Could it be that I'm a jinx?
I saw "Thunder Road," part of the Southern Film Fest, at Cous Cous last month.
On Valentine's Day, I fainted at Cous Cous and missed the rest of the black Valentine's show.
Last night, I was at Cous Cous having dinner, enjoying lit saganaki, lamb tagine, wilted spinach with pine nuts, apples and currants and Israeli cous cous.
That's three times in barely over a month when I don't usually go to Cous Cous more than three times a year.
Today they announced that March 30th will be the end for Cous Cous after seven years.
No more Black Valentine's days. No more flaming cheese. No more late night shows in the awkwardest of spaces. No more thrillbilly cocktails for breakfast.
It was a good run, Cous Cous.
Maybe if I'd spaced out my annual three visits over the whole year and not a month, they wouldn't be shutting the doors.
Or maybe it was just time.
Thanks for the memories, Cous Cous.
Showing posts with label cous cous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cous cous. Show all posts
Friday, March 15, 2013
Friday, February 15, 2013
Down for the Count
The last thing I expected on Valentine's Day was for things to go down.
And by things, I mean me.
After bratwurst and Garnacha at home for dinner, I did what I always do to celebrate the day of love.
I went to Cous Cous for their Black Valentine's Day party.
For a change, I even had company for it.
When we got there, the crowd was almost exclusively male, made up of guys at the bar and musicians standing in the middle.
It was noted that I was one of the few in the room with XX chromosomes.
But gradually the room began to fill up and my fair sex was better represented.
To make mingling easier on this traditionally romantic evening, Cous Cous was running a special of $2.50 Aristocrat tequila shots for our Valentine's Day pleasure.
And while you couldn't pay me to drink what the bartender referred to as, "More of a tequila-flavored grain alcohol," I saw plenty of people doing so.
Still, most of the people I spoke to while sipping my water were musician friends, including the guys in Snowy Owls who were slated to perform tonight.
Since the Black Valentine's Day party always features songs about love gone bad, I wanted to confirm the rumor that they were going to do My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless" album.
What I heard was that guitarist Matt had chosen all his favorite MBV songs and the rest of the band had agreed to learn them.
At one point, Matt pulled out small sheets of paper with lyrics printed on them in the tiniest of fonts.
I told him I hoped he wasn't going to need to read them given how tough that would be.
"Yea, I should've written them on bigger pieces and just laid them out on the floor," he laughed. "I could have just looked down and read them. It's shoegaze, right?"
Now, that was funny.
Allen, the bass player was lamenting how late Cous Cous shows get started and, for people with real jobs, I'm sure it is tough to wait for a show to begin around 11 when you have to be up early in the morning.
But eventually it did and Jake Mayday was first.
It was just him and a guitar, but by then the crowd was all up in his space, meaning he had to close his eyes to sing because people were standing less than a foot from his face.
Not me. One of the benefits of an early arrival was having a small section of the dividing wall on which to lean and place my water.
Jake began with Death Cab for Cutie's "Cath," a personal favorite as Death Cab goes.
But you said your vows, and you closed the door
On so many men who would have loved you more
In a high point of the evening, Matt turned to me and asked what the song was.
Although he's someone with whom I've discussed our shared taste in music a hundred times (we began with a discussion of Bleeding Rainbow, a recent recommendation I'd since fallen in love with), I told him it was the very first time he ever asked me what a song was.
As it turned out, I was fortunate to get that feelgood moment before the crash.
From there Jake was off on more of the same, causing a friend to ask, "Is he gonna do all Ben Gibbard?"
I wouldn't know, because as I stood there watching Jake, all at once I felt like there were too many people in the room and all the air was suddenly sucked out.
Admittedly, I was overdressed (heart-covered dress, sweater, coat sweater and jean jacket with two scarves) for being in a room with so many other people and all at once I felt it.
The next thing I knew, I was on the floor and being pulled back up by those around me.
When I arose, indignant, I asked what happened and was told I'd dropped to the ground.
I promptly did it a second time, only this time I awoke on the kitchen floor with concerned faces around me.
On the plus side, the kitchen door had been opened and the air was much cooler back there, so I felt human again.
As I answered questions of my rescuers, a woman on the phone had clearly called 911 and was talking about me.
Someone handed me a Coke and the woman on the phone shouted, "No food or drink!" per her instructions from the 911 operator and it was snatched away from me after one sip.
By this time, my head was clear, I was no longer hot and woozy and all I wanted to do was get up off of Cous Cous' kitchen floor.
But no, everyone insisted that I wait for the EMS to arrive.
After having a lively conversation with them, confirming that I'd had three meals today, I'd had two glasses of wine hours earlier and nothing like this had ever happened to me before, they let me sit up.
There I answered what day it was, who the president was and how many quarters in $1.50.
When one of the medical technicians asked the guy questioning me if they were going to take me in, he all but laughed.
"No, she's just fine now," he replied. Someone noted that I was "sharp as a tack."
Slipping out the kitchen door to get some fresh air rather than back through the room with the show, my companion and I walked around the front of Cous Cous, where a group was taking a smoke break between sets.
One of the girls who'd helped carry me to the back was there and asked how I felt.
I told her I was perfectly fine, just not sure if I should go back in to see the rest of the show.
"You should be okay," she reassured me. "Just stand in the back where you can get some air."
Another girl sitting on the bench, pulled her cigarette out of her mouth and got vehement.
"You just fainted!" she said with authority. "You need to go home!"
Well, there was that.
And there my black Valentine's Day ended, with no My Bloody Valentine, no shoegaze and no ringing ears.
Cupid, you done me wrong last night.
And by things, I mean me.
After bratwurst and Garnacha at home for dinner, I did what I always do to celebrate the day of love.
I went to Cous Cous for their Black Valentine's Day party.
For a change, I even had company for it.
When we got there, the crowd was almost exclusively male, made up of guys at the bar and musicians standing in the middle.
It was noted that I was one of the few in the room with XX chromosomes.
But gradually the room began to fill up and my fair sex was better represented.
To make mingling easier on this traditionally romantic evening, Cous Cous was running a special of $2.50 Aristocrat tequila shots for our Valentine's Day pleasure.
And while you couldn't pay me to drink what the bartender referred to as, "More of a tequila-flavored grain alcohol," I saw plenty of people doing so.
Still, most of the people I spoke to while sipping my water were musician friends, including the guys in Snowy Owls who were slated to perform tonight.
Since the Black Valentine's Day party always features songs about love gone bad, I wanted to confirm the rumor that they were going to do My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless" album.
What I heard was that guitarist Matt had chosen all his favorite MBV songs and the rest of the band had agreed to learn them.
At one point, Matt pulled out small sheets of paper with lyrics printed on them in the tiniest of fonts.
I told him I hoped he wasn't going to need to read them given how tough that would be.
"Yea, I should've written them on bigger pieces and just laid them out on the floor," he laughed. "I could have just looked down and read them. It's shoegaze, right?"
Now, that was funny.
Allen, the bass player was lamenting how late Cous Cous shows get started and, for people with real jobs, I'm sure it is tough to wait for a show to begin around 11 when you have to be up early in the morning.
But eventually it did and Jake Mayday was first.
It was just him and a guitar, but by then the crowd was all up in his space, meaning he had to close his eyes to sing because people were standing less than a foot from his face.
Not me. One of the benefits of an early arrival was having a small section of the dividing wall on which to lean and place my water.
Jake began with Death Cab for Cutie's "Cath," a personal favorite as Death Cab goes.
But you said your vows, and you closed the door
On so many men who would have loved you more
In a high point of the evening, Matt turned to me and asked what the song was.
Although he's someone with whom I've discussed our shared taste in music a hundred times (we began with a discussion of Bleeding Rainbow, a recent recommendation I'd since fallen in love with), I told him it was the very first time he ever asked me what a song was.
As it turned out, I was fortunate to get that feelgood moment before the crash.
From there Jake was off on more of the same, causing a friend to ask, "Is he gonna do all Ben Gibbard?"
I wouldn't know, because as I stood there watching Jake, all at once I felt like there were too many people in the room and all the air was suddenly sucked out.
Admittedly, I was overdressed (heart-covered dress, sweater, coat sweater and jean jacket with two scarves) for being in a room with so many other people and all at once I felt it.
The next thing I knew, I was on the floor and being pulled back up by those around me.
When I arose, indignant, I asked what happened and was told I'd dropped to the ground.
I promptly did it a second time, only this time I awoke on the kitchen floor with concerned faces around me.
