Life isn't about being drunk, it's about being merry.
At least, that was the distinction made in "Story of a Love Affair," the tenth and final film in the VCU Cinematheque retrospective of Michelangelo Antonioni. And as Professor T. pointed out ahead of the screening, ordinarily you'd have to go to a major city, say NYC or LA, to be treated to a retrospective of the master Italian filmmaker.
We have it so good in Richmond.
But before diving into Antonioni's first feature-length film, we strolled over to Ipanema, arriving so early that they were still serving the lunch menu. Not fussy about what meal we were eating, Mr. Wright and I scored the front-most booth - the one that used to get removed when bands played so they could occupy the space - and settled in until showtime.
Tuscan salads of greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, marinated artichoke hearts, cannellini beans and olives were topped with smoked salmon, despite my suspicion that salmon would not typically be part of a Tuscan meal. Given the chilly temperatures, we accompanied the meal with hot tea, mine a mint, his a South African Rooibus.
You know it's cold when I resort to drinking hot beverages since they're not my thing, though I must say it was a fine accompaniment for my slice of blueberry pie.
It was while eating dessert and discussing that tonight was the conclusion of the Antonioni series that I overheard the two guys in the next booth talking about another ending, that of the Italian Film and Food Festival. One guy recalled that it had always been at the Firehouse Theater. The other, a DJ I've known for years, thought he'd attended it at Artspace, but his friend wasn't convinced.
Without a moment's hesitation, I turned toward the other booth, called my friend's name and set out to clarify things. Yes, the Italian Film Fest had been at Artspace as well as the Firehouse, I shared. I know I saw Marco Bellochio's "Fists in the Pocket," there in 2010, along with killer eats from Mamma Zu, Edo's and 8 1/2.
"And Karen weighs in!" the DJ announced, Just trying to help. I could have told him to look it up on the blog for further details, but refrained.
After crossing the street to the Grace Street Theatre only to find someone in my favorite seat, we made do with alternate seats nearby. Mr. Wright offered to go explain to the interlopers that they were trespassing, but I was feeling magnanimous.
Professor T. began the evening by explaining that we'd be seeing an archival Italian print on 35 mm, a rare treat which came with one small glitch. Archival prints don't get spliced to allow for standard two projector screening, so we should expect to see brief periods of black every 20 minutes. It seemed a small price to pay to see an archival Italian print on 35 mm.
And, as Mr. Wright later pointed out, the brief black breaks wound up feeling like scene changes during a play, perfectly appropriate given the high art we were seeing.
The visiting professor gave his usual 12-13 minute reading of his prepared paper on Anonioni and this particular film, his voice an odd combination of monotone, inappropriately inflected words and a question mark at the end of statements.
I'm not knocking the man's knowledge, just his delivery.
After seeing five of the ten Antonioni films this semester, films full of middle class malaise and post-war bleakness, I couldn't have been more surprised at the director's first foray into film. It was a black and white film noir, loosely based on the novel, "The Postman Always Rings Twice."
Hello dark streets, steamy love scenes and piano and sax score to set the mood. I love me a good film noir.
But then, as a bonus, there were scenes set in an uncrowded 1950 Milan, gorgeous clothing and gowns worn by the lead actress and a dead sexy car (see: 1948 Maserati A6G 1500, which surely must have been the inspiration for speedy cars in cartoons for decades to come).
What was strange was how very American the lead actor, Massimo Girotti, looked, a fact which worked fine in the context of the story but left me wanting for a more appropriately Italian actor, say, Marcello Mastroianni or Giancarlo Giannini.
What good are all those vowels in his name if he looks like John Garfield?
As for the distinction between stages of intoxication, it was when the older husband entered his younger, unhappy wife's bedroom late at night with a bottle of Champagne and two glasses that she asked of him, "Are you drunk?" and he responded, "Not drunk, just merry."
I've always labeled the stage before drunk as "loopy," but there's something charmingly dated about referring to it as "merry." As in, I've had a few glasses of bubbly and I'm feeling kind of merry right now. Not "deck them halls" merry, just merry.
Of course, that's just me weighing in. Again.
Showing posts with label ipanema. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ipanema. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Skin of My Teeth
My film education continues to unfold nightly.
On the surface, last night's installment of VCU Cinematheque should have been right up my alley. I've gone on record admitting that '60s and '70s movies fascinate me for the shifting cultural mores given voice through Hollywood's eyes.
Of course, the groovy fashions and music don't hurt, either.
So, by all accounts, I should have loved Michelangelo Antonioni's overblown paean to the late '60s counterculture, "Zabriskie Point." Mr. Wright had not only been to Death Valley and spotted the sign for Zabriskie Point, but had already seen the film several times, including as an impressionable young man when it came out. For me, only the title was familiar.
We started at Ipanema and then shifted the action across to the Grace Street Theatre. Both were full of people who weren't alive when Kurt Cobain checked out. Think about that.
When the visiting professor with the German accent got up to introduce the film, he began to wax poetic about the era of student protests and dropping out and turning on, explaining to the clueless student audience that the film was part of a 3-part deal with MGM for the talented Italian director. "Hollywood thought they cold throw big money at Antonioni," he shared and then chuckled in disgust.
Little did they realize that he'd just spend all their money while essentially holding up a giant middle finger to the U.S. To that, I say "well done," although I can see where others might see it as ungrateful and nervy.
Looking around the theater at students born at the tail end of the '90s, the prof instructed them, "Go ask your grandparents about the '70s." If they remember, they weren't there.
It was just too bad that no one had taken the time to explain to these world studies and film students how and why films were being made in 1970. No doubt Antonioni, known for his brilliant framing, cinematography and use of music, would have been disdainful of students today who simply couldn't fathom a film with an extended orgy scene in the desert (first uncomfortable tittering, followed by outright laughter) or a succession of a dozen shots of a house being blown up from different angles.
And don't get me started on their major sighing at the leisurely pacing of the film, which I loved.
If only MGM hadn't cut Antonioni's original ending - a plane sky-writing "F*ck you, America" - they'd have seen something they could understand. As it stood, they'd need to go ask their grandparents why there were so many bad mustaches in the olden days.
Tonight's lesson in film was much more of a treat because there's a particular pleasure to seeing a Hitchcock movie you've never seen before. Even Mr. Wright was in the dark on this one.
Hello, "Shadow of Doubt," nice to make your acquaintance.
After crispy golden rolls and a banh mi at Sen across from the Byrd, we crossed the street for the 1943 psychological thriller written by Thornton Wilder - yes, he of "Our Town" - that Hitch often referred to as his favorite.
And, if not his favorite, according to Byrd manager Todd, his most plausible story.
Because only Hitch would think that a serial murderer coming to live with his older sister's family in the bucolic town of Santa Rosa and talking an unnatural interest in his namesake niece (knowing Hitch, he probably intended the squirm-worthy implications of Uncle Charlie hitting on his sister's oldest daughter) was perfectly plausible.
Not that I cared. From the opening shot, what had my attention was that I was seeing the actor Henry Travers onscreen as something other than Clarence, the angel, from "It's a Wonderful Life." Like a kindergartner who thinks her teacher lives in the classroom, I just assumed Travers had only played that one role.
The funniest scenes in the movie were those between Travers and a nerdy, young Hume Cronyn (whom I only knew as an old man, so I didn't even recognize him until the credits), neighbors who spent their free time trading ideas for how to murder each other creatively and successfully.
Mainly, I reveled in watching a Hitchcock movie I'd never seen before, taking in every dramatically lit shadow, oddball ceiling angle and telltale hand gesture in a crisply black and white movie with infinite shades of gray.
I was so engrossed I missed Hitchcock's cameo as a bridge player on board a train and had to ask Todd on the way out when he'd been onscreen.
Best of all, there were no tittering students and nobody whining about the film's pacing, although a couple in our aisle walked out after half an hour (I was dying to know why). Everyone who'd come to see "Shadow of Doubt" - and many of us were first-timers, evidenced by Todd asking who'd never seen it and more than half the room raising their hands - accepted the film for the 1943 Hitchcock classic that it was.
And if you don't believe me, go ask your grandparents.
On the surface, last night's installment of VCU Cinematheque should have been right up my alley. I've gone on record admitting that '60s and '70s movies fascinate me for the shifting cultural mores given voice through Hollywood's eyes.
Of course, the groovy fashions and music don't hurt, either.
So, by all accounts, I should have loved Michelangelo Antonioni's overblown paean to the late '60s counterculture, "Zabriskie Point." Mr. Wright had not only been to Death Valley and spotted the sign for Zabriskie Point, but had already seen the film several times, including as an impressionable young man when it came out. For me, only the title was familiar.
We started at Ipanema and then shifted the action across to the Grace Street Theatre. Both were full of people who weren't alive when Kurt Cobain checked out. Think about that.
When the visiting professor with the German accent got up to introduce the film, he began to wax poetic about the era of student protests and dropping out and turning on, explaining to the clueless student audience that the film was part of a 3-part deal with MGM for the talented Italian director. "Hollywood thought they cold throw big money at Antonioni," he shared and then chuckled in disgust.
Little did they realize that he'd just spend all their money while essentially holding up a giant middle finger to the U.S. To that, I say "well done," although I can see where others might see it as ungrateful and nervy.
Looking around the theater at students born at the tail end of the '90s, the prof instructed them, "Go ask your grandparents about the '70s." If they remember, they weren't there.
It was just too bad that no one had taken the time to explain to these world studies and film students how and why films were being made in 1970. No doubt Antonioni, known for his brilliant framing, cinematography and use of music, would have been disdainful of students today who simply couldn't fathom a film with an extended orgy scene in the desert (first uncomfortable tittering, followed by outright laughter) or a succession of a dozen shots of a house being blown up from different angles.
And don't get me started on their major sighing at the leisurely pacing of the film, which I loved.
If only MGM hadn't cut Antonioni's original ending - a plane sky-writing "F*ck you, America" - they'd have seen something they could understand. As it stood, they'd need to go ask their grandparents why there were so many bad mustaches in the olden days.
Tonight's lesson in film was much more of a treat because there's a particular pleasure to seeing a Hitchcock movie you've never seen before. Even Mr. Wright was in the dark on this one.
Hello, "Shadow of Doubt," nice to make your acquaintance.
After crispy golden rolls and a banh mi at Sen across from the Byrd, we crossed the street for the 1943 psychological thriller written by Thornton Wilder - yes, he of "Our Town" - that Hitch often referred to as his favorite.
And, if not his favorite, according to Byrd manager Todd, his most plausible story.
Because only Hitch would think that a serial murderer coming to live with his older sister's family in the bucolic town of Santa Rosa and talking an unnatural interest in his namesake niece (knowing Hitch, he probably intended the squirm-worthy implications of Uncle Charlie hitting on his sister's oldest daughter) was perfectly plausible.
Not that I cared. From the opening shot, what had my attention was that I was seeing the actor Henry Travers onscreen as something other than Clarence, the angel, from "It's a Wonderful Life." Like a kindergartner who thinks her teacher lives in the classroom, I just assumed Travers had only played that one role.
The funniest scenes in the movie were those between Travers and a nerdy, young Hume Cronyn (whom I only knew as an old man, so I didn't even recognize him until the credits), neighbors who spent their free time trading ideas for how to murder each other creatively and successfully.
Mainly, I reveled in watching a Hitchcock movie I'd never seen before, taking in every dramatically lit shadow, oddball ceiling angle and telltale hand gesture in a crisply black and white movie with infinite shades of gray.
I was so engrossed I missed Hitchcock's cameo as a bridge player on board a train and had to ask Todd on the way out when he'd been onscreen.
Best of all, there were no tittering students and nobody whining about the film's pacing, although a couple in our aisle walked out after half an hour (I was dying to know why). Everyone who'd come to see "Shadow of Doubt" - and many of us were first-timers, evidenced by Todd asking who'd never seen it and more than half the room raising their hands - accepted the film for the 1943 Hitchcock classic that it was.
And if you don't believe me, go ask your grandparents.
Sunday, September 16, 2018
A Cellar Full of Noise
Where was I ten years ago? Celebrating Ipanema's tenth anniversary.
Where was I tonight? Celebrating Ipanema's 20th anniversary. Are you seeing a pattern?
When I went to the tenth anniversary party, I had no real connection to the place. But that night, I met the owner and the first words out of her mouth were about how much she loved my blog and its positivity. I was, of course, smitten with her immediately and we became friends soon after. I called her my girl crush right up until she found the man of her dreams.
If you want to get personal about it, it's where I learned how to drink without getting trashed over the course of an evening, a skill set taught to me by my new friend, often on Ipanema's patio (the same patio where she threw me a birthday celebration).
Reasons enough to say that Ipanema is central to my history over the past decade. But every bit as important, Ipanema's anniversary coincides with our friend-iversary, so we were celebrating tonight, too.
