Because this:
We, the humble members of the Richmond Avant Improv Collective, are trying to initiate a jazz-themed monthly series at Gallery 5. This would be our initial attempt at such a foolish endeavor.
So with that kind of can-do spirit and the abundance of talent consistently on display here, it's little wonder that gushing articles about the delights of Richmond keep showing up in the national press. Let me tell you, a non-local travel writer would have a field day trying to convey the abundance of cool here.
From the trendy Quirk Hotel, walk a short two blocks to Gallery 5, a quaint 19th century firehouse that now houses an art gallery and hosts a music stage.
If you're lucky, you may stumble into a dimly-lit show of local talent such as the Richmond Avant Improv Collective. The ever-changing line-up could be dropping cymbals, rattling chains and riffing on Italian music scores while a woman sings in a voice that sounds otherworldly with Hudson Valley jazz fusion guitarist Lucas Brode sitting in. That's the kind of thing five bucks buys you on a Saturday night in Richmond.
Come on, you're reading this in Des Moines as you plan your trip to the capital of the Confederacy to experience battlefields and all of a sudden, you're getting a clue that Richmond may be way cooler than what your aunt Betty told you it was after her trip there in the '80s.
With Richmond's vibrant music scene, you're going to have to make hard choices, especially on a weekend night. Do you want to hang out at the funky Gallery 5 and hear Yeni Nostlji playing '60s Turkish pop music and original material - a song title translates as "Don't You Dare Take Me Lightly" - inspired by that sound sung in a throaty female voice and accompanied by guitar, maracas and whistling?
Maybe you'd prefer a tenth anniversary show at the Broadberry featuring No BS Brass band, a 13-piece ensemble of horns and drums born out of VCU's Jazz Studies program. At tucked away Sound of Music, you could catch indie rock from the Trillions, a group of nerdy scientific types with masterful musical chops and boundless energy.
All ages feel welcome at Richmond's venues, where you might spot a keyboard player sporting a fur Cossack-style hat and belted coat in a nod to mid-60s-esque Dr. Zhivago style heading outside for a cigarette before her band's set. Welcome to Richmond, where eccentric is the norm.
The thing is, a visiting writer would be hard pressed not to leave with a favorable impression, no matter what the angle of the piece might be. Richmond is a place where people talk to strangers and simply eavesdropping on conversations would be a good indicator of the kind of locals a visitor might encounter out.
Spend some time in the architecturally significant neighborhoods known as Jackson Ward and Monroe Ward for galleries, arthouse films, a comedy club, live theater and music.
It's the kind of place where you'll hear a musician telling a jewelry maker she painted her earrings to match her fingernail polish before tonight's performance. Or a couple of writers trading book recommendations on the Civil Rights era. After getting down on the concrete floor to shoot, a photographer will explain what a pain it used to be to have to change a roll of film mid-performance. A place where a singer will call out hello from the stage to a late-arriving friend.
Richmond's high quality of life and low cost of living make it a hotbed for practically everyone to indulge their artistic impulses on the side.
And don't get me started on how so many of the national articles I read about Richmond regurgitate the same "hot spots" rather than cluing in an out-of-towner to some of the city's lesser known charms and secrets.
Fans of world music as well as Dead followers who like to dance (or is that redundant?) should check local listings to see if the long-running Hotel X is playing. Their improvisational takes on songs about cul-de-sacs and dedications to Jamaican guitarists often culminate in a Senegalese prayer for peace while fans allow their bodies to interpret the music in a scene that wouldn't have been out of place at a '60s "happening."
Richmond's got its groove on and it's an organic one that grew out of a scene that relied on local momentum and not mainstream move-ins. Richmond's hip quotient is not be taken lightly, but not heavily, either.
Man, this stuff practically writes itself. Too bad I was just a music-lover at a show tonight and not a travel writer on assignment.
Otherwise, I might have shared the secret to our charm: Richmond excels at trying foolish endeavors and showing up to witness them makes you part of it all. Fur hat not required.
Showing posts with label hotel x. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hotel x. Show all posts
Sunday, January 15, 2017
Thursday, February 26, 2015
The Devil in Me
The green fairy was calling my name but I didn't want to seem easy.
As it was, I'd already been easy enough, dancing with a stranger on Broad Street today. Navigating the snowy sidewalk near Ghostprint Gallery and Lift Coffee Shop, I spied a man approaching me.
Just as we got in front of Lift, we both caught the soundtrack from inside: Martha Reeves and the Vandellas belting out (Love is Like a) Heat Wave.
But that doesn't mean it has me amazed
I don't know what to do, my head's in a haze
Fluidly, he began to dance right in front of me, daring me to dance with him on the sidewalk.To "Heat Wave"? You know I did.
So even though the green fairy had been on my mind since yesterday's talk with a curator about French painting, I elected to delay gratification. Temporarily anyway.
