Our cork popped before we even had time to be the squash.
The bottle that couldn't wait could be traced back to Greenleaf's Pool Room, where my date and I landed after quality time on the balcony with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and Todd Rundgren providing the soundtrack.
One of the many pleasures of Todd - besides the obvious: major talent - is the sheer pleasure of the liner notes. It's there we can glean who played the kalimba synthesizer (Brent Bourgeois) versus the spooky synthesizer (Roger Powell) and that Bobby Womack, the Dick Bright Strings and the I Love My Life Choir all contributed to "Nearly Human."
Thus fortified with obscure musical trivia, we set our sights on Greenleaf's Pool Room for dinner. Long a casual favorite of mine, it was my date's first visit and he fell for all the same things I do. What's not to like about low banquettes for lounging and colorful paintings of pool-playing greats by a Mexican artist?
Seeking a bottle to take with us to a show afterward, we decided on Treveri Blanc de Blanc before diving into a simple supper of tomato soup and the bar toast known as Tout de Sweet - goat cheese, herbs and housemade orange marmalade on toasted Billy bread (me) - and an oddly-shaped yet completely delicious Monte Cristo complete with housemade berry jam (him) to accompany it.
When we'd arrived, only one pool table was occupied, but as we chowed down, three other tables were taken over by players, many arriving with their own pool cues in zippered cases. It's great entertainment for the eating masses.
Although we were running out of time, I decided I couldn't do without a warm brownie (actually, two), although I did forgo the optional shot of bourbon on it. A woman's got to know her limits.
After the bartender fashioned a cork for our remaining bubbly, we were off.
Then it was across the river to the groovy Earth Folk Collective for their 3rd annual squash roast gathering and by then darkness was falling (damn you, Autumn!). A fire had already been lit and people were gathered around it when we strolled up the long grass walkway.
Standing near the house chatting, there was a sudden pop from the bag my date held and that makeshift cork took off, never to be seen again. But the pop was a pretty festive way to announce our arrival.
Further in, my date ran into a musician he knew and introduced me. "Are you two married? she asked, making both of us smile at the unlikely question. No, but we have been dating for almost 90 days, if that counts for anything.
After that, there was nothing to do but grab some jelly jars from the kitchen and spread our blanket near the campfire. As it was, Juan Harmon was already playing in the twinkle light-festooned shed that faces the yard and serves as the stage. We'd heard their mellifluous accordion/guitar/drum music just a few weeks ago at Scuffletown Park, but it was lovely to hear it again.
After their set, Fa Bra took the stage to lead anyone interested through some squash-inspired yoga in the fading light. We watched as people stretched to grow like a squash and eventually to become the squash. but we stayed rooted on our blanket sipping bubbles.
D.C.'s Elena y os Fulanos were up next, a treat because Elena's songs were bi-lingual and reflected the immigrant experience. "I love that you can be an immigrant and an American at the same time!" she gushed. She also explained that she'd been on tour for a while and had lost her hair gel, so her 'do wasn't up to par.
From a nearby chair out of the lights sat percussionist extraordinaire Rei Alvarez, effortlessly playing maracas and guiro to Elena's songs. I tell you, that man is a Richmond treasure.
The view from our blanket was about as wonderful as you'd expect, what with a campfire with a rack of squash roasting and lights strung on Laney and Jameson's little blue mobile home, the shed and arbor, all under a sky of cotton batting-like clouds with the moon doing its best to make its presence known.
Fa Bra returned to tease us into squash again with a pose that looked to involve the squash folding over on itself. I didn't do it, but I did imagine myself as a squash.
Last up was a feast of girl voices with Whatever Honey, who told us right off the bat that they hadn't played out in a year. You couldn't tell it by the harmonies they put out. As my musician companion noted, there's just something more complex about female voices singing together than males.
Leaning back, listening to the gorgeous harmonies and guitar playing while the scent of candles filled the air, we could have been teleported back to a commune in the '70s, it was that kind of easygoing vibe.
No mellows could be harshed when voices this angelic are being sung to the night sky. With apologies to Elena, I love that I can be a Blanc de Blanc sipper and an old hippie at the same time.
And not being on tour, all my hair products are present and accounted for.
Showing posts with label greenleaf's pool room. Show all posts
Showing posts with label greenleaf's pool room. Show all posts
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Thursday, March 9, 2017
You Got Your Limits, Baby, I Got Mine
A man can change a lot in three years.
So even if you were crazy about him in 2014, there are no guarantees for how well he'll hold up come 2017...or even whether you'll still react to him as you did originally.
You have to go see him to find out.
When I first saw that St. Paul and the Broken Bones were playing the National, I did nothing. My fabulous first experience seeing the band on a sweaty late June day in 2014 outside on Brown's Island had set a high bar for what this soulful group from Alabama was capable of and I wasn't entirely sure it would translate to a larger stage indoors.
But then Mac wanted to go and she's never been to the National, so one night after we were leaving the Gypsy Room next door, we stopped by the National's box office and scored two tickets.
Okay, then, I was going to see what St. Paul had become with three more revolutions of the sun. I'm probably not exactly the same, so why should he be?
Then she messaged me today saying she was feeling poorly but was still hoping to attend. By the time she picked me up, she had rallied a bit but was nowhere near 100%, so we kept things simple.
Smart concert-goers know to park once and party twice, so after stashing her car in my usual parking space (I have one for every venue I frequent), we moseyed over to Greenleaf's Pool Room (also a first for her) for supper amid the manicured pool-playing masses.
Without conferring, we chose the exact same order: housemade tomato soup, bar toast oiled and grilled, then layered with chimichurri, grilled mushrooms and garlicky sauteed greens, washed down by pomegranate lemonade and followed by today's dessert du jour: a plump cognac truffle in a honeycomb sugar nest with raspberry puree and toffee brittle.
She saw the meal as a good source of Vitamin C along with the immunity-boosting powers of garlic and pomegranate, while I saw it as an ideal simple supper. Win/win.