Over the years, I've become an Ipanema semi-regular. I attended nearly every Live at Ipanema to hear new and familiar bands enliven a Sunday evening. Many a night I went for the DJ, especially if it was the Blood Brothers playing '60s and '70s music. I went for dessert after seeing movies at the Grace Street Cinema and sneaked over from Strange Matter during band breaks to get a decent glass of wine. I spent hours on conversation while sharing a bottle of wine off the Secret Stash wine list. I celebrated New Year's Eve at parties there and had a second Thannksgiving dinner after my own at home.
How could I not be part of the celebration of their longevity?
Mac and I walked over and found seats at the two-top against the dividing wall, out of the fray but with stellar views of the crowd back and front. It was bound to be an interesting view given how many people have sentimental attachment to Ipanema. Within no time, I spotted the urban planer whose weekly series of charettes I'd attended to give input about J-Ward. In the back was the bookseller and author who'd lived in my apartment before I did. The record collector and scene stalwart.
Our server turned out to be a familiar face from Balliceaux and from Gallery 5 and he was happy to bring me a glass of Garciarevalo Casamaro Verdejo and a tequila-laced La Casa Pacifica for Mac.
With the place getting more crowded by the minute, we scanned the anniversary menu dedicated to picnic food that was tacked to the usual menu chalkboard. For me, that meant a chicken of the wood "lobster roll," meaning fungi dressed with mayo and full of celery, along with sides of seeded cornbread (a combination I'd never had and adored) and killer baked beans, while Mac went with the mushroom and onion fajitas with broccoli salad, vegan mac and cheese and corn on the cob.
They may have all been vegan, but there wasn't a stinker in the bunch.
By the time we'd cleaned our plates, every seat and bar stool was taken and there was a waiting list for a seat. Our timing had been impeccable and completely accidental.
And while I don't know if the hordes were there for the anniversary, I tend to think they were. As the woman nearest me said to her friends, "Can we just stop and appreciate how long this place has been here?" When you're 23 or 24, it must be truly impressive to think of a favorite restaurant as having been around since you were a toddler, just waiting for you to be legal to indulge in its pleasures.
In no hurry to vacate, Mac and I ordered another round of drinks (her poison of choice this time was the Sweet Revenge, a yummy but not cloying coconut-based cocktail) and shared a slice of blueberry pie a la mode while the owner pulled up a chair to our table and sat down to dish. Or, more accurately get the scoop on my life since we'd last talked, the news of which made her very happy.
Eventually, Mac had to go (early morning travel plans) so I walked her back to my place to claim her car and returned to the anniversary party. The thing is, Ipanema won't have another 20th anniversary celebration. Hell, any day now a developer is going to swoop in and buy that building to erect a tower of student apartments. After that, it's only going to be the former regulars and barflies who even recall the subterranean spot that attracted generations of VCU students and neighbors like me.
It wasn't long after I returned that the manager grabbed me for the cutting of the birthday cake in the back of the restaurant. When I asked what flavor the cake was, he told me it was "cake flavor," although the flavor of the cake didn't matter because the icing was so good. Requesting a corner piece didn't hurt, either.
Music arrived shortly after in the form of DJ Bad Daughter and DJ Sad Boi, both carrying by the handles the same kind of colorful boxes of 45s I had in my youth.
When I asked a blond next to me if she'd come for the anniversary, she looked confused. She'd come for a beer to forget the stalker boyfriend she'd left behind in another city, but she was open-minded enough to jump on board with the occasion.
Ensconced at the bar with my girl crush and another glass of Verdejo, we talked about some of the good times we'd had there over the years. About whether or not a counter-culture even exists anymore (seems unlikely) like it did when she opened Ipanema. About how possessive people feel about Ipanema because of spending their formative years there discussing life and love over a grilled Gouda sandwich.
When we finally left, she walked me home before calling Lyft to get her home to Southside. Along the way, we talked about our trip to Memphis and Oxford, Mississippi a few years back, reminiscing about how much we'd seen, eaten and experienced that week. How neither of us had any interest in seeing Graceland. How much we'd laughed.
But mostly what I was thinking about was how fortunate I was to have ended up at Ipanema in 2008 to celebrate a decade in business. It not only introduced me to one of my favorite people, but taught me how lucky I was to have such a charming spot a half mile walk from home and open every night. Cue Petula Clark.
I know a place where the music is fine
And the lights are always low
I know a place where we can go
At the door there's a man who will greet you
Then you go downstairs to some tables and chairs
Soon, I'm sure, you'll be tapping your feet
Cause the beat is the greatest there
Congrats to the woman not only capable of creating such a place, but of keeping it going for 20 years. It's got an atmosphere of its own somehow because of the countless people whose lives have been lived partly in the low light of Ipanema.
I'm thrilled to have been one of them...and hoping for 20 more.
Where was I tonight? Celebrating Ipanema's 20th anniversary. Are you seeing a pattern?
When I went to the tenth anniversary party, I had no real connection to the place. But that night, I met the owner and the first words out of her mouth were about how much she loved my blog and its positivity. I was, of course, smitten with her immediately and we became friends soon after. I called her my girl crush right up until she found the man of her dreams.
If you want to get personal about it, it's where I learned how to drink without getting trashed over the course of an evening, a skill set taught to me by my new friend, often on Ipanema's patio (the same patio where she threw me a birthday celebration).
Reasons enough to say that Ipanema is central to my history over the past decade. But every bit as important, Ipanema's anniversary coincides with our friend-iversary, so we were celebrating tonight, too.
Over the years, I've become an Ipanema semi-regular. I attended nearly every Live at Ipanema to hear new and familiar bands enliven a Sunday evening. Many a night I went for the DJ, especially if it was the Blood Brothers playing '60s and '70s music. I went for dessert after seeing movies at the Grace Street Cinema and sneaked over from Strange Matter during band breaks to get a decent glass of wine. I spent hours on conversation while sharing a bottle of wine off the Secret Stash wine list. I celebrated New Year's Eve at parties there and had a second Thannksgiving dinner after my own at home.
How could I not be part of the celebration of their longevity?
Mac and I walked over and found seats at the two-top against the dividing wall, out of the fray but with stellar views of the crowd back and front. It was bound to be an interesting view given how many people have sentimental attachment to Ipanema. Within no time, I spotted the urban planer whose weekly series of charettes I'd attended to give input about J-Ward. In the back was the bookseller and author who'd lived in my apartment before I did. The record collector and scene stalwart.
Our server turned out to be a familiar face from Balliceaux and from Gallery 5 and he was happy to bring me a glass of Garciarevalo Casamaro Verdejo and a tequila-laced La Casa Pacifica for Mac.
With the place getting more crowded by the minute, we scanned the anniversary menu dedicated to picnic food that was tacked to the usual menu chalkboard. For me, that meant a chicken of the wood "lobster roll," meaning fungi dressed with mayo and full of celery, along with sides of seeded cornbread (a combination I'd never had and adored) and killer baked beans, while Mac went with the mushroom and onion fajitas with broccoli salad, vegan mac and cheese and corn on the cob.
They may have all been vegan, but there wasn't a stinker in the bunch.
By the time we'd cleaned our plates, every seat and bar stool was taken and there was a waiting list for a seat. Our timing had been impeccable and completely accidental.
And while I don't know if the hordes were there for the anniversary, I tend to think they were. As the woman nearest me said to her friends, "Can we just stop and appreciate how long this place has been here?" When you're 23 or 24, it must be truly impressive to think of a favorite restaurant as having been around since you were a toddler, just waiting for you to be legal to indulge in its pleasures.
In no hurry to vacate, Mac and I ordered another round of drinks (her poison of choice this time was the Sweet Revenge, a yummy but not cloying coconut-based cocktail) and shared a slice of blueberry pie a la mode while the owner pulled up a chair to our table and sat down to dish. Or, more accurately get the scoop on my life since we'd last talked, the news of which made her very happy.
Eventually, Mac had to go (early morning travel plans) so I walked her back to my place to claim her car and returned to the anniversary party. The thing is, Ipanema won't have another 20th anniversary celebration. Hell, any day now a developer is going to swoop in and buy that building to erect a tower of student apartments. After that, it's only going to be the former regulars and barflies who even recall the subterranean spot that attracted generations of VCU students and neighbors like me.
It wasn't long after I returned that the manager grabbed me for the cutting of the birthday cake in the back of the restaurant. When I asked what flavor the cake was, he told me it was "cake flavor," although the flavor of the cake didn't matter because the icing was so good. Requesting a corner piece didn't hurt, either.
Music arrived shortly after in the form of DJ Bad Daughter and DJ Sad Boi, both carrying by the handles the same kind of colorful boxes of 45s I had in my youth.
When I asked a blond next to me if she'd come for the anniversary, she looked confused. She'd come for a beer to forget the stalker boyfriend she'd left behind in another city, but she was open-minded enough to jump on board with the occasion.
Ensconced at the bar with my girl crush and another glass of Verdejo, we talked about some of the good times we'd had there over the years. About whether or not a counter-culture even exists anymore (seems unlikely) like it did when she opened Ipanema. About how possessive people feel about Ipanema because of spending their formative years there discussing life and love over a grilled Gouda sandwich.
When we finally left, she walked me home before calling Lyft to get her home to Southside. Along the way, we talked about our trip to Memphis and Oxford, Mississippi a few years back, reminiscing about how much we'd seen, eaten and experienced that week. How neither of us had any interest in seeing Graceland. How much we'd laughed.
But mostly what I was thinking about was how fortunate I was to have ended up at Ipanema in 2008 to celebrate a decade in business. It not only introduced me to one of my favorite people, but taught me how lucky I was to have such a charming spot a half mile walk from home and open every night. Cue Petula Clark.
I know a place where the music is fine
And the lights are always low
I know a place where we can go
At the door there's a man who will greet you
Then you go downstairs to some tables and chairs
Soon, I'm sure, you'll be tapping your feet
Cause the beat is the greatest there
Congrats to the woman not only capable of creating such a place, but of keeping it going for 20 years. It's got an atmosphere of its own somehow because of the countless people whose lives have been lived partly in the low light of Ipanema.
I'm thrilled to have been one of them...and hoping for 20 more.
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Post-Serenade Unctuous Notes
Apparently, there's a presumption that I'm always up for something.
How else to explain three last minute invitations from friends of wildly varying degrees in one evening?
After spending the day at my parents' house, some of it watching the memory lapse-laden testimony of our Attorney General - I kissed them goodbye and headed out the door after his 37th bogus "I don't recall" - I got home to a phone message from an out of town friend and a FB message from an in-town friend.
This is a long shot, but I was thinking of grabbing a bite in your 'hood soon.
Since I had two tickets to an early performance and no date, I welcomed the chance to share music with a musician, inviting X-tina to join me, after which we could have that bite in the 'hood she was desperately seeking.
Driving to the Virginia Holocaust Museum for its 20th Anniversary concert, we discovered that neither of us had ever been to the museum, despite both being interested in doing so and the museum having been open since 2003. Tonight was not the night to do it (the exhibits were closed), so we made plans to make that happen so we can hold our heads up as worthy Richmond culture mavens.
Walking into the Choral Synagogue Auditorium, I would guess we were in the non-Jewish minority, although unlike that time I went to a lecture at the Jewish Community Center, no one approached me to guess, "You're not Jewish, are you?" like they had there.
Seated in the front row were Holocaust survivors while in our section, it was more about older people kvetching until historian Charles Sydnor took to the lectern to welcome us with a moving speech about silence signaling consent and the importance of speaking out against racism and intolerance. Sadly, there were far too many eerie parallels to today.
Next came Tony Morcos, whose great aunt had been a violinist until she was killed in a concentration camp, although she'd handed off her violin - now known by her nickname, Nettie - to a safekeeper before being arrested. That violin was to be played tonight, all these years later, as part of the performance, but first he showed old photographs of his great aunt, often with her violin in hand, and their family during happier times.
I particularly liked one of her with her hot jazz trio, looking very modern and hip.
Performing were the Richmond Symphony's Jocelyn Vorenberg on violin and David Fisk on piano doing works by Jewish composers whose work had been suppressed or banned during the Nazi regime. Surprisingly, for work made during such a dark period, much of it was uplifting, light and beautiful and in the case of "Serenade '42" by Robert Dauber (who died at 20), almost Gershwin-like.
The entire performance was wondrous, watching these two musicians perform against a backdrop of an elaborate, arched, gold, altar-like bema in a high-ceilinged two-story room where the sounds of their instruments seemed to float heavenward as they played music no one had heard live for decades, if ever.
Saying, "You can't end the evening without "Schindler's List," the duo closed out with the heart-wrenching piece and took their final bows.
Even the speeches afterward were moving (Fisk saying, "When words fail, there is music"), with reminders that being Jewish is a cultural identification as much as religious and one with Jewish soul at the heart of its music. X-tina was tearing up and I was feeling privileged to have witnessed such a touching reminder, musical and spoken, of a hideously dark period.