Arriving at the VMFA, I spotted a guy making the first ball for a snowman with his bare hands on the wide front lawn. Nearby, another snowman stood fully formed, a testament to someone with gloves and more sense. When I mentioned it to the guard inside, she just shook her head and observed, "Young and stupid."
Inside, I found a nearly empty museum, a desolate landscape. Surely the snow hadn't scared off the museum's usual Thursday night masses? Oh, but it had.
Upstairs in the print gallery to see "Felix Bracquemond: Impressionist Innovator," I joked with the security guard about the absence of humans.
"Maybe they're waiting to take their cue from each other," he guessed. "Maybe they're coming later." Maybe.
All I knew was I couldn't complain having the galleries to myself to linger over Bracquemond's exquisite engravings.
For an artist whose name was unknown to me, Bracquemond turned out to be a major player in the Impressionist scene. He'd been invited by Degas to exhibit in the Impressionist salon of 1874.
I found myself totally captivated by his "Gallery of Handsome Men," a series of engravings depicting well-known poets, singers and photographers (all with beards, all very hipster-like) of the era.
Highly surprising was his foray into the decorative arts with the Rousseau dinner service, a collection of dishes (plates, bowls, tureens) he'd designed. They'd been so popular, they'd been continuously reissued until the middle of the 20th century.
But perhaps the most unlikely link to the Impressionists came with his wife, Marie, a painter (and pupil of classicist Ingres) in the style of Morrisot and Cassatt, who also submitted work to the Impressionists' exhibitions.
A woman I'd never even heard of. Art history education fail.
There was a series of etchings after major painters - Delacroix, Rousseau, Courbet - and an obvious reverence for Rembrandt with a series of prints done in various states with changes in lighting and detail.
An altogether fabulous show of Impressionist prints not to be missed.
Coming back down the staircase, I was met with a smiling man who didn't begin dancing, but instead asked me, "How was your event?"
I returned his smile and said I hadn't been at an event, I'd been to see the Bracquemond show.
"I work here and I was upstairs having a drink to celebrate the Bracquemond show," he said. Worth raising a glass to, I know.
When he asked where I was off to next, I said Hotel X, the band playing in Best Cafe. Conveniently, he was headed there, too, so we walked on together.
Once there, I borrowed a chair from a table whose occupants weren't using it and settled back for Hotel X's unique blend of Afro-beat, jazz, rock, pop and world music.
Glancing outside, I saw that the Chiluhly "Red Reeds" had been brought in for the winter, a good thing considering that the reflecting pool was completely under snow. Meanwhile, the sculpture garden was surprisingly busy with couples walking through the snowy landscape.
Having experienced them before, I knew I enjoyed Hotel X for their musicianship (always lots of musicians in the audience), the genre-crossing sound (is that rock?...they're pretty jazzy, aren't they?...what's that groove?), the way they inspire women in shawls to do that crazy butterfly-catching dancing and men to do that sideline air-guitar playing thing that they do.
By then, the place was filling up enough that my presence was no longer necessary, so I got myself upstairs to Amuse where a lone couple was holding down the bar. I took the opposite end.
Wasting no time, I informed the sunny bartender that in my opinion, they needed to bring back the absinthe drip for the upcoming French "Art of the Flower" exhibit. As it happens, she was already working on a cocktail list featuring absinthe.
More importantly, she got busy making me an absinthe drip while I considered the menu. With a bit of prodding from her, I opted for the mussels and Sausagecraft sausage in white wine, garlic and lemon broth, a reliable bowl of savory warmth, a worthy pairing with the distinctive buzz of absinthe.
Delivering it, she commented on my very French (or, as she put it, "mucho Francais") food and drink combo, something that had already occurred to me. It was an evening for all things French.
Speaking of, I was interested to hear about the "green hour" Amuse is planning to coincide with the new exhibit, a charming way to introduce the green fairy to the uninitiated before they tour the show.
Before long, a familiar face appeared to join me with a glass of wine in hand with which to toast my second absinthe and initiate a discussion of luck, feminism and California living. On everyone's mind is whether or not they can rent out their places during the bike races this September, something I know many friends are doing.
The bartender said she'd considered renting her house and going to the beach for that week, but thought it might be more prudent to stay in town and wait on all the tourists here for the race. Not to mention all those cute, fit biker guys.
I can assure you I'll be staying in town for not only the view but the attendant fun and that includes the absinthe drip.
Rumor has it that it's not just for the easy anymore.
As it was, I'd already been easy enough, dancing with a stranger on Broad Street today. Navigating the snowy sidewalk near Ghostprint Gallery and Lift Coffee Shop, I spied a man approaching me.
Just as we got in front of Lift, we both caught the soundtrack from inside: Martha Reeves and the Vandellas belting out (Love is Like a) Heat Wave.
But that doesn't mean it has me amazed
I don't know what to do, my head's in a haze
Fluidly, he began to dance right in front of me, daring me to dance with him on the sidewalk.To "Heat Wave"? You know I did.
