Dancing in the Moonlight

Everyone's whining about Mercury in retrograde, but I can't say I've noticed any effects myself.

I've read people say that it's a period when communication goes haywire and weird things happen, but I had no problem meeting a charming polymath at the preview night performance of "The Lion in Winter" at VMFA.

Might as well go ahead and admit it, I'd seen neither the play nor the film, although I did look up Eleanor of Aquitaine beforehand so I'd have a little background.

It was easy finding a single seat in the fourth row near a well-dressed man who was also companion-less. The artistic director soon informed us, "You are our ambassadors so if you like what you see, please tell everyone you know. If you don't like it, let's keep it our little secret."

Then, appropriately before a play about a long-time married couple, she wished a couple - Vaughn and Nick - happy 33rd anniversary. Then it was on to a 12th century Christmas.

Through lies, deception, manipulation and posturing, we watched as Henry II's family played out its dysfunction in every relationship - parent/child, husband/wife, siblings - and interaction. Everyone was so busy scheming it was a miracle anyone had time to wage war, father illegitimate children or run the country and isn't that what British royalty did back then?

Much was made of Eleanor's age - 60- with comments such as, "I've heard she's aging badly," followed by her son's gleeful request, "Let's go look!" She directs them, "Take what memory you have of me and mark it out of date." That's what happens to a woman's looks when her husband, the king, imprisons her for ten years for helping her son plan a rebellion against him.

During intermission, I pulled out my Washington Post to read while the man next to me pulled out his book but before long he spoke to me and reading materials were set aside. Even readers can't resist the spoken word.

Turns out he was the theater critic for the Richmond Times Dispatch years ago and for at least the first six years after I moved to Richmond, meaning surely I'd read his work at one point. Interestingly enough, he'd also written critiques for the RTD of opera, ballet and art. I was amazed to hear that one year alone, he'd seen 200 plays (because of trips to NYC and London, lucky dog).

We really clicked when he told me that his only qualifications for the job had been all of his going out to events and a knack for writing. When I shared that I go out every night, he insisted that was proof that I was qualified to write about culture. Imagine his surprise when he heard what I do.

The 1966 play had a contemporary layer to it with humorous asides ("Of course we all have knives. It's 1183, we're still barbarians!") and a surprise plot twist involving a gay tryst ("Oh, no!" someone moaned from the back of the theater when it was revealed). Its twisted middle-aged romance ("I could listen to you lie for hours") was timeless and sometimes brutally honest ("Jealousy looks silly on us, Henry").

My new critic friend admitted afterwards that he'd found the acting a bit stiff but attributed it to the first night of the run. Perhaps the cast just needs a bit more time to get used to each other, sort of like with the early years of marriage or cohabitation.

Walking out of the museum, it was so bitterly cold and windy that I considered heading home but since my drive would take me right past Emilio's and music, that seemed like a foolish plan.

The temptation was twofold: Goldrush was playing, so I could expect friends, frivolous discussion and their familiar yet solid sound. Plus Adam and the Yew Banks were opening and I'd fallen hard for them at the Ghost of Pop show in December.

I scored on all counts. The handsome bass player not only regaled me with stories of hiding things from his mother-in-law's prying eyes, he also told a stranger that I'd given him and his wife a housewarming gift of velvet handcuffs (it should be noted that the gift also included two bottles of wine). Also covered were the folly of bourbon shots on Bourbon Street, moving doors and ego-less sax players

Standing near the front of the crowd where plenty of familiar faces gathered, the only downside was the frequency with which the door opened to admit new guests and allow smokers to escape to freeze their patooties off while feeding their addiction.

One smoker clad in a long, summery-looking skirt complained about her poor choice in attire on such a frigid night. "I shaved my legs, what the hell was I thinking?" she asked rhetorically while hiking up her skirt to show me a bare leg. "All I've got on under this is a thong." Yikes, honey.

Once again, Adam and the Yew Banks blew my mind with their well-executed set, a tantalizing combination of great voices, excellent songwriting and an overall sound both loose and polished that had many of us moving our hips to. A musician friend instructed me to pay close attention to how talented the drummer was, but it seemed to me that they all were.

Goldrush took the stage after a break that allowed for the essentials (drummer extraordinaire Willis to set up and Prabir to do a shot) and for more people to arrive to partake of their hook-laden chamber rock.

Although I've been going to Goldrush shows for years, who knows, some of tonight's crowd could have been experiencing the distinct pleasures of two classical musicians playing violin and upright bass in a pop context for the first time. I'd call them Goldrush virgins but I don't want to give Prabir any ideas.

Or maybe they just wandered in off the street because their thongs weren't keeping them very warm and it's so cold out there. So cold I almost bypassed music tonight.

Maybe that was Mercury in retrograde trying to mess me up. Wait, this is 2015, you call that science?

Bueller, Prabir, anyone?

For the Greater Good

You know me, always willing to drink for a good cause.

With plans to get together with my favorite Southside dweller for sipping and chatting, it only made sense to do it where we could make a difference.

Tonight, that meant at the Give Thanks RVA happy hour at Emilio's, with a portion of all drink sales going to my favorite longhair music supporters, Classical Revolution.

What's not to like about a group whose mission is to bring classical music to bars and clubs? Hello?

The party had already been going on for an hour and a half when I arrived, making it pretty congested around the bar, but leaving a bar table for us near the back that just so happened to be situated directly under a heat vent. Score!

I'd barely sat down when Prabir, one of the evening's organizers, came by to say hello and discuss why it had been so long since we'd seen each other. Best philosophical gem to fall from his lips: "Flesh is torn and then it heals and you're stronger." So, yea, we got deep pretty quickly.

