For some, it's their annual trek to Jackson Ward. For me, it's a day to hunker down and we all know I'm not the hunkering down type.
Of course I'm talking Broad Appetit, the food festival that draws bad parallel parkers, parents with enormous strollers and trashy people who don't hesitate to leave their debris on my neighborhood's sidewalks. A day that no sentient J-Ward denizen would dare move her car unless she wasn't going to return until after 6:00.
Oh, sure, I did my walk on the pipeline, carefully skirting the blocks devoted to the madness, but once back, you can be sure I spent the day at home reading the Sunday Post and my current book, Fred Astaire's memoir, "Steps in Time."
Which means that by evening, I was chomping at the bit to be among the living.
Since I was nearly at the end of my book, with plans to donate it to the neighborhood Little Free Library, I took it with me as I headed to Gallery 5 for Classical Incarnations. Since I only had a few pages left, I read as I walked the two blocks to the library. It was at the stop sign that a guy pulled up and from behind me, I heard, "Whatcha reading, sweetheart?"
Holding up my book, I explained that it was the dancer's 1959 look back at his career, although told in a pretty matter of fact manner. We were so busy chatting that neither of us noticed the car that had pulled up behind him until the driver honked.
Waving, he smiled and said, "I didn't want to bother you, but I had to ask," and drove off. I finished the final two pages standing in front of the library, deposited it for some other dance lover to enjoy and headed to Gallery 5, which, let's face it, I could walk to in my sleep.
It was a bigger crowd than I'd anticipated, so I wound up in one of the back rows where I could overhear everyone discussing their Sunday. One guy was sharing his city horror story of parking behind a car with a busted window, which apparently made him nervous enough to then move his car.
When he told the two guys he was talking to that he wasn't sure it was safe around here, I stepped in to tell him that I've lived here nearly 13 years without incident. All three marveled at that news.
Another guy was telling someone that he and his wife had tried to go to Mama J's before the show, but that there was a 50-minute wait. "Probably people from Broad Appetit still hungry," he guessed. No, sir, Mama J's is like that every single Sunday evening. Do I have to explain everything to these rubes?
And I shouldn't call them rubes because at least they were at Classical Incarnations, which is basically a classical music variety show deliberately set in a bar to make it more accessible. A small groups of musicians play, then there's a five minute break while the next act sets up and that goes on for about an hour and a half. It's an interesting (and probably less-threatening) way to enjoy classical music, plus it allows time for lots of bar breaks. Classical music without the attitude.
Let's just say that if you want to see the program, you're expected to look it up on your phone.
The evening began with a scene from the third act of a new opera, "MineRVA: Times Change," which takes place in Richmond (and opens this weekend). Labeled by our host as a blend of old and new music, one thing it wasn't was your Mama's opera. Meaning one character sung into her phone while at a coffee shop, which I'm pretty sure has never been done in an opera before.
Another sung about the app he'd created that turn thoughts into song, an app for which he was offered a billion dollars, which he turned down because he prefers that people still talk to each other. "It would be just another way to sacrifice your soul online!" he sang.
Needless to say, this guy was my hero. Accompanying the three singers were musicians from Jefferson Baroque playing guitar, harpsichord, bassoon and violin and, I gotta say, it was a distinct pleasure to hear a harpsichord played live at Gallery 5.
And just when I think I've experienced it all at my neighborhood haunt...
During the break, I heard a guy complaining that he'd wanted to hear certain bands at Broad Appetit, but after he'd eaten, they still weren't playing. So then he began drinking, but they still weren't on. "I don't know why I even went," he concluded. Um, for the food, sir?
Next up was Natalie, who'd been seated in the row next to me with her boyfriend, both of them conspicuous because of the large black "X" on their hands that precluded their drinking. She explained that it would be her last time playing Classical Incarnations because she was leaving for school in California. Sad crowd noises followed.
She was playing a Brahms piece on piano that she described as "contemplative and longing because they couldn't be together," making me wonder if it wasn't dedicated to the young man next to me as she heads off to the Left Coast.
Besides Broad Appetit, the other big topic during breaks was Galaxy Con, which had just ended a few hours earlier at the nearby Convention Center. "Whose autograph did you get? one guy quizzed another. After the guy rattled off names, his inquisitor demanded, "You didn't get John de Lancie's? What? Come on, he was in "Star Trek!"
I was half tempted to turn around and tell this guy that I not only had no clue who John de Lancie was but I'd never once seen a Star Trek movie or TV episode. The only thing that stopped me was not wanting to send him into cardiac arrest and delay the rest of the performances.
Next came a string quartet doing Schubert's "Death and the Maiden," which the cellist explained was written on the composer's deathbed. So you can see it was turning into a very upbeat evening. I kid because it was a gorgeous piece beautifully played.
Overheard during the break: a man says to his wife, "There's a line at the bathroom. Why aren't you in it?" as if she didn't know her own needs. Mansplaining of the highest order.
In an evening full of unusual performances, the next stood out. One musician played a baroque bassoon and the one in the electric blue socks played viola de gamba, an instrument I'd only learned about by going to a lecture performance at UR a few years ago. The duo was playing compositions by a little known composer named Jean Daniel Braun, or as it was explained by the bassoonist, "French dance forms with Italian names by a German composer." Now that's some melting pot for you.
The big finale involved our host, a classical guitarist, and a violinist (not incidentally, the Richmond Symphony's concertmaster) who'd chosen obscure works - because what these musicians love best about Classical Incarnations is getting to play rare pieces nobody's heard of - by Paganini. Seems the composer was part owner in a casino toward the end of his life and had composed music to be played there.
After they did three pieces, the audience rose to its feet and gave them a standing ovation. But guitarist Andrew held up a finger to indicate they had one last piece for us. Encore time, kids.
A guy in the row near me who was on his fourth glass of red wine called out, "Free Bird!" which may sound like disrespect, but it also speaks to Classical Incarnations mission: to take the starch out of classical music listening. Done!
Fortunately, the virtuosic duo did not deliver any Skynyrd, but rather one last Paganini piece to gamble by.
Walking home, I could hear the clanging of poles being dropped as the tents along Broad Street were dismantled. Parking spaces were available on every block and for the first time all day, there were no smells of cooking food. I'd made it out without once having to deal with that mess.
Best of all, no souls were sacrificed online in the making of such a lovely evening.
Showing posts with label gallery 5. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gallery 5. Show all posts
Monday, June 3, 2019
Saturday, June 1, 2019
Expect the Unexpected
Tonight's lesson was downright blunt: you just never know what's going to happen to you.
Well, I knew I was going to dinner, a play and to hear music with an old friend. But he's been living in the 'burbs for a while now, causing him to ask a really dumb question when I suggested the plan for the evening. "Are we going to walk?" he messaged me.
Duh.
Now, mind you, it's not like he's some rube. This is a man who used to live in J-Ward, a man who's known me for a decade now and with whom I've walked to these places before.
Had he forgotten the J-Ward drill already?
Because he was coming straight from work and the play started earlier than usual, we decided to make Tarrant's Back Door for fish tacos our destination. It was also a sentimental choice because when we'd first met, he'd been bartending at Tarrant's. Right off the bat, he caused a sensation by asking if he could use Apple Pay instead of a card to pay for dinner. Turns out he could, but almost no one on staff knew that, so they all watched intently as he paid the 21st century way.
"Wow, I would have told a customer no, we can't do that," one of the managers admitted. Glad to help train the staff, son.
It was while we were eating our guac-slathered tacos that he shared that his relationship of the past few years was ending and naturally, that became the topic of conversation for the rest of the meal. While he'd long acknowledged that the relationship wasn't perfect (are any?), he hadn't foreseen its conclusion (but then, who does?).
As a long-time friend, I just hated seeing him sad about it.
After we ate, we strolled over to the November Theater for Cadence Theater Company's production of "Gloria," a multi-award winning play and Pulitzer Prize finalist. You know, the usual J-Ward fare.
We're grown-ups. We're supposed to choose our friends.
The utterly engrossing story followed a fictional publishing company and the Generation X editors, Generation Y editorial assistants and the Generation Z intern and receptionist as they try to figure out if they'll ever achieve their career dreams given that the Baby Boomers continue to hold on to all the top positions.
And now these Boomers aren't dying!
Where the play shocked the entire audience was in its depiction of how one disgruntled employee handled her resentment of others in the office. It was clear that none of her coworkers - much less the audience - had any idea what was going to happen to them when they went to work that day. Spoiler alert: intermission involved the stage crew removing lots of fake blood.
In the pre-Internet days, when you sat down at your desk, you had no choice but to work.
At intermission, everyone walked around half-dazed at the unexpectedness of what we'd just seen, sort of a witness-lite reaction to fictionalized trauma. The second half of the story showed how survivors - witnesses and those absent but part of the office - processed what they'd been through. And if they made money in the process, all the better to them.
It was exactly the kind of thought-provoking theater you can always count on Cadence Theatre Company delivering. My friend and I couldn't stop talking about it from the moment the applause began until we walked into Gallery 5, which for tonight, had been turned into a honky-tonk.
That meant sad songs, heartbreak and an unusually high number of cowboy hats in the room. Once it got hot in there, the hat owners began using said headgear to fan themselves.
DJ Mary was playing honky tonk vinyl when we walked in and the first person to throw her arms around me was the reason I was there. Musician Alison Self is back in Richmond for the first time in something like three years and there was no way I was missing seeing her and hearing that voice. Confession: I've been a devoted fan since I first met her back in 2008.
In fact, the evening was a benefit because Alison had been diagnosed with colon cancer back in December and been through a couple rounds of chemo. Talk about not knowing what's going to happen to you.
Meanwhile, my friend was totally digging on DJ Mary playing a cover of "Delta Dawn," a song that took him back to elementary school because his music teacher used to have his class sing it. I have to say, it was a real kick to hear a DJ playing nothing but honky tonk records for a change.
Then Alison took the stage in her fringed shirt, jeans and hat, holding her guitar and introducing her dobro player Mike before saying how nice it was to see all our beautiful faces. "It's like a family reunion!" she laughed before getting down to business. "Go ahead and swipe right on me on Tinder. I'm single!" Pure Alison.
So is her voice, bigger sounding than she looks and pure twang. As the night progressed, she did songs by Kitty Wells like "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels," as well as Loretta Lynn's "Kentucky Girl" and originals I'd heard before and loved, like "When I Feel Weak, I Pour a Strong Drink," which she explained was about coping mechanisms.
But being Alison, she used the moments between songs to banter with the crowd of friends and fans, saying, "Y'all are so responsive and sweet, but this is a bar and we're going to get drunk!"
Explaining that she was going to put out a tip jar in case we wanted to contribute to the cause ("my butt hole!"), she sang another of her own, "Go Ahead, Girl," which she'd started because she wanted to use the word "strychnine" in a song. Honky tonk goals, I'm guessing.
Meanwhile, a photographer roamed the room shooting crowd footage for Alison's upcoming video and couples began two-stepping, although it was mostly all girl couples since my people tend to be the ones who want to dance.
"Are you ready for a dirty song?" Alison asked rhetorically, before introducing her classic, "I'll Buy the Plan B If You Buy the Whiskey," which she claimed hadn't been written as a political song but now very much felt that way in today's oppressive legislating. Then there was a Hank, Sr. song and a Buck Owens song and one about growing up outside of Petersburg, and wanting to escape, which she did.
I mean, who wouldn't?
And, yes, she offered to let anyone who wanted to touch her chemo port. I'll be honest, I wasn't one of them. But even with all the singing and joking, she included a PSA for the greater good: "If you have blood in your butt for a year, you should probably have that checked out!"
From there, it was only natural for her to launch into "I Wouldn't Kiss You If I Was Whiskey Drunk," an Alison Self classic if there ever was one and the ultimate statement about attraction.
Granted, we don't always know what's going to happen to us. Seems to me that that's exactly why I need to be out there having a ball every chance I get. Especially with friends who are going through the unexpected.
All I'm saying is, I'll buy the fish tacos if you buy the tequila.
Well, I knew I was going to dinner, a play and to hear music with an old friend. But he's been living in the 'burbs for a while now, causing him to ask a really dumb question when I suggested the plan for the evening. "Are we going to walk?" he messaged me.
Duh.
Now, mind you, it's not like he's some rube. This is a man who used to live in J-Ward, a man who's known me for a decade now and with whom I've walked to these places before.
Had he forgotten the J-Ward drill already?
Because he was coming straight from work and the play started earlier than usual, we decided to make Tarrant's Back Door for fish tacos our destination. It was also a sentimental choice because when we'd first met, he'd been bartending at Tarrant's. Right off the bat, he caused a sensation by asking if he could use Apple Pay instead of a card to pay for dinner. Turns out he could, but almost no one on staff knew that, so they all watched intently as he paid the 21st century way.
"Wow, I would have told a customer no, we can't do that," one of the managers admitted. Glad to help train the staff, son.
It was while we were eating our guac-slathered tacos that he shared that his relationship of the past few years was ending and naturally, that became the topic of conversation for the rest of the meal. While he'd long acknowledged that the relationship wasn't perfect (are any?), he hadn't foreseen its conclusion (but then, who does?).
As a long-time friend, I just hated seeing him sad about it.
After we ate, we strolled over to the November Theater for Cadence Theater Company's production of "Gloria," a multi-award winning play and Pulitzer Prize finalist. You know, the usual J-Ward fare.
We're grown-ups. We're supposed to choose our friends.
The utterly engrossing story followed a fictional publishing company and the Generation X editors, Generation Y editorial assistants and the Generation Z intern and receptionist as they try to figure out if they'll ever achieve their career dreams given that the Baby Boomers continue to hold on to all the top positions.
And now these Boomers aren't dying!
Where the play shocked the entire audience was in its depiction of how one disgruntled employee handled her resentment of others in the office. It was clear that none of her coworkers - much less the audience - had any idea what was going to happen to them when they went to work that day. Spoiler alert: intermission involved the stage crew removing lots of fake blood.
In the pre-Internet days, when you sat down at your desk, you had no choice but to work.
At intermission, everyone walked around half-dazed at the unexpectedness of what we'd just seen, sort of a witness-lite reaction to fictionalized trauma. The second half of the story showed how survivors - witnesses and those absent but part of the office - processed what they'd been through. And if they made money in the process, all the better to them.
It was exactly the kind of thought-provoking theater you can always count on Cadence Theatre Company delivering. My friend and I couldn't stop talking about it from the moment the applause began until we walked into Gallery 5, which for tonight, had been turned into a honky-tonk.
That meant sad songs, heartbreak and an unusually high number of cowboy hats in the room. Once it got hot in there, the hat owners began using said headgear to fan themselves.
DJ Mary was playing honky tonk vinyl when we walked in and the first person to throw her arms around me was the reason I was there. Musician Alison Self is back in Richmond for the first time in something like three years and there was no way I was missing seeing her and hearing that voice. Confession: I've been a devoted fan since I first met her back in 2008.
In fact, the evening was a benefit because Alison had been diagnosed with colon cancer back in December and been through a couple rounds of chemo. Talk about not knowing what's going to happen to you.
Meanwhile, my friend was totally digging on DJ Mary playing a cover of "Delta Dawn," a song that took him back to elementary school because his music teacher used to have his class sing it. I have to say, it was a real kick to hear a DJ playing nothing but honky tonk records for a change.
Then Alison took the stage in her fringed shirt, jeans and hat, holding her guitar and introducing her dobro player Mike before saying how nice it was to see all our beautiful faces. "It's like a family reunion!" she laughed before getting down to business. "Go ahead and swipe right on me on Tinder. I'm single!" Pure Alison.
So is her voice, bigger sounding than she looks and pure twang. As the night progressed, she did songs by Kitty Wells like "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels," as well as Loretta Lynn's "Kentucky Girl" and originals I'd heard before and loved, like "When I Feel Weak, I Pour a Strong Drink," which she explained was about coping mechanisms.
But being Alison, she used the moments between songs to banter with the crowd of friends and fans, saying, "Y'all are so responsive and sweet, but this is a bar and we're going to get drunk!"
Explaining that she was going to put out a tip jar in case we wanted to contribute to the cause ("my butt hole!"), she sang another of her own, "Go Ahead, Girl," which she'd started because she wanted to use the word "strychnine" in a song. Honky tonk goals, I'm guessing.
Meanwhile, a photographer roamed the room shooting crowd footage for Alison's upcoming video and couples began two-stepping, although it was mostly all girl couples since my people tend to be the ones who want to dance.
"Are you ready for a dirty song?" Alison asked rhetorically, before introducing her classic, "I'll Buy the Plan B If You Buy the Whiskey," which she claimed hadn't been written as a political song but now very much felt that way in today's oppressive legislating. Then there was a Hank, Sr. song and a Buck Owens song and one about growing up outside of Petersburg, and wanting to escape, which she did.
I mean, who wouldn't?
And, yes, she offered to let anyone who wanted to touch her chemo port. I'll be honest, I wasn't one of them. But even with all the singing and joking, she included a PSA for the greater good: "If you have blood in your butt for a year, you should probably have that checked out!"
From there, it was only natural for her to launch into "I Wouldn't Kiss You If I Was Whiskey Drunk," an Alison Self classic if there ever was one and the ultimate statement about attraction.
Granted, we don't always know what's going to happen to us. Seems to me that that's exactly why I need to be out there having a ball every chance I get. Especially with friends who are going through the unexpected.
All I'm saying is, I'll buy the fish tacos if you buy the tequila.
Monday, March 18, 2019
The Rest is Herstory
If we established anything this weekend, it's that I'm not hermit material.
I'm not talking about just living alone and away from people, even though I'll admit that's what I thought a hermit was until Saturday night.
It began innocently enough. Mr. Wright and I had plans to have dinner and see a play with Pru and Beau. No big deal. Then Beau asks if we mind if he brings a work cohort. Of course we don't mind. Next he shares that his friend is a former Benedictine monk. Well, as long as he knows he's breaking bread with a band of heathens, I'm fine with it.
But then, after we dodge green-wearing drunks wandering away from Shamrock the Block to get to Peter Chang's, we get the full story. He wasn't just a Benedictine monk, he was a hermit. As in, living away from society. Whoa. And he was part of a hermitage that was silent. As in, zero talking.
And even that's not the reason I'm not hermit material.
It was when he explained about the one meal, two snacks a day rule that I knew with the utmost certainty that I was not cut out for the hermetic life.
Go without three square meals a day plus snacks in service of religious beliefs? Don't make me laugh.
Why, just last week I said something to Mac about our healthy appetites and she was quick with the facts. "You can eat more than I can," she reminded me. She wasn't wrong.
Just yesterday, Mr. Wright and I drove out to the Kilmarnock Inn to have brunch with my favorite sister, her family and my parents, a meal planned to celebrate my Mom's birthday the day before. Now, mind you, we were meeting at 10:30 for brunch, but we had to be up at an ungodly 8 a.m. to make the drive.
