Everyone's whining about Mercury in retrograde, but I can't say I've noticed any effects myself.
I've read people say that it's a period when communication goes haywire and weird things happen, but I had no problem meeting a charming polymath at the preview night performance of "The Lion in Winter" at VMFA.
Might as well go ahead and admit it, I'd seen neither the play nor the film, although I did look up Eleanor of Aquitaine beforehand so I'd have a little background.
It was easy finding a single seat in the fourth row near a well-dressed man who was also companion-less. The artistic director soon informed us, "You are our ambassadors so if you like what you see, please tell everyone you know. If you don't like it, let's keep it our little secret."
Then, appropriately before a play about a long-time married couple, she wished a couple - Vaughn and Nick - happy 33rd anniversary. Then it was on to a 12th century Christmas.
Through lies, deception, manipulation and posturing, we watched as Henry II's family played out its dysfunction in every relationship - parent/child, husband/wife, siblings - and interaction. Everyone was so busy scheming it was a miracle anyone had time to wage war, father illegitimate children or run the country and isn't that what British royalty did back then?
Much was made of Eleanor's age - 60- with comments such as, "I've heard she's aging badly," followed by her son's gleeful request, "Let's go look!" She directs them, "Take what memory you have of me and mark it out of date." That's what happens to a woman's looks when her husband, the king, imprisons her for ten years for helping her son plan a rebellion against him.
During intermission, I pulled out my Washington Post to read while the man next to me pulled out his book but before long he spoke to me and reading materials were set aside. Even readers can't resist the spoken word.
Turns out he was the theater critic for the Richmond Times Dispatch years ago and for at least the first six years after I moved to Richmond, meaning surely I'd read his work at one point. Interestingly enough, he'd also written critiques for the RTD of opera, ballet and art. I was amazed to hear that one year alone, he'd seen 200 plays (because of trips to NYC and London, lucky dog).
We really clicked when he told me that his only qualifications for the job had been all of his going out to events and a knack for writing. When I shared that I go out every night, he insisted that was proof that I was qualified to write about culture. Imagine his surprise when he heard what I do.
The 1966 play had a contemporary layer to it with humorous asides ("Of course we all have knives. It's 1183, we're still barbarians!") and a surprise plot twist involving a gay tryst ("Oh, no!" someone moaned from the back of the theater when it was revealed). Its twisted middle-aged romance ("I could listen to you lie for hours") was timeless and sometimes brutally honest ("Jealousy looks silly on us, Henry").
My new critic friend admitted afterwards that he'd found the acting a bit stiff but attributed it to the first night of the run. Perhaps the cast just needs a bit more time to get used to each other, sort of like with the early years of marriage or cohabitation.
Walking out of the museum, it was so bitterly cold and windy that I considered heading home but since my drive would take me right past Emilio's and music, that seemed like a foolish plan.
The temptation was twofold: Goldrush was playing, so I could expect friends, frivolous discussion and their familiar yet solid sound. Plus Adam and the Yew Banks were opening and I'd fallen hard for them at the Ghost of Pop show in December.
I scored on all counts. The handsome bass player not only regaled me with stories of hiding things from his mother-in-law's prying eyes, he also told a stranger that I'd given him and his wife a housewarming gift of velvet handcuffs (it should be noted that the gift also included two bottles of wine). Also covered were the folly of bourbon shots on Bourbon Street, moving doors and ego-less sax players
Standing near the front of the crowd where plenty of familiar faces gathered, the only downside was the frequency with which the door opened to admit new guests and allow smokers to escape to freeze their patooties off while feeding their addiction.
One smoker clad in a long, summery-looking skirt complained about her poor choice in attire on such a frigid night. "I shaved my legs, what the hell was I thinking?" she asked rhetorically while hiking up her skirt to show me a bare leg. "All I've got on under this is a thong." Yikes, honey.
Once again, Adam and the Yew Banks blew my mind with their well-executed set, a tantalizing combination of great voices, excellent songwriting and an overall sound both loose and polished that had many of us moving our hips to. A musician friend instructed me to pay close attention to how talented the drummer was, but it seemed to me that they all were.
Goldrush took the stage after a break that allowed for the essentials (drummer extraordinaire Willis to set up and Prabir to do a shot) and for more people to arrive to partake of their hook-laden chamber rock.
Although I've been going to Goldrush shows for years, who knows, some of tonight's crowd could have been experiencing the distinct pleasures of two classical musicians playing violin and upright bass in a pop context for the first time. I'd call them Goldrush virgins but I don't want to give Prabir any ideas.
Or maybe they just wandered in off the street because their thongs weren't keeping them very warm and it's so cold out there. So cold I almost bypassed music tonight.
Maybe that was Mercury in retrograde trying to mess me up. Wait, this is 2015, you call that science?
Bueller, Prabir, anyone?
Showing posts with label goldrush. Show all posts
Showing posts with label goldrush. Show all posts
Friday, February 6, 2015
Friday, April 18, 2014
Just Like Heaven with Chandeliers
It's not about the bands, it's about the momentous occasion.
Richmond now has a mid-sized venue, something it's been sorely lacking, and tonight was opening night.
When a friend inquired if I was going to the new Broadberry tonight, I asked the same of him. Nope. "I am, among other things, registering my disapproval of them being so goddamn predictable in their booking," he wrote.
Here's the thing, my friend. What matters about the Broadberry is not what bands play the night they open their doors.
What matters is all the bands that can now play Richmond because we have a venue the right size to attract their audience and fill so they don't skip over Richmond and go to Charlottesville.
So quit yer bitching.
After feeding my hired mouth, that's where I went, happily finding loads of familiar music lovers there.
The music writer offered me some of her candied bacon and observed, "All our people are here.". The theater lover complained that he hadn't seen me since Hardywood back in January. Then there was the bass player saying, "My goal is to get Karen to grin." Plus the dimpled drummer, the multi-instrument playing physicist, the lovely hospitality manager. All my people.
And to a person, they all said they were there to celebrate that we have a new venue.
The former Nu nightclub means that the new Broadberry retains far more glitz than your average venue. Four massive chandeliers hang along one wall and the lighting system over the stage is worthy of a drag queen's catwalk.
There were tables and chairs, already filed with seated people, all along the length of the extensive bar with a pit up front for those who wanted to stand to see, hear and dance to the music.
And, perhaps most impressively, there were people of all ages there, a far broader age range than a Camel or Strange Matter show. A really good sign.
While talking to Goldrush's handsome bass player, bandleader Prabir came by, set lists in hand. When I tried to look at them, Mr. Bass insisted that the songs be a surprise.
'There are no surprises in a Goldrush set," Prabir corrected him, a statement I can agree with, having first seen them back in 2009.
The band took the stage and after the first number, "The Exit Song,"Prabir proclaimed, "That's the first song ever played at the Broadberry." As a girl near me noted, the sound was good.
"Anyone bummed about missing the lunar eclipse Monday?" science geek Prabir asked of the noisy room. "We 're going to play a song that says f*ck the clouds!" and played "Pale Blue Dots."
After playing "Roll One," he finished by entreating the audience, "Roll one more, folks. Let's legalize that shit. Let's also legalize critical thinking."
Let's. It's statements like that that and that he uses phrases like "your kith and your kin" in his lyrics that make him a Richmond treasure.
When their set finished, a musician friend walked by and we talked about his upcoming outdoor music series starting up again in a few weeks.
I went to a bunch of them last summer in Scuffletown park and this summer he's expanding the series to all kinds of things, not just music. Ah, the pleasures of outdoor performance.
Prabir wandered by after that, complaining that there weren't enough girls at the show. I pointed out a few within easy reach.
"That one has Daddy issues, that one has three exes, that one can't even pronounce my name," he said, eliminating them all. I suggested he eliminate anyone who didn't understand the phrase "kith and kin" but he told me not to be hasty.
A friend I rarely get to see was sitting at the bar and called me over, surprising me by telling me how much he liked my writing. "I love reading you because you make me feel like I'm there," he said. "All the details you include, the way you talk about what you saw and heard makes it so real." I could have kissed him.
Instead I thanked him and told him I was going back up closer to the stage. "Of course you are," he said grinning.
Black Girls took the stage next, a far more assured band than when I first saw them at Sprout in February 2011.
Just back from a tour of the southeast, with tonight's show being the final night of the tour, the singer asked, "Hey, Richmond, we've been on tour. What's new? Nothing? Cool!" and then launched into a tight set no doubt honed by this recent set of dates.
Two guitarists, bassist, drummer, keyboards and singer, they were all sweating by the third song. Their influences are interesting, shot through with '60s soul, Steely Dan, '70s rock and somehow making it all sound dirty. Snuff rock, they call it.
"Time to get a little looser," the singer called out, hoisting his plastic cup of red wine. "If we don't start now, the night will be over before you know it." Dancing in place began in earnest at this point.
The crowd was thick by now, at least up near the stage where I was and a very short friend and I were continuously being bumped into and stepped on.
