I can now add motorcycle shop to the list of unlikely places I've seen shows.
The invitation promised a rock and roll extravaganza - not a bad offer for a Wednesday evening - and if there's one thing I've been in need of (although, actually, there are several), it's a good rock and roll show.
So after showering off the dust of a trip to the Northern Neck, I suited up for just that.
The shop's proprietor, also a music fanatic, welcomed me to the showroom (its motorcycles ringing the room to accommodate bands and audience) and I quickly found a half dozen friends to talk to before the Green Hearts took the stage.
Actually it was a floor, if you want to get technical.
Back when I first saw the Green Hearts in January 2011 at Sprout (R.I.P.), they did nothing but covers but give a group of self-proclaimed "old guys" 6 or 7 years, and now they've got a host of original songs to play.
As for the rest, the band is tighter, they're just as great to dance to and singer Paul still plays a mean cowbell. How better to kick off a show than with proven winners?
Between sets, I ran into a friend who goes to an unusually high number of shows, yet I hadn't seen her in a while. Ready to place the blame on me because I've been so busy with non-music stuff the past few months, she absolved me by saying it was her fault.
"I've been acting my age," she said, explaining that the real problem is that so many shows start on time these days and many of them start as early as 8:00. "It's 9 before I've got everything done I need to do and am ready to go out!" she lamented.
And while I feel her pain - and I definitely remember years of tardy starts and shows scheduled for 10:30 or 11 start times that barely ended by 2 a.m. - I kind of like that shows start on time for the most part these days. That was a hard-won victory.
It's only been a little over a year since I last saw Denver's Dressy Bessy, but my memories of their pop punk served me well. Singer Tammy remains a charismatic front woman with expressive eyes and non-stop energy and the band is there for her every step of the way.
She began by entreating us to come closer and fill up the empty space in front of the band. "It's a rock and roll show!" Everyone took two steps forward, sort of like playing "Mother, May I?" Now there's a game I bet the children of today don't play.
Halfway through the band's set, the crowd was finally loose enough to throw inhibitions to the wind and dance/thrash wildly, causing Tammy to say, "You guys must be wasted! All the alcoholics are out tonight!"
Or all of Richmond just dances oddly, take your pick.
I don't want to point fingers, but as I'd already commented to several friends, tonight's crowd amounted to a sausage fest, with my gender squarely in the minority. Since when don't women like rock and roll anyway?
After several "punk shorts" - songs that measured less than 1:57 in length like a good punk song should - Tammy asked the room if anyone would get her a beer and she'd repay them after their set. When someone handed her a PBR, she grimaced and said, "How this beer makes you feel the next day is not cool!" and then took a swig. "But it's so refreshing!"
No one bothered to tell her that PBR stands for People's Beer of Richmond. As it was, she'd seen a t-shirt today with a picture of an RV on it and the letter "A." She was thinking of going back to Carytown tomorrow to buy it. "Unless someone here has it and then I'll trade you something for it."
Presumably, she meant band merchandise, but I'm not here to judge.
During the break, I met a woman who complimented my spiky hair as "punk" and told me that she'd asked her stylist to give her a rock and roll haircut. Next thing I knew, she was running her hand through my hair, remarking on what thick hair we both have.
It takes so little for women to bond.
When I asked about the location of the loo, the owner directed me to the "executive bathroom," which saved me waiting in line but required sliding a massive door aside, but I managed, feeling like I was sneaking around in the back room unattended.
Some of us never lose the attraction to going where we're not usually allowed.
Last up was NYC's the Split Squad, notable for the band members' other projects: the drummer is in Blondie (and, appropriately, wearing a CBGB t-shirt), one of the guitarists is in the Plimsoles and the other, Keith Streng, is in the Fleshtones.
The latter, a tiny man with massive showboating skills, used a chair as a launching pad from which to posture, dance or spring off, when he wasn't laying his guitar on it and sitting atop it or turning his back on it, as if it had done him wrong.
They did a song they said was about a girl from Shockoe Bottom, called "Touch and Go," as in, "She likes to touch, then go." They did a Small Faces cover, a slow soulful one they dedicated to the women, an angry song and a barn-burner called "Palpitation Blues" that got guitarist Keith in frenzy mode, at one point wiggling his butt as he stood dancing in a chair while playing his guitar behind his head.
Some would call that multi-tasking.