So naturally, we had breakfast before we left. As I'm diving into my Stack the Votes (a plate of four enormous pancakes with bacon), I casually mention having had breakfast earlier and Mom laughs in surprise. "Karen!" she says, like I need a good scolding.
I remind her, not for the first time given the length of our relationship, that I can't function for three hours from waking up to having my pancakes placed in front of me, so I did the logical thing and ate first.
What's the fuss about?
I might also point out that after Beau's buddy explained hermit life, he also reminded us that he'd abandoned it. The fascinating part was that apparently being a hermit, even for only a while, gives you a lifetime pass to stay at a monastery should you ever want to.
That's because being a monk, even short-term, makes you a monk forever.
When presented with such unlikely information, all I can say is, pass the scallion bubble pancake.
Unfortunately, the ex-hermit couldn't accompany us to see "In My Chair" at Cadence Theater because the show was sold out, so after a stop at Bar Solita for dessert - in my case, double chocolate cake and Tawny Port - he thanked us for a delightful evening and vanished back to California and the IT security world.
The play we'd come to see had grown out of a TED talk actress and make-up artist Eva deVirgilis had created. Seems every time she has a woman in her makeup chair, the first thing the woman does is apologize.
For her bad hair, for the bags under her eyes, for her thin lips, for everything she can think of that's not perfect about her. Eva calls this "sorryosis" and set out around the globe to talk to women about changing beauty standards, self-esteem and body image.
And, just for the record, I hadn't even realized we were into fourth wave feminism.
Then she came back to take to the stage and make women aware of what she'd been told. She did it through vignettes using the accents and comments of women in her chair. She did it through the arguments she has with her un-confident inner self, who she nicknamed Norma after normative discontent. She did it through interactions with the audience.
Along the way, she shared her life story, including the part where she had to put up with a controlling boyfriend before meeting the love of the life, who also happened to be sitting in the front row that night, cheering her on.
Once during a Patriots' game, she'd asked him if he'd ever been body shamed, but he said no, other than being called short (which he is), he never had. I can't imagine there's a woman who hasn't been body shamed at least once in her life and probably more often than that.
Eva touched on many related issues, probably none so important as when she talked about accepting compliments, something many women, myself included, do poorly. "A compliment is a tiny gift someone brought to you," she explained. "Why would you drop kick it?"
Why, indeed? I had to admit, there's no good answer for that and I left hoping that's one bad habit I can unlearn.
Last night, Mr. Wright and I closed out the James River Film Festival by strolling over to Gallery 5 for the Silent Music Revival, but only after chowing down on fish tacos at Tarrant's Back Door. Don't tell my Mom, but it was technically my fourth meal of the day.
The thing is, when your first is at 8:15 and your second at 11 a.m., you've got to have something in the afternoon to tide you over until tacos show up at 7:30, am I right?
Life in the hermitage, clearly not for me.
Showing tonight was Jean Vigo's "Zero for Conduct," a 1933 French short film that was immediately banned for its content, with live music provided by the Wimps, whose lounge-like '60s vibe somehow made for the ideal accompaniment to French boys tying up their teacher, trashing their dormitory and marching through the streets victoriously.
Vigo was moved to make the film because of the repressive days he'd spent in a boarding school where he suffered with mean teachers. frequent punishments and, wait for it, insufficient food.
There you have it. Deny a person food and they might make a subversive film or they could return to the dark underbelly of IT security. Either way, they're hungry.
I'm better off just eating as frequently as possible. As for apologizing for my appetite, no sorryosis here.
I'm not talking about just living alone and away from people, even though I'll admit that's what I thought a hermit was until Saturday night.
It began innocently enough. Mr. Wright and I had plans to have dinner and see a play with Pru and Beau. No big deal. Then Beau asks if we mind if he brings a work cohort. Of course we don't mind. Next he shares that his friend is a former Benedictine monk. Well, as long as he knows he's breaking bread with a band of heathens, I'm fine with it.
But then, after we dodge green-wearing drunks wandering away from Shamrock the Block to get to Peter Chang's, we get the full story. He wasn't just a Benedictine monk, he was a hermit. As in, living away from society. Whoa. And he was part of a hermitage that was silent. As in, zero talking.
And even that's not the reason I'm not hermit material.
It was when he explained about the one meal, two snacks a day rule that I knew with the utmost certainty that I was not cut out for the hermetic life.
Go without three square meals a day plus snacks in service of religious beliefs? Don't make me laugh.
Why, just last week I said something to Mac about our healthy appetites and she was quick with the facts. "You can eat more than I can," she reminded me. She wasn't wrong.
Just yesterday, Mr. Wright and I drove out to the Kilmarnock Inn to have brunch with my favorite sister, her family and my parents, a meal planned to celebrate my Mom's birthday the day before. Now, mind you, we were meeting at 10:30 for brunch, but we had to be up at an ungodly 8 a.m. to make the drive.
So naturally, we had breakfast before we left. As I'm diving into my Stack the Votes (a plate of four enormous pancakes with bacon), I casually mention having had breakfast earlier and Mom laughs in surprise. "Karen!" she says, like I need a good scolding.
I remind her, not for the first time given the length of our relationship, that I can't function for three hours from waking up to having my pancakes placed in front of me, so I did the logical thing and ate first.
What's the fuss about?
I might also point out that after Beau's buddy explained hermit life, he also reminded us that he'd abandoned it. The fascinating part was that apparently being a hermit, even for only a while, gives you a lifetime pass to stay at a monastery should you ever want to.
That's because being a monk, even short-term, makes you a monk forever.
When presented with such unlikely information, all I can say is, pass the scallion bubble pancake.
Unfortunately, the ex-hermit couldn't accompany us to see "In My Chair" at Cadence Theater because the show was sold out, so after a stop at Bar Solita for dessert - in my case, double chocolate cake and Tawny Port - he thanked us for a delightful evening and vanished back to California and the IT security world.
The play we'd come to see had grown out of a TED talk actress and make-up artist Eva deVirgilis had created. Seems every time she has a woman in her makeup chair, the first thing the woman does is apologize.
For her bad hair, for the bags under her eyes, for her thin lips, for everything she can think of that's not perfect about her. Eva calls this "sorryosis" and set out around the globe to talk to women about changing beauty standards, self-esteem and body image.
And, just for the record, I hadn't even realized we were into fourth wave feminism.
Then she came back to take to the stage and make women aware of what she'd been told. She did it through vignettes using the accents and comments of women in her chair. She did it through the arguments she has with her un-confident inner self, who she nicknamed Norma after normative discontent. She did it through interactions with the audience.
Along the way, she shared her life story, including the part where she had to put up with a controlling boyfriend before meeting the love of the life, who also happened to be sitting in the front row that night, cheering her on.
Once during a Patriots' game, she'd asked him if he'd ever been body shamed, but he said no, other than being called short (which he is), he never had. I can't imagine there's a woman who hasn't been body shamed at least once in her life and probably more often than that.
Eva touched on many related issues, probably none so important as when she talked about accepting compliments, something many women, myself included, do poorly. "A compliment is a tiny gift someone brought to you," she explained. "Why would you drop kick it?"
Why, indeed? I had to admit, there's no good answer for that and I left hoping that's one bad habit I can unlearn.
Last night, Mr. Wright and I closed out the James River Film Festival by strolling over to Gallery 5 for the Silent Music Revival, but only after chowing down on fish tacos at Tarrant's Back Door. Don't tell my Mom, but it was technically my fourth meal of the day.
The thing is, when your first is at 8:15 and your second at 11 a.m., you've got to have something in the afternoon to tide you over until tacos show up at 7:30, am I right?
Life in the hermitage, clearly not for me.
Showing tonight was Jean Vigo's "Zero for Conduct," a 1933 French short film that was immediately banned for its content, with live music provided by the Wimps, whose lounge-like '60s vibe somehow made for the ideal accompaniment to French boys tying up their teacher, trashing their dormitory and marching through the streets victoriously.
Vigo was moved to make the film because of the repressive days he'd spent in a boarding school where he suffered with mean teachers. frequent punishments and, wait for it, insufficient food.
There you have it. Deny a person food and they might make a subversive film or they could return to the dark underbelly of IT security. Either way, they're hungry.
I'm better off just eating as frequently as possible. As for apologizing for my appetite, no sorryosis here.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
Serious as You Wanna Be
As that sage PJ put it, it's all about choices.
Yesterday was a marathon of writing, setting appointments and sending off inquiries that lasted well into evening. What made it tolerable was knowing that even though I was working past 8:00, I could still make a stellar-sounding show at Gallery 5.
If I was willing to walk over there in the rain and if I didn't mind the show not finishing until midnight. Honestly, the end time hadn't even occurred to me until I walked in and found PJ, cute husband to my friend Em, looking for some pre-show conversation. Alas, she wasn't there because (see above) she didn't want to stay up until midnight because she was running in the morning.
Did someone say choices?
Sorry as I was not to run into her, PJ and I had plenty to discourse over. He keeps up with the state of the nation and was all kinds of active in Abigail Spanberger's campaign, even going so far as to try to rally VCU graduate students (he works there) to start paying attention and participating in democracy. He traces his own wake-up call to September 11th because as a then-21 year old, it was the first game-changer in his life.
But once an acquaintance neither of us had seen in years showed up with her squeeze, apologizing for not being out at shows anymore, we pivoted to that subject. She was curious if people just go out less once they're in their 30s ("Yes," PJ informed her succinctly) or if finding a partner had slowed things down. Add in that her favorite dance parties no longer happen now that Balliceaux is ancient history and she's become a reluctant homebody.
Choices.
For a rainy night that could've kept people at home, Gallery 5 had a decent crowd and, even better, a crowd of all ages, always a good indicator of the diversity on a bill. First up were Nathan and Heather from Big No, performing as NaH with keys, guitar and both of them singing.
Theirs was a haunting sound with a set that was very atmospheric and a look to match with Heather's keyboard covered in a black drape with a fish print and the word "Pisces" painted on it. Next to her, a side table held a tiny, beaded lamp, making it feel a bit like we were in a Victorian drawing room.
Or a hippie's apartment circa 1969.
During the break, we grabbed Christina, singer from headliners Yeni Nostalji, so that PJ could take a selfie of the three of us to send to his wife so she'd know we missed her. Our only regret was that she didn't send us one back of her. And no, a meme of Jennifer Aniston waving is not the same.
Next up was D.C.'s Truth is Fire, a band with an Iranian-born Sufi poet wearing an embroidered white duster, beads and a tall, brimless hat for a frontman. PJ had alerted me to their post-punk-meets-world-music vibe and he was spot on, as usual.
But there was no way he could have conveyed the sheer theatricality of the singer, all fluttering hands - sometimes toward the guitar, others toward the heavens - sinuous hips and constant motion. His accessory of choice was a Steven Tyler-worthy scarf he could pull or wrap as he oozed drama and emotion while the foot-tall hat atop his head caused profuse sweating as he gyrated and sang.
At one point, the homebody observed, "I'm not sure if they want us to take them seriously or not. I'm just enjoying it." I give her a couple decades and, if she's smart, that'll be her M.O. in life.
Introducing the next song, the singer said it was called "Impossible Nights," because "we've had a lot of impossible nights since the election." Preach it, brother. The music spoke to me with its post-punk guitar sound with swirling world beats around them and meanwhile, I recognized the kind of music-lovers I'd once seen at a Tulsa Drone show.
Back then I'd labeled them as "older hipsters representing" but now I'm more inclined to point out that at least they're still going out. We're back to that choices thing.
After the whirling dervish of Time is Fire's performance, there seemed to be a vacuum onstage where they'd been. PJ and I were deep in a discussion of the local scene and how it had somehow been 5 years since the last Colloquial Orchestra show, which seems impossible but isn't. We counted the years since first meeting (I bought one of his photographs from him outside on a First Friday) and we've already got over a dozen years of seeing each other at music shows, art shows, in-store performances and who knows what else. Crazy.
I've known Christina of Yeni Nostalji probably ten years beginning when she walked up to me at a show at Sprout (RIP) and asked, "Who are you? I see you at shows all the time." We've been friends ever since, meeting for food, art or music (often with Em), so since I know that side of her - the dishing about life and love part - I'm fascinated every time I see her perform.
The charmingly goofy, soft-voiced woman I know is replaced by a musical interpreter who not only transfixes her audience with a voice that evokes other worlds but with the music that's emanating from her hands, body and lovely face. I don't doubt she could charm a snake with that combination.
And don't get me started on wardrobe evolution. We're talking a midriff-baring, tan animal print sweater over fitted tan jeans. Think "Kitten with a Whip 2019." People like PJ and I recall seeing her play back in the Low Branches days when she couldn't even open her eyes while performing. At all.
Joking, I told PJ that our baby was all grown up. "Grown up? She's got a master's degree!"
Now she banters easily with the crowd, saying things like, "These are songs written in Turkish, in case you were wondering." And that's sort of the magic of it. Almost from the first, the audience was rapt listening to and looking at her, despite not being able to understand a single word she's singing.
That's high praise if any of your audience has short attention spans. Sort of like Sigur Ros and their made-up language.
Toward the end of their set, Christina announced, "We have three more songs" and the guitar player said something low to her. "And that was one of them!" she smiled and shot back. Hilarious.
As reliable as the tides, Yeni Nostalji did a set of songs that made you glad you were there in that room to hear them that night while the rain poured down outside. The funny part was, Christina had admitted earlier that for her, this was a late show because she's usually in bed by 9:30 (same as Em).
Which was just about when this show had begun.
Call me selfish, but her choice was our gain. All I had to do was show up.
Yesterday was a marathon of writing, setting appointments and sending off inquiries that lasted well into evening. What made it tolerable was knowing that even though I was working past 8:00, I could still make a stellar-sounding show at Gallery 5.
If I was willing to walk over there in the rain and if I didn't mind the show not finishing until midnight. Honestly, the end time hadn't even occurred to me until I walked in and found PJ, cute husband to my friend Em, looking for some pre-show conversation. Alas, she wasn't there because (see above) she didn't want to stay up until midnight because she was running in the morning.
Did someone say choices?
Sorry as I was not to run into her, PJ and I had plenty to discourse over. He keeps up with the state of the nation and was all kinds of active in Abigail Spanberger's campaign, even going so far as to try to rally VCU graduate students (he works there) to start paying attention and participating in democracy. He traces his own wake-up call to September 11th because as a then-21 year old, it was the first game-changer in his life.
But once an acquaintance neither of us had seen in years showed up with her squeeze, apologizing for not being out at shows anymore, we pivoted to that subject. She was curious if people just go out less once they're in their 30s ("Yes," PJ informed her succinctly) or if finding a partner had slowed things down. Add in that her favorite dance parties no longer happen now that Balliceaux is ancient history and she's become a reluctant homebody.
Choices.
For a rainy night that could've kept people at home, Gallery 5 had a decent crowd and, even better, a crowd of all ages, always a good indicator of the diversity on a bill. First up were Nathan and Heather from Big No, performing as NaH with keys, guitar and both of them singing.
Theirs was a haunting sound with a set that was very atmospheric and a look to match with Heather's keyboard covered in a black drape with a fish print and the word "Pisces" painted on it. Next to her, a side table held a tiny, beaded lamp, making it feel a bit like we were in a Victorian drawing room.
Or a hippie's apartment circa 1969.
During the break, we grabbed Christina, singer from headliners Yeni Nostalji, so that PJ could take a selfie of the three of us to send to his wife so she'd know we missed her. Our only regret was that she didn't send us one back of her. And no, a meme of Jennifer Aniston waving is not the same.
Next up was D.C.'s Truth is Fire, a band with an Iranian-born Sufi poet wearing an embroidered white duster, beads and a tall, brimless hat for a frontman. PJ had alerted me to their post-punk-meets-world-music vibe and he was spot on, as usual.
But there was no way he could have conveyed the sheer theatricality of the singer, all fluttering hands - sometimes toward the guitar, others toward the heavens - sinuous hips and constant motion. His accessory of choice was a Steven Tyler-worthy scarf he could pull or wrap as he oozed drama and emotion while the foot-tall hat atop his head caused profuse sweating as he gyrated and sang.
At one point, the homebody observed, "I'm not sure if they want us to take them seriously or not. I'm just enjoying it." I give her a couple decades and, if she's smart, that'll be her M.O. in life.
Introducing the next song, the singer said it was called "Impossible Nights," because "we've had a lot of impossible nights since the election." Preach it, brother. The music spoke to me with its post-punk guitar sound with swirling world beats around them and meanwhile, I recognized the kind of music-lovers I'd once seen at a Tulsa Drone show.
Back then I'd labeled them as "older hipsters representing" but now I'm more inclined to point out that at least they're still going out. We're back to that choices thing.
After the whirling dervish of Time is Fire's performance, there seemed to be a vacuum onstage where they'd been. PJ and I were deep in a discussion of the local scene and how it had somehow been 5 years since the last Colloquial Orchestra show, which seems impossible but isn't. We counted the years since first meeting (I bought one of his photographs from him outside on a First Friday) and we've already got over a dozen years of seeing each other at music shows, art shows, in-store performances and who knows what else. Crazy.
I've known Christina of Yeni Nostalji probably ten years beginning when she walked up to me at a show at Sprout (RIP) and asked, "Who are you? I see you at shows all the time." We've been friends ever since, meeting for food, art or music (often with Em), so since I know that side of her - the dishing about life and love part - I'm fascinated every time I see her perform.
The charmingly goofy, soft-voiced woman I know is replaced by a musical interpreter who not only transfixes her audience with a voice that evokes other worlds but with the music that's emanating from her hands, body and lovely face. I don't doubt she could charm a snake with that combination.
And don't get me started on wardrobe evolution. We're talking a midriff-baring, tan animal print sweater over fitted tan jeans. Think "Kitten with a Whip 2019." People like PJ and I recall seeing her play back in the Low Branches days when she couldn't even open her eyes while performing. At all.
Joking, I told PJ that our baby was all grown up. "Grown up? She's got a master's degree!"
Now she banters easily with the crowd, saying things like, "These are songs written in Turkish, in case you were wondering." And that's sort of the magic of it. Almost from the first, the audience was rapt listening to and looking at her, despite not being able to understand a single word she's singing.
That's high praise if any of your audience has short attention spans. Sort of like Sigur Ros and their made-up language.
Toward the end of their set, Christina announced, "We have three more songs" and the guitar player said something low to her. "And that was one of them!" she smiled and shot back. Hilarious.
As reliable as the tides, Yeni Nostalji did a set of songs that made you glad you were there in that room to hear them that night while the rain poured down outside. The funny part was, Christina had admitted earlier that for her, this was a late show because she's usually in bed by 9:30 (same as Em).