The music wasn't just to my liking, it might well have been a mix tape of bands I've seen in concert as one after another - Keane, the Killers, the Fray, Muse - played, an aural document to my show-going history.
I still can't seem to remember to allow enough extra time to go through all the new security precautions - metal detectors, X-ray machines, bag checks - at the National, meaning we arrived after Aaron Lee Tasjan and his band had begun playing.
Mac and I have a history with Aaron because he was the opening band when we saw Lydia Loveless in Charlottesville in November and we both liked his droll humor, smart songwriting and killer guitar chops, but little did we know that we were going to hear most of the same stage banter (the blotter acid incident that produced four folk-rock songs) we'd heard four months ago.
No matter, the songs are still solid.
His humor was most definitely still in evidence, like when he introduced himself as, "Aaron Lee Tasjan. I hope I'm pronouncing that correctly." Or after announcing the next song would be "Success," saying, "Gotta write what you know."
One story new to me was about being at a female-heavy Cat Power show and one of the few other men besides Aaron yelled out, "The bitch can't sing," causing other women in the audience to look at Aaron to see if he was going to deal with the offender.
"No, I'm not gonna deal with him, but I will go home and write a folk-rock revenge song," he told them before playing us, "You Know, the Bitch Can't Sing" with such tongue-in-cheek lyrics as, "She had a tattoo that was meaningful."
Aren't they all, assuming you ask the tattooed person?
After his set ended, a guy standing behind me asked about seeing me writing in a notebook, perplexed at why I was using such an analog method and to what purpose. I soon learned that the foursome he was with was from Harrisonburg, all worked at JMU and were in town for the night for the show, having already been to Lucy's and Hardywood.
Unlike me, none of them had seen St. Paul and the Broken Bones, which I would guess was also the case for 95% of the people in the room.
At one point, singer Paul told the wildly enthusiastic crowd that they'd only played here once "and none of you were at that show, were you?" I raised my hand to differ and the guy I'd just met pointed and said, "She was!"
How quickly they forget.
Their set began with Paul in a purple choir robe which he threw off James Brown-style to kick off their set of soulful songs matched by assured yet controlled dance moves.
When last I'd seen him, he'd worn a dark blue suit with white shirt with French cuffs and white shoes, but tonight's ensemble was a dusty mauve blazer with a green pattern ("looks like my Grandma's couch," he said) and I was nowhere close enough to see if his cuffs were French or otherwise.
Another change was that the former septet had added a sax/flute player to the horn duo of trombone and trumpet. Paul's ease with the microphone as prop - the cord in his teeth, for cryin' out loud - was even more polished, if that's possible, than last time.
Barely a third of the way into their set, Mac looked at me and said she felt so lousy she was leaving. I didn't mind walking home, but I was terribly sorry she was going to miss the rest of their set.
Because the stage was bigger, Paul spent more time prowling it as he sang or maybe he's just cut back on his dance moves after so much touring. Oh, they're still there, but a tad less frequently and now a dramatic hand or arm gesture subs for full-on grooving.
Not so yours truly, although by that time, the sold-out crowd was shoulder to shoulder and every other move resulted in brushing up against a stranger. If someone begrudges me a little honest dancing in place, the problem is theirs, not mine.
Things got slow and sexy for a while and if there'd been room, there might've been slow dancing, but instead we made do with swaying.
Now that the band has a second album, they no longer need to cover Wilson Pickett or Otis Redding like they did 3 years ago, but even newer material still carries that retro soul vibe of a Muscle Shoals session with blaring horns, organ-sounding keys and a killer rhythm section driving it all.
Was tonight's show as magical as that $5 June night had been?
How could it be? Besides that the band is more polished and confident now, we weren't outside on a humid, sticky night listening to soul music accompanied by the sounds of the James river and a passing train. When you lose the sweat, you lose something.
Not saying I didn't enjoy tonight's show plenty, but there's something to be said for a girl's first experience with a band or a man. That's all I'm saying.
I can't sing and I have no meaningful tattoos. I'm saying it because you gotta write what you know.
So even if you were crazy about him in 2014, there are no guarantees for how well he'll hold up come 2017...or even whether you'll still react to him as you did originally.
You have to go see him to find out.
When I first saw that St. Paul and the Broken Bones were playing the National, I did nothing. My fabulous first experience seeing the band on a sweaty late June day in 2014 outside on Brown's Island had set a high bar for what this soulful group from Alabama was capable of and I wasn't entirely sure it would translate to a larger stage indoors.
But then Mac wanted to go and she's never been to the National, so one night after we were leaving the Gypsy Room next door, we stopped by the National's box office and scored two tickets.
Okay, then, I was going to see what St. Paul had become with three more revolutions of the sun. I'm probably not exactly the same, so why should he be?
Then she messaged me today saying she was feeling poorly but was still hoping to attend. By the time she picked me up, she had rallied a bit but was nowhere near 100%, so we kept things simple.
Smart concert-goers know to park once and party twice, so after stashing her car in my usual parking space (I have one for every venue I frequent), we moseyed over to Greenleaf's Pool Room (also a first for her) for supper amid the manicured pool-playing masses.
Without conferring, we chose the exact same order: housemade tomato soup, bar toast oiled and grilled, then layered with chimichurri, grilled mushrooms and garlicky sauteed greens, washed down by pomegranate lemonade and followed by today's dessert du jour: a plump cognac truffle in a honeycomb sugar nest with raspberry puree and toffee brittle.
She saw the meal as a good source of Vitamin C along with the immunity-boosting powers of garlic and pomegranate, while I saw it as an ideal simple supper. Win/win.
The music wasn't just to my liking, it might well have been a mix tape of bands I've seen in concert as one after another - Keane, the Killers, the Fray, Muse - played, an aural document to my show-going history.
I still can't seem to remember to allow enough extra time to go through all the new security precautions - metal detectors, X-ray machines, bag checks - at the National, meaning we arrived after Aaron Lee Tasjan and his band had begun playing.