Definitely a favorite was their cover of Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers' "One Track Mind," which had some guys fist bumping they were so excited to hear it live. They closed with a new song, "Now Hear This," off the album they were selling tonight, and about brought the house down with it.
With all three bands, there were moments while they were playing when the historic wooden floors beneath our feet were rumbling and moving from the crowd's gyrations. But it was a sturdy 19th century floor and we couldn't have hurt it if we wanted to.
You know, just another real rock and roll show, where nobody acts their age. It's so refreshing.
Showing posts with label green hearts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label green hearts. Show all posts
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Pop Arias and Beach Goth
Take me away, Indian Summer.
Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.
The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.
I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.
"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.
With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.
If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.
The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."
During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.
Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.
With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.
Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.
One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?
Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.
Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.
There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.
When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.
Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.
It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.
Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.
My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.
My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.
Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.
"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"
So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.
But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.
By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.
Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling
That I just can't lose
After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.
When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.
For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.
"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.
After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.
"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.
The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.
When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.
I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.
Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.
The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.
I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.
"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.
With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.
If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.
The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."
During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.
Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.
With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.
Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.
One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?
Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.
Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.
There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.
When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.
Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.
It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.
Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.
My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.
My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.
Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.
"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"
So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.
But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.
By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.
Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling
That I just can't lose
After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.
When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.
For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.
"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.
After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.
"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.
The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.
When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.
I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Time to Play B-sides.
As my favorite man who wears high heels says, "The time is now. That's all you need to know."
The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.
Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.
The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.
What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?
All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.
He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.
Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.
You know, that old chestnut.
If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.
I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).
We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.
Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.
Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.
And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.
James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.
TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.
Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.
We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.
Cue next day.
Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.
Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.
I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).
Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.
Number 178, right here, folks.
After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.
It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.
Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.
Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."
No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.
During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail
The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.
"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.
A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.
Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.
The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.
But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.
Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.
Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.
It's practically poetic, right?
The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.
I totally dug it, not gonna lie.
With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.
What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?
Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.
The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.
Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.
The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.
What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?
All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.
He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.
Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.
You know, that old chestnut.
If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.
I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).
We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.
Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.
Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.
And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.
James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.
TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.
Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.
We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.
Cue next day.
Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.
Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.
I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).
Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.
Number 178, right here, folks.
After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.
It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.
Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.
Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."
No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.
During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail
The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.
"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.
A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.
Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.
The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.
But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.
Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.
Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.
It's practically poetic, right?
The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.
I totally dug it, not gonna lie.
With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.
What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?
Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Shake Some (Rainy) Action
The music gods have been smiling on me lately.
Witness free shows abounding.
Tonight's was the Garbers (because don't all bands name themselves after the building they practice in?) and the Green Hearts (whose early show at Sprout had given birth to the term "the prickly one") at Balliceaux and no steady rainfall was keeping me in.
That's what umbrellas are for, kids.
Walking into the back room, I got caught up in an hilarious discussion of last night's free show (Izzy and the Catastrophics), which inexplicably took a left turn into inter-generational personal hygiene.
You know someone has crossed a line when he starts a sentence with, "I'm not part of that generation that..."
A fellow music-lover and I took seats at a back banquette, where we found one of Richmond's favorite ukulele players absorbed in his phone while waiting for the show to start.
All at once he looked up and inquired of the overhead music, "Is this No BS?"
Affirmitive, I told him.
"Local bands on the stereo before a local band plays, I don't like it. Too matchy-matchy," he pronounced, sending me into fits of laughter.
The trio of the Garbers took the stage to shower us in pop goodness.
We heard a song about Thursdays and a couple of songs by drummer Gustino, one called "Wake Up, Allison" and another about watching TV.
When singer Allison kept mentioning that Gustino had written the songs, he finally piped up,saying, "I feel like these are disclaimers!"
"No, no," Allison placated him. "I'm just trying to prove that drummers can write songs, too."
Cue music from "The Elephant Man" and Gustino saying, "I am not an animal, I am a drummer."
The Garbers kept up their sunny pop until Allison noted that, "All our songs end like that. Like trashcans banging."
Technically, that's an antiquated reference since most of us have big, plastic Supercans that do not sound anything like cymbals, but a minor point.
During the break I took stock of the crowd, finding an over-representation of WRIR DJs (like Allison) and local musicians amongst the gaggle of over-perfumed chattering women gathering for a birthday celebration in the back of the room.
