Take me away, Indian Summer.
Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.
The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.
I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.
"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.
With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.
If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.
The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."
During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.
Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.
With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.
Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.
One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?
Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.
Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.
There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.
When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.
Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.
It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.
Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.
My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.
My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.
Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.
"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"
So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.
But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.
By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.
Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling
That I just can't lose
After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.
When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.
For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.
"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.
After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.
"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.
The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.
When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.
I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.
Showing posts with label evrim dogu. Show all posts
Showing posts with label evrim dogu. Show all posts
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Angels' Songs, Wild Imaginings
The place: A popular bakery in Church Hill, Sub Rosa, subbing for Istanbul in the '60s.
The cast: Friends and fans of Yeni Nostalji, a band devoted to performing new interpretations of Turkish pop classics along with some original compositions at their inaugural performance.
The stars: Christina, she of the haunting vocals and Low Branches fame, Evrim, baker extraordinaire and handsome Turkish guitarist/vocalist and Jeff, husband of a Turkish woman, playing all other parts.
The scene: Some people have arrived early enough to occupy the few chairs set up for the audience, but people continue to arrive until every inch of the bakery floor is supporting someone. People are not only standing behind the counter, they're standing outside on the sidewalk to listen through the open door on this beautiful Sunday night.
The libations: Turkish all the way. The choices are Efes beer or raki, an anise flavored liqueur that is considered the national alcoholic beverage of Turkey. Mixed with a little water, it becomes cloudy and the source of a mildly dream-like buzz (think absinthe) and is naturally my choice.
The friends: Not surprisingly, I run into lots of people I know. The baker/teacher, the poet (date-less for a change), the dance party enthusiast, the musician and jewelry maker happy couple, even the young duo who used to live in my building and whom I haven't seen in a couple of years.
The Hair: Christina and Evrim have been styled by a Church Hill salon, Seven Hills, and while Evrim's is dapperly arranged to complement his mustache, Christina looks like a vision from 1966 with part of her long hair arranged on top of her head and the rest hanging down as a backdrop for her big earrings.
The music: Turkish songs of love, loss and happiness, or at least that's what I hear in the inflections of a language I do not know. Each song is more beautiful than the last and as the evening sky's deep blue gives way to navy blue, it is easy to forget we are in Church Hill.
Evrim says, "I want to thank Christina for re-introducing me to these songs." They do "Love Story (Where Do I Begin?)" and while I can hear the English words in my head, the Turkish ones are infinitely more beautiful.
The review: It's hard to conceive that this is their first time playing out. The trio is so comfortable with each other, their music so much a part of them and the vibe they create that surely they must have been playing these songs at a dim, smoky Turkish bar in another life.
Sipping raki listening to Turkish pop music in a bakery in Church Hill. Could there be a lovelier Sunday evening?
The cast: Friends and fans of Yeni Nostalji, a band devoted to performing new interpretations of Turkish pop classics along with some original compositions at their inaugural performance.
The stars: Christina, she of the haunting vocals and Low Branches fame, Evrim, baker extraordinaire and handsome Turkish guitarist/vocalist and Jeff, husband of a Turkish woman, playing all other parts.
The scene: Some people have arrived early enough to occupy the few chairs set up for the audience, but people continue to arrive until every inch of the bakery floor is supporting someone. People are not only standing behind the counter, they're standing outside on the sidewalk to listen through the open door on this beautiful Sunday night.
The libations: Turkish all the way. The choices are Efes beer or raki, an anise flavored liqueur that is considered the national alcoholic beverage of Turkey. Mixed with a little water, it becomes cloudy and the source of a mildly dream-like buzz (think absinthe) and is naturally my choice.
The friends: Not surprisingly, I run into lots of people I know. The baker/teacher, the poet (date-less for a change), the dance party enthusiast, the musician and jewelry maker happy couple, even the young duo who used to live in my building and whom I haven't seen in a couple of years.
The Hair: Christina and Evrim have been styled by a Church Hill salon, Seven Hills, and while Evrim's is dapperly arranged to complement his mustache, Christina looks like a vision from 1966 with part of her long hair arranged on top of her head and the rest hanging down as a backdrop for her big earrings.
The music: Turkish songs of love, loss and happiness, or at least that's what I hear in the inflections of a language I do not know. Each song is more beautiful than the last and as the evening sky's deep blue gives way to navy blue, it is easy to forget we are in Church Hill.
Evrim says, "I want to thank Christina for re-introducing me to these songs." They do "Love Story (Where Do I Begin?)" and while I can hear the English words in my head, the Turkish ones are infinitely more beautiful.
The review: It's hard to conceive that this is their first time playing out. The trio is so comfortable with each other, their music so much a part of them and the vibe they create that surely they must have been playing these songs at a dim, smoky Turkish bar in another life.
