I'm hosting an intimate house show featuring Liza Kate and Jonathan Vassar...two of the most heartbreaking songwriters I know. This is also a rare opportunity to see Liza before she leaves RVA.
When an invitation like that arrives, you RSVP right away.
Mr. Wright came by and scooped me up so we could chow down at Goatocado first and while I've eaten there several times, tonight was the first time eating fireside. The afternoon warmth was still palpable when we arrived, so eating outside was extra appealing given that we settled on the bench nearest the fire as the sun set.
From there we went to my friend's house for mingling before music. Since the guest list was small - 32 people - I wasn't sure if I'd know anyone beyond our hostess and Jonathan. Silly me, it wound up being full of the old Listening Room crowd along with some new faces.
When I introduced a friend (and regular blog reader) to Mr. Wright, her handshake apparently conveyed to him how glad she was to finally put a face to all the many posts she'd read about him. Her tale of finding a copperhead in her laundry room and psyching her husband up to destroy it got the evening off to a fine start.
And while the hostess and I have been friends for years, she's only been in this Fan apartment for a year and I'd never seen it. It was like so many Fan apartments a series of good-sized rooms without doors, lots of door molding and very high ceilings. I took my time checking out the art on the walls, immediately recognizing one piece.
It was "The Lioness," part of the Grandville series Triple Stamp Press did for a Ghostprint Gallery show four - wait, how can that be? - years ago with the exquisite monoprint showing the lioness erect in a long, full 19th century skirt with a pistol tied to the sash at her waist and a riding crop under her arm. She's clearly a woman with a purpose.
All kinds of familiar faces showed up, including the scientist (who, I learned, stopped cycling after going through a windshield), the banjo player, the musical couple (minus their little one) and the in-laws who were supposed to be home watching Jonathan's children (they claimed they were nearly asleep anyway and took the chance to escape).
Talking to the scientist about teaching at VCU, he shared that his current students are the first generation to have grown up on standardized testing and the result is that they're incapable of critical thinking. And of all the unlikely moments, turns out that the scientist's partner recognized Mr. Wright from a bike ride.
This is such a small town.
After everyone found a chair, Liza Kate sat down with her guitar to play, stating for the record, "In case you don't know me, I'm leaving" and went on to share her beautifully sad songs with us as the hostess' cat wound its way among people's legs. All around us, candles burned and fairy lights shone. Wine was poured into paper cups and flasks were passed.
After singing a couple songs, Liza said, "I feel like I grew up in Richmond even though I came here in my 20s" and then paused. "That's all I'm saying about that or I'll cry" and she looked like she was about to anyway.
Saying that she didn't know who wrote it but that the song had been covered by the Byrds, she launched into a poignant cover of "You Don't Miss Your Water." I knew immediately who'd written it because I'd interviewed William Bell a few years ago ahead of his performance at the Folk Fest and he'd been justifiably proud of having written that song.
Afterward, she noted, "Every time I have to sing the word cry, I want to cry." For that matter, every time she got applause, she looked about to break down. Occasionally, she'd slip some humor in, like when she said, "This next song is for the partyheads. Move the chairs and dance if you want."
Talk about hilarious.
She seemed surprised when the room gave her a standing ovation, but for many of us, it was applause for all the years she shared her intimate songs with us. Besides, if she's like everyone else, she'll find her way back to Richmond.
During the break to allow more time for friends to chat, the Scientist shared with Mr. Wright and me his plans to cycle northern Italy with his partner this summer despite his bike issues post-accident. Getting back on that horse and all.
Our conversation ended when Jonathan Vassar sat down with his harmonica and guitar to play.
After his first song, someone in the front row put money in the donation jar next to his feet. Her husband observed, "She wanted to wait to hear the first song before she committed," the joke being that Jonathan and her husband have not only played together for years, but are business partners. For that matter, I can't imagine there was single person in that room who hasn't heard Jonathan's distinctive brand of Americana before.
That's why it's a house show. You only invite the people who already care about the artist.
Jonathan ruminated on how being a father of three has cut into his time to book shows, so he's appreciative when house shows are set up for him. The apartment itself, he said, reminded him of the ones many of his friends lived in years ago.
He did the relatively new "For Now, We're Good" and made small talk while tuning his guitar by asking the room how everybody was doing. Pausing a beat, he said, "I'm doing fine, thanks" and got a chuckle out of some of us.
After doing a song "for Josh because he likes it," Josh called out, "Is that the radio edit?" and mishearing him, Jonathan responded, "Yea, I know some Radiohead." That got an even bigger laugh.
When Jonathan took a few moments to tighten the screws on his harmonica, his work mate and fellow musician called out, "Are you building that harmonica?" That's the only problem with house shows where everybody's a friend: no one hesitates to rib the talent.
Before singing "Something's Gotta Give," he explained that he'd only practiced the song late at night after his wife and kids were fast asleep. "I've never really sung it out loud," he confessed. "It's not about my wife." Then, just to make sure, he turned to her and said, "It's not about you, honey."
Introducing "Not in the Know," he joked, "This I did write about you. Just kidding!" And while the new material may not have had a full voice testing before tonight, they passed with flying colors.
When the audience gave him a standing ovation, too, he owned it by standing along with us to bring the evening to a close.
Was my heart broken after hearing so much melancholy music? Nope, it wasn't. But my devotion to house shows definitely went up a notch after hearing two of the most intimate singer songwriters do their best to break it.
Now if only Jonathan had played some Radiohead...
Showing posts with label house show. Show all posts
Showing posts with label house show. Show all posts
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Reckless Thoughts
It was chilly, no doubt about it, but it was a magical evening to sit outside and listen to sad songs.
There aren't many people who could entice me to the bowels of southside - don't ask me where, I was in no man's land from German School Road on - but Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands have that power over me.
Maybe it's because my appreciation for Jonathan dates back to those first Listening Rooms back in the dark ages of 2009, before Richmond was an "it" town. It didn't hurt that our hostess had invited me to her other house shows, albeit when she was living a quarter mile away in Monroe Ward, and I knew she always creates an exceptional environment for artists to play in.
But mainly it's the wonderful memories I have of a 2010 show that Jonathan and the Speckled Bird had done one evening over on Grace Street, when they'd played music to accompany watching scores of chimney swifts swoop and swerve as they settled down for the night. It had also happened in October and been chilly enough that some of us had to huddle under covers to watch and listen.
Tonight was huddle redux. So with chair, blanket and shawl, I joined friends and strangers for an evening of music outdoors under a blue velvet sky with only a few stars punctuating it.
First came seasonally-appropriate red wine and socializing, which took an unexpected turn not long after Jonathan's sweet dog Dolly began alternating eating grass and vomiting.
Our hostess shared that her former tenants had decided to put down cheap wooden flooring (and poorly, too) over the hardwood floors in one bedroom, prompting someone to observe, "He probably murdered someone and wanted to cover up the blood."
Or the sperm, someone else conjectured. Or blood and sperm, posited another. What our hostess needed was luminol to detect bloodstains, we agreed, like what police use at a crime scene.
While it seemed like a hell of a tangent, we weren't though yet. My former Jackson Ward neighbor said that she'd love to do CSI work, that she'd always been attracted to that sort of thing (a fact confirmed by her friend since age 12), but had also considered being a vet were it not for all the math.
Then she casually mentioned she currently has two fox paws packed in salt in her refrigerator. Naturally, this led to a discussion of why (she plans to integrate them into a sculpture) and how she became interested in tanning but it turned out to be more challenging than she expected.
Her first attempt involved a road kill squirrel. "I cut him too far up the butt," she explained nonchalantly and we roared with laughter. Seems she did a better with the fox that yielded the paws currently in cold storage next to the milk.