Mac and I have a history with Aaron because he was the opening band when we saw Lydia Loveless in Charlottesville in November and we both liked his droll humor, smart songwriting and killer guitar chops, but little did we know that we were going to hear most of the same stage banter (the blotter acid incident that produced four folk-rock songs) we'd heard four months ago.
No matter, the songs are still solid.
His humor was most definitely still in evidence, like when he introduced himself as, "Aaron Lee Tasjan. I hope I'm pronouncing that correctly." Or after announcing the next song would be "Success," saying, "Gotta write what you know."
One story new to me was about being at a female-heavy Cat Power show and one of the few other men besides Aaron yelled out, "The bitch can't sing," causing other women in the audience to look at Aaron to see if he was going to deal with the offender.
"No, I'm not gonna deal with him, but I will go home and write a folk-rock revenge song," he told them before playing us, "You Know, the Bitch Can't Sing" with such tongue-in-cheek lyrics as, "She had a tattoo that was meaningful."
Aren't they all, assuming you ask the tattooed person?
After his set ended, a guy standing behind me asked about seeing me writing in a notebook, perplexed at why I was using such an analog method and to what purpose. I soon learned that the foursome he was with was from Harrisonburg, all worked at JMU and were in town for the night for the show, having already been to Lucy's and Hardywood.
Unlike me, none of them had seen St. Paul and the Broken Bones, which I would guess was also the case for 95% of the people in the room.
At one point, singer Paul told the wildly enthusiastic crowd that they'd only played here once "and none of you were at that show, were you?" I raised my hand to differ and the guy I'd just met pointed and said, "She was!"
How quickly they forget.
Their set began with Paul in a purple choir robe which he threw off James Brown-style to kick off their set of soulful songs matched by assured yet controlled dance moves.
When last I'd seen him, he'd worn a dark blue suit with white shirt with French cuffs and white shoes, but tonight's ensemble was a dusty mauve blazer with a green pattern ("looks like my Grandma's couch," he said) and I was nowhere close enough to see if his cuffs were French or otherwise.
Another change was that the former septet had added a sax/flute player to the horn duo of trombone and trumpet. Paul's ease with the microphone as prop - the cord in his teeth, for cryin' out loud - was even more polished, if that's possible, than last time.
Barely a third of the way into their set, Mac looked at me and said she felt so lousy she was leaving. I didn't mind walking home, but I was terribly sorry she was going to miss the rest of their set.
Because the stage was bigger, Paul spent more time prowling it as he sang or maybe he's just cut back on his dance moves after so much touring. Oh, they're still there, but a tad less frequently and now a dramatic hand or arm gesture subs for full-on grooving.
Not so yours truly, although by that time, the sold-out crowd was shoulder to shoulder and every other move resulted in brushing up against a stranger. If someone begrudges me a little honest dancing in place, the problem is theirs, not mine.
Things got slow and sexy for a while and if there'd been room, there might've been slow dancing, but instead we made do with swaying.
Now that the band has a second album, they no longer need to cover Wilson Pickett or Otis Redding like they did 3 years ago, but even newer material still carries that retro soul vibe of a Muscle Shoals session with blaring horns, organ-sounding keys and a killer rhythm section driving it all.
Was tonight's show as magical as that $5 June night had been?
How could it be? Besides that the band is more polished and confident now, we weren't outside on a humid, sticky night listening to soul music accompanied by the sounds of the James river and a passing train. When you lose the sweat, you lose something.
Not saying I didn't enjoy tonight's show plenty, but there's something to be said for a girl's first experience with a band or a man. That's all I'm saying.
I can't sing and I have no meaningful tattoos. I'm saying it because you gotta write what you know.
Monday, November 21, 2016
It Sounds Terrible Because It Will Be
Luddites, billiards and a Brooklyn band, oh, my.
The Bijou was showing Werner Herzog's new documentary about the Internet, "Lo and Behold: Reveries of a Connected World," a subject that would have seduced me - still very much a 20th century woman in many respects - even if I wasn't a devoted documentary dork, which I certainly am.
From the photographs of the long-haired scientists who came up with the Internet concept in 1969 to artificial intelligence concepts beyond my imagination like soccer playing robot cubes that one scientist expects to beat the Brazilian team by 2050 (and also creepily admits, "We love Robot 8," as he cradles the cube as if it were real), Herzog trotted out the obscure and nerdy.
That kind of thing - pure Herzog oddities- carried through the history of the Internet to hackers, Internet addicts trying to be cured and mad scientists working on self-driving cars, assuring us every time a car has an accident, all cars will learn from it and never repeat that mistake.
Really? can I be the only one who doubts this?
On the other hand, gamers helped research scientists solve molecule and helix problems they hadn't been able to, an extraordinary accomplishment only possible thanks to the Internet.
One of the weirdest, by far, was a family whose daughter had been killed in a car crash where a first responder photographed the head of the decapitated girl and made it public online.
Herzog gives us the family posed in a surreal setting with the family's other three daughters sitting catatonic-looking and overly made up in front of their parents (Mom's clearly had lots of plastic surgery and Botox, but also spouts things like, "The Internet is the manifestation of the anti-Christ"), while on the table sit three plates of baked goods, a homey reminder perhaps of this wholesome family's "before" story.
Wait, what?
We see a group of monks, all staring intently at their cell phones and completely un-involved with the world around them. The likelihood of a solar flare knocking out the Internet is a "when" not an "if" and talking heads mull over what might happen to the food supply when the Internet goes down.
Herzog's film posits that it's no longer people that matter, it's the message and we may eventually not even need humans for companionship because we'll be able to get that from A.I. "It sounds terrible, but maybe it's not," one says with little conviction.
So this is what it's come to, he seems to be telling us. Can't live with the Internet, can't live without it.
All I can say is praise be to the Bijou for landing this thought-provoking documentary by a master observer and commentator about a subject that is changing the course of human behavior.
I have little doubt that I am the sole viewer of it who still operates in the 21st century world without a cell phone, but perhaps that only makes the entire subject more relevant for me. I am the constant in a world of sea change.