Sipping raki listening to Turkish pop music in a bakery in Church Hill. Could there be a lovelier Sunday evening?
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Tales from a Female Tongue
So now I know the first rule of Fight Club.
And only because they said it so many times because I gotta admit, my eyes were closed for a fair amount of such a violent movie.
But at least now I can say I've seen the cult classic (thanks VMFA and your 60 films in 60 days) and have some context for the quotes and references I've been hearing for fifteen years.
My favorite? "I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect."
Every day in every way.
Cultural homework accomplished, check. As a serene counterpoint to the film, I got to see Chihuly's "Red Reeds" coming out of a frozen reflecting pool, a very different yet beautiful look for them.
After watching men beat each other to a bloody pulp, I needed a little something for the soul, finding it at a reading at the Library of Virginia.
Literary types are apparently a cautious bunch since only a dozen people showed up, far fewer than LVA's usual readings attract.
Mingling at the reception beforehand, I struck up a conversation with a woman only to find we had lots to talk about, including her recent trip to Philly to go to the Barnes, a notable post-Impressionist and early modern art collection recently moved into the city to the consternation of many traditionalists, and one currently on my short list of museums to visit.
When she raved about the hotel she'd stayed in there, I wasn't surprised to hear it was a Kimpton Hotel which delighted her no end to find someone else who'd become one of their devotees.
Turns out I go to readings to discuss the merits of certain hotel bars with strangers.
Getting off on travel topics, she regaled me with her multiple trips to Italy, even two weeks alone in Florence last year, bragging a little about a visit to a church open only one hour a week to see its frescoes.
"It's great to share that with somebody who can appreciate it!" she enthused.
We gabbed right up until Renaissance literature scholar Sarah Kennedy was introduced to read from her new historical novel, "The Altarpiece," set in Henry VIII's time.
Unexpectedly, she began by reading from one of her many books of poetry, saying she'd begun as a poet and had thought she'd be a poet forever, not surprising given lines like, "Watching the moon skid through clouds," from "Revelation 1373."
A fine reader (not all poets are, I've found), we heard "The Changeling" about faeries and "The Visions of Marjorie Kemp," about the second woman to write (well, dictate) her autobiography, with the line, "A female tongue is best silent."
Good thing we got beyond that nonsense.
The reading ended with the first chapter of "The Altarpiece," a book about what happened to nuns in convents after Henry broke with the Pope and started the Church of England.
Let's just say if you didn't come from money or have connections, you were set adrift, not an easy place for a woman of the era to find herself, but a ripe starting point for conjecturing what might have happened to one of them.
When our little reading group broke up, it was time for me to eat, so I started up the slippery slope to Church Hill and the Roosevelt.
My barstool was occupied by a guy complaining about gym membership payments being taken out of his account automatically when he hadn't been to the gym in five months (did you read the small print, buddy?), so I ended up on the long side of the bar, a good thing actually, on a night when every crack of the door delivered an icy blast to my tights-clad legs.
Seeking a glass of blood-thickening red wine, the barkeep recommended the easy-drinking Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend with lots of fruit and soft tannins.
It was nice to see Evrim of Sub Rosa come in and sit down for dinner, a welcome reminder that his bakery is finally up and running across the street again.
I'd ordered one of tonight's specials, chicken liver slathered on toasted, thickly-sliced bread with cucumber slices on top, an earthy and welcome start to my evening when suddenly a friend arrived, spotted me and sat down next to me.
Now things were getting good. We hadn't gotten together in ages, so an unexpected meeting felt like a gift to us both.
She ordered a glass of Abbinato and we let go the conversational floodgates with talk of past, present and futures, hers and mine.
Our non-stop chatter was interrupted repeatedly as one friend after another - the poet, the traveling baker, the curator- came in and over to say hello.
During one particularly funny exchange with some of those friends, we were talking about breakups where one or the other of the ex-partners ends up suddenly engaged or married within record time after the relationship ends.
The poet's brother had a phrase for women guilty of dating men purely as marriage potential -"Bitches be shopping!" - that cracked everyone up.
As someone who avoids shopping (except for food) at all costs, the idea of having to shop for a husband is about as appealing as kissing a snake. But props for the clever description, sir.
Seeing an order of white bean hummus with crudites go by, the veggies on it looked so good I immediately ordered one without breaking stride in conversation with my long-lost girlfriend, who didn't seem to mind me crunching carrots and radishes in her face.
Absence makes the heart grow more tolerant perhaps.
During another conversation, a friend shared a killer story, immediately insisting that I not include it in my post.
No need to worry, my friend.
The first rule of "I Can Go On and On" is that I keep the really juicy stuff to myself.
In other words, never be complete.
And only because they said it so many times because I gotta admit, my eyes were closed for a fair amount of such a violent movie.