A guy with a gorgeous red beard and piercing blue eyes came by me twice, the second time looking me right in the eye and saying, "I just came by to step on your toes again."
Do what you have to do, my friend.
Finally after a string of upbeat songs that had some people all but pogo-ing, the band slowed it down, bringing in a trombone and trumpet for a song I'd have slow danced to if I'd had a date.
They couldn't leave us there, though, so there were two more upbeat danceable songs, including one where one of the guitarists got down into the crowd ("If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"), getting everyone all aflutter.
During the second break, a blogger I'd met a while back joined me, leading to some satisfying music talk about the evolution of soul music, the sheer amount of information available on the liner notes of older albums and the pleasures of flipping through record bins, even if, like me, you don't have a turntable.
Describing his record buying habit as "being so far down the hole, he can't see daylight." he was excited about finding an original Supremes album recently. Needless to say, he was bowled over when I mentioned still having all my old Supremes albums.
Soon after, No BS assembled onstage, minus Reggie Pace who's out of town and whose smiling face and enormous energy were missed and David Hood who was apparently quite sick tonight. Of tonight's bands, this is the one I've been following the longest - since 2007.
Drummer Lance Koehler took charge, instructing the crowd, "We need that rumpus to be shaking!" and taking off with enough brass to ensure that that happened in short order.
One girl, perched on table, danced with every part of her body while sitting down. Most of us just danced in place as Bryan Hooten took the mic and rapped the next song.
"This is like heaven," Lance yelled. "We have chandeliers, we have beer! Here's to the Broadberry!"
It's a toast worth making. We've entered a new stage of Richmond's music scene and it's exciting to think of what's to come.
Tonight wasn't about predictability, it was about celebrating all the bands who will play there in the future.
You can be sure I'll be there with all my kith, getting my toes stepped on and enjoying every moment.
Richmond now has a mid-sized venue, something it's been sorely lacking, and tonight was opening night.
When a friend inquired if I was going to the new Broadberry tonight, I asked the same of him. Nope. "I am, among other things, registering my disapproval of them being so goddamn predictable in their booking," he wrote.
Here's the thing, my friend. What matters about the Broadberry is not what bands play the night they open their doors.
What matters is all the bands that can now play Richmond because we have a venue the right size to attract their audience and fill so they don't skip over Richmond and go to Charlottesville.
So quit yer bitching.
After feeding my hired mouth, that's where I went, happily finding loads of familiar music lovers there.
The music writer offered me some of her candied bacon and observed, "All our people are here.". The theater lover complained that he hadn't seen me since Hardywood back in January. Then there was the bass player saying, "My goal is to get Karen to grin." Plus the dimpled drummer, the multi-instrument playing physicist, the lovely hospitality manager. All my people.
And to a person, they all said they were there to celebrate that we have a new venue.
The former Nu nightclub means that the new Broadberry retains far more glitz than your average venue. Four massive chandeliers hang along one wall and the lighting system over the stage is worthy of a drag queen's catwalk.
There were tables and chairs, already filed with seated people, all along the length of the extensive bar with a pit up front for those who wanted to stand to see, hear and dance to the music.
And, perhaps most impressively, there were people of all ages there, a far broader age range than a Camel or Strange Matter show. A really good sign.
While talking to Goldrush's handsome bass player, bandleader Prabir came by, set lists in hand. When I tried to look at them, Mr. Bass insisted that the songs be a surprise.
'There are no surprises in a Goldrush set," Prabir corrected him, a statement I can agree with, having first seen them back in 2009.
The band took the stage and after the first number, "The Exit Song,"Prabir proclaimed, "That's the first song ever played at the Broadberry." As a girl near me noted, the sound was good.
"Anyone bummed about missing the lunar eclipse Monday?" science geek Prabir asked of the noisy room. "We 're going to play a song that says f*ck the clouds!" and played "Pale Blue Dots."
After playing "Roll One," he finished by entreating the audience, "Roll one more, folks. Let's legalize that shit. Let's also legalize critical thinking."
Let's. It's statements like that that and that he uses phrases like "your kith and your kin" in his lyrics that make him a Richmond treasure.
When their set finished, a musician friend walked by and we talked about his upcoming outdoor music series starting up again in a few weeks.
I went to a bunch of them last summer in Scuffletown park and this summer he's expanding the series to all kinds of things, not just music. Ah, the pleasures of outdoor performance.
Prabir wandered by after that, complaining that there weren't enough girls at the show. I pointed out a few within easy reach.
"That one has Daddy issues, that one has three exes, that one can't even pronounce my name," he said, eliminating them all. I suggested he eliminate anyone who didn't understand the phrase "kith and kin" but he told me not to be hasty.
A friend I rarely get to see was sitting at the bar and called me over, surprising me by telling me how much he liked my writing. "I love reading you because you make me feel like I'm there," he said. "All the details you include, the way you talk about what you saw and heard makes it so real." I could have kissed him.
Instead I thanked him and told him I was going back up closer to the stage. "Of course you are," he said grinning.
Black Girls took the stage next, a far more assured band than when I first saw them at Sprout in February 2011.
Just back from a tour of the southeast, with tonight's show being the final night of the tour, the singer asked, "Hey, Richmond, we've been on tour. What's new? Nothing? Cool!" and then launched into a tight set no doubt honed by this recent set of dates.
Two guitarists, bassist, drummer, keyboards and singer, they were all sweating by the third song. Their influences are interesting, shot through with '60s soul, Steely Dan, '70s rock and somehow making it all sound dirty. Snuff rock, they call it.
"Time to get a little looser," the singer called out, hoisting his plastic cup of red wine. "If we don't start now, the night will be over before you know it." Dancing in place began in earnest at this point.
The crowd was thick by now, at least up near the stage where I was and a very short friend and I were continuously being bumped into and stepped on.
A guy with a gorgeous red beard and piercing blue eyes came by me twice, the second time looking me right in the eye and saying, "I just came by to step on your toes again."
Do what you have to do, my friend.
Finally after a string of upbeat songs that had some people all but pogo-ing, the band slowed it down, bringing in a trombone and trumpet for a song I'd have slow danced to if I'd had a date.
They couldn't leave us there, though, so there were two more upbeat danceable songs, including one where one of the guitarists got down into the crowd ("If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"), getting everyone all aflutter.
During the second break, a blogger I'd met a while back joined me, leading to some satisfying music talk about the evolution of soul music, the sheer amount of information available on the liner notes of older albums and the pleasures of flipping through record bins, even if, like me, you don't have a turntable.
Describing his record buying habit as "being so far down the hole, he can't see daylight." he was excited about finding an original Supremes album recently. Needless to say, he was bowled over when I mentioned still having all my old Supremes albums.
Soon after, No BS assembled onstage, minus Reggie Pace who's out of town and whose smiling face and enormous energy were missed and David Hood who was apparently quite sick tonight. Of tonight's bands, this is the one I've been following the longest - since 2007.
Drummer Lance Koehler took charge, instructing the crowd, "We need that rumpus to be shaking!" and taking off with enough brass to ensure that that happened in short order.
One girl, perched on table, danced with every part of her body while sitting down. Most of us just danced in place as Bryan Hooten took the mic and rapped the next song.
"This is like heaven," Lance yelled. "We have chandeliers, we have beer! Here's to the Broadberry!"
It's a toast worth making. We've entered a new stage of Richmond's music scene and it's exciting to think of what's to come.
Tonight wasn't about predictability, it was about celebrating all the bands who will play there in the future.
You can be sure I'll be there with all my kith, getting my toes stepped on and enjoying every moment.
Monday, February 10, 2014
What's Your Rush?
It was fifty years ago today, so there was that.
But first there was pre-gaming at Secco before facing the hordes of screaming fans.
The Sunday "secret stash" yielded up Durin Pigato, an oddball grape from Liguria, Italy recommended as a winter-worthy white.
True that, which made it almost, but not quite, as satisfying as it had been standing in front of an open fire hearth in the gardens of Colonial Williamsburg earlier this afternoon.
A nibble of almonds with za'atar and sea salt presented two distinct pleasures: biting into the thick, dense nuts and licking my fingers of the oily sheen of spice and salt left behind.
More food followed - fried calamari with squid ink aioli, fromager d'affinois, a double cream soft cow's cheese the consistency of fudge and every bit as obscene, thick-veined Rogue Creamery smokey blue and jamon serrano because what's a little cheese without some meat.
Conversation was courtesy of a nearby couple with all kinds of interesting things to share.
He's a poet on hiatus (I know a few of those) about to open Ardent (!) brewery in Scott's Addition, easily the best name I've seen for a suds-making operation.
But then, word use would be a strength of someone whose graduate degree is in creative writing.
We talked about the challenges of daily blogging, which he used to do, too, and the particular feeling you get when you reread your post the next morning and find yourself wondering how you ever wrote such a poor excuse for a sentence the night before.
I had to laugh when she politely inquired of him what he'd done about planning Valentine's Day, telling him, "that's all on you." He sheepishly admitted he hadn't done much yet but was working toward it.