Which was just about when this show had begun.
Call me selfish, but her choice was our gain. All I had to do was show up.
Monday, November 12, 2018
Time is Telling
When you haven't spoken to your best friend from college in six months, you're overdue.
The two of us had spent all last week trying to ascertain when the best time to talk would be, no easy proposition since our phone calls usually last about two hours and I had all kinds of things I had to or wanted to accomplish on Saturday.
And getting out of bed early wasn't one of them.
She had a haircut at 10 a.m., but I had a walk to do that was complicated by the marathon going on, lunch plans in service of my hired mouth, errands to run and an afternoon show to catch a favorite band I hadn't seen in a while, so we finally settled on 5:30 p.m.
Good thing we started early, too, or we'd never have been off the phone by 9:00.
The walk was my annual reminder that somehow people are so totally clueless as to be completely unaware of how much of the city is closed down for runners. I know because I saw the same cars sitting in traffic or making repeated loops in their vain attempts to cross Lombardy or Broad (impossible) or figure out a secret shortcut that would set them free.
Get on the highway or go home, kids.
In Carytown running errands, I was delayed by the guy singing to recorded tracks in front of the Virginia Shop. Stepping out of the car to his smiling face and dulcet tones singing the Spinners' "I'll Be Around" was matched only by returning to hear him do Smokey's "The Tracks of My Tears." I could have stood there half the afternoon just to hear him sing so beautifully.
After lunch, I dropped off the car and walked over to Gallery 5 for King of Pops' "Popchella" show, arriving in time to hear the last few songs of the Wimps' set. I'm not going to lie, it was a cold day and the last thing I wanted was a frozen pop, even if King of Pops was giving them away, although more than a few people were sucking on a pop.
Not me, I stood directly next to the radiator to hear the Wimps' lead singer say, "This song is for everyone who's ever had a broken heart. So it's for everyone." True that. Favorite line: "I know I left a lot of holes. Careful, darlin', how you fill 'em." Conclusion? I'll go see the Wimps again for a full set.
The band had a look going on, with suspenders being the common thread. The singer's suspenders were blue, the bass player's patterned and the drummer's pink. Only the keyboard player had the nerve to let his flannel shirt go un-suspendered.
Next up was Spooky Cool, a long-time favorite and in his usual, understated way, lead singer Zac announced, "We're Spooky Cool. We have some songs" and began playing to a half-filled room of attentive fans. The one thing you can count on with Spooky Cool is how beautifully Zac's ethereal voice will blend with the female singer's in harmony, even as the band rocks out.
A few songs in, Zac was heating up and asked the bassist to help him pull his hoodie sleeve off without removing his guitar. "How's that belly sweat stain coming along?" he asked, tugging on a sleeve. "It's getting there," Zac said, pushing his long hair back and pulling his t-shirt out to give said belly some air before launching into "Time Will Tell."
"We're Spooky Cool and we appreciate you being here on a Saturday afternoon and not running," Zac said to close out. Who would run when they could be listening to bands play four blocks from home? And that's not even with a pop in hand.
I got home exactly ten minutes before She Who Hated Me On Sight and Has Loved Me Since College and I were to rendezvous on the phone. My only error was in not fueling up beforehand, resulting in multiple mini-meals being taken during the course of the phone call. She'd never have known if I hadn't started choking on a pretzel mid-story.
I'm not a good telephone person, never have been, but when your best friend lives in god-forsaken Texas (or North Dakota or New Hampshire), you have no choice but to suck it up and be a phone person, at least for a couple hours.
This time, we added a visual element as I sent her photographs throughout the conversation. First, it was one of Mr. Wright and me because she was naturally curious about this person who set my world on its ear. But then she wanted to see snaps of my sisters and parents, whom she hadn't seen in 30 years.
"Wow, Pat looks great!" she gushed about my Mom. "She's hardly changed at all!" That's one comment I'll definitely pass along to Mom, who won't believe it but will nonetheless appreciate the words. Some of my five sisters she couldn't recognize at all, while others she thought were instantly familiar. A photo of me with her and her ex in Dallas from a decade ago was one she barely recalled, although it set her off on a tangent about the color of her hair at the time.
Hey, we are our own worst critics.
And because she's been my best friend since I was 19, we laugh almost non-stop. Half the time, we don't even have to finish our sentence to elicit a response from the other. She still gives me a hard time about things she was giving me a hard time about in the '70s and '80s and I take it because it gives her such pleasure.
What I didn't expect was all the bonus points she, the athlete in this duo, gave me for some of my activities with Mr. Wright. Canoeing, tandem bicycle riding and going to a Cubs game all elicited new respect from her since none seemed like things she thought I'd ever do.
Let's just say we've come a long way since she tried to teach me to play tennis, 'though she loves to crack herself up thinking about what a failure I was at it.
Finally, after three and a half hours talking, she pointed out the time and it only seemed wise to wrap up the conversation, with a plan to talk again before the end of the year so we don't have so much ground to cover.
Next morning, I woke up to a message from her. "I haven't laughed that much in a long time. I cannot tell you enough how truly happy I am that your life is going so beautifully. There is no one in the world who deserves it more."
Pshaw, it's not for me to say I deserve it. But I was careful, darlin', and waited my turn for it to happen. Tennis was hard. Nothing was easier than this.
The two of us had spent all last week trying to ascertain when the best time to talk would be, no easy proposition since our phone calls usually last about two hours and I had all kinds of things I had to or wanted to accomplish on Saturday.
And getting out of bed early wasn't one of them.
She had a haircut at 10 a.m., but I had a walk to do that was complicated by the marathon going on, lunch plans in service of my hired mouth, errands to run and an afternoon show to catch a favorite band I hadn't seen in a while, so we finally settled on 5:30 p.m.
Good thing we started early, too, or we'd never have been off the phone by 9:00.
The walk was my annual reminder that somehow people are so totally clueless as to be completely unaware of how much of the city is closed down for runners. I know because I saw the same cars sitting in traffic or making repeated loops in their vain attempts to cross Lombardy or Broad (impossible) or figure out a secret shortcut that would set them free.
Get on the highway or go home, kids.
In Carytown running errands, I was delayed by the guy singing to recorded tracks in front of the Virginia Shop. Stepping out of the car to his smiling face and dulcet tones singing the Spinners' "I'll Be Around" was matched only by returning to hear him do Smokey's "The Tracks of My Tears." I could have stood there half the afternoon just to hear him sing so beautifully.
After lunch, I dropped off the car and walked over to Gallery 5 for King of Pops' "Popchella" show, arriving in time to hear the last few songs of the Wimps' set. I'm not going to lie, it was a cold day and the last thing I wanted was a frozen pop, even if King of Pops was giving them away, although more than a few people were sucking on a pop.
Not me, I stood directly next to the radiator to hear the Wimps' lead singer say, "This song is for everyone who's ever had a broken heart. So it's for everyone." True that. Favorite line: "I know I left a lot of holes. Careful, darlin', how you fill 'em." Conclusion? I'll go see the Wimps again for a full set.
The band had a look going on, with suspenders being the common thread. The singer's suspenders were blue, the bass player's patterned and the drummer's pink. Only the keyboard player had the nerve to let his flannel shirt go un-suspendered.
Next up was Spooky Cool, a long-time favorite and in his usual, understated way, lead singer Zac announced, "We're Spooky Cool. We have some songs" and began playing to a half-filled room of attentive fans. The one thing you can count on with Spooky Cool is how beautifully Zac's ethereal voice will blend with the female singer's in harmony, even as the band rocks out.
A few songs in, Zac was heating up and asked the bassist to help him pull his hoodie sleeve off without removing his guitar. "How's that belly sweat stain coming along?" he asked, tugging on a sleeve. "It's getting there," Zac said, pushing his long hair back and pulling his t-shirt out to give said belly some air before launching into "Time Will Tell."
"We're Spooky Cool and we appreciate you being here on a Saturday afternoon and not running," Zac said to close out. Who would run when they could be listening to bands play four blocks from home? And that's not even with a pop in hand.
I got home exactly ten minutes before She Who Hated Me On Sight and Has Loved Me Since College and I were to rendezvous on the phone. My only error was in not fueling up beforehand, resulting in multiple mini-meals being taken during the course of the phone call. She'd never have known if I hadn't started choking on a pretzel mid-story.
I'm not a good telephone person, never have been, but when your best friend lives in god-forsaken Texas (or North Dakota or New Hampshire), you have no choice but to suck it up and be a phone person, at least for a couple hours.
This time, we added a visual element as I sent her photographs throughout the conversation. First, it was one of Mr. Wright and me because she was naturally curious about this person who set my world on its ear. But then she wanted to see snaps of my sisters and parents, whom she hadn't seen in 30 years.
"Wow, Pat looks great!" she gushed about my Mom. "She's hardly changed at all!" That's one comment I'll definitely pass along to Mom, who won't believe it but will nonetheless appreciate the words. Some of my five sisters she couldn't recognize at all, while others she thought were instantly familiar. A photo of me with her and her ex in Dallas from a decade ago was one she barely recalled, although it set her off on a tangent about the color of her hair at the time.
Hey, we are our own worst critics.
And because she's been my best friend since I was 19, we laugh almost non-stop. Half the time, we don't even have to finish our sentence to elicit a response from the other. She still gives me a hard time about things she was giving me a hard time about in the '70s and '80s and I take it because it gives her such pleasure.
What I didn't expect was all the bonus points she, the athlete in this duo, gave me for some of my activities with Mr. Wright. Canoeing, tandem bicycle riding and going to a Cubs game all elicited new respect from her since none seemed like things she thought I'd ever do.
Let's just say we've come a long way since she tried to teach me to play tennis, 'though she loves to crack herself up thinking about what a failure I was at it.
Finally, after three and a half hours talking, she pointed out the time and it only seemed wise to wrap up the conversation, with a plan to talk again before the end of the year so we don't have so much ground to cover.
Next morning, I woke up to a message from her. "I haven't laughed that much in a long time. I cannot tell you enough how truly happy I am that your life is going so beautifully. There is no one in the world who deserves it more."
Pshaw, it's not for me to say I deserve it. But I was careful, darlin', and waited my turn for it to happen. Tennis was hard. Nothing was easier than this.
Friday, August 31, 2018
Glitter on the West Streets
Never let it be said that I don't have range.
How else to explain an evening that began with chlorine and ended with a trumpet? An evening where I ran into old neighbors and discussed John Mayer and Texas with a dancing stranger? Richmond, you never let me down.
As soon as I saw that the River City Magnolias were having their final performance of the summer at Randolph pool, I was on board. Sure, I've seen synchronized swimming in the movies, but not in real life, so it didn't count.
Besides, what could be more late summer-appropriate than a pool performance before Labor Day?
The River City Magnolias definitely had the look going in, with each woman clad in a navy and white checked bathing suit, although the style varied by woman. Some were one piece and others were two. All wore bright yellow bathing caps, the likes of which I hadn't seen since I was a kid at the New Carrollton swimming pool.
Although the sky was getting darker and more threatening by the minute, the performance went off on time and without a hitch. The first group were students who'd spent the summer learning synchronized swimming and they swam to the Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA."
As they were exiting the pool, I heard my name, only to have my former J-Ward neighbors join me poolside. Their daughter's best friend was a Magnolia, so they were tickled to find a friend in one of the poolside plastic chairs. Now that they live on southside, we go long stretches without running into each other - a far cry from the days when we saw each other weekly at shows - so we used the opportunity to catch up.
They'd recently had a blast at Red Wing Roots Music Festival and Floyd Fest and were eagerly looking forward to Watermelon Park Fest. "It's right on the Shenandoah River, so you can watch the bands while you're in the water!" she told me. I gotta say, I like the sound of that.
Then the pros came out to perform to the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs' kick-ass "Heads Will Roll" and that's when we saw real pool talent. It was impressive to see how well timed each move was as they swam under and around each other to execute moves, never forgetting to smile widely when their bright yellow heads were out of the water.
Their next routine began with hoops which were eventually tossed onto the deck and was set to a medley of "You Don't Own Me," alternately the original Leslie Gore and a sped-up punk version. Besides being a landmark feminist anthem, the wildly different beat of the two versions meant that the Magnolias alternated a slower routine with a frenetic one, showing off their mastery of dancing in water.
When the performance ended, the three of us took it as a chance to chat, which lasted all of two minutes before lightening began and the lifeguard ordered everyone to leave. What mattered was that I left Randolph pool having seen synchronized swimming for the first time.
Enormous raindrops were just starting to fall when I got back to Jackson Ward, but it wasn't enough to deter me from walking over to Gallery 5 for a show. But apparently it was enough to deter a lot of people because I walked into a ridiculously small crowd.
Locals the Folly - singer, fiddle, guitarist, bassist, drummer - had just begun their first song when I arrived. Singer Anneleise (dressed in patterned bellbottoms with slits up the side, the left one revealing a thigh tattoo, over hi-top Chuck Taylors) had the pipes of a young Grace Slick, belting out every song to the rafters. Both she and fiddle player Tara had near waist-length hair, a throwback, for sure.
When Anneleise said, "This is an old song. It's called 'The Kraken," I couldn't help but wonder what "old" meant. A year? Two, tops?
The band had just dropped their new album two weeks ago, so they played through a fair amount of new material off it. Wrapped around her amazing voice were fiddle solos and guitar/bass/drum jams that allowed the two women to dance onstage while the guys rocked out.
For a group of musicians whose parents probably weren't even born in 1966 when the Rolling Stones first released it, the Folly's cover of "Paint It Black" rocked the room and caused widespread dancing, as well it should.
A guy came over and sat his beer down on a small table near where I was standing, saying, "Can I put this here to moderate myself?" It wasn't my table, so sure. He gave me an amused look, saying, "It's not your job to moderate me. It's on me," and returned to dancing in the center of the room. At least he knew that much.
The band closed with "Real Emotion," a barn-burner that showed off everybody's skill set and had the small crowd amped up by its end.
During the break, moderation boy finished his beer and purchased another, bringing that one over as well. "It's a good beer," he assured me. "Help yourself." I could smell the hops from a yard away, so I thanked him and passed.
In no time, headliners the Human Circuit had set up onstage and were ready to play. Glancing at the line-up, moderation boy noted, "Looks like they've got a horn player. I can dig that." Truthfully, I was thinking the same thing.
Where we differed was in his devotion to the Grateful Dead (he was wearing a Phish '98 t-shirt and his first show had been the Dead, "With Jerry, of course") and his righteous indignation about John Mayer being allowed to play with the band in its current incarnation.
The Austin band was five strong tonight and included two women - synth, keys, bass, drums, trumpet - but the big news was that they'd left six band members at home due to lack of touring funds ("One day we'll be able to bring the whole crew!") on this two-month tour. They had an orchestral pop sound with just enough quirkiness and layers to the music to be catchy on multiple levels.
"Thanks to the Folly for that amazing performance," singer/keyboardist Mat began, his green and white sunglasses atop his head. "We'd like to put you in our pocket and take you back to Austin with us."
Their songs weren't long and three were purely instrumental, but in every one, there was a lot going on and the meatiness of the trumpet and synth parts made for a big chamber pop sound. I know they call themselves psych-pop, but I heard everything from Fanfarlo to Hey, Marseilles to Arcade Fire, all bands I love, with some major humor in the songwriting and a vaguely vaudevillian vibe.
I'm talking songs such as "Disclaimer," with its lyric, "I cashed in my soul for this." Who hasn't been there?
Mat mentioned twice how much they loved the venue - c'mon, how often does a band get to play in a converted firehouse with gargoyles atop the stage? - and implored people to come talk to them after the show. "If you make art, I wanna hear about it," he said from the stage. "I dig that."
Standing there watching them produce such great music, it was hard not to focus on the curly-haired woman playing trumpet, singing background and smiling at the crowd like she was having the time of her life. If they sounded this wonderful minus six members, what must a full-on Human Circuit set do to mere music lovers like me?
Be still, my heart.
"Our dream is to play music every night and here we are doing it for you," Mat gushed midway through the show, about the same time I was thinking how glad I was that I'd walked over to Gallery 5 to hear such a stellar band lay their hearts and musical talent out for us.
"Thanks for coming out! Burn some sage and continue this vibe at home," Mat said before the last song. "Tonight is just a brief moment in the universe. We're all part of a bigger picture and we're really glad we all got to be part of this."
Even smelling of chlorine, I can dig it.
How else to explain an evening that began with chlorine and ended with a trumpet? An evening where I ran into old neighbors and discussed John Mayer and Texas with a dancing stranger? Richmond, you never let me down.
As soon as I saw that the River City Magnolias were having their final performance of the summer at Randolph pool, I was on board. Sure, I've seen synchronized swimming in the movies, but not in real life, so it didn't count.
Besides, what could be more late summer-appropriate than a pool performance before Labor Day?
The River City Magnolias definitely had the look going in, with each woman clad in a navy and white checked bathing suit, although the style varied by woman. Some were one piece and others were two. All wore bright yellow bathing caps, the likes of which I hadn't seen since I was a kid at the New Carrollton swimming pool.
Although the sky was getting darker and more threatening by the minute, the performance went off on time and without a hitch. The first group were students who'd spent the summer learning synchronized swimming and they swam to the Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA."
As they were exiting the pool, I heard my name, only to have my former J-Ward neighbors join me poolside. Their daughter's best friend was a Magnolia, so they were tickled to find a friend in one of the poolside plastic chairs. Now that they live on southside, we go long stretches without running into each other - a far cry from the days when we saw each other weekly at shows - so we used the opportunity to catch up.
They'd recently had a blast at Red Wing Roots Music Festival and Floyd Fest and were eagerly looking forward to Watermelon Park Fest. "It's right on the Shenandoah River, so you can watch the bands while you're in the water!" she told me. I gotta say, I like the sound of that.
Then the pros came out to perform to the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs' kick-ass "Heads Will Roll" and that's when we saw real pool talent. It was impressive to see how well timed each move was as they swam under and around each other to execute moves, never forgetting to smile widely when their bright yellow heads were out of the water.
Their next routine began with hoops which were eventually tossed onto the deck and was set to a medley of "You Don't Own Me," alternately the original Leslie Gore and a sped-up punk version. Besides being a landmark feminist anthem, the wildly different beat of the two versions meant that the Magnolias alternated a slower routine with a frenetic one, showing off their mastery of dancing in water.
When the performance ended, the three of us took it as a chance to chat, which lasted all of two minutes before lightening began and the lifeguard ordered everyone to leave. What mattered was that I left Randolph pool having seen synchronized swimming for the first time.
Enormous raindrops were just starting to fall when I got back to Jackson Ward, but it wasn't enough to deter me from walking over to Gallery 5 for a show. But apparently it was enough to deter a lot of people because I walked into a ridiculously small crowd.