But at least now I can say I've seen the cult classic (thanks VMFA and your 60 films in 60 days) and have some context for the quotes and references I've been hearing for fifteen years.
My favorite? "I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect."
Every day in every way.
Cultural homework accomplished, check. As a serene counterpoint to the film, I got to see Chihuly's "Red Reeds" coming out of a frozen reflecting pool, a very different yet beautiful look for them.
After watching men beat each other to a bloody pulp, I needed a little something for the soul, finding it at a reading at the Library of Virginia.
Literary types are apparently a cautious bunch since only a dozen people showed up, far fewer than LVA's usual readings attract.
Mingling at the reception beforehand, I struck up a conversation with a woman only to find we had lots to talk about, including her recent trip to Philly to go to the Barnes, a notable post-Impressionist and early modern art collection recently moved into the city to the consternation of many traditionalists, and one currently on my short list of museums to visit.
When she raved about the hotel she'd stayed in there, I wasn't surprised to hear it was a Kimpton Hotel which delighted her no end to find someone else who'd become one of their devotees.
Turns out I go to readings to discuss the merits of certain hotel bars with strangers.
Getting off on travel topics, she regaled me with her multiple trips to Italy, even two weeks alone in Florence last year, bragging a little about a visit to a church open only one hour a week to see its frescoes.
"It's great to share that with somebody who can appreciate it!" she enthused.
We gabbed right up until Renaissance literature scholar Sarah Kennedy was introduced to read from her new historical novel, "The Altarpiece," set in Henry VIII's time.
Unexpectedly, she began by reading from one of her many books of poetry, saying she'd begun as a poet and had thought she'd be a poet forever, not surprising given lines like, "Watching the moon skid through clouds," from "Revelation 1373."
A fine reader (not all poets are, I've found), we heard "The Changeling" about faeries and "The Visions of Marjorie Kemp," about the second woman to write (well, dictate) her autobiography, with the line, "A female tongue is best silent."
Good thing we got beyond that nonsense.
The reading ended with the first chapter of "The Altarpiece," a book about what happened to nuns in convents after Henry broke with the Pope and started the Church of England.
Let's just say if you didn't come from money or have connections, you were set adrift, not an easy place for a woman of the era to find herself, but a ripe starting point for conjecturing what might have happened to one of them.
When our little reading group broke up, it was time for me to eat, so I started up the slippery slope to Church Hill and the Roosevelt.
My barstool was occupied by a guy complaining about gym membership payments being taken out of his account automatically when he hadn't been to the gym in five months (did you read the small print, buddy?), so I ended up on the long side of the bar, a good thing actually, on a night when every crack of the door delivered an icy blast to my tights-clad legs.
Seeking a glass of blood-thickening red wine, the barkeep recommended the easy-drinking Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend with lots of fruit and soft tannins.
It was nice to see Evrim of Sub Rosa come in and sit down for dinner, a welcome reminder that his bakery is finally up and running across the street again.
I'd ordered one of tonight's specials, chicken liver slathered on toasted, thickly-sliced bread with cucumber slices on top, an earthy and welcome start to my evening when suddenly a friend arrived, spotted me and sat down next to me.
Now things were getting good. We hadn't gotten together in ages, so an unexpected meeting felt like a gift to us both.
She ordered a glass of Abbinato and we let go the conversational floodgates with talk of past, present and futures, hers and mine.
Our non-stop chatter was interrupted repeatedly as one friend after another - the poet, the traveling baker, the curator- came in and over to say hello.
During one particularly funny exchange with some of those friends, we were talking about breakups where one or the other of the ex-partners ends up suddenly engaged or married within record time after the relationship ends.
The poet's brother had a phrase for women guilty of dating men purely as marriage potential -"Bitches be shopping!" - that cracked everyone up.
As someone who avoids shopping (except for food) at all costs, the idea of having to shop for a husband is about as appealing as kissing a snake. But props for the clever description, sir.
Seeing an order of white bean hummus with crudites go by, the veggies on it looked so good I immediately ordered one without breaking stride in conversation with my long-lost girlfriend, who didn't seem to mind me crunching carrots and radishes in her face.
Absence makes the heart grow more tolerant perhaps.
During another conversation, a friend shared a killer story, immediately insisting that I not include it in my post.
No need to worry, my friend.
The first rule of "I Can Go On and On" is that I keep the really juicy stuff to myself.
In other words, never be complete.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Silver Tongues Offer Fool's Gold
I was chatting online with a friend, telling him about the show I planned to see tonight and he responded, "Well, I do want to see a show at Balliceaux one of these days."
Color me surprised because he's a show-going guy, much the way I'm a show-going girl (in fact, it's how we met; you can only see someone at shows so many times before introducing yourself), and yet he'd never been to Balliceaux for music? It was news to me.