Rather than staying for the reception - because did it really need two non-Jewish, unmarried women? - we made our way back to J-Ward and Saison Market so X-tina could have the burger she'd been craving and I could dive into a bowl of chicken wings with smoked jalapeno and charred pineapple rub. Fernet with ginger was icing on the cake while we commiserated about our love lives and debated the appeal of difficult men.
Not that I have one in my life, unless you look at my wider circle. Although really, in order to rate as a friend, there has to be frequent contact and shared adventures, not to mention hours of conversation. I can't see where I have any male acquaintances who qualify there, so my difficulties will have to come from the most casual of relationships.
You can't end a blog post without a thinly veiled reference. Oh, can't you?
How else to explain three last minute invitations from friends of wildly varying degrees in one evening?
After spending the day at my parents' house, some of it watching the memory lapse-laden testimony of our Attorney General - I kissed them goodbye and headed out the door after his 37th bogus "I don't recall" - I got home to a phone message from an out of town friend and a FB message from an in-town friend.
This is a long shot, but I was thinking of grabbing a bite in your 'hood soon.
Since I had two tickets to an early performance and no date, I welcomed the chance to share music with a musician, inviting X-tina to join me, after which we could have that bite in the 'hood she was desperately seeking.
Driving to the Virginia Holocaust Museum for its 20th Anniversary concert, we discovered that neither of us had ever been to the museum, despite both being interested in doing so and the museum having been open since 2003. Tonight was not the night to do it (the exhibits were closed), so we made plans to make that happen so we can hold our heads up as worthy Richmond culture mavens.
Walking into the Choral Synagogue Auditorium, I would guess we were in the non-Jewish minority, although unlike that time I went to a lecture at the Jewish Community Center, no one approached me to guess, "You're not Jewish, are you?" like they had there.
Seated in the front row were Holocaust survivors while in our section, it was more about older people kvetching until historian Charles Sydnor took to the lectern to welcome us with a moving speech about silence signaling consent and the importance of speaking out against racism and intolerance. Sadly, there were far too many eerie parallels to today.
Next came Tony Morcos, whose great aunt had been a violinist until she was killed in a concentration camp, although she'd handed off her violin - now known by her nickname, Nettie - to a safekeeper before being arrested. That violin was to be played tonight, all these years later, as part of the performance, but first he showed old photographs of his great aunt, often with her violin in hand, and their family during happier times.
I particularly liked one of her with her hot jazz trio, looking very modern and hip.
Performing were the Richmond Symphony's Jocelyn Vorenberg on violin and David Fisk on piano doing works by Jewish composers whose work had been suppressed or banned during the Nazi regime. Surprisingly, for work made during such a dark period, much of it was uplifting, light and beautiful and in the case of "Serenade '42" by Robert Dauber (who died at 20), almost Gershwin-like.
The entire performance was wondrous, watching these two musicians perform against a backdrop of an elaborate, arched, gold, altar-like bema in a high-ceilinged two-story room where the sounds of their instruments seemed to float heavenward as they played music no one had heard live for decades, if ever.
Saying, "You can't end the evening without "Schindler's List," the duo closed out with the heart-wrenching piece and took their final bows.
Even the speeches afterward were moving (Fisk saying, "When words fail, there is music"), with reminders that being Jewish is a cultural identification as much as religious and one with Jewish soul at the heart of its music. X-tina was tearing up and I was feeling privileged to have witnessed such a touching reminder, musical and spoken, of a hideously dark period.
Rather than staying for the reception - because did it really need two non-Jewish, unmarried women? - we made our way back to J-Ward and Saison Market so X-tina could have the burger she'd been craving and I could dive into a bowl of chicken wings with smoked jalapeno and charred pineapple rub. Fernet with ginger was icing on the cake while we commiserated about our love lives and debated the appeal of difficult men.
Not that I have one in my life, unless you look at my wider circle. Although really, in order to rate as a friend, there has to be frequent contact and shared adventures, not to mention hours of conversation. I can't see where I have any male acquaintances who qualify there, so my difficulties will have to come from the most casual of relationships.
You can't end a blog post without a thinly veiled reference. Oh, can't you?
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
We Can Still Be Friends
With time you learn there are various levels of friendship.
Even the guys down on Leigh Street selling crabs are sort-of-friends, in that we see each other regularly, speak often and, above all, they were ready to open a can of whoop-ass when they heard what some guy had said to me as I walked through the neighborhood. Today, it was letting me know that crabs are in already. Casual but steadfast acquaintances.
There's FotoBoy, a friend of the past 8 years (with whom I had two dates before we were smacking our foreheads and realizing we wanted friendship) who is pretty much at my beck and call when I need an extra mouth for work. That we can talk about the nitty gritty in our lives only adds to the depth of the friendship. That he appreciates how excited I get when a train conductor waves at me is gravy.
There's the friend I'm still getting to know who's given me an intermittent front row seat to watching him figure out who he is and what he wants, a fascinating chance for me to find out what makes him tick with no risk involved.
Since it has been four weeks since our last rendezvous, I knew I could count on some new revelations, maybe even a new character or two in his life. When last I'd seen the stubborn one, things were heating up with a woman I'd pegged as high maintenance from the start, but he was still dazzled by how fast she was on wheels, or at least, that's what he told me. For the sake of discussion, she was dubbed "Bachelorette #1."
The latest update on all that personal business was delivered after a warm walk in a light drizzle from Jackson Ward to Dinamo - spent discussing what a creature of habit he thinks I am because, he says, I always choose restaurants within my sphere, which I suppose means walking distance - where we took seats at the bar next to a couple discussing church business and adult children who can't problem solve.
I'm not sure which topic was more depressing.
Our meal was anything but, with his homey and hearty fava bean and maitake mushroom pasta and my seafood salad with enough clams, mussels, shrimp, calamari, octopus, onions, lemon and oil to mimic a meal eaten seaside to guarantee we both wound up happy campers. A glass of Orvietto and a sea salt Nutella cookie took me to the finish line.
Meanwhile, the owner shelled fava beans nearby and we talked about his love life and yes, since we met last, onto the scene had come a new contestant whom we dubbed "Bachelorette #2," after briefly considering calling her "No Agenda" but deciding that such a phrase could also apply to Bachelorette #1.
The fact that they both, in fact, have agendas was deeper than he wanted to go tonight. So far, Bachelorette #2's only obvious weakness (and it's worth noting given his personality) is that she's terribly compliant and not especially opinionated.
Some friends would call that boring, but I try to be more diplomatic than that.
Leaving Dinamo shortly before the last customer could, we got as far as Grace and Laurel before the pouring rain was too much to slog through to get back to my place and his car, while Ipanema was a block and a half away. It wasn't a cold or unpleasant rain but it was definitely a directional one and we were both getting soggy.
As always, Ips was an oasis of warmth and soft lighting and with glasses of Spanish white and red in front of us, as good a place as any to continue exploring why people do certain things and what that tells others about them.
Coming in out of the deluge, a guy sat down next to me and began writing in a Moleskin. When I asked the subject, he said he was working on his thesis and you know I had to know. "Disaster Capitalism," he informs me.
My next question is what year was he born, an inquiry that so delights him he throws back his head, smiling.
"That is the best question ever asked!" he claims before explaining how his thesis deals with a post-human worldscape. My questions continue, my friend returns from the head and joins in and the future thinker asks if we're professors at VCU. Negative, but we play them in bars.
When I ask if he has a happy social life around working on such nihilistic theories, he assures me he's an optimist, albeit one in a post-human world. Yet again, I marvel at how differently his generation is wired than mine.
By the time our wine glasses are empty, the rain has stopped, the temperature and humidity have dropped, and we bid farewell to our disaster capitalist.
Could I see him as a friend? Certainly with his polar opposite worldview and comparatively brief body of life experience, I could enjoy many conversations delving into his thoughts and theories, just to hear them. I'd definitely have myriad questions to ask him.
While I'm sitting here typing this, the phone rings despite the relatively late hour. "Are you with a man?' asks FotoBoy - aka he who appreciates my enthusiasm for life - in a hushed voice as if someone might be listening.
Only a really good friend would have the nerve to call at this hour and check on whether I'm alone or not and then ask about lunch plans. But come on, friend, have we met? Do you think I'd answer the phone if I weren't alone?
And yes to lunch, always yes to more conversations. They're the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
Even the guys down on Leigh Street selling crabs are sort-of-friends, in that we see each other regularly, speak often and, above all, they were ready to open a can of whoop-ass when they heard what some guy had said to me as I walked through the neighborhood. Today, it was letting me know that crabs are in already. Casual but steadfast acquaintances.
There's FotoBoy, a friend of the past 8 years (with whom I had two dates before we were smacking our foreheads and realizing we wanted friendship) who is pretty much at my beck and call when I need an extra mouth for work. That we can talk about the nitty gritty in our lives only adds to the depth of the friendship. That he appreciates how excited I get when a train conductor waves at me is gravy.
There's the friend I'm still getting to know who's given me an intermittent front row seat to watching him figure out who he is and what he wants, a fascinating chance for me to find out what makes him tick with no risk involved.
Since it has been four weeks since our last rendezvous, I knew I could count on some new revelations, maybe even a new character or two in his life. When last I'd seen the stubborn one, things were heating up with a woman I'd pegged as high maintenance from the start, but he was still dazzled by how fast she was on wheels, or at least, that's what he told me. For the sake of discussion, she was dubbed "Bachelorette #1."
The latest update on all that personal business was delivered after a warm walk in a light drizzle from Jackson Ward to Dinamo - spent discussing what a creature of habit he thinks I am because, he says, I always choose restaurants within my sphere, which I suppose means walking distance - where we took seats at the bar next to a couple discussing church business and adult children who can't problem solve.
I'm not sure which topic was more depressing.
Our meal was anything but, with his homey and hearty fava bean and maitake mushroom pasta and my seafood salad with enough clams, mussels, shrimp, calamari, octopus, onions, lemon and oil to mimic a meal eaten seaside to guarantee we both wound up happy campers. A glass of Orvietto and a sea salt Nutella cookie took me to the finish line.
Meanwhile, the owner shelled fava beans nearby and we talked about his love life and yes, since we met last, onto the scene had come a new contestant whom we dubbed "Bachelorette #2," after briefly considering calling her "No Agenda" but deciding that such a phrase could also apply to Bachelorette #1.
The fact that they both, in fact, have agendas was deeper than he wanted to go tonight. So far, Bachelorette #2's only obvious weakness (and it's worth noting given his personality) is that she's terribly compliant and not especially opinionated.
Some friends would call that boring, but I try to be more diplomatic than that.
Leaving Dinamo shortly before the last customer could, we got as far as Grace and Laurel before the pouring rain was too much to slog through to get back to my place and his car, while Ipanema was a block and a half away. It wasn't a cold or unpleasant rain but it was definitely a directional one and we were both getting soggy.
As always, Ips was an oasis of warmth and soft lighting and with glasses of Spanish white and red in front of us, as good a place as any to continue exploring why people do certain things and what that tells others about them.
Coming in out of the deluge, a guy sat down next to me and began writing in a Moleskin. When I asked the subject, he said he was working on his thesis and you know I had to know. "Disaster Capitalism," he informs me.
My next question is what year was he born, an inquiry that so delights him he throws back his head, smiling.
"That is the best question ever asked!" he claims before explaining how his thesis deals with a post-human worldscape. My questions continue, my friend returns from the head and joins in and the future thinker asks if we're professors at VCU. Negative, but we play them in bars.
When I ask if he has a happy social life around working on such nihilistic theories, he assures me he's an optimist, albeit one in a post-human world. Yet again, I marvel at how differently his generation is wired than mine.
By the time our wine glasses are empty, the rain has stopped, the temperature and humidity have dropped, and we bid farewell to our disaster capitalist.
Could I see him as a friend? Certainly with his polar opposite worldview and comparatively brief body of life experience, I could enjoy many conversations delving into his thoughts and theories, just to hear them. I'd definitely have myriad questions to ask him.
While I'm sitting here typing this, the phone rings despite the relatively late hour. "Are you with a man?' asks FotoBoy - aka he who appreciates my enthusiasm for life - in a hushed voice as if someone might be listening.
Only a really good friend would have the nerve to call at this hour and check on whether I'm alone or not and then ask about lunch plans. But come on, friend, have we met? Do you think I'd answer the phone if I weren't alone?
And yes to lunch, always yes to more conversations. They're the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Before You Do Anything Rash, Dig This
We must have pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of pie. ~ David Mamet
It wasn't that driving over the Rappahannock River in rainy weather and high winds was stressful. Okay, yes, it was, because even crawling along at 30 mph, every gust felt like it could lift my car up and over the side of the bridge and remember, it's only been a month since that truck - an 18-wheeler, for cryin' out loud - blew off the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.
It wasn't that making potato soup and Irish soda bread for 75 women was stressful, although it was pretty labor-intensive and non-stop for 5 hours, including the period when Mom's bread machine stopped working and she had a mild freak-out.
