensemble playing tonight, and the other side wittily read, "On tap."
Listed out were the six pieces to be performed, along with the musicians names and instruments.
It was easily the cleverest program I've ever seen. And useful.
Symphony violinist Treesa came in, looking fabulous with her purple-streaked hair and instrument in hand, pointed at me and said, "I knew you'd be here!"
Since I'd last seen her from afar earlier at the symphony performance this afternoon, she'd been hosting a party of symphony musicians at her house.
She'd slipped out long enough to come play at Pairs and was hoping to return without anyone noticing her absence.
It'd be tough not to notice the purple hair was missing, though.
The first piece featured Mary who, we were told, had been the first trumpet at today's performance, doing an Albinoni piece.
The clear tones of her trumpet were a thing of beauty in that small room.
She shone again in a Vivaldi double horn concerto with Rachel on French horn.
Ellen gave us a quick lesson in the make-up of a string quartet, followed by the fact that she'd quilted together a four-movement string quartet of four movements from composers spanning 200 years.
So we first heard Haydn (the father of string quartets), then Schumann, followed by Debussy and finally Shostakovich.
It was an incredibly brilliant and beautiful way to teach the ignorant among us (okay, me) about the movements and various compositional styles of string quartets.
But things stayed real when we heard fajita meat sizzling in the pan in the nearby kitchen during the Haydn movement.
Classical music, it's not just for stuffed shirts anymore.
The moment it ended, the guy behind me exploded out of his seat to go to the bathroom, telling his friends, "I've been holding it. You don't want to walk through a string quartet to pee."
His Momma didn't raise no fool.
Intermission followed, meaning Scott Clark, one of the the three musicians with Scott in his name who form Scrio (Scott trio, get it?) set up his drums.
It really doesn't take any time for Scott Burton to take his guitar from its case or Jason Scott to hook his sax around his neck.
But then who in RVA doesn't understand how jazz time works?
The talented trio played music from a variety of sources - an early '80s jazz composer, guitarist Scott, saxophonist Jason, John Coltrane ("But just the melody because it's so good").
"We're playing pretty much the entire sax/guitar/drum repertoire that exists," Jason joked.
Both the Burton and Scott pieces had #2 in their title, causing him to wax poetic, "We're a trio playing songs with the number two in them. Deep."
Okay, not that deep, but full of Scott's alternately busy and spare drumming, Scott's nuanced and tasty guitar playing and Jason's melodic wailing on sax.
It was a far cry from a string quartet or double horn concerto, but every bit as impressive to hear, as evidenced by all the classical players who hung around for it.
But then, it was an enviable port in a Mother's Day storm.
I mean, I wasn't looking for a Mother's Day kind of meal, just quick sustenance before a show.
Thinking Don't Look Back would fit the bill, I was relieved of that notion simply by stepping in the door.
The place was mobbed with what looked like other Mother's Day refugees.
Rather than join the line of people waiting for a table or bar stool, I opted for eating in the "lounge," a euphemism for the back area with couches and a coffee table.
A couple was deep in discussion about dancing while rapping onstage, something he professed to have experience in while all she'd done was dance professionally.
But, hey, a server came over almost at once and my black bean nachos arrived shortly thereafter.
When the dancers left, they were replaced by a couple waiting for a table and no matter how often they were told they could eat back there, they declined.
Tables mean a lot more to some people than others.
She kept looking covetously at my food but held fast to an endless wait for that magic table.
They finally got it as I was leaving.
My next stop was Commercial Taphouse for the premiere of Pairs, a new music series showcasing classical music in the first half and jazz after intermission.
Organizer Ellen was setting out coasters on each table; one side had the info about Scrio, the avant-garde jazz ensemble playing tonight, and the other side wittily read, "On tap."
Listed out were the six pieces to be performed, along with the musicians names and instruments.
It was easily the cleverest program I've ever seen. And useful.
Symphony violinist Treesa came in, looking fabulous with her purple-streaked hair and instrument in hand, pointed at me and said, "I knew you'd be here!"
Since I'd last seen her from afar earlier at the symphony performance this afternoon, she'd been hosting a party of symphony musicians at her house.
She'd slipped out long enough to come play at Pairs and was hoping to return without anyone noticing her absence.
It'd be tough not to notice the purple hair was missing, though.
The first piece featured Mary who, we were told, had been the first trumpet at today's performance, doing an Albinoni piece.
The clear tones of her trumpet were a thing of beauty in that small room.
She shone again in a Vivaldi double horn concerto with Rachel on French horn.
Ellen gave us a quick lesson in the make-up of a string quartet, followed by the fact that she'd quilted together a four-movement string quartet of four movements from composers spanning 200 years.
So we first heard Haydn (the father of string quartets), then Schumann, followed by Debussy and finally Shostakovich.
It was an incredibly brilliant and beautiful way to teach the ignorant among us (okay, me) about the movements and various compositional styles of string quartets.
But things stayed real when we heard fajita meat sizzling in the pan in the nearby kitchen during the Haydn movement.
Classical music, it's not just for stuffed shirts anymore.
The moment it ended, the guy behind me exploded out of his seat to go to the bathroom, telling his friends, "I've been holding it. You don't want to walk through a string quartet to pee."
His Momma didn't raise no fool.
Intermission followed, meaning Scott Clark, one of the the three musicians with Scott in his name who form Scrio (Scott trio, get it?) set up his drums.
It really doesn't take any time for Scott Burton to take his guitar from its case or Jason Scott to hook his sax around his neck.
But then who in RVA doesn't understand how jazz time works?
The talented trio played music from a variety of sources - an early '80s jazz composer, guitarist Scott, saxophonist Jason, John Coltrane ("But just the melody because it's so good").
"We're playing pretty much the entire sax/guitar/drum repertoire that exists," Jason joked.
Both the Burton and Scott pieces had #2 in their title, causing him to wax poetic, "We're a trio playing songs with the number two in them. Deep."