Dinner followed at Greenleaf's Pool Room, unexpectedly lively with far more games of pool being played than you might expect for a Sunday evening, although it certainly wasn't a night for outdoor activities.
In short order, we plowed through two kinds of deviled eggs, Bumpkins of country ham with pimento cheese and fried chicken skin which were stellar and Spouter Inn with fried oysters, horseradish and smoked tomato that definitely did not fit easily in my mouth while pomegranate lemonade went down easily.
A thick tomato soup followed because this change of weather today has chilled me to the bone and finally, chicken skewers with a piquant slaw with enough heat for my mouth to take notice. I was taking my warmth any way I could get it tonight.
Walking into Gallery 5 moments before a last-minute show was to begin, we had timed it perfectly to catch the lovely ringing guitars and synths of California Death, the post-punk muscularity of Big Bliss from Brooklyn and the pop exuberance of Young Scum, where the drummer put on a headband before their set began because, apparently, he knew there would be sweat.
Did he have to go online to know this or did he figure it out on his own, I had to wonder? Because I'm in complete agreement with Herzog that the Internet was the beginning of the end for deep critical thinking.
And could it be that our President-elect along with the Internet is the manifestation of the anti-Christ? Post-Herzog, I see the jury as still out on that one.
The Bijou was showing Werner Herzog's new documentary about the Internet, "Lo and Behold: Reveries of a Connected World," a subject that would have seduced me - still very much a 20th century woman in many respects - even if I wasn't a devoted documentary dork, which I certainly am.
From the photographs of the long-haired scientists who came up with the Internet concept in 1969 to artificial intelligence concepts beyond my imagination like soccer playing robot cubes that one scientist expects to beat the Brazilian team by 2050 (and also creepily admits, "We love Robot 8," as he cradles the cube as if it were real), Herzog trotted out the obscure and nerdy.
That kind of thing - pure Herzog oddities- carried through the history of the Internet to hackers, Internet addicts trying to be cured and mad scientists working on self-driving cars, assuring us every time a car has an accident, all cars will learn from it and never repeat that mistake.
Really? can I be the only one who doubts this?
On the other hand, gamers helped research scientists solve molecule and helix problems they hadn't been able to, an extraordinary accomplishment only possible thanks to the Internet.
One of the weirdest, by far, was a family whose daughter had been killed in a car crash where a first responder photographed the head of the decapitated girl and made it public online.
Herzog gives us the family posed in a surreal setting with the family's other three daughters sitting catatonic-looking and overly made up in front of their parents (Mom's clearly had lots of plastic surgery and Botox, but also spouts things like, "The Internet is the manifestation of the anti-Christ"), while on the table sit three plates of baked goods, a homey reminder perhaps of this wholesome family's "before" story.
Wait, what?
We see a group of monks, all staring intently at their cell phones and completely un-involved with the world around them. The likelihood of a solar flare knocking out the Internet is a "when" not an "if" and talking heads mull over what might happen to the food supply when the Internet goes down.
Herzog's film posits that it's no longer people that matter, it's the message and we may eventually not even need humans for companionship because we'll be able to get that from A.I. "It sounds terrible, but maybe it's not," one says with little conviction.
So this is what it's come to, he seems to be telling us. Can't live with the Internet, can't live without it.
All I can say is praise be to the Bijou for landing this thought-provoking documentary by a master observer and commentator about a subject that is changing the course of human behavior.
I have little doubt that I am the sole viewer of it who still operates in the 21st century world without a cell phone, but perhaps that only makes the entire subject more relevant for me. I am the constant in a world of sea change.
Dinner followed at Greenleaf's Pool Room, unexpectedly lively with far more games of pool being played than you might expect for a Sunday evening, although it certainly wasn't a night for outdoor activities.
In short order, we plowed through two kinds of deviled eggs, Bumpkins of country ham with pimento cheese and fried chicken skin which were stellar and Spouter Inn with fried oysters, horseradish and smoked tomato that definitely did not fit easily in my mouth while pomegranate lemonade went down easily.
A thick tomato soup followed because this change of weather today has chilled me to the bone and finally, chicken skewers with a piquant slaw with enough heat for my mouth to take notice. I was taking my warmth any way I could get it tonight.
Walking into Gallery 5 moments before a last-minute show was to begin, we had timed it perfectly to catch the lovely ringing guitars and synths of California Death, the post-punk muscularity of Big Bliss from Brooklyn and the pop exuberance of Young Scum, where the drummer put on a headband before their set began because, apparently, he knew there would be sweat.
Did he have to go online to know this or did he figure it out on his own, I had to wonder? Because I'm in complete agreement with Herzog that the Internet was the beginning of the end for deep critical thinking.
And could it be that our President-elect along with the Internet is the manifestation of the anti-Christ? Post-Herzog, I see the jury as still out on that one.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Don't Believe What You Read
Vagabond was not to be tonight.
Oh, it was our intention to have dinner there before the symphony, but Holmes and Beloved had barely picked me up when Holmes realized that he'd left one of the symphony tickets at home, so back we went.
Finally parked and making our way up hill, we decided to detour into Greenleaf's since neither of them had been and I'm rather fond of the pool hall as a dining destination. Beloved's Negronis were testament to the skill of the talented new barman and she happily noted that Greenleaf's vibe and look felt more like being in NYC than RVA.
After deviled eggs - smoky classic style and picnic style with fried chicken skin on top - and bar toast - a scrumptious layering of Chorizo, chimichurra and goat cheese with caramelized onions - we all chose sandwiches for dinner.
High points went to all three, although neither the patty melt nor tuna melt were served as open-faced sandwiches for some inexplicable reason. The artisan bread supporting them was superb, though, with a companion noting, "I like my bread with some resistance." Men and bread, me, too.
And the grilled cheese and chunky tomato soup combo were out of this world, grown-up even, with Gruyere and aged Provolone adding depth and complexity to what is usually a simple, straight-forward sandwich.
I ran into a friend on my way to the loo and we paused to dissect InLight, which we both felt had been compressed into too small a space at the VMFA this year. We agreed that the experience was diminished by the necessity of herding visitors in a way that allowed no time for lingering and truly experiencing any of the installations, not the case in past years.