On the plus side, today's gray skies, Constable-like clouds and wet weather did seem particularly Irish-like and suited to the foods we were making.
It wasn't that VCU Cinematheque's screening of the 2015 black and white Romanian western "Aferim!" was stressful, unless you find watching slurs about every race, religion and ethnicity, not to mention cutting off a captured slave's testicles, stressful.
Spoiler alert: I do.
It's just that after all of the above, my first thought walking out of the Grace Street Theater was that dessert was in order and I got no argument from the agreeable friend who'd walked over, hat on head, with me despite the cold, damp and fiercely windy weather to see such a visually stunning film.
Ipanema offered not only sweets but an open table for two, a lively Tuesday crowd, my kind of music (the wild card was the Main Ingredient's "Everybody Plays the Fool"), ten kinds of hot tea to choose from and desserts. Without even consulting each other, we both ignored the cakes available as I went straight for blueberry pie and mint tea while my companion's heart's delight was Earl Grey and cinnamon peach pie.
Only after our adorable server (clad in the high-waisted jeans I wore in the '80s) left did my friend remind me that today is Pi Day...314, of course it is.
And while I'm not especially mathematically-inclined, I'm all for any holiday that Mike Pence voted against (oh, yes, he did). I'm also all for finding any reason for celebrating, even when it's not intentional.
It's more than enough reason to linger over tea and pie, leaving stress in the rear-view mirror while admiring the idiosyncratic art hung over the booths and enjoying the cozy subterranean feel of the place on a busy winter evening.
A guy walked by in a striped sweater that so closely paralleled the colors and stripes on my sweater dress that I had no choice but to point it out to him. His sweater, though, was 15 years old and so much a favorite that he swore he'll never give it up, while mine is a far more recent find, although I'm just as attached because it's not only cute but ensures reliable warmth on nights such as this.
Walking toward Ipanema's door after pie, multiple cups of tea and a spirited discussion of why some people are afraid to use an ellipsis when writing to the opposite sex (neither of us is), we gave up our table to the next Tuesday night celebrants.
Getting as far as the end of the bar, I heard a familiar voice saying, "Karen, you are not going to walk by me and not say hello!" It wasn't that, but rather that I hadn't bothered to check out the bar's occupants as I passed by. I can't always be ogling people at a bar.
Because it had been several years since we'd last seen each other - though our friendship goes back about 8 - she immediately demanded that we get together soon now that she's living in Richmond full-time again. "Do you still not have a cell phone?" she asked with a knowing grin. Hey, my number's still the same, if that counts for anything.
"I almost didn't recognize you without your legs showing," she told me about starting there and working her way up as I walked by. Sorry, when it feels like 20 degrees outside, fleece leggings with tights over them mask familiar gams. Thank goodness she'd finally moved her gaze northward.
Hey, babe, my pie-hole is up here. Up here...
It wasn't that driving over the Rappahannock River in rainy weather and high winds was stressful. Okay, yes, it was, because even crawling along at 30 mph, every gust felt like it could lift my car up and over the side of the bridge and remember, it's only been a month since that truck - an 18-wheeler, for cryin' out loud - blew off the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.
It wasn't that making potato soup and Irish soda bread for 75 women was stressful, although it was pretty labor-intensive and non-stop for 5 hours, including the period when Mom's bread machine stopped working and she had a mild freak-out.
On the plus side, today's gray skies, Constable-like clouds and wet weather did seem particularly Irish-like and suited to the foods we were making.
It wasn't that VCU Cinematheque's screening of the 2015 black and white Romanian western "Aferim!" was stressful, unless you find watching slurs about every race, religion and ethnicity, not to mention cutting off a captured slave's testicles, stressful.
Spoiler alert: I do.
It's just that after all of the above, my first thought walking out of the Grace Street Theater was that dessert was in order and I got no argument from the agreeable friend who'd walked over, hat on head, with me despite the cold, damp and fiercely windy weather to see such a visually stunning film.
Ipanema offered not only sweets but an open table for two, a lively Tuesday crowd, my kind of music (the wild card was the Main Ingredient's "Everybody Plays the Fool"), ten kinds of hot tea to choose from and desserts. Without even consulting each other, we both ignored the cakes available as I went straight for blueberry pie and mint tea while my companion's heart's delight was Earl Grey and cinnamon peach pie.
Only after our adorable server (clad in the high-waisted jeans I wore in the '80s) left did my friend remind me that today is Pi Day...314, of course it is.
And while I'm not especially mathematically-inclined, I'm all for any holiday that Mike Pence voted against (oh, yes, he did). I'm also all for finding any reason for celebrating, even when it's not intentional.
It's more than enough reason to linger over tea and pie, leaving stress in the rear-view mirror while admiring the idiosyncratic art hung over the booths and enjoying the cozy subterranean feel of the place on a busy winter evening.
A guy walked by in a striped sweater that so closely paralleled the colors and stripes on my sweater dress that I had no choice but to point it out to him. His sweater, though, was 15 years old and so much a favorite that he swore he'll never give it up, while mine is a far more recent find, although I'm just as attached because it's not only cute but ensures reliable warmth on nights such as this.
Walking toward Ipanema's door after pie, multiple cups of tea and a spirited discussion of why some people are afraid to use an ellipsis when writing to the opposite sex (neither of us is), we gave up our table to the next Tuesday night celebrants.
Getting as far as the end of the bar, I heard a familiar voice saying, "Karen, you are not going to walk by me and not say hello!" It wasn't that, but rather that I hadn't bothered to check out the bar's occupants as I passed by. I can't always be ogling people at a bar.
Because it had been several years since we'd last seen each other - though our friendship goes back about 8 - she immediately demanded that we get together soon now that she's living in Richmond full-time again. "Do you still not have a cell phone?" she asked with a knowing grin. Hey, my number's still the same, if that counts for anything.
"I almost didn't recognize you without your legs showing," she told me about starting there and working her way up as I walked by. Sorry, when it feels like 20 degrees outside, fleece leggings with tights over them mask familiar gams. Thank goodness she'd finally moved her gaze northward.
Hey, babe, my pie-hole is up here. Up here...
Friday, January 27, 2017
Cherish the Light Years
Director of Vibe, now there's a job I could excel at.
In many ways, I suppose I already am my own director of vibe - I do, after all, curate everything about my life from music played to routes taken to gathering a group that has come to be known as "my people" - but only now am I learning that there are restaurants who hire such a person.
Joe Blow
Director of Vibe
Such a business card could open doors.
As director of my personal vibe, rather than getting upset or worried when a lunch date is tardy, I embrace a make-the-most-of-it vibe, planting myself on the sunny front porch of the house and taking in the 65-degree air while the sunshine warms me to the bone.
How better to chat with passersby and await his eventual arrival?
Once he does and we're strolling through a wildly windy Jackson Ward to Mama J's, the vibe shifts to familiar and teasing because while this is the second time we've met up in 11 days, prior to that it had been a year and a half. This is partly attributable to him living across state lines (sounds almost dangerous, right?), but also to some adjustments in his personal life.
When he mentions having just seen a good friend of mine, I joke that he's gone from one opinionated woman to another. "Oh, you're way more opinionated than she is," he assures me before clarifying that strong women hold all the appeal, a sentiment I appreciate hearing.
We're a most unlikely pair at Mama J's because it's his maiden voyage and I've been dozens of times but neither fact compromises our pleasure vibe as we swoon over Mama's incomparable fried catfish, pork chops both fried and baked, the signature seafood pasta salad and collard greens that spark a debate.
I find the greens positively perfect in flavor and texture, as always, while he's not ready to concede that fact. Granted he's a long-time food writer, but I've had these greens plenty and I've compared them to others so I know they're standouts.
He tries to explain that for him, there are three sub-categories of greens: traditional long-cooked with pig, contemporary interpretations that lean toward crisp and vinegary and a variation he calls "modern southern" that falls somewhere in between.
Potato, patahto, let's just call them delicious and move on to just as important a topic: how sweet a corn muffin should be. The two of us could do this all day and night. Despite having grown up in the same county, not all our flavor profiles would overlap on a Venn diagram
A good Mama's vibe necessarily includes a fat slice of homemade cake and my visitor chooses buttercream, but the cake itself is as dense as a pound cake and the buttercream a half inch thick, so we barely make a dent in it. Now he's got a souvenir of our afternoon, not that I expect it'll last long.
Our conversation has a lot to do with the differences in Washington and Richmond, with our relaxed vibe and extensive yet accessible and affordable scene posing an even greater allure for him now that he's less encumbered by situation. Being the saleswoman for the city I am, I wasn't the least bit shy about extending the welcome vibe to the point of discussing neighborhoods he should consider and why.
Despite my lack of cheerleading chops, I am a spirited booster rooting for everyone to consider a move here.
Walking back along Clay Street, we see what the mighty wind has wrought in our absence: much scattered debris and branches down everywhere, including what looks like half a tree atop a car. I come home to a message from a friend," This wind is no joke. I feel like god is trying to communicate something."
Some of us are hoping they're just winds of change.
I have only to do an excruciating interview with a space cadet (so many platitudes, so little to say) before curating my next vibe with a favorite girlfriend I haven't seen since early December. Walking over to Saison Market, she regales me with a gory tale of how since we last met, she sliced her finger using a mandolin to make scalloped potatoes and wound up with five stitches.
But we've come to talk blood and guts of a different sort.
We've come for opinion swapping and updates on each other's lives, accompanied by a bit of wine, fried Brussels sprouts with goat cheese, fennel and coriander (too much cheese, I opine, while she insist she's never uttered those words because such a thing is impossible) and meaty pastrami spare ribs over a vinegary red slaw.
Alternating seems to be the best way to cover the past seven weeks efficiently, so we volley back and forth - the Women's March in D.C., my trip to California, watercolor classes, plays seen, the appeal of new friends, dealing with old friends, welcome and unwelcome visitors, life, love and chocolate.
The vibe is convivial and familiar with an '80s soundtrack of the Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen and Split Enz. She and I have traded in these types of in-depth conversations for two decades now and it's become increasingly essential that we keep each other abreast of where the bodies are buried.
Somebody will need to know.
Before we can get to dessert, her beloved texts that they are still without power at home so he wants to meet her for dinner at Joe's Inn in Bon Air. Just like that, our outing winds down with the expectation that it will resume next week exactly where it left off.
If only all relationships worked that way. If we stop here, then we begin exactly here next time, with no period of reacquaintance necessary. Such tactics result in getting to the buried secrets so much more naturally.
Little was required from me to direct the vibe for the rest of the evening because company and location mostly did the job for me. I'd bought a ticket to see Cold Cave at Strange Matter back before Christmas and only a couple of days ago spontaneously invited a fellow music lover to join me for some deliciously millennial neo-'80s.
No, really, that's how I sold it to him. And he bit.
By design, I suggested Ipanema for a pre-show glass because the dim, low-ceilinged room is an ideal place to start the conversational ball rolling, not that that's been an issue at our meet-ups. Rapport came easily from the first.
Arriving first and snagging a prime seat at the head of the bar, I overhear the two young women behind me discussing life.
I'm so glad I'm in a relationship again. I'm a shit show when I'm single, out of control! I need to know I'm in a relationship to behave.
So much I could offer there. But before I could whirl around and share some older woman experience on that subject, a friend stopped by to say hello and share that he and his girlfriend had split up, a fact I hadn't known. Asking if it was mutual, he grimaced. "Well, look at her and look at me, so, no, not really. It's best for her, though and we're still friends."
My words were probably inadequate, as they tend to be when someone is clearly still hurting, but it was then that my friend showed up, shifting the vibe from casual social empathy to the pleasures of pre-music sipping and banter among a crowd full of others headed to the same dark place.
We walked into Strange Matter - the handwritten yellow sign on the door screamed "sold out!!" - where he took one look at the crowd and decided he was dressed wrong. But honestly, did he have anything suitable for watching L.A.'s Drab Majesty, a two-piece led by an androgynous singer in a space-age tunic with shocking Warhol-like white hair and kabuki-style make-up with black points above and below his eyes?
I'm not sure he did. Suspecting as much, I hadn't even tried.
The band's sound was equal parts Flock of Seagulls and New Order with liberal sprinkles of Goth darkness and played at a volume that probably should have had me reaching for the ear plugs in my bag, but didn't. What it did have me doing was moving in place non-stop, wishing there'd been room to really dance.
With no effort on my part beyond a ticket purchase, here I was part of a solid retro '80s vibe that spoke to an entire decade of music I'd loved the first time around.
Standing behind me, my friend leaned in and whispered, "How did you hear about this show?" Pshaw. My people know that at any given time, I often have the dirt on, if not the most compelling stuff going on, certainly something worth experiencing. That said, I also have a bad tendency to just make plans to go alone when I could be more mindful of inviting company to join me.
Cold Cave, the reason for the evening, came out and took the volume down just a notch, but kept us solidly in the '80s groove with leader Wesley's darkwave take on synth pop performed against a backdrop of changing images, words ("People are poison") and pulsating light shows.