On the plus side, the kitchen door had been opened and the air was much cooler back there, so I felt human again.
As I answered questions of my rescuers, a woman on the phone had clearly called 911 and was talking about me.
Someone handed me a Coke and the woman on the phone shouted, "No food or drink!" per her instructions from the 911 operator and it was snatched away from me after one sip.
By this time, my head was clear, I was no longer hot and woozy and all I wanted to do was get up off of Cous Cous' kitchen floor.
But no, everyone insisted that I wait for the EMS to arrive.
After having a lively conversation with them, confirming that I'd had three meals today, I'd had two glasses of wine hours earlier and nothing like this had ever happened to me before, they let me sit up.
There I answered what day it was, who the president was and how many quarters in $1.50.
When one of the medical technicians asked the guy questioning me if they were going to take me in, he all but laughed.
"No, she's just fine now," he replied. Someone noted that I was "sharp as a tack."
Slipping out the kitchen door to get some fresh air rather than back through the room with the show, my companion and I walked around the front of Cous Cous, where a group was taking a smoke break between sets.
One of the girls who'd helped carry me to the back was there and asked how I felt.
I told her I was perfectly fine, just not sure if I should go back in to see the rest of the show.
"You should be okay," she reassured me. "Just stand in the back where you can get some air."
Another girl sitting on the bench, pulled her cigarette out of her mouth and got vehement.
"You just fainted!" she said with authority. "You need to go home!"
Well, there was that.
And there my black Valentine's Day ended, with no My Bloody Valentine, no shoegaze and no ringing ears.
Cupid, you done me wrong last night.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Of Dogs and Men
This ain't a scene, it's a lifestyle.
Actually, it's getting to be enough of a scene that a music lover has multiple options on a Tuesday night.
I took bees and fish over Shakespearean tragedy and loud estrogen, but that was just me.
Well, me and the friends who said they'd seen enough really loud shows lately to want something more ear-friendly tonight.
Actually, I started at the bar at Bistro 27 where a group immediately took me in, saying, "Welcome to the party."
When they departed for a table, I stayed put for Meiomi Pinot Noir and a satisfying dish of vegetables, cannellini beans and duck confit.
You can never go wrong with duck poached in its own fat.
Or with a dessert plate that featured chocolate hazelnut torte and chocolate mousse.
But you can go wrong with a nearby bar sitter with deplorable manners.
Unfortunately, my dearly departed party was replaced with a girl on a cell phone.
And by that I mean from the second she walked in she was talking on her phone.
She talked on it through wine, carpaccio and cheesecake. She talked on it while ordering.
And eating.
Didn't our mothers teach us that that was rude?
In fact, she talked so non-stop that she never took off her jacket, scarf or hat. She ate with her right hand and held her phone with the left.
Unfortunately, it made it easier to leave because I was tired of hearing her incessant chatter.
The fact that I had a great show to go to didn't hurt, either.
Sponge HQ, on the top floor of the Anderson Gallery, was playing host to a double bill of the Low Branches and Brown Bird.
And one of the benefits of going to Sponge is the beehive. Another is the burbling fish tank, the lights of which dimmed only once the music started.
You just can't get that kind of ambiance at most venues.
Mingling before the show, I asked a musician friend where his lovely wife was.
She was home with their dog, a rescue he said had lost her skittishness with the magic formula , according to him, of "love and parameters."
Like what men need, I asked. Grinning, he agreed.
The Low Branches started the show with their achingly beautiful songs, four of which were new to even us long-time fans.
After the first song, lead singer Christina apologized, "The first song is always rough, then it gets better. It's not getting better yet, though."
Truth be told, it was mesmerizing everyone in the room with lyrics of love and longing.
The spell was broken only when Christina decided to do a song not on the set list, throwing off guitarist Matt who was still going with the plan.
"I'm usually the one who screws up," Christina laughed.
On my way to the bathroom during the short break, a guy looked at me and inquired, "Were you in Charlottesville recently?"
Why, yes, I was at the Other Lives show, I told him.
"I thought I saw you there!" he said before we discussed what an excellent show that had been.
I have no idea who he was or how he recognized me.
Break over, Rhode Island's Brown Bird took command of the room.
It wasn't my first time seeing them, although the last iteration had been as a trio and tonight they were a duo.
The friends sitting next to me hadn't seen them before, but knowing their taste, I was certain they'd love Brown Birds' genre-bending sound.
Part folk, part gypsy music, part bluegrass, part blues, the music benefits from two strong vocalists and more instruments than any two people should be able to play.
Upright bass, guitar, violin, cello, drum, percussion and banjo. The only thing I could think of that was missing was dobro which they'd had when they were a trio.
Leader Dave, who could apparently do at least three or four things at any point in any song, wore a most handsome black beard that got noticed in aroom city full of great beards.
After a couple of songs, he commented, "The percussion is rally loud in this room. I wish I could turn it down."
His band mate, MorganEve, looked at him wryly and said, "So do I."
But that percussion was central to their sound, at times as key to their eastern European-influenced sound as the string instruments.
Tonight was the first night of a three-month tour and before one song, Dave apologized, saying they'd only played this song out once or twice before and never with a violin.
I'd wager that not a person in the room would have known that had we not been told.
When their set ended, people made a beeline for their merch table, always a gratifying thing to see. I'd done the same after the first time I saw them.
A small group was going to Cous Cous afterwards, so I agreed to go along even though I usually limit my presence there to worthy shows.
In yet another unlikely twist, a couple of us celebrated our fine evening of music with Cokes.
Without a music crowd, the place was practically dead, but our little group made the best of it with any number of unlikely conversations.
Nutrition? Check. Living your passion? Check. Soccer branding? Check.Shoegaze gods in sunglasses? Check. Drawn-out birthday celebrations? Check.
But when it came time to go on the hunt for some pie, I bowed out.
I honestly didn't need another pleasure to close the book on tonight's chapter of lifestyles of the poor but passionate.
Besides, the pie will be there for me.
It's just another part of the scene.
Actually, it's getting to be enough of a scene that a music lover has multiple options on a Tuesday night.
I took bees and fish over Shakespearean tragedy and loud estrogen, but that was just me.
Well, me and the friends who said they'd seen enough really loud shows lately to want something more ear-friendly tonight.
Actually, I started at the bar at Bistro 27 where a group immediately took me in, saying, "Welcome to the party."
When they departed for a table, I stayed put for Meiomi Pinot Noir and a satisfying dish of vegetables, cannellini beans and duck confit.
You can never go wrong with duck poached in its own fat.
Or with a dessert plate that featured chocolate hazelnut torte and chocolate mousse.
But you can go wrong with a nearby bar sitter with deplorable manners.
Unfortunately, my dearly departed party was replaced with a girl on a cell phone.
And by that I mean from the second she walked in she was talking on her phone.
She talked on it through wine, carpaccio and cheesecake. She talked on it while ordering.
And eating.
Didn't our mothers teach us that that was rude?
In fact, she talked so non-stop that she never took off her jacket, scarf or hat. She ate with her right hand and held her phone with the left.
Unfortunately, it made it easier to leave because I was tired of hearing her incessant chatter.
The fact that I had a great show to go to didn't hurt, either.
Sponge HQ, on the top floor of the Anderson Gallery, was playing host to a double bill of the Low Branches and Brown Bird.
And one of the benefits of going to Sponge is the beehive. Another is the burbling fish tank, the lights of which dimmed only once the music started.
You just can't get that kind of ambiance at most venues.
Mingling before the show, I asked a musician friend where his lovely wife was.
She was home with their dog, a rescue he said had lost her skittishness with the magic formula , according to him, of "love and parameters."
Like what men need, I asked. Grinning, he agreed.
The Low Branches started the show with their achingly beautiful songs, four of which were new to even us long-time fans.
After the first song, lead singer Christina apologized, "The first song is always rough, then it gets better. It's not getting better yet, though."
Truth be told, it was mesmerizing everyone in the room with lyrics of love and longing.
The spell was broken only when Christina decided to do a song not on the set list, throwing off guitarist Matt who was still going with the plan.
"I'm usually the one who screws up," Christina laughed.
On my way to the bathroom during the short break, a guy looked at me and inquired, "Were you in Charlottesville recently?"
Why, yes, I was at the Other Lives show, I told him.
"I thought I saw you there!" he said before we discussed what an excellent show that had been.
I have no idea who he was or how he recognized me.
Break over, Rhode Island's Brown Bird took command of the room.
It wasn't my first time seeing them, although the last iteration had been as a trio and tonight they were a duo.