Locals the Folly - singer, fiddle, guitarist, bassist, drummer - had just begun their first song when I arrived. Singer Anneleise (dressed in patterned bellbottoms with slits up the side, the left one revealing a thigh tattoo, over hi-top Chuck Taylors) had the pipes of a young Grace Slick, belting out every song to the rafters. Both she and fiddle player Tara had near waist-length hair, a throwback, for sure.
When Anneleise said, "This is an old song. It's called 'The Kraken," I couldn't help but wonder what "old" meant. A year? Two, tops?
The band had just dropped their new album two weeks ago, so they played through a fair amount of new material off it. Wrapped around her amazing voice were fiddle solos and guitar/bass/drum jams that allowed the two women to dance onstage while the guys rocked out.
For a group of musicians whose parents probably weren't even born in 1966 when the Rolling Stones first released it, the Folly's cover of "Paint It Black" rocked the room and caused widespread dancing, as well it should.
A guy came over and sat his beer down on a small table near where I was standing, saying, "Can I put this here to moderate myself?" It wasn't my table, so sure. He gave me an amused look, saying, "It's not your job to moderate me. It's on me," and returned to dancing in the center of the room. At least he knew that much.
The band closed with "Real Emotion," a barn-burner that showed off everybody's skill set and had the small crowd amped up by its end.
During the break, moderation boy finished his beer and purchased another, bringing that one over as well. "It's a good beer," he assured me. "Help yourself." I could smell the hops from a yard away, so I thanked him and passed.
In no time, headliners the Human Circuit had set up onstage and were ready to play. Glancing at the line-up, moderation boy noted, "Looks like they've got a horn player. I can dig that." Truthfully, I was thinking the same thing.
Where we differed was in his devotion to the Grateful Dead (he was wearing a Phish '98 t-shirt and his first show had been the Dead, "With Jerry, of course") and his righteous indignation about John Mayer being allowed to play with the band in its current incarnation.
The Austin band was five strong tonight and included two women - synth, keys, bass, drums, trumpet - but the big news was that they'd left six band members at home due to lack of touring funds ("One day we'll be able to bring the whole crew!") on this two-month tour. They had an orchestral pop sound with just enough quirkiness and layers to the music to be catchy on multiple levels.
"Thanks to the Folly for that amazing performance," singer/keyboardist Mat began, his green and white sunglasses atop his head. "We'd like to put you in our pocket and take you back to Austin with us."
Their songs weren't long and three were purely instrumental, but in every one, there was a lot going on and the meatiness of the trumpet and synth parts made for a big chamber pop sound. I know they call themselves psych-pop, but I heard everything from Fanfarlo to Hey, Marseilles to Arcade Fire, all bands I love, with some major humor in the songwriting and a vaguely vaudevillian vibe.
I'm talking songs such as "Disclaimer," with its lyric, "I cashed in my soul for this." Who hasn't been there?
Mat mentioned twice how much they loved the venue - c'mon, how often does a band get to play in a converted firehouse with gargoyles atop the stage? - and implored people to come talk to them after the show. "If you make art, I wanna hear about it," he said from the stage. "I dig that."
Standing there watching them produce such great music, it was hard not to focus on the curly-haired woman playing trumpet, singing background and smiling at the crowd like she was having the time of her life. If they sounded this wonderful minus six members, what must a full-on Human Circuit set do to mere music lovers like me?
Be still, my heart.
"Our dream is to play music every night and here we are doing it for you," Mat gushed midway through the show, about the same time I was thinking how glad I was that I'd walked over to Gallery 5 to hear such a stellar band lay their hearts and musical talent out for us.
"Thanks for coming out! Burn some sage and continue this vibe at home," Mat said before the last song. "Tonight is just a brief moment in the universe. We're all part of a bigger picture and we're really glad we all got to be part of this."
Even smelling of chlorine, I can dig it.
Saturday, November 4, 2017
Of Waves and Storms
Leave it to my favorite Kiwi to rub it in: "Bits of me are getting browner."
He's luxuriating in summer's arrival there, so I reminded him that we're sliding toward the dreaded winter here. "Does it get that cold there?" he asks, clearly surprised. How do you explain Virginia's schizoid weather to someone who's never experienced it?
Like today, for instance. When Mac and I walked to the river at 1:00, it was sunny and closing in on 80 degrees. When X-tina and Mac showed up at my apartment at 8 to go to InLight, it was cloudy and 69. By the time we got to Foushee Street, great gusts blew in, a few giant raindrops fell and the temperature plummeted to what felt like 50. Half an hour later, it was back to warmer but a downpour had begun. I try to convey all this.
Naturally, he responds with a photo of his dog George snoozing on the porch under a bright blue afternoon sky. Show-off.
InLight was mobbed when we made it over to Broad Street, making it difficult at best to appreciate any but the largest of works. We saw dogs and babies strung with lights, as well as a store window with an installation called "Freak Show" where willing volunteers were allowing themselves to be made up like a Kardashian.
Meanwhile, the ICA looked fabulous in shades of fuchsia and magenta being projected on its asymmetrical sides..
"Wave Form" involved three half bicycles that, when the pedals were rotated, caused wave forms on the walls, making for a colored Etch-a-Sketch effect. The best part of "Storm Ending" wasn't the glass cases of moving clouds but the rolling thunder soundtrack that accompanied it, especially once the downpour began.
It was a good thing we were having fun together because our timing seemed to be off. We stopped by Chocolates by Kelly in hopes of seeing truffles made under a black light, but the chocolate-maker was on a break. At the installation where the VCU dancers were in performance, we were at the back of the crowd and moments later, applause erupted as it ended.
Once the rain began, many installations involving projectors had to be shut down, so we headed over to Gallery 5 to see "Lit," two large-scale light shows in the upstairs gallery. The one on the south wall was particularly cool because it encompassed two windows that punctuated the groovy, swirling images being projected with real-life night scenes.
In the tiny back gallery, we watched a time-lapse video by Jackson Ward resident (and science nerd) Prabir, composed of images of the James River Park, the Sierra Nevadas, the Outer Banks and Great Smokey Mountains, full of dramatic shadows, racing clouds and shooting stars.
Everywhere we went, there was a lot of light inside while outside, it was a dark and stormy night.
The last thing I expected once my friends headed home was a protracted conversation with the only person I know in New Zealand, but there he was, looking to catch up. He wanted to know how life was and I, having just removed soggy shoes and a dripping jacket, said wet.
That's when he began bragging about summer and how great the vibe was, with lots of international visitors and fun. From there, we were off and running. Their local food and wine festival had begun yesterday, so he told me about the chef who'd prepared last night's multi-course meal pairing raw wines and food. Sounded fabulous to me.
Over the next little while, we delved into his travels, what he's been up to and our lives, with him sharing that he loved that his girlfriend had taught him the importance of conversation. Only a man would have to be taught such a thing.
What he had clearly absorbed while he was here back in May was what an enjoyable town this can be. "I have such good memories of my time in your hood. Really, it's a wonderful place." Tell me something I don't know, friend.
As we were closing in on an hour chatting, I began my farewells. Lazily, he responded, "Right. I think I need to have a snooze before dinner. Nice chatting, Karen. You made my time in Richmond."
Ah, but bits of you didn't get browner here. Next visit, more time at the river, I promise.
And, of course, all the conversation you can handle. That I've got in spades.
He's luxuriating in summer's arrival there, so I reminded him that we're sliding toward the dreaded winter here. "Does it get that cold there?" he asks, clearly surprised. How do you explain Virginia's schizoid weather to someone who's never experienced it?
Like today, for instance. When Mac and I walked to the river at 1:00, it was sunny and closing in on 80 degrees. When X-tina and Mac showed up at my apartment at 8 to go to InLight, it was cloudy and 69. By the time we got to Foushee Street, great gusts blew in, a few giant raindrops fell and the temperature plummeted to what felt like 50. Half an hour later, it was back to warmer but a downpour had begun. I try to convey all this.
Naturally, he responds with a photo of his dog George snoozing on the porch under a bright blue afternoon sky. Show-off.
InLight was mobbed when we made it over to Broad Street, making it difficult at best to appreciate any but the largest of works. We saw dogs and babies strung with lights, as well as a store window with an installation called "Freak Show" where willing volunteers were allowing themselves to be made up like a Kardashian.
Meanwhile, the ICA looked fabulous in shades of fuchsia and magenta being projected on its asymmetrical sides..
"Wave Form" involved three half bicycles that, when the pedals were rotated, caused wave forms on the walls, making for a colored Etch-a-Sketch effect. The best part of "Storm Ending" wasn't the glass cases of moving clouds but the rolling thunder soundtrack that accompanied it, especially once the downpour began.
It was a good thing we were having fun together because our timing seemed to be off. We stopped by Chocolates by Kelly in hopes of seeing truffles made under a black light, but the chocolate-maker was on a break. At the installation where the VCU dancers were in performance, we were at the back of the crowd and moments later, applause erupted as it ended.
Once the rain began, many installations involving projectors had to be shut down, so we headed over to Gallery 5 to see "Lit," two large-scale light shows in the upstairs gallery. The one on the south wall was particularly cool because it encompassed two windows that punctuated the groovy, swirling images being projected with real-life night scenes.
In the tiny back gallery, we watched a time-lapse video by Jackson Ward resident (and science nerd) Prabir, composed of images of the James River Park, the Sierra Nevadas, the Outer Banks and Great Smokey Mountains, full of dramatic shadows, racing clouds and shooting stars.
Everywhere we went, there was a lot of light inside while outside, it was a dark and stormy night.
The last thing I expected once my friends headed home was a protracted conversation with the only person I know in New Zealand, but there he was, looking to catch up. He wanted to know how life was and I, having just removed soggy shoes and a dripping jacket, said wet.
That's when he began bragging about summer and how great the vibe was, with lots of international visitors and fun. From there, we were off and running. Their local food and wine festival had begun yesterday, so he told me about the chef who'd prepared last night's multi-course meal pairing raw wines and food. Sounded fabulous to me.
Over the next little while, we delved into his travels, what he's been up to and our lives, with him sharing that he loved that his girlfriend had taught him the importance of conversation. Only a man would have to be taught such a thing.
What he had clearly absorbed while he was here back in May was what an enjoyable town this can be. "I have such good memories of my time in your hood. Really, it's a wonderful place." Tell me something I don't know, friend.
As we were closing in on an hour chatting, I began my farewells. Lazily, he responded, "Right. I think I need to have a snooze before dinner. Nice chatting, Karen. You made my time in Richmond."
Ah, but bits of you didn't get browner here. Next visit, more time at the river, I promise.
And, of course, all the conversation you can handle. That I've got in spades.
Monday, July 3, 2017
Lady Marmalata's Bongos
Turns out stay-cationing is every bit as non-stop as vacationing.
1. Mick, I hardly knew ye
I finally got around to seeing "Yves Saint Laurent: The Perfection of Style" at the VMFA Friday evening, honestly surprised at the number of parents who'd dragged their kids to see a fashion exhibit. "Mom, there's just more clothes in this room, too!" one kid whined.
But what clothes! For me, it was the cultural history lesson that resonated most. The exhibit began back in the dark ages of afternoon dresses, short evening dresses and long evening gowns and moved through the swingin' '60s and '70s with leather maxi coats and sheer pantsuits to clothing that paid homage to art: the Mondrian mini, the Wesselman evening gown and the Georges Braque short evening dress.
Nothing surprised me as much as a black and white photo of Jerry Hall, Mick Jagger and YSL at an event. It wasn't Hall's ruffly swimsuit-like ensemble, it was seeing Jagger with a full beard that stopped me in my tracks.
Why would he ever have chosen to cover up his most famous feature? I'm guessing his vanity won out.
2. Bad luck
When I stopped into Don't Look Back for dinner after YSL, they were in full happy hour mode, meaning there wasn't a seat to be had, but a kind bartender was willing to take my order for shrimp and fish tacos while I waited for a chance to plant my backside.
Happily, my dinner arrived moments after I snagged a bar stool. Chowing down, I asked myself why I hadn't been there in so long when the tacos are so solid and came up with no good answer. Resolved: add more DLB to my life.
Goal thwarted when I woke up the next morning to read that DLB had suffered an early morning fire and is closed indefinitely. Was I the jinx?
3. Making faces, saving democracy
Beau Cribbs and the RVA Tonight crew were hosting a Bongo Beach Bash at the Byrd for those of of us in town and in need of a laugh.
The show involved beach balls, jokes about mayoral candidate Bobby Junes, a nefarious businessman buying up the ocean and a tribute to all the artists who died last year done by the duo of Tomato and Tomah-to.
Then there was local skull-a-day artist Noah Scalin entreating us to be creative (told to find a stranger, create a face out of what was in our purses and pockets and post it, the musician next to me and I crafted one of guitar picks, a nail clipper and a metal straw and then chose not to post it), the head of Virginia's ACLU sharing ways to resist and Mikrowaves as the musical guest (afterward I overheard a quartet's assessment of the band: "They were like Reek Big Fish but I couldn't understand what the words were. I liked it!").
I really don't know how I could have covered more bases in a two hour period.
4. Rocks and rawk
Saturday dawned cloudy and warm, so I led the only guy I know who owns an Ava Gardner Museum hat down to Belle Isle for the express purpose of staking a claim on a rock next to the equivalent of nature's foot bath.
The rolling cloud cover allowed us to linger without burning in the sun while a fierce jet of water pummeled our feet (and occasionally threatened to knock me from my perch, it was that strong) and provided a soundtrack just one step removed from crashing surf.
Later that day, I had Simon and Grafunckle's "Greatest Hits" blaring when my date came to collect me, causing my next door neighbors to comment on the volume. When I explained that a woman always needs a dressing soundtrack, they grinned like fools.
Well aware that half the town was going to Dogwood Dell to hear the music from "Hamilton," we devoted the evening to music at Gallery 5 instead where our audience presence was more needed and my companion got to experience the sublime pleasures of seeing Dave Watkins perform.
The show kicked off with Deer Eat Birds, a young (and satisfyingly diverse) group having a ball crafting their post rock aural landscape with occasional Curtis Mayfield-like vocals from the frontman, while Epiphany, with two 7-string guitars and a 6-string bass, had clearly studied their rock god posturing moves.
Dave Watkins played third for a change, fitting given his years of experience over the much younger bands on the bill. Half the room talked through the first few minutes of his set until, as is always the case, they became sucked in to the elaborate and multi-layered soundscapes he was creating. Ditto my companion who, like me, was awed by how Dave is able to construct his music.
Last up was Majjin Boo, the emo/math rock/experimental/prog group we'd seen play an acoustic set just the other night in the park. Their plugged in sound with a drummer was a far cry from our first time hearing them, so I'll be curious to hear how the sound develops with time.
Walking home after the show, we marveled at how quiet Jackson Ward was. Almost no one on porches or walking down the street and, even odder, almost no sounds of traffic. In case we'd missed an apocalypse alert, we immediately retreated to my balcony for more music and a little night breeze.
5. Mountain Mist
The second day of a four day-weekend should be a no-brainer. Of course I want to plan something fun and why not with days left for goofing off?
Our happy motoring began by heading to Crozet - past a succession of cops pulling over speeders - for wine tasting, a picnic and polo match-watching from a prime spot under a large shade tree.
Not for us the canopies (labeled with affiliations such as Ole Miss, Alabama and, of course, UVA) lined up along the sidelines when we could see the polo matches just as well and keep our bottles of Crose' Rose' comfortably shaded. New since the last time I'd been, King Family Vineyards now has wine carts that drive around the perimeter so guests don't have to make the trek to the tasting room when their bottle gets low.
First world problems, I know.
I overheard a woman say they'd been staying in Staunton and decided to drive over for the match today and been pleasantly surprised that it was 10 degrees cooler here than it had been in Staunton. We'd definitely chosen the right direction to head today.
Midway through the first match, we spotted a mist rolling down the mountain and eventually a light rain arrived, but just enough to send us to the stable's porch for ten minutes before it moved on and we could return to our encampment.
Plenty of people left during the shower and others departed after the first match, but with a mountain-loving companion who'd never been to a polo match, we were there for the duration. Even once the second and final match ended, we lingered on until one of the wine cart drivers informed us that they had a wedding coming in so we'd need to move to the tasting room.
Somehow, four hours had passed in the blink of an eye.
6. Pie-eyed
The temperature in Crozet was 84 degrees when we left and we fully expected to return to a sauna in Richmond, but it was only 86 when we rolled in, despite fluctuations up to 88 as we drove east.
The neighborhood was just as deserted, but we took a chance and strolled over to Graffiato's for pizza, spotting a few tourists near Quirk and not much else in the way of liveliness, so we made our own.
The hostess made sure we knew it was still happy hour - please, imbibe cheaply! - and we paired discount drinking with an Untouchables pizza (spinach, mozzarella, smoked ricotta, chili-garlic oil and the best possible pizza sweet note, tomato marmalata) and a spicy Italian sausage pizzetta for the win.
Digestion was accompanied by Bryan Ferry, a little night air and endless conversation, as it should be on a fine stay-cation.
Life I love you, all is groovy.
1. Mick, I hardly knew ye
I finally got around to seeing "Yves Saint Laurent: The Perfection of Style" at the VMFA Friday evening, honestly surprised at the number of parents who'd dragged their kids to see a fashion exhibit. "Mom, there's just more clothes in this room, too!" one kid whined.
But what clothes! For me, it was the cultural history lesson that resonated most. The exhibit began back in the dark ages of afternoon dresses, short evening dresses and long evening gowns and moved through the swingin' '60s and '70s with leather maxi coats and sheer pantsuits to clothing that paid homage to art: the Mondrian mini, the Wesselman evening gown and the Georges Braque short evening dress.
Nothing surprised me as much as a black and white photo of Jerry Hall, Mick Jagger and YSL at an event. It wasn't Hall's ruffly swimsuit-like ensemble, it was seeing Jagger with a full beard that stopped me in my tracks.
Why would he ever have chosen to cover up his most famous feature? I'm guessing his vanity won out.
2. Bad luck
When I stopped into Don't Look Back for dinner after YSL, they were in full happy hour mode, meaning there wasn't a seat to be had, but a kind bartender was willing to take my order for shrimp and fish tacos while I waited for a chance to plant my backside.
Happily, my dinner arrived moments after I snagged a bar stool. Chowing down, I asked myself why I hadn't been there in so long when the tacos are so solid and came up with no good answer. Resolved: add more DLB to my life.
Goal thwarted when I woke up the next morning to read that DLB had suffered an early morning fire and is closed indefinitely. Was I the jinx?
3. Making faces, saving democracy
Beau Cribbs and the RVA Tonight crew were hosting a Bongo Beach Bash at the Byrd for those of of us in town and in need of a laugh.