Coming from a hardcore background as he does (and which you could feel in his black leather-jacketed quasi-menacing performance style), we could have heard far more nods to Nine Inch Nails than we did, but mainly it was Depeche Mode and Joy Division influences front and center as they sucked in the electronica and goth-loving crowd.
On a night where the temperature had been steadily plummeting since I'd walked in shorts this morning, S'Matter still managed to wind up a sweaty, hot mess before Drab Majesty had even finished their set.
I marvel at how a venue can be stifling hot in both summer and the dead of winter. First I shed my coat, then my scarf, then my outermost shirt, yet still I glowed. And it's not like I run hot or anything 'cause it's gotta be stinkin' hot before you see me start disrobing.
The show wound down at a reasonable enough hour to settle in again at Ipanema, where the bartender welcomed us back by pouring more wine, while others from the show straggled in and we dove down the conversational hole.
By that point in my evening, the vibe once again established itself based solely on fine company and the cozy setting so truthfully, there wouldn't have been much a director of vibe could do to improve either.
Correcting a matter of semantics, perhaps, but who's up to to clarifying definitions at 1:30 a.m.? Even opinionated women have been known to get caught up when good vibes abide.
In many ways, I suppose I already am my own director of vibe - I do, after all, curate everything about my life from music played to routes taken to gathering a group that has come to be known as "my people" - but only now am I learning that there are restaurants who hire such a person.
Joe Blow
Director of Vibe
Such a business card could open doors.
As director of my personal vibe, rather than getting upset or worried when a lunch date is tardy, I embrace a make-the-most-of-it vibe, planting myself on the sunny front porch of the house and taking in the 65-degree air while the sunshine warms me to the bone.
How better to chat with passersby and await his eventual arrival?
Once he does and we're strolling through a wildly windy Jackson Ward to Mama J's, the vibe shifts to familiar and teasing because while this is the second time we've met up in 11 days, prior to that it had been a year and a half. This is partly attributable to him living across state lines (sounds almost dangerous, right?), but also to some adjustments in his personal life.
When he mentions having just seen a good friend of mine, I joke that he's gone from one opinionated woman to another. "Oh, you're way more opinionated than she is," he assures me before clarifying that strong women hold all the appeal, a sentiment I appreciate hearing.
We're a most unlikely pair at Mama J's because it's his maiden voyage and I've been dozens of times but neither fact compromises our pleasure vibe as we swoon over Mama's incomparable fried catfish, pork chops both fried and baked, the signature seafood pasta salad and collard greens that spark a debate.
I find the greens positively perfect in flavor and texture, as always, while he's not ready to concede that fact. Granted he's a long-time food writer, but I've had these greens plenty and I've compared them to others so I know they're standouts.
He tries to explain that for him, there are three sub-categories of greens: traditional long-cooked with pig, contemporary interpretations that lean toward crisp and vinegary and a variation he calls "modern southern" that falls somewhere in between.
Potato, patahto, let's just call them delicious and move on to just as important a topic: how sweet a corn muffin should be. The two of us could do this all day and night. Despite having grown up in the same county, not all our flavor profiles would overlap on a Venn diagram
A good Mama's vibe necessarily includes a fat slice of homemade cake and my visitor chooses buttercream, but the cake itself is as dense as a pound cake and the buttercream a half inch thick, so we barely make a dent in it. Now he's got a souvenir of our afternoon, not that I expect it'll last long.
Our conversation has a lot to do with the differences in Washington and Richmond, with our relaxed vibe and extensive yet accessible and affordable scene posing an even greater allure for him now that he's less encumbered by situation. Being the saleswoman for the city I am, I wasn't the least bit shy about extending the welcome vibe to the point of discussing neighborhoods he should consider and why.
Despite my lack of cheerleading chops, I am a spirited booster rooting for everyone to consider a move here.
Walking back along Clay Street, we see what the mighty wind has wrought in our absence: much scattered debris and branches down everywhere, including what looks like half a tree atop a car. I come home to a message from a friend," This wind is no joke. I feel like god is trying to communicate something."
Some of us are hoping they're just winds of change.
I have only to do an excruciating interview with a space cadet (so many platitudes, so little to say) before curating my next vibe with a favorite girlfriend I haven't seen since early December. Walking over to Saison Market, she regales me with a gory tale of how since we last met, she sliced her finger using a mandolin to make scalloped potatoes and wound up with five stitches.
But we've come to talk blood and guts of a different sort.
We've come for opinion swapping and updates on each other's lives, accompanied by a bit of wine, fried Brussels sprouts with goat cheese, fennel and coriander (too much cheese, I opine, while she insist she's never uttered those words because such a thing is impossible) and meaty pastrami spare ribs over a vinegary red slaw.
Alternating seems to be the best way to cover the past seven weeks efficiently, so we volley back and forth - the Women's March in D.C., my trip to California, watercolor classes, plays seen, the appeal of new friends, dealing with old friends, welcome and unwelcome visitors, life, love and chocolate.
The vibe is convivial and familiar with an '80s soundtrack of the Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen and Split Enz. She and I have traded in these types of in-depth conversations for two decades now and it's become increasingly essential that we keep each other abreast of where the bodies are buried.
Somebody will need to know.
Before we can get to dessert, her beloved texts that they are still without power at home so he wants to meet her for dinner at Joe's Inn in Bon Air. Just like that, our outing winds down with the expectation that it will resume next week exactly where it left off.
If only all relationships worked that way. If we stop here, then we begin exactly here next time, with no period of reacquaintance necessary. Such tactics result in getting to the buried secrets so much more naturally.
Little was required from me to direct the vibe for the rest of the evening because company and location mostly did the job for me. I'd bought a ticket to see Cold Cave at Strange Matter back before Christmas and only a couple of days ago spontaneously invited a fellow music lover to join me for some deliciously millennial neo-'80s.
No, really, that's how I sold it to him. And he bit.
By design, I suggested Ipanema for a pre-show glass because the dim, low-ceilinged room is an ideal place to start the conversational ball rolling, not that that's been an issue at our meet-ups. Rapport came easily from the first.
Arriving first and snagging a prime seat at the head of the bar, I overhear the two young women behind me discussing life.
I'm so glad I'm in a relationship again. I'm a shit show when I'm single, out of control! I need to know I'm in a relationship to behave.
So much I could offer there. But before I could whirl around and share some older woman experience on that subject, a friend stopped by to say hello and share that he and his girlfriend had split up, a fact I hadn't known. Asking if it was mutual, he grimaced. "Well, look at her and look at me, so, no, not really. It's best for her, though and we're still friends."
My words were probably inadequate, as they tend to be when someone is clearly still hurting, but it was then that my friend showed up, shifting the vibe from casual social empathy to the pleasures of pre-music sipping and banter among a crowd full of others headed to the same dark place.
We walked into Strange Matter - the handwritten yellow sign on the door screamed "sold out!!" - where he took one look at the crowd and decided he was dressed wrong. But honestly, did he have anything suitable for watching L.A.'s Drab Majesty, a two-piece led by an androgynous singer in a space-age tunic with shocking Warhol-like white hair and kabuki-style make-up with black points above and below his eyes?
I'm not sure he did. Suspecting as much, I hadn't even tried.
The band's sound was equal parts Flock of Seagulls and New Order with liberal sprinkles of Goth darkness and played at a volume that probably should have had me reaching for the ear plugs in my bag, but didn't. What it did have me doing was moving in place non-stop, wishing there'd been room to really dance.
With no effort on my part beyond a ticket purchase, here I was part of a solid retro '80s vibe that spoke to an entire decade of music I'd loved the first time around.
Standing behind me, my friend leaned in and whispered, "How did you hear about this show?" Pshaw. My people know that at any given time, I often have the dirt on, if not the most compelling stuff going on, certainly something worth experiencing. That said, I also have a bad tendency to just make plans to go alone when I could be more mindful of inviting company to join me.
Cold Cave, the reason for the evening, came out and took the volume down just a notch, but kept us solidly in the '80s groove with leader Wesley's darkwave take on synth pop performed against a backdrop of changing images, words ("People are poison") and pulsating light shows.
Coming from a hardcore background as he does (and which you could feel in his black leather-jacketed quasi-menacing performance style), we could have heard far more nods to Nine Inch Nails than we did, but mainly it was Depeche Mode and Joy Division influences front and center as they sucked in the electronica and goth-loving crowd.
On a night where the temperature had been steadily plummeting since I'd walked in shorts this morning, S'Matter still managed to wind up a sweaty, hot mess before Drab Majesty had even finished their set.
I marvel at how a venue can be stifling hot in both summer and the dead of winter. First I shed my coat, then my scarf, then my outermost shirt, yet still I glowed. And it's not like I run hot or anything 'cause it's gotta be stinkin' hot before you see me start disrobing.
The show wound down at a reasonable enough hour to settle in again at Ipanema, where the bartender welcomed us back by pouring more wine, while others from the show straggled in and we dove down the conversational hole.
By that point in my evening, the vibe once again established itself based solely on fine company and the cozy setting so truthfully, there wouldn't have been much a director of vibe could do to improve either.
Correcting a matter of semantics, perhaps, but who's up to to clarifying definitions at 1:30 a.m.? Even opinionated women have been known to get caught up when good vibes abide.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Curious Beasts and Exiles
Every day's just another adventure in the land of the black and yellow beer can-studded snow.
Monday's foray into the greater beyond involved walking through throngs of rude students across campus to the peaceful environs of Dinamo, sparsely populated as it was (although not so sparse that I didn't see three friends).
But the non-stop slow jam reggae station provided a fine soundtrack for a low-key meal that began with Gruet Brut and the ideal cold weather welcome: a bowl of fish soup loaded with mussels, rockfish, calamari, pasta and tiny diced carrots and onions that tasted as fresh as if I'd ordered it seaside.
While the owner took many phone calls - "Yes, we're open," and "Yes, we're doing delivery" seemed to be the two stock answers - we ate our way through a flavorful arugula and crunchy green bean salad made rich with hard-boiled egg and lashings of Parmesan.
Seeing a white pizza delivered to the couple next to us caused pie envy, ensuring that we ended up with one of our own, along with crostini with thick schmears of chicken liver and red onion, a decadent and heavenly main course I'd not really earned given my minimal efforts earlier at snow-shoveling.
Yes, I know I'm breaking the law by not having my sidewalks cleared by Sunday at 11 a.m. A woman living alone does the best she can because the fragile-looking VCU students below are of no use with vigorous chores such as shoveling.
Despite the weather outside, I finished my meal with housemade mint chocolate chip gelato, although not an ice cream sandwich like the one that went to the table near us. Call me a freak, but unlike most people, I do not like sweet cookies around/on/in my ice cream.
With an elegant sufficiency, we departed Dianmo's futuristic coziness for a gander at the recently completed Cabell Library at VCU, impressively lit at night. I remember standing at the Compass last March to watch as they installed the top beam and here it was in all its completed glory.
From there, we wandered over to Ipanema for some wine and people-watching. It's tough to beat the half-priced deals on their Steal this Wine List, so I chose a bottle of 2006 Chateau-Thebaud "Betes Curieuses" Muscadet because how often do you have the option to drink a curious beast such as decade-old Muscadet, much less one described as "white flowers and mineral power"?
Even our young bartender commented on it, telling us he'd had it last year and raving about how surprisingly good it was. We gave him a taste to refresh his palate.
That led to him sharing that just a few days ago he'd been drinking young Muscadet with Olde Salts and Tangier oysters at Rappahannock, coincidentally the exact same combination I'd slurped and sipped the last non-snow weekend. Small world.
Once the dinner crowd dissipated, it was an Evolution Brewing tap takeover with three brews priced at three bucks and the beer lovers began arriving tout de suite to score Lucky 7 Porter, Lot No. 3 double IPA (get there faster with 8.75%!) and Exile Red Ale.
Suddenly, many glasses of darkness sat on the bar.
When things settled down enough that the barkeep could take a smoke break, he bundled up, made sure we wanted for nothing and headed out front. Wouldn't you know the music almost immediately crapped out?
My clever date pulled a McGyver, tuning into my favorite R & B podcast on his phone, inserting it in a cocktail shaker for a substitute speaker and supplying us with music until our boy's habit had been fed and he returned happily drugged with nicotine to restart the party.
Walking home through throngs of squealing students, we arrived at my house to find my colorful neighbors on their porch happily inhaling Swisher Sweets in the cold night air.
Proof positive that all of us are still taking our meager pleasures where we can in this winter wasteland.
Monday's foray into the greater beyond involved walking through throngs of rude students across campus to the peaceful environs of Dinamo, sparsely populated as it was (although not so sparse that I didn't see three friends).
But the non-stop slow jam reggae station provided a fine soundtrack for a low-key meal that began with Gruet Brut and the ideal cold weather welcome: a bowl of fish soup loaded with mussels, rockfish, calamari, pasta and tiny diced carrots and onions that tasted as fresh as if I'd ordered it seaside.