The friends sitting next to me hadn't seen them before, but knowing their taste, I was certain they'd love Brown Birds' genre-bending sound.
Part folk, part gypsy music, part bluegrass, part blues, the music benefits from two strong vocalists and more instruments than any two people should be able to play.
Upright bass, guitar, violin, cello, drum, percussion and banjo. The only thing I could think of that was missing was dobro which they'd had when they were a trio.
Leader Dave, who could apparently do at least three or four things at any point in any song, wore a most handsome black beard that got noticed in a
After a couple of songs, he commented, "The percussion is rally loud in this room. I wish I could turn it down."
His band mate, MorganEve, looked at him wryly and said, "So do I."
But that percussion was central to their sound, at times as key to their eastern European-influenced sound as the string instruments.
Tonight was the first night of a three-month tour and before one song, Dave apologized, saying they'd only played this song out once or twice before and never with a violin.
I'd wager that not a person in the room would have known that had we not been told.
When their set ended, people made a beeline for their merch table, always a gratifying thing to see. I'd done the same after the first time I saw them.
A small group was going to Cous Cous afterwards, so I agreed to go along even though I usually limit my presence there to worthy shows.
In yet another unlikely twist, a couple of us celebrated our fine evening of music with Cokes.
Without a music crowd, the place was practically dead, but our little group made the best of it with any number of unlikely conversations.
Nutrition? Check. Living your passion? Check. Soccer branding? Check.Shoegaze gods in sunglasses? Check. Drawn-out birthday celebrations? Check.
But when it came time to go on the hunt for some pie, I bowed out.
I honestly didn't need another pleasure to close the book on tonight's chapter of lifestyles of the poor but passionate.
Besides, the pie will be there for me.
It's just another part of the scene.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Wearing a Pink Heart on My Sleeve
"I didn't think you'd be here, Karen. I thought you'd be out on a hot date tonight."
So said the organizer of the WRIR Black Valentine's Day party at Cous Cous when I walked in last night.
He then stuck a small pink heart on my blazer. You know, for the occasion.
When I inquired what had made him think that, he laughed, saying, "You're a woman-about-town, so I figured you'd have other plans."
Fact is, I'd already had a hot date by that point (nearly 11:00), so I was ready for some music about love gone bad.
I heard a conversation where a girl told friends that she'd come to the show because, "How many times is it going to be Valentine's Day in my life?"
Um, roughly speaking, annually?
There was a lot of holiday-appropriate garb: a blonde's pretty red lace top, fabulous red pumps on one musician's girlfriend, a red dress at the bar and my own hot pink skirt.
Like any Cous Cous show, it didn't start anywhere close to on time, but who among us had somewhere to be on Valentine's night?
The show of covers of love gone bad began with a favorite of mine, flamenco guitarist Frankzig, both on acoustic and electric guitar, and his drummer.
"The Hunter" was an intense exploration of sexual-sounding themes tailor-made for the occasion.
Along the way, I enjoyed a conversation with a DJ about the difficulty of finding someone who shares your music passion.
We agreed that someone who tells us they only go to three or four live shows a year is a red flag.
Don't need it weekly? He and I call that a deal breaker.
But, as he also pointed out, he's been attracted to girls who shared his music passion and yet they had no other compatibilities.
Also unacceptable. We're going for the whole package here.
Next up was Push Button Reaction, as straight forward a rock band as anyone needs to hear.
I couldn't decide if they hearkened back to classic 70s or just that late 90s period when that kind of rock reared its mainstream head again.
To their credit, they did a Zombies cover, "She's Not There."
I, however, was.
As they wound down, I made a comment to the drummer of the next band, Boney Loner, about having to follow such rock and he assured me they'd have no problem.
"We're sloppy, but we're entertaining," he humorously acknowledged. And they were.
While they got set up, I was introduced by my DJ friend to a local musician who had toured Europe.
He and the DJ had run into each other at a show in Germany years ago. He'd also used to do a show on WRIR called "Screams from the Gutter," a punk show.
Just another reminder that in RVA, you're never more than three degrees of separation from anyone.
As Boney Loner took the stage, he looked over at them and leaned down to tell me, "They keep getting younger, don't they?"
He'd just told me he was 32.
Boney Loner and the Sacred Teachers were all about Stooges covers, making it hilarious when an audience member called out for them to do some Iggy Pop.
Pay attention, people. It's music, not rocket science.
The lead singer was a whirling dervish of intensity, climbing on the wooded half wall that separates the bar area and diving off into the arms of the crowd.
That is, when he wasn't climbing on chairs looming over the crowd and spitting lyrics into his microphone.
And then there were the drummer's fingers, bloody by the end. There's some holiday red for you.
A few songs into their set, I heard "hello" and my Valentine's date had reappeared for the remainder of the show.
I've heard that's how Valentine's Day dates end up with a happily ever after ending.
At least for the evening anyway.
After all, who knows how many more Valentine's Days we have?
So said the organizer of the WRIR Black Valentine's Day party at Cous Cous when I walked in last night.
He then stuck a small pink heart on my blazer. You know, for the occasion.
When I inquired what had made him think that, he laughed, saying, "You're a woman-about-town, so I figured you'd have other plans."
Fact is, I'd already had a hot date by that point (nearly 11:00), so I was ready for some music about love gone bad.
I heard a conversation where a girl told friends that she'd come to the show because, "How many times is it going to be Valentine's Day in my life?"
Um, roughly speaking, annually?
There was a lot of holiday-appropriate garb: a blonde's pretty red lace top, fabulous red pumps on one musician's girlfriend, a red dress at the bar and my own hot pink skirt.
Like any Cous Cous show, it didn't start anywhere close to on time, but who among us had somewhere to be on Valentine's night?
The show of covers of love gone bad began with a favorite of mine, flamenco guitarist Frankzig, both on acoustic and electric guitar, and his drummer.
"The Hunter" was an intense exploration of sexual-sounding themes tailor-made for the occasion.
Along the way, I enjoyed a conversation with a DJ about the difficulty of finding someone who shares your music passion.
We agreed that someone who tells us they only go to three or four live shows a year is a red flag.
Don't need it weekly? He and I call that a deal breaker.
But, as he also pointed out, he's been attracted to girls who shared his music passion and yet they had no other compatibilities.
Also unacceptable. We're going for the whole package here.
Next up was Push Button Reaction, as straight forward a rock band as anyone needs to hear.
I couldn't decide if they hearkened back to classic 70s or just that late 90s period when that kind of rock reared its mainstream head again.
To their credit, they did a Zombies cover, "She's Not There."
I, however, was.
As they wound down, I made a comment to the drummer of the next band, Boney Loner, about having to follow such rock and he assured me they'd have no problem.
"We're sloppy, but we're entertaining," he humorously acknowledged. And they were.
While they got set up, I was introduced by my DJ friend to a local musician who had toured Europe.
He and the DJ had run into each other at a show in Germany years ago. He'd also used to do a show on WRIR called "Screams from the Gutter," a punk show.
Just another reminder that in RVA, you're never more than three degrees of separation from anyone.
As Boney Loner took the stage, he looked over at them and leaned down to tell me, "They keep getting younger, don't they?"
He'd just told me he was 32.
Boney Loner and the Sacred Teachers were all about Stooges covers, making it hilarious when an audience member called out for them to do some Iggy Pop.
Pay attention, people. It's music, not rocket science.
The lead singer was a whirling dervish of intensity, climbing on the wooded half wall that separates the bar area and diving off into the arms of the crowd.
That is, when he wasn't climbing on chairs looming over the crowd and spitting lyrics into his microphone.
And then there were the drummer's fingers, bloody by the end. There's some holiday red for you.
A few songs into their set, I heard "hello" and my Valentine's date had reappeared for the remainder of the show.
I've heard that's how Valentine's Day dates end up with a happily ever after ending.
At least for the evening anyway.
After all, who knows how many more Valentine's Days we have?
Friday, October 28, 2011
This Must Be the Place
As much as I enjoy seeing an intimate show, a part of me always wishes that more people were there.
Such was the case tonight at Sponge HQ in the Anderson Gallery for the Small Houses CD Release show.
A lack of attention had me there when the doors opened instead of closer to music time, but it worked out well anyway.
I ran into a friend who wanted to go across the street to Cous Cous for take out so I joined her for a drink.
Her Campari and soda seemed much more sophisticated than my Malbec, but I needed something to thicken my blood after Old Man Winter arrived unexpectedly today.
How is it I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt yesterday and it was sleeting today?