Tragic as it was that this conversation had to wind down, the band was ready to begin playing, so I fetched my chair and set up camp between two girlfriends, both singers, and both dating back to the Listening Room days. Dolly was just left of my feet.
With Jonathan on guitar and harmonica, Curtis on pedal steel and Nate on upright bass and harmonies, the trio began with "Oklahoma Rose," with the sound of the instruments wafting on the crisp night air. You could practically see the sustained notes of the pedal steel hanging in front of us and winding their way around the audience.
The visuals, too, were lovely, with the band playing against a backdrop of the brick of the house with candles lining the window sills and twinkle lights strung on potted plants, the deck, the instrument cases, just about everywhere.
For that matter, Jonathan and Nate had a string of lights in their chest pockets, sort of like a lighted pocket square for the occasion.
Songs like "You are Gone" were beautiful and sad - Jonathan doesn't write any other kind - and soon people swayed and moved their heads or leaned into each other as they sat on chairs and blankets around the back yard.
A guy near me passed out hand warmers and I slid one into my glove. Yes, gloves. No judging.
Jonathan said that they were playing the same set they'd played last month at the Bristol Rhythm and Roots Reunion, where he'd been amazed to learn that Bristol's Main Street separates Virginia and Tennessee. Since I'd only learned that fact last month at a moonshine lecture, I could relate.
"If you see a look of pain on my face," he warned us, "It's because my beard got caught in my harmonica holder." Ouch.
Referring to the song, "What I Talk About When I Talk About Us," he joked, "That's as jammy as we get," providing Nate - the bagel-maker extraordinaire who's about to open his own bagel shop - an opening for a bagel joke (he tried).
A song such as "Darken My Door" sounds like it'll be terribly sad, but a lyric like, "Please darken my door, just to be sure that you're nigh" sounds pretty romantic to me. Other times - "When things fall apart, don't let it harden your heart" - he sounded downright hopeful.
We kept it so close to the chest
I always had to second guess
The show had originally been scheduled for last week and been canceled because of a forecast for rain (which never materialized), so Jonathan thanked us for showing up this week despite the chill. "It was too hot last week!" a friend called out, but I disagreed just as vocally. I'd rather be hot.
She who was swaddled next to me concurred. "I could have worn something cuter last week!"
"This feels like fall!" one of the men said, as if that were a good thing.
The band announced that their final song would be "The Truth," after which Jonathan thanked our hostess and said it had been a lot of fun playing these songs and a nearby dog began barking relentlessly, causing Dolly to sit up and stare into the darkness.
I think back to way back when
All it took was the mention of your name
Change is the only thing that stays the same
It's the only thing
For me, there was no more sublime way to be reminded of that than with music, surrounded by lovers and other strangers outside on an autumn night.
Nevermind the blood stains inside the house.
There aren't many people who could entice me to the bowels of southside - don't ask me where, I was in no man's land from German School Road on - but Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands have that power over me.
Maybe it's because my appreciation for Jonathan dates back to those first Listening Rooms back in the dark ages of 2009, before Richmond was an "it" town. It didn't hurt that our hostess had invited me to her other house shows, albeit when she was living a quarter mile away in Monroe Ward, and I knew she always creates an exceptional environment for artists to play in.
But mainly it's the wonderful memories I have of a 2010 show that Jonathan and the Speckled Bird had done one evening over on Grace Street, when they'd played music to accompany watching scores of chimney swifts swoop and swerve as they settled down for the night. It had also happened in October and been chilly enough that some of us had to huddle under covers to watch and listen.
Tonight was huddle redux. So with chair, blanket and shawl, I joined friends and strangers for an evening of music outdoors under a blue velvet sky with only a few stars punctuating it.
First came seasonally-appropriate red wine and socializing, which took an unexpected turn not long after Jonathan's sweet dog Dolly began alternating eating grass and vomiting.
Our hostess shared that her former tenants had decided to put down cheap wooden flooring (and poorly, too) over the hardwood floors in one bedroom, prompting someone to observe, "He probably murdered someone and wanted to cover up the blood."
Or the sperm, someone else conjectured. Or blood and sperm, posited another. What our hostess needed was luminol to detect bloodstains, we agreed, like what police use at a crime scene.
While it seemed like a hell of a tangent, we weren't though yet. My former Jackson Ward neighbor said that she'd love to do CSI work, that she'd always been attracted to that sort of thing (a fact confirmed by her friend since age 12), but had also considered being a vet were it not for all the math.
Then she casually mentioned she currently has two fox paws packed in salt in her refrigerator. Naturally, this led to a discussion of why (she plans to integrate them into a sculpture) and how she became interested in tanning but it turned out to be more challenging than she expected.
Her first attempt involved a road kill squirrel. "I cut him too far up the butt," she explained nonchalantly and we roared with laughter. Seems she did a better with the fox that yielded the paws currently in cold storage next to the milk.
Tragic as it was that this conversation had to wind down, the band was ready to begin playing, so I fetched my chair and set up camp between two girlfriends, both singers, and both dating back to the Listening Room days. Dolly was just left of my feet.
With Jonathan on guitar and harmonica, Curtis on pedal steel and Nate on upright bass and harmonies, the trio began with "Oklahoma Rose," with the sound of the instruments wafting on the crisp night air. You could practically see the sustained notes of the pedal steel hanging in front of us and winding their way around the audience.
The visuals, too, were lovely, with the band playing against a backdrop of the brick of the house with candles lining the window sills and twinkle lights strung on potted plants, the deck, the instrument cases, just about everywhere.
For that matter, Jonathan and Nate had a string of lights in their chest pockets, sort of like a lighted pocket square for the occasion.
Songs like "You are Gone" were beautiful and sad - Jonathan doesn't write any other kind - and soon people swayed and moved their heads or leaned into each other as they sat on chairs and blankets around the back yard.
A guy near me passed out hand warmers and I slid one into my glove. Yes, gloves. No judging.
Jonathan said that they were playing the same set they'd played last month at the Bristol Rhythm and Roots Reunion, where he'd been amazed to learn that Bristol's Main Street separates Virginia and Tennessee. Since I'd only learned that fact last month at a moonshine lecture, I could relate.
"If you see a look of pain on my face," he warned us, "It's because my beard got caught in my harmonica holder." Ouch.
Referring to the song, "What I Talk About When I Talk About Us," he joked, "That's as jammy as we get," providing Nate - the bagel-maker extraordinaire who's about to open his own bagel shop - an opening for a bagel joke (he tried).
A song such as "Darken My Door" sounds like it'll be terribly sad, but a lyric like, "Please darken my door, just to be sure that you're nigh" sounds pretty romantic to me. Other times - "When things fall apart, don't let it harden your heart" - he sounded downright hopeful.
We kept it so close to the chest
I always had to second guess
The show had originally been scheduled for last week and been canceled because of a forecast for rain (which never materialized), so Jonathan thanked us for showing up this week despite the chill. "It was too hot last week!" a friend called out, but I disagreed just as vocally. I'd rather be hot.
She who was swaddled next to me concurred. "I could have worn something cuter last week!"
"This feels like fall!" one of the men said, as if that were a good thing.
The band announced that their final song would be "The Truth," after which Jonathan thanked our hostess and said it had been a lot of fun playing these songs and a nearby dog began barking relentlessly, causing Dolly to sit up and stare into the darkness.
I think back to way back when
All it took was the mention of your name
Change is the only thing that stays the same
It's the only thing
For me, there was no more sublime way to be reminded of that than with music, surrounded by lovers and other strangers outside on an autumn night.