While the owner took many phone calls - "Yes, we're open," and "Yes, we're doing delivery" seemed to be the two stock answers - we ate our way through a flavorful arugula and crunchy green bean salad made rich with hard-boiled egg and lashings of Parmesan.
Seeing a white pizza delivered to the couple next to us caused pie envy, ensuring that we ended up with one of our own, along with crostini with thick schmears of chicken liver and red onion, a decadent and heavenly main course I'd not really earned given my minimal efforts earlier at snow-shoveling.
Yes, I know I'm breaking the law by not having my sidewalks cleared by Sunday at 11 a.m. A woman living alone does the best she can because the fragile-looking VCU students below are of no use with vigorous chores such as shoveling.
Despite the weather outside, I finished my meal with housemade mint chocolate chip gelato, although not an ice cream sandwich like the one that went to the table near us. Call me a freak, but unlike most people, I do not like sweet cookies around/on/in my ice cream.
With an elegant sufficiency, we departed Dianmo's futuristic coziness for a gander at the recently completed Cabell Library at VCU, impressively lit at night. I remember standing at the Compass last March to watch as they installed the top beam and here it was in all its completed glory.
From there, we wandered over to Ipanema for some wine and people-watching. It's tough to beat the half-priced deals on their Steal this Wine List, so I chose a bottle of 2006 Chateau-Thebaud "Betes Curieuses" Muscadet because how often do you have the option to drink a curious beast such as decade-old Muscadet, much less one described as "white flowers and mineral power"?
Even our young bartender commented on it, telling us he'd had it last year and raving about how surprisingly good it was. We gave him a taste to refresh his palate.
That led to him sharing that just a few days ago he'd been drinking young Muscadet with Olde Salts and Tangier oysters at Rappahannock, coincidentally the exact same combination I'd slurped and sipped the last non-snow weekend. Small world.
Once the dinner crowd dissipated, it was an Evolution Brewing tap takeover with three brews priced at three bucks and the beer lovers began arriving tout de suite to score Lucky 7 Porter, Lot No. 3 double IPA (get there faster with 8.75%!) and Exile Red Ale.
Suddenly, many glasses of darkness sat on the bar.
When things settled down enough that the barkeep could take a smoke break, he bundled up, made sure we wanted for nothing and headed out front. Wouldn't you know the music almost immediately crapped out?
My clever date pulled a McGyver, tuning into my favorite R & B podcast on his phone, inserting it in a cocktail shaker for a substitute speaker and supplying us with music until our boy's habit had been fed and he returned happily drugged with nicotine to restart the party.
Walking home through throngs of squealing students, we arrived at my house to find my colorful neighbors on their porch happily inhaling Swisher Sweets in the cold night air.
Proof positive that all of us are still taking our meager pleasures where we can in this winter wasteland.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Fun and Funner
So, yup, I've now done havoc.
I somehow got invited to a VCU Rams basketball game with three guys, two of them season ticket holders and rabid fans and one attending his first VCU game. Not to brag, but even I'd been to a VCU basketball game before (okay, once) and I'm the least athletically-inclined woman in Richmond.
We met at Ipanema to pre-game, which for them meant beer and pierogis, and for me meant white Rioja and our charming server's favorite salad of mesclun, orange, pomegranate seeds and nuts over grilled endive. Not everyone's idea of a pre-basketball meal, but pretty delicious to this non-fan..
Apparently it had been long enough ago since I'd been to a game that I didn't recall the VCU Peppas or the Goldrush dancers who were the entertainment every second that the team wasn't playing. And I use the term loosely because sometimes the extent of their entertaining was a handstand race across the court.
The game was far better entertainment. Having been raised by a mother who went to Catholic school in Washington, D.C., my sisters and I had been expected to understand basketball, much like the way my football-loving father expected us to knowledgeably follow that sport. For that matter, we had to play basketball in junior high and high school, so I also had that to fall back on.
It doesn't hurt that basketball is so fast-moving (no time to be bored) or that VCU has had such good teams the past few years (city pride). And while I wore a black sweater and a black, gold and orange skirt to show my allegiance, I was unprepared for the mass of black and gold that greeted me at the Siegel Center.
Of course I knew none of the ritual movements, songs or chants that everyone else seemed to know. Some questions (I had havoc as it pertains to the team explained to me) were directed at the guys I was with while other times I just watched what the fans did. Luckily, clapping and cheering when VCU stole the ball or scored was instinctual.
During halftime, we milled around the practice gym where beer, wine and drinks were sold - sort of a giant beer garden - and people earnestly dissected the first half. I went to the ladies' room, where I found this delightful PSA on the stall door:
Even the horniest Rams are wary of condom slackers.
I mean, do we really need to wear a condom?
Absolutely!
I think that message is petty clear.
Everyone sitting around us was an expert on what VCU was doing wrong - not enough interior defense, couldn't hit the ocean if they tried, running out of steam while LaSalle was not - except me. I just watched hopefully for a win.
But of all the unlikely ways for someone's first VCU basketball game to end, tonight's went into overtime. Twice. Still it wasn't enough because they lost.
Our quartet decided to drown our sorrows at Ipanema again, although this time I went with a pot of mint tea while the guys kept to suds.
As we drank and chatted, people began arriving in droves, alerting us to the fact that something was going on. Hello, karaoke.
A guy came in, bowed and doffed his hat at me, a guy I used to work with at Media General who had a posse of out-of-town account reps with him. Talking to him, as always, was a delight, from his insistence that he always checks Style Weekly for my byline to discovering we had some friends in common.
I'd barely finished chatting with him about what he planned to sing for karaoke when I spied another former co-worker who pulled me aside to say hello. It was turning out to be old home week with some of my favorite guys from my last real job.
Once the staff had cleared away the front booths, karaoke was ready to roll and people began signing up to sing. And not what I'd expected given the relative youth of the crowd, but oldies.
Songs such as "With a Little Help from My Friends," Cher's "Do You Believe" and "Addicted to Love," but also songs from their toddlerhood: "Santeria," "Baby Got Back," and "Slim Shady." And as they sang, the crowd kept growing, with more people signing up to sing.
One of the guys I'd come with decided to take advantage of his wife not being there and began ordering shots, stuff like Jameson's and B52s, stuff I wouldn't drink if you paid me. Besides, I was already on to my second pot of tea when I wasn't standing up to get a better view of the brave soul singing.
Walking to the back to get a better view of the crowd, the manager smiled at me and gestured toward the frenetic dancing and enthusiastic singing going on up front. All around us, empty beer cans and glasses littered the tables like so many dead soldiers.
"Just a quiet, little vegetarian restaurant where you can relax and have a nice pot of tea," he joked around midnight.
I'm no expert, but it looked like a lot like havoc to me. Thankfully, the only losses I saw were dignity.
I somehow got invited to a VCU Rams basketball game with three guys, two of them season ticket holders and rabid fans and one attending his first VCU game. Not to brag, but even I'd been to a VCU basketball game before (okay, once) and I'm the least athletically-inclined woman in Richmond.
We met at Ipanema to pre-game, which for them meant beer and pierogis, and for me meant white Rioja and our charming server's favorite salad of mesclun, orange, pomegranate seeds and nuts over grilled endive. Not everyone's idea of a pre-basketball meal, but pretty delicious to this non-fan..
Apparently it had been long enough ago since I'd been to a game that I didn't recall the VCU Peppas or the Goldrush dancers who were the entertainment every second that the team wasn't playing. And I use the term loosely because sometimes the extent of their entertaining was a handstand race across the court.
The game was far better entertainment. Having been raised by a mother who went to Catholic school in Washington, D.C., my sisters and I had been expected to understand basketball, much like the way my football-loving father expected us to knowledgeably follow that sport. For that matter, we had to play basketball in junior high and high school, so I also had that to fall back on.
It doesn't hurt that basketball is so fast-moving (no time to be bored) or that VCU has had such good teams the past few years (city pride). And while I wore a black sweater and a black, gold and orange skirt to show my allegiance, I was unprepared for the mass of black and gold that greeted me at the Siegel Center.
Of course I knew none of the ritual movements, songs or chants that everyone else seemed to know. Some questions (I had havoc as it pertains to the team explained to me) were directed at the guys I was with while other times I just watched what the fans did. Luckily, clapping and cheering when VCU stole the ball or scored was instinctual.
During halftime, we milled around the practice gym where beer, wine and drinks were sold - sort of a giant beer garden - and people earnestly dissected the first half. I went to the ladies' room, where I found this delightful PSA on the stall door:
Even the horniest Rams are wary of condom slackers.
I mean, do we really need to wear a condom?
Absolutely!
I think that message is petty clear.
Everyone sitting around us was an expert on what VCU was doing wrong - not enough interior defense, couldn't hit the ocean if they tried, running out of steam while LaSalle was not - except me. I just watched hopefully for a win.
But of all the unlikely ways for someone's first VCU basketball game to end, tonight's went into overtime. Twice. Still it wasn't enough because they lost.
Our quartet decided to drown our sorrows at Ipanema again, although this time I went with a pot of mint tea while the guys kept to suds.
As we drank and chatted, people began arriving in droves, alerting us to the fact that something was going on. Hello, karaoke.
A guy came in, bowed and doffed his hat at me, a guy I used to work with at Media General who had a posse of out-of-town account reps with him. Talking to him, as always, was a delight, from his insistence that he always checks Style Weekly for my byline to discovering we had some friends in common.
I'd barely finished chatting with him about what he planned to sing for karaoke when I spied another former co-worker who pulled me aside to say hello. It was turning out to be old home week with some of my favorite guys from my last real job.
Once the staff had cleared away the front booths, karaoke was ready to roll and people began signing up to sing. And not what I'd expected given the relative youth of the crowd, but oldies.
Songs such as "With a Little Help from My Friends," Cher's "Do You Believe" and "Addicted to Love," but also songs from their toddlerhood: "Santeria," "Baby Got Back," and "Slim Shady." And as they sang, the crowd kept growing, with more people signing up to sing.
One of the guys I'd come with decided to take advantage of his wife not being there and began ordering shots, stuff like Jameson's and B52s, stuff I wouldn't drink if you paid me. Besides, I was already on to my second pot of tea when I wasn't standing up to get a better view of the brave soul singing.
Walking to the back to get a better view of the crowd, the manager smiled at me and gestured toward the frenetic dancing and enthusiastic singing going on up front. All around us, empty beer cans and glasses littered the tables like so many dead soldiers.
"Just a quiet, little vegetarian restaurant where you can relax and have a nice pot of tea," he joked around midnight.
I'm no expert, but it looked like a lot like havoc to me. Thankfully, the only losses I saw were dignity.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
You Had Me at Hello Hefeweizen
Highlights from an evening:
Isley brewing; what's a non-beer drinker doing in a brewery that looks like a bar?
Drinking warm water.
A nearby Jenga games ends with screams and a full collapse.
The newly open Supper: Arrived to find an overall-wearing painter working on the outline of a pig outside the front door ("I'll be finished when I'm done").
The extension of Lunch is kitschy (those beaded lamps hanging from the nose of a cow are captivating), crowded (even the community table was practically full) and just as filling (so what else is new?).
Tomato a la Greek salad with feta; bacon and corn griddle cakes loaded with pork barbecue and brussels sprouts slaw; crab cakes with more sprouts and bacon plus grilled asparagus.
At what point are we full and cry "uncle"?
Not so classic movie night: "Gang Wars," a '70s martial arts blaxploitation film with every corny artifice possible employed.
When the actors' speech becomes a slo-mo drone, a guy at the bar calls out, "Put another quarter in!"
Demons in the subway, black gangs fighting Chinese and more bell bottoms than anyone has seen since 1975.
Star's name: Warhawk Tanzania (!) and that doesn't begin to convey how amazing his Afro or his gold lame unitard are.
A black man knows all, rules all in NYC circa 1976.
Accompaniments: Patron, beer, wings and a hot fudge sundae. Much commentary and laughter from an audience who comes as much to dissect as to watch.
Last stop: Ipanema where we are greeted by a gold unitard hanging in a nearby window. What are the chances?
Inside, there is Lopez de Heredia Rioja, endless discussion of FDR, McDonnell and Israel to a vaguely classic rock-influenced soundtrack.
When does a screaming liberal become something more right wing? Who do you take when visiting Chicago? When does a fun evening become wooing?
The battle of the song titles. This tornado loves you. I've been waiting for a girl like you.
This Tuesday night rules.
Isley brewing; what's a non-beer drinker doing in a brewery that looks like a bar?
Drinking warm water.
A nearby Jenga games ends with screams and a full collapse.
The newly open Supper: Arrived to find an overall-wearing painter working on the outline of a pig outside the front door ("I'll be finished when I'm done").
The extension of Lunch is kitschy (those beaded lamps hanging from the nose of a cow are captivating), crowded (even the community table was practically full) and just as filling (so what else is new?).