But never mind. If I understood science, I wouldn't be a writer.
We fell into a terrific discussion of our memories of elementary school, mine of singing folk music and hers of learning about people like Stephen Foster.
We agreed it was unlikely that children get any exposure to either in these days of SOLs and what a pity that is.
Returning to Sponge for the show, I put out a batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies I'd made for the attendees.
No, I don't usually bake for shows, but Sponge shows are always so intimate and it seems like both musicians and music lovers are always hungry.
The three members of Michigan's Small Houses were performing on a raised platform that barely contained them.
Actually, last time I'd seen them, it had been just the singer Jeremy and I'd been blown away. Tonight he had keyboards and backing vocals for a much lusher sound.
Introducing "Tired in 20 Cities," he said, "Which we are now, but that's okay because this is what we want to do."
They played several songs from their new CD and mentioned it was for sale.
"All the money we make selling CDs goes into the Waffle House fund. They're so awesome! We don't have them in Michigan. We went twice in one day!"
Jeremy took a moment to tune before their final song and keyboard player Adam noted, "The guy gets one Nick Drake album and now all his tunes are weird tunings."
"I have three," Jeremy corrected him with a grin before launching into a song from the new CD.
After a break to mill about and admire the beehive, the aquarium and see what everyone is doing for the rest of the weekend, Psalmships took the stage.
Psalmships is Joshua from Philly and I had also seen him before at the Listening Room; I recalled his distinctive four-string guitar playing and emotive voice.
After playing a few songs, he invited keyboard player Adam up to join him, clarifying that they'd never played together before.
"I don't know Adam from Adam," he joked.
But with direction ("A minor, G, A minor") from Joshua before each song, Adam complemented his songs beautifully.
It became clear from those instructions that it was mostly minor chords, so I leaned over to a musician friend and asked a dumb non-musician question.
"Minor chords because he sings sad songs, right?"
"Dark," she clarified for me. she whose favorite bands make her cry. She knows from dark.
In fact, she and I were the only females at the show. When I mentioned it to my seatmate, he said, "Guys are dumb. Guys forget things."
Too bad for guys. They missed a couple of excellent touring bands and homemade cookies.
All except for the smart ones and they're the only ones who matter anyhow.
Such was the case tonight at Sponge HQ in the Anderson Gallery for the Small Houses CD Release show.
A lack of attention had me there when the doors opened instead of closer to music time, but it worked out well anyway.
I ran into a friend who wanted to go across the street to Cous Cous for take out so I joined her for a drink.
Her Campari and soda seemed much more sophisticated than my Malbec, but I needed something to thicken my blood after Old Man Winter arrived unexpectedly today.
How is it I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt yesterday and it was sleeting today?
But never mind. If I understood science, I wouldn't be a writer.
We fell into a terrific discussion of our memories of elementary school, mine of singing folk music and hers of learning about people like Stephen Foster.
We agreed it was unlikely that children get any exposure to either in these days of SOLs and what a pity that is.
Returning to Sponge for the show, I put out a batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies I'd made for the attendees.
No, I don't usually bake for shows, but Sponge shows are always so intimate and it seems like both musicians and music lovers are always hungry.
The three members of Michigan's Small Houses were performing on a raised platform that barely contained them.
Actually, last time I'd seen them, it had been just the singer Jeremy and I'd been blown away. Tonight he had keyboards and backing vocals for a much lusher sound.
Introducing "Tired in 20 Cities," he said, "Which we are now, but that's okay because this is what we want to do."
They played several songs from their new CD and mentioned it was for sale.
"All the money we make selling CDs goes into the Waffle House fund. They're so awesome! We don't have them in Michigan. We went twice in one day!"
Jeremy took a moment to tune before their final song and keyboard player Adam noted, "The guy gets one Nick Drake album and now all his tunes are weird tunings."
"I have three," Jeremy corrected him with a grin before launching into a song from the new CD.
After a break to mill about and admire the beehive, the aquarium and see what everyone is doing for the rest of the weekend, Psalmships took the stage.
Psalmships is Joshua from Philly and I had also seen him before at the Listening Room; I recalled his distinctive four-string guitar playing and emotive voice.
After playing a few songs, he invited keyboard player Adam up to join him, clarifying that they'd never played together before.
"I don't know Adam from Adam," he joked.
But with direction ("A minor, G, A minor") from Joshua before each song, Adam complemented his songs beautifully.
It became clear from those instructions that it was mostly minor chords, so I leaned over to a musician friend and asked a dumb non-musician question.
"Minor chords because he sings sad songs, right?"
"Dark," she clarified for me. she whose favorite bands make her cry. She knows from dark.
In fact, she and I were the only females at the show. When I mentioned it to my seatmate, he said, "Guys are dumb. Guys forget things."
Too bad for guys. They missed a couple of excellent touring bands and homemade cookies.
All except for the smart ones and they're the only ones who matter anyhow.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
How Often, Indeed?
How often do you do something crafty at happy hour?
Almost never, but today was different. I went to the Anderson Gallery's happy hour to meet a friend (and ran into several others) for the final event of the series.
Artist Hope Ginsburg was conducting a felting workshop, known as "Felt-Making for Nomads" and promising the acquisition of a new skill set to craft bowls, socks or a weatherproof house for life on the steppes.
With plenty of bowls, socks and no desire to live on the steppes, all I made was a blue felt ball, but that's all anyone made. Some balls were just bigger or more colorful than others.
The group was comprised of 95% females and the rest confident males. During the extended period where all you do is roll your ball from hand to hand, conversation started flowing.
That's when I realized that felt ball making was the perfect activity to accompany group therapy. As we stood around, talk flowed from all of us on any number of unrelated topics.
How often do you have group therapy at happy hour?
With finished balls in hand, my friend and I walked across the street to Cous Cous for a bite afterwards. The wine choices left a lot to be desired (Siema Pinot Grigio) but the drafts were cheap.
Life is a series of compromises.
We munched on a lamb wrap thick with meat, lettuce, tomato and enough sauce for ten wraps and the curry platas, fries with that divine curry sauce. Felt-making works up an appetite, it would seem.
My friend was telling me about the motorcycle class she took over the weekend but I'd done nothing nearly as ambitious as all that since she'd last seen me.
Does being invited to go skinny dipping count?
When she left to go home and work on a drawing project, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for another in their Modern Monthly Movies series.
This time it was "Journeyman Architect: The Life and Work of Donald Wexler." The architect who sat next to me asked if I knew who Wexler was, but I didn't.
I explained to him that I was there to learn about a desert architect I hadn't even known existed. He nodded approvingly.
As I was to discover, Wexler was a major force in the mid-century Palm Springs architecture scene, both private and public.
His motto of "Stay small and keep busy" was as sensible as his "Architecture is fine art but also a business."
This from an architect who couldn't ever remember a design of his being turned down by a client.
That could be construed as proof that he was a people-pleaser or that he was the right man in the right place. I came away inclined toward the second.
The houses and buildings he designed were notable for their steel construction, canopies, and ability to bring the outdoors in.
Looking at some of his designs for the Palm Springs Airport and singer Dinah Shore's house show an architect with a commanding grasp of desert design.
Placing an airport inside a ring of mountains makes for superb views and dramatic landings. Architectural score.
And I liked his spirit. "In the 50s, 60s and 70s," he said, "There was no fear in architecture." That has to be the last time that was the case.
My final plans were to meet a friend at Amour Wine Bistro to catch up after nearly eight months.
The evening got off to a fine start with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose.
The Alsatian owner teasingly suggested that I should like a wine from his homeland and he was right. He need not have worried; it had a lovely creaminess and a lingering finish that I loved.
My friend and I had tons to talk about. At our last meeting, I'd learned she had a new boyfriend (a restaurant-owner, no less) but no more details.
Tonight I got to hear the very romantic story of their first meeting. I was not surprised that bubbles were involved.
We allowed ourselves to be talked into a peach tart and kiwi sorbet, two lovely desserts we did not need, but ate anyway.
To accompany such fine desserts, I had Chateau de le Roulerie Coteaux de Layon, a perfect pairing made all the better for not being overly sweet or highly alcoholic.
Sipping bubbly afterwards, we talked about some of the new restaurants on our radar and she admitted how great it was to have a boyfriend who cooks so well.
She considers herself spoiled, but I'd say lucky is more like it.
And all she had to do was sit there with friends until he noticed her and fell for her.
That doesn't sound too difficult.
How often do you sit at a bar and end up with a boyfriend?