It's funny how we abdicate the planning of a day of romance to the same sex that waits till Christmas eve to shop for presents.
Fortified as only obscure wine and small plates can, we made our way to the Camel for the three bands celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Beatles' appearance on Ed Sullivan.
When I was in college, the first question people asked you at a party was "Beatles or Stones?" and while I think it's like asking "apples or oranges?" I think that the Beatles are the bedrock of modern music whether I prefer the Stones' music or not. Honestly, at this point in my life, I've heard both too much.
Turns out we'd already missed the Girtles, although a friend said they'd played a very short set. Another friend greeted me, unexpectedly sporting a new mustache. A drummer gave me the hi sign from across the bar.
Fredericksburg's Blue Tips played next and I was surprised to see that their lead singer was the same as for the multi-talented High Steps. Small world.
They began with later Beatles' music and then jumped back to the short, sassy three-chord songs that had the teenyboppers screaming. I'm not ashamed to say I was bopping right along in my bar stool.
During the break, I chatted with organizer Prabir, curious if there had been any coordination to avoid repeating songs tonight and he assured me there had been.
Finally the band billed as "trained monkeys with voting rights" aka Goldrush took the stage and the one song I knew for sure they'd do was "Eleanor Rigby" because that's been in their repertoire for years and they didn't disappoint.
Where they won my heart was doing the inscrutable "Tomorrow Never Knows," an unlikely song off "Revolver," my favorite Beatles album and one that I would have never expected to hear tonight.
But with a catalog the size of the Beatles', I was foolish to have any expectations at all. The same could be said about living an ardent life.
Better to turn off your mind, relax and float downstream.
But first there was pre-gaming at Secco before facing the hordes of screaming fans.
The Sunday "secret stash" yielded up Durin Pigato, an oddball grape from Liguria, Italy recommended as a winter-worthy white.
True that, which made it almost, but not quite, as satisfying as it had been standing in front of an open fire hearth in the gardens of Colonial Williamsburg earlier this afternoon.
A nibble of almonds with za'atar and sea salt presented two distinct pleasures: biting into the thick, dense nuts and licking my fingers of the oily sheen of spice and salt left behind.
More food followed - fried calamari with squid ink aioli, fromager d'affinois, a double cream soft cow's cheese the consistency of fudge and every bit as obscene, thick-veined Rogue Creamery smokey blue and jamon serrano because what's a little cheese without some meat.
Conversation was courtesy of a nearby couple with all kinds of interesting things to share.
He's a poet on hiatus (I know a few of those) about to open Ardent (!) brewery in Scott's Addition, easily the best name I've seen for a suds-making operation.
But then, word use would be a strength of someone whose graduate degree is in creative writing.
We talked about the challenges of daily blogging, which he used to do, too, and the particular feeling you get when you reread your post the next morning and find yourself wondering how you ever wrote such a poor excuse for a sentence the night before.
I had to laugh when she politely inquired of him what he'd done about planning Valentine's Day, telling him, "that's all on you." He sheepishly admitted he hadn't done much yet but was working toward it.
It's funny how we abdicate the planning of a day of romance to the same sex that waits till Christmas eve to shop for presents.
Fortified as only obscure wine and small plates can, we made our way to the Camel for the three bands celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Beatles' appearance on Ed Sullivan.
When I was in college, the first question people asked you at a party was "Beatles or Stones?" and while I think it's like asking "apples or oranges?" I think that the Beatles are the bedrock of modern music whether I prefer the Stones' music or not. Honestly, at this point in my life, I've heard both too much.
Turns out we'd already missed the Girtles, although a friend said they'd played a very short set. Another friend greeted me, unexpectedly sporting a new mustache. A drummer gave me the hi sign from across the bar.
Fredericksburg's Blue Tips played next and I was surprised to see that their lead singer was the same as for the multi-talented High Steps. Small world.
They began with later Beatles' music and then jumped back to the short, sassy three-chord songs that had the teenyboppers screaming. I'm not ashamed to say I was bopping right along in my bar stool.
During the break, I chatted with organizer Prabir, curious if there had been any coordination to avoid repeating songs tonight and he assured me there had been.
Finally the band billed as "trained monkeys with voting rights" aka Goldrush took the stage and the one song I knew for sure they'd do was "Eleanor Rigby" because that's been in their repertoire for years and they didn't disappoint.
Where they won my heart was doing the inscrutable "Tomorrow Never Knows," an unlikely song off "Revolver," my favorite Beatles album and one that I would have never expected to hear tonight.
But with a catalog the size of the Beatles', I was foolish to have any expectations at all. The same could be said about living an ardent life.
Better to turn off your mind, relax and float downstream.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Melodic Little Pill
You can't count on many Memorial Day Sunday throwdowns that involve the spawn of a Beatle.
And yet, here we had one tonight, being thrown down at the Camel.
Risa Binder and Goldrush were opening for the son of Sir Paul McCartney, James.
Given that it's the second day of a three day weekend, I never thought for a minute that the show would start on time (8:00).
And yet when I arrived at 8:23, I caught only the last of Risa's songs before her set ended.
I hate when that happens.
I found a music buddy who works at the National to chat with (heard a fabulous story of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon being led down Broad Street in a shower towel drunk) while Goldrush set up.
I'd already heard from bandleader Prabir that they were playing as a trio, not a quartet tonight, with the assurance, "This is just a tangent. We'll get back to being a quartet."
As huge Beatles fans, I felt sure that Goldrush's adrenaline was running especially hard tonight.
Working off of Prabir's phone for their set list ("We've gone paperless at Goldrush," he said), the band played a bunch of newer songs, including one violinist Treesa and bassist Matt had written for Prabir's birthday.
Mid-song, a threesome came in and proceeded to stand directly in front of the stage.
The problem was, everyone else in the room was sitting, and the only standing people were against the wall.
The man behind me got huffy at his blocked view, demanding of his server, "Is this the way it's gonna be?" to which she shrugged.
"No, really!" he said to show his displeasure at having a potentially blocked view of Macca 2.
I eventually asked the trio to move to the side and they did.
Goldrush sounded really strong and the crowd repaid them with an almost Listening Room-attentiveness.
Or maybe they were just captivated by a band with a purple-haired violinist in the cutest pencil skirt and slingbacks.
When they finished, a friend came over and said, "You were right! I like them better as a trio!"
But as we discussed, some rooms require a bigger sound and then you need your drummer.
Bassist Matt put it best. "I miss my Gregs. The trio sound is the sound of my loneliness."
Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?
During the break, I saw Prabir signing CDs for fans. So cute.
The stage was set for James McCartney's set with a piano, lots of guitars and even more candles.
"Ooh, very atmospheric," a friend said. "I like it."
I like how he rhymed "right" and "shite," but then, I'm a language geek.
In fact, I liked a lot of his British phrasing, including the title of the second song he did, "Life's a Pill."
Life is a pill
Give it to me now
An inordinate number of his song titles were one word - "Angel," "Bluebell," "Wisteria-" and, yes, he looks a lot like Dad, especially around the eyes and mouth.
Especially when his lips were pursed.
His show attire was a black t-shirt with leather braces hanging at his side.
"Thanks for coming out," he said by way of greeting. "I do have a song called "Virginia" on my new album, but I'm not gonna play it tonight. Just thought I'd mention that."
And then he launched into "You and Me, Individually."
Hey, he's Paul McCartney's son; he can do whatever the hell he pleases, I'm sure.
And he wanted to do Neil Young's "Old Man," full of lyrics one could take any number of ways.
Old man, look at my life
I'm a lot like you were
The man had a powerful voice (good DNA, you know), and whether he was playing guitar or piano, a talented musician.
What he wasn't was much of a talker.
At one point fairly far in, he joked, "I'll try not to not talk a little. Okay, this song is "Snow" and it's about spiders and things."
After pulling his braces up, apropos of nothing, he announced, "Who likes awkward conversations? Yea, I do, too."
So that explained that.
He closed his set with the single, "Strong as You," from his new album, saying, "I wrote this while listening to "Here Comes the Sun."
Hard for me to say
How happy I am
Happy man
I am strong enough
To make it through
I am strong enough
Strong as you
When he returned for his encore (led by an assistant with a flashlight, no less), he did three songs for the crowd who hadn't budged when he walked off.
After doing "New York Times," he said, "If that song was my penultimate song, this song is my grand finale. It's called "Thinkin' About Rock and Roll."
I doubt there was ever a moment in his life when he could think about anything else.
Which made it my de rigueur Memorial Day Sunday throwdown.
And yet, here we had one tonight, being thrown down at the Camel.
Risa Binder and Goldrush were opening for the son of Sir Paul McCartney, James.
Given that it's the second day of a three day weekend, I never thought for a minute that the show would start on time (8:00).
And yet when I arrived at 8:23, I caught only the last of Risa's songs before her set ended.
I hate when that happens.