You'd think a party of 8 to 12 birthday celebrants would have had the sense to stay at the front bar and take endless pictures of themselves there rather than in a room with bands playing in whom they had zero interest.
But you'd be wrong.
The Green Hearts sported their own DJ, Paul Ginder, and the husbands of several other DJs (very incestuous) and they rocked out a certain period in power pop history.
Songs like "Girl of My Dreams," "Shake Some Action," "Brickfield Nights" and their namesake song, "Green Hearts." Late '70s.
It didn't take long for people to start dancing right in front of the stage.
Before "Shake Some Action," Paul told the crowd, "This song is not new. I want to see you shaking it, though."
He handled the vocals, but he wasn't afraid to pick up a tambourine or cow bell when it was called for, either.
When they did the Jags' "Back of My Hand," exhorting the girl to write her name or number on the back of his hand, I reached over with my pen and wrote my number on the closest male hand.
I do what the music tells me to do.
By the end of their energetic set, Paul closed out by saying, "Thank you for dancing in whatever manner you chose to," a funny line given some of the inebriated dancing going on.
I'm talking to you, Girl Who Couldn't Get your Arm Out of Your Own Jacket.
As they said goodnight, one of the DJ/musicians in the audience called out, "I brought my W-2!"
Paul, ever the businessman, went back to the mic, to plug. "And we'll do your taxes."
You really can't ask for more than that on a rainy Thursday night.
Witness free shows abounding.
Tonight's was the Garbers (because don't all bands name themselves after the building they practice in?) and the Green Hearts (whose early show at Sprout had given birth to the term "the prickly one") at Balliceaux and no steady rainfall was keeping me in.
That's what umbrellas are for, kids.
Walking into the back room, I got caught up in an hilarious discussion of last night's free show (Izzy and the Catastrophics), which inexplicably took a left turn into inter-generational personal hygiene.
You know someone has crossed a line when he starts a sentence with, "I'm not part of that generation that..."
A fellow music-lover and I took seats at a back banquette, where we found one of Richmond's favorite ukulele players absorbed in his phone while waiting for the show to start.
All at once he looked up and inquired of the overhead music, "Is this No BS?"
Affirmitive, I told him.
"Local bands on the stereo before a local band plays, I don't like it. Too matchy-matchy," he pronounced, sending me into fits of laughter.
The trio of the Garbers took the stage to shower us in pop goodness.
We heard a song about Thursdays and a couple of songs by drummer Gustino, one called "Wake Up, Allison" and another about watching TV.
When singer Allison kept mentioning that Gustino had written the songs, he finally piped up,saying, "I feel like these are disclaimers!"
"No, no," Allison placated him. "I'm just trying to prove that drummers can write songs, too."
Cue music from "The Elephant Man" and Gustino saying, "I am not an animal, I am a drummer."
The Garbers kept up their sunny pop until Allison noted that, "All our songs end like that. Like trashcans banging."
Technically, that's an antiquated reference since most of us have big, plastic Supercans that do not sound anything like cymbals, but a minor point.
During the break I took stock of the crowd, finding an over-representation of WRIR DJs (like Allison) and local musicians amongst the gaggle of over-perfumed chattering women gathering for a birthday celebration in the back of the room.
You'd think a party of 8 to 12 birthday celebrants would have had the sense to stay at the front bar and take endless pictures of themselves there rather than in a room with bands playing in whom they had zero interest.
But you'd be wrong.
The Green Hearts sported their own DJ, Paul Ginder, and the husbands of several other DJs (very incestuous) and they rocked out a certain period in power pop history.
Songs like "Girl of My Dreams," "Shake Some Action," "Brickfield Nights" and their namesake song, "Green Hearts." Late '70s.
It didn't take long for people to start dancing right in front of the stage.
Before "Shake Some Action," Paul told the crowd, "This song is not new. I want to see you shaking it, though."
He handled the vocals, but he wasn't afraid to pick up a tambourine or cow bell when it was called for, either.
When they did the Jags' "Back of My Hand," exhorting the girl to write her name or number on the back of his hand, I reached over with my pen and wrote my number on the closest male hand.
I do what the music tells me to do.
By the end of their energetic set, Paul closed out by saying, "Thank you for dancing in whatever manner you chose to," a funny line given some of the inebriated dancing going on.
I'm talking to you, Girl Who Couldn't Get your Arm Out of Your Own Jacket.