The show involved beach balls, jokes about mayoral candidate Bobby Junes, a nefarious businessman buying up the ocean and a tribute to all the artists who died last year done by the duo of Tomato and Tomah-to.
Then there was local skull-a-day artist Noah Scalin entreating us to be creative (told to find a stranger, create a face out of what was in our purses and pockets and post it, the musician next to me and I crafted one of guitar picks, a nail clipper and a metal straw and then chose not to post it), the head of Virginia's ACLU sharing ways to resist and Mikrowaves as the musical guest (afterward I overheard a quartet's assessment of the band: "They were like Reek Big Fish but I couldn't understand what the words were. I liked it!").
I really don't know how I could have covered more bases in a two hour period.
4. Rocks and rawk
Saturday dawned cloudy and warm, so I led the only guy I know who owns an Ava Gardner Museum hat down to Belle Isle for the express purpose of staking a claim on a rock next to the equivalent of nature's foot bath.
The rolling cloud cover allowed us to linger without burning in the sun while a fierce jet of water pummeled our feet (and occasionally threatened to knock me from my perch, it was that strong) and provided a soundtrack just one step removed from crashing surf.
Later that day, I had Simon and Grafunckle's "Greatest Hits" blaring when my date came to collect me, causing my next door neighbors to comment on the volume. When I explained that a woman always needs a dressing soundtrack, they grinned like fools.
Well aware that half the town was going to Dogwood Dell to hear the music from "Hamilton," we devoted the evening to music at Gallery 5 instead where our audience presence was more needed and my companion got to experience the sublime pleasures of seeing Dave Watkins perform.
The show kicked off with Deer Eat Birds, a young (and satisfyingly diverse) group having a ball crafting their post rock aural landscape with occasional Curtis Mayfield-like vocals from the frontman, while Epiphany, with two 7-string guitars and a 6-string bass, had clearly studied their rock god posturing moves.
Dave Watkins played third for a change, fitting given his years of experience over the much younger bands on the bill. Half the room talked through the first few minutes of his set until, as is always the case, they became sucked in to the elaborate and multi-layered soundscapes he was creating. Ditto my companion who, like me, was awed by how Dave is able to construct his music.
Last up was Majjin Boo, the emo/math rock/experimental/prog group we'd seen play an acoustic set just the other night in the park. Their plugged in sound with a drummer was a far cry from our first time hearing them, so I'll be curious to hear how the sound develops with time.
Walking home after the show, we marveled at how quiet Jackson Ward was. Almost no one on porches or walking down the street and, even odder, almost no sounds of traffic. In case we'd missed an apocalypse alert, we immediately retreated to my balcony for more music and a little night breeze.
5. Mountain Mist
The second day of a four day-weekend should be a no-brainer. Of course I want to plan something fun and why not with days left for goofing off?
Our happy motoring began by heading to Crozet - past a succession of cops pulling over speeders - for wine tasting, a picnic and polo match-watching from a prime spot under a large shade tree.
Not for us the canopies (labeled with affiliations such as Ole Miss, Alabama and, of course, UVA) lined up along the sidelines when we could see the polo matches just as well and keep our bottles of Crose' Rose' comfortably shaded. New since the last time I'd been, King Family Vineyards now has wine carts that drive around the perimeter so guests don't have to make the trek to the tasting room when their bottle gets low.
First world problems, I know.
I overheard a woman say they'd been staying in Staunton and decided to drive over for the match today and been pleasantly surprised that it was 10 degrees cooler here than it had been in Staunton. We'd definitely chosen the right direction to head today.
Midway through the first match, we spotted a mist rolling down the mountain and eventually a light rain arrived, but just enough to send us to the stable's porch for ten minutes before it moved on and we could return to our encampment.
Plenty of people left during the shower and others departed after the first match, but with a mountain-loving companion who'd never been to a polo match, we were there for the duration. Even once the second and final match ended, we lingered on until one of the wine cart drivers informed us that they had a wedding coming in so we'd need to move to the tasting room.
Somehow, four hours had passed in the blink of an eye.
6. Pie-eyed
The temperature in Crozet was 84 degrees when we left and we fully expected to return to a sauna in Richmond, but it was only 86 when we rolled in, despite fluctuations up to 88 as we drove east.
The neighborhood was just as deserted, but we took a chance and strolled over to Graffiato's for pizza, spotting a few tourists near Quirk and not much else in the way of liveliness, so we made our own.
The hostess made sure we knew it was still happy hour - please, imbibe cheaply! - and we paired discount drinking with an Untouchables pizza (spinach, mozzarella, smoked ricotta, chili-garlic oil and the best possible pizza sweet note, tomato marmalata) and a spicy Italian sausage pizzetta for the win.
Digestion was accompanied by Bryan Ferry, a little night air and endless conversation, as it should be on a fine stay-cation.
Life I love you, all is groovy.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Bite Back
I began my day walking with one friend and finished walking with another.
The first took me to Scott's Addition for a much-needed massage (while he turned around and walked back to work) and the latter involved to and froing from Gallery 5 for music (never turn down an offer to be somebody's "plus one" for a show), with a drive to Petersburg in between to see Alpha Chino's Booty Sweat.
I can't make this stuff up.
Walking into G5, the show had already started and the singer was talking between songs. I couldn't see her, so I asked my much taller friend if they looked as young as they sounded. His answer was a firm yes.
Once we found places inside, he did recon, only to learn that the all-girl band was in fact comprised of high school students from Chesterfield County, half black, half white. The seasoned patter between songs belied their youth and the bands they chose to cover - Blink 182, My Chemical Romance - seemed to be ones they'd heard while still or shortly after being in Pampers.
The lead singer gave full credit for her determined path as a musician: Guitar Hero. 'Nuff said.
The break allowed Friend to regale me with stories of his misspent youth, including a data entry job at Marlo Furniture that taught him the phrase "total void," which he intends to use in an upcoming music project.
Nashville band Daddy Issues was a female trio, albeit old enough to drink, but theirs was a more lo-fi sound with nods to grunge. Songs revolved around life's major issues: someone wanting you to be their friend when you don't. Being creepy because you're so in love with someone. Breaking up with someone. And perhaps most tragic of all, losing your keys.
Universal themes aside, their sincerity in the material, the banter and playing for a spirited (and mostly underage, judging by the number of Xs on hands) audience rang true.
During the break, we were joined by one of Gallery 5's founders and board members, atypically dressed in a button-down shirt and vest, just back from a fundraising event for G5 that had netted $2,000. My friend and I acted suitably impressed because we were, while he saved his praise for the show we'd come to see.
"Things are poppin' here!" he grinned, then ducked out, saying he was beat, no doubt a factor of being out of his normal t-shirt and having to gladhand folks with open wallets.
Duo Diet Cig took their time getting to the stage to play, but also broke tonight's string of all female bands with a male drummer who, we were told, gave up his chance to be an Olympic skier so he could be in the band. If it's not true, it sure makes a good story to tell from stage.
Their pop-tinged punk set was sung with energy and enthusiasm, boasting pogo-ing and leg kicks from singer/guitarist Alex, adorable with her Pixie haircut, impish smile and black and white checked bike shorts. I got a little of a Matt and Kim vibe from their music.
Between songs, Alex made sure to announce that their shows are safe spaces and the young audience nodded in approval. My generation would've had no clue what that meant. She also mentioned that recently in Boston they'd come onstage to Cher's "Believe" and it had continued to blare into their headphones as they launched into what she called "our pop punk show."
Troopers, they overcame the challenge because, as Alex told us, "We believe in life after love."
Shazam. They might be young, but already aware you gotta have something to cling to when the booty sweat's all gone. Or gone to Petersburg.
The first took me to Scott's Addition for a much-needed massage (while he turned around and walked back to work) and the latter involved to and froing from Gallery 5 for music (never turn down an offer to be somebody's "plus one" for a show), with a drive to Petersburg in between to see Alpha Chino's Booty Sweat.
I can't make this stuff up.
Walking into G5, the show had already started and the singer was talking between songs. I couldn't see her, so I asked my much taller friend if they looked as young as they sounded. His answer was a firm yes.
Once we found places inside, he did recon, only to learn that the all-girl band was in fact comprised of high school students from Chesterfield County, half black, half white. The seasoned patter between songs belied their youth and the bands they chose to cover - Blink 182, My Chemical Romance - seemed to be ones they'd heard while still or shortly after being in Pampers.
The lead singer gave full credit for her determined path as a musician: Guitar Hero. 'Nuff said.
The break allowed Friend to regale me with stories of his misspent youth, including a data entry job at Marlo Furniture that taught him the phrase "total void," which he intends to use in an upcoming music project.
Nashville band Daddy Issues was a female trio, albeit old enough to drink, but theirs was a more lo-fi sound with nods to grunge. Songs revolved around life's major issues: someone wanting you to be their friend when you don't. Being creepy because you're so in love with someone. Breaking up with someone. And perhaps most tragic of all, losing your keys.
Universal themes aside, their sincerity in the material, the banter and playing for a spirited (and mostly underage, judging by the number of Xs on hands) audience rang true.
During the break, we were joined by one of Gallery 5's founders and board members, atypically dressed in a button-down shirt and vest, just back from a fundraising event for G5 that had netted $2,000. My friend and I acted suitably impressed because we were, while he saved his praise for the show we'd come to see.
"Things are poppin' here!" he grinned, then ducked out, saying he was beat, no doubt a factor of being out of his normal t-shirt and having to gladhand folks with open wallets.
Duo Diet Cig took their time getting to the stage to play, but also broke tonight's string of all female bands with a male drummer who, we were told, gave up his chance to be an Olympic skier so he could be in the band. If it's not true, it sure makes a good story to tell from stage.
Their pop-tinged punk set was sung with energy and enthusiasm, boasting pogo-ing and leg kicks from singer/guitarist Alex, adorable with her Pixie haircut, impish smile and black and white checked bike shorts. I got a little of a Matt and Kim vibe from their music.
Between songs, Alex made sure to announce that their shows are safe spaces and the young audience nodded in approval. My generation would've had no clue what that meant. She also mentioned that recently in Boston they'd come onstage to Cher's "Believe" and it had continued to blare into their headphones as they launched into what she called "our pop punk show."
Troopers, they overcame the challenge because, as Alex told us, "We believe in life after love."
Shazam. They might be young, but already aware you gotta have something to cling to when the booty sweat's all gone. Or gone to Petersburg.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
The Birth of the Cool
Because this:
We, the humble members of the Richmond Avant Improv Collective, are trying to initiate a jazz-themed monthly series at Gallery 5. This would be our initial attempt at such a foolish endeavor.
So with that kind of can-do spirit and the abundance of talent consistently on display here, it's little wonder that gushing articles about the delights of Richmond keep showing up in the national press. Let me tell you, a non-local travel writer would have a field day trying to convey the abundance of cool here.
From the trendy Quirk Hotel, walk a short two blocks to Gallery 5, a quaint 19th century firehouse that now houses an art gallery and hosts a music stage.
If you're lucky, you may stumble into a dimly-lit show of local talent such as the Richmond Avant Improv Collective. The ever-changing line-up could be dropping cymbals, rattling chains and riffing on Italian music scores while a woman sings in a voice that sounds otherworldly with Hudson Valley jazz fusion guitarist Lucas Brode sitting in. That's the kind of thing five bucks buys you on a Saturday night in Richmond.
Come on, you're reading this in Des Moines as you plan your trip to the capital of the Confederacy to experience battlefields and all of a sudden, you're getting a clue that Richmond may be way cooler than what your aunt Betty told you it was after her trip there in the '80s.
With Richmond's vibrant music scene, you're going to have to make hard choices, especially on a weekend night. Do you want to hang out at the funky Gallery 5 and hear Yeni Nostlji playing '60s Turkish pop music and original material - a song title translates as "Don't You Dare Take Me Lightly" - inspired by that sound sung in a throaty female voice and accompanied by guitar, maracas and whistling?
Maybe you'd prefer a tenth anniversary show at the Broadberry featuring No BS Brass band, a 13-piece ensemble of horns and drums born out of VCU's Jazz Studies program. At tucked away Sound of Music, you could catch indie rock from the Trillions, a group of nerdy scientific types with masterful musical chops and boundless energy.
All ages feel welcome at Richmond's venues, where you might spot a keyboard player sporting a fur Cossack-style hat and belted coat in a nod to mid-60s-esque Dr. Zhivago style heading outside for a cigarette before her band's set. Welcome to Richmond, where eccentric is the norm.
The thing is, a visiting writer would be hard pressed not to leave with a favorable impression, no matter what the angle of the piece might be. Richmond is a place where people talk to strangers and simply eavesdropping on conversations would be a good indicator of the kind of locals a visitor might encounter out.
Spend some time in the architecturally significant neighborhoods known as Jackson Ward and Monroe Ward for galleries, arthouse films, a comedy club, live theater and music.
It's the kind of place where you'll hear a musician telling a jewelry maker she painted her earrings to match her fingernail polish before tonight's performance. Or a couple of writers trading book recommendations on the Civil Rights era. After getting down on the concrete floor to shoot, a photographer will explain what a pain it used to be to have to change a roll of film mid-performance. A place where a singer will call out hello from the stage to a late-arriving friend.
Richmond's high quality of life and low cost of living make it a hotbed for practically everyone to indulge their artistic impulses on the side.
And don't get me started on how so many of the national articles I read about Richmond regurgitate the same "hot spots" rather than cluing in an out-of-towner to some of the city's lesser known charms and secrets.
Fans of world music as well as Dead followers who like to dance (or is that redundant?) should check local listings to see if the long-running Hotel X is playing. Their improvisational takes on songs about cul-de-sacs and dedications to Jamaican guitarists often culminate in a Senegalese prayer for peace while fans allow their bodies to interpret the music in a scene that wouldn't have been out of place at a '60s "happening."
Richmond's got its groove on and it's an organic one that grew out of a scene that relied on local momentum and not mainstream move-ins. Richmond's hip quotient is not be taken lightly, but not heavily, either.
Man, this stuff practically writes itself. Too bad I was just a music-lover at a show tonight and not a travel writer on assignment.
Otherwise, I might have shared the secret to our charm: Richmond excels at trying foolish endeavors and showing up to witness them makes you part of it all. Fur hat not required.
We, the humble members of the Richmond Avant Improv Collective, are trying to initiate a jazz-themed monthly series at Gallery 5. This would be our initial attempt at such a foolish endeavor.
So with that kind of can-do spirit and the abundance of talent consistently on display here, it's little wonder that gushing articles about the delights of Richmond keep showing up in the national press. Let me tell you, a non-local travel writer would have a field day trying to convey the abundance of cool here.
From the trendy Quirk Hotel, walk a short two blocks to Gallery 5, a quaint 19th century firehouse that now houses an art gallery and hosts a music stage.
If you're lucky, you may stumble into a dimly-lit show of local talent such as the Richmond Avant Improv Collective. The ever-changing line-up could be dropping cymbals, rattling chains and riffing on Italian music scores while a woman sings in a voice that sounds otherworldly with Hudson Valley jazz fusion guitarist Lucas Brode sitting in. That's the kind of thing five bucks buys you on a Saturday night in Richmond.
Come on, you're reading this in Des Moines as you plan your trip to the capital of the Confederacy to experience battlefields and all of a sudden, you're getting a clue that Richmond may be way cooler than what your aunt Betty told you it was after her trip there in the '80s.
With Richmond's vibrant music scene, you're going to have to make hard choices, especially on a weekend night. Do you want to hang out at the funky Gallery 5 and hear Yeni Nostlji playing '60s Turkish pop music and original material - a song title translates as "Don't You Dare Take Me Lightly" - inspired by that sound sung in a throaty female voice and accompanied by guitar, maracas and whistling?
Maybe you'd prefer a tenth anniversary show at the Broadberry featuring No BS Brass band, a 13-piece ensemble of horns and drums born out of VCU's Jazz Studies program. At tucked away Sound of Music, you could catch indie rock from the Trillions, a group of nerdy scientific types with masterful musical chops and boundless energy.
All ages feel welcome at Richmond's venues, where you might spot a keyboard player sporting a fur Cossack-style hat and belted coat in a nod to mid-60s-esque Dr. Zhivago style heading outside for a cigarette before her band's set. Welcome to Richmond, where eccentric is the norm.
The thing is, a visiting writer would be hard pressed not to leave with a favorable impression, no matter what the angle of the piece might be. Richmond is a place where people talk to strangers and simply eavesdropping on conversations would be a good indicator of the kind of locals a visitor might encounter out.
Spend some time in the architecturally significant neighborhoods known as Jackson Ward and Monroe Ward for galleries, arthouse films, a comedy club, live theater and music.
It's the kind of place where you'll hear a musician telling a jewelry maker she painted her earrings to match her fingernail polish before tonight's performance. Or a couple of writers trading book recommendations on the Civil Rights era. After getting down on the concrete floor to shoot, a photographer will explain what a pain it used to be to have to change a roll of film mid-performance. A place where a singer will call out hello from the stage to a late-arriving friend.
Richmond's high quality of life and low cost of living make it a hotbed for practically everyone to indulge their artistic impulses on the side.
And don't get me started on how so many of the national articles I read about Richmond regurgitate the same "hot spots" rather than cluing in an out-of-towner to some of the city's lesser known charms and secrets.
Fans of world music as well as Dead followers who like to dance (or is that redundant?) should check local listings to see if the long-running Hotel X is playing. Their improvisational takes on songs about cul-de-sacs and dedications to Jamaican guitarists often culminate in a Senegalese prayer for peace while fans allow their bodies to interpret the music in a scene that wouldn't have been out of place at a '60s "happening."
Richmond's got its groove on and it's an organic one that grew out of a scene that relied on local momentum and not mainstream move-ins. Richmond's hip quotient is not be taken lightly, but not heavily, either.
Man, this stuff practically writes itself. Too bad I was just a music-lover at a show tonight and not a travel writer on assignment.
Otherwise, I might have shared the secret to our charm: Richmond excels at trying foolish endeavors and showing up to witness them makes you part of it all. Fur hat not required.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Call Me Maybe
Good thing I have a friend who loves me enough to try to call and wish me a happy new year or I'd still be unreachable.
After a couple of days trying, only to hear the phone ring endlessly and the answering machine never pick up, she alerted me by email. Sure enough, when I tried to make a call: dead zone. No dial tone.
Being the technological whiz that I am, I immediately went out and bought a new battery for my 8-year old cordless land line. Hardly surprisingly, it made no difference whatsoever, so the next morning I borrowed a sympathetic cell phone to alert Verizon to my plight.
When the service rep asked how long I'd been without service, I hadn't a clue.
Certainly no calls this week and last week I was on the west coast, so I wouldn't know about then, either. When I mentioned my dilemma to others this week, several told me they'd try to call me before Christmas to no avail.
Okay, so as it turns out, I haven't had phone service since December 22 and it took me until today to get it restored. What's sixteen days for a person who almost never gets called?