At least I knew I wasn't alone in my take on the evening.
From there, our trio strolled one block to CenterStage to join the throngs of white hairs and blue hairs slowly making their way inside.
Tonight's program was Sibelius and Liszt and the first selection, "The Swan of Tuonela" was dedicated to the victims and their families in Paris. "We stand in tribute," conductor Steven Smith said of the piece that featured Shawn Welk blowing a beautiful English horn.
As the grand piano was being maneuvered onstage for Liszt's "Concerto No. 2," Holmes sniffed and observed, "Aww, now we can't see the violas." I teased him because for him, a viola player, it's always all about the violas. But even he had to acknowledge, "But we can see the pianist's hands. We have good seats for that!"
Pianist Orion Weiss' hands put on a fine show, although the guy behind me tapping his foot against the back of my chair was maddening. Fortunately, that was followed by Sibelius's "Symphony No. 2 in D Major," a piece that was alternately ho-hum and positively rousing but elicited no foot thumping.
As Beloved noted afterwards, "Once I heard it change to a major, I knew we were coming to the end." I don't say things like that because I don't hear such things.
Because it was still ridiculously early, we took the party back to Holmes' man cave for record-listening with both Hillinger and Corail Rose, despite Holmes' complaints about being a bit tired after a too-raucous Friday night.
We headed straight back to my youth when he began with Squeeze's "East Side Story," in all its New Wave glory and multiple influenced sounds. I'd forgotten how Stray Cats-like they could be at times.
You have to understand the set-up to see the humor in the next story. Holmes is stationed behind the bar, next to the hi-fi, while Beloved and I perch on bar stools directly across the bar. He has full access to his record collection under the bar, which we can't even see, and pulls treat after treat out.
At one point, pulling out a record resulted in another dropping to the floor. "Oh, Streisand fell on the floor," he said and went back to putting Squeeze away. He had no intention of looking for the errant chick record.
Well, the cold hard fact is you're not going to mention Streisand - an album that undoubtedly came from his deceased wife's collection, not his - to two women of a certain age (see: Beloved and me) and not expect them to want to hear it.
Holmes acquiesced, I think because of the huge array of musical talent on the album.
Or maybe because he was tired, but he put on 1977's "Streisand Superman" while we discussed the array of song composers on it - everyone from Paul Williams to Kim Carnes to Roger Miller to Mr. Pina Colada song himself, Rupert Holmes.
Probably the best known song on it was Billy Joel's "New York State of Mind," a classic best sung by a New Yorker a la Streisand.
But for me, that album had been more about a woman's statement of self. Songs such as "Cabin Fever" repudiated the stereotypical housewife role while "Lullaby for Myself" sang the praises of the single life, at least right up until the very end.
Walked the night and drank the moon
Got home at half past four
And I knew that no one marked my time
As I unlocked my door...
Sure, it doesn't sound all that anthemic in 2015, but in 1977, it was enough to make a woman sit up and take notice. Don't forget, that was the same era as films such as "An Unmarried Woman" and young females I knew were taking the message to heart. Sort of.
Time to spare and time to share
And grateful I would be
If just one damn man
Would share the need
To be alone with me...
I give Holmes high marks because he not only tolerated "Superman" but also located "The Way We Were," a soundtrack album notable not so much for the treacly theme song as for a robust discussion of the 1940s and the vintage music on the record, stuff like "In The Mood" and "Red Sails in the Sunset."
Which is right about where we sailed, but not until many hours after we'd left the dock. Not that it mattered. I knew that no one marked my time as I unlocked my door.
Oh, it was our intention to have dinner there before the symphony, but Holmes and Beloved had barely picked me up when Holmes realized that he'd left one of the symphony tickets at home, so back we went.
Finally parked and making our way up hill, we decided to detour into Greenleaf's since neither of them had been and I'm rather fond of the pool hall as a dining destination. Beloved's Negronis were testament to the skill of the talented new barman and she happily noted that Greenleaf's vibe and look felt more like being in NYC than RVA.
After deviled eggs - smoky classic style and picnic style with fried chicken skin on top - and bar toast - a scrumptious layering of Chorizo, chimichurra and goat cheese with caramelized onions - we all chose sandwiches for dinner.
High points went to all three, although neither the patty melt nor tuna melt were served as open-faced sandwiches for some inexplicable reason. The artisan bread supporting them was superb, though, with a companion noting, "I like my bread with some resistance." Men and bread, me, too.
And the grilled cheese and chunky tomato soup combo were out of this world, grown-up even, with Gruyere and aged Provolone adding depth and complexity to what is usually a simple, straight-forward sandwich.
I ran into a friend on my way to the loo and we paused to dissect InLight, which we both felt had been compressed into too small a space at the VMFA this year. We agreed that the experience was diminished by the necessity of herding visitors in a way that allowed no time for lingering and truly experiencing any of the installations, not the case in past years.
At least I knew I wasn't alone in my take on the evening.
From there, our trio strolled one block to CenterStage to join the throngs of white hairs and blue hairs slowly making their way inside.
Tonight's program was Sibelius and Liszt and the first selection, "The Swan of Tuonela" was dedicated to the victims and their families in Paris. "We stand in tribute," conductor Steven Smith said of the piece that featured Shawn Welk blowing a beautiful English horn.
As the grand piano was being maneuvered onstage for Liszt's "Concerto No. 2," Holmes sniffed and observed, "Aww, now we can't see the violas." I teased him because for him, a viola player, it's always all about the violas. But even he had to acknowledge, "But we can see the pianist's hands. We have good seats for that!"
Pianist Orion Weiss' hands put on a fine show, although the guy behind me tapping his foot against the back of my chair was maddening. Fortunately, that was followed by Sibelius's "Symphony No. 2 in D Major," a piece that was alternately ho-hum and positively rousing but elicited no foot thumping.
As Beloved noted afterwards, "Once I heard it change to a major, I knew we were coming to the end." I don't say things like that because I don't hear such things.