Almost never, but today was different. I went to the Anderson Gallery's happy hour to meet a friend (and ran into several others) for the final event of the series.
Artist Hope Ginsburg was conducting a felting workshop, known as "Felt-Making for Nomads" and promising the acquisition of a new skill set to craft bowls, socks or a weatherproof house for life on the steppes.
With plenty of bowls, socks and no desire to live on the steppes, all I made was a blue felt ball, but that's all anyone made. Some balls were just bigger or more colorful than others.
The group was comprised of 95% females and the rest confident males. During the extended period where all you do is roll your ball from hand to hand, conversation started flowing.
That's when I realized that felt ball making was the perfect activity to accompany group therapy. As we stood around, talk flowed from all of us on any number of unrelated topics.
How often do you have group therapy at happy hour?
With finished balls in hand, my friend and I walked across the street to Cous Cous for a bite afterwards. The wine choices left a lot to be desired (Siema Pinot Grigio) but the drafts were cheap.
Life is a series of compromises.
We munched on a lamb wrap thick with meat, lettuce, tomato and enough sauce for ten wraps and the curry platas, fries with that divine curry sauce. Felt-making works up an appetite, it would seem.
My friend was telling me about the motorcycle class she took over the weekend but I'd done nothing nearly as ambitious as all that since she'd last seen me.
Does being invited to go skinny dipping count?
When she left to go home and work on a drawing project, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for another in their Modern Monthly Movies series.
This time it was "Journeyman Architect: The Life and Work of Donald Wexler." The architect who sat next to me asked if I knew who Wexler was, but I didn't.
I explained to him that I was there to learn about a desert architect I hadn't even known existed. He nodded approvingly.
As I was to discover, Wexler was a major force in the mid-century Palm Springs architecture scene, both private and public.
His motto of "Stay small and keep busy" was as sensible as his "Architecture is fine art but also a business."
This from an architect who couldn't ever remember a design of his being turned down by a client.
That could be construed as proof that he was a people-pleaser or that he was the right man in the right place. I came away inclined toward the second.
The houses and buildings he designed were notable for their steel construction, canopies, and ability to bring the outdoors in.
Looking at some of his designs for the Palm Springs Airport and singer Dinah Shore's house show an architect with a commanding grasp of desert design.
Placing an airport inside a ring of mountains makes for superb views and dramatic landings. Architectural score.
And I liked his spirit. "In the 50s, 60s and 70s," he said, "There was no fear in architecture." That has to be the last time that was the case.
My final plans were to meet a friend at Amour Wine Bistro to catch up after nearly eight months.
The evening got off to a fine start with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose.
The Alsatian owner teasingly suggested that I should like a wine from his homeland and he was right. He need not have worried; it had a lovely creaminess and a lingering finish that I loved.
My friend and I had tons to talk about. At our last meeting, I'd learned she had a new boyfriend (a restaurant-owner, no less) but no more details.
Tonight I got to hear the very romantic story of their first meeting. I was not surprised that bubbles were involved.
We allowed ourselves to be talked into a peach tart and kiwi sorbet, two lovely desserts we did not need, but ate anyway.
To accompany such fine desserts, I had Chateau de le Roulerie Coteaux de Layon, a perfect pairing made all the better for not being overly sweet or highly alcoholic.
Sipping bubbly afterwards, we talked about some of the new restaurants on our radar and she admitted how great it was to have a boyfriend who cooks so well.
She considers herself spoiled, but I'd say lucky is more like it.
And all she had to do was sit there with friends until he noticed her and fell for her.
That doesn't sound too difficult.
How often do you sit at a bar and end up with a boyfriend?
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Wouldn't It Be Nice?
"Next time, bring a glass."
That's what the woman sitting near me at Dogwood Dell said to me at the end of the evening. Earlier, when she'd tried to surreptitiously open a bottle of wine, I'd looked over and grinned at her.
All good Richmonders know alcohol is forbidden at the Dell. That said, I've never once been to a a performance there and not seen people drinking. Most people.
So at the end of the evening, she'd made sure to tell me that if I brought a glass in the future, it would be filled. Good to know and yet completely meaningless from a stranger.
A neighbor and I had gone for opening night to see the Upper East Side Big Band. As it turned out, we also got the Mills Family band as an opener.
Their set list ranged from "Little Liza Jane" to Paul Simon's "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover" to Sesame Street, all enhanced by Samson Trinh's unique bluegrass saxophone and nonstop leg gyrations..
We enjoyed our picnic supper of fried chicken, watermelon, grapes and German chocolate cake. We weren't going to starve; he also brought a sandwich and I also ate a salad. Picnic of champions.
The night was beautiful, what with the temperature and humidity having dropped earlier despite no signs of the predicted thunderstorms.
As always at the Dell, dusk brought out the swooping bats over the trees and eventually the moon.
We had Jackson Ward neighbors sitting right in front of us ("We should have formed a caravan over from the Ward"), who only noticed us once my friend began lobbing grapes at them. Ah, the pleasures of thrown foodstuffs at outdoor activities.
The Upper East Side Big Band is big, with probably 18 or 19 musicians, including brass members from Bio Ritmo, Glows in the Dark and No BS Brass Band.
Their set led off with "Very Strange Night" from their first album and bandleader Trinh alternated vigorous musical directing with playing the flute. His multi-tasking was an indication of things to come.
A few songs later, out came five jazz vocalists. four women and one man, to augment the musicians on stage. "This is part one of blowing your mind," he told the audience.
They began with "Back in the USSR" with keyboard player Adrian Duke on lead vocal (the closet vocal comparison I could think of was David Clayton Thomas) and the other five on backup.
Segueing into "Dear Prudence," Trinh became a rubber-legged wonder, all but moon walking across the stage.
Raving about his love for the Beach Boys' masterpiece "Pet Sounds," Trinh said that, "This will be the first time in Richmond that the Beach Boys are done right."
The crowd lapped up "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows" before a guest guitarist was brought onstage for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."
Given Trinh's love of the Beatles, finishing with "Rocky Raccoon" was no surprise. Many people packed up and made for the parking lot at that point, only to miss the barn-burner of the evening, "Helter Skelter." It got the baby boomers dancing, that's for sure.
Clearly pumped at the audience's reaction, Trinh shouted, "Maybe next year we can be on Style's Best Bands list. Five years and nothing!"
Had it been up to the crowd tonight, they'd have been a write-in vote.
After so much retro music, neighbor and I headed to Cous Cous for something much more au courant. The Diamond Center, those recent veterans of South by Southwest and Austin's Psychfest, were playing a free show.
I'm always torn about shows at Cous Cous; it's an ill-configured place to see a band perform and the crowd can be obnoxious.
It's impossible to have a conversation without endlessly repeating yourself and a pain in the neck to get a drink from the overcrowded bar.
But the show was free and the Diamond Center were playing. I always see scads of people I know, always the music lovers. It's a trade-off, she said diplomatically.
Visual projections were by Cosmic Hum and were they ever groovy. Amoeba-like forms morphed and moved over the screen behind the band and the ceiling.
At one point, the red blobs showing on the ductwork looked like blood spatters. Groovy and gruesome.
And then there's the music, with its hazy guitar (including a twelve-string), haunting melodies and a sense of urgency that has bodies moving and heads bobbing.
There is a reason so many of us show up whenever they play. I ran into a musician friend who, like neighbor and I, had begun the evening at the Dell and moved on to something completely different sans his neighbor.
I saw the big-voiced singer and ukulele player I'd seen busking in Charlottesville before the Arcade Fire show. She'd been smart and watched the show from outside, saving herself from group sweat-in I endured.
And I saw the comedian/ukulele player/man-about-town who perennially suggests that I join his group after the show for some late night munchies and chatter at McLean's.
I declined; the picnic had more than scratched that itch. Even my insatiable need for music and conversation had been well-satisfied.
If I didn't know better, I'd say I had everything I need on this Friday night.
But next time, I'll bring a glass and see who's willing to fill it. There's just no telling.
That's what the woman sitting near me at Dogwood Dell said to me at the end of the evening. Earlier, when she'd tried to surreptitiously open a bottle of wine, I'd looked over and grinned at her.
All good Richmonders know alcohol is forbidden at the Dell. That said, I've never once been to a a performance there and not seen people drinking. Most people.
So at the end of the evening, she'd made sure to tell me that if I brought a glass in the future, it would be filled. Good to know and yet completely meaningless from a stranger.
A neighbor and I had gone for opening night to see the Upper East Side Big Band. As it turned out, we also got the Mills Family band as an opener.