And the price I paid for that wasn't the missed calls (granted, the callers may feel differently about that), it was the sacrifices required to have it fixed.
About all Verizon could tell me was that the serviceman would be here between 8 a.m. and noon, but the hitch was that he wouldn't be able to call me when he got to the locked front door downstairs because, well, I'm phone-less, so I said he'd have to email me when he arrived.
"Not to worry," the rep tells me, he'll email you. I doubt this and I am worried and she reassures me not to worry. Again I express doubt and again I am placated.
After getting out of bed at the ungodly hour of 7:45 this morning, I only have to wait 15 minutes for the email proof that my worry was completely justified. The email is nothing but a form letter telling me the repair will be done between 8 and 12, not notification that he's arrived downstairs.
So I wait. I wait some more, then I make breakfast.
It's when I go downstairs to get my Washington Post that I open the front door to see if perhaps Verizon has left a note saying they came and couldn't get in. Instead, I see a guy peering around from the front porch downstairs and he comes tearing toward me.
It is only sheer coincidence that I opened the door at the moment he was coming off that porch or we'd never have connected because he couldn't have gotten in the locked door and I couldn't have heard him knocking and, despite all those smarmy reassurances not to worry, he did not have my email address.
Not acceptable, Verizon.
And if that got my morning off to a less-than-stellar start, consider that it took from 8:40 until 3:35 to restore my phone service, which, it turns out, Verizon - in their infinite wisdom - had erroneously disconnected and assigned to another apartment.
That's seven hours in which I couldn't leave my apartment because of phone testing, so a walk was out of the question.
I consider myself a pretty easygoing person (despite someone recently characterizing me as being pure confidence, intensity and purpose), but if you want to see my uptight side, get me out of bed before I've had 9 hours of sleep (see: last night) and deny me the 5 or 6 miles my body craves to walk (see: this morning).
All I can tell you is, it won't be pretty.
Happily, I got plenty of writing accomplished and post 3:35, I was even able to make some necessary calls to deal with the business of life. But you can be sure I made plans to get out tonight.
Mac was my willing accomplice to walk nearly a mile to dinner, as it turned out, in a lightly falling snow shower and the kind of snow that sticks to your coat and scarf without melting, which made it look like the fake stuff in the movies.
As we chowed down in an empty dining room, the bartender did his best to talk us into using alcohol to treat the frigid temperatures outside. Let's just say that hot toddies were discussed.
Next up was Gallery 5 for Nick Candela's "Toma! Toma! Toma!" show of huge canvases combining countless cultural elements - a trio of bathing beauties, Corvairs, a steak, horses racing, signs - layered with drips and pencil drawings almost confusingly, although with obvious intent.
His stated philosophy demonstrated that he was one millennial who wasn't trying to clarify anything: Assumptions are encouraged; euphemisms preferred.
Of course they are.
Next up we motored to Northside to check out Iridian Gallery's opening of Paige Critcher's "Hinterland," a show of photographs taken near Sweet Briar College over the course of four years while the artist sorted out a major life implosion after losing her job, home and partner. Been there, done that.
Needless to say, sorting through a collision of life events like that over several years resulted in photographs of isolation, longing and curiosity that showed up in roads leading into fog, dead vines and eroding buildings.
During her artist's talk, Paige talked about one of the benefits of shooting out in the sticks is, once strangers understand that you're a photographer, you can get away with craziness. "I take advantage of that all the time," she laughed.
Since it's almost the exact same sentiment photographer Susan Worsham expressed last night at her artist's talk, I think we can surmise that some art forms can be considered a license to let go.
Driving home, Mac wanted to know if I was finished for the evening, sounding surprised when I said I was.
Since I got back late, late Sunday, it's been a week of close encounters of the first, second and third kinds and I honestly need a little time to process it all away from the fray. Hello, Friday night downtime.
And while it's now technically possible that my phone could ring, I know chances are slim to none that it will. And, as my Washington grandmother liked to euphemistically say, Slim just left town.
Meanwhile, I'll keep my fingers crossed for a walk in the snow tomorrow, the better to encourage a few choice assumptions.
After a couple of days trying, only to hear the phone ring endlessly and the answering machine never pick up, she alerted me by email. Sure enough, when I tried to make a call: dead zone. No dial tone.
Being the technological whiz that I am, I immediately went out and bought a new battery for my 8-year old cordless land line. Hardly surprisingly, it made no difference whatsoever, so the next morning I borrowed a sympathetic cell phone to alert Verizon to my plight.
When the service rep asked how long I'd been without service, I hadn't a clue.
Certainly no calls this week and last week I was on the west coast, so I wouldn't know about then, either. When I mentioned my dilemma to others this week, several told me they'd try to call me before Christmas to no avail.
Okay, so as it turns out, I haven't had phone service since December 22 and it took me until today to get it restored. What's sixteen days for a person who almost never gets called?
And the price I paid for that wasn't the missed calls (granted, the callers may feel differently about that), it was the sacrifices required to have it fixed.
About all Verizon could tell me was that the serviceman would be here between 8 a.m. and noon, but the hitch was that he wouldn't be able to call me when he got to the locked front door downstairs because, well, I'm phone-less, so I said he'd have to email me when he arrived.
"Not to worry," the rep tells me, he'll email you. I doubt this and I am worried and she reassures me not to worry. Again I express doubt and again I am placated.
After getting out of bed at the ungodly hour of 7:45 this morning, I only have to wait 15 minutes for the email proof that my worry was completely justified. The email is nothing but a form letter telling me the repair will be done between 8 and 12, not notification that he's arrived downstairs.
So I wait. I wait some more, then I make breakfast.
It's when I go downstairs to get my Washington Post that I open the front door to see if perhaps Verizon has left a note saying they came and couldn't get in. Instead, I see a guy peering around from the front porch downstairs and he comes tearing toward me.
It is only sheer coincidence that I opened the door at the moment he was coming off that porch or we'd never have connected because he couldn't have gotten in the locked door and I couldn't have heard him knocking and, despite all those smarmy reassurances not to worry, he did not have my email address.
Not acceptable, Verizon.
And if that got my morning off to a less-than-stellar start, consider that it took from 8:40 until 3:35 to restore my phone service, which, it turns out, Verizon - in their infinite wisdom - had erroneously disconnected and assigned to another apartment.
That's seven hours in which I couldn't leave my apartment because of phone testing, so a walk was out of the question.
I consider myself a pretty easygoing person (despite someone recently characterizing me as being pure confidence, intensity and purpose), but if you want to see my uptight side, get me out of bed before I've had 9 hours of sleep (see: last night) and deny me the 5 or 6 miles my body craves to walk (see: this morning).
All I can tell you is, it won't be pretty.
Happily, I got plenty of writing accomplished and post 3:35, I was even able to make some necessary calls to deal with the business of life. But you can be sure I made plans to get out tonight.
Mac was my willing accomplice to walk nearly a mile to dinner, as it turned out, in a lightly falling snow shower and the kind of snow that sticks to your coat and scarf without melting, which made it look like the fake stuff in the movies.
As we chowed down in an empty dining room, the bartender did his best to talk us into using alcohol to treat the frigid temperatures outside. Let's just say that hot toddies were discussed.
Next up was Gallery 5 for Nick Candela's "Toma! Toma! Toma!" show of huge canvases combining countless cultural elements - a trio of bathing beauties, Corvairs, a steak, horses racing, signs - layered with drips and pencil drawings almost confusingly, although with obvious intent.
His stated philosophy demonstrated that he was one millennial who wasn't trying to clarify anything: Assumptions are encouraged; euphemisms preferred.
Of course they are.
Next up we motored to Northside to check out Iridian Gallery's opening of Paige Critcher's "Hinterland," a show of photographs taken near Sweet Briar College over the course of four years while the artist sorted out a major life implosion after losing her job, home and partner. Been there, done that.
Needless to say, sorting through a collision of life events like that over several years resulted in photographs of isolation, longing and curiosity that showed up in roads leading into fog, dead vines and eroding buildings.
During her artist's talk, Paige talked about one of the benefits of shooting out in the sticks is, once strangers understand that you're a photographer, you can get away with craziness. "I take advantage of that all the time," she laughed.
Since it's almost the exact same sentiment photographer Susan Worsham expressed last night at her artist's talk, I think we can surmise that some art forms can be considered a license to let go.
Driving home, Mac wanted to know if I was finished for the evening, sounding surprised when I said I was.
Since I got back late, late Sunday, it's been a week of close encounters of the first, second and third kinds and I honestly need a little time to process it all away from the fray. Hello, Friday night downtime.
And while it's now technically possible that my phone could ring, I know chances are slim to none that it will. And, as my Washington grandmother liked to euphemistically say, Slim just left town.
Meanwhile, I'll keep my fingers crossed for a walk in the snow tomorrow, the better to encourage a few choice assumptions.
Monday, December 19, 2016
Come Play with Me
Let the record show that it was 67 degrees today and every window in my apartment was open.
Let it also show that despite having known Nate for five years - we met on February 12, 2012 at Globehopper when I first heard the Richmanian Ramblers - it was only today that I first ate his bagels, a mission accomplished by being first in line with Mac at the new Blue Bee Cidery.
Let it show that our walk from Blue Bee to the Byrd was tropical-like, if not downright beachy, and that the theater was surprisingly full for an afternoon matinee at this late stage of the holiday madness (I know a guy who went to three holiday parties today alone) when everyone there probably had something else they should've been doing.
Not Mac - who'd never seen this classic all the way through - nor me, that much was clear. Our misfortune was sitting next to a couple of women who believed that we'd rather hear them belting out the musical numbers than hear the actors doing a far better job.
Let it show that when you have seen a film, say "White Christmas," every year since you were a child, it's not enough to sit back and enjoy (always a relative term when applied to the torn and spring-popping Byrd seats) the familiar plot and dazzling mid-century visuals of VistaVision (reddest reds you've ever seen).
Curiosity seeker that I am, I must see something new.
Accomplished:
1. In the final scene, how had I never noticed the tenth anniversary sign on the cake (Happy 10th anniversary 151st Division)? The 10 candles, always, but the sign? Not once.
2. Pre-safety match usage was rampant. Bing strikes a match for his pipe on his shoe, with his fingernail, probably with his teeth in a scene that got left on the cutting room floor. 1954 was pre-safety concerns, clearly.
Let it show that walking back to Scott's Addition marveling at the still-balmy air when sunset was only minutes away, our conversation turned prescient when raindrops suddenly hit us, followed by major northerly wind gusts and an immediate and significant drop in temperature.
Frankly, we never should have brought the subject up.
Let it show that I wouldn't have missed tonight's 10th anniversary celebration of the Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5, or the opportunity to introduce a recent conversational partner to one of my long-time favorite events, despite not being up to dinner out beforehand.
The lost weekend - don't ask.
Let it show that lots of my people were there - the film prof, the filmmaker, the woman at the Byrd I'd told about the event months ago, the Turkish pop songstress - and on time, which is more than I can say for some of the newer fans.
Creator Jameson always says 8 sharp! on the invitation because he means it, kids. Take note for the future (April, in case you weren't paying attention).
He had, of course, picked a terrific holiday present for the crowd with Russian director Ladislas Starevich's 1913 black and white "Night Before Christmas," and nothing like the Clement Moore poem we know.
The herky-jerky antics of the peasant village as well as the editing (and brief bits of early stop-motion animation) couldn't have been better suited to Rattlemouth's odd time signatures and global beats ensuring that their improvised soundtrack nailed the madcap action.
Instead of Moore's sugary take on Christmas Eve, we had a witch whose cottage was known for "entertaining willing visitors" and a hirsute demon with a tongue that presaged that of Gene Simmons, along with dry humping and homo-erotica, men stuffed in bags and a young and solidly-built peasant beauty looking for the man who truly loved her.
She claimed she wanted shoes like the tsarina's, but what she really wanted was a man willing to go to great lengths to get them for her to show his love.
Let the record show that I saw two holiday classic films today, and they both came down to love stories. Because the best things really do happen when you're dancing...or entertaining willing visitors.
Before you can say Merry Christmas, you're a goner. I know it must be true because I saw it on the big screen. Twice in one festive day.
Let it also show that despite having known Nate for five years - we met on February 12, 2012 at Globehopper when I first heard the Richmanian Ramblers - it was only today that I first ate his bagels, a mission accomplished by being first in line with Mac at the new Blue Bee Cidery.
Let it show that our walk from Blue Bee to the Byrd was tropical-like, if not downright beachy, and that the theater was surprisingly full for an afternoon matinee at this late stage of the holiday madness (I know a guy who went to three holiday parties today alone) when everyone there probably had something else they should've been doing.
Not Mac - who'd never seen this classic all the way through - nor me, that much was clear. Our misfortune was sitting next to a couple of women who believed that we'd rather hear them belting out the musical numbers than hear the actors doing a far better job.
Let it show that when you have seen a film, say "White Christmas," every year since you were a child, it's not enough to sit back and enjoy (always a relative term when applied to the torn and spring-popping Byrd seats) the familiar plot and dazzling mid-century visuals of VistaVision (reddest reds you've ever seen).
Curiosity seeker that I am, I must see something new.
Accomplished:
1. In the final scene, how had I never noticed the tenth anniversary sign on the cake (Happy 10th anniversary 151st Division)? The 10 candles, always, but the sign? Not once.
2. Pre-safety match usage was rampant. Bing strikes a match for his pipe on his shoe, with his fingernail, probably with his teeth in a scene that got left on the cutting room floor. 1954 was pre-safety concerns, clearly.
Let it show that walking back to Scott's Addition marveling at the still-balmy air when sunset was only minutes away, our conversation turned prescient when raindrops suddenly hit us, followed by major northerly wind gusts and an immediate and significant drop in temperature.
Frankly, we never should have brought the subject up.
Let it show that I wouldn't have missed tonight's 10th anniversary celebration of the Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5, or the opportunity to introduce a recent conversational partner to one of my long-time favorite events, despite not being up to dinner out beforehand.
The lost weekend - don't ask.
Let it show that lots of my people were there - the film prof, the filmmaker, the woman at the Byrd I'd told about the event months ago, the Turkish pop songstress - and on time, which is more than I can say for some of the newer fans.
Creator Jameson always says 8 sharp! on the invitation because he means it, kids. Take note for the future (April, in case you weren't paying attention).
He had, of course, picked a terrific holiday present for the crowd with Russian director Ladislas Starevich's 1913 black and white "Night Before Christmas," and nothing like the Clement Moore poem we know.
The herky-jerky antics of the peasant village as well as the editing (and brief bits of early stop-motion animation) couldn't have been better suited to Rattlemouth's odd time signatures and global beats ensuring that their improvised soundtrack nailed the madcap action.
Instead of Moore's sugary take on Christmas Eve, we had a witch whose cottage was known for "entertaining willing visitors" and a hirsute demon with a tongue that presaged that of Gene Simmons, along with dry humping and homo-erotica, men stuffed in bags and a young and solidly-built peasant beauty looking for the man who truly loved her.
She claimed she wanted shoes like the tsarina's, but what she really wanted was a man willing to go to great lengths to get them for her to show his love.
Let the record show that I saw two holiday classic films today, and they both came down to love stories. Because the best things really do happen when you're dancing...or entertaining willing visitors.
Before you can say Merry Christmas, you're a goner. I know it must be true because I saw it on the big screen. Twice in one festive day.
Saturday, December 10, 2016
She Who Expects
Some things you just know.
When I first saw the invitation to the Nels Cline, Larry Ochs and Gerald Cleaver Trio show at Gallery 5 back on November 10th, I immediately knew two things.
It would sell out and it would be a sausage-fest.
Before I got around to buying a ticket, a friend invited me to go with him, so I didn't have to, which was convenient since 30% of the tickets sold out the first day and 80% were gone a week out.
Once it sold out entirely, people turned shameless and began begging online for a ticket or two to see a guitar legend in such an intimate setting.
My friend showed up to collect me just as I was happening on a pop-up art gallery up the block, an effort by a painting student and a video imaging student to avoid what they called "the big galleries" of the Arts District and show their work. I gave them an "A" for effort and marveled at how they'd transformed a 3' wide space between buildings into a definitive gallery.
Well done, kids.
After a short walk in this unpleasantly and suddenly-frigid weather, we entered the overheated confines of Gallery 5 to find exactly what I'd expected: mostly men and likely a high percentage of guitar players and musicians in general, gathered to hear major talent play experimental music on a Friday night.
With my friend off chatting with other musician friends, I turned to the nearest guy and told him I'd expected an inordinate number of a certain kind of music geek tonight. "And here we are," the stranger confirmed to me, looking only vaguely sheepish.
A favorite film geek arrived and, in his honey-dripping southern accent told me, "I knew you'd be here," which I took as a compliment regardless of how it might have been intended.
Across the room, I spotted a jazz guitarist I've known for years and behind me was the guitar whiz who shreds in the Cover to Cover Band and walking in to my right was the mover and shaker/guitarist who grinned, started sniffing and gave me a raised eyebrow.
Leaning in so I could hear him, he observed jokingly, "It smells like pot in here and the show's just starting. How are we going to explain that if the cops show up?"
What did you expect, we've got a roomful of guitarists here, I pointed out. "Tell me about it. So we've got a lot of boners in here, too," he joked about Nels' guitar idol status. "And we've got a lot of middle-aged white men. They all texted me today about getting tickets, but how many white guys can you fit in a room?"
Looking around, I'd say a fair number, although there was also a decent millennial representation, even though, as one admitted, "I came to him late."
Nothing like stating the obvious, since Nels was probably 40 when you were in diapers, son.
Mercifully, I actually spotted a girlfriend with her cute husband in the sea of men, although she wasn't shy about admitting that she had zero idea what to expect musically tonight. Rather than dwell on the unknown, we dipped our toes in the estrogen pond in a vain attempt to balance out the testosterone-fueled energy in the room.
Once the music began, it was a different story since between the volume, the ever-shifting dynamics and the sheer spectacle of the musicians onstage playing, talk pretty much ceased.
Even more impressively, only a few cell phones came out to document the event. I saw an awful lot of people young and old almost entirely in the moment and not viewing it through a screen.
Part of that may have been because the set came across sort of like a master class, with all eyes riveted on technique - and not just Nels' because drummer Gerald was mesmerizing with his ultra-efficient economy of motion and Larry's sax/clarinet playing produced sounds I'd never heard from those instruments - as if they were trying to learn by osmosis.
Those of us who have no such talent and are mere fans don't have that kind of pressure on us, so I just watched Nels' hands fly as he stood erect and made circumspect guitar faces, sometimes twirling knobs and using his massive pedal board to coax additional sounds while looping them back for a bigger effect.