Because it was still ridiculously early, we took the party back to Holmes' man cave for record-listening with both Hillinger and Corail Rose, despite Holmes' complaints about being a bit tired after a too-raucous Friday night.
We headed straight back to my youth when he began with Squeeze's "East Side Story," in all its New Wave glory and multiple influenced sounds. I'd forgotten how Stray Cats-like they could be at times.
You have to understand the set-up to see the humor in the next story. Holmes is stationed behind the bar, next to the hi-fi, while Beloved and I perch on bar stools directly across the bar. He has full access to his record collection under the bar, which we can't even see, and pulls treat after treat out.
At one point, pulling out a record resulted in another dropping to the floor. "Oh, Streisand fell on the floor," he said and went back to putting Squeeze away. He had no intention of looking for the errant chick record.
Well, the cold hard fact is you're not going to mention Streisand - an album that undoubtedly came from his deceased wife's collection, not his - to two women of a certain age (see: Beloved and me) and not expect them to want to hear it.
Holmes acquiesced, I think because of the huge array of musical talent on the album.
Or maybe because he was tired, but he put on 1977's "Streisand Superman" while we discussed the array of song composers on it - everyone from Paul Williams to Kim Carnes to Roger Miller to Mr. Pina Colada song himself, Rupert Holmes.
Probably the best known song on it was Billy Joel's "New York State of Mind," a classic best sung by a New Yorker a la Streisand.
But for me, that album had been more about a woman's statement of self. Songs such as "Cabin Fever" repudiated the stereotypical housewife role while "Lullaby for Myself" sang the praises of the single life, at least right up until the very end.
Walked the night and drank the moon
Got home at half past four
And I knew that no one marked my time
As I unlocked my door...
Sure, it doesn't sound all that anthemic in 2015, but in 1977, it was enough to make a woman sit up and take notice. Don't forget, that was the same era as films such as "An Unmarried Woman" and young females I knew were taking the message to heart. Sort of.
Time to spare and time to share
And grateful I would be
If just one damn man
Would share the need
To be alone with me...
I give Holmes high marks because he not only tolerated "Superman" but also located "The Way We Were," a soundtrack album notable not so much for the treacly theme song as for a robust discussion of the 1940s and the vintage music on the record, stuff like "In The Mood" and "Red Sails in the Sunset."
Which is right about where we sailed, but not until many hours after we'd left the dock. Not that it mattered. I knew that no one marked my time as I unlocked my door.
Friday, August 21, 2015
The Waiting Game
There are so many ways this blog post could go.
I could talk about the afternoon spent at my parents helping my Mom prepare for today's bridge luncheon using Betty Crocker's 1969 cookbook "Salads" to craft the main dish, tuna/egg/olive salad in a puff pastry bowl.
When she took me upstairs, it was to give me her mother's ring, significant because my Washington. D.C. grandma and I were very close and she knew that despite my not being a jewelry person, I would want it.
I could write about going to the new Mott Gallery in Carytown to see Frederick Chiribog's fascinating work, an exhibit of ready-mades a la Marcel Duchamp, mobiles (one strung on fishing wire so it appeared to be flying unaided across the gallery) and detailed wooden dioramas.
But the real draw was guitarist/singer Samantha Pearl sharing her fierce guitar chops and lovely voice against a colorful mural of Cubist-like figures dancing and cavorting.
I probably ought to post about the Todd Rundgren show at the National, for which I arrived on time only to learn, along with the middle-aged masses, that Todd had hit traffic on I-95, so the show wouldn't start until 9:30.
It would make for hilarious reading if I blogged about the Deadhead couple from Dinwiddie County, long-time dedicated show-goers I befriended when they were looking for somewhere to have a drink besides Coda next store, and our sojourn to Greenleaf's Pool Room where I had Sloppy Joe sliders and they had mojitos and Don Julio.
The real subject should undoubtedly be the Todd show, a flashy, LED-lit performance with Todd, a DJ and two wig and costume-changing female dancers/back-up singers. This was not my mother's Todd show (although I'd been amazed when she'd told me she knew who Todd was) of yore or even like the show I saw of his 10 years ago at the Canal Club.
Instead, the highly-energetic 67-year old sang, danced, mimed lyrics and occasionally played guitar as he tore through a two-hour set of his most EDM-sounding material, adding in other material here and there and giving it the dance beat treatment.
There may have been disappointed Todd fans out there who were secretly wishing for a full band and note-perfect renditions of the hits, but I wasn't one of them. I was more than happy to dance in place - my usual: in front of the sound booth - to just about every song.
For one such as me, who's been a fan of Todd's practically since I bought my first records (45s, natch), the pure pleasure principle was just hearing that voice and how amazingly good it still sounds, even coming from a balding man in an overly tight sleeveless t-shirt prancing across the stage.
For sheer humor, I could write about going to Saison after the show, where I talked to a drunk man slurring his words, questioning my hair and critiquing how I wore my necklace (no, really) and watched as front and back of the house staffs from the Roosevelt and Metzger showed up for late night refreshment after closing their own kitchens.
Bathroom graffiti was outstanding: "Bring back pubes" and "If you ain't handcrafting shit in RVA, you ain't poppin'." Your pubes are your business, and I'm hand-picking words, so I hope that counts.
But, no, for the best possible story, what I should blog about is that as I was leaving the National, the guy who was holding the door open in front of me met my eyes and it may as well have been 1992 again. Standing in front of me was a featured player from my past, someone with whom I had a colorful back story and someone I hadn't seen in 20 years.
Cue "Hello, It's Me."
We met when we were both doing radio, a business I got out of in 2005 and he only escaped four years ago after years of considering himself a radio rat, to open a record store. No surprise there; the two of us had spent ridiculous amounts of time talking music and going to shows. Cue "A Long Time, A Long Way to Go."
Last night, we caught up as best we could walking down the block before he and his friend headed for their car to drive back to Tidewater. He made one last appearance as I was standing at my car. Cue "Something/Anything?"