Their set list ranged from "Little Liza Jane" to Paul Simon's "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover" to Sesame Street, all enhanced by Samson Trinh's unique bluegrass saxophone and nonstop leg gyrations..
We enjoyed our picnic supper of fried chicken, watermelon, grapes and German chocolate cake. We weren't going to starve; he also brought a sandwich and I also ate a salad. Picnic of champions.
The night was beautiful, what with the temperature and humidity having dropped earlier despite no signs of the predicted thunderstorms.
As always at the Dell, dusk brought out the swooping bats over the trees and eventually the moon.
We had Jackson Ward neighbors sitting right in front of us ("We should have formed a caravan over from the Ward"), who only noticed us once my friend began lobbing grapes at them. Ah, the pleasures of thrown foodstuffs at outdoor activities.
The Upper East Side Big Band is big, with probably 18 or 19 musicians, including brass members from Bio Ritmo, Glows in the Dark and No BS Brass Band.
Their set led off with "Very Strange Night" from their first album and bandleader Trinh alternated vigorous musical directing with playing the flute. His multi-tasking was an indication of things to come.
A few songs later, out came five jazz vocalists. four women and one man, to augment the musicians on stage. "This is part one of blowing your mind," he told the audience.
They began with "Back in the USSR" with keyboard player Adrian Duke on lead vocal (the closet vocal comparison I could think of was David Clayton Thomas) and the other five on backup.
Segueing into "Dear Prudence," Trinh became a rubber-legged wonder, all but moon walking across the stage.
Raving about his love for the Beach Boys' masterpiece "Pet Sounds," Trinh said that, "This will be the first time in Richmond that the Beach Boys are done right."
The crowd lapped up "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows" before a guest guitarist was brought onstage for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."
Given Trinh's love of the Beatles, finishing with "Rocky Raccoon" was no surprise. Many people packed up and made for the parking lot at that point, only to miss the barn-burner of the evening, "Helter Skelter." It got the baby boomers dancing, that's for sure.
Clearly pumped at the audience's reaction, Trinh shouted, "Maybe next year we can be on Style's Best Bands list. Five years and nothing!"
Had it been up to the crowd tonight, they'd have been a write-in vote.
After so much retro music, neighbor and I headed to Cous Cous for something much more au courant. The Diamond Center, those recent veterans of South by Southwest and Austin's Psychfest, were playing a free show.
I'm always torn about shows at Cous Cous; it's an ill-configured place to see a band perform and the crowd can be obnoxious.
It's impossible to have a conversation without endlessly repeating yourself and a pain in the neck to get a drink from the overcrowded bar.
But the show was free and the Diamond Center were playing. I always see scads of people I know, always the music lovers. It's a trade-off, she said diplomatically.
Visual projections were by Cosmic Hum and were they ever groovy. Amoeba-like forms morphed and moved over the screen behind the band and the ceiling.
At one point, the red blobs showing on the ductwork looked like blood spatters. Groovy and gruesome.
And then there's the music, with its hazy guitar (including a twelve-string), haunting melodies and a sense of urgency that has bodies moving and heads bobbing.
There is a reason so many of us show up whenever they play. I ran into a musician friend who, like neighbor and I, had begun the evening at the Dell and moved on to something completely different sans his neighbor.
I saw the big-voiced singer and ukulele player I'd seen busking in Charlottesville before the Arcade Fire show. She'd been smart and watched the show from outside, saving herself from group sweat-in I endured.
And I saw the comedian/ukulele player/man-about-town who perennially suggests that I join his group after the show for some late night munchies and chatter at McLean's.
I declined; the picnic had more than scratched that itch. Even my insatiable need for music and conversation had been well-satisfied.
If I didn't know better, I'd say I had everything I need on this Friday night.
But next time, I'll bring a glass and see who's willing to fill it. There's just no telling.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Heart of Darkness
"I hope you have a very dark Black Valentine's Day!"
~Peter (smiling, but practically a stranger)
Thanks to Cous Cous for their sixth annual Black Valentine's show, performing everyone's favorite songs of love gone bad. You know, on those rare occasions that it goes bad.
I got there around 10, ordered several V-Day Don Julios over the course of the evening, enjoyed the company of a few good friends, all musicians, and heard some inspired performances. What more could a single hope for on Valentine's night (hold that thought)?
Well, according to the end-of-evening announcement, "Hope you fond someone to go home with." I wasn't quite that lucky, but maybe I was too into the music. It's been known to happen with me.
Josh Small played first and unfortunately, the crowd acted as if he were mute, talking loudly throughout his set. Too bad, because the guy is really talented. Introducing his first song, he said, "This is a love song. It's an angry song." Well, sometimes love is angry, from what I've been told.
The Diamond Center played next, but not their usual reverb-drenched set. Instead, the crowd was treated to a selection of songs by the Zombies, including classics like "She's Not There" and "Tell Her No."
Background vocals were courtesy of the very talented Lindsey Spurrier and Allison Apperson, both impossibly cool in sunglasses. They even slipped in a Cramps cover, much to the delight of certain members of the audience. Their set was later referred to as epic, an apt description.
Baby Help Me Forget was the final act, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with their high-energy set. Front man Jamie Lay is a whirling dervish of dancing, singing, tambourine playing and in general awesome showmanship. You know as soon as he takes his glasses off that he will be jumping off of things (chairs and room dividers tonight). Steer clear.
Although several people wished me a happy Valentine's Day tonight (and today; thank you, Danny), it was a guy I was randomly introduced to tonight, Peter, who provided the unexpected and inexplicable wish for darkness.
All things considered, I had a most delightful black Valentine's Day. Looking forward to a very different sort next year, but no less enjoyable.
Thoughts of romance die hard.
~Peter (smiling, but practically a stranger)
Thanks to Cous Cous for their sixth annual Black Valentine's show, performing everyone's favorite songs of love gone bad. You know, on those rare occasions that it goes bad.
I got there around 10, ordered several V-Day Don Julios over the course of the evening, enjoyed the company of a few good friends, all musicians, and heard some inspired performances. What more could a single hope for on Valentine's night (hold that thought)?
Well, according to the end-of-evening announcement, "Hope you fond someone to go home with." I wasn't quite that lucky, but maybe I was too into the music. It's been known to happen with me.
Josh Small played first and unfortunately, the crowd acted as if he were mute, talking loudly throughout his set. Too bad, because the guy is really talented. Introducing his first song, he said, "This is a love song. It's an angry song." Well, sometimes love is angry, from what I've been told.
The Diamond Center played next, but not their usual reverb-drenched set. Instead, the crowd was treated to a selection of songs by the Zombies, including classics like "She's Not There" and "Tell Her No."
Background vocals were courtesy of the very talented Lindsey Spurrier and Allison Apperson, both impossibly cool in sunglasses. They even slipped in a Cramps cover, much to the delight of certain members of the audience. Their set was later referred to as epic, an apt description.
Baby Help Me Forget was the final act, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with their high-energy set. Front man Jamie Lay is a whirling dervish of dancing, singing, tambourine playing and in general awesome showmanship. You know as soon as he takes his glasses off that he will be jumping off of things (chairs and room dividers tonight). Steer clear.
Although several people wished me a happy Valentine's Day tonight (and today; thank you, Danny), it was a guy I was randomly introduced to tonight, Peter, who provided the unexpected and inexplicable wish for darkness.
All things considered, I had a most delightful black Valentine's Day. Looking forward to a very different sort next year, but no less enjoyable.
Thoughts of romance die hard.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
On Not Turning into a Pumpkin
For whatever it's worth, it seems I've become a regular at more than just my favorite restaurants.
As I often do, I began my Friday night at the VMFA for their Friday film. When I arrived, the event's organizer, Trent Nichols, greeted me with, "Welcome back!" as he tore my ticket (badly, but he said he doesn't practice between Fridays and it showed).
This week's film was An Unlikely Weapon: The Eddie Adams Story." Although you may not recognize the name, you'd know his photograph. It's the Pulitzer Prize-winning one of the Chief of Saigon Police shooting the Viet Cong prisoner in the head on the street in 1968.
Adams deserves more name recognition than he probably has. He shot thirteen wars, six presidents, untold celebrities and countless Penthouse cuties. But it was his Vietnam-era photos that got him noticed.
The documentary was fascinating, having been shot before Adams died in 2004, so it gave a true sense of the man in his own words.