Okay, not that deep, but full of Scott's alternately busy and spare drumming, Scott's nuanced and tasty guitar playing and Jason's melodic wailing on sax.
It was a far cry from a string quartet or double horn concerto, but every bit as impressive to hear, as evidenced by all the classical players who hung around for it.
But then, it was an enviable port in a Mother's Day storm.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Word Games
Pay too much attention to the French Film Festival and you'll miss the great Spring snow.
Hell, I missed even knowing it was coming.
On the other hand, "Le Prenom," a film essentially about a dinner party-long war of words and revelations, was delicious.
But a movie about food requires food so my FFF girlfriend and I made a pit stop at Secco for sandwiches.
I don't know which of us was happier, she with her curried egg salad with crispy onions or me with my house bacon, Gouda, spinach and whole grain mustard.
If nothing else, the aroma of our lunch eaten in the close quarters of the Byrd seats must have had our neighbors drooling.
And then there was the comedy of words we watched.
Is naming a baby Adolf or even Adolphe wrong? Do friends have the right to pass judgment on your children's names? Is a 26-year old age difference between a man and woman understandable when the women is your mother? Is it okay to take credit for killing a dog when you didn't actually do it? Why are French men so charming and thoughtless at the same time?
Afterwards, we stretched our legs before the next movie, the historical drama "Therese Desqueyroux."
But the wait was endless as the French delegation of actors and directors got introduced, followed by the UR and VCU interns who'd helped with the FFF, followed by a reading, followed by endless boredom at being stuck in uncomfortable seats for far too long.
Rather than suffer in silence, we slid out (getting a thumbs-up from a French friend sitting two seats away) for a stop at Amour and some Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace rose and a trio sampler of a Dutch egg, crispy on the outside and soft-cooked inside, sherried crabmeat and a decadent foie gras.
But the issue of the moment was where had all this snow come from while we were stuck inside?
We had no clue, but a charming and erudite law type from Jamaica joined us at the bar, followed by Carytown's newest restaurant owner and his smiling bartender, so we got a little company to tell about our recent film-watching, among other things.
On the table were such hot topics as children's books, Scrabble and men who remember women's birthdays.
By that time, Carytown was a ghost town, so I left the film-lover to go get a music-lover and find some jazz.
We found it at Commercial Taphouse where the Scott Clark 4-Tet was in full swing.
Honestly, we were just grateful that everyone hadn't closed down for the snowy evening, so getting to hear one of my favorite jazz drummers was icing on the cake.
Taking the only unoccupied table, the one in the back under the big (read: cold) front window, we had a mostly decent view of one of Richmond's best quartets.
Friends came in, musicians all, saying they were going to give the music six minutes and if they didn't like it, go build a snowman on the grounds of the VMFA.
An hour later, they were still there.
Maybe it was because drummer Scott and bassist Cameron (who was also celebrating his birthday come midnight) with occasional horns from Bob and Jason, were playing some of the pieces from the work he wrote based on his reading of "Bury Me at Wounded Knee."
I'd first heard the work back in January at a show he'd done at For Instance Gallery and I recognized the aching, tribal quality of the music as soon as he began playing it.
I don't know how someone couldn't be caught up in such moving music.
And since one of the friends who'd come in was a drummer, I wasn't the least surprised when their six minutes lasted indefinitely.
During the break, Scott came over and we talked about composer John Cage and the tribute to him, the Musicircus, I had attended and he'd played in the other night at UR.
Naturally the weather came up and he admitted that he was only too happy to come out and play on this snowy night.
"What else was I going to do?" he asked rhetorically.
My sentiments exactly.
Hell, I missed even knowing it was coming.
On the other hand, "Le Prenom," a film essentially about a dinner party-long war of words and revelations, was delicious.
But a movie about food requires food so my FFF girlfriend and I made a pit stop at Secco for sandwiches.
I don't know which of us was happier, she with her curried egg salad with crispy onions or me with my house bacon, Gouda, spinach and whole grain mustard.
If nothing else, the aroma of our lunch eaten in the close quarters of the Byrd seats must have had our neighbors drooling.
And then there was the comedy of words we watched.
Is naming a baby Adolf or even Adolphe wrong? Do friends have the right to pass judgment on your children's names? Is a 26-year old age difference between a man and woman understandable when the women is your mother? Is it okay to take credit for killing a dog when you didn't actually do it? Why are French men so charming and thoughtless at the same time?
Afterwards, we stretched our legs before the next movie, the historical drama "Therese Desqueyroux."
But the wait was endless as the French delegation of actors and directors got introduced, followed by the UR and VCU interns who'd helped with the FFF, followed by a reading, followed by endless boredom at being stuck in uncomfortable seats for far too long.
Rather than suffer in silence, we slid out (getting a thumbs-up from a French friend sitting two seats away) for a stop at Amour and some Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace rose and a trio sampler of a Dutch egg, crispy on the outside and soft-cooked inside, sherried crabmeat and a decadent foie gras.
But the issue of the moment was where had all this snow come from while we were stuck inside?
We had no clue, but a charming and erudite law type from Jamaica joined us at the bar, followed by Carytown's newest restaurant owner and his smiling bartender, so we got a little company to tell about our recent film-watching, among other things.
On the table were such hot topics as children's books, Scrabble and men who remember women's birthdays.
By that time, Carytown was a ghost town, so I left the film-lover to go get a music-lover and find some jazz.
We found it at Commercial Taphouse where the Scott Clark 4-Tet was in full swing.
Honestly, we were just grateful that everyone hadn't closed down for the snowy evening, so getting to hear one of my favorite jazz drummers was icing on the cake.
Taking the only unoccupied table, the one in the back under the big (read: cold) front window, we had a mostly decent view of one of Richmond's best quartets.
Friends came in, musicians all, saying they were going to give the music six minutes and if they didn't like it, go build a snowman on the grounds of the VMFA.