So even though the green fairy had been on my mind since yesterday's talk with a curator about French painting, I elected to delay gratification. Temporarily anyway.
Arriving at the VMFA, I spotted a guy making the first ball for a snowman with his bare hands on the wide front lawn. Nearby, another snowman stood fully formed, a testament to someone with gloves and more sense. When I mentioned it to the guard inside, she just shook her head and observed, "Young and stupid."
Inside, I found a nearly empty museum, a desolate landscape. Surely the snow hadn't scared off the museum's usual Thursday night masses? Oh, but it had.
Upstairs in the print gallery to see "Felix Bracquemond: Impressionist Innovator," I joked with the security guard about the absence of humans.
"Maybe they're waiting to take their cue from each other," he guessed. "Maybe they're coming later." Maybe.
All I knew was I couldn't complain having the galleries to myself to linger over Bracquemond's exquisite engravings.
For an artist whose name was unknown to me, Bracquemond turned out to be a major player in the Impressionist scene. He'd been invited by Degas to exhibit in the Impressionist salon of 1874.
I found myself totally captivated by his "Gallery of Handsome Men," a series of engravings depicting well-known poets, singers and photographers (all with beards, all very hipster-like) of the era.
Highly surprising was his foray into the decorative arts with the Rousseau dinner service, a collection of dishes (plates, bowls, tureens) he'd designed. They'd been so popular, they'd been continuously reissued until the middle of the 20th century.
But perhaps the most unlikely link to the Impressionists came with his wife, Marie, a painter (and pupil of classicist Ingres) in the style of Morrisot and Cassatt, who also submitted work to the Impressionists' exhibitions.
A woman I'd never even heard of. Art history education fail.
There was a series of etchings after major painters - Delacroix, Rousseau, Courbet - and an obvious reverence for Rembrandt with a series of prints done in various states with changes in lighting and detail.
An altogether fabulous show of Impressionist prints not to be missed.
Coming back down the staircase, I was met with a smiling man who didn't begin dancing, but instead asked me, "How was your event?"
I returned his smile and said I hadn't been at an event, I'd been to see the Bracquemond show.
"I work here and I was upstairs having a drink to celebrate the Bracquemond show," he said. Worth raising a glass to, I know.
When he asked where I was off to next, I said Hotel X, the band playing in Best Cafe. Conveniently, he was headed there, too, so we walked on together.
Once there, I borrowed a chair from a table whose occupants weren't using it and settled back for Hotel X's unique blend of Afro-beat, jazz, rock, pop and world music.
Glancing outside, I saw that the Chiluhly "Red Reeds" had been brought in for the winter, a good thing considering that the reflecting pool was completely under snow. Meanwhile, the sculpture garden was surprisingly busy with couples walking through the snowy landscape.
Having experienced them before, I knew I enjoyed Hotel X for their musicianship (always lots of musicians in the audience), the genre-crossing sound (is that rock?...they're pretty jazzy, aren't they?...what's that groove?), the way they inspire women in shawls to do that crazy butterfly-catching dancing and men to do that sideline air-guitar playing thing that they do.
By then, the place was filling up enough that my presence was no longer necessary, so I got myself upstairs to Amuse where a lone couple was holding down the bar. I took the opposite end.
Wasting no time, I informed the sunny bartender that in my opinion, they needed to bring back the absinthe drip for the upcoming French "Art of the Flower" exhibit. As it happens, she was already working on a cocktail list featuring absinthe.
More importantly, she got busy making me an absinthe drip while I considered the menu. With a bit of prodding from her, I opted for the mussels and Sausagecraft sausage in white wine, garlic and lemon broth, a reliable bowl of savory warmth, a worthy pairing with the distinctive buzz of absinthe.
Delivering it, she commented on my very French (or, as she put it, "mucho Francais") food and drink combo, something that had already occurred to me. It was an evening for all things French.
Speaking of, I was interested to hear about the "green hour" Amuse is planning to coincide with the new exhibit, a charming way to introduce the green fairy to the uninitiated before they tour the show.
Before long, a familiar face appeared to join me with a glass of wine in hand with which to toast my second absinthe and initiate a discussion of luck, feminism and California living. On everyone's mind is whether or not they can rent out their places during the bike races this September, something I know many friends are doing.
The bartender said she'd considered renting her house and going to the beach for that week, but thought it might be more prudent to stay in town and wait on all the tourists here for the race. Not to mention all those cute, fit biker guys.
I can assure you I'll be staying in town for not only the view but the attendant fun and that includes the absinthe drip.
Rumor has it that it's not just for the easy anymore.
Friday, December 31, 2010
A Tale of Two Kens
Yet again, the evening didn't work out the way I had thought it would. First off, my girlfriend and I did not connect.