I'm not here to use terms like contrapuntal, harmonic concepts or odd meters (because I can't), but I would like to quote the Fredericksburg music lover I was introduced to as we were exiting Gallery 5. Asking for his take on the show, all he could give me was, "That was amazing!"
When I asked what amazing meant and made a request for words, say nouns and adjectives, maybe a verb or adverb if he had 'em, my friend interjected quickly with, "She expects a lot of words."
Not gonna deny it, I do.
But when the nearly monosyllabic one admitted that he needed some time to process what we'd just experienced, I felt much better about my evolving take on it.
Honestly, I'd felt a bit overwhelmed myself. Aware, yes, of the massive talent I was witnessing onstage but also challenged by the experimental nature of its structure and the free-wheeling flights of improvisation that often made endings seemed unexpected or sudden.
At times, it was hard not to be transfixed by the drummer's non-stop limbs as the other two soared around his rhythms.
One guy off to the side eventually closed his eyes and began zoning out to the music, at least until his hands started twitching and then he sat down, closed his eyes and seemed to go even deeper into a trance. Whether being dramatic or losing himself to the vibe, it was hard to say.
For that matter, it's also hard to say much more about the whole evening than that we witnessed some amazing musical chops and a lot of guys probably found release from it.
I've got it, that's what we'll tell the cops.
When I first saw the invitation to the Nels Cline, Larry Ochs and Gerald Cleaver Trio show at Gallery 5 back on November 10th, I immediately knew two things.
It would sell out and it would be a sausage-fest.
Before I got around to buying a ticket, a friend invited me to go with him, so I didn't have to, which was convenient since 30% of the tickets sold out the first day and 80% were gone a week out.
Once it sold out entirely, people turned shameless and began begging online for a ticket or two to see a guitar legend in such an intimate setting.
My friend showed up to collect me just as I was happening on a pop-up art gallery up the block, an effort by a painting student and a video imaging student to avoid what they called "the big galleries" of the Arts District and show their work. I gave them an "A" for effort and marveled at how they'd transformed a 3' wide space between buildings into a definitive gallery.
Well done, kids.
After a short walk in this unpleasantly and suddenly-frigid weather, we entered the overheated confines of Gallery 5 to find exactly what I'd expected: mostly men and likely a high percentage of guitar players and musicians in general, gathered to hear major talent play experimental music on a Friday night.
With my friend off chatting with other musician friends, I turned to the nearest guy and told him I'd expected an inordinate number of a certain kind of music geek tonight. "And here we are," the stranger confirmed to me, looking only vaguely sheepish.
A favorite film geek arrived and, in his honey-dripping southern accent told me, "I knew you'd be here," which I took as a compliment regardless of how it might have been intended.
Across the room, I spotted a jazz guitarist I've known for years and behind me was the guitar whiz who shreds in the Cover to Cover Band and walking in to my right was the mover and shaker/guitarist who grinned, started sniffing and gave me a raised eyebrow.
Leaning in so I could hear him, he observed jokingly, "It smells like pot in here and the show's just starting. How are we going to explain that if the cops show up?"
What did you expect, we've got a roomful of guitarists here, I pointed out. "Tell me about it. So we've got a lot of boners in here, too," he joked about Nels' guitar idol status. "And we've got a lot of middle-aged white men. They all texted me today about getting tickets, but how many white guys can you fit in a room?"
Looking around, I'd say a fair number, although there was also a decent millennial representation, even though, as one admitted, "I came to him late."
Nothing like stating the obvious, since Nels was probably 40 when you were in diapers, son.
Mercifully, I actually spotted a girlfriend with her cute husband in the sea of men, although she wasn't shy about admitting that she had zero idea what to expect musically tonight. Rather than dwell on the unknown, we dipped our toes in the estrogen pond in a vain attempt to balance out the testosterone-fueled energy in the room.
Once the music began, it was a different story since between the volume, the ever-shifting dynamics and the sheer spectacle of the musicians onstage playing, talk pretty much ceased.
Even more impressively, only a few cell phones came out to document the event. I saw an awful lot of people young and old almost entirely in the moment and not viewing it through a screen.
Part of that may have been because the set came across sort of like a master class, with all eyes riveted on technique - and not just Nels' because drummer Gerald was mesmerizing with his ultra-efficient economy of motion and Larry's sax/clarinet playing produced sounds I'd never heard from those instruments - as if they were trying to learn by osmosis.
Those of us who have no such talent and are mere fans don't have that kind of pressure on us, so I just watched Nels' hands fly as he stood erect and made circumspect guitar faces, sometimes twirling knobs and using his massive pedal board to coax additional sounds while looping them back for a bigger effect.
I'm not here to use terms like contrapuntal, harmonic concepts or odd meters (because I can't), but I would like to quote the Fredericksburg music lover I was introduced to as we were exiting Gallery 5. Asking for his take on the show, all he could give me was, "That was amazing!"
When I asked what amazing meant and made a request for words, say nouns and adjectives, maybe a verb or adverb if he had 'em, my friend interjected quickly with, "She expects a lot of words."
Not gonna deny it, I do.
But when the nearly monosyllabic one admitted that he needed some time to process what we'd just experienced, I felt much better about my evolving take on it.
Honestly, I'd felt a bit overwhelmed myself. Aware, yes, of the massive talent I was witnessing onstage but also challenged by the experimental nature of its structure and the free-wheeling flights of improvisation that often made endings seemed unexpected or sudden.
At times, it was hard not to be transfixed by the drummer's non-stop limbs as the other two soared around his rhythms.
One guy off to the side eventually closed his eyes and began zoning out to the music, at least until his hands started twitching and then he sat down, closed his eyes and seemed to go even deeper into a trance. Whether being dramatic or losing himself to the vibe, it was hard to say.
For that matter, it's also hard to say much more about the whole evening than that we witnessed some amazing musical chops and a lot of guys probably found release from it.
I've got it, that's what we'll tell the cops.
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
The Naked and the Bloody
How could I not say farewell to Troma films at Gallery 5?
As I've learned over the course of this three-month film series, there are givens: tongue-in-cheek horror, graphic violence, buckets of blood and erotica, catnip for a crowd that laps up that kind of stuff.
What I hadn't anticipated was the pre-film erotica I walked in to, namely footage of naked dancing girls from the early '70s judging by the abundant pubic hair, non-augmented breasts, long straight hair and the psychedelic pinwheels, fireworks and haze effects that filtered over and under them, with occasional cutaways to a macho man-type with a serious porn 'stache apparently dreaming of the dancers.
I figured it was just a little something to occupy us until the main event, "Father's Day" began searing our eyeballs with the antics of a serial male rapist and killer (hence the "Happy Father's Day!" as he finishes people off) and the threebrave men loose cannons (a priest and two victim's sons) who set out to stop the madness.
When the priest is told that Ahab, the man he needs to find to help catch the bad guy is far away, we see him crossing beaches, bodies of water, jungles and Antarctica before winding up, clothing in tatters, at a plain old cabin in the woods.
We're talking about a movie with a "Creature Effects" screen credit, with many of the so-called "creatures" being badly brutalized victims of the crazed killer, Chris Fuchman (get it?). So, yes, campy, gory and about as socially pungent as they come.
Unlike most of the audience, there's much about a Troma film I have to close my eyes for. Like disembowelment.
Granted, we're not talking the kind of filmmakers who are going for realistic decapitations or shootings, but even so, I can live out my life without seeing a bad guy slice a child's eyeball and leave him for dead, but that's just me.
Fortunately, no Troma film would be complete without large doses of humor and "Father's Day" accommodated with insider winks (a sign outside a large building that read, "Tromaville Courthouse," the local bar, the Lowlife) and sight gags (more fat, white naked man butts than anyone needs to see) and enthusiastic incest.
There was a whole lot of laughter in the room besides my own, probably as much at the gross bits as for the intentionally hilarious parts.
We even got to see Troma founder and big cheese Lloyd Kaufman in the white-suited role as both god and the devil, but coming across more like a modern day Mel Brooks than anything else. And that's funny.
"Lock up your fathers!" the movie warns us. Since August, when I wanted absurd and unsettling, Troma delivered the goods.
Wow, Gallery 5, those three months of neo-grindhouse just flew by. Isn't that always the way with self-mutilation and pole dancing?
As I've learned over the course of this three-month film series, there are givens: tongue-in-cheek horror, graphic violence, buckets of blood and erotica, catnip for a crowd that laps up that kind of stuff.
What I hadn't anticipated was the pre-film erotica I walked in to, namely footage of naked dancing girls from the early '70s judging by the abundant pubic hair, non-augmented breasts, long straight hair and the psychedelic pinwheels, fireworks and haze effects that filtered over and under them, with occasional cutaways to a macho man-type with a serious porn 'stache apparently dreaming of the dancers.
I figured it was just a little something to occupy us until the main event, "Father's Day" began searing our eyeballs with the antics of a serial male rapist and killer (hence the "Happy Father's Day!" as he finishes people off) and the three
When the priest is told that Ahab, the man he needs to find to help catch the bad guy is far away, we see him crossing beaches, bodies of water, jungles and Antarctica before winding up, clothing in tatters, at a plain old cabin in the woods.
We're talking about a movie with a "Creature Effects" screen credit, with many of the so-called "creatures" being badly brutalized victims of the crazed killer, Chris Fuchman (get it?). So, yes, campy, gory and about as socially pungent as they come.
Unlike most of the audience, there's much about a Troma film I have to close my eyes for. Like disembowelment.
Granted, we're not talking the kind of filmmakers who are going for realistic decapitations or shootings, but even so, I can live out my life without seeing a bad guy slice a child's eyeball and leave him for dead, but that's just me.
Fortunately, no Troma film would be complete without large doses of humor and "Father's Day" accommodated with insider winks (a sign outside a large building that read, "Tromaville Courthouse," the local bar, the Lowlife) and sight gags (more fat, white naked man butts than anyone needs to see) and enthusiastic incest.
There was a whole lot of laughter in the room besides my own, probably as much at the gross bits as for the intentionally hilarious parts.
We even got to see Troma founder and big cheese Lloyd Kaufman in the white-suited role as both god and the devil, but coming across more like a modern day Mel Brooks than anything else. And that's funny.
"Lock up your fathers!" the movie warns us. Since August, when I wanted absurd and unsettling, Troma delivered the goods.
Wow, Gallery 5, those three months of neo-grindhouse just flew by. Isn't that always the way with self-mutilation and pole dancing?
Monday, November 21, 2016
Dixie is Dead and Trump is Terrifying
I've been violated.
At least that's how I felt when I was greeted by alarmist messages from my bank alerting me that someone was using my debit card all over New York City yesterday.
Not what I was expecting upon returning home from a pleasant day on the Northern Neck with my parents.
It was all the more abrupt because spending the day with them is akin to stepping through a magic looking glass to a different world. At least all the clocks in the house now read correctly, something that's not the case during the months of daylight saving time when they refuse to change their clocks (on principle, naturally).
Probably because it was a chilly 42 degrees when I drove through Tappahannock, our activities centered around the cozy: Mom wanted to put heavier comforters on some of the beds and Dad wanted help ordering new L.L. Bean flannel sheets (Mariner's blue, queen size) after spying a tiny hole in a sheet on their bed.
It was while I was on the big sleeping porch - especially inviting because of the morning sunlight streaming through the walls of windows - in search of their favorite white blanket that I spotted a stack of my parents' records from the '50s right on up through the '80s and dropped everything to investigate.
Finally having a turntable, receiver and Bose speakers - all used, mind you - changes what gets my attention these days.
Spotting me from the other end of the corridor that leads to the porch, Dad called out to his heathen daughter, chuckling, "What are you doing on your knees, praying?" As if.
Many of the albums I flipped through brought back immediate musical memories - some good, some painful - of hearing them played in the house where I grew up. My parents were deep into Neil Diamond, so there were at least ten of his records, along with a handful of Moody Blues and more late '50s instrumental music than I remembered.
Where I was most surprised was with his array of disco and R & B vinyl: Quincy Jones' 1972 double disco album "Ndeda," Larry Graham's "One in a Million You" from '80 (complete with TMI, as in, "You can write to Larry at P.O. Box 46035, LA, CA 90046) and a really early George Benson record called "Shape of Things to Come" from 1968.
Then there was the piece de resistance.
My father, a man who was nothing if not au courant as Dads went back then (hair past his collar, magnificent mutton chops), had a copy of Van McCoy's "The Hustle," I kid you not. I have no memory of this fact, but I was impressed enough to take the album, along with a dozen others.
When he sees that I've snatched up "The In Crowd" by the Ramsey Lewis Trio, recorded at D.C.'s Bohemian Caverns, he makes sure I know that, "I was into Ramsey Lewis way before they made it big with that album."
You see how cool he was?
By the time I left them mid-afternoon, the mercury had only risen four degrees, making me glad to get back to my more densely populated neighborhood and the attendant shared heat (not that my parents' house isn't kept at hothouse temperatures that have even a cold-blooded person like me shedding layers), even if I was met with the news of fraud and the ensuing inconveniences resulting from it.
Luckily, Mac and Secretly Y'All awaited me a few short blocks away at Gallery 5.
Tonight's theme was "Headlines," ("No, Joe Morrissey is not in the building," our host quipped) so we heard from a slew of local journalists riffing on the subject.
Harry brought props and shared how an article on the infamous Dirtwoman had inspired him to become a journalist, but only after his high school guidance counselor had advised him that, "There's a cheap journalism school up the street." That would be VCU.
The Library of Virginia's Errol brought us up to speed on Richmond's fighting editor and Jackson Ward resident, John Mitchell, with a tangent about a newsman friend working in Danville who got fired for the headline, "Dixie is Dead, Elvis is Dead and Danville is Dying." Hilarious.
Katy's story of investigating an unreported woman's death was positively heartbreaking while Chris' story of Mayor Wilder trying to rearrange City Hall after midnight involved sheriffs, a lot of PBR, illegalVespa Stella parking and, tangentially, the headline that had first inspired him to take up journalism: "Preacher Dies in Flaming Mobile Pulpit."
Where tonight's Secretly Y'All differed from so many of the ones I've attended over the years was that it took place in a post-2016 election world, which, as we're all still trying to grasp, feels like a horrific new world order.
Brad offered up a report on being LGBTQ in Trump's America, a terrifying proposition, to be sure, that included learning about the numbers of LGBTQ people who bought guns, both after Obama's election (talk about misguided) and Trump's so-called election. A pink camo assault weapon and Colonial Shooting Academy both figured prominantly into his story.
But the undisputed highlight of listening to tonight's storytellers was when the RTD's Michael Paul Williams took the stage, intent on making us see that the most important stories are ahead of us.
"We need a lot of anger now," he said passionately. "They're trying to push out information as the new normal and that's not right." Amen, brother.
We listened as he told a tale of two of his stories, one that helped the Armstrong choir raise $20,000 to go to a competition in NYC and another where he wanted to shadow three students - Hispanic, black and white - enrolled in Richmond Public Schools and chronicle their experiences and results, a story that died before it saw light because of lawyers and a necessity for endless releases.
But his real point in being there tonight was to use his self-professed "old guy" status to motivate the crowded room to action.
"Be subversive going forward in this new day. I'm pissed off and terrified. We should all be pissed off and terrified at this. We need to protest! I don't want a white supremacist a few steps from the Oval Office."
His was a very emotional call to arms not to go gently into this terrifying new Trump night and it moved me in a way Secretly Y'All doesn't usually. This wasn't about a person's personal anecdote, this was an entreaty not to stay silent about things that matter.
It's no secret, ya'll, we're being violated. Anger and action must follow.
At least that's how I felt when I was greeted by alarmist messages from my bank alerting me that someone was using my debit card all over New York City yesterday.
Not what I was expecting upon returning home from a pleasant day on the Northern Neck with my parents.
It was all the more abrupt because spending the day with them is akin to stepping through a magic looking glass to a different world. At least all the clocks in the house now read correctly, something that's not the case during the months of daylight saving time when they refuse to change their clocks (on principle, naturally).
Probably because it was a chilly 42 degrees when I drove through Tappahannock, our activities centered around the cozy: Mom wanted to put heavier comforters on some of the beds and Dad wanted help ordering new L.L. Bean flannel sheets (Mariner's blue, queen size) after spying a tiny hole in a sheet on their bed.
It was while I was on the big sleeping porch - especially inviting because of the morning sunlight streaming through the walls of windows - in search of their favorite white blanket that I spotted a stack of my parents' records from the '50s right on up through the '80s and dropped everything to investigate.
Finally having a turntable, receiver and Bose speakers - all used, mind you - changes what gets my attention these days.
Spotting me from the other end of the corridor that leads to the porch, Dad called out to his heathen daughter, chuckling, "What are you doing on your knees, praying?" As if.
Many of the albums I flipped through brought back immediate musical memories - some good, some painful - of hearing them played in the house where I grew up. My parents were deep into Neil Diamond, so there were at least ten of his records, along with a handful of Moody Blues and more late '50s instrumental music than I remembered.
Where I was most surprised was with his array of disco and R & B vinyl: Quincy Jones' 1972 double disco album "Ndeda," Larry Graham's "One in a Million You" from '80 (complete with TMI, as in, "You can write to Larry at P.O. Box 46035, LA, CA 90046) and a really early George Benson record called "Shape of Things to Come" from 1968.
Then there was the piece de resistance.
My father, a man who was nothing if not au courant as Dads went back then (hair past his collar, magnificent mutton chops), had a copy of Van McCoy's "The Hustle," I kid you not. I have no memory of this fact, but I was impressed enough to take the album, along with a dozen others.
When he sees that I've snatched up "The In Crowd" by the Ramsey Lewis Trio, recorded at D.C.'s Bohemian Caverns, he makes sure I know that, "I was into Ramsey Lewis way before they made it big with that album."
You see how cool he was?
By the time I left them mid-afternoon, the mercury had only risen four degrees, making me glad to get back to my more densely populated neighborhood and the attendant shared heat (not that my parents' house isn't kept at hothouse temperatures that have even a cold-blooded person like me shedding layers), even if I was met with the news of fraud and the ensuing inconveniences resulting from it.
Luckily, Mac and Secretly Y'All awaited me a few short blocks away at Gallery 5.
Tonight's theme was "Headlines," ("No, Joe Morrissey is not in the building," our host quipped) so we heard from a slew of local journalists riffing on the subject.
Harry brought props and shared how an article on the infamous Dirtwoman had inspired him to become a journalist, but only after his high school guidance counselor had advised him that, "There's a cheap journalism school up the street." That would be VCU.
The Library of Virginia's Errol brought us up to speed on Richmond's fighting editor and Jackson Ward resident, John Mitchell, with a tangent about a newsman friend working in Danville who got fired for the headline, "Dixie is Dead, Elvis is Dead and Danville is Dying." Hilarious.