Nevermind the blood stains inside the house.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
The Wednesday Crowd
Eric Bachmann played my friends' house during a summer storm. How was your night?
~PJ
Pretty much just as good since I'd become a ticket-holding guest for the show two months ago, knowing chances were slim that I'd ever get invited to see the lead singer of Crooked Fingers and Archers of Loaf play a living room show again anytime soon.
Or ever.
And not just any living room, but an open floor plan design in a mid-century modern house with some of the grooviest art and furniture you're likely to see in Richmond. It wasn't hard to understand why the tour organizers had quickly agreed to let them host a show in such a funky and stylish place.
I'd shown up, as directed by our delightful hostess, with libations to share and a (recently purchased at Diversity Thrift) folding chair, only to abandon the chair in the laundry room when I immediately ran into friends.
Lots of good ones, too: the music writer recently back from San Jose where she was underwhelmed, the recently single, looking-to-move DJ, the poet/novelist, the book store owner, the cute couple from Northside, the historian with great hair.
One guy, a stranger to me, had driven five hours from Pennsylvania for the show. I got that. After all, how many living room shows does a person get invited to?
A little later when the room was beginning to fill up with people's chairs, I went to collect mine and secure a place on the floor. In front of the dryer I found our hostess and a man sitting in my seat. I politely explained that I needed my chair in order to reserve a good spot for the performance.
"Karen, this is Eric," she said introducing me to the guest of honor, coincidentally the same man I'd just asked to vacate my chair. So, yes, that was me asking the person I'd come to see to please clear out so I could secure a fine spot from which to watch him sing and play guitar.
I'm not saying it was right, I'm just telling you what happened.
The incident, the chair, my nerve, they all became moot when the photographer insisted I take the chair next to his cute wife since he'd be moving about shooting throughout. I told him my chair was there for him if he needed it.
Eric was seated in a chair in front of a large, curved window with 44 panes, with the window seat covered in lighted candles with all kinds of plants there and on the floor in front of it. Twinkling lights were strung from the top of the window, and through the glass we could see distant lightening.
A banjo stood in its stand next to the guitar's stand, their cases arranged fetchingly between larger plants.
There's chaos in the violins
This tableaux is why PJ was taunting online friends with his casual post about how magical the evening felt. Another friend put it even more directly after the show. "I felt honored to witness that."
I don't know who wouldn't agree with her on that - his lived-in voice, life experience lyrics, between song humor - after an evening listening to songs off just about all of his albums.
He'd told us at the start that he was more than happy to take requests, but it wasn't really that simple.
People would yell out songs and he'd demur because he no longer knew it, or it was a piano song, or he needed more power (he used only an acoustic guitar and once, only once, his least favorite instrument, the harmonica) so he couldn't pull them off.
He did his Mom's favorite song, which happened to be about cheating ("I didn't ask," he said), admitted that one song was very difficult to make not sound like McCartney's "Silly Love Songs" ("We must have plagiarized it, but we didn't know it") and admitted to coveting the red-laced, black Converse hi-tops with white stars Paul was wearing directly in front of him.
The lion doesn't mind if the lamb takes its time
When he grabbed his banjo to play a few songs, he shared that he and his fellow Crooked Fingers banjo player had considered starting a Bon Jovi cover band called - wait for it - Banjo- Vi to play bad Bon Jovi covers.
"What pisses me off is that I know it would make us rich," Eric said with a grimace. Ain't life a bitch sometimes?
When the thunder outside got fiercer, he told us about his little dog in her crate in a back room. Since she's afraid of storms, he worried about whether he should bring her into the room for reassurance. What's her name, someone called out.
"Lupe. Like Guadeloupe without the Guada," Eric explained and the crowd called for Lupe to join us, which she did, in receiving line fashion, going person to person for a back scratch, tummy rub or ear petting.
How do you save a thing that's meaning to die?
The crowd was pretty interactive, but when someone called out, "Is that song autobiographical?" Eric shot back, "You don't ask that, man." Ooh, damn. Then he admitted that they're all autobiographical.
Toward the end of the evening, he said, "This is great, you yell out songs and I don't play them. There's a lot of power in that." When he announced he was closing with "White Trash Heroes," there was some excited applause and a guy near me inhaled, "Nice!"
When he finished, he looked at us and said, "I'm going to do two more. This is the encore. Pretend I left and came back."
He finished for real with a new song off this year's album, the one that everyone's raving about, bringing us back to why he was touring living rooms in the first place.
Afterward, it became a party as people mingled and discussed what a lovely thing we'd just experienced.
I kept going back to that moment when my raven-tressed friend had called out, asking if he'd cover Prince's "When You Were Mine" and while Eric continued strapping on his banjo, he'd also looked at her strangely and said, "I was just about to play that song."
Eric Bachmann just covered Prince at my friends' house during a summer storm. So how was your night anyway?
~PJ
Pretty much just as good since I'd become a ticket-holding guest for the show two months ago, knowing chances were slim that I'd ever get invited to see the lead singer of Crooked Fingers and Archers of Loaf play a living room show again anytime soon.
Or ever.
And not just any living room, but an open floor plan design in a mid-century modern house with some of the grooviest art and furniture you're likely to see in Richmond. It wasn't hard to understand why the tour organizers had quickly agreed to let them host a show in such a funky and stylish place.
I'd shown up, as directed by our delightful hostess, with libations to share and a (recently purchased at Diversity Thrift) folding chair, only to abandon the chair in the laundry room when I immediately ran into friends.
Lots of good ones, too: the music writer recently back from San Jose where she was underwhelmed, the recently single, looking-to-move DJ, the poet/novelist, the book store owner, the cute couple from Northside, the historian with great hair.
One guy, a stranger to me, had driven five hours from Pennsylvania for the show. I got that. After all, how many living room shows does a person get invited to?
A little later when the room was beginning to fill up with people's chairs, I went to collect mine and secure a place on the floor. In front of the dryer I found our hostess and a man sitting in my seat. I politely explained that I needed my chair in order to reserve a good spot for the performance.
"Karen, this is Eric," she said introducing me to the guest of honor, coincidentally the same man I'd just asked to vacate my chair. So, yes, that was me asking the person I'd come to see to please clear out so I could secure a fine spot from which to watch him sing and play guitar.
I'm not saying it was right, I'm just telling you what happened.
The incident, the chair, my nerve, they all became moot when the photographer insisted I take the chair next to his cute wife since he'd be moving about shooting throughout. I told him my chair was there for him if he needed it.
Eric was seated in a chair in front of a large, curved window with 44 panes, with the window seat covered in lighted candles with all kinds of plants there and on the floor in front of it. Twinkling lights were strung from the top of the window, and through the glass we could see distant lightening.
A banjo stood in its stand next to the guitar's stand, their cases arranged fetchingly between larger plants.
There's chaos in the violins
This tableaux is why PJ was taunting online friends with his casual post about how magical the evening felt. Another friend put it even more directly after the show. "I felt honored to witness that."
I don't know who wouldn't agree with her on that - his lived-in voice, life experience lyrics, between song humor - after an evening listening to songs off just about all of his albums.
He'd told us at the start that he was more than happy to take requests, but it wasn't really that simple.
People would yell out songs and he'd demur because he no longer knew it, or it was a piano song, or he needed more power (he used only an acoustic guitar and once, only once, his least favorite instrument, the harmonica) so he couldn't pull them off.
He did his Mom's favorite song, which happened to be about cheating ("I didn't ask," he said), admitted that one song was very difficult to make not sound like McCartney's "Silly Love Songs" ("We must have plagiarized it, but we didn't know it") and admitted to coveting the red-laced, black Converse hi-tops with white stars Paul was wearing directly in front of him.