He suggested I come down to his record store. My suggestion was that a conversation (or many) were in order. Cue "Parallel Lines." How do you run into someone you haven't seen in 20 years and just pick up the conversation?
Given the complete surprise of our meeting, it felt more natural than it had any right to be walking down Broad Street doing just that. Wow.
Cue "Can We Still Be Friends?" Hold on 1992, I'm about to find out...
I could talk about the afternoon spent at my parents helping my Mom prepare for today's bridge luncheon using Betty Crocker's 1969 cookbook "Salads" to craft the main dish, tuna/egg/olive salad in a puff pastry bowl.
When she took me upstairs, it was to give me her mother's ring, significant because my Washington. D.C. grandma and I were very close and she knew that despite my not being a jewelry person, I would want it.
I could write about going to the new Mott Gallery in Carytown to see Frederick Chiribog's fascinating work, an exhibit of ready-mades a la Marcel Duchamp, mobiles (one strung on fishing wire so it appeared to be flying unaided across the gallery) and detailed wooden dioramas.
But the real draw was guitarist/singer Samantha Pearl sharing her fierce guitar chops and lovely voice against a colorful mural of Cubist-like figures dancing and cavorting.
I probably ought to post about the Todd Rundgren show at the National, for which I arrived on time only to learn, along with the middle-aged masses, that Todd had hit traffic on I-95, so the show wouldn't start until 9:30.
It would make for hilarious reading if I blogged about the Deadhead couple from Dinwiddie County, long-time dedicated show-goers I befriended when they were looking for somewhere to have a drink besides Coda next store, and our sojourn to Greenleaf's Pool Room where I had Sloppy Joe sliders and they had mojitos and Don Julio.
The real subject should undoubtedly be the Todd show, a flashy, LED-lit performance with Todd, a DJ and two wig and costume-changing female dancers/back-up singers. This was not my mother's Todd show (although I'd been amazed when she'd told me she knew who Todd was) of yore or even like the show I saw of his 10 years ago at the Canal Club.
Instead, the highly-energetic 67-year old sang, danced, mimed lyrics and occasionally played guitar as he tore through a two-hour set of his most EDM-sounding material, adding in other material here and there and giving it the dance beat treatment.
There may have been disappointed Todd fans out there who were secretly wishing for a full band and note-perfect renditions of the hits, but I wasn't one of them. I was more than happy to dance in place - my usual: in front of the sound booth - to just about every song.
For one such as me, who's been a fan of Todd's practically since I bought my first records (45s, natch), the pure pleasure principle was just hearing that voice and how amazingly good it still sounds, even coming from a balding man in an overly tight sleeveless t-shirt prancing across the stage.
For sheer humor, I could write about going to Saison after the show, where I talked to a drunk man slurring his words, questioning my hair and critiquing how I wore my necklace (no, really) and watched as front and back of the house staffs from the Roosevelt and Metzger showed up for late night refreshment after closing their own kitchens.
Bathroom graffiti was outstanding: "Bring back pubes" and "If you ain't handcrafting shit in RVA, you ain't poppin'." Your pubes are your business, and I'm hand-picking words, so I hope that counts.
But, no, for the best possible story, what I should blog about is that as I was leaving the National, the guy who was holding the door open in front of me met my eyes and it may as well have been 1992 again. Standing in front of me was a featured player from my past, someone with whom I had a colorful back story and someone I hadn't seen in 20 years.
Cue "Hello, It's Me."
We met when we were both doing radio, a business I got out of in 2005 and he only escaped four years ago after years of considering himself a radio rat, to open a record store. No surprise there; the two of us had spent ridiculous amounts of time talking music and going to shows. Cue "A Long Time, A Long Way to Go."
Last night, we caught up as best we could walking down the block before he and his friend headed for their car to drive back to Tidewater. He made one last appearance as I was standing at my car. Cue "Something/Anything?"
He suggested I come down to his record store. My suggestion was that a conversation (or many) were in order. Cue "Parallel Lines." How do you run into someone you haven't seen in 20 years and just pick up the conversation?
Given the complete surprise of our meeting, it felt more natural than it had any right to be walking down Broad Street doing just that. Wow.
Cue "Can We Still Be Friends?" Hold on 1992, I'm about to find out...
Monday, March 9, 2015
Rack 'Em Up
I must have looked happy going to my first pool lesson.
Walking over to Greenleaf's pool room, a man commented, "I'll tell you what! I would get married today if it was to a fine woman like you." Pause. "Or you." Um, thanks.
With the church bells on Grace Street chiming, I was unable to linger and see what else he might offer, making it to my lesson only a minute or two late.
My instructor was a smart and funny pool shark (by his own admission) who referred to the game as an addiction and a time suck. "Take up pool if you don't want to have time for a partner, job, life or dog," he suggested.
His first order of business was ensuring that the Pandora station was ideal and he scored big points by selecting an obscure soul station. "I like vintage soul during the day," he said. I like it any time.
From there, he proceeded to try to lure me into loving the game, much like a good drug dealer seduces a wanna-be addict.
After choosing a cue, he instructed me on the importance of frequent chalk usage. Assuming a firm yet relaxed stance was a snap.
Getting the hang of the bridge would have been easier had I not had lotion on my hands, preventing my cue from sliding as smoothly as it should.
From there, I was schooled in the angling of shots, banking and draw shots. He even taught me high English shooting.
After I got my first ball in, his face lit up as much as mine. "There you go! That's the most beautiful sound in the world," he enthused.
From there, he'd tell me which ball to go for but it was up to me to figure out where I needed to hit the cue ball to make it so.
I have to say, it was a gloriously sunny afternoon and the door to the restaurant was propped open, bringing in wafts of warm air that would have made learning almost anything pleasurable, but after a while I was definitely feeling that pool buzz he had assured me I would.
By far, my biggest challenge was figuring out the angles to hit a ball and send it anywhere other than the closest pocket, but I even got better at that after plenty of failures.