He was not impressed with the prize-winning photo credited with changing public opinion about the war; he said the light wasn't right and the composition was terrible. Like any true artist, he was his own harshest critic.
Tonight's audience was full of photographers, eager to ask questions of producer Cindy Lou Adkins after the film. Unfortunately, I couldn't stay for it because of a must-see show at the Firehouse.
It was the Low Branches EP release show and, yes, they're friends, but they're also incredibly talented and I wanted to see and hear this first show at the Firehouse, where the Listening Room will soon take up residence.
The doors had opened 45 minutes before I got there, so I wasn't surprised when the Richmond Scene's Chris, acting as door guy, said he'd been wondering where I was (he might as well have tapped his watch).
When I went to buy the EP, Low Branches singer Christina was doing the selling. "If you hadn't shown up, I would have found out your phone number and called to make sure you were okay," she told me.
The show began with some of RVA's best singer/songwriters: Jonathan Vassar, Nick Coward, Chad Ebel and Will Loyal, alternating turns and each singing a song before beginning the cycle again.
They ended with all of them doing a song of Christina's, a marvelous collaboration of voices and small guitars (they say only very secure guys play small guitars).
The stage was a cozy and eclectic setting for this talented bunch. There were seven lamps, one bird cage, one stuffed deer's head and multiple instrument cases and amps placed artfully around wooden risers. Very homey, assuming the homeowner had slightly odd taste.
The Low Branches put on a magical performance, augmenting their sound with some of the musicians who had played on their record.
Josh of the Speckled Bird and Adam of the Last Battle played cello and lap steel respectively, adding an additional lushness to Matt and Christina's already-beautiful sound.
Her unique voice and Matt's ability to provide just the right instrumentation to enhance it (not to mention when we occasionally get to hear him sing, too) are the hallmarks of their music.Their set was over way too soon.
What could be better after a show of low-key folk than some fuzzy guitars and loads of reverb? I met a friend at Cous Cous as the bar was filling up (many of the arrivals had come from the show I had just attended).
He was not happy to hear that the Diamond Center wasn't starting until midnight, but I cajoled and he stayed; we did some people-watching and age-guessing in the interim.
At one point, the girl next to me turned and said, "You have the most beautiful nose." From there, she praised it every which way, talking about its delicacy, my profile, bad noses and worse. When she left, my friend quickly leaned down and asked, "Did she say what I think she said?"
Nodding, I told him, "And that's exactly why I blog. I get the most random comments in the world made to me and I have no idea why." Who raves about a stranger's nose to them in a bar?
Not long after, I thought the band was close to starting when they turned on their smoke machine and began stinking up the place with a rank smell.
But no, they weren't and my friend got tired of inhaling that mess and waiting,and headed out. "I'll read about what I missed in your blog tomorrow," he said, after asking if I'd hate him if he left (of course not - his loss).
He hadn't been gone three minutes when the Diamond Center cranked it up with the unmistakable sound of a twelve string. From there it was one reverb-drenched psychedelic song after another filling the packed room.
As if that wasn't soul-satisfying enough, DJs Greg and Sara were doing a psychedelic light show on a screen behind the band. It was too groovy for words and I mean that sincerely; I've heard them spin 60s vinyl and it was amazing, but now I know that their talents also extend to light shows.
I wasn't the only Diamond Center fanatic in the crowd, so there was a lot of dancing and booty-shaking going on throughout their set. I heard more than one person tell a friend, "This band is so good!"
When the final ribbon-bedecked tambourine-shaking song ended in a cloud of smoke, the crowd clapped and whistled in appreciation.
Because I'm such a fan of their sound, it was my fifth or sixth Diamond Center show. You could almost say I'm a regular with them, too.
But let's not. I'd rather just be thought of as a music lover who was lucky enough to see two amazing shows on a Friday night. Even a non-regular could have done that...if they're willing to stay out past midnight.
I got that one covered.
As I often do, I began my Friday night at the VMFA for their Friday film. When I arrived, the event's organizer, Trent Nichols, greeted me with, "Welcome back!" as he tore my ticket (badly, but he said he doesn't practice between Fridays and it showed).
This week's film was An Unlikely Weapon: The Eddie Adams Story." Although you may not recognize the name, you'd know his photograph. It's the Pulitzer Prize-winning one of the Chief of Saigon Police shooting the Viet Cong prisoner in the head on the street in 1968.
Adams deserves more name recognition than he probably has. He shot thirteen wars, six presidents, untold celebrities and countless Penthouse cuties. But it was his Vietnam-era photos that got him noticed.
The documentary was fascinating, having been shot before Adams died in 2004, so it gave a true sense of the man in his own words.
He was not impressed with the prize-winning photo credited with changing public opinion about the war; he said the light wasn't right and the composition was terrible. Like any true artist, he was his own harshest critic.
Tonight's audience was full of photographers, eager to ask questions of producer Cindy Lou Adkins after the film. Unfortunately, I couldn't stay for it because of a must-see show at the Firehouse.
It was the Low Branches EP release show and, yes, they're friends, but they're also incredibly talented and I wanted to see and hear this first show at the Firehouse, where the Listening Room will soon take up residence.
The doors had opened 45 minutes before I got there, so I wasn't surprised when the Richmond Scene's Chris, acting as door guy, said he'd been wondering where I was (he might as well have tapped his watch).
When I went to buy the EP, Low Branches singer Christina was doing the selling. "If you hadn't shown up, I would have found out your phone number and called to make sure you were okay," she told me.
The show began with some of RVA's best singer/songwriters: Jonathan Vassar, Nick Coward, Chad Ebel and Will Loyal, alternating turns and each singing a song before beginning the cycle again.
They ended with all of them doing a song of Christina's, a marvelous collaboration of voices and small guitars (they say only very secure guys play small guitars).
The stage was a cozy and eclectic setting for this talented bunch. There were seven lamps, one bird cage, one stuffed deer's head and multiple instrument cases and amps placed artfully around wooden risers. Very homey, assuming the homeowner had slightly odd taste.
The Low Branches put on a magical performance, augmenting their sound with some of the musicians who had played on their record.
Josh of the Speckled Bird and Adam of the Last Battle played cello and lap steel respectively, adding an additional lushness to Matt and Christina's already-beautiful sound.
Her unique voice and Matt's ability to provide just the right instrumentation to enhance it (not to mention when we occasionally get to hear him sing, too) are the hallmarks of their music.Their set was over way too soon.
What could be better after a show of low-key folk than some fuzzy guitars and loads of reverb? I met a friend at Cous Cous as the bar was filling up (many of the arrivals had come from the show I had just attended).
He was not happy to hear that the Diamond Center wasn't starting until midnight, but I cajoled and he stayed; we did some people-watching and age-guessing in the interim.
At one point, the girl next to me turned and said, "You have the most beautiful nose." From there, she praised it every which way, talking about its delicacy, my profile, bad noses and worse. When she left, my friend quickly leaned down and asked, "Did she say what I think she said?"
Nodding, I told him, "And that's exactly why I blog. I get the most random comments in the world made to me and I have no idea why." Who raves about a stranger's nose to them in a bar?
Not long after, I thought the band was close to starting when they turned on their smoke machine and began stinking up the place with a rank smell.
But no, they weren't and my friend got tired of inhaling that mess and waiting,and headed out. "I'll read about what I missed in your blog tomorrow," he said, after asking if I'd hate him if he left (of course not - his loss).
He hadn't been gone three minutes when the Diamond Center cranked it up with the unmistakable sound of a twelve string. From there it was one reverb-drenched psychedelic song after another filling the packed room.
As if that wasn't soul-satisfying enough, DJs Greg and Sara were doing a psychedelic light show on a screen behind the band. It was too groovy for words and I mean that sincerely; I've heard them spin 60s vinyl and it was amazing, but now I know that their talents also extend to light shows.
I wasn't the only Diamond Center fanatic in the crowd, so there was a lot of dancing and booty-shaking going on throughout their set. I heard more than one person tell a friend, "This band is so good!"
When the final ribbon-bedecked tambourine-shaking song ended in a cloud of smoke, the crowd clapped and whistled in appreciation.
Because I'm such a fan of their sound, it was my fifth or sixth Diamond Center show. You could almost say I'm a regular with them, too.
But let's not. I'd rather just be thought of as a music lover who was lucky enough to see two amazing shows on a Friday night. Even a non-regular could have done that...if they're willing to stay out past midnight.