Moira joined us not long thereafter and the gallant Prabir asked to buy us wine and what woman in her right mind is going to turn down that offer? He returned with two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon and a humorous summary of what we could expect for entertainment, but told to us in reverse order.

Turns out he was up first, without his usual guitar but planning to play a little John Williams for us. That's right, we heard a snippet of the theme to "Jaws" played on glasses.

From that highbrow beginning, we moved on to looped upright bass and then violin, all set to the high-spirited chatter of music supporters.

We were so far in the back of the room that all we could do was listen (no visuals) but with two months' worth of life to catch up on, it was probably just as well.

She explained why it's not good to have a double rye and then discuss guns with a conservative and I shared how I took commands from a stranger and caught my first fish.

Midway through our book discussion of "Gone Girl" and what it says about the current state of millennial relationships, our affable server stopped by and we ordered crispy Chorizo and Manchego empanadas to fuel things.

While I was reveling in the direct heat pouring down on us, Moira proceeded to peel off layers of clothing the longer we stayed. Had she not had to pick up her husband, she might have ended up nude.

One of our most interesting tangents was about the future, where we see ourselves a few years from now and what we'd like to do once we're there. She's curious to find out how shedding the tyranny of a regular job will affect her morning lark tendencies, but as I reminded her, I was once a lark, too. I'm of the opinion that night owls lurk inside many larks, at least for those who have that luxury.

We lasted far later than the fundraiser did - not that plenty of people weren't still happily imbibing when we left - and said our goodbyes on the corner after making plans for a cidery trip, an art outing and a space movie while her man is out of town.

My next stop was the Criterion to see "Whiplash," a movie I must have seen the previews for on my last three or four film-going trips. Somehow it seemed appropriate to see a jazz movie at night.

But then I was in full art geek overload as a preview came on for an upcoming film called "Mr. Turner" about - wait for it - the English artist J.M.W. Turner. Thank heavens for directors like Mike Leigh making movies about painters. Moira may want to change her mind about what we see once I tell her this.

But tonight's fascination was "Whiplash," a movie about a drum student at a prestigious New York conservatory (can you say Julliard?) and the sadistic teacher who taunts and pushes him to achieve greatness.

In an early scene, the student Andrew is at the movies with his father sharing a bucket of popcorn into which they've poured a box of Raisinettes. I understand the sweet/salty intention there, but everyone knows it should be Milk Duds (or even Junior Mints) amid the kernels.

From the opening scenes, it was hard not to be thrilled with the fabulous jazz soundtrack of the film. Add in the way that editing almost became a character as we saw all kinds of angles of musicians playing, quick cuts of the musical scores and closeups of the blood and sweat required to play drums at this level. A lot of bloody hand shots.

Being so unmusical, I can't speak to why the elusive double time swing beat seems to be the holy grail of jazz drumming, but watching so much percussion was far more exciting and suspenseful in the context of a 19-year old trying to prove himself to a brutal teacher.

And let's just say it right now: J.K. Simmons as the abusive teacher will get an Oscar nod for this performance, although Miles Teller as the young drummer is every bit as impressive in a less showy role. So that's a killer jazz score, two highly impressive actors and a story that feels less like a music saga and more like a suspense movie.

Walking out at close to midnight, a guy looked as bowled over as I felt and said simply, "Wow!" Don't I know it, mister.

See what larks miss?

SuperMoon Over Romance and Jazz

Saturday night is apparently date night at the movies, or at least it was tonight at the Westhampton, where the audience was easily 90% couples, treading up the stairs in pairs as if to the Ark (except I don't think the animals brought buckets of buttered popcorn with them).

And it was crowd of a certain age because it was a movie about finding love after multiple failures. "Barney's Version" told the story of a flawed (overweight, alcoholic, smoker, curmudgeon) but ultimately likable man disappointed by past relationships who eventually meets a women who completely captivates him.

He pursues her until he wins her (necessitating a divorce before she will allow him to do so) and a long-term successful relationship ensues. Until, that is, this flawed man feels threatened and cheats on her; then she walks and he is destroyed at losing the love of his life.

His wooing of her, sincere, romantic and utterly convincing, is no doubt the reason that Paul Giamatti got a Golden Globe for the role, but much credit also goes to the script.

The dialogue between the two is completely believable for two people who meet as adults, with a fair amount of life experience behind them, but wide open to the possibility that great love is still possible.

The pleasure they demonstrated in each other's company was palpable and a real treat for any hopeless romantics in the audience besides this one. I did wonder briefly how it might have affected the less-than-happy couples there, though.

Walking out of the historic theater, the first thing I saw was the Supermoon and it was absolutely beautiful, incredibly big and bright. Scientific explanations aside, I prefer to think that it was further proof that something wonderful is out there.

My head full of romantic (and maybe even achievable) notions, I went to Emilio's to hear Moore and O'Leary for an evening of jazz. I think the last time I'd been there was for a Jazz Society show with my friend Dave and that had been a couple of years ago, so I was a tad overdue. Luckily, the gaggle of fourteen-year olds and their parents were on the way out.

My very talented friend Marshall (of local band Marionette) was playing saxophone (which I'd never heard him do) with his partner in jazz Jacob Moore on guitar; sitting in were C.J. Wolfe on drums and Wyatt Allen on upright bass.

I had met Wyatt at the Folk Fest last fall, where we'd discussed my live music frequency and we've since run into each other at loads of shows. But it was my first time hearing him play and, in fact, the first time these four had played together.

Beginning with "Beautiful Love," they did a great job working their way through a selection of jazz music described by Marshall as "normal jazz, nothing weird," and appropriately ending the set with "How Great is the Love?"

The short answer? Don't know, but open to finding out. Only then can I give Karen's version.