If you've read this blog for more than a week, it's pretty obvious that Balliceaux is a regular destination for me and with good reason. The food is creative, the acoustics are good and a variety of musical genres (as well as film and storytelling) are booked in the back room.
Now let's see, I've seen rhythm and blues, free and experimental jazz, neo-soul, Ethiopian-style grooves, rock, '60s Asian pop, brass bands, New Orleans parlor-style jazz and that's just what I can remember off the top of my head.
Tonight's show was being called "1001 Nights: A Musical Tribute to Lhasa de Sela," the world music singer who died of breast cancer just over a year ago at age 37. The evening's proceeds were going to the Virginia Breast Cancer Foundation in her memory.
The event had been organized by Evrim Dogu, one of those people I admire for his multiple major talents. Besides being a devoted de Sela fan, he's a talented musician and the baking genius behind Sub Rosa Bread (if you've ever been to the Byrd House Market, you know the crusty perfection of his loaves).
He'd been planning the event since her death last year. Twelve local musicians and one out-of-towner were interpreting de Sela's catalog one song at a time. There were songs in English, French, Spanish and Arabic, all languages de Sela had used on her albums and in concert.
Some performers I was familiar with, like the Bird and her Consort (Jonathan and Antonia Vassar), Laura Ann Singh (Quatro na Bossa) and Chris Milk (the artist/musician/puppeteer, whose painting of a guitar player, "Song," hangs in front of me as I type this).
Others were new to me, but not to the large crowd of friends and fans who'd come to hear this dream bill; the place was packed. And one musician was familiar to me, but not on the program; playing his always-superb trumpet was Paul Watson.
It was a night of truly beautiful music and after each song, you'd wonder how the next could possibly match it, but it always did. At one point a friend turned and tapped me on my leg, whispering, "It's so amazing!"
And she'd had no idea who Lhasa de Sela was when she'd walked into the room; I say that because I had to tell her. On the other hand, I had known and I was every bit as impressed. You can't hear a song like "Fool's Gold" and not feel the passion inherent in her songwriting.
It's just too bad that my friend didn't choose tonight to have divested himself of his Balliceaux virginity with this once-in-a-blue moon performance.
Now use your silver tongue once more
There's one thing I'd like to know
Did you ever believe the lies that you told?
Did you own the fool's gold that you gave me?
Color me surprised because he's a show-going guy, much the way I'm a show-going girl (in fact, it's how we met; you can only see someone at shows so many times before introducing yourself), and yet he'd never been to Balliceaux for music? It was news to me.
If you've read this blog for more than a week, it's pretty obvious that Balliceaux is a regular destination for me and with good reason. The food is creative, the acoustics are good and a variety of musical genres (as well as film and storytelling) are booked in the back room.
Now let's see, I've seen rhythm and blues, free and experimental jazz, neo-soul, Ethiopian-style grooves, rock, '60s Asian pop, brass bands, New Orleans parlor-style jazz and that's just what I can remember off the top of my head.
Tonight's show was being called "1001 Nights: A Musical Tribute to Lhasa de Sela," the world music singer who died of breast cancer just over a year ago at age 37. The evening's proceeds were going to the Virginia Breast Cancer Foundation in her memory.
The event had been organized by Evrim Dogu, one of those people I admire for his multiple major talents. Besides being a devoted de Sela fan, he's a talented musician and the baking genius behind Sub Rosa Bread (if you've ever been to the Byrd House Market, you know the crusty perfection of his loaves).
He'd been planning the event since her death last year. Twelve local musicians and one out-of-towner were interpreting de Sela's catalog one song at a time. There were songs in English, French, Spanish and Arabic, all languages de Sela had used on her albums and in concert.
Some performers I was familiar with, like the Bird and her Consort (Jonathan and Antonia Vassar), Laura Ann Singh (Quatro na Bossa) and Chris Milk (the artist/musician/puppeteer, whose painting of a guitar player, "Song," hangs in front of me as I type this).
Others were new to me, but not to the large crowd of friends and fans who'd come to hear this dream bill; the place was packed. And one musician was familiar to me, but not on the program; playing his always-superb trumpet was Paul Watson.
It was a night of truly beautiful music and after each song, you'd wonder how the next could possibly match it, but it always did. At one point a friend turned and tapped me on my leg, whispering, "It's so amazing!"
And she'd had no idea who Lhasa de Sela was when she'd walked into the room; I say that because I had to tell her. On the other hand, I had known and I was every bit as impressed. You can't hear a song like "Fool's Gold" and not feel the passion inherent in her songwriting.
It's just too bad that my friend didn't choose tonight to have divested himself of his Balliceaux virginity with this once-in-a-blue moon performance.
Now use your silver tongue once more
There's one thing I'd like to know
Did you ever believe the lies that you told?
Did you own the fool's gold that you gave me?
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