Tomato a la Greek salad with feta; bacon and corn griddle cakes loaded with pork barbecue and brussels sprouts slaw; crab cakes with more sprouts and bacon plus grilled asparagus.
At what point are we full and cry "uncle"?
Not so classic movie night: "Gang Wars," a '70s martial arts blaxploitation film with every corny artifice possible employed.
When the actors' speech becomes a slo-mo drone, a guy at the bar calls out, "Put another quarter in!"
Demons in the subway, black gangs fighting Chinese and more bell bottoms than anyone has seen since 1975.
Star's name: Warhawk Tanzania (!) and that doesn't begin to convey how amazing his Afro or his gold lame unitard are.
A black man knows all, rules all in NYC circa 1976.
Accompaniments: Patron, beer, wings and a hot fudge sundae. Much commentary and laughter from an audience who comes as much to dissect as to watch.
Last stop: Ipanema where we are greeted by a gold unitard hanging in a nearby window. What are the chances?
Inside, there is Lopez de Heredia Rioja, endless discussion of FDR, McDonnell and Israel to a vaguely classic rock-influenced soundtrack.
When does a screaming liberal become something more right wing? Who do you take when visiting Chicago? When does a fun evening become wooing?
The battle of the song titles. This tornado loves you. I've been waiting for a girl like you.
This Tuesday night rules.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Life on a Chain
With a nod to Pete Yorn, I give you my Sunday.
First it was laughter for the morning after.
M*A*S*H* was playing at Movieland and I'd been looking forward to seeing it all week. Apparently I was in the minority (so what else is new?), though, because there were only five other people there.
I don't get it. A screenplay by Ring Lardner, Jr., the low-key, smart humor delivery of Donald Sutherland and the over-the-top hilarity of mustachioed Elliott Gould in a film about trying to maintain the American way of life in Korea three miles from the front? And all filtered through the prism of 1970?
What's not to love?
I walked to and from the theater, taking in all the tents being readied for the hoopla at Redskins Park along the way and passing my Newtowne guys selling steamed crabs on the sidewalk.
Not today, gentleman, I've got plans.
Next up was day I (almost) forgot at Steady Sounds. Napping may have been involved.
A big crowd was gathering for the afternoon of DJs, music, book readings and everything but the kitchen sink, probably.
I found a few friends - the cute couple, the DJ, the state worker - but as one of them noted, "This looks like an older crowd." I assumed he meant people like me but he denied it.
Reading first was author Amanda Petrusich (who looked eerily like Laura Dern) reading from her just-released book, "Do Not Sell at Any Price" about the cult of old record buyers and sellers and the amazingness of Hillsborough Flea market in N.C., where my friend had already thrifted.
Then Chris King played old 78 records from 1926-28, part of his world-renowned collection and recent compilation, but scratchy enough to make my cute friend cringe and a musician friend reach for earplugs for her tinnitus.
Still, these are not records you will hear just anywhere and I admit I appreciate that.
I'd have stayed longer, but I needed a shower.
Nightcrawling
There was a Wildaire Cellars wine dinner at Camden's, so I was in Manchester by 6:30, ready to meet the winemaker, Matthew Driscoll, and see how the pairings held up.
Verdict: Wildaire Viognier with local corn chowder topped with lump crab meat kicked butt and took names.
But, hey, we're talking about Willamette Valley, so props also go to Wildaire Pinot Noir Reserve, paired with house hickory smoked chicken and shitake fricassee and deservedly eliciting oohs and ahs, both for aroma and taste.
And is there ever a time that local mixed melons with fried capers, Portuguese olive oil and micro-basil isn't sensational with Trevari Blanc de Blanc? Not likely.
I had a group of four at the bar with whom to discuss eye surgery, multiple marriages and art postcards sent to my house, so I was not lacking for company.
My recent thrift store purchase dress garnered me a comment because a friend had mistaken the trim on it for a new tattoo, something that seemed highly unlikely for me.
I was seated next to a woman who shared that she'd read all three volumes of "Shades of Gray" and that the story of the characters far exceeded the sex talk. Sorry, don't believe that.
Stronger women than me succumbed to chocolate pate, but I held fast, knowing I had one last place to crawl before it was over.
At Steady Sounds earlier, a friend had asked if I was coming to Live at Ipanema tonight.
As one of the the organizers, he'd been concerned that I hadn't been to the last two (I'd been out of town). "No, I'm serious," he said, "Allen and I discussed that if we couldn't get you to come out for it, maybe we should stop doing it." Oh, the pressure!
That said, My Sister, My Daughter was already playing when I arrived and slid into the stool my cute friend had saved for me.
I am devoted to Nelly Kate, the singer/songwriter who is half of the band with Brent Delventhal from Warren Hixson and after so long with Nelly absent from the scene, reveled in hearing her play and sing with Brent.
It was a full house for Live at Ips tonight so my presence was hardly necessary, but there were many talkers, many people who paid more attention to their friends than the music, always a shame, in my opinion.
When Hypercolor finally got started after a protracted set-up period, we were rewarded with the dulcet tones of the female lead singer playing guitar (and not your typical lead since she was even doing some finger-picking), plus lush-sounding guitars (including 12-string and one of the guys from Avers) and Chrissie, the bassist (and flautist) from Fear of Music, who together with the drummer kept everyone from wandering off into psychedelic, reverb wonderland.
They were fabulous and while it was hot as a July night, one of the most enjoyable Live at Ipanemas I've been to in a while.
Given all the unfamiliar faces, it was a bit of a strange condition, but also an ideal way to wind down my life on a chain.
Another fine day, another Sunday. There's a reference no one will remember.
First it was laughter for the morning after.
M*A*S*H* was playing at Movieland and I'd been looking forward to seeing it all week. Apparently I was in the minority (so what else is new?), though, because there were only five other people there.
I don't get it. A screenplay by Ring Lardner, Jr., the low-key, smart humor delivery of Donald Sutherland and the over-the-top hilarity of mustachioed Elliott Gould in a film about trying to maintain the American way of life in Korea three miles from the front? And all filtered through the prism of 1970?
What's not to love?
I walked to and from the theater, taking in all the tents being readied for the hoopla at Redskins Park along the way and passing my Newtowne guys selling steamed crabs on the sidewalk.
Not today, gentleman, I've got plans.
Next up was day I (almost) forgot at Steady Sounds. Napping may have been involved.
A big crowd was gathering for the afternoon of DJs, music, book readings and everything but the kitchen sink, probably.
I found a few friends - the cute couple, the DJ, the state worker - but as one of them noted, "This looks like an older crowd." I assumed he meant people like me but he denied it.
Reading first was author Amanda Petrusich (who looked eerily like Laura Dern) reading from her just-released book, "Do Not Sell at Any Price" about the cult of old record buyers and sellers and the amazingness of Hillsborough Flea market in N.C., where my friend had already thrifted.
Then Chris King played old 78 records from 1926-28, part of his world-renowned collection and recent compilation, but scratchy enough to make my cute friend cringe and a musician friend reach for earplugs for her tinnitus.
Still, these are not records you will hear just anywhere and I admit I appreciate that.
I'd have stayed longer, but I needed a shower.
Nightcrawling
There was a Wildaire Cellars wine dinner at Camden's, so I was in Manchester by 6:30, ready to meet the winemaker, Matthew Driscoll, and see how the pairings held up.
Verdict: Wildaire Viognier with local corn chowder topped with lump crab meat kicked butt and took names.
But, hey, we're talking about Willamette Valley, so props also go to Wildaire Pinot Noir Reserve, paired with house hickory smoked chicken and shitake fricassee and deservedly eliciting oohs and ahs, both for aroma and taste.
And is there ever a time that local mixed melons with fried capers, Portuguese olive oil and micro-basil isn't sensational with Trevari Blanc de Blanc? Not likely.
I had a group of four at the bar with whom to discuss eye surgery, multiple marriages and art postcards sent to my house, so I was not lacking for company.
My recent thrift store purchase dress garnered me a comment because a friend had mistaken the trim on it for a new tattoo, something that seemed highly unlikely for me.
I was seated next to a woman who shared that she'd read all three volumes of "Shades of Gray" and that the story of the characters far exceeded the sex talk. Sorry, don't believe that.
Stronger women than me succumbed to chocolate pate, but I held fast, knowing I had one last place to crawl before it was over.
At Steady Sounds earlier, a friend had asked if I was coming to Live at Ipanema tonight.
As one of the the organizers, he'd been concerned that I hadn't been to the last two (I'd been out of town). "No, I'm serious," he said, "Allen and I discussed that if we couldn't get you to come out for it, maybe we should stop doing it." Oh, the pressure!
That said, My Sister, My Daughter was already playing when I arrived and slid into the stool my cute friend had saved for me.
I am devoted to Nelly Kate, the singer/songwriter who is half of the band with Brent Delventhal from Warren Hixson and after so long with Nelly absent from the scene, reveled in hearing her play and sing with Brent.
It was a full house for Live at Ips tonight so my presence was hardly necessary, but there were many talkers, many people who paid more attention to their friends than the music, always a shame, in my opinion.
When Hypercolor finally got started after a protracted set-up period, we were rewarded with the dulcet tones of the female lead singer playing guitar (and not your typical lead since she was even doing some finger-picking), plus lush-sounding guitars (including 12-string and one of the guys from Avers) and Chrissie, the bassist (and flautist) from Fear of Music, who together with the drummer kept everyone from wandering off into psychedelic, reverb wonderland.
They were fabulous and while it was hot as a July night, one of the most enjoyable Live at Ipanemas I've been to in a while.
Given all the unfamiliar faces, it was a bit of a strange condition, but also an ideal way to wind down my life on a chain.
Another fine day, another Sunday. There's a reference no one will remember.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Steal This Twilight
The clothing was the same, but the companionship was different.
I joined friends for another tour through the VMFA's "Hollywood Costume" exhibit, their first, my second, but this time on Thursday when the museum is open later and more people were bound to be there.
What was most interesting on this visit was the generational differences I saw.
Boomer-looking types seemed impressed by Indiana Jones' distressed leather jacket, made to look weathered with mineral oil and dirt rubbed into it and requiring ten jackets in total throughout the filming.
Millennials seemed far more taken with Matt Damon's "Bourne Ultimatum" ensemble, innocuous in style and color, but requiring 25 jackets to get through the rigorous filming.
Since I haven't seen either movie, my interest shifted to costumes from films I had seen.
Like the elaborate lavender dress with cloth flowers that Barbra Streisand wore in "Funny Girl."
Marilyn Monroe's exquisitely beaded dress from "Some Like It Hot," a movie I only saw for the first time in 2010, despite it being made in 1959.
With its nearly nude color on a curvy body like Marilyn's, it must have been a knockout, especially in a film with men dressed as women for contrast.
One thing that struck all of us as we looked at the men's costumes in the show was how much shorter a lot of the actors were than we thought; people like Mel Gibson, Stallone, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp don't even reach six feet.
It was clear, though, from the John Wayne model that he was not vertically-challenged.
The videos in the exhibit were illuminating, too, like Meryl Streep talking about how costume designer Ann Roth got her wish with "Mamma Mia" because she finally got to dress Streep in a sexy manner.
And, you know, looking at the array of Streep costumes in the show - "The French Lieutenant's Woman," "Out of Africa," "The Iron Lady," she had a good point.
All of us agreed that DeNiro's costume from 1994's "Mary Shelley's Frankenstein" was the most sculptural item in the show, resembling as it did, a massive metal figure.
One of the males in our group fell in love with Joseph Fiennes' leather jacket? doublet? from "Shakespeare in Love," a marvel of intricate stitching and fitted like a glove to the actor's upper body.
Looking at the ornamented and enormously heavy dresses women of that era wore, it hardly seems fair men got way with boots, breeches and a doublet.
Luckily we'd corrected that by the time of Sharon Stone's white crepe suit from "Basic Instinct," with its short skirt and absence of underwear.
Far easier to maneuver in.
By the time we finished going through the exhibit, everyone had a different favorite costume, but some shared wishes for the displays, mainly more information.
How much did that Batman suit weigh? For that matter, how much did that dress from "Elizabeth" Cate Blanchett wore weigh? How did Tobey Maguire get that Spiderman suit on and how tough were bathroom breaks?
Inquiring minds wanted to know, but it was time to go our separate ways.
Not sure what their plans were, but I had a date at Ipanema where their "Steal this Wine" list assured me interesting choices at affordable prices.
Bartender Gabe greeted me with a "Where the hell have you been?" and a high five while I waited to see if my date would show.
He encouraged me to go ahead and order a bottle of wine, saying it would be a measure of my date's character to see how he reacted to me ordering wine when he was running late.
Lo and behold, there on the wine list was 2012 Occhipinti SP68, the Nero d'Avola and Frappato blend I'd had my last night in Rome, here.
Earthy and tasting of raspberries, it was everything I remembered from my Roman holiday finale.