Katy's story of investigating an unreported woman's death was positively heartbreaking while Chris' story of Mayor Wilder trying to rearrange City Hall after midnight involved sheriffs, a lot of PBR, illegal
Where tonight's Secretly Y'All differed from so many of the ones I've attended over the years was that it took place in a post-2016 election world, which, as we're all still trying to grasp, feels like a horrific new world order.
Brad offered up a report on being LGBTQ in Trump's America, a terrifying proposition, to be sure, that included learning about the numbers of LGBTQ people who bought guns, both after Obama's election (talk about misguided) and Trump's so-called election. A pink camo assault weapon and Colonial Shooting Academy both figured prominantly into his story.
But the undisputed highlight of listening to tonight's storytellers was when the RTD's Michael Paul Williams took the stage, intent on making us see that the most important stories are ahead of us.
"We need a lot of anger now," he said passionately. "They're trying to push out information as the new normal and that's not right." Amen, brother.
We listened as he told a tale of two of his stories, one that helped the Armstrong choir raise $20,000 to go to a competition in NYC and another where he wanted to shadow three students - Hispanic, black and white - enrolled in Richmond Public Schools and chronicle their experiences and results, a story that died before it saw light because of lawyers and a necessity for endless releases.
But his real point in being there tonight was to use his self-professed "old guy" status to motivate the crowded room to action.
"Be subversive going forward in this new day. I'm pissed off and terrified. We should all be pissed off and terrified at this. We need to protest! I don't want a white supremacist a few steps from the Oval Office."
His was a very emotional call to arms not to go gently into this terrifying new Trump night and it moved me in a way Secretly Y'All doesn't usually. This wasn't about a person's personal anecdote, this was an entreaty not to stay silent about things that matter.
It's no secret, ya'll, we're being violated. Anger and action must follow.
It Sounds Terrible Because It Will Be
Luddites, billiards and a Brooklyn band, oh, my.
The Bijou was showing Werner Herzog's new documentary about the Internet, "Lo and Behold: Reveries of a Connected World," a subject that would have seduced me - still very much a 20th century woman in many respects - even if I wasn't a devoted documentary dork, which I certainly am.
From the photographs of the long-haired scientists who came up with the Internet concept in 1969 to artificial intelligence concepts beyond my imagination like soccer playing robot cubes that one scientist expects to beat the Brazilian team by 2050 (and also creepily admits, "We love Robot 8," as he cradles the cube as if it were real), Herzog trotted out the obscure and nerdy.
That kind of thing - pure Herzog oddities- carried through the history of the Internet to hackers, Internet addicts trying to be cured and mad scientists working on self-driving cars, assuring us every time a car has an accident, all cars will learn from it and never repeat that mistake.
Really? can I be the only one who doubts this?
On the other hand, gamers helped research scientists solve molecule and helix problems they hadn't been able to, an extraordinary accomplishment only possible thanks to the Internet.
One of the weirdest, by far, was a family whose daughter had been killed in a car crash where a first responder photographed the head of the decapitated girl and made it public online.
Herzog gives us the family posed in a surreal setting with the family's other three daughters sitting catatonic-looking and overly made up in front of their parents (Mom's clearly had lots of plastic surgery and Botox, but also spouts things like, "The Internet is the manifestation of the anti-Christ"), while on the table sit three plates of baked goods, a homey reminder perhaps of this wholesome family's "before" story.
Wait, what?
We see a group of monks, all staring intently at their cell phones and completely un-involved with the world around them. The likelihood of a solar flare knocking out the Internet is a "when" not an "if" and talking heads mull over what might happen to the food supply when the Internet goes down.
Herzog's film posits that it's no longer people that matter, it's the message and we may eventually not even need humans for companionship because we'll be able to get that from A.I. "It sounds terrible, but maybe it's not," one says with little conviction.
So this is what it's come to, he seems to be telling us. Can't live with the Internet, can't live without it.
All I can say is praise be to the Bijou for landing this thought-provoking documentary by a master observer and commentator about a subject that is changing the course of human behavior.
I have little doubt that I am the sole viewer of it who still operates in the 21st century world without a cell phone, but perhaps that only makes the entire subject more relevant for me. I am the constant in a world of sea change.
Dinner followed at Greenleaf's Pool Room, unexpectedly lively with far more games of pool being played than you might expect for a Sunday evening, although it certainly wasn't a night for outdoor activities.
In short order, we plowed through two kinds of deviled eggs, Bumpkins of country ham with pimento cheese and fried chicken skin which were stellar and Spouter Inn with fried oysters, horseradish and smoked tomato that definitely did not fit easily in my mouth while pomegranate lemonade went down easily.
A thick tomato soup followed because this change of weather today has chilled me to the bone and finally, chicken skewers with a piquant slaw with enough heat for my mouth to take notice. I was taking my warmth any way I could get it tonight.
Walking into Gallery 5 moments before a last-minute show was to begin, we had timed it perfectly to catch the lovely ringing guitars and synths of California Death, the post-punk muscularity of Big Bliss from Brooklyn and the pop exuberance of Young Scum, where the drummer put on a headband before their set began because, apparently, he knew there would be sweat.
Did he have to go online to know this or did he figure it out on his own, I had to wonder? Because I'm in complete agreement with Herzog that the Internet was the beginning of the end for deep critical thinking.
And could it be that our President-elect along with the Internet is the manifestation of the anti-Christ? Post-Herzog, I see the jury as still out on that one.
The Bijou was showing Werner Herzog's new documentary about the Internet, "Lo and Behold: Reveries of a Connected World," a subject that would have seduced me - still very much a 20th century woman in many respects - even if I wasn't a devoted documentary dork, which I certainly am.
From the photographs of the long-haired scientists who came up with the Internet concept in 1969 to artificial intelligence concepts beyond my imagination like soccer playing robot cubes that one scientist expects to beat the Brazilian team by 2050 (and also creepily admits, "We love Robot 8," as he cradles the cube as if it were real), Herzog trotted out the obscure and nerdy.
That kind of thing - pure Herzog oddities- carried through the history of the Internet to hackers, Internet addicts trying to be cured and mad scientists working on self-driving cars, assuring us every time a car has an accident, all cars will learn from it and never repeat that mistake.
Really? can I be the only one who doubts this?
On the other hand, gamers helped research scientists solve molecule and helix problems they hadn't been able to, an extraordinary accomplishment only possible thanks to the Internet.
One of the weirdest, by far, was a family whose daughter had been killed in a car crash where a first responder photographed the head of the decapitated girl and made it public online.
Herzog gives us the family posed in a surreal setting with the family's other three daughters sitting catatonic-looking and overly made up in front of their parents (Mom's clearly had lots of plastic surgery and Botox, but also spouts things like, "The Internet is the manifestation of the anti-Christ"), while on the table sit three plates of baked goods, a homey reminder perhaps of this wholesome family's "before" story.
Wait, what?
We see a group of monks, all staring intently at their cell phones and completely un-involved with the world around them. The likelihood of a solar flare knocking out the Internet is a "when" not an "if" and talking heads mull over what might happen to the food supply when the Internet goes down.
Herzog's film posits that it's no longer people that matter, it's the message and we may eventually not even need humans for companionship because we'll be able to get that from A.I. "It sounds terrible, but maybe it's not," one says with little conviction.
So this is what it's come to, he seems to be telling us. Can't live with the Internet, can't live without it.
All I can say is praise be to the Bijou for landing this thought-provoking documentary by a master observer and commentator about a subject that is changing the course of human behavior.
I have little doubt that I am the sole viewer of it who still operates in the 21st century world without a cell phone, but perhaps that only makes the entire subject more relevant for me. I am the constant in a world of sea change.
Dinner followed at Greenleaf's Pool Room, unexpectedly lively with far more games of pool being played than you might expect for a Sunday evening, although it certainly wasn't a night for outdoor activities.
In short order, we plowed through two kinds of deviled eggs, Bumpkins of country ham with pimento cheese and fried chicken skin which were stellar and Spouter Inn with fried oysters, horseradish and smoked tomato that definitely did not fit easily in my mouth while pomegranate lemonade went down easily.
A thick tomato soup followed because this change of weather today has chilled me to the bone and finally, chicken skewers with a piquant slaw with enough heat for my mouth to take notice. I was taking my warmth any way I could get it tonight.
Walking into Gallery 5 moments before a last-minute show was to begin, we had timed it perfectly to catch the lovely ringing guitars and synths of California Death, the post-punk muscularity of Big Bliss from Brooklyn and the pop exuberance of Young Scum, where the drummer put on a headband before their set began because, apparently, he knew there would be sweat.
Did he have to go online to know this or did he figure it out on his own, I had to wonder? Because I'm in complete agreement with Herzog that the Internet was the beginning of the end for deep critical thinking.
And could it be that our President-elect along with the Internet is the manifestation of the anti-Christ? Post-Herzog, I see the jury as still out on that one.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Time of the Season
Belatedly I learn that Holmes is disinclined to read through numerous paragraphs of my blog posts just to get to the parts where I mention him.
So let's get right to it, shall we? When I announced that it was time for me to leave, my friend Holmes put a red vinyl 45 of the Damned's "Thanks for the Night" on the turntable in farewell. That's a good music friend.
There, unnecessary reading prevented.
My night began at Reynolds Gallery for Sally Bowring's opening of "Weather Report," nearly a dozen wooden panels capturing what Sally observed - green Novembers, soft blue February skies, the pinks of summer - while going about her life over the past year.
To my eye, her glorious use of color makes it clear that the artist is female, observant and experienced.
Back on home turf, I head to Gallery 5 for "Wastedland," a gallery-wide installation by Andrew Shirley that begins with a mostly black tableau that was all about the audio/visual and shrouded in smoke.
Satellite dishes of varying heights, a cassette player, a weather radio, rabbit ear antennas, a megaphone, ladders and pendant lights were all spray painted matte black with occasional orange dribbles.
Behind it and nearly touching the ceiling was a sculpture, part sea creature, part spacecraft with interactive rolling wooden pieces. Spinning several in succession next to a stranger doing the same, we agreed it felt very child-like.
Going up the narrow stairs brought new challenges since each tread was at least 50% covered in crushed aluminum cans attached to the sides. Upstairs, pieces of corrugated boxes became animals on a wall staring out, while nearby was a cardboard shack with a blue tarp roof. Inside a TV showed mindless twaddle and was wallpapered with panhandler signs.
Jesus was a traveler
Passing thru, ALL love helps
Traveler Broke & Hungry
Lost in life, Looking for Direction
I spotted a male figure in overalls with a wolf head and paused ever so briefly to determine if he was real. Nope. Moments later, I had a surreal moment when I saw a man in overalls with a wolf head striding toward his inanimate twin.
But of course it's art.
In the center of the gallery, I spot an activist friend and without thinking, hug him hugely and offer condolences about the shared loss of our mayoral candidate. Behind me is another activist pal just as distraught.
We're all still feeling a bit shell-shocked at the news but with only three days till the election, feel the need to lay out our stands on alternate choices. None of us want a pawn but none of us desire a corporate whore, either.
There is banter about what role Baliles might be given in the new administration. It's crystal clear to us that he must have a significant one - "What we'll need is a Jedi Council of people who really know the city to help advise" the new administration, the PLF maestro concludes - and we three fervently hope Stoney sees the wisdom in this.
It's both depressing to talk about a mayor we wouldn't have chosen and comforting to think that there's enough of a groundswell to keep the focus on Richmond's creative strengths in whatever the next four years bring.
My final stop is, yes, at Holmes' humble abode, where we begin with a classic Mary Angela's dinner - green salad followed by his favorite pie, pepperoni and mushroom - enjoyed in the dining room listening to a recording of music he made with his brother and a friend decades ago.
A beautiful folk song comes on and Holmes blows us out of the water by sharing that the song had been recorded in that very dining room where we now sat, our fingers greasy with pepperoni oil.
"We hung a couple mics from over there," he says, pointing at the back window, "and had the mixer in there," gesturing past the pocket doors to the living room.
I don't know if I'll ever experience such a unique coincidence again in my lifetime or if I can properly convey how cool it felt to be hearing a song recorded where I sat.
After a proper chocolate dessert, we headed downstairs to where the turntable and monster speakers reside and Holmes promptly put on the Byrds.
"When I was in Paris in '65," he begins and we immediately tease him for his nonchalance, but he goes on to tell us how strongly he recalls being a teen with his own hotel room on family vacation hearing "All I Really Wanna Do" coming up a French alley from an unknown source where the 45 was on constant repeat.
Mais oui, that's one way to reach an impressionable young mind.
Good as it was, it was mere window-dressing for tonight's main event, the two-disc, four-side "Time of the Zombies," a 1974 song compilation that led off with "She's Not There" and Holmes' painful memory of attempting to sing that song at karaoke in Nags Head.
Apparently his range left a bit to be desired.
All four sides were fabulous, channeling everyone from the Beatles to Phil Spector to Herman's Hermits. I could have danced in my bar stool all nigh.
Most surprising was the Zombies' stellar cover of Gershwin's "Summertime" from "Porgy and Bess," but I was in love with it all, from "Tell Her No" to "Time of the Season," a song Holmes said came out after the group had already broken up and which we listened to twice.
Along the way we discussed Beloved's first bikini, purchased for a Carnival cruise to the Bahamas in '77 and no doubt part of the reason she enjoyed the company of the ship's purser, Kurt during their time at sea.
Apparently her Mom had spotted Kurt just as the elevators doors were about to close and commented how nice-looking he was and her daughter had taken it from there.
Female spunk was big in '77, for those who weren't there.
The most charming part of the story sounded like a mere post script when she shared it. "He called me a couple of years ago." He what? "Yes, on the downstairs rotary phone."
Consider, if you will, that I know a woman who still has a rotary phone, not to mention the same phone number as 39 years ago and you can perhaps appreciate the rare birds among those known as "Karen's people."
For the record, since Kurt called, she's given up answering the rotary phone. She's not there.
So let's get right to it, shall we? When I announced that it was time for me to leave, my friend Holmes put a red vinyl 45 of the Damned's "Thanks for the Night" on the turntable in farewell. That's a good music friend.
There, unnecessary reading prevented.
My night began at Reynolds Gallery for Sally Bowring's opening of "Weather Report," nearly a dozen wooden panels capturing what Sally observed - green Novembers, soft blue February skies, the pinks of summer - while going about her life over the past year.
To my eye, her glorious use of color makes it clear that the artist is female, observant and experienced.
Back on home turf, I head to Gallery 5 for "Wastedland," a gallery-wide installation by Andrew Shirley that begins with a mostly black tableau that was all about the audio/visual and shrouded in smoke.
Satellite dishes of varying heights, a cassette player, a weather radio, rabbit ear antennas, a megaphone, ladders and pendant lights were all spray painted matte black with occasional orange dribbles.
Behind it and nearly touching the ceiling was a sculpture, part sea creature, part spacecraft with interactive rolling wooden pieces. Spinning several in succession next to a stranger doing the same, we agreed it felt very child-like.
Going up the narrow stairs brought new challenges since each tread was at least 50% covered in crushed aluminum cans attached to the sides. Upstairs, pieces of corrugated boxes became animals on a wall staring out, while nearby was a cardboard shack with a blue tarp roof. Inside a TV showed mindless twaddle and was wallpapered with panhandler signs.
Jesus was a traveler
Passing thru, ALL love helps
Traveler Broke & Hungry
Lost in life, Looking for Direction
I spotted a male figure in overalls with a wolf head and paused ever so briefly to determine if he was real. Nope. Moments later, I had a surreal moment when I saw a man in overalls with a wolf head striding toward his inanimate twin.
But of course it's art.
In the center of the gallery, I spot an activist friend and without thinking, hug him hugely and offer condolences about the shared loss of our mayoral candidate. Behind me is another activist pal just as distraught.
We're all still feeling a bit shell-shocked at the news but with only three days till the election, feel the need to lay out our stands on alternate choices. None of us want a pawn but none of us desire a corporate whore, either.
There is banter about what role Baliles might be given in the new administration. It's crystal clear to us that he must have a significant one - "What we'll need is a Jedi Council of people who really know the city to help advise" the new administration, the PLF maestro concludes - and we three fervently hope Stoney sees the wisdom in this.
It's both depressing to talk about a mayor we wouldn't have chosen and comforting to think that there's enough of a groundswell to keep the focus on Richmond's creative strengths in whatever the next four years bring.
My final stop is, yes, at Holmes' humble abode, where we begin with a classic Mary Angela's dinner - green salad followed by his favorite pie, pepperoni and mushroom - enjoyed in the dining room listening to a recording of music he made with his brother and a friend decades ago.
A beautiful folk song comes on and Holmes blows us out of the water by sharing that the song had been recorded in that very dining room where we now sat, our fingers greasy with pepperoni oil.
"We hung a couple mics from over there," he says, pointing at the back window, "and had the mixer in there," gesturing past the pocket doors to the living room.
I don't know if I'll ever experience such a unique coincidence again in my lifetime or if I can properly convey how cool it felt to be hearing a song recorded where I sat.
After a proper chocolate dessert, we headed downstairs to where the turntable and monster speakers reside and Holmes promptly put on the Byrds.
"When I was in Paris in '65," he begins and we immediately tease him for his nonchalance, but he goes on to tell us how strongly he recalls being a teen with his own hotel room on family vacation hearing "All I Really Wanna Do" coming up a French alley from an unknown source where the 45 was on constant repeat.
Mais oui, that's one way to reach an impressionable young mind.
Good as it was, it was mere window-dressing for tonight's main event, the two-disc, four-side "Time of the Zombies," a 1974 song compilation that led off with "She's Not There" and Holmes' painful memory of attempting to sing that song at karaoke in Nags Head.
Apparently his range left a bit to be desired.
All four sides were fabulous, channeling everyone from the Beatles to Phil Spector to Herman's Hermits. I could have danced in my bar stool all nigh.
Most surprising was the Zombies' stellar cover of Gershwin's "Summertime" from "Porgy and Bess," but I was in love with it all, from "Tell Her No" to "Time of the Season," a song Holmes said came out after the group had already broken up and which we listened to twice.
Along the way we discussed Beloved's first bikini, purchased for a Carnival cruise to the Bahamas in '77 and no doubt part of the reason she enjoyed the company of the ship's purser, Kurt during their time at sea.
Apparently her Mom had spotted Kurt just as the elevators doors were about to close and commented how nice-looking he was and her daughter had taken it from there.
Female spunk was big in '77, for those who weren't there.
The most charming part of the story sounded like a mere post script when she shared it. "He called me a couple of years ago." He what? "Yes, on the downstairs rotary phone."
Consider, if you will, that I know a woman who still has a rotary phone, not to mention the same phone number as 39 years ago and you can perhaps appreciate the rare birds among those known as "Karen's people."
For the record, since Kurt called, she's given up answering the rotary phone. She's not there.
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