I found a music buddy who works at the National to chat with (heard a fabulous story of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon being led down Broad Street in a shower towel drunk) while Goldrush set up.
I'd already heard from bandleader Prabir that they were playing as a trio, not a quartet tonight, with the assurance, "This is just a tangent. We'll get back to being a quartet."
As huge Beatles fans, I felt sure that Goldrush's adrenaline was running especially hard tonight.
Working off of Prabir's phone for their set list ("We've gone paperless at Goldrush," he said), the band played a bunch of newer songs, including one violinist Treesa and bassist Matt had written for Prabir's birthday.
Mid-song, a threesome came in and proceeded to stand directly in front of the stage.
The problem was, everyone else in the room was sitting, and the only standing people were against the wall.
The man behind me got huffy at his blocked view, demanding of his server, "Is this the way it's gonna be?" to which she shrugged.
"No, really!" he said to show his displeasure at having a potentially blocked view of Macca 2.
I eventually asked the trio to move to the side and they did.
Goldrush sounded really strong and the crowd repaid them with an almost Listening Room-attentiveness.
Or maybe they were just captivated by a band with a purple-haired violinist in the cutest pencil skirt and slingbacks.
When they finished, a friend came over and said, "You were right! I like them better as a trio!"
But as we discussed, some rooms require a bigger sound and then you need your drummer.
Bassist Matt put it best. "I miss my Gregs. The trio sound is the sound of my loneliness."
Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?
During the break, I saw Prabir signing CDs for fans. So cute.
The stage was set for James McCartney's set with a piano, lots of guitars and even more candles.
"Ooh, very atmospheric," a friend said. "I like it."
I like how he rhymed "right" and "shite," but then, I'm a language geek.
In fact, I liked a lot of his British phrasing, including the title of the second song he did, "Life's a Pill."
Life is a pill
Give it to me now
An inordinate number of his song titles were one word - "Angel," "Bluebell," "Wisteria-" and, yes, he looks a lot like Dad, especially around the eyes and mouth.
Especially when his lips were pursed.
His show attire was a black t-shirt with leather braces hanging at his side.
"Thanks for coming out," he said by way of greeting. "I do have a song called "Virginia" on my new album, but I'm not gonna play it tonight. Just thought I'd mention that."
And then he launched into "You and Me, Individually."
Hey, he's Paul McCartney's son; he can do whatever the hell he pleases, I'm sure.
And he wanted to do Neil Young's "Old Man," full of lyrics one could take any number of ways.
Old man, look at my life
I'm a lot like you were
The man had a powerful voice (good DNA, you know), and whether he was playing guitar or piano, a talented musician.
What he wasn't was much of a talker.
At one point fairly far in, he joked, "I'll try not to not talk a little. Okay, this song is "Snow" and it's about spiders and things."
After pulling his braces up, apropos of nothing, he announced, "Who likes awkward conversations? Yea, I do, too."
So that explained that.
He closed his set with the single, "Strong as You," from his new album, saying, "I wrote this while listening to "Here Comes the Sun."
Hard for me to say
How happy I am
Happy man
I am strong enough
To make it through
I am strong enough
Strong as you
When he returned for his encore (led by an assistant with a flashlight, no less), he did three songs for the crowd who hadn't budged when he walked off.
After doing "New York Times," he said, "If that song was my penultimate song, this song is my grand finale. It's called "Thinkin' About Rock and Roll."
I doubt there was ever a moment in his life when he could think about anything else.
Which made it my de rigueur Memorial Day Sunday throwdown.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
A Mad and Faithful Telling
I promised my mother I'd eat pancakes today
And I meant to, I really did (not that I'm a good Catholic girl or anything), but the evening got away from me.
But not the celebrating, which began with an overdue happy hour with a theater type.
We met at Heritage by default because she was parked near it, but I knew better and should have changed course.
Instead, I walked right up to it, passing a man by the door who said, "Those are great tights," without ever breaking stride or making eye contact with me.
Since Heritage got two stellar reviews, it looks to be busy every night I drive by it.
Which is great, except that means no more happy hour prices and why would anyone be drinking for full price at 5:45 in this town?
It had been over a month since Maxine's daughter and I last met up, so as soon as I got my Virginia on with a glass of the oh-so-smooth Breaux Vineyards Equation Merlot X, she insisted we order something off the menu that boasts, "Chef/ Daddy Joe Sparatta."
I'd say congrats were in order.
We chose the Virginia cheese plate (Mountaineer, Appalachian, Grayson) to go with the local wine along with a charcuterie plate.
Tasso ham, beef summer sausage, lomo, Berkshire lardo, and duck ham sat next to pickled quails' egg halves, pickled veggies and pimento cheese.
Pick-up food allowed us to grab bites between stories about dated plays, gun talk at parties and storytelling with a mic.
And that was just her.
Meanwhile, the restaurant was filling up non-stop, making our stools valuable real estate.
A man came in and eyed one stool next to her and one next to me.
After requesting us to move down, I agreed but asked what was in it for me.
"A glass of wine?" he offered. My backside slid over in no time.
By 8:00, the joint was jumping, we'd both been debriefed and she was off to have dinner with her husband.
What else was there for me to do but get myself to a Mardi Gras party?
If not today, I was going to have to wait a while for another opportunity to laissez les bons temps rouler.
It was being hosted by two of the Richmond Symphony's finest, also known as Treesa and Matt of Goldrush.
So, right there, that assured me I'd know a bunch of people plus there'd be symphony types.
Hell, yea.
Walking up the sidewalk to their abode, a neighbor came down her steps, stopped and complimented my tights.
One of the guests socializing on the front porch stopped me on the way in and insisted on putting beads on me so as to be spared an attack by Treesa, apparently tonight's bead pusher.
The guy got one strand around my neck before I let him know that I'm really not the jewelry type, even on Lent eve.
Inside, I learned that Matt reads my blog when he told me, "I hope other people don't read your blog like I do. Blah, blah, Matt, blah, blah, Goldrush."
I think it's safe to say they do, Matt.
The party got dancing in earnest when M.J.'s "PYT" came on, but Matt stopped it toward the end and settled into a slower groove.
"Classy, huh?" he asked me, pointing at me. "I changed the music for you."
I was fine, I told him. I like "PYT."
You see, Matt and I have a history when it comes to the music he plays at his parties.
At their housewarming extravaganza two summers ago, I'd blogged some harsh words about his party mix. Something exactly along the lines of:
Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.
I'd completely forgotten what I'd written but during a Nas song, Matt sidled up in his hat and mask and when I said I'd been expecting an eclectic mix from him tonight, said, "Apparently you aren't the only person who doesn't like Rick Astley and Journey."
You don't say?
Still, if I can do my small part to enrich parties at Gold Manor, I know I will sleep better at night.
Because I'd arrived midway through the party, the jambalaya was pretty much gone.
I was offered some bourbon punch, a concoction of bourbon, ice cream, fruit juicy red Hawaiian Punch and god knows what else.
I demurred because I don't drink bourbon, but the best assessment came from a music-loving girl I know from shows.
Gesturing toward the punch bowl, she said, "That would be a horrible thing to puke."
It was never even an option.
King cake was brought out and while I didn't give a fig about finding the baby in the cake, I did enjoy several slivers of it while chatting with a favorite drummer about the importance of dating someone whose musical passion matches your own.
As expected, the party was full of musicians and friends I knew and symphony musicians I didn't.
One, a handsome and new-to-the symphony violinist, walked up to the host and inquired, "Where are the single women?"
No question, men outnumbered women, so I felt his pain.
Luckily, he didn't have to suffer at an all night party.
Our hosts had informed us that they had to be up at 6 a.m., so they wanted us partied and out by midnight.
Fair enough.
By that time, Treesa had draped me with additional pink and green beads she deemed more coordinated with my outfit.
Matt had me laughing like mad when he lectured me about longevity, saying, "Don't give me that, "Back in my day we had cell phones stuck to the walls" bullshit!"
The guitarist had raved about the recent Milkstains show and how good they'd sounded.
The drummer had kindly invited me to his upcoming birthday celebration.
The music lover already knew what upcoming shows I'm going to, thanks to Facebook (I'm hoping).
And, Mom, I had enough king cake (i.e., flour and sugar topping) to make up for the pancakes (also known as flour and sugar topping) I promised but never ate.
So maybe I'll start Ash Wednesday by stacking 'em high to make up for it.
I'll even wear my beads while I eat them.
And I meant to, I really did (not that I'm a good Catholic girl or anything), but the evening got away from me.
But not the celebrating, which began with an overdue happy hour with a theater type.
We met at Heritage by default because she was parked near it, but I knew better and should have changed course.
Instead, I walked right up to it, passing a man by the door who said, "Those are great tights," without ever breaking stride or making eye contact with me.
Since Heritage got two stellar reviews, it looks to be busy every night I drive by it.
Which is great, except that means no more happy hour prices and why would anyone be drinking for full price at 5:45 in this town?