The lion doesn't mind if the lamb takes its time
When he grabbed his banjo to play a few songs, he shared that he and his fellow Crooked Fingers banjo player had considered starting a Bon Jovi cover band called - wait for it - Banjo- Vi to play bad Bon Jovi covers.
"What pisses me off is that I know it would make us rich," Eric said with a grimace. Ain't life a bitch sometimes?
When the thunder outside got fiercer, he told us about his little dog in her crate in a back room. Since she's afraid of storms, he worried about whether he should bring her into the room for reassurance. What's her name, someone called out.
"Lupe. Like Guadeloupe without the Guada," Eric explained and the crowd called for Lupe to join us, which she did, in receiving line fashion, going person to person for a back scratch, tummy rub or ear petting.
How do you save a thing that's meaning to die?
The crowd was pretty interactive, but when someone called out, "Is that song autobiographical?" Eric shot back, "You don't ask that, man." Ooh, damn. Then he admitted that they're all autobiographical.
Toward the end of the evening, he said, "This is great, you yell out songs and I don't play them. There's a lot of power in that." When he announced he was closing with "White Trash Heroes," there was some excited applause and a guy near me inhaled, "Nice!"
When he finished, he looked at us and said, "I'm going to do two more. This is the encore. Pretend I left and came back."
He finished for real with a new song off this year's album, the one that everyone's raving about, bringing us back to why he was touring living rooms in the first place.
Afterward, it became a party as people mingled and discussed what a lovely thing we'd just experienced.
I kept going back to that moment when my raven-tressed friend had called out, asking if he'd cover Prince's "When You Were Mine" and while Eric continued strapping on his banjo, he'd also looked at her strangely and said, "I was just about to play that song."
Eric Bachmann just covered Prince at my friends' house during a summer storm. So how was your night anyway?
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Eating Cake, Making Pies
When will I ever learn?
I can't stay up till all hours listening to honky tonk when I have to be up at 8 a.m. for a media preview.
I shouldn't rearrange my entire afternoon in hopes that an interview subject will actually make it to the interview.
And I definitely can't expect to resist chocolate and coconut even when I am determined not to have dessert.
Painful as it was to get up at the crack of dawn to go to the VMFA for the preview of their summer photography blockbuster, "Posing Beauty in African American Culture," I was rewarded for my effort with a first look at an incredible collection of images.
One of the most fascinating aspects of the subjects in the photographs was how easy it was to identify when the picture was taken simply by the clothes, hair and jewelry.
Even though there were photos taken in the last decade that were deliberately staged to look like vintage pictures, the details gave them away. People just don't look the same today as they did in the '30s or '70s.
One of my favorite pieces was a large scale collage by Hank Willis Thomas that used old centerfolds from "Jet" magazine of attractive black women.
A sample caption: Georgia Peach - Getting ready to take a swim, Ramona Miller, originally from the peach state and now a registered nurse in Los Angeles, shows off her shapely (35-22-36) figure.
And the only reason I know they were centerfolds (not that I even knew "Jet" had centerfolds) was because an older black woman who works at the Richmond Free Press walked up when she saw my intent interest in the collage.
She recalled that one time, the magazine had run a girl's picture in the centerfold but she'd been killed the week before. "But you know how magazines work ahead," she said, "And there was nothing they could do about it."
Another compelling photo was Stephen Shames' "At Home, Huey Newton Listening to Bob Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisited" from 1970. Besides the unlikely music choice, Newton was shirtless and looking mighty buff, even to be listening to Dylan.
The show is full of intriguing photographs like that and I'm already looking forward to my second visit.
Then there was the no-show.
My interviewee didn't let me know until late afternoon that he wouldn't be coming after all, meaning I could have left the house and accomplished all kinds of things rather than waiting for him, the upside being it forced me into working on an assignment I'd been putting off.
And while I didn't finish, I worked right up until the last minute before putting myself together and slipping out for a bite before a music show.
Walking in to Garnett's, I paused to grab some sections of today's New York Times and heard my name called and found a favorite theater couple lingering over happy hour drinks.
They'd just gotten the keys to their new Monument Avenue apartment, leading to a discussion of great landlords (like the one I have) and lackadaisical landlords (like the one they were escaping), not to mention the thrill of a new place to gussy up.
We took a tangent so I could share a story about a neighbor of mine who was oddly blase about her mother's attempted suicides before I bid them farewell so I could eat and run.
By the time I got home, it was to an online comment: "Always a treat running into Karen. She pretty much rocks."
I pretty much don't, but it's good to know I can fool some of the people some of the time.
Taking a seat at the bar, the server's face lit up when she saw me. "We just got in chocolate and coconut cake after not having any for ages. I know it's your favorite. Did you sense that it was here?"
Not that I knew of and here I'd already resolved to forgo dessert tonight and there she was insisting that I take advantage of my favorite cake combo while it lasted.
An enormous Cobb salad kept me busy while the two guys next to me tried to decipher the music on the vintage rock station.
When a Canned Heat song came on, the one next to me turned and asked, "Is this that song that goes, 'I took a beer, I took a shot'? You know, that classic rock song?"
Mister, I am the last person you should be asking to identify a classic rock song. That said, I had no problem identifying the Spencer Davis Group or T Rex when it came on. Some songs are more timeless than others.
Our server asked me what my plans for later were and when I said I was going to a house show, she beamed. "I was at a house show this weekend! I love this time of year...music outdoors, bonfires, everybody hanging out and happy."
She makes a good point.
I declined a piece of cake and was served it anyway after the two guys insisted that if it was my favorite cake, I'd be foolish not to have some and our server agreed.
So much for freedom of cake choice.
The house show was at a friend's 3rd floor apartment in the old Mrs. Morton's Tearoom and tonight's musical guests were Haze and Dacey, also known as Kirsten and John, a duo playing keyboards, upright bass and guitar and singing gorgeous harmonies.
Oh, yes, and occasional mouth trumpet.
Last time I'd been to a show at this house, it had been winter and dark but tonight's show began with the tall windows framing a deepening blue sky as the band played.
The wooden floors made for a warm sound in the room and once the street lights came on, they cast shadows of the huge tree out front framed by the outlines of the window and showing up on the facing wall of the apartment.
It looked like a monotone Japanese woodblock print and was an exquisite visual to go with the music.
John had never played a house show before and Kirsten had only played one, but they dove right in like they knew what they were doing playing the instant classic, "Baby, If You Think I'm Crazy about You, You Gotta Change Your Mind."
During one of Kirsten's original songs, she suddenly lifted her hands off the keyboard, looked surprised and said, "I lost my words!"
She found them after a moment and the song finished before they did Patty Griffin's excellent "Making Pies," causing one of the attendees to squeal with delight and say, "Oooh, I love this song!"
"This is a song I co-wrote with William Shakespeare," Kirsten said of the next song, which they followed with the Everly brothers' "Wake Up, Little Susie." She compared them by saying they both had deep lyrics. Not.
The small audience loved that but I was just as thrilled to hear Guster's "Manifest Destiny."
The moon and stars are ganging up on the sun
Rebellion
Everybody, the sky is falling down
Friends and lovers, the world is coming down
Down, down
When they did "Singing for a Dollar," they changed "dollar" to "doggie" and Kirsten said John would attempt to sing four part harmony, "If he can divide his throat into three parts."
Some of the evening's best harmonies came on a cover of the Old 97s' "Big Brown Eyes."
You made a big impression for a girl of your size
Now I can't get by without you and your big, brown eyes
When they finished, Kirsten thanked us for coming, turning to John to finish her thought. "It's been..." she began.