An hour later, they were still there.
Maybe it was because drummer Scott and bassist Cameron (who was also celebrating his birthday come midnight) with occasional horns from Bob and Jason, were playing some of the pieces from the work he wrote based on his reading of "Bury Me at Wounded Knee."
I'd first heard the work back in January at a show he'd done at For Instance Gallery and I recognized the aching, tribal quality of the music as soon as he began playing it.
I don't know how someone couldn't be caught up in such moving music.
And since one of the friends who'd come in was a drummer, I wasn't the least surprised when their six minutes lasted indefinitely.
During the break, Scott came over and we talked about composer John Cage and the tribute to him, the Musicircus, I had attended and he'd played in the other night at UR.
Naturally the weather came up and he admitted that he was only too happy to come out and play on this snowy night.
"What else was I going to do?" he asked rhetorically.
My sentiments exactly.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Shall We Smote?
All the world's a lie and all the men and women merely liars.
Which I suppose included me and my theater-loving companion and definitely refered to Henley Street Theater's production of "The Liar."
Seated in the second row at the Gottwald Playhouse at CenterStage, we had a ringside view for a French farce from the 17th century.
You know the kind: breasts falling out of dresses, elaborate sexual innuendo and non-stop laughter (like the 70-something next to us who lasciviously laughed at every dirty innuendo).
"The story's so piquant!"
The Artistic Director thanked us for coming and did a quick pep talk after noting the rainy day audience.
"You're a small but potent crowd, I feel sure," Ricks said.
And all of us ready for some cosmic fiction.
The play had been both translated and adapted for modern audiences, making for a satisfying combination of rhyming wordplay and modern references.
"What charm is your memory cursed with?"
There was also a breakdown of the fourth wall with characters speaking directly to us.
When the liar of the title gives his first speech, his friend points to him, saying dryly, "The exposition."
As if we hadn't noticed.
"Is it not a man's job to flatter?"
Actually, I think that it is.
The play benefited from a strong cast who almost never tripped over the iambic pentameter that dominated the dialog.
Only when the liar is forced to admit his love for Lucrece does he resort to prose.
"One who loves asks no leave; they just adore."
I laughed out loud repeatedly...at the interior rhymes, the double meanings and the brilliant uses of mis-pronunciation for the sake of maintaining a rhyme scheme.
"Did I say the girl was deep? She's an ocean!"
Like the Shakespeare it was no doubt partially inspired by (including a few direct rip-offs), there were twins, unknown siblings, mistaken identities and a tidy ending.
And, being a farce, groan-worthy lines.
"You may be a bi-valve, but you're my valve."
Does it get any more romantic than that?
Not on a pouring down rainy day, so after the pleasure of two hours of verse and love (and even a talkback with the actors), we were starving.
And, like last Sunday late afternoon, we ended up at Burger Bach after finding Cellar Door closed.
Unlike last Sunday at BB, we eschewed bivalves at the four-screen bar for (basic and lamb) burgers at a corner booth with a view of a silvery sky.
Okay, with a few oysters to start.
My favorite thing about their wine list is the South African choices so it was a bit of a buzz kill to hear that they were out of the Warwick Pinotage.
We left Stellenbosch behind and moved to the Western Cape, sharing the Boekenhoutskloof Wolf Trap 2011, an earthy Syrah, Mourvedre, Viognier blend perfect for a damp, cool April evening.
When the bottle and burgers were gone we knew the absence of desserts would send us down the street to Secco.
Already enjoying the rainy evening there was a Blood Brother and his crew up front and over at the bar, the teacher out late on a school night.
She clarified why that sometimes happens despite her usual habit of early bedtimes.
"It's always because of a dude, Karen" she explained to me like she was talking to an idiot.
There we also found olive oil and rosemary gelato with sea salt (exquisite taste and texture) and hot, freshly fried zeppoles to accompany our digestifs.
Our last stop was Commercial Taphouse for Labragenda, a four piece doing progressive jazz to far too few people.
I recognized three of the four: the band's namesake Larry Branch, the guitar player from the RVA Big Band and the bassist from Marionette.
They did some originals, a terrific piece called "Fiction" by Glows in the Dark's Scott Burton and closed the first set with an extended "Tailgating."
For their second set, they played some Journey, Milli Vanilli and a little Nickelback.
Kidding.
Haven't you heard? "Liars aren't born, they're fabricated."
Which I suppose included me and my theater-loving companion and definitely refered to Henley Street Theater's production of "The Liar."
Seated in the second row at the Gottwald Playhouse at CenterStage, we had a ringside view for a French farce from the 17th century.
You know the kind: breasts falling out of dresses, elaborate sexual innuendo and non-stop laughter (like the 70-something next to us who lasciviously laughed at every dirty innuendo).
"The story's so piquant!"
The Artistic Director thanked us for coming and did a quick pep talk after noting the rainy day audience.
"You're a small but potent crowd, I feel sure," Ricks said.
And all of us ready for some cosmic fiction.
The play had been both translated and adapted for modern audiences, making for a satisfying combination of rhyming wordplay and modern references.
"What charm is your memory cursed with?"
There was also a breakdown of the fourth wall with characters speaking directly to us.
When the liar of the title gives his first speech, his friend points to him, saying dryly, "The exposition."
As if we hadn't noticed.
"Is it not a man's job to flatter?"
Actually, I think that it is.
The play benefited from a strong cast who almost never tripped over the iambic pentameter that dominated the dialog.
Only when the liar is forced to admit his love for Lucrece does he resort to prose.
"One who loves asks no leave; they just adore."
I laughed out loud repeatedly...at the interior rhymes, the double meanings and the brilliant uses of mis-pronunciation for the sake of maintaining a rhyme scheme.
"Did I say the girl was deep? She's an ocean!"
Like the Shakespeare it was no doubt partially inspired by (including a few direct rip-offs), there were twins, unknown siblings, mistaken identities and a tidy ending.