When she wasn't at the appointed meeting spot, I figured she'd blown me off for better things. So I walked the galleries at VMFA looking for her and finally ended up at the Best Cafe, hoping to salvage the night with time spent listening to Hotel X.
I was as unprepared as the VMFA apparently was for the hordes that crowded the cafe for Hotel X tonight. First of all, the band has a huge following. Second, on New Year's Eve eve, there was not a lot happening in RVA. Hence the mob.
Luckily when I arrived, there was one table open and I snagged it in the name of a music lover, albeit a lonely one. Yes, it was a four-top and yes, I was one lousy person, but I'd been stood up and I was not going to stand for three hours of world music.
Afraid to lose my table if I left it to get wine, I stayed put and enjoyed Hotel X's unique blend of Afro-beat, jazz, rock, pop and world music. Before long, I saw an old friend making his way through the crowd and waved hello from my prime seat.
It was Ken, the man who delivered me one of the unkindest and funniest lines of my life (he's the first one mentioned), here, and he came over to ask if he could join me. Not one to hold grudges against people who don't find me pretty (after all, I'm not), I welcomed him to my humble table.
When he discovered my wine dilemma, he was off like a shot to fetch me wine (well, if you insist). He caught me up on his life and I was impressed to hear that he is planning to leave April 1 to spend a month sailing his boat to Florida and back to get a little ocean-going experience. Sounds like a lot more fun than selling securities (again, why he's not my type).
Just as he was reminding me how I'm the perfect girl for him (believe me, I'm not), a woman approached our table and asked if she could join us. Eager to play nice, we said yes. Then we found out she had two friends on the way. Okay, things were getting a bit crowded, but we could adapt.
They turned out to be a fine addition to our duo, the doctor, the operating room nurse and the interior house painter. They had ties to the old Main Street Grill, knew Hotel X and were eager to swap conversation.
One of the women had been burned badly in her last relationship, necessitating her getting out of town to heal and we shared tales of love lost. The nurse asked me about the Rattlemouth show tomorrow night and the painter wanted to know all about me and my neighborhood. Ken who?
I love Hotel X; their fluidity (lots of musicians in the audience), the genre-crossing sound (is that rock?...they're pretty jazzy, aren't they?...what's that groove?), the way they inspire that crazy butterfly-catching dancing and sideline acoustic-guitar playing.
The place eventually became so jammed that the staff went out on the deck and brought in a additional tables and chairs to accommodate people. Simply put, the joint was jumping.
Once the excellent music ended, I said goodnight to my new harem (Ken having departed earlier due to the late hour...8:30) and they asked for ways to keep in touch.
Leaving the museum, I had a dilemma of where to go and decided that Carytown was my best shot tonight. I rolled up to Bonvenu, busy with a half dozen tables or so and figured they were going to welcome me. And they did.
I took a seat at the bar, was welcomed back (again) and ordered a glass of Tempranillo to start. A quick look at the menu assured me that I needed to finally taste the butternut squash dumplings with chevre, cayenne walnuts and grilled sweet onions in browned butter sauce with crispy sage.
About damn time, too, because the dish was terrific. The dumplings were dense and flavorful, the chevre abundant, the onions cooked to the sweetest perfection and with enough walnuts to satisfy a nut-lover like me. No, I'm not sharing a bite of this.
Mid-dish a butcher came in and sat near me at the bar but didn't speak. I could tell he was eavesdropping when I initiated a conversation with the bartender about the music, but he didn't join the conversation.
The music was a bit dated for my taste (Melanie, "Brand New Key"? Hall and Oates? Wow) , but the discussion thereof caught the interest of the butcher's friend who'd come in and placed himself between me and the meat man.
He was my second Ken of the evening and he was a huge pleasure to talk to (he also didn't mention me not being pretty or my nose being too big). I was set.
We had only minor overlapping music to discuss (although he awarded me major points for my extensive current music knowledge; his stopped at Kings of Leon and Kaiser Chiefs), but it was a start.
We segued into the research skills of the PDA generation (non-existent), the unprecedented turnaround in cultural attitudes toward vets (from dissing Viet Nam vets to celebrating the current crop in a mere 35 years; warp speed for a cultural shift in this country) and the way our parents' generation worked through marital discord rather than resorting to divorce at the first difficulty.
Eventually the butcher left and Ken stayed (I think) for the pleasure of further conversation.
Even so, I could not have been more surprised when he finally asked for his check (his work requires a much earlier wake-up call than mine, but then doesn't everybody's?) and insisted that Miss Karen's bill be included with his. Had I just unwittingly talked for my supper?
I was sorry to see such a fine conversationslaist go but he had a butcher to meet before bed and I understood that. Within moments of his departure, the bartender started telling me about how West Coast drink trends slowly make their way to Richmond and how it says so right in the restaurant magazines.
Specifically, she wanted me to know about the Pickleback, a shot of Jameson's followed by a half shot of pickle juice, which comes to us via Los Angeles. Since I only drink tequila and wine, the conversation between her, the staff and a customer was of no relevance to me.