"Kind of weird?" said the house show virgin. "And wonderful," Kirsten amended before they closed with a song she described as, "Kind of dark. A fun song," referring to April Smith's "Terrible Things."
I just reflect what you expect
So that you don't suspect that
I could be exactly who I am
Brown eyed, hanging out and happy. It's enough.
I can't stay up till all hours listening to honky tonk when I have to be up at 8 a.m. for a media preview.
I shouldn't rearrange my entire afternoon in hopes that an interview subject will actually make it to the interview.
And I definitely can't expect to resist chocolate and coconut even when I am determined not to have dessert.
Painful as it was to get up at the crack of dawn to go to the VMFA for the preview of their summer photography blockbuster, "Posing Beauty in African American Culture," I was rewarded for my effort with a first look at an incredible collection of images.
One of the most fascinating aspects of the subjects in the photographs was how easy it was to identify when the picture was taken simply by the clothes, hair and jewelry.
Even though there were photos taken in the last decade that were deliberately staged to look like vintage pictures, the details gave them away. People just don't look the same today as they did in the '30s or '70s.
One of my favorite pieces was a large scale collage by Hank Willis Thomas that used old centerfolds from "Jet" magazine of attractive black women.
A sample caption: Georgia Peach - Getting ready to take a swim, Ramona Miller, originally from the peach state and now a registered nurse in Los Angeles, shows off her shapely (35-22-36) figure.
And the only reason I know they were centerfolds (not that I even knew "Jet" had centerfolds) was because an older black woman who works at the Richmond Free Press walked up when she saw my intent interest in the collage.
She recalled that one time, the magazine had run a girl's picture in the centerfold but she'd been killed the week before. "But you know how magazines work ahead," she said, "And there was nothing they could do about it."
Another compelling photo was Stephen Shames' "At Home, Huey Newton Listening to Bob Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisited" from 1970. Besides the unlikely music choice, Newton was shirtless and looking mighty buff, even to be listening to Dylan.
The show is full of intriguing photographs like that and I'm already looking forward to my second visit.
Then there was the no-show.
My interviewee didn't let me know until late afternoon that he wouldn't be coming after all, meaning I could have left the house and accomplished all kinds of things rather than waiting for him, the upside being it forced me into working on an assignment I'd been putting off.
And while I didn't finish, I worked right up until the last minute before putting myself together and slipping out for a bite before a music show.
Walking in to Garnett's, I paused to grab some sections of today's New York Times and heard my name called and found a favorite theater couple lingering over happy hour drinks.
They'd just gotten the keys to their new Monument Avenue apartment, leading to a discussion of great landlords (like the one I have) and lackadaisical landlords (like the one they were escaping), not to mention the thrill of a new place to gussy up.
We took a tangent so I could share a story about a neighbor of mine who was oddly blase about her mother's attempted suicides before I bid them farewell so I could eat and run.
By the time I got home, it was to an online comment: "Always a treat running into Karen. She pretty much rocks."
I pretty much don't, but it's good to know I can fool some of the people some of the time.
Taking a seat at the bar, the server's face lit up when she saw me. "We just got in chocolate and coconut cake after not having any for ages. I know it's your favorite. Did you sense that it was here?"
Not that I knew of and here I'd already resolved to forgo dessert tonight and there she was insisting that I take advantage of my favorite cake combo while it lasted.
An enormous Cobb salad kept me busy while the two guys next to me tried to decipher the music on the vintage rock station.
When a Canned Heat song came on, the one next to me turned and asked, "Is this that song that goes, 'I took a beer, I took a shot'? You know, that classic rock song?"
Mister, I am the last person you should be asking to identify a classic rock song. That said, I had no problem identifying the Spencer Davis Group or T Rex when it came on. Some songs are more timeless than others.
Our server asked me what my plans for later were and when I said I was going to a house show, she beamed. "I was at a house show this weekend! I love this time of year...music outdoors, bonfires, everybody hanging out and happy."
She makes a good point.
I declined a piece of cake and was served it anyway after the two guys insisted that if it was my favorite cake, I'd be foolish not to have some and our server agreed.
So much for freedom of cake choice.
The house show was at a friend's 3rd floor apartment in the old Mrs. Morton's Tearoom and tonight's musical guests were Haze and Dacey, also known as Kirsten and John, a duo playing keyboards, upright bass and guitar and singing gorgeous harmonies.
Oh, yes, and occasional mouth trumpet.
Last time I'd been to a show at this house, it had been winter and dark but tonight's show began with the tall windows framing a deepening blue sky as the band played.
The wooden floors made for a warm sound in the room and once the street lights came on, they cast shadows of the huge tree out front framed by the outlines of the window and showing up on the facing wall of the apartment.
It looked like a monotone Japanese woodblock print and was an exquisite visual to go with the music.
John had never played a house show before and Kirsten had only played one, but they dove right in like they knew what they were doing playing the instant classic, "Baby, If You Think I'm Crazy about You, You Gotta Change Your Mind."
During one of Kirsten's original songs, she suddenly lifted her hands off the keyboard, looked surprised and said, "I lost my words!"
She found them after a moment and the song finished before they did Patty Griffin's excellent "Making Pies," causing one of the attendees to squeal with delight and say, "Oooh, I love this song!"
"This is a song I co-wrote with William Shakespeare," Kirsten said of the next song, which they followed with the Everly brothers' "Wake Up, Little Susie." She compared them by saying they both had deep lyrics. Not.
The small audience loved that but I was just as thrilled to hear Guster's "Manifest Destiny."
The moon and stars are ganging up on the sun
Rebellion
Everybody, the sky is falling down
Friends and lovers, the world is coming down
Down, down
When they did "Singing for a Dollar," they changed "dollar" to "doggie" and Kirsten said John would attempt to sing four part harmony, "If he can divide his throat into three parts."
Some of the evening's best harmonies came on a cover of the Old 97s' "Big Brown Eyes."
You made a big impression for a girl of your size
Now I can't get by without you and your big, brown eyes
When they finished, Kirsten thanked us for coming, turning to John to finish her thought. "It's been..." she began.
"Kind of weird?" said the house show virgin. "And wonderful," Kirsten amended before they closed with a song she described as, "Kind of dark. A fun song," referring to April Smith's "Terrible Things."
I just reflect what you expect
So that you don't suspect that
I could be exactly who I am
Brown eyed, hanging out and happy. It's enough.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Honey, Do Drop In
There's a lot to be said for being serenaded by candlelight.
Sure, in a perfect world, it would be by a suitor, but I can't wait forever for that to happen.
I'd been invited to spend an evening in a friend's living room listening to the Honey Dew Drops play. What I didn't know until I got there was that she lives in the former Mrs. Morton's Tea Room house.
Longtime Richmonders probably know about the elegant staircase, inviting rooms and abundance of windows, but it was all new to me.
One of my J-Ward neighbors had even made yeast rolls for the occasion, apparently Mrs. Morton's specialty, slathering them with so much butter my fingers got shiny just eating one (or two).
It was my first time at one of this friend's house shows, but only because every other time she'd invited me, I already had plans.
She's passionate about bringing music to living rooms and I have to admit, I love the intimacy of a 20-person show.
Her living room was magical, lit by at least three dozen candles glowing from wall sconces and on the mantle, making all of us look really good.
Once everyone had beverages, the Honey Dew Drops moved to the front of the room to perform. Even they couldn't help but comment on how wonderful it was to be playing by candlelight.
On stools and leaning into each other, Kagey played guitar and Laura played banjo and their voices harmonized like they were soul mates, which perhaps they are since they're married and seemingly pretty happy about that.