And, being a farce, groan-worthy lines.
"You may be a bi-valve, but you're my valve."
Does it get any more romantic than that?
Not on a pouring down rainy day, so after the pleasure of two hours of verse and love (and even a talkback with the actors), we were starving.
And, like last Sunday late afternoon, we ended up at Burger Bach after finding Cellar Door closed.
Unlike last Sunday at BB, we eschewed bivalves at the four-screen bar for (basic and lamb) burgers at a corner booth with a view of a silvery sky.
Okay, with a few oysters to start.
My favorite thing about their wine list is the South African choices so it was a bit of a buzz kill to hear that they were out of the Warwick Pinotage.
We left Stellenbosch behind and moved to the Western Cape, sharing the Boekenhoutskloof Wolf Trap 2011, an earthy Syrah, Mourvedre, Viognier blend perfect for a damp, cool April evening.
When the bottle and burgers were gone we knew the absence of desserts would send us down the street to Secco.
Already enjoying the rainy evening there was a Blood Brother and his crew up front and over at the bar, the teacher out late on a school night.
She clarified why that sometimes happens despite her usual habit of early bedtimes.
"It's always because of a dude, Karen" she explained to me like she was talking to an idiot.
There we also found olive oil and rosemary gelato with sea salt (exquisite taste and texture) and hot, freshly fried zeppoles to accompany our digestifs.
Our last stop was Commercial Taphouse for Labragenda, a four piece doing progressive jazz to far too few people.
I recognized three of the four: the band's namesake Larry Branch, the guitar player from the RVA Big Band and the bassist from Marionette.
They did some originals, a terrific piece called "Fiction" by Glows in the Dark's Scott Burton and closed the first set with an extended "Tailgating."
For their second set, they played some Journey, Milli Vanilli and a little Nickelback.
Kidding.
Haven't you heard? "Liars aren't born, they're fabricated."
Monday, March 5, 2012
Sing Single Girl
It doesn't take much to find a simple way to savor the end of the weekend.
When you walk into Avalon twenty minutes after it opens on a Sunday, it's a safe bet that there will already be some regulars in place.
And the bartender who's been there forever will greet me like a regular even though my frequency there is slight compared to an actual regular.
It helps that I am meeting a true regular, someone whose default after-work bar is Avalon.
Because he has already chosen a brown drink, I do the same, sidestepping wine to order Hornitos and we proceed to cover as much conversational territory as possible in the short time we have.
We talk about my Scottish friend wanting me to come visit and the charm/inevitability of livestock on the roads when you drive in Scotland.
I know it's true because it's happened to me.
Because I know it will crack him up, I tell him my recent oyster story and he tells me that only I could take a walk on a shell bar in the river and have a guy approach me.
I'm quite sure I'm not the only one.
After our limited time together, I head out to collect a willing music lover and spend the evening at Commercial Taphouse listening to a couple of my favorite local performers.
Songbird Allison Self has Grant Hunnicutt of River City Band playing with her tonight and his mandolin and voice are a terrific addition to her big voice.
With a Ploughman's platter of cheeses, pickles,bread, tomato and lettuce to sustain us, we sit in the back most booth because it's the only one free when we walk in.
There's something quite civilized about listening to old bluegrass and Americana, stuff like Carter Family tunes, a favorite of Allison's, and "Single Girl, Married Girl" on a Sunday night.
The crowd was even mostly paying attention, which was appreciated given how good the two sounded in the small restaurant.
It wasn't an earth-shattering kind of evening, but everyone at my table seemed to be having a great time.
But then, we're regulars at having a good time wherever we end up.
When you walk into Avalon twenty minutes after it opens on a Sunday, it's a safe bet that there will already be some regulars in place.
And the bartender who's been there forever will greet me like a regular even though my frequency there is slight compared to an actual regular.
It helps that I am meeting a true regular, someone whose default after-work bar is Avalon.
Because he has already chosen a brown drink, I do the same, sidestepping wine to order Hornitos and we proceed to cover as much conversational territory as possible in the short time we have.
We talk about my Scottish friend wanting me to come visit and the charm/inevitability of livestock on the roads when you drive in Scotland.
I know it's true because it's happened to me.
Because I know it will crack him up, I tell him my recent oyster story and he tells me that only I could take a walk on a shell bar in the river and have a guy approach me.
I'm quite sure I'm not the only one.
After our limited time together, I head out to collect a willing music lover and spend the evening at Commercial Taphouse listening to a couple of my favorite local performers.
Songbird Allison Self has Grant Hunnicutt of River City Band playing with her tonight and his mandolin and voice are a terrific addition to her big voice.
With a Ploughman's platter of cheeses, pickles,bread, tomato and lettuce to sustain us, we sit in the back most booth because it's the only one free when we walk in.
There's something quite civilized about listening to old bluegrass and Americana, stuff like Carter Family tunes, a favorite of Allison's, and "Single Girl, Married Girl" on a Sunday night.
The crowd was even mostly paying attention, which was appreciated given how good the two sounded in the small restaurant.
It wasn't an earth-shattering kind of evening, but everyone at my table seemed to be having a great time.
But then, we're regulars at having a good time wherever we end up.
Monday, January 9, 2012
It's All About What Follows What
We have a consensus, ladies and gentlemen; we are glad the holidays are over.
It's about time to get back to the business of going out and having a good time for no reason other than that it's Sunday night.
That's the spirit that landed us at Secco with a small crowd of like-minded people tonight.
With an Italian-speaking server, tales of Perugia and a leaning in that direction already, it was more or less a foregone conclusion that we would end up with an Italian wine.
The Benotto Monferrato Rosso "Nebieul" came with a promise on the menu that it would make any Italophile grin (it did).
Since I'd come with a Secco newbie, we tasted around the menu so he could get an idea of the pleasures of the talented kitchen.