As they said goodnight, one of the DJ/musicians in the audience called out, "I brought my W-2!"
Paul, ever the businessman, went back to the mic, to plug. "And we'll do your taxes."
You really can't ask for more than that on a rainy Thursday night.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Happy Birthday Hovering
In a way, I went to two birthday parties tonight.
The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.
At least at first.
Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.
As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.
Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.
You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.
Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.
Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.
Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.
We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.
The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.
He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.
After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.
"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.
Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.
The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.
Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.
During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."
Ba-dum bum.
Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.
I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."
We all know there's a difference.
Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.
Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.
The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.
From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.
Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.
Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."
Illusion or not, I did, too.
Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply
Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.
"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."
That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.
Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.
Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.
The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.
After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.
"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."
Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."
"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."
He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."
Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.
Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.
Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.
Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?
It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.
The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.
At least at first.
Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.
As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.
Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.
You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.
Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.
Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.
Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.
We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.
The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.
He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.
After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.
"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.
Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.
The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.
Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.
During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."
Ba-dum bum.
Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.
I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."
We all know there's a difference.
Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.
Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.
The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.
From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.
Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.
Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."
Illusion or not, I did, too.
Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply
Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.
"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."
That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.
Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.
Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.
The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.
After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.
"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."
Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."
"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."
He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."
Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.
Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.
Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.
Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?
It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Truth About Cover Bands
We found the perfect happy hour spot.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
There was a couch for the two of us to sit on. We paid retail not restaurant prices for the wine and cheese.
And the music was a mix of vintage '80s and '90s classics that never let up, a foreshadowing of what was to come later in the evening.
My girlfriend and I met at Olio, where we kicked off happy hour as the first customers of the evening.
Choosing the Bodegas Montecillo Verdemar Albarion was a no-brainer. Its fruity nose was exceeded only by its big, beautifully rounded mouthfeel.
Deciding on cheese was more challenging, so we narrowed it down to a few in the stinky family.
The chef then asked how much we wanted to spend (we kept it economical) and assured us she'd make a cheese plate from that.
What arrived at our table was a cheese feast.
The Taleggio, French Pierre Robert with creme fraiche (as obscenely rich as good butter), English cheddar and French raw milk Fourme D'Ambert (a creamy bleu) with country pate, cornichons, various sizes of olives and grilled bread slices was truly impressive.
It was as comfortable as being at one of our homes, but with a far better variety of food and wine to choose from.
We girltalked and ate for two hours and still never finished all the food on that plate.
"We're coming back here," she said as we prepared to leave with full bellies.
Great ambiance, a view of the Main Street passersby (like the guy who walked by with an unzipped fly, only to return to the window to zip it up) and well-priced vino and victuals make for an unbeatable combination.
Afterwards, I took my car home so I could begin the artwalk on the night with the most daylight of all the First Fridays.
The crowds were a tad lighter than usual, but bands were performing on the street and vendors were set up everywhere.
Quirk's new show "Supper" featured table settings by Chris Milk, Christopher Jagmin, Tina Frey and Melody Gulik, each distinctive in its own way.
Jagmin's lunch setting was all about numbers on the dishes with office supplies (rubber bands, pencil shavings, push pins) as "food."
Gulik's table and the TV in front of it were covered in moss and plant matter for beautiful, if unusable, furniture.
In the front gallery, local artist Kenneth Chase's "Shop Show" featured collages on wood blocks, some of them painted, too. I felt myself begin to covet one of the very reasonably priced pieces, always a dangerous thing.
After a stop at ADA Gallery's show "Bovasso! Bovasso! Bovasso!" with whimsical and colorful new work by Nina Bovasso, I headed to Gallery 5 for the "Under the Covers" show.
No original material tonight.
I walked in just moments before the Pretend Pretenders began playing. Onstage, star guitarist Paul Ivey spotted me buying my ticket and said, "Karen's here" as if anyone cared.
Lead singer Allison Apperson repeated, "Karen's here" and from there they went into "Brass in Pocket" and took us through" "Kid," "Stop Your Sobbing," and "Back on the Chain Gang."
They did a superb job with the material (I love seeing a bass player slap a bass) and the crowd was wildly appreciative, dancing and singing along. Great songs, great voice, great playing.
The Green Hearts played next, doing "badass power pop" according to the show poster. What that meant was a lot of hard and fast old songs like "Starry Eyes" and "Rock and Roll Girl."