With such a small group, their between-song chatter seemed more like one party guest just talking to another than anything else.
Like me, they'd just this weekend seen "Inside Llewyn Davis," although it resonated differently with them given their profession.
"It's a sad story about a folk singer," Kagey explained. "It kind of made us wonder if what we're doing is a good idea."
Based on what we heard tonight, I'd say it is.
They did several original songs, like "No More Troubles" and the finger-picking "Back Room," explaining that the latter had come together with a friend, some bad Texas beer and a tune Kagey had been working on for a while, trying to use the "cure cottages" they'd seen in Saranac as inspiration.
Cure cottages were for TB patients and had big porches for taking in good, clean air, I was fascinated to learn.
Laura introduced the beautiful "Silver Linings," a rare autobiographical song, saying it was about the ups and downs of being in a relationship, "how it's mostly a really positive thing."
"Happiness" had my favorite line of the evening: What do I know about the shape I'm in? All I know is what I don't want to do again.
Them's words to live by.
They balanced those two with "Nobody in the World," characterizing it as a breakup song, not autobiographical, written together at breakfast and played on mandolin and guitar.
Even when these two sing about breakups, their voices sound so beautiful together that it's hard to believe they could even write such lyrics, much less make them up out of whole cloth.
They told us about a tour through Canada doing house shows, advising against visiting Manitoba in January, but raving about a singer named Fred Eggleston they'd played with there and doing his excellent song, "Katy."
"For Sure Blues" was about Kagey's grandfather, a former alcoholic and army veteran, whom Laura said had the best sense of humor in the world.
He also had lived in Richmond and as a kid had a paper route along Franklin Street, stretching from Foushee, where we were tonight, to Oregon Hill.
As if listening to these two talented people play music in a candlelit room in a former tea room wasn't treat enough, we were also getting all kinds of great storytelling as the cherry on top of it all.
They closed the show with The Band's "Long Black Veil," a song of infidelity and death, causing the room to give them a standing ovation.
Apparently the candlelight and applause was enough incentive to give us an encore, which went from one to two songs when a musician in the audience requested an a capella song he'd heard them do at Ashland Coffee and Tea a while back.
"Bright Morning Stars" was positively goose bump-worthy.
I'm willing to bet a night of stellar music played by candlelight does a person as much good as any cure cottage.
Throw in a couple of yeast rolls and all I know is I want to do it again.
Sure, in a perfect world, it would be by a suitor, but I can't wait forever for that to happen.
I'd been invited to spend an evening in a friend's living room listening to the Honey Dew Drops play. What I didn't know until I got there was that she lives in the former Mrs. Morton's Tea Room house.
Longtime Richmonders probably know about the elegant staircase, inviting rooms and abundance of windows, but it was all new to me.
One of my J-Ward neighbors had even made yeast rolls for the occasion, apparently Mrs. Morton's specialty, slathering them with so much butter my fingers got shiny just eating one (or two).
It was my first time at one of this friend's house shows, but only because every other time she'd invited me, I already had plans.
She's passionate about bringing music to living rooms and I have to admit, I love the intimacy of a 20-person show.
Her living room was magical, lit by at least three dozen candles glowing from wall sconces and on the mantle, making all of us look really good.
Once everyone had beverages, the Honey Dew Drops moved to the front of the room to perform. Even they couldn't help but comment on how wonderful it was to be playing by candlelight.
On stools and leaning into each other, Kagey played guitar and Laura played banjo and their voices harmonized like they were soul mates, which perhaps they are since they're married and seemingly pretty happy about that.
With such a small group, their between-song chatter seemed more like one party guest just talking to another than anything else.
Like me, they'd just this weekend seen "Inside Llewyn Davis," although it resonated differently with them given their profession.
"It's a sad story about a folk singer," Kagey explained. "It kind of made us wonder if what we're doing is a good idea."
Based on what we heard tonight, I'd say it is.
They did several original songs, like "No More Troubles" and the finger-picking "Back Room," explaining that the latter had come together with a friend, some bad Texas beer and a tune Kagey had been working on for a while, trying to use the "cure cottages" they'd seen in Saranac as inspiration.
Cure cottages were for TB patients and had big porches for taking in good, clean air, I was fascinated to learn.
Laura introduced the beautiful "Silver Linings," a rare autobiographical song, saying it was about the ups and downs of being in a relationship, "how it's mostly a really positive thing."
"Happiness" had my favorite line of the evening: What do I know about the shape I'm in? All I know is what I don't want to do again.
Them's words to live by.
They balanced those two with "Nobody in the World," characterizing it as a breakup song, not autobiographical, written together at breakfast and played on mandolin and guitar.
Even when these two sing about breakups, their voices sound so beautiful together that it's hard to believe they could even write such lyrics, much less make them up out of whole cloth.
They told us about a tour through Canada doing house shows, advising against visiting Manitoba in January, but raving about a singer named Fred Eggleston they'd played with there and doing his excellent song, "Katy."
"For Sure Blues" was about Kagey's grandfather, a former alcoholic and army veteran, whom Laura said had the best sense of humor in the world.
He also had lived in Richmond and as a kid had a paper route along Franklin Street, stretching from Foushee, where we were tonight, to Oregon Hill.
As if listening to these two talented people play music in a candlelit room in a former tea room wasn't treat enough, we were also getting all kinds of great storytelling as the cherry on top of it all.
They closed the show with The Band's "Long Black Veil," a song of infidelity and death, causing the room to give them a standing ovation.
Apparently the candlelight and applause was enough incentive to give us an encore, which went from one to two songs when a musician in the audience requested an a capella song he'd heard them do at Ashland Coffee and Tea a while back.
"Bright Morning Stars" was positively goose bump-worthy.
I'm willing to bet a night of stellar music played by candlelight does a person as much good as any cure cottage.
Throw in a couple of yeast rolls and all I know is I want to do it again.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
At the Sock Hop
It's hard to top Brazilians in the living room.
So when I learned that a favorite girlfriend had no plans on this, her birthday, I took matters in hand.
We will go out for a celebratory drink and then we will go hear a band at the mid-century modern home of some talented friends.
And not just any band, but a Brazilian one. One fresh off of playing South by Southwest. One playing music that will cross genres and moods.
With a Brazilian chef, Bistro 27 got the nod for where to toast her natal anniversary and dish about life while sipping Sangiovese.
A couple came in whom she knew and they finally got our attention away from each other.
Like us, they had interesting plans for the evening, theirs being a fundraiser involving drag queens.
Soon I heard a knock on the front window and there I saw some music-loving friends, who came in to say hello.
It was turning into a party right there.
The restaurant was packed, so we felt certain no one would miss us when we slipped out and headed across the river.
Finding the charming rancher (circa 1957) was a snap given her breadth of knowledge about southside, a good thing given that mine is non-existent.
We walked in to find the band, Marcelo and os Cozinheiros, doing a sound check on the eggshell-colored wall-to-wall carpeting.
That's all it took to know that we were in the right place.
The lead singer of the band came over and introduced himself as Marcelo, a generous gesture.
We found seats to wait for openers the Low Branches to start when suddenly I realized that we were the only people in the room with shoes on.
In our excitement arriving, we'd missed the sign requesting that we remove our shoes.
Done and done.
More people arrived, although not nearly as many as I'd expected, including some favorite music lovers I'd felt sure would want to hear these guys.
Oh, well, you snooze, you lose.
The Low Branches's Christina began by saying, "Welcome to the sock hop!" to the small group spread across the floor, the couch and up against the wall and dining room table.