The fried Barcat oysters with a pickled ramp creme fraiche were to die for. The subtle brininess of the oysters under the perfectly fried breading should be on every oyster-lover's must-eat list.
The sweetbreads with roasted fingerling potatoes and sauerkraut enticed even the non-gland eater among us who had only memories of his mother eating such things.
He was just as satisfied with the house-made gnocchi with lamb ragout and preserved lemon, a dish I'd had and knew to be a perfect balance of flavors
Our first and last course came on the slate (I heard a customer ask, "How many slates do you have anyway?") with Brillat Savarin, a butter bomb, the luscious Hayley Hazen Bleu and melt-in-your-mouth Bresaola, a meat I could eat all night.
As we ate, a DJ friend came in for a beer and joined another guy. Before long, he was showing off his latest library book find: a book last checked out in 1928.
I am enough of a book geek to find that absolutely fascinating. From the little we saw of the text, the flowery language was of the kind rapidly fading ever since 1928.
Our loss, in my opinion.
Once sated with food and wine, we moved on to music at Commercial Taphouse, listening to the Scott Clark 4-tet from a window seat up front.
We'd have sat down closer since my companion had never heard them before, but every seat in the place was taken when we arrived, a fact which didn't surprise me since I know how good these guys are.
Ever since they stole the show at RVA JazzFest, I try to see them whenever possible.
Drummer Scott Clark never fails to impress with his impeccably controlled yet energetic playing and with trumpet, sax and bass filling out his compositions, we just sat back and took it all in.
They played several new pieces tonight, with "Clockwise" probably my favorite.
Although much of the crowd faded before midnight, we stayed until the end, happy to be hearing live jazz to end our weekend.
Forget small talk and holiday soirees, give me a terrific meal and a little night music.
Or as someone said last night, it's like hearing the Smiths followed by Belle and Sebastian.
You not only have to understand the why of that, but bring chemistry to the mix, too.
Any night of the week.
It's about time to get back to the business of going out and having a good time for no reason other than that it's Sunday night.
That's the spirit that landed us at Secco with a small crowd of like-minded people tonight.
With an Italian-speaking server, tales of Perugia and a leaning in that direction already, it was more or less a foregone conclusion that we would end up with an Italian wine.
The Benotto Monferrato Rosso "Nebieul" came with a promise on the menu that it would make any Italophile grin (it did).
Since I'd come with a Secco newbie, we tasted around the menu so he could get an idea of the pleasures of the talented kitchen.
The fried Barcat oysters with a pickled ramp creme fraiche were to die for. The subtle brininess of the oysters under the perfectly fried breading should be on every oyster-lover's must-eat list.
The sweetbreads with roasted fingerling potatoes and sauerkraut enticed even the non-gland eater among us who had only memories of his mother eating such things.
He was just as satisfied with the house-made gnocchi with lamb ragout and preserved lemon, a dish I'd had and knew to be a perfect balance of flavors
Our first and last course came on the slate (I heard a customer ask, "How many slates do you have anyway?") with Brillat Savarin, a butter bomb, the luscious Hayley Hazen Bleu and melt-in-your-mouth Bresaola, a meat I could eat all night.
As we ate, a DJ friend came in for a beer and joined another guy. Before long, he was showing off his latest library book find: a book last checked out in 1928.
I am enough of a book geek to find that absolutely fascinating. From the little we saw of the text, the flowery language was of the kind rapidly fading ever since 1928.
Our loss, in my opinion.
Once sated with food and wine, we moved on to music at Commercial Taphouse, listening to the Scott Clark 4-tet from a window seat up front.
We'd have sat down closer since my companion had never heard them before, but every seat in the place was taken when we arrived, a fact which didn't surprise me since I know how good these guys are.
Ever since they stole the show at RVA JazzFest, I try to see them whenever possible.
Drummer Scott Clark never fails to impress with his impeccably controlled yet energetic playing and with trumpet, sax and bass filling out his compositions, we just sat back and took it all in.
They played several new pieces tonight, with "Clockwise" probably my favorite.
Although much of the crowd faded before midnight, we stayed until the end, happy to be hearing live jazz to end our weekend.
Forget small talk and holiday soirees, give me a terrific meal and a little night music.
Or as someone said last night, it's like hearing the Smiths followed by Belle and Sebastian.
You not only have to understand the why of that, but bring chemistry to the mix, too.
Any night of the week.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Imagining the Bass Line
After such a traditional and wholesome Christmas show this afternoon, wouldn't you just know I'd have to swing completely in the other direction tonight? Come on, you did, right?
Firehouse Theater was presenting Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge as a staged reading and the ten-buck ticket price included an adult beverage. The house was nearly full.
The story, a takeoff on A Christmas Carol was so politically incorrect, so irreverent and so funny that I felt it more than canceled out any sweet, wholesome Christmas vibes I had absorbed earlier today.
The performance had plenty of wicked asides as well as commentary about the play itself (the young Jacob Marley asking, "Why don't I have any lines?" after a long discourse by other characters).
The Ghost of Christmases Past, Present and Future is written for a black women and at one point Scrooge tells her, "I don't think there even were any Negro people in 1842." Ouch.
Mrs. Bob Cratchit turned out to be a miserable woman who hated her life and was always leaving to get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. She belittled her children mercilessly, ignored their requests for food and barely tolerated her sanctimonious husband and his delightfully overboard accent.
In a play full of references to other times, she bemoaned the absence of feminism. "I wish it were 1977 so I'd be admired for my unpleasantness," she wailed. No feminist stereotype there.
But eventually Clarence, the angel from It's A Wonderful Life, came along to help out the ghost and solve both Scrooge's attitude problem as well as Mrs. Cratchit's misery in a novel twist that landed the two of them in, when else, 1977.
After a skewering of Christmas like that, I couldn't resist a little offbeat Christmas music to close out the evening. Commercial Taphouse was hosting Glows in the Dark, RVA's premiere free jazz practitioners, doing their Christmas show.