It had been over a month since Maxine's daughter and I last met up, so as soon as I got my Virginia on with a glass of the oh-so-smooth Breaux Vineyards Equation Merlot X, she insisted we order something off the menu that boasts, "Chef/ Daddy Joe Sparatta."
I'd say congrats were in order.
We chose the Virginia cheese plate (Mountaineer, Appalachian, Grayson) to go with the local wine along with a charcuterie plate.
Tasso ham, beef summer sausage, lomo, Berkshire lardo, and duck ham sat next to pickled quails' egg halves, pickled veggies and pimento cheese.
Pick-up food allowed us to grab bites between stories about dated plays, gun talk at parties and storytelling with a mic.
And that was just her.
Meanwhile, the restaurant was filling up non-stop, making our stools valuable real estate.
A man came in and eyed one stool next to her and one next to me.
After requesting us to move down, I agreed but asked what was in it for me.
"A glass of wine?" he offered. My backside slid over in no time.
By 8:00, the joint was jumping, we'd both been debriefed and she was off to have dinner with her husband.
What else was there for me to do but get myself to a Mardi Gras party?
If not today, I was going to have to wait a while for another opportunity to laissez les bons temps rouler.
It was being hosted by two of the Richmond Symphony's finest, also known as Treesa and Matt of Goldrush.
So, right there, that assured me I'd know a bunch of people plus there'd be symphony types.
Hell, yea.
Walking up the sidewalk to their abode, a neighbor came down her steps, stopped and complimented my tights.
One of the guests socializing on the front porch stopped me on the way in and insisted on putting beads on me so as to be spared an attack by Treesa, apparently tonight's bead pusher.
The guy got one strand around my neck before I let him know that I'm really not the jewelry type, even on Lent eve.
Inside, I learned that Matt reads my blog when he told me, "I hope other people don't read your blog like I do. Blah, blah, Matt, blah, blah, Goldrush."
I think it's safe to say they do, Matt.
The party got dancing in earnest when M.J.'s "PYT" came on, but Matt stopped it toward the end and settled into a slower groove.
"Classy, huh?" he asked me, pointing at me. "I changed the music for you."
I was fine, I told him. I like "PYT."
You see, Matt and I have a history when it comes to the music he plays at his parties.
At their housewarming extravaganza two summers ago, I'd blogged some harsh words about his party mix. Something exactly along the lines of:
Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.
I'd completely forgotten what I'd written but during a Nas song, Matt sidled up in his hat and mask and when I said I'd been expecting an eclectic mix from him tonight, said, "Apparently you aren't the only person who doesn't like Rick Astley and Journey."
You don't say?
Still, if I can do my small part to enrich parties at Gold Manor, I know I will sleep better at night.
Because I'd arrived midway through the party, the jambalaya was pretty much gone.
I was offered some bourbon punch, a concoction of bourbon, ice cream, fruit juicy red Hawaiian Punch and god knows what else.
I demurred because I don't drink bourbon, but the best assessment came from a music-loving girl I know from shows.
Gesturing toward the punch bowl, she said, "That would be a horrible thing to puke."
It was never even an option.
King cake was brought out and while I didn't give a fig about finding the baby in the cake, I did enjoy several slivers of it while chatting with a favorite drummer about the importance of dating someone whose musical passion matches your own.
As expected, the party was full of musicians and friends I knew and symphony musicians I didn't.
One, a handsome and new-to-the symphony violinist, walked up to the host and inquired, "Where are the single women?"
No question, men outnumbered women, so I felt his pain.
Luckily, he didn't have to suffer at an all night party.
Our hosts had informed us that they had to be up at 6 a.m., so they wanted us partied and out by midnight.
Fair enough.
By that time, Treesa had draped me with additional pink and green beads she deemed more coordinated with my outfit.
Matt had me laughing like mad when he lectured me about longevity, saying, "Don't give me that, "Back in my day we had cell phones stuck to the walls" bullshit!"
The guitarist had raved about the recent Milkstains show and how good they'd sounded.
The drummer had kindly invited me to his upcoming birthday celebration.
The music lover already knew what upcoming shows I'm going to, thanks to Facebook (I'm hoping).
And, Mom, I had enough king cake (i.e., flour and sugar topping) to make up for the pancakes (also known as flour and sugar topping) I promised but never ate.
So maybe I'll start Ash Wednesday by stacking 'em high to make up for it.
I'll even wear my beads while I eat them.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
In the Jungle
The Mobay was stellar. The monsters were laughable. The music was oddly-lit.
Our ambitions were hardly lofty tonight - bad Japanese sci-fi was more than enough.
Since it was showing at the VMFA, Amuse got the nod for dinner.
Sitting at the end of the bar, I sipped VMFA Meritage as I watched drinks with a strong visual element being concocted.
The Kaleidoscope, with its multiple jello "jewels," went out in droves and the woman next to me got the Ice Cube, hers with a big round blue ice cube in the enclosed glass.
Our amuse bouche was a housemade cracker with Mobay (a Wisconsin made version of Morbier done with sheep and goats' milk) and a half grape on top.
It was one exquisite bite.
Tuscan kale and potato stew with housemade lamb sausage followed, although the broth was rather thin to be called a stew.
The flavors, though, were spot on.
Mussels with Surry sausage rounded out the meal as the hordes began to arrive and fill up the restaurant.
After sopping up the broth with as much bread as they'd give us, we beat feet for the auditorium.
Back section, front row, we got center seats for the show.
Goldrush was performing an original score for "Destroy All Monsters," a bad 1968 Japanese movie.
Host Trent Nicholas greeted the crowd, saying, "Welcome to our lecture on ancient Egyptian sarcophagi."
He did his best Ed Sullivan imitation, noting of Goldrush, "They're a great bunch of kids."
Bandleader Prabir broke it down even further. "Alright, thanks for coming. Let's do this!"
Over visuals of Monster Island (Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan) and the undersea farm, the band played their original score which, not surprisingly, included many of their usual songs.
Let's just say "Roll One" reared its familiar head.
There was a feminine alien race (the leader wore gold pumps and white gloves while looking through binoculars on the beach) controlling the scientific minds of the men.
So easily led.
And then there was Prabir singing while peering out from under his bangs while Matt, Treesa and Greg tore it up on bass, violin and drums respectively.
There was also the pleasure of Japanese movie subtitles.
"If they fail, we'll be vaporized, too."
"Let's just relax and have some coffee."
Clearly authenticity was not a goal in 1968.
Half the time the monsters looked like they were dancing not terrorizing and the models of buildings used in the devastation scenes looked like Monopoly houses.
Picky, picky.
Luckily, the seamless soundtrack was entertainment enough...at least for those of us who like a "really big shew."
End of corny humor.
With the movie over by 8:15, I had plenty of time to get back to J-Ward and the Speakeasy.
It was my first time there and I was encouraged by the doors and hallways required to enter it.
Once in, though, it was a bit underwhelming.
High ceilings, overpriced bevvies and the feel of a room for rent.
Club music was pumping and little green pinpoints of light flashed, but it was not a club crowd.
It was the CD release show for Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat and I walked in to find a favorite friend at the bar.
We shared our disappointment at expecting the feel of a speakeasy and walking into what felt like a banquet hall, but we also shared our ideas on how it could be turned into something far more interesting as venues go.
Sadly, management was not asking us to do any consulting on taking the business in a new direction.
Pity.
Jonathan Vassar was opening and his beautiful and sad songs had to fight to be heard over the mindless chatter of the growing crowd.
If nothing else, they could have shut up given the auspicious occasion.
"This is the last show I'm going to play till I'm a father," Jonathan noted.
Considering that's not happening until February, I did everything I could to hear what he was offering tonight.
As usual, well-written songs full of sadness and even a new Speckled Bird song (the bird is the one on the nest until February).
The minute his Americana stopped, the music came back on at 120 beats per minute.
My friend and I just looked at each other and started laughing at the incongruity.
Meanwhile, all kinds of musician friends I hadn't seen lately stopped by my stool to say hello.
The good news is some of my favorite musicians are practicing a new lineup, a fact which had me smiling almost as much as they were when talking about it.
Finally Zac and the Junglebeat took the stage to celebrate their new record release with angelic voices, schooled musicianship and non-traditional song structures.
Oh, yes, and a lamp at the back of the stage.
Zac loves cracking wise and it wasn't long before he said, "I hope y'all took LSD or Ecstasy before this or the $1000 deposit for the lights was a waste."
He was referring to the green lights and the flashing circles of lights that made it feel like a bad middle school dance.
Saying, "If you're able-bodied or even just like us, then come closer to the front," he pulled the crowd in and they did as they were told.
The band moved effortlessly through old, new and brand new material, including a song Zac described as, "This song is about Mila Kunis but it's also about my lack of masculinity."
A song so new that humans other than the band hadn't heard it was "Colossus" with its three-part harmonies.
Another such stellar first-timer was "Babbayagga," which came from a bad dream about chicken legs and for a while meandered in a Latin direction.