Until they insisted that I join them in a round of Picklebacks, resulting in my first taste of Jameson's, not to mention my first pickle juice. Who would have thought?
And neither Ken around to witness it. I'm honestly not sure who might have been impressed and who would have been appalled.
Not that it matters either way. I just don't think I'm the Ken type.
Do I look like Barbie?
When she wasn't at the appointed meeting spot, I figured she'd blown me off for better things. So I walked the galleries at VMFA looking for her and finally ended up at the Best Cafe, hoping to salvage the night with time spent listening to Hotel X.
I was as unprepared as the VMFA apparently was for the hordes that crowded the cafe for Hotel X tonight. First of all, the band has a huge following. Second, on New Year's Eve eve, there was not a lot happening in RVA. Hence the mob.
Luckily when I arrived, there was one table open and I snagged it in the name of a music lover, albeit a lonely one. Yes, it was a four-top and yes, I was one lousy person, but I'd been stood up and I was not going to stand for three hours of world music.
Afraid to lose my table if I left it to get wine, I stayed put and enjoyed Hotel X's unique blend of Afro-beat, jazz, rock, pop and world music. Before long, I saw an old friend making his way through the crowd and waved hello from my prime seat.
It was Ken, the man who delivered me one of the unkindest and funniest lines of my life (he's the first one mentioned), here, and he came over to ask if he could join me. Not one to hold grudges against people who don't find me pretty (after all, I'm not), I welcomed him to my humble table.
When he discovered my wine dilemma, he was off like a shot to fetch me wine (well, if you insist). He caught me up on his life and I was impressed to hear that he is planning to leave April 1 to spend a month sailing his boat to Florida and back to get a little ocean-going experience. Sounds like a lot more fun than selling securities (again, why he's not my type).
Just as he was reminding me how I'm the perfect girl for him (believe me, I'm not), a woman approached our table and asked if she could join us. Eager to play nice, we said yes. Then we found out she had two friends on the way. Okay, things were getting a bit crowded, but we could adapt.
They turned out to be a fine addition to our duo, the doctor, the operating room nurse and the interior house painter. They had ties to the old Main Street Grill, knew Hotel X and were eager to swap conversation.
One of the women had been burned badly in her last relationship, necessitating her getting out of town to heal and we shared tales of love lost. The nurse asked me about the Rattlemouth show tomorrow night and the painter wanted to know all about me and my neighborhood. Ken who?
I love Hotel X; their fluidity (lots of musicians in the audience), the genre-crossing sound (is that rock?...they're pretty jazzy, aren't they?...what's that groove?), the way they inspire that crazy butterfly-catching dancing and sideline acoustic-guitar playing.
The place eventually became so jammed that the staff went out on the deck and brought in a additional tables and chairs to accommodate people. Simply put, the joint was jumping.
Once the excellent music ended, I said goodnight to my new harem (Ken having departed earlier due to the late hour...8:30) and they asked for ways to keep in touch.
Leaving the museum, I had a dilemma of where to go and decided that Carytown was my best shot tonight. I rolled up to Bonvenu, busy with a half dozen tables or so and figured they were going to welcome me. And they did.
I took a seat at the bar, was welcomed back (again) and ordered a glass of Tempranillo to start. A quick look at the menu assured me that I needed to finally taste the butternut squash dumplings with chevre, cayenne walnuts and grilled sweet onions in browned butter sauce with crispy sage.
About damn time, too, because the dish was terrific. The dumplings were dense and flavorful, the chevre abundant, the onions cooked to the sweetest perfection and with enough walnuts to satisfy a nut-lover like me. No, I'm not sharing a bite of this.
Mid-dish a butcher came in and sat near me at the bar but didn't speak. I could tell he was eavesdropping when I initiated a conversation with the bartender about the music, but he didn't join the conversation.
The music was a bit dated for my taste (Melanie, "Brand New Key"? Hall and Oates? Wow) , but the discussion thereof caught the interest of the butcher's friend who'd come in and placed himself between me and the meat man.
He was my second Ken of the evening and he was a huge pleasure to talk to (he also didn't mention me not being pretty or my nose being too big). I was set.
We had only minor overlapping music to discuss (although he awarded me major points for my extensive current music knowledge; his stopped at Kings of Leon and Kaiser Chiefs), but it was a start.
We segued into the research skills of the PDA generation (non-existent), the unprecedented turnaround in cultural attitudes toward vets (from dissing Viet Nam vets to celebrating the current crop in a mere 35 years; warp speed for a cultural shift in this country) and the way our parents' generation worked through marital discord rather than resorting to divorce at the first difficulty.
Eventually the butcher left and Ken stayed (I think) for the pleasure of further conversation.
Even so, I could not have been more surprised when he finally asked for his check (his work requires a much earlier wake-up call than mine, but then doesn't everybody's?) and insisted that Miss Karen's bill be included with his. Had I just unwittingly talked for my supper?