I generally feel like I have no business in the Taphouse (except to eat ribs) given my lack of appreciation for suds and such. But their beer menu has such wonderfully clever beer descriptions that I make a habit of reading it anyway. And then I always order tequila, which I did again tonight.
Next to me was a beer geek who, as part of a beer collective (how did I not know there were such things?), spends his Sundays, not watching football, but brewing and geeking out about beer. When I asked, he did admit they they occasionally detour into talk of "our ladies and stuff." I thought that was adorable.
He was full of great stories about the mishaps of brewing; today's had to do with the propane tank and sloshing it around. "I saw fire fall," he said, obviously still incredulous. Really? Can't say I've ever seen fire fall myself, but then I don't spend my Sundays in a garage.
I still have fond memories of Glows in the Dark's Halloween show two years ago when they did all music from John Carpenter movies, so there was no way I was missing their Christmas show, especially when I'd heard rumours of music from the Charlie Brown Christmas special.
Scott Burton started off by telling the audience, "We're down a bass player. He's really sick. So you'll have to fill in the bass parts with your mind." A musician friend nearby assured me this was quite doable, but I'm sure Scott also made some modifications in his guitar playing to compensate.
They began with an original non-Christmas piece and then launched into a superb rendition of "Little Drummer Boy," which they topped with Vince Guaraldi's "Linus and Lucy" from A Charlie Brown Christmas. "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" was next and the crowd was just eating it up.
Christmas music never sounded so good as when played by trombone, saxophone, guitar and drums with the bass line in the crowd's head.
At least that's the way it felt tonight.
Firehouse Theater was presenting Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge as a staged reading and the ten-buck ticket price included an adult beverage. The house was nearly full.
The story, a takeoff on A Christmas Carol was so politically incorrect, so irreverent and so funny that I felt it more than canceled out any sweet, wholesome Christmas vibes I had absorbed earlier today.
The performance had plenty of wicked asides as well as commentary about the play itself (the young Jacob Marley asking, "Why don't I have any lines?" after a long discourse by other characters).
The Ghost of Christmases Past, Present and Future is written for a black women and at one point Scrooge tells her, "I don't think there even were any Negro people in 1842." Ouch.
Mrs. Bob Cratchit turned out to be a miserable woman who hated her life and was always leaving to get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. She belittled her children mercilessly, ignored their requests for food and barely tolerated her sanctimonious husband and his delightfully overboard accent.
In a play full of references to other times, she bemoaned the absence of feminism. "I wish it were 1977 so I'd be admired for my unpleasantness," she wailed. No feminist stereotype there.
But eventually Clarence, the angel from It's A Wonderful Life, came along to help out the ghost and solve both Scrooge's attitude problem as well as Mrs. Cratchit's misery in a novel twist that landed the two of them in, when else, 1977.
After a skewering of Christmas like that, I couldn't resist a little offbeat Christmas music to close out the evening. Commercial Taphouse was hosting Glows in the Dark, RVA's premiere free jazz practitioners, doing their Christmas show.
I generally feel like I have no business in the Taphouse (except to eat ribs) given my lack of appreciation for suds and such. But their beer menu has such wonderfully clever beer descriptions that I make a habit of reading it anyway. And then I always order tequila, which I did again tonight.
Next to me was a beer geek who, as part of a beer collective (how did I not know there were such things?), spends his Sundays, not watching football, but brewing and geeking out about beer. When I asked, he did admit they they occasionally detour into talk of "our ladies and stuff." I thought that was adorable.
He was full of great stories about the mishaps of brewing; today's had to do with the propane tank and sloshing it around. "I saw fire fall," he said, obviously still incredulous. Really? Can't say I've ever seen fire fall myself, but then I don't spend my Sundays in a garage.
I still have fond memories of Glows in the Dark's Halloween show two years ago when they did all music from John Carpenter movies, so there was no way I was missing their Christmas show, especially when I'd heard rumours of music from the Charlie Brown Christmas special.
Scott Burton started off by telling the audience, "We're down a bass player. He's really sick. So you'll have to fill in the bass parts with your mind." A musician friend nearby assured me this was quite doable, but I'm sure Scott also made some modifications in his guitar playing to compensate.
They began with an original non-Christmas piece and then launched into a superb rendition of "Little Drummer Boy," which they topped with Vince Guaraldi's "Linus and Lucy" from A Charlie Brown Christmas. "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" was next and the crowd was just eating it up.
Christmas music never sounded so good as when played by trombone, saxophone, guitar and drums with the bass line in the crowd's head.
At least that's the way it felt tonight.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Richmond's Dark Side: Music and Books
With creepy season in full swing, there's no shortage of ways to indulge an All Hallows' Eve urge.
Tonight's was Chop Suey's Halloween celebration, "The Dark Side of Richmond" at (where else?) the site of the former Richmond Gallows, none other than G5.
The evening began with one of my favorite Halloween traditions, local band Glows in the Dark, performing music inspired by and taken from John Carpenter movies.
Yes, The Fog, The Thing and of course Halloween came to life with a lot of improvisation in between at the hands of these free jazz masters.
And as you may recall (I didn't and had to be told), Carpenter's movie music was written mainly for keyboards, necessitating a lot of work to bring it around to guitar, upright bass, sax, trombone and drums, but once gain GitD pulled it off in the eeriest possible way.
I first saw them do this music a couple of years ago at Commercial Taphouse and tonight's audience was even more into it.
Word must have gotten around about what an audio treat it was.
A seasonably-suitable reading followed, featuring two of the writers from Richmond Noir, the short story collection where each features a different Richmond neighborhood.
Nothing says Halloween season quite like death, so Tom de Haven read the "money scene" from his story based in Manchester (three-way sex and shots fired on southside) and Dennis Danvers read his tale of Texas Beach (a dead dog and a dead illegal immigrant).