Older songs like "Shoot Me to Sleep" got big responses from what was clearly a crowd of friends and fans.
"This song is about being at a party and you're stoned and everyone else is drunk," Zac said by way of introduction. "Sorry, Mom and Dad."
His parents smiled back proudly.
At the end of "In the Jungle," violinist Jessica chastised the bandleader, saying, "Zac made it too fast."
He kept to tempo for the next one, saying, "This song is called 'Fond of Blonds.' I'm open to anything but I'm just saying I'm fond of blonds."
"Fresh Beast" galloped along and all of a sudden the band was through and Zac was exhorting everyone to buy CDs.
He thanked the crowd, he thanked Jonathan, noting how handsome he looked, and he thanked the Speakeasy.
It was a great show by a beautifully musical band who doesn't play out much in a new-to-me venue right in my charming neighborhood.
And, yes, a speakeasy in Jackson Ward has the potential to be a great idea.
For that matter, I've got a few suggestions on how to realize that potential.
You know, in case anyone's interested.
Our ambitions were hardly lofty tonight - bad Japanese sci-fi was more than enough.
Since it was showing at the VMFA, Amuse got the nod for dinner.
Sitting at the end of the bar, I sipped VMFA Meritage as I watched drinks with a strong visual element being concocted.
The Kaleidoscope, with its multiple jello "jewels," went out in droves and the woman next to me got the Ice Cube, hers with a big round blue ice cube in the enclosed glass.
Our amuse bouche was a housemade cracker with Mobay (a Wisconsin made version of Morbier done with sheep and goats' milk) and a half grape on top.
It was one exquisite bite.
Tuscan kale and potato stew with housemade lamb sausage followed, although the broth was rather thin to be called a stew.
The flavors, though, were spot on.
Mussels with Surry sausage rounded out the meal as the hordes began to arrive and fill up the restaurant.
After sopping up the broth with as much bread as they'd give us, we beat feet for the auditorium.
Back section, front row, we got center seats for the show.
Goldrush was performing an original score for "Destroy All Monsters," a bad 1968 Japanese movie.
Host Trent Nicholas greeted the crowd, saying, "Welcome to our lecture on ancient Egyptian sarcophagi."
He did his best Ed Sullivan imitation, noting of Goldrush, "They're a great bunch of kids."
Bandleader Prabir broke it down even further. "Alright, thanks for coming. Let's do this!"
Over visuals of Monster Island (Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan) and the undersea farm, the band played their original score which, not surprisingly, included many of their usual songs.
Let's just say "Roll One" reared its familiar head.
There was a feminine alien race (the leader wore gold pumps and white gloves while looking through binoculars on the beach) controlling the scientific minds of the men.
So easily led.
And then there was Prabir singing while peering out from under his bangs while Matt, Treesa and Greg tore it up on bass, violin and drums respectively.
There was also the pleasure of Japanese movie subtitles.
"If they fail, we'll be vaporized, too."
"Let's just relax and have some coffee."
Clearly authenticity was not a goal in 1968.
Half the time the monsters looked like they were dancing not terrorizing and the models of buildings used in the devastation scenes looked like Monopoly houses.
Picky, picky.
Luckily, the seamless soundtrack was entertainment enough...at least for those of us who like a "really big shew."
End of corny humor.
With the movie over by 8:15, I had plenty of time to get back to J-Ward and the Speakeasy.
It was my first time there and I was encouraged by the doors and hallways required to enter it.
Once in, though, it was a bit underwhelming.
High ceilings, overpriced bevvies and the feel of a room for rent.
Club music was pumping and little green pinpoints of light flashed, but it was not a club crowd.
It was the CD release show for Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat and I walked in to find a favorite friend at the bar.
We shared our disappointment at expecting the feel of a speakeasy and walking into what felt like a banquet hall, but we also shared our ideas on how it could be turned into something far more interesting as venues go.
Sadly, management was not asking us to do any consulting on taking the business in a new direction.
Pity.
Jonathan Vassar was opening and his beautiful and sad songs had to fight to be heard over the mindless chatter of the growing crowd.
If nothing else, they could have shut up given the auspicious occasion.
"This is the last show I'm going to play till I'm a father," Jonathan noted.
Considering that's not happening until February, I did everything I could to hear what he was offering tonight.
As usual, well-written songs full of sadness and even a new Speckled Bird song (the bird is the one on the nest until February).
The minute his Americana stopped, the music came back on at 120 beats per minute.
My friend and I just looked at each other and started laughing at the incongruity.
Meanwhile, all kinds of musician friends I hadn't seen lately stopped by my stool to say hello.
The good news is some of my favorite musicians are practicing a new lineup, a fact which had me smiling almost as much as they were when talking about it.
Finally Zac and the Junglebeat took the stage to celebrate their new record release with angelic voices, schooled musicianship and non-traditional song structures.
Oh, yes, and a lamp at the back of the stage.
Zac loves cracking wise and it wasn't long before he said, "I hope y'all took LSD or Ecstasy before this or the $1000 deposit for the lights was a waste."
He was referring to the green lights and the flashing circles of lights that made it feel like a bad middle school dance.
Saying, "If you're able-bodied or even just like us, then come closer to the front," he pulled the crowd in and they did as they were told.
The band moved effortlessly through old, new and brand new material, including a song Zac described as, "This song is about Mila Kunis but it's also about my lack of masculinity."
A song so new that humans other than the band hadn't heard it was "Colossus" with its three-part harmonies.
Another such stellar first-timer was "Babbayagga," which came from a bad dream about chicken legs and for a while meandered in a Latin direction.
Older songs like "Shoot Me to Sleep" got big responses from what was clearly a crowd of friends and fans.
"This song is about being at a party and you're stoned and everyone else is drunk," Zac said by way of introduction. "Sorry, Mom and Dad."
His parents smiled back proudly.
At the end of "In the Jungle," violinist Jessica chastised the bandleader, saying, "Zac made it too fast."
He kept to tempo for the next one, saying, "This song is called 'Fond of Blonds.' I'm open to anything but I'm just saying I'm fond of blonds."
"Fresh Beast" galloped along and all of a sudden the band was through and Zac was exhorting everyone to buy CDs.
He thanked the crowd, he thanked Jonathan, noting how handsome he looked, and he thanked the Speakeasy.
It was a great show by a beautifully musical band who doesn't play out much in a new-to-me venue right in my charming neighborhood.
And, yes, a speakeasy in Jackson Ward has the potential to be a great idea.
For that matter, I've got a few suggestions on how to realize that potential.
You know, in case anyone's interested.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Coo Coo Ca Choo
You just never know how things are going to blow up on you.
One minute I'm walking into 2113 (where they've just added a sinuous partition to separate the dining area from the bar) and the next someone is asking me if I'm with the Ad Club.
As it turned out, I think my friend and I were the only two non-advertising people in the bar for the next hour and a half.
But that was okay because advertising types are a fascinating group to watch network (so much intensity! so much self-awareness!), especially with alcohol.
As non-networking types, my friend and I discussed important topics of our own like how music must never be far away no matter where in your home you are.
She mentioned how tired she is of hearing '90s music everywhere (despite the fact that it's the decade of her youth) now that it's become the new oldies.
It made her feel my pain, that of the multiple decades of old music I've had to endure for years.
As her mother put it, "I never need to hear The Doors again."
Amen, Mom.
When we parted ways, the adsters were in full swing talking to each other while looking around to see who else they needed to connect with.
Walking toward the Poe Museum, a guy said hello and, "I like those shoes."
Diversity Thrift, three bucks, I said, clearly impressing him with what look like espadrille wedges from the '70s.
Since when do men notice shoes?
Tonight was the Poe Museum's monthly Unhappy Hour, an evening of music, drama and film with liberal doses of corny humor, male humor and band humor.
It was a gorgeous night to be in a brick-walled garden inhaling soft, warm air with a nearly full moon above.
Walking into the Poe garden, I saw that Goldrush (all clad in black Kronos Quartet-style) had already begun playing so I found a spot against a curved tree trunk.
When they finished their song, Treesa spotted me and Prabir said hello via the microphone.
"This one's for you, Karen," he said. "This isn't about you, Karen but I wrote it right around that time we discussed this situation and you agreed and I agreed, so here we go."
Let's just say the lyrics had something to do with, "Thank you, thank you, but I am a mess, so thank you."
Ah, yes, that messy period.
"This one's called 'Tyrannasaurus Rex. Ma'am, this is dedicated to you," he said pointing at a woman in the third row. "Nothing personal."
During the song, the Man About Town showed up and when I went to hug him, he lifted me clean off the ground with his bear-like embrace.
An inquiry into his state of being resulted in, "Better now."
With the fountain burbling behind the trio of Goldrush, they played "Eleanor Rigby" before excusing themselves.
"We're going to take a break but stick around and be unhappy," Prabir exhorted.
Why come to Unhappy Hour if not to be maudlin?
Next up was Ryan Lee unburdening his soul with Poe's short story, "The Black Cat," done partly as a dramatization and partly as a reading.