Chatting in between shots, I discovered my pool instructor was an avid art historian ("There was no good art after the 12th century") with a host of interesting passions beyond the game we were playing, despite trying to convince me he'd let pool consume his life.
After a while, he just stood back and watched me do my best to sink balls, providing supportive patter all the while. "That's it! Good shot! Tighten up on your bridge!" After I hit in two in a row, it was, "That's it, we're just shooting balls." And by "we," he meant me.
He also took me aside to give me what he called the most important advice of all. He said once I began playing out, men were going to try to show me how to improve my game. "They're going to have more bad habits than you will, so don't let them show you anything." Got it.
Once he thought I had the general hang of it, he left me with a table full of balls to attempt to sink while he went off to make calls. I appreciated that he didn't stand over me as I slowly worked at the task of getting every ball in.
An hour and a half after I'd arrived as the greenest of novices, I thanked my sensei profusely, walking out with a satisfied smile on my face. Still with only the most rudimentary pool skills, but that's more than I'd walked in with.
It was as I was crossing Broad Street on my way home that a guy on the other side of the street smiled broadly at me, no doubt responding to my post-pool glow.
Walking down Marshall Street, a voice called to me from the other side of the street and it was that same guy. "Nice day, don't you think?"
I did and he shouted back more questions and answers (lived here since 1999, originally from Minnesota) as we walked parallel to each other. After a block of that, he crossed the street to introduce himself, explaining that he was a researcher at VCU and using his lunch break for a walk.
Explaining that my job allowed such breaks any time, he said he'd like to switch jobs with me for a day, "Except I'd be terrible at writing," he laughed. And I'd be terrible at scientific research.
At the point where he needed to turn off to go back to his office, we took shade under the awning of a barber shop to shake hands.
A man walked by and said hello to me and I smiled back. "You're looking very lovely today," the stranger said. I told the scientist that learning pool must agree with me because people kept saying nice things to me all day.
"This might seem really forward, but would you be willing to give me your e-mail address?" he asked. For what, lunchtime walks and scientific discussion?
That's when it occurred to me that it wasn't my pool lesson glow that was making everyone so friendly today. It's 71 degrees! More likely it's early Spring fever that's got everyone in such a happy mood.
Ain't nothing wrong with that.
Walking over to Greenleaf's pool room, a man commented, "I'll tell you what! I would get married today if it was to a fine woman like you." Pause. "Or you." Um, thanks.
With the church bells on Grace Street chiming, I was unable to linger and see what else he might offer, making it to my lesson only a minute or two late.
My instructor was a smart and funny pool shark (by his own admission) who referred to the game as an addiction and a time suck. "Take up pool if you don't want to have time for a partner, job, life or dog," he suggested.
His first order of business was ensuring that the Pandora station was ideal and he scored big points by selecting an obscure soul station. "I like vintage soul during the day," he said. I like it any time.
From there, he proceeded to try to lure me into loving the game, much like a good drug dealer seduces a wanna-be addict.
After choosing a cue, he instructed me on the importance of frequent chalk usage. Assuming a firm yet relaxed stance was a snap.
Getting the hang of the bridge would have been easier had I not had lotion on my hands, preventing my cue from sliding as smoothly as it should.
From there, I was schooled in the angling of shots, banking and draw shots. He even taught me high English shooting.
After I got my first ball in, his face lit up as much as mine. "There you go! That's the most beautiful sound in the world," he enthused.
From there, he'd tell me which ball to go for but it was up to me to figure out where I needed to hit the cue ball to make it so.
I have to say, it was a gloriously sunny afternoon and the door to the restaurant was propped open, bringing in wafts of warm air that would have made learning almost anything pleasurable, but after a while I was definitely feeling that pool buzz he had assured me I would.
By far, my biggest challenge was figuring out the angles to hit a ball and send it anywhere other than the closest pocket, but I even got better at that after plenty of failures.
Chatting in between shots, I discovered my pool instructor was an avid art historian ("There was no good art after the 12th century") with a host of interesting passions beyond the game we were playing, despite trying to convince me he'd let pool consume his life.
After a while, he just stood back and watched me do my best to sink balls, providing supportive patter all the while. "That's it! Good shot! Tighten up on your bridge!" After I hit in two in a row, it was, "That's it, we're just shooting balls." And by "we," he meant me.
He also took me aside to give me what he called the most important advice of all. He said once I began playing out, men were going to try to show me how to improve my game. "They're going to have more bad habits than you will, so don't let them show you anything." Got it.
Once he thought I had the general hang of it, he left me with a table full of balls to attempt to sink while he went off to make calls. I appreciated that he didn't stand over me as I slowly worked at the task of getting every ball in.
An hour and a half after I'd arrived as the greenest of novices, I thanked my sensei profusely, walking out with a satisfied smile on my face. Still with only the most rudimentary pool skills, but that's more than I'd walked in with.
It was as I was crossing Broad Street on my way home that a guy on the other side of the street smiled broadly at me, no doubt responding to my post-pool glow.
Walking down Marshall Street, a voice called to me from the other side of the street and it was that same guy. "Nice day, don't you think?"
I did and he shouted back more questions and answers (lived here since 1999, originally from Minnesota) as we walked parallel to each other. After a block of that, he crossed the street to introduce himself, explaining that he was a researcher at VCU and using his lunch break for a walk.
Explaining that my job allowed such breaks any time, he said he'd like to switch jobs with me for a day, "Except I'd be terrible at writing," he laughed. And I'd be terrible at scientific research.
At the point where he needed to turn off to go back to his office, we took shade under the awning of a barber shop to shake hands.
A man walked by and said hello to me and I smiled back. "You're looking very lovely today," the stranger said. I told the scientist that learning pool must agree with me because people kept saying nice things to me all day.
"This might seem really forward, but would you be willing to give me your e-mail address?" he asked. For what, lunchtime walks and scientific discussion?
That's when it occurred to me that it wasn't my pool lesson glow that was making everyone so friendly today. It's 71 degrees! More likely it's early Spring fever that's got everyone in such a happy mood.
Ain't nothing wrong with that.
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