Beth Brown, author of Wicked Richmond, a book about RVA's dark underbelly, read the chapter on old Richmond's boy gangs, apparently quite a force from the time of the Civil War and for some 50 years afterwards.
Rocks, slingshots and eventually pistols were the weapons of choice for boys (some as young as four!) to stake out their territory in this town.
Thumbing through Brown's book, it looks to be a catalog of the debauchery that defined our fair city's history; clearly it wasn't all moonlight and magnolias.
Billed as the spookiest reading of the season (and I know of no other Halloween readings, so it undoubtedly was), the audience of music and book lovers geeked out afterwards talking about the intricacies of the music and the macabre nature of the stories.
Before long, conversation moved on to clever costumes and upcoming parties.
And just for the record, I've never seen a John Carpenter movie.
There, I said it.
Still enjoyed the hell out of it.
Tonight's was Chop Suey's Halloween celebration, "The Dark Side of Richmond" at (where else?) the site of the former Richmond Gallows, none other than G5.
The evening began with one of my favorite Halloween traditions, local band Glows in the Dark, performing music inspired by and taken from John Carpenter movies.
Yes, The Fog, The Thing and of course Halloween came to life with a lot of improvisation in between at the hands of these free jazz masters.
And as you may recall (I didn't and had to be told), Carpenter's movie music was written mainly for keyboards, necessitating a lot of work to bring it around to guitar, upright bass, sax, trombone and drums, but once gain GitD pulled it off in the eeriest possible way.
I first saw them do this music a couple of years ago at Commercial Taphouse and tonight's audience was even more into it.
Word must have gotten around about what an audio treat it was.
A seasonably-suitable reading followed, featuring two of the writers from Richmond Noir, the short story collection where each features a different Richmond neighborhood.
Nothing says Halloween season quite like death, so Tom de Haven read the "money scene" from his story based in Manchester (three-way sex and shots fired on southside) and Dennis Danvers read his tale of Texas Beach (a dead dog and a dead illegal immigrant).
Beth Brown, author of Wicked Richmond, a book about RVA's dark underbelly, read the chapter on old Richmond's boy gangs, apparently quite a force from the time of the Civil War and for some 50 years afterwards.
Rocks, slingshots and eventually pistols were the weapons of choice for boys (some as young as four!) to stake out their territory in this town.
Thumbing through Brown's book, it looks to be a catalog of the debauchery that defined our fair city's history; clearly it wasn't all moonlight and magnolias.
Billed as the spookiest reading of the season (and I know of no other Halloween readings, so it undoubtedly was), the audience of music and book lovers geeked out afterwards talking about the intricacies of the music and the macabre nature of the stories.
Before long, conversation moved on to clever costumes and upcoming parties.
And just for the record, I've never seen a John Carpenter movie.
There, I said it.
Still enjoyed the hell out of it.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Extending My Southern Hospitality
In the interest of being a good representative of my adopted city, I played tour guide tonight to an out-of-town visitor.
At issue was how much I could show a non-local on a dark, rainy night, hardly prime sightseeing time. Luckily I didn't have to work at it too hard because he'd already gotten a few recommendations from a local bartender about must-sees. I just had to fill in the cracks.
With that in mind, I figured the least I could do was start with our most scenic boulevard, Monument Avenue and try to wow him that way. He was impressed, more with the houses than the lesson in Civil War history, but that may have been owing to my less-than-detailed history lesson.
The first place he'd been told to experience was Mekong, no doubt due to his home-brewing habits. Or maybe just his love of good beer. An was behind the bar, so they discussed what he likes and An made his recommendations. Fortunately for a non-beer drinker like me, they had one decent tequila.
A beer and wine geek friend was also in attendance, which worked out well because I was able to provide the visitor with a kindred soul with whom to discuss such things. The funny part was when my friend suggested Capital Ale House at Innsbrook to the visitor as the place to go for the largest beer offerings.
Obviously the visitor didn't know me well enough to realize that I was already at the outer limits of the city as far as I'm concerned, making my friend laugh at even the thought that I might venture further west. Not happening.
But I'd already promised that I'd take him to Commercial Taphouse, which delivered on several levels. First and most importantly, they had cask ale, a fact which apparently couldn't delight a home brewer (or true beer geek) more.
He happily ordered some and I told him of my recent curiosity about experiencing it, here, and what guy can resist giving a girl a first experience? So I had my first cask ale and I'd have to say it was way more interesting than any beers I've tasted in the past. I should have known I could trust an art-lover for beer advice,
We were several hours in to our evening at this point and both hungry, so we decided to eat and here's the funny part. The visitor looked at the menu, looked at me and asked, "Do you eat ribs?" It was to laugh. Of course I eat ribs, but according to him, "Most girls don't." How's that for a blanket generalization?
So we got a half rack and the Ploughman's platter (which inexplicably now comes with leaves of romaine lettuce in addition to toast, which the visitor used to make ploughman wraps, giving him points for creativity, at least in my book). "Eat this," he directed so I did.
Earlier in the car we had furthered our music talk and one band he had specifically mentioned was the English post-punk band Killing Joke, with whom I was not familiar. In a truly odd coincidence, while in Commercial, they played a Killing Joke song off their 1980 debut album.
He was thrilled and I got a frame of reference for his description. Now what were the chances of such a thing happening?
Our final stop was my choice and what I had planned to do before getting a call from the help-a-visitor foundation. Julep was hosting a benefit for Tricycle Gardens and I wanted to do my part to support community gardening.
We arrived around 10:30 for the 8:30 event and it was packed with other do-gooders (okay, drinkers). I ran into a girlfriend I hadn't seen in a year and we caught up; she's still not dating, either.
Probably not your typical list of must-sees, but he sure seemed to enjoy them all. Or maybe it was the sparkling local company.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
At issue was how much I could show a non-local on a dark, rainy night, hardly prime sightseeing time. Luckily I didn't have to work at it too hard because he'd already gotten a few recommendations from a local bartender about must-sees. I just had to fill in the cracks.