I was sorry to see such a fine conversationslaist go but he had a butcher to meet before bed and I understood that. Within moments of his departure, the bartender started telling me about how West Coast drink trends slowly make their way to Richmond and how it says so right in the restaurant magazines.
Specifically, she wanted me to know about the Pickleback, a shot of Jameson's followed by a half shot of pickle juice, which comes to us via Los Angeles. Since I only drink tequila and wine, the conversation between her, the staff and a customer was of no relevance to me.
Until they insisted that I join them in a round of Picklebacks, resulting in my first taste of Jameson's, not to mention my first pickle juice. Who would have thought?
And neither Ken around to witness it. I'm honestly not sure who might have been impressed and who would have been appalled.
Not that it matters either way. I just don't think I'm the Ken type.
Do I look like Barbie?
Friday, August 27, 2010
Boy Bar/Girl Bar
You won't often find me at Penny Lane Pub, soured as I was by a night of watching really bad karaoke there last fall. And then there's that male-only crowd that sits on the patio assessing each new customer as if they were grading meat.
But Prabir and company were having an All Access Blog Launch party for the Richmond Symphony and the intersection of the two was too compelling to pass up. That and I was sure Prabir would give me crap if I didn't show.
Based on what was being shown at the party, the new website will definitely be a step forward in attracting viewers. It looks like there will be interviews and offbeat stories about the musicians and staff (like Prabir) and it'll be updated at least twice a week, making for some interesting reading and viewing for RSO fans and even the mildly interested. Hey, symphony musicians are people, too, or so I was told.
Prabir introduced me to a local show poster designer with great musical taste, so I enjoyed myself talking to him about my poster collection, why opening bands matter and how Shepard Fairey came through town without either of us being aware, despite our mutual rabid interest in seeing him. I love meeting new people who share my interests and like to talk.
When I left the pub, I went straight to the VMFA for a showing of the documentary Amandla! A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony, a tie-in to the South African photography exhibit I saw last week. The film was powerful, depicting the chronology of the South African liberation struggle for blacks in music and protests.
I was fascinated by the way the people used song to unite themselves and share their struggles with one another during those bleak years that their townships and lives were being destroyed. Ten years in the making, the combination of interviews and performances (some as casual as back yard a capella) encompassed countless musicians, activists and exiles to tell the story.
The audience was absolutely silent throughout, probably because of the need to listen to heavily accented voices in some cases and also because of the poignancy of the stories people shared. The combination of news footage and present-day interviews seamlessly told a story in which we all knew the ending, but were nonetheless drawn in.
Images of protesters being beaten and even shot were difficult to watch but a necessary part of the story. And throughout, the music was uplifting and inspiring and shared by the masses. As one former exile said, for black South Africans, the good times have just begun.
After the screening, I headed right up to the Best Cafe because I knew Hotel X was playing. The cafe was positively frigid, so I found a chair on the outside deck and settled in with a piece of chocolate torte for some world music-inspired jazz. I knew from seeing the band last winter that I would not be disappointed with their wide-ranging sound.
Even better, the weather put on a visual show while Hotel X provided the musical accompaniment. Facing west, I was surrounded by the reflecting pool with a view of the sculpture garden and the Pauley Center. Lightening lit up the sky over the trees and occasional thunder rumbled in the distance. It was perfect late summer night weather.
A light rain fell too quietly to hear, but I could see the drops hitting the pool in the dim light. Overhead, the deck of Amuse shielded me from getting wet while I enjoyed the balmy night air. The only jarring note was when someone inadvertently left the cafe door open and a blast of arctic air hit me. Although the dancing crowd would probably have disagreed, I really did feel like I had the best seat in the house.
When their last set ended, I decided to finish the night at nearby Secco. By some miracle, it was not mobbed, although every single barstool was taken. Julia surrendered her spot at the bar, closed her laptop and suggested we share a couch and catch up.
There was rose, there was cheese (Midnight Moon) and loveliest of all, there were even pink bubbles (Manoir de la Tete "Tete a Claques" sparkling rose), all necessary fortification for the tales of obtuse fathers, audacious young men and observation of overly botoxed customers ("Wait till she turns around. She looks like the Joker!" She did, too).
And that's not even counting the street theater that is the corner of Sheppard and Cary Streets, a magnet for colorful characters and unexpected behavior the later in the evening it gets ("Did he just...?" Yes, he did).
Julia mentioned the irony of a tomboy, which she most certainly is, ending up with a wine bar that attracts a majority female clientele. It's definitey not a place to go if a girl is hoping to meet someone of the opposite sex; the few men in attendance are inevitably with a female.
It's sort of the anti-Penny Lane Pub. Tonight I was one of those females who can go either way...or both.