She explained that their Parisian drummer had a stomach bug so they'd be a string trio tonight
They began their set with the exquisite "100 Years," allowing Christina's beautiful voice to wow the Brazilian boys as they stood transfixed.
It was during their third song that a cat unexpectedly ran into the room, took one look at the group in socks and hightailed it back to the bedroom.
Clearly, Toast was not impressed.
It cracked up Christina, though, and she laughed intermittently throughout the rest of the song.
They closed with Dolly Parton's "Jolene," a song well suited to the band's talents and one that got a huge ovation.
The scientist, sitting near me on the couch, stood up afterwards and, referencing the song, looked at me and said, "Flaming locks of auburn hair."
Hey, I'm no Jolene.
Afterwards, we were back to mingling when a musician friend said that she'd have to leave soon to feed her new baby.
Trying to decide whether to leave before the band started their set or during it, I forced my opinion on her (see my profile, right).
Since I'd heard their sound check and she hadn't, I knew with certainty that she was going to like these guys.
I suggested they stay for at least one song, if only to feed her new-mother soul.
She agreed and took up residence with her two guys up against the wall in front of the band.
Marcelo and os Cazinheiros consisted of a singer, a bass player, two guitarists and a drummer.
Marcelo said that "cazinheiros" meant cooks and it didn't take long to understand the choice of word.
Their music was a savory concoction of Brazilian music like bossa nova and samba, with tango and tropicalia thrown in, along with jazz and pop.
Marcelo was a dynamite front man with an expressive voice, a dramatic delivery and an obvious delight in his enthusiastic audience.
They began with two beautiful, poetic-sounding songs, both with great grooves and then explained what they were about.
The one they'd just sung, Marcelo said, was about relationships. And the first, well, that had been about relationships, too.
I was hardly surprised to find that Brazilian men are in touch with their relationship feelings.
"Now to take the stage away," Marcelo said, indicating the area right in front of the band, "We'll play some Herbie Hancock."
Boy, did things get funky then.
Before long, one of the guests, Bio Ritmo's Giustino (in a stylish red shirt because he'd just come from playing congas with an army band...what?) went out to his car and grabbed his cuica.
I say that not because I recognized it, but because the scientist saw it, nudged me and said, "Cuica."
What fascinated me was how it was played: he took a moistened cloth and rubbed the wooden stick fastened at one end inside the drum, producing high-pitched sounds which he used as accents to t he music.
Soon the band noticed him back by the dining room table and looked at him, all smiling broadly.
After the song's many improvisations ended, the singer looked up and inquired, "Where did that cuica come from?"
With his trademark grin, Giustino deadpanned, "Brazil? I only brought it out because you guys were jamming."
I don't know who looked more thrilled about the addition of cuica, the Brazilians or the stealth cuica player.
Because the had a new album out called "Aion," he explained how all the different concepts of time was central to the album's music.
Aion, in particular, referred to non-measurable amounts of time, like eternity or infinity.
The next song was introduced as being half in Portuguese and half in English, "So you'll know some of the words," the charismatic Marcelo promised.
"Point of View," he explained combined the tropical sounds of Brazil with the subtropical sounds of Uruguay and Argentina and tango and rock.
"Because everyone has been doing the rock since the '80s," he claimed as the song took the temperature up to high.
"That was a very dramatic one," he said, finishing with a flourish.
Unsure of the time, he asked of our host how many more songs they should sing.
When host Josh went to look at his phone to see, Marcelo reminded him, "Better to decide with your ears, not the clock."
Fortunately, that meant we got two more songs, although several of us wanted more like ten.
For the samba they did next, Giustino was called to play cuica in the midst of the band, moving his feet nonstop as he did so.
For the very last song, it was no holds barred and half the group was following Giustino's rhythmic lead in clapping and others were dancing sinuously in the midst of it all.
It was an all-out Brazilian bash in the middle of a '50s living room and the sound was all but perfect.
The birthday girl and I went up to Marcelo to thank him for such a stellar night of music, but all he wanted was to interview us on camera.
So the same camera that had captured the intimacy of a Richmond house show now captured our effusive babbling about our new favorite Brazilian band.
Marcelo's smile grew wider the longer we gushed.
Thank you so much for coming out, he said in farewell.
No, Marcelo, thank you and the boys for making a side trip to this lovely living room on an evening when my friend needed a once-in-a-lifetime birthday treat.
I'd have been there anyway, entranced by your smooth grooves, but I'm pretty sure you made her birthday the best ever.
Or at least the best in aion.
So when I learned that a favorite girlfriend had no plans on this, her birthday, I took matters in hand.
We will go out for a celebratory drink and then we will go hear a band at the mid-century modern home of some talented friends.
And not just any band, but a Brazilian one. One fresh off of playing South by Southwest. One playing music that will cross genres and moods.
With a Brazilian chef, Bistro 27 got the nod for where to toast her natal anniversary and dish about life while sipping Sangiovese.
A couple came in whom she knew and they finally got our attention away from each other.
Like us, they had interesting plans for the evening, theirs being a fundraiser involving drag queens.
Soon I heard a knock on the front window and there I saw some music-loving friends, who came in to say hello.
It was turning into a party right there.
The restaurant was packed, so we felt certain no one would miss us when we slipped out and headed across the river.
Finding the charming rancher (circa 1957) was a snap given her breadth of knowledge about southside, a good thing given that mine is non-existent.
We walked in to find the band, Marcelo and os Cozinheiros, doing a sound check on the eggshell-colored wall-to-wall carpeting.
That's all it took to know that we were in the right place.
The lead singer of the band came over and introduced himself as Marcelo, a generous gesture.
We found seats to wait for openers the Low Branches to start when suddenly I realized that we were the only people in the room with shoes on.
In our excitement arriving, we'd missed the sign requesting that we remove our shoes.
Done and done.
More people arrived, although not nearly as many as I'd expected, including some favorite music lovers I'd felt sure would want to hear these guys.
Oh, well, you snooze, you lose.
The Low Branches's Christina began by saying, "Welcome to the sock hop!" to the small group spread across the floor, the couch and up against the wall and dining room table.
She explained that their Parisian drummer had a stomach bug so they'd be a string trio tonight
They began their set with the exquisite "100 Years," allowing Christina's beautiful voice to wow the Brazilian boys as they stood transfixed.
It was during their third song that a cat unexpectedly ran into the room, took one look at the group in socks and hightailed it back to the bedroom.
Clearly, Toast was not impressed.
It cracked up Christina, though, and she laughed intermittently throughout the rest of the song.
They closed with Dolly Parton's "Jolene," a song well suited to the band's talents and one that got a huge ovation.
The scientist, sitting near me on the couch, stood up afterwards and, referencing the song, looked at me and said, "Flaming locks of auburn hair."
Hey, I'm no Jolene.
Afterwards, we were back to mingling when a musician friend said that she'd have to leave soon to feed her new baby.
Trying to decide whether to leave before the band started their set or during it, I forced my opinion on her (see my profile, right).
Since I'd heard their sound check and she hadn't, I knew with certainty that she was going to like these guys.
I suggested they stay for at least one song, if only to feed her new-mother soul.
She agreed and took up residence with her two guys up against the wall in front of the band.
Marcelo and os Cazinheiros consisted of a singer, a bass player, two guitarists and a drummer.
Marcelo said that "cazinheiros" meant cooks and it didn't take long to understand the choice of word.
Their music was a savory concoction of Brazilian music like bossa nova and samba, with tango and tropicalia thrown in, along with jazz and pop.
Marcelo was a dynamite front man with an expressive voice, a dramatic delivery and an obvious delight in his enthusiastic audience.
They began with two beautiful, poetic-sounding songs, both with great grooves and then explained what they were about.