With that in mind, I figured the least I could do was start with our most scenic boulevard, Monument Avenue and try to wow him that way. He was impressed, more with the houses than the lesson in Civil War history, but that may have been owing to my less-than-detailed history lesson.
The first place he'd been told to experience was Mekong, no doubt due to his home-brewing habits. Or maybe just his love of good beer. An was behind the bar, so they discussed what he likes and An made his recommendations. Fortunately for a non-beer drinker like me, they had one decent tequila.
A beer and wine geek friend was also in attendance, which worked out well because I was able to provide the visitor with a kindred soul with whom to discuss such things. The funny part was when my friend suggested Capital Ale House at Innsbrook to the visitor as the place to go for the largest beer offerings.
Obviously the visitor didn't know me well enough to realize that I was already at the outer limits of the city as far as I'm concerned, making my friend laugh at even the thought that I might venture further west. Not happening.
But I'd already promised that I'd take him to Commercial Taphouse, which delivered on several levels. First and most importantly, they had cask ale, a fact which apparently couldn't delight a home brewer (or true beer geek) more.
He happily ordered some and I told him of my recent curiosity about experiencing it, here, and what guy can resist giving a girl a first experience? So I had my first cask ale and I'd have to say it was way more interesting than any beers I've tasted in the past. I should have known I could trust an art-lover for beer advice,
We were several hours in to our evening at this point and both hungry, so we decided to eat and here's the funny part. The visitor looked at the menu, looked at me and asked, "Do you eat ribs?" It was to laugh. Of course I eat ribs, but according to him, "Most girls don't." How's that for a blanket generalization?
So we got a half rack and the Ploughman's platter (which inexplicably now comes with leaves of romaine lettuce in addition to toast, which the visitor used to make ploughman wraps, giving him points for creativity, at least in my book). "Eat this," he directed so I did.
Earlier in the car we had furthered our music talk and one band he had specifically mentioned was the English post-punk band Killing Joke, with whom I was not familiar. In a truly odd coincidence, while in Commercial, they played a Killing Joke song off their 1980 debut album.
He was thrilled and I got a frame of reference for his description. Now what were the chances of such a thing happening?
Our final stop was my choice and what I had planned to do before getting a call from the help-a-visitor foundation. Julep was hosting a benefit for Tricycle Gardens and I wanted to do my part to support community gardening.
We arrived around 10:30 for the 8:30 event and it was packed with other do-gooders (okay, drinkers). I ran into a girlfriend I hadn't seen in a year and we caught up; she's still not dating, either.
Probably not your typical list of must-sees, but he sure seemed to enjoy them all. Or maybe it was the sparkling local company.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wine Drunk by 9:00
I met a good friend at Ipanema to catch up after several months of not seeing each other, except the random run-in at a show. And don't tell my mother, but I had blueberry pie a la mode for dinner instead of a proper meal (but it was damn fine blueberry pie with a brown sugar crumble on top), although we did share some cornmeal-crusted fried oyster and button mushrooms beforehand.
It didn't take long for him to remind me yet again that I am a Luddite for not having a cell phone or PDA (despite him freely admiting being addicted to his crackberry). As my friend said upon returning from the men's room, "See, if you had a phone you could have been checking your Twitter feed while I was gone." Instead, while he was off taking care of business, one of the two guys at the end of the bar had invited me to come share their feast; they'd ordered six dishes for the two of them, so I'm not sure how much was wanting my sparkling company and how much just seeking eating assistance.
Having both recently done the Robinson Street ramble after avoiding it for years , we compared notes on which of its bar crowds provide the most amusement for our viewing pleasure. He nominated Racine for best happy hour given its end time of 9:00 (even so, it's still impossible to beat a $2 glass of wine at Ipanema). He wanted me to help him understand the decor at Commercial Taphouse; clearly he doesn't remember the Early Rec Room period of the 70s or he wouldn't have to ask such a silly question.
Best lament of the night from said friend: "Wine drunk by 9:00 and ready for bed. God, I'm turning into my mother."
Coming home a few minutes ago, I heard my phone ringing and rushed up the stairs to grab it (no land line lectures, please). Whoever it was must have just wanted to hear my voice (a comment I've heard twice this week already), because they didn't say anything despite obviously being on the line.
Glancing at the clock as I put down the phone, it occurred to me that it's after 1, I'm just now getting in and someone has just called me. And then there's that matter of pie for dinner. God, I'm not turning into anything like my mother, that's for sure.
It didn't take long for him to remind me yet again that I am a Luddite for not having a cell phone or PDA (despite him freely admiting being addicted to his crackberry). As my friend said upon returning from the men's room, "See, if you had a phone you could have been checking your Twitter feed while I was gone." Instead, while he was off taking care of business, one of the two guys at the end of the bar had invited me to come share their feast; they'd ordered six dishes for the two of them, so I'm not sure how much was wanting my sparkling company and how much just seeking eating assistance.
Having both recently done the Robinson Street ramble after avoiding it for years , we compared notes on which of its bar crowds provide the most amusement for our viewing pleasure. He nominated Racine for best happy hour given its end time of 9:00 (even so, it's still impossible to beat a $2 glass of wine at Ipanema). He wanted me to help him understand the decor at Commercial Taphouse; clearly he doesn't remember the Early Rec Room period of the 70s or he wouldn't have to ask such a silly question.
Best lament of the night from said friend: "Wine drunk by 9:00 and ready for bed. God, I'm turning into my mother."
Coming home a few minutes ago, I heard my phone ringing and rushed up the stairs to grab it (no land line lectures, please). Whoever it was must have just wanted to hear my voice (a comment I've heard twice this week already), because they didn't say anything despite obviously being on the line.
Glancing at the clock as I put down the phone, it occurred to me that it's after 1, I'm just now getting in and someone has just called me. And then there's that matter of pie for dinner. God, I'm not turning into anything like my mother, that's for sure.
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