But Prabir and company were having an All Access Blog Launch party for the Richmond Symphony and the intersection of the two was too compelling to pass up. That and I was sure Prabir would give me crap if I didn't show.
Based on what was being shown at the party, the new website will definitely be a step forward in attracting viewers. It looks like there will be interviews and offbeat stories about the musicians and staff (like Prabir) and it'll be updated at least twice a week, making for some interesting reading and viewing for RSO fans and even the mildly interested. Hey, symphony musicians are people, too, or so I was told.
Prabir introduced me to a local show poster designer with great musical taste, so I enjoyed myself talking to him about my poster collection, why opening bands matter and how Shepard Fairey came through town without either of us being aware, despite our mutual rabid interest in seeing him. I love meeting new people who share my interests and like to talk.
When I left the pub, I went straight to the VMFA for a showing of the documentary Amandla! A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony, a tie-in to the South African photography exhibit I saw last week. The film was powerful, depicting the chronology of the South African liberation struggle for blacks in music and protests.
I was fascinated by the way the people used song to unite themselves and share their struggles with one another during those bleak years that their townships and lives were being destroyed. Ten years in the making, the combination of interviews and performances (some as casual as back yard a capella) encompassed countless musicians, activists and exiles to tell the story.
The audience was absolutely silent throughout, probably because of the need to listen to heavily accented voices in some cases and also because of the poignancy of the stories people shared. The combination of news footage and present-day interviews seamlessly told a story in which we all knew the ending, but were nonetheless drawn in.
Images of protesters being beaten and even shot were difficult to watch but a necessary part of the story. And throughout, the music was uplifting and inspiring and shared by the masses. As one former exile said, for black South Africans, the good times have just begun.
After the screening, I headed right up to the Best Cafe because I knew Hotel X was playing. The cafe was positively frigid, so I found a chair on the outside deck and settled in with a piece of chocolate torte for some world music-inspired jazz. I knew from seeing the band last winter that I would not be disappointed with their wide-ranging sound.
Even better, the weather put on a visual show while Hotel X provided the musical accompaniment. Facing west, I was surrounded by the reflecting pool with a view of the sculpture garden and the Pauley Center. Lightening lit up the sky over the trees and occasional thunder rumbled in the distance. It was perfect late summer night weather.
A light rain fell too quietly to hear, but I could see the drops hitting the pool in the dim light. Overhead, the deck of Amuse shielded me from getting wet while I enjoyed the balmy night air. The only jarring note was when someone inadvertently left the cafe door open and a blast of arctic air hit me. Although the dancing crowd would probably have disagreed, I really did feel like I had the best seat in the house.
When their last set ended, I decided to finish the night at nearby Secco. By some miracle, it was not mobbed, although every single barstool was taken. Julia surrendered her spot at the bar, closed her laptop and suggested we share a couch and catch up.
There was rose, there was cheese (Midnight Moon) and loveliest of all, there were even pink bubbles (Manoir de la Tete "Tete a Claques" sparkling rose), all necessary fortification for the tales of obtuse fathers, audacious young men and observation of overly botoxed customers ("Wait till she turns around. She looks like the Joker!" She did, too).
And that's not even counting the street theater that is the corner of Sheppard and Cary Streets, a magnet for colorful characters and unexpected behavior the later in the evening it gets ("Did he just...?" Yes, he did).
Julia mentioned the irony of a tomboy, which she most certainly is, ending up with a wine bar that attracts a majority female clientele. It's definitey not a place to go if a girl is hoping to meet someone of the opposite sex; the few men in attendance are inevitably with a female.
It's sort of the anti-Penny Lane Pub. Tonight I was one of those females who can go either way...or both.
Friday, March 19, 2010
One Fine Day: Dishing, Fishing and Hotel X
I sold out again, only this time for a different reason (does that make it any better?).
A good friend wanted to meet for drinks at Can Can, but I'd just had lunch there yesterday.
Before I could even protest, though, she enticed me by saying she wanted me to meet a friend of hers whom she described as a "foodie" and who also happens to be a dining critic.
Okay, maybe I can repeat a location just this one last time.
It was a beautiful Friday, all the doors and windows were open and people just kept arriving.
Meanwhile we ordered carafes of Corbieres and a cheese plate (a triple creme, a mild bleu and a goat) and started telling each other what we knew.
It worked out well because we knew a lot of the same restaurant people and each of us had different details about them.
She told me a delicious story about a place she had intended to review but the experience was so off-putting that she told her editor, "You don't want me to do this review."
We discussed which restaurants consistently do things right and which have a habit of inconsistency.
The importance of quality front-of-the house management drew anecdotes from us both.
Only other commitments prevented us from doing this kind of talking all night.
Naturally, wine god Bob Talcott came over to say hello (and told me how great my magenta tights were; he mentioned something about blushing if he said more) and discuss the weather.
"This is going to turn out to be the finest day of the year," he proclaimed. It certainly ought to be in the running we agreed.