Lead singer Paul Ginder, with his magnificent new chops, did a great job carrying the energy of the songs.
Then Zepp Repplica (two P's, both words) took the stage in their impossibly tight pants and look-alike wigs to rock the faces off of the sweaty crowd.
Having seen them before, I knew how eerily similar they sound to the real thing, but most of the people I knew, as well as strangers, had never witnessed the veracity of their performance.
These twenty-somethings have seriously studied their Led Zeppelin history. Songs are note-perfect, vocals reach Plant-like pitch and mannerisms are nailed.
More than one person asked me afterwards why these guys aren't doing this professionally. Maybe they will. Likewise, several acknowledged how hard it was going to be to follow them onstage.
The Sweater band, a Weezer tribute, had that privilege. And while I can appreciate Weezer, I'm far from an aficionado of the band.
In fact, earlier in the evening, I'd asked musician Prabir why 30-somethings consider Weezer so god-like.
What followed was a 30-something's dissertation about the brilliance of the song writing and the technical skill of the guitar playing.
I recall something about the breadth of sounds Rivers Cuomo is able to coax from his electric guitar and that's about it. Frankly, I think it's because it was high school music for thirty-somethings.
But the Sweater Band fed into those people and soon there was rabid dancing and shouts of "WEE-ZER!" after every song.
I feared for my sandal-clad feet because of the large drunk guy dancing so boisterously right in front of me.
The band was smart, though, and began taking requests directly from the fanatics. It's a great way to shut people up.
And while I knew some material like "Buddy Holly" and of course "The Sweater Song," I couldn't commit like the diehards did.
Near the end of their set, I said my goodnights to nearby friends, including the one who was about as big a fan as me ("I traded my first Weezer album for Prodigy," he admitted sheepishly) and walked outside to say more goodnights there.
For all the cover band haters out there, you guys missed a seriously entertaining evening. They may not have been the real thing, but they were close.
Sometimes close counts in more than just hand grenades and horseshoes. Sometimes it's just good fun.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Shiny, Deep and Ears Ringing
A friend had invited me to meet her for drinks and then join her for "The Color Purple" at the Landmark Theater.
That wasn't going to work because I had plans to see a music show at 9:00, but we decided to meet for drinks anyway.
Conveniently for me, she chose the Belvidere at Broad at 5:45. Foolishly, neither of us had considered the number of people who would be there at 5:30 for a pre-theater meal.
It's not like we had a tough time getting bar stools because we didn't, but the hustle and bustle around us was non-stop for the harried staff. On the plus side, they knew it would mostly go away by 7:45.
Except that it didn't. Oh, sure, plenty of people left to make the curtain, including my friend, but even more showed up looking for food and drink on a Saturday night. No one had any idea what the craziness was about.
My friend and I enjoyed the Hahn Cabernet Sauvignon as we chatted about our upcoming trips. In the blink of an eye, it was time for her to leave and I was left with half a glass of wine and no one to talk to. Luckily that didn't last long.
Friends of a friend came in, and took the table behind me, so with a swivel of the hips, I had two friendly faces and eager conversationalists while they ate their burgers and downed their beer flight.
To taunt our mutual friend, we took a picture of me and one of the guys and sent it off to him, saying we were on the way to the Girl Talk show at the National (he detests Girl Talk and would undoubtedly wonder how in the world we ended up together). Simple pleasures.
I enjoyed the Belvidere's house applewood-smoked salmon (they do it so well) after their departure and tried to keep up with the rotating cast of characters in the stools nearest me. They seemed to be the staging area for the next available table.
I was soon joined at the bar by a West End foursome waiting for a table. They asked me if I'd eaten there before, launching a 20-minute discussion of where else in the city they should try.
They apologized for living in Short Pump, but now that they're empty-nesters, they're committed to doing all their dining in the city and broadening their horizons. But they needed help.
They eagerly asked for some of my favorite places and dishes and I happily shared my opinions. "Boy, did we talk to the right person," one of the husbands gushed to his wife. "You're a goldmine of information!" he told me. That's me, shiny and deep.
Once they'd moved tableside, I ordered the dark chocolate brownie with vanilla bean gelato, Bailey's dark chocolate whipped cream and a dark chocolate ganache sauce.
When it arrived, a nearby girl grabbed her husband's arm and asked, "What's that? I need that!" They had just arrived. Down, girl. She watched me eat until I pushed the rest away; you could almost see her wondering why I hadn't finished.