I got that one covered.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Burping Added Nothing to the Music
Monday nights can be slim pickins for something interesting to do and then there's a Monday night like last night, with multiple good choices and it's just a matter of deciding where you want to be and what you want to hear. In my case, a friend suggested Cous Cous for Larry and His Flask with a couple of interesting openers, so my decision was made and the Camel and Balliceaux were forgotten.
Since we weren't meeting until 9:30, though, I had plenty of time to visit 27 for dinner and to catch up with one of my favorite waiters. I started with the Morli Neri Chianti and the good news from my friend that he'd just been accepted into graduate school at Columbia, surely cause for celebration.
He recommended the Moules Marinieres (P.E.I. mussels with homemade white wine, shallot and cream sauce) because it was a new preparation for 27, who usually offers a red sauce of some kind. They were savory and delicious; sopping up that cream sauce with a whole lot of bread finished my meal beautifully.
Of course I had dessert, but I at least tried something new. It was the Bombe: passion fruit, mango and raspberry sorbet wrapped in a white and dark chocolate shell. The delicacy of the sorbets with the necessary chocolate (at least in my case) was everything I could have wanted in a dessert. I did share with a member of the staff since he'd never had it.
With shows at Cous Cous, I like to arrive before the crowds to secure a stool for protection. Inevitably it gets mobbed in there and a stool at least ensures that I can only get knocked into from one direction. I'd heard great things about Larry and His Flask's talent with their punk/hillbilly sound. I was expecting to see a certain local Americana singer and, sure enough, she was the first person I saw on arrival. She'd already seen them (of course) and highly recommended them.
Opening was Tom Vanden-Avond & Soda and, I have to tell you, this guy's voice sounded whiskey-soaked and amazing. He could have been singing anything with those pipes and it would have been a pleasure to listen. His fiddle player (Seabass, as he referred to him) added hugely to the sound, which would likely be called alt-country since he's from Texas, but probably owes as much to Dylan.
Next up was Chris McNew and by this time the place was hopping. And by that, I mean everyone was talking loudly non-stop, making it difficult to hear the music. I know that this is how shows at Cous Cous are, but it always annoys me anyway. Even the musicians acknowledged that drunk people just want to talk loud. The guy next to me couldn't stop talking about being dumped; his ex was there with her new guy and it was killing him. One guy belched so incredibly loudly in my companion's ear that it was worthy of comment, not that the burper cared who he'd offended (or noticed the looks of the surrounding onlookers).
So I'm ashamed to say that by midnight we abandoned the crowd for another destination and never got to see Larry and His Flask. I can only hope the Oregon group will be back through again so I can hear their hillbilly folk punk, preferably somewhere where the audience is actually there to appreciate the music. They played a house show last time they were in rva and I'll bet that audience was way more attentive than last night's.
I know it's lot to hope for, but I'm guessing the musicians would be on my side and, in a perfect world, they'd demand attention of their audience. At the very least, guys, get as drunk as you want during the show, but just shut up about it so I can hear the music.
Hey, I can dream, can't I?
Since we weren't meeting until 9:30, though, I had plenty of time to visit 27 for dinner and to catch up with one of my favorite waiters. I started with the Morli Neri Chianti and the good news from my friend that he'd just been accepted into graduate school at Columbia, surely cause for celebration.
He recommended the Moules Marinieres (P.E.I. mussels with homemade white wine, shallot and cream sauce) because it was a new preparation for 27, who usually offers a red sauce of some kind. They were savory and delicious; sopping up that cream sauce with a whole lot of bread finished my meal beautifully.
Of course I had dessert, but I at least tried something new. It was the Bombe: passion fruit, mango and raspberry sorbet wrapped in a white and dark chocolate shell. The delicacy of the sorbets with the necessary chocolate (at least in my case) was everything I could have wanted in a dessert. I did share with a member of the staff since he'd never had it.
With shows at Cous Cous, I like to arrive before the crowds to secure a stool for protection. Inevitably it gets mobbed in there and a stool at least ensures that I can only get knocked into from one direction. I'd heard great things about Larry and His Flask's talent with their punk/hillbilly sound. I was expecting to see a certain local Americana singer and, sure enough, she was the first person I saw on arrival. She'd already seen them (of course) and highly recommended them.
Opening was Tom Vanden-Avond & Soda and, I have to tell you, this guy's voice sounded whiskey-soaked and amazing. He could have been singing anything with those pipes and it would have been a pleasure to listen. His fiddle player (Seabass, as he referred to him) added hugely to the sound, which would likely be called alt-country since he's from Texas, but probably owes as much to Dylan.
Next up was Chris McNew and by this time the place was hopping. And by that, I mean everyone was talking loudly non-stop, making it difficult to hear the music. I know that this is how shows at Cous Cous are, but it always annoys me anyway. Even the musicians acknowledged that drunk people just want to talk loud. The guy next to me couldn't stop talking about being dumped; his ex was there with her new guy and it was killing him. One guy belched so incredibly loudly in my companion's ear that it was worthy of comment, not that the burper cared who he'd offended (or noticed the looks of the surrounding onlookers).
So I'm ashamed to say that by midnight we abandoned the crowd for another destination and never got to see Larry and His Flask. I can only hope the Oregon group will be back through again so I can hear their hillbilly folk punk, preferably somewhere where the audience is actually there to appreciate the music. They played a house show last time they were in rva and I'll bet that audience was way more attentive than last night's.
I know it's lot to hope for, but I'm guessing the musicians would be on my side and, in a perfect world, they'd demand attention of their audience. At the very least, guys, get as drunk as you want during the show, but just shut up about it so I can hear the music.
Hey, I can dream, can't I?
Friday, January 29, 2010
I See the Whole of the Moon
I walked into CousCous with a friend tonight and the first thing I heard was my name shouted loudly, followed by, "Why the hell weren't you at the Jason Wembley show last week?" What happened to, "Good evening. Table for two?" But he was hugging me as he said it, so it was almost the same. It was the omnipresent Parker and, to be fair to him, I had planned to be at Gallery 5 for that show but ended up having my idyllic hospital stay instead.
I chose my favorite bar seat, the one under the TV so I never have to know it's there. It didn't take long to discover that the bartender is a neighbor of mine and a whiskey-lover to boot; J-Ward must be rampant with them. I debated telling him about my Whiskey Wednesday friends, but decided against it...I mean it's really not my place.
In between discussing the advantages of city living in the snow and the upcoming whiskey tasting at CousCous, he brought us food: sweet corn fritters with chipotle creme fraiche, my favorite soup, the harira (oxtail, rice and veggie), a lovely cucumber salad with Manchego cheese, curry fries cooked twice perfectly, chicken B'strilla (the sweet and spicy Moroccan pot pie with chicken, eggs, almonds, onions and apricots in pastry) interspersed with explaining the menu to my friend, a first-time customer. Oddly enough, she had no trouble understanding the hazelnut chocolate torte.
Afterwards, we went back to her house for the pineapple-infused vodka she had made for a recent party. I'm not a vodka drinker, so I tasted it for the sake of experiencing her delicious creation, but I'm betting it would be plenty popular with the right crowd. Better than the vodka was the roaring fire she made as soon as we walked in, making for a cozy setting to for her to deliver her opinion on my recent reconnection and all its implications, best summed up as"You go, girl."
Which begs the question: Is there such a thing as resetting your life clock and seeing what happens?
I chose my favorite bar seat, the one under the TV so I never have to know it's there. It didn't take long to discover that the bartender is a neighbor of mine and a whiskey-lover to boot; J-Ward must be rampant with them. I debated telling him about my Whiskey Wednesday friends, but decided against it...I mean it's really not my place.
In between discussing the advantages of city living in the snow and the upcoming whiskey tasting at CousCous, he brought us food: sweet corn fritters with chipotle creme fraiche, my favorite soup, the harira (oxtail, rice and veggie), a lovely cucumber salad with Manchego cheese, curry fries cooked twice perfectly, chicken B'strilla (the sweet and spicy Moroccan pot pie with chicken, eggs, almonds, onions and apricots in pastry) interspersed with explaining the menu to my friend, a first-time customer. Oddly enough, she had no trouble understanding the hazelnut chocolate torte.
Afterwards, we went back to her house for the pineapple-infused vodka she had made for a recent party. I'm not a vodka drinker, so I tasted it for the sake of experiencing her delicious creation, but I'm betting it would be plenty popular with the right crowd. Better than the vodka was the roaring fire she made as soon as we walked in, making for a cozy setting to for her to deliver her opinion on my recent reconnection and all its implications, best summed up as"You go, girl."
Which begs the question: Is there such a thing as resetting your life clock and seeing what happens?
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