Afterwards, I went to Plant Zero to be part of the 17th Annual James River Film Fest and experience "Georges Melies Meets Hotel X."
It was a lot like the Silent Music Revival events, with a band accompanying a silent film.
I've seen some of Melies' films before (he made over 500) and he's known as the father of special effects.
Originally a magician, he was one of the first to use time-lapse, dissolves and multiple exposures, thereby translating his magic tricks onto the screen.
We saw three shorts tonight and one longer feature, The Impossible Voyage.
Besides its length, it stood out for the hand tinting, which must have been a laborious process back at the turn of the 20th century...cell by cell by cell.
Hotel X did a superior job at intently watching the film and reacting to it musically. I've seen a lot of these silent film/live music shows and this were easily one of the very best I've seen.
It helped that the band had multiple percussionists given all the clamorous goings-on in the films. Later, when asked why the band had chosen these in particular, they said it was because three were short and only one was long; I don't doubt that live musical improv to a film would be challenging.
After the screening, James River Film Fest t-shirts were distributed to the band as a thank-you for their superlative performance.
One of the drummers and a personal favorite of mine, Lance Koehler (also of No BS Brass Band) draped his over his snare drum and played it that way for the two songs the band did after the films.
Eventually Hotel X's groove became too much for some members of the audience, who began to dance in the areas around the movie screen, totally into it.
Driving back into the city across the Mayo Bridge, I think I got confirmation about Bob's assessment of the weather today.
There were a couple of guys, one leaning over the bridge and one comfortably seated in a folding chair, fishing off the bridge.
They had their bait buckets, they had their coolers, they had their back-up rods and at 10:30 on a March evening, they were still out there enjoying this weather.
The wine god may have been right about this fine day, but these gentlemen seemed to be putting in their vote for it as a fine night, too.
I'm willing to bet that the sliver of a moon in the clear sky wasn't hurting the mood any either.
A good friend wanted to meet for drinks at Can Can, but I'd just had lunch there yesterday.
Before I could even protest, though, she enticed me by saying she wanted me to meet a friend of hers whom she described as a "foodie" and who also happens to be a dining critic.
Okay, maybe I can repeat a location just this one last time.
It was a beautiful Friday, all the doors and windows were open and people just kept arriving.
Meanwhile we ordered carafes of Corbieres and a cheese plate (a triple creme, a mild bleu and a goat) and started telling each other what we knew.
It worked out well because we knew a lot of the same restaurant people and each of us had different details about them.
She told me a delicious story about a place she had intended to review but the experience was so off-putting that she told her editor, "You don't want me to do this review."
We discussed which restaurants consistently do things right and which have a habit of inconsistency.
The importance of quality front-of-the house management drew anecdotes from us both.
Only other commitments prevented us from doing this kind of talking all night.
Naturally, wine god Bob Talcott came over to say hello (and told me how great my magenta tights were; he mentioned something about blushing if he said more) and discuss the weather.
"This is going to turn out to be the finest day of the year," he proclaimed. It certainly ought to be in the running we agreed.
Afterwards, I went to Plant Zero to be part of the 17th Annual James River Film Fest and experience "Georges Melies Meets Hotel X."
It was a lot like the Silent Music Revival events, with a band accompanying a silent film.
I've seen some of Melies' films before (he made over 500) and he's known as the father of special effects.
Originally a magician, he was one of the first to use time-lapse, dissolves and multiple exposures, thereby translating his magic tricks onto the screen.
We saw three shorts tonight and one longer feature, The Impossible Voyage.
Besides its length, it stood out for the hand tinting, which must have been a laborious process back at the turn of the 20th century...cell by cell by cell.
Hotel X did a superior job at intently watching the film and reacting to it musically. I've seen a lot of these silent film/live music shows and this were easily one of the very best I've seen.
It helped that the band had multiple percussionists given all the clamorous goings-on in the films. Later, when asked why the band had chosen these in particular, they said it was because three were short and only one was long; I don't doubt that live musical improv to a film would be challenging.
After the screening, James River Film Fest t-shirts were distributed to the band as a thank-you for their superlative performance.
One of the drummers and a personal favorite of mine, Lance Koehler (also of No BS Brass Band) draped his over his snare drum and played it that way for the two songs the band did after the films.
Eventually Hotel X's groove became too much for some members of the audience, who began to dance in the areas around the movie screen, totally into it.
Driving back into the city across the Mayo Bridge, I think I got confirmation about Bob's assessment of the weather today.
There were a couple of guys, one leaning over the bridge and one comfortably seated in a folding chair, fishing off the bridge.
They had their bait buckets, they had their coolers, they had their back-up rods and at 10:30 on a March evening, they were still out there enjoying this weather.
The wine god may have been right about this fine day, but these gentlemen seemed to be putting in their vote for it as a fine night, too.
I'm willing to bet that the sliver of a moon in the clear sky wasn't hurting the mood any either.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