When I left, there were close to ten people waiting for tables at the front and it was going on 9:00. I wished owner Julie luck with that (she was as perplexed by it as I was) and walked home to get my car and head to Gibson's.
Tonight's show there was further complicated because of the Girl Talk show at the National. Walking by to get in Gibson's, I passed a lot of kids in shiny clothes, their underage hands marked with a big "X," all ready for a dance party, which Girl Talk would no doubt deliver.
Down in the bowels of Gibson's it was much more civilized. The show began with Dave Watkins on dulcitar, looping himself for layers of sound. At one point, a friend acknowledged, "Ah, the ever-capable Dave Watkins. He's got three loops going at once!"
Before one song in which he'd also be playing drums, he told the crowd, "I'm going to lose my glasses on this one." Before long, they were sliding down his nose and he finally pulled them off and tossed them to the floor. It was an excellent set.
Lobo Mario played next, putting on their best mic'd show ever (since they frequently play without mics) and infusing their folky songs with an enthusiastic energy that engaged the diverse crowd.
At one point Jameson introduced "Laney on accordion" after a particularly robust accordion piece. "Yea, that was me shredding," she said self-deprecatingly. Their down-tempo cover of Elvis' "Can't Help Falling in Love" brought the house down.
DC's The Orchid headlined and, as a big fan of post-rock, I was thrilled to hear these guys perform. Like all post-rock groups, there was the serious wall of guitar sound (three) plus a drummer, with no vocals playing big, beautiful soundscapes alternately loud and quiet.
Unlike most post-rock groups, however, they had an amplified violin player (he doubled on keyboards), making for quite an interesting addition to their sound.
Unfortunately, during his solos (and between songs) the thumping bass of the Girl Talk show rattled the ceiling of the room. Fortunately, when they were all playing, their bold sound pushed right back.
When their stellar set was over, I said my farewells to my friends and headed over to Sprout, hoping to catch some of the show going on there.
Owner Laurie's band Catnip Dreams was playing and I hadn't seen them since last summer's Jonny Z Fest show where they absolutely shone on Shields Street.
As soon as I walked in the door, a friend came up to tell me I'd miss their terrific set. Drat the luck.
I headed to the back room for Green Hearts to find the room was packed. Finally a guy took pity on my abbreviated stature and gave me his step, where I could at least see lead singer (and WRIR DJ) Paul Ginder and some of the other band members rocking out.
Their sound was pure 60s/70s and most of the band had on skinny ties. They played tambourine, maracas and cowbell in addition to the usual suspects.
Songs were short and high energy and the crowd was moving non-stop during every 3-minute burst. Sadly, I also saw no less than four people with their fingers in their ears. Tragic, kids, absolutely tragic.
When they finished, the audience clamored for one more and Paul begged off, saying "We can't. We're old." The crowd refused to accept such an un-rock and roll sentiment and they played one more.
Afterwards, I went up to Sprout owner Jamie just before he began DJ'ing vintage vinyl, saying, "Sprout, always reliable for revisiting the past."
"Not a problem, is it?" he grinned.
Would I have been there again if it was? Not to mention that there's always the hope of meeting a like-minded soul over a sixties or seventies groove.
That wasn't going to work because I had plans to see a music show at 9:00, but we decided to meet for drinks anyway.
Conveniently for me, she chose the Belvidere at Broad at 5:45. Foolishly, neither of us had considered the number of people who would be there at 5:30 for a pre-theater meal.
It's not like we had a tough time getting bar stools because we didn't, but the hustle and bustle around us was non-stop for the harried staff. On the plus side, they knew it would mostly go away by 7:45.
Except that it didn't. Oh, sure, plenty of people left to make the curtain, including my friend, but even more showed up looking for food and drink on a Saturday night. No one had any idea what the craziness was about.
My friend and I enjoyed the Hahn Cabernet Sauvignon as we chatted about our upcoming trips. In the blink of an eye, it was time for her to leave and I was left with half a glass of wine and no one to talk to. Luckily that didn't last long.
Friends of a friend came in, and took the table behind me, so with a swivel of the hips, I had two friendly faces and eager conversationalists while they ate their burgers and downed their beer flight.
To taunt our mutual friend, we took a picture of me and one of the guys and sent it off to him, saying we were on the way to the Girl Talk show at the National (he detests Girl Talk and would undoubtedly wonder how in the world we ended up together). Simple pleasures.