While it was easy to get lost in Poe's language ("Evil thoughts became my soul intimates"), modern reminders abounded.
Motorcycles roared down Main Street. A helicopter whirred overhead. The museum's a/c unit cranked on and off.
Lee's performance ended with him portraying the guilt-ridden murderer of the story, on his knees in the grass and sobbing.
"I hope you're all thoroughly miserable now," the museum's director said afterwards.
I passed the subsequent break discussing with my seatmate hanging heavy winter coats with metaphors about the tensile strength of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Granted, it was more hysterical than unhappy.
Goldrush returned to do "our most macabre song about why you should love people."
I'm not sure how macabre a song called "Kiss and Make Up" can be considered but the crowd went along with it.
"This one's for Karen, so she can have more bass," Prabir said a second time, surprising no one more than me.
A tease of a few notes had my seatmate humming the melody of "Mrs. Robinson" before they launched into a Goldrush standard, "Roll One."
Mid-song, Prabir says, "Here's what you came for," and gestured to Matt who did a very fine upright bass solo.
The song "Don't Worry" had M.A.T. cracking, "That's the Romney/Ryan theme song."
There was a song dedicated to the Indians in the audience ("I guess it's a self-dedication," Prabir cracked only to have a guy yell afterwards, "I'm Hindu!") and a song for Christians.
You know, the classic, "Jesus Christ Loves His Beans and Rice."
It was getting harder and harder to stay in unhappy mode.
Their closer was a rousing and rocking cover of "I am the Walrus" and looking around, I was reminded that after almost 50 years, everyone likes the Beatles.
When they finished, some guys took their place in the center of the garden with what looked like a big, black parachute.
Nope, it was way better - an inflatable movie screen.
That's right, something that inflated in seconds and rather resembled a moon bounce grew right before our very eyes until it was touching tree branches.
"Now it's a party!" Man About Town joked.
Screening was "The Persistence of Poe," a film by Christine Stoddard about the Poe/Richmond connection.
Full of fabulous old black and white photographs of the city in the 19th century, the documentary was still in the "rough cut" stage but I found it full of fun facts about Poe's life.
When the film mentioned Poe's first love, the older Elmira, my companion leaned in and murmured, "Mrs. Robinson."
Clearly we had a motif going.
When the film ended, it wasn't like the house lights were going to come up so everyone sat there momentarily.
I mentioned that I thought we should hang around and watch the screen deflate.
"I don't want to talk about deflation," M.A.T. quipped.
Not at middle age anyway, I responded.
"Touche!" he roared, throwing back his head and laughing his distinctive laugh.
The museum's director instructed us all to come back in October for the next unhappy hour.
"Next month's theme is 'The Mask of the Red Death,' so everyone will be dropping like flies," he deadpanned.
I can hardly wait for the misery of it all.
One minute I'm walking into 2113 (where they've just added a sinuous partition to separate the dining area from the bar) and the next someone is asking me if I'm with the Ad Club.
As it turned out, I think my friend and I were the only two non-advertising people in the bar for the next hour and a half.
But that was okay because advertising types are a fascinating group to watch network (so much intensity! so much self-awareness!), especially with alcohol.
As non-networking types, my friend and I discussed important topics of our own like how music must never be far away no matter where in your home you are.
She mentioned how tired she is of hearing '90s music everywhere (despite the fact that it's the decade of her youth) now that it's become the new oldies.
It made her feel my pain, that of the multiple decades of old music I've had to endure for years.
As her mother put it, "I never need to hear The Doors again."
Amen, Mom.
When we parted ways, the adsters were in full swing talking to each other while looking around to see who else they needed to connect with.
Walking toward the Poe Museum, a guy said hello and, "I like those shoes."
Diversity Thrift, three bucks, I said, clearly impressing him with what look like espadrille wedges from the '70s.
Since when do men notice shoes?
Tonight was the Poe Museum's monthly Unhappy Hour, an evening of music, drama and film with liberal doses of corny humor, male humor and band humor.
It was a gorgeous night to be in a brick-walled garden inhaling soft, warm air with a nearly full moon above.
Walking into the Poe garden, I saw that Goldrush (all clad in black Kronos Quartet-style) had already begun playing so I found a spot against a curved tree trunk.
When they finished their song, Treesa spotted me and Prabir said hello via the microphone.
"This one's for you, Karen," he said. "This isn't about you, Karen but I wrote it right around that time we discussed this situation and you agreed and I agreed, so here we go."
Let's just say the lyrics had something to do with, "Thank you, thank you, but I am a mess, so thank you."
Ah, yes, that messy period.
"This one's called 'Tyrannasaurus Rex. Ma'am, this is dedicated to you," he said pointing at a woman in the third row. "Nothing personal."
During the song, the Man About Town showed up and when I went to hug him, he lifted me clean off the ground with his bear-like embrace.
An inquiry into his state of being resulted in, "Better now."
With the fountain burbling behind the trio of Goldrush, they played "Eleanor Rigby" before excusing themselves.
"We're going to take a break but stick around and be unhappy," Prabir exhorted.
Why come to Unhappy Hour if not to be maudlin?
Next up was Ryan Lee unburdening his soul with Poe's short story, "The Black Cat," done partly as a dramatization and partly as a reading.
While it was easy to get lost in Poe's language ("Evil thoughts became my soul intimates"), modern reminders abounded.
Motorcycles roared down Main Street. A helicopter whirred overhead. The museum's a/c unit cranked on and off.
Lee's performance ended with him portraying the guilt-ridden murderer of the story, on his knees in the grass and sobbing.
"I hope you're all thoroughly miserable now," the museum's director said afterwards.
I passed the subsequent break discussing with my seatmate hanging heavy winter coats with metaphors about the tensile strength of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Granted, it was more hysterical than unhappy.
Goldrush returned to do "our most macabre song about why you should love people."
I'm not sure how macabre a song called "Kiss and Make Up" can be considered but the crowd went along with it.
"This one's for Karen, so she can have more bass," Prabir said a second time, surprising no one more than me.
A tease of a few notes had my seatmate humming the melody of "Mrs. Robinson" before they launched into a Goldrush standard, "Roll One."
Mid-song, Prabir says, "Here's what you came for," and gestured to Matt who did a very fine upright bass solo.
The song "Don't Worry" had M.A.T. cracking, "That's the Romney/Ryan theme song."
There was a song dedicated to the Indians in the audience ("I guess it's a self-dedication," Prabir cracked only to have a guy yell afterwards, "I'm Hindu!") and a song for Christians.
You know, the classic, "Jesus Christ Loves His Beans and Rice."
It was getting harder and harder to stay in unhappy mode.
Their closer was a rousing and rocking cover of "I am the Walrus" and looking around, I was reminded that after almost 50 years, everyone likes the Beatles.
When they finished, some guys took their place in the center of the garden with what looked like a big, black parachute.
Nope, it was way better - an inflatable movie screen.
That's right, something that inflated in seconds and rather resembled a moon bounce grew right before our very eyes until it was touching tree branches.
"Now it's a party!" Man About Town joked.
Screening was "The Persistence of Poe," a film by Christine Stoddard about the Poe/Richmond connection.
Full of fabulous old black and white photographs of the city in the 19th century, the documentary was still in the "rough cut" stage but I found it full of fun facts about Poe's life.
When the film mentioned Poe's first love, the older Elmira, my companion leaned in and murmured, "Mrs. Robinson."
Clearly we had a motif going.
When the film ended, it wasn't like the house lights were going to come up so everyone sat there momentarily.
I mentioned that I thought we should hang around and watch the screen deflate.
"I don't want to talk about deflation," M.A.T. quipped.
Not at middle age anyway, I responded.
"Touche!" he roared, throwing back his head and laughing his distinctive laugh.
The museum's director instructed us all to come back in October for the next unhappy hour.
"Next month's theme is 'The Mask of the Red Death,' so everyone will be dropping like flies," he deadpanned.
I can hardly wait for the misery of it all.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Every Day I Write the Book
Tonight was all about saying so long, farewell.
The first adieu was only temporary since Bistro Bobette isn't going away, just on vacation.
But they're doing it French style naturally, which means closing this Sunday and not reopening for over a month.
What a civilized way to handle summer.
So we slipped in early so I could prove to my partner in crime that they have the best hot dog in the entire city.
But first I had to kiss the Frenchmen: bartender and chef alike.
We caught their 5:00 drink special hour which fortified us to be told that they had no hot dogs in house.
Apparently Sausagecraft, who makes the dogs based on Chef's recipe, are also on vacation.
But I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead got the portobella stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and covered in swiss cheese.
It was as delicious a way to get a plate full of veggies as any I've had lately and with all that cheese, especially satisfying.
The pork and veal pate's richness was perfectly set off by the pickled vegetables, grainy mustard and cornichons, ensuring that each bite formed a complete range of complementary flavors on a toasted baguette.
I always enjoy the music at Bobette, but I could tell tonight's was a different station than the usual Pink Martini.