The one they'd just sung, Marcelo said, was about relationships. And the first, well, that had been about relationships, too.
I was hardly surprised to find that Brazilian men are in touch with their relationship feelings.
"Now to take the stage away," Marcelo said, indicating the area right in front of the band, "We'll play some Herbie Hancock."
Boy, did things get funky then.
Before long, one of the guests, Bio Ritmo's Giustino (in a stylish red shirt because he'd just come from playing congas with an army band...what?) went out to his car and grabbed his cuica.
I say that not because I recognized it, but because the scientist saw it, nudged me and said, "Cuica."
What fascinated me was how it was played: he took a moistened cloth and rubbed the wooden stick fastened at one end inside the drum, producing high-pitched sounds which he used as accents to t he music.
Soon the band noticed him back by the dining room table and looked at him, all smiling broadly.
After the song's many improvisations ended, the singer looked up and inquired, "Where did that cuica come from?"
With his trademark grin, Giustino deadpanned, "Brazil? I only brought it out because you guys were jamming."
I don't know who looked more thrilled about the addition of cuica, the Brazilians or the stealth cuica player.
Because the had a new album out called "Aion," he explained how all the different concepts of time was central to the album's music.
Aion, in particular, referred to non-measurable amounts of time, like eternity or infinity.
The next song was introduced as being half in Portuguese and half in English, "So you'll know some of the words," the charismatic Marcelo promised.
"Point of View," he explained combined the tropical sounds of Brazil with the subtropical sounds of Uruguay and Argentina and tango and rock.
"Because everyone has been doing the rock since the '80s," he claimed as the song took the temperature up to high.
"That was a very dramatic one," he said, finishing with a flourish.
Unsure of the time, he asked of our host how many more songs they should sing.
When host Josh went to look at his phone to see, Marcelo reminded him, "Better to decide with your ears, not the clock."
Fortunately, that meant we got two more songs, although several of us wanted more like ten.
For the samba they did next, Giustino was called to play cuica in the midst of the band, moving his feet nonstop as he did so.
For the very last song, it was no holds barred and half the group was following Giustino's rhythmic lead in clapping and others were dancing sinuously in the midst of it all.
It was an all-out Brazilian bash in the middle of a '50s living room and the sound was all but perfect.
The birthday girl and I went up to Marcelo to thank him for such a stellar night of music, but all he wanted was to interview us on camera.
So the same camera that had captured the intimacy of a Richmond house show now captured our effusive babbling about our new favorite Brazilian band.
Marcelo's smile grew wider the longer we gushed.
Thank you so much for coming out, he said in farewell.
No, Marcelo, thank you and the boys for making a side trip to this lovely living room on an evening when my friend needed a once-in-a-lifetime birthday treat.
I'd have been there anyway, entranced by your smooth grooves, but I'm pretty sure you made her birthday the best ever.
Or at least the best in aion.
Monday, June 20, 2011
An Evening Grace Street Pleasure
In yet another of those odd coincidences that define life in RVA, I got invited to a house show and potluck tonight at a house that I pass on my walk every single day.
The occasion was that Baltimore's Little Sur was in town for tomorrow night's Listening Room, so there was going to be a small gathering and dinner and I was invited.
That's like hitting the Monday night jackpot.
Walking in to the house, I found plenty of familiar faces and about as many new ones. No problem; I'm an extrovert and can make friends in a room full of interesting strangers.
And I figured they were interesting because the food they'd brought was, always a good sign.
Among the things I noshed my way through were a beautiful beet/lentil dish, a flavorful white bean and arugula combo, sesame noodles, a spinach and garlic version of hummus and bread, a watermelon stuffed with feta and herbs and homemade mac and cheese.
For dessert, there was rhubarb crisp, two kinds of cookies, muffins, fresh berries and handmade jelly candies.
By the time everyone had had seconds (and thirds; Christina, you know who you are) and been well lubricated from the beer and wine table, the music started up.
Small Sur's sound came from guitar, bass, drums and a saxophone, which sometimes was replaced with another guitar.
Lead singer Bob's voice had a pure and haunting quality, which put me in mind of a male version of the Low Branches, the band who performed just after them.
He began by saying, "We're playing the Listening Room tomorrow so we'll play a different set tonight."
The spare arrangements were enhanced by the addition of the sax and the tenderness of Bob's voice.
Charmingly introducing a song, he said, "This song is about a reservoir near where we live where we like to go swimming. It's drinking water, so we're swimming in our own glass. It's great."
After having just heard these guys, I'm already looking forward to hearing them do all different material tomorrow. It'll be a rare musical double dip.
Add in these guys to Beach House and Wye Oak and it's clear that Charm City is a great music town these days. Note to self: head up there soon. Not that any place beats Richmond, of course.
The Low Branches played next and it was easy to understand how the two groups had been attracted to each other's sound. They're first cousins, musically speaking.
A always, there was the pleasure of Christina's voice but tonight we also got a new song, one she said they would play "because you seem like a forgiving group."
While that was undoubtedly true, we didn't need to forgive anything. Parts of the new song were downright upbeat, a highly unusual sound for the Low Branches.
"I must have taken my happy pill," she admitted after the show about writing the song.
My happy pill came in the form of delicious food, chatty friends and a quiet storm of music on a Monday night.
You can bet that when I go by that house on my walk tomorrow, I'll still be smiling.
The occasion was that Baltimore's Little Sur was in town for tomorrow night's Listening Room, so there was going to be a small gathering and dinner and I was invited.
That's like hitting the Monday night jackpot.
Walking in to the house, I found plenty of familiar faces and about as many new ones. No problem; I'm an extrovert and can make friends in a room full of interesting strangers.
And I figured they were interesting because the food they'd brought was, always a good sign.
Among the things I noshed my way through were a beautiful beet/lentil dish, a flavorful white bean and arugula combo, sesame noodles, a spinach and garlic version of hummus and bread, a watermelon stuffed with feta and herbs and homemade mac and cheese.
For dessert, there was rhubarb crisp, two kinds of cookies, muffins, fresh berries and handmade jelly candies.
By the time everyone had had seconds (and thirds; Christina, you know who you are) and been well lubricated from the beer and wine table, the music started up.
Small Sur's sound came from guitar, bass, drums and a saxophone, which sometimes was replaced with another guitar.
Lead singer Bob's voice had a pure and haunting quality, which put me in mind of a male version of the Low Branches, the band who performed just after them.
He began by saying, "We're playing the Listening Room tomorrow so we'll play a different set tonight."
The spare arrangements were enhanced by the addition of the sax and the tenderness of Bob's voice.
Charmingly introducing a song, he said, "This song is about a reservoir near where we live where we like to go swimming. It's drinking water, so we're swimming in our own glass. It's great."
After having just heard these guys, I'm already looking forward to hearing them do all different material tomorrow. It'll be a rare musical double dip.
Add in these guys to Beach House and Wye Oak and it's clear that Charm City is a great music town these days. Note to self: head up there soon. Not that any place beats Richmond, of course.
The Low Branches played next and it was easy to understand how the two groups had been attracted to each other's sound. They're first cousins, musically speaking.
A always, there was the pleasure of Christina's voice but tonight we also got a new song, one she said they would play "because you seem like a forgiving group."
While that was undoubtedly true, we didn't need to forgive anything. Parts of the new song were downright upbeat, a highly unusual sound for the Low Branches.
"I must have taken my happy pill," she admitted after the show about writing the song.
My happy pill came in the form of delicious food, chatty friends and a quiet storm of music on a Monday night.
You can bet that when I go by that house on my walk tomorrow, I'll still be smiling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