I enjoyed the Belvidere's house applewood-smoked salmon (they do it so well) after their departure and tried to keep up with the rotating cast of characters in the stools nearest me. They seemed to be the staging area for the next available table.
I was soon joined at the bar by a West End foursome waiting for a table. They asked me if I'd eaten there before, launching a 20-minute discussion of where else in the city they should try.
They apologized for living in Short Pump, but now that they're empty-nesters, they're committed to doing all their dining in the city and broadening their horizons. But they needed help.
They eagerly asked for some of my favorite places and dishes and I happily shared my opinions. "Boy, did we talk to the right person," one of the husbands gushed to his wife. "You're a goldmine of information!" he told me. That's me, shiny and deep.
Once they'd moved tableside, I ordered the dark chocolate brownie with vanilla bean gelato, Bailey's dark chocolate whipped cream and a dark chocolate ganache sauce.
When it arrived, a nearby girl grabbed her husband's arm and asked, "What's that? I need that!" They had just arrived. Down, girl. She watched me eat until I pushed the rest away; you could almost see her wondering why I hadn't finished.
When I left, there were close to ten people waiting for tables at the front and it was going on 9:00. I wished owner Julie luck with that (she was as perplexed by it as I was) and walked home to get my car and head to Gibson's.
Tonight's show there was further complicated because of the Girl Talk show at the National. Walking by to get in Gibson's, I passed a lot of kids in shiny clothes, their underage hands marked with a big "X," all ready for a dance party, which Girl Talk would no doubt deliver.
Down in the bowels of Gibson's it was much more civilized. The show began with Dave Watkins on dulcitar, looping himself for layers of sound. At one point, a friend acknowledged, "Ah, the ever-capable Dave Watkins. He's got three loops going at once!"
Before one song in which he'd also be playing drums, he told the crowd, "I'm going to lose my glasses on this one." Before long, they were sliding down his nose and he finally pulled them off and tossed them to the floor. It was an excellent set.
Lobo Mario played next, putting on their best mic'd show ever (since they frequently play without mics) and infusing their folky songs with an enthusiastic energy that engaged the diverse crowd.
At one point Jameson introduced "Laney on accordion" after a particularly robust accordion piece. "Yea, that was me shredding," she said self-deprecatingly. Their down-tempo cover of Elvis' "Can't Help Falling in Love" brought the house down.
DC's The Orchid headlined and, as a big fan of post-rock, I was thrilled to hear these guys perform. Like all post-rock groups, there was the serious wall of guitar sound (three) plus a drummer, with no vocals playing big, beautiful soundscapes alternately loud and quiet.
Unlike most post-rock groups, however, they had an amplified violin player (he doubled on keyboards), making for quite an interesting addition to their sound.
Unfortunately, during his solos (and between songs) the thumping bass of the Girl Talk show rattled the ceiling of the room. Fortunately, when they were all playing, their bold sound pushed right back.
When their stellar set was over, I said my farewells to my friends and headed over to Sprout, hoping to catch some of the show going on there.
Owner Laurie's band Catnip Dreams was playing and I hadn't seen them since last summer's Jonny Z Fest show where they absolutely shone on Shields Street.
As soon as I walked in the door, a friend came up to tell me I'd miss their terrific set. Drat the luck.
I headed to the back room for Green Hearts to find the room was packed. Finally a guy took pity on my abbreviated stature and gave me his step, where I could at least see lead singer (and WRIR DJ) Paul Ginder and some of the other band members rocking out.
Their sound was pure 60s/70s and most of the band had on skinny ties. They played tambourine, maracas and cowbell in addition to the usual suspects.
Songs were short and high energy and the crowd was moving non-stop during every 3-minute burst. Sadly, I also saw no less than four people with their fingers in their ears. Tragic, kids, absolutely tragic.
When they finished, the audience clamored for one more and Paul begged off, saying "We can't. We're old." The crowd refused to accept such an un-rock and roll sentiment and they played one more.
Afterwards, I went up to Sprout owner Jamie just before he began DJ'ing vintage vinyl, saying, "Sprout, always reliable for revisiting the past."
"Not a problem, is it?" he grinned.
Would I have been there again if it was? Not to mention that there's always the hope of meeting a like-minded soul over a sixties or seventies groove.
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