The Saint Germaine station was a tad more sophisticated and nicely suited an early evening summer meal at a local French bistro.
By the time my rose' glass was empty, we had to be going so as not to miss a one-time shot.
Showing at Movieland tonight only was "Shut Up and Play the Hits," a documentary about LCD Soundsytem's final show at Madison Square Garden.
Besides the outstanding concert footage, particularly appealing to someone who never got to see them live, the documentary provided a look at the 41-year old behind the sound.
The man who decided to disband the group at the height of its success.
The man who, after playing a sold-out show last year, comes backstage and asks his manager, "Did we not just pull off a high school play at Madison Square Garden?"
But make no mistake, it was nothing like a high school play.
A better description would be frontman Murphy's own words. "We're the best LCD Soundsystem cover band ever," since his records came first and a band was only assembled much later.
The band, including the additional musicians for that night, was incredibly tight.
The songs are satiric ("Losing My Edge"), thoughtful ("All My Friends"), feature big names (The Arcade Fire, Reggie Watts) and are so dance worthy I never stopped moving in my seat during the show footage.
But then, that's what fans love about LCD Soundsystem.
It's dance music par excellence and the MSG crowd moved non-stop through three sets, two encores and 29 songs.
Personally, I'm also a huge fan of Murphy's voice, hearing a crooner who just happened to have chosen to do stellar synth-pop for dance-crazed fans.
By the end of the film, it was clear that even Murphy had some regrets about reclaiming a normal life and giving up a successful band.
If they're smart, up and coming dance bands will take Murphy's lyrical advice: "Then it's the memories of our betters that are keeping us on our feet."
Guys, if the memory of LCD, definitely a better, doesn't keep you on your feet, check your pulse.
As proof, when we walked out of the theater, I felt as let down as if I'd just seen an amazing concert and was immediately plunged into regret that it was over.
How else to recover but with some live local music?
Goldrush was doing a combination homecoming/going-away show at Six Burner.
Which means they hadn't played at 6B in well over a year and are about to leave on a mid-west tour.
You say goodbye and I say hello.
We arrived in time to score bar stools in view of the stage area and took the first bottle of Gavi that came our way.
As violinist Treesa and bassist Matt quickly finished up their dinner next to us, people began to stream in for the show.
By the time they began, the place was packed and the owner was beaming.
No doubt beer and small plate specials helped, too.
We couldn't resist the mussels with bacon and garlic in a Gruyere and wine sauce, even though we'd just eaten a couple of hours before.
Or maybe I just needed something savory after downing a box of Milk Duds at the theater.
The group had no drummer tonight, but I've always liked how much easier it is to hear Matt's upright bass when there aren't any drums, so I didn't mind too much.
Talking about their upcoming tour with a stop in her hometown in Kansas, Treesa noted that Prabir has more Facebook friends than there are people in that town.
Yikes. And no doubt true.
They rolled through new material (always a pleasure since I've been seeing them for years now), a few old songs (would it be a Goldrush show without Prabir singing about rolling one?), tequila shots and their idols.
Goldrush are constitutionally unable to play a show without doing the Beatles and tonight we got the ubiquitous "Eleanor Rigby" (second time this week I've heard it live) and they closed with "I Am the Walrus."
By midnight they finished, saying a fond farewell as they head out on the road.
So to Bobette, I say a bientot until September.
To LCD Soundsystem, farewell and thanks for the memories. Everybody dance now.
To Goldrush, good luck and good fun, as if I need to tell you guys that.
And that's enough good-byes for a while.
The first adieu was only temporary since Bistro Bobette isn't going away, just on vacation.
But they're doing it French style naturally, which means closing this Sunday and not reopening for over a month.
What a civilized way to handle summer.
So we slipped in early so I could prove to my partner in crime that they have the best hot dog in the entire city.
But first I had to kiss the Frenchmen: bartender and chef alike.
We caught their 5:00 drink special hour which fortified us to be told that they had no hot dogs in house.
Apparently Sausagecraft, who makes the dogs based on Chef's recipe, are also on vacation.
But I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead got the portobella stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and covered in swiss cheese.
It was as delicious a way to get a plate full of veggies as any I've had lately and with all that cheese, especially satisfying.
The pork and veal pate's richness was perfectly set off by the pickled vegetables, grainy mustard and cornichons, ensuring that each bite formed a complete range of complementary flavors on a toasted baguette.
I always enjoy the music at Bobette, but I could tell tonight's was a different station than the usual Pink Martini.
The Saint Germaine station was a tad more sophisticated and nicely suited an early evening summer meal at a local French bistro.
By the time my rose' glass was empty, we had to be going so as not to miss a one-time shot.
Showing at Movieland tonight only was "Shut Up and Play the Hits," a documentary about LCD Soundsytem's final show at Madison Square Garden.
Besides the outstanding concert footage, particularly appealing to someone who never got to see them live, the documentary provided a look at the 41-year old behind the sound.
The man who decided to disband the group at the height of its success.
The man who, after playing a sold-out show last year, comes backstage and asks his manager, "Did we not just pull off a high school play at Madison Square Garden?"
But make no mistake, it was nothing like a high school play.
A better description would be frontman Murphy's own words. "We're the best LCD Soundsystem cover band ever," since his records came first and a band was only assembled much later.
The band, including the additional musicians for that night, was incredibly tight.
The songs are satiric ("Losing My Edge"), thoughtful ("All My Friends"), feature big names (The Arcade Fire, Reggie Watts) and are so dance worthy I never stopped moving in my seat during the show footage.
But then, that's what fans love about LCD Soundsystem.
It's dance music par excellence and the MSG crowd moved non-stop through three sets, two encores and 29 songs.
Personally, I'm also a huge fan of Murphy's voice, hearing a crooner who just happened to have chosen to do stellar synth-pop for dance-crazed fans.
By the end of the film, it was clear that even Murphy had some regrets about reclaiming a normal life and giving up a successful band.
If they're smart, up and coming dance bands will take Murphy's lyrical advice: "Then it's the memories of our betters that are keeping us on our feet."
Guys, if the memory of LCD, definitely a better, doesn't keep you on your feet, check your pulse.
As proof, when we walked out of the theater, I felt as let down as if I'd just seen an amazing concert and was immediately plunged into regret that it was over.
How else to recover but with some live local music?
Goldrush was doing a combination homecoming/going-away show at Six Burner.
Which means they hadn't played at 6B in well over a year and are about to leave on a mid-west tour.
You say goodbye and I say hello.
We arrived in time to score bar stools in view of the stage area and took the first bottle of Gavi that came our way.
As violinist Treesa and bassist Matt quickly finished up their dinner next to us, people began to stream in for the show.
By the time they began, the place was packed and the owner was beaming.
No doubt beer and small plate specials helped, too.
We couldn't resist the mussels with bacon and garlic in a Gruyere and wine sauce, even though we'd just eaten a couple of hours before.
Or maybe I just needed something savory after downing a box of Milk Duds at the theater.
The group had no drummer tonight, but I've always liked how much easier it is to hear Matt's upright bass when there aren't any drums, so I didn't mind too much.
Talking about their upcoming tour with a stop in her hometown in Kansas, Treesa noted that Prabir has more Facebook friends than there are people in that town.
Yikes. And no doubt true.
They rolled through new material (always a pleasure since I've been seeing them for years now), a few old songs (would it be a Goldrush show without Prabir singing about rolling one?), tequila shots and their idols.
Goldrush are constitutionally unable to play a show without doing the Beatles and tonight we got the ubiquitous "Eleanor Rigby" (second time this week I've heard it live) and they closed with "I Am the Walrus."
By midnight they finished, saying a fond farewell as they head out on the road.
So to Bobette, I say a bientot until September.
To LCD Soundsystem, farewell and thanks for the memories. Everybody dance now.
To Goldrush, good luck and good fun, as if I need to tell you guys that.
And that's enough good-byes for a while.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Something Comes from Nothing
Perhaps I should be concerned.
It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.
But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.
She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).
Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.
Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.
Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.
As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"
Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.
"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.
How did they even know?
Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.
From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).
It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.
Invite us and it's an instant party.
Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.
The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.
Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).
I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.
Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.
I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.
I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.
It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.
TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.
"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.
As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.
"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"
A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?
No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.
A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me
For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."
I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?
Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.
After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.
I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.
Now that's a professional.
Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.
Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.
And consumed in short order.
It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.
Friends, food, wine, music.
What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.
It's a straight line to the good things.
Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.
It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.
But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.
She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).
Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.
Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.
Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.
As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"
Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.
"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.
How did they even know?
Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.
From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).
It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.
Invite us and it's an instant party.
Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.
The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.
Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).
I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.
Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.
I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.
I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.
It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.
TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.
"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.
As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.
"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"
A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?
No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.
A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me
For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."
I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?
Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.
After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.
I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.
Now that's a professional.
Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.
Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.
And consumed in short order.
It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.
Friends, food, wine, music.
What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.
It's a straight line to the good things.
Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.
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