Feminine and elegant. Delicate with lots of finesse. A bio-dynamic wine made by a talented, groovy woman.
Even better, it was right here in Richmond and I could drink it on this side of the Atlantic with a witty and talented man who'd asked me out tonight.
Score.
While the Ipanema crowd buzzed around us, we got into the quirky Treveri Brut Rose I'd recently had, the wall of sound with thick Scottish accents that is the Twilight Sad and how to woo a woman with the sound of an ocean.
So far, he was doing really well.
With a soundtrack that segued from Jefferson Airplane to emo, we got into flower arranging, right brain versus left brain and squirrel traps.
Eventually, Gabe was gracious enough to bring us a bottle of 2011 Edmunds St. John "Fenuaghty Vineyard" Syrah, which server Jessica, whom I know as the violinist in Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, had recommended to me for its black pepper notes and which caught my date's eye for its maker, one of California's Rhone Rangers.
So while the girl with the bright red hair (and fake boobs) and her almost completely-tattooed companion took the stools next to us, we savored a lovely wine and mad flirting.
I don't have an Ann Roth to dress me in sexy clothing, but the companionship was outstanding anyway.
No telling what might have happened if I'd worn a wool crepe suit and no underwear.
Nah, not my style.
I joined friends for another tour through the VMFA's "Hollywood Costume" exhibit, their first, my second, but this time on Thursday when the museum is open later and more people were bound to be there.
What was most interesting on this visit was the generational differences I saw.
Boomer-looking types seemed impressed by Indiana Jones' distressed leather jacket, made to look weathered with mineral oil and dirt rubbed into it and requiring ten jackets in total throughout the filming.
Millennials seemed far more taken with Matt Damon's "Bourne Ultimatum" ensemble, innocuous in style and color, but requiring 25 jackets to get through the rigorous filming.
Since I haven't seen either movie, my interest shifted to costumes from films I had seen.
Like the elaborate lavender dress with cloth flowers that Barbra Streisand wore in "Funny Girl."
Marilyn Monroe's exquisitely beaded dress from "Some Like It Hot," a movie I only saw for the first time in 2010, despite it being made in 1959.
With its nearly nude color on a curvy body like Marilyn's, it must have been a knockout, especially in a film with men dressed as women for contrast.
One thing that struck all of us as we looked at the men's costumes in the show was how much shorter a lot of the actors were than we thought; people like Mel Gibson, Stallone, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp don't even reach six feet.
It was clear, though, from the John Wayne model that he was not vertically-challenged.
The videos in the exhibit were illuminating, too, like Meryl Streep talking about how costume designer Ann Roth got her wish with "Mamma Mia" because she finally got to dress Streep in a sexy manner.
And, you know, looking at the array of Streep costumes in the show - "The French Lieutenant's Woman," "Out of Africa," "The Iron Lady," she had a good point.
All of us agreed that DeNiro's costume from 1994's "Mary Shelley's Frankenstein" was the most sculptural item in the show, resembling as it did, a massive metal figure.
One of the males in our group fell in love with Joseph Fiennes' leather jacket? doublet? from "Shakespeare in Love," a marvel of intricate stitching and fitted like a glove to the actor's upper body.
Looking at the ornamented and enormously heavy dresses women of that era wore, it hardly seems fair men got way with boots, breeches and a doublet.
Luckily we'd corrected that by the time of Sharon Stone's white crepe suit from "Basic Instinct," with its short skirt and absence of underwear.
Far easier to maneuver in.
By the time we finished going through the exhibit, everyone had a different favorite costume, but some shared wishes for the displays, mainly more information.
How much did that Batman suit weigh? For that matter, how much did that dress from "Elizabeth" Cate Blanchett wore weigh? How did Tobey Maguire get that Spiderman suit on and how tough were bathroom breaks?
Inquiring minds wanted to know, but it was time to go our separate ways.
Not sure what their plans were, but I had a date at Ipanema where their "Steal this Wine" list assured me interesting choices at affordable prices.
Bartender Gabe greeted me with a "Where the hell have you been?" and a high five while I waited to see if my date would show.
He encouraged me to go ahead and order a bottle of wine, saying it would be a measure of my date's character to see how he reacted to me ordering wine when he was running late.
Lo and behold, there on the wine list was 2012 Occhipinti SP68, the Nero d'Avola and Frappato blend I'd had my last night in Rome, here.
Earthy and tasting of raspberries, it was everything I remembered from my Roman holiday finale.
Feminine and elegant. Delicate with lots of finesse. A bio-dynamic wine made by a talented, groovy woman.
Even better, it was right here in Richmond and I could drink it on this side of the Atlantic with a witty and talented man who'd asked me out tonight.
Score.
While the Ipanema crowd buzzed around us, we got into the quirky Treveri Brut Rose I'd recently had, the wall of sound with thick Scottish accents that is the Twilight Sad and how to woo a woman with the sound of an ocean.
So far, he was doing really well.
With a soundtrack that segued from Jefferson Airplane to emo, we got into flower arranging, right brain versus left brain and squirrel traps.
Eventually, Gabe was gracious enough to bring us a bottle of 2011 Edmunds St. John "Fenuaghty Vineyard" Syrah, which server Jessica, whom I know as the violinist in Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, had recommended to me for its black pepper notes and which caught my date's eye for its maker, one of California's Rhone Rangers.
So while the girl with the bright red hair (and fake boobs) and her almost completely-tattooed companion took the stools next to us, we savored a lovely wine and mad flirting.
I don't have an Ann Roth to dress me in sexy clothing, but the companionship was outstanding anyway.
No telling what might have happened if I'd worn a wool crepe suit and no underwear.
Nah, not my style.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Hi, Life!
Cold fried chicken, that was it.
There was only one way to make this evening more perfect than it already was and that was coming home to the last of the fried chicken from my Tuesday night escapade.
Man, I love my life.
This stellar night began in Jackson Ward at the finally-renovated condo of one of my favorite music-loving couples.
They'd been dislocated last August when fire broke out on top of the Emrick Flats and now they were finally back in the neighborhood after nearly a year in the hinterlands.
The occasion was their traditional pre-First Friday soiree with the added bonus of letting their friends see their restored home.
Being the guest who lives closest, I was that annoying guest who showed up two minutes after the appointed party hour.
It was great for me because I got their undivided attention and a chance to hear about all the new acquisitions, several of which they had designed or made themselves.
Plus they have some fabulous local and regional art.
Gradually other guests arrived - a charming former Latin teacher, several artists, a photographer- and the party swung into action as if on cue.
There was even an official christening with a wine glass inadvertently knocked on to the concrete floor (the building was a Chevrolet dealer before being condos), making for a most festive moment.
I enjoyed mingling right up to the latest possible moment before leaving to go to a show.
The Love Language was playing at Strange Matter and I have been obsessed with their new album, "Ruby Red," for weeks now.
I'd seen them three years ago in Charlottesville, but it was this new body of work I couldn't wait to hear live.
Arriving at S'Matter, I found the doorman reading Greek history.
Put the book down, I directed him and, surprisingly, he did.
Honestly, I was terribly impressed he was reading a book rather than staring at his phone and told him so.
"Yea, but if I'd been on my phone, you'd have told me to put that down, too," he guessed.
Correct.
After more banter, he informed me that the bands were delayed in I-95 traffic.
Disappointed that I'd left the party early needlessly, I made the most of it by detouring to Ipanema for a glass.
The patio was hopping, but it was relatively sedate inside so I ordered a glass of crisp and effervescent Santola Vinho Verde.
One of the servers spotted me and asked about my tiki bar experience the other night, sharing that the evening had been sheer madness for the staff.
I felt their pain, but had to rave about the Singapore Sling I'd had.
Wine break over, I returned to S'Matter just as the bands arrived and began setting up.
My favorite smart lady who loves music was there, so I had a comrade in arms to share two really good bands with.
She introduced me to Autumn, a member of The Love Language, who went off to change from her "van clothes" to her "show clothes," joking that they were remarkably similar.
First up was Eternal Summers who have morphed from a duo to a three-piece since I last saw them, giving them a much fuller sound.
Maybe I'm partial to female-fronted bands, but singer/guitarist Nicole is also a master shredder, making it tough to take your eyes off of her.
They were incredibly tight and maybe it was the delayed start, but they wasted no time with small talk, tearing through their well-crafted set like they were on a mission.
After a pit stop and some girlfriend chatter about the pleasures of a good Coke, upcoming brunch plans and her adorable ensemble, we moved to the front for The Love Language.
I'd been wishing and hoping they'd start with new material and because it was my lucky night, they did.
The energetic "Kids" was followed by the one song I had to hear (or leave disappointed), "Hi Life."
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
After satisfying my greatest need, they moved on to the longing of "For Izzy" and the epic soundscape of "Golden Age."
Sigh. I was the one swooning down in front.
Singer/bandleader Stuart said that tonight's show was the second to last night of the tour so the band was well-rehearsed, if focused on making up for lost time after their delay in starting.
"Okay, there's a dance party starting after this, so we have a time limit. We're going to string together a tight little set of songs here," he said.
The man (and his four accompanying musicians, including the adorable Autumn on keyboards) could sing me the phone book and given his voice and his passionate delivery, I'd happily listen.
They didn't have time to leave the stage to be called back for an encore, but I think it was pretty clear we wanted one and they delivered pronto.
My cute friend turned and said, "Here come the hits!"
"Calm Down," the opener on "Ruby Red" was followed by a Strokes cover and finally "Lalita" off their first record.
Bingo.
Now there's a show that will be ringing in my head for weeks to come.
And aren't I lucky for it?
Show over, I had my own time limit since I was meeting a friend at the floodwall for a movie.
Premiering tonight was "An Affair with the James," a film made over 52 weeks by a local woman to show off RVA's greatest natural resource.
I arrived just in time to find the hosts of the party I'd been to earlier setting up in the front row and soon found my friend who joined us there.
You know, just four people in beach chairs sitting on the grass in front of the floodwall.
Filmmaker Ellie was inspired by going to the Banff Mountain Film Fest, which is devoted to films about exotic locations.
After attending for several years, she decided to document the most exotic place she could think of - the James River.
She talked about how, sure, Nevada is exotic but they don't have what we have.
NYC is exciting, but they can't go jump off a rope swing downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
Going down to the river once a week, she used her iPhone to shoot footage of all kinds of river activity.
Guys catching catfish. Wetland paddling. First-time kayackers.
The Folk Fest at night, a train whistling by.
Ralph White's retirement.
The river at flood stage- 12 feet above and 14 feet above normal. Terrifying.
And yet, there were people out on the river even then.
The heron rookery. Kids rock-hopping with delight.
A stand-up paddle-boarding training class...with one guy doing headstands on his board.
The batteau festival, with shots of the girlfriend sitting next to me who's been part of the Lady Slipper batteau team for years.
The Christmas parade of lights, with all the boats lit up, an event I attended last year.
It was stunning and stirring to see the myriad ways the James can be enjoyed through the eyes of so many people, both locals and visitors.
We didn't get very far into the film before it occurred to me how glad I was that I was seeing this film during the summer.
Except for the extremists (the guy paddling when it was 31 degrees and showing off his frozen shorts), almost every scene made me eager to be at the river.
Fortunately, it hadn't been very long since I'd been there, either.
Just this past Tuesday, I'd spent several very pleasurable hours sitting on some rocks on Belle Isle, sipping Vinho Verde and watching dogs frolicing, kids swimming and the sun setting.
And when we'd left the river behind, it was to go make fried chicken under the stars.
Tonight, finishing that chicken and thinking about tonight's lively party, killer show and evocative film, I felt sure I'd hit the jackpot.
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
I think I will.
There was only one way to make this evening more perfect than it already was and that was coming home to the last of the fried chicken from my Tuesday night escapade.
Man, I love my life.
This stellar night began in Jackson Ward at the finally-renovated condo of one of my favorite music-loving couples.
They'd been dislocated last August when fire broke out on top of the Emrick Flats and now they were finally back in the neighborhood after nearly a year in the hinterlands.
The occasion was their traditional pre-First Friday soiree with the added bonus of letting their friends see their restored home.
Being the guest who lives closest, I was that annoying guest who showed up two minutes after the appointed party hour.
It was great for me because I got their undivided attention and a chance to hear about all the new acquisitions, several of which they had designed or made themselves.
Plus they have some fabulous local and regional art.
Gradually other guests arrived - a charming former Latin teacher, several artists, a photographer- and the party swung into action as if on cue.
There was even an official christening with a wine glass inadvertently knocked on to the concrete floor (the building was a Chevrolet dealer before being condos), making for a most festive moment.
I enjoyed mingling right up to the latest possible moment before leaving to go to a show.
The Love Language was playing at Strange Matter and I have been obsessed with their new album, "Ruby Red," for weeks now.
I'd seen them three years ago in Charlottesville, but it was this new body of work I couldn't wait to hear live.
Arriving at S'Matter, I found the doorman reading Greek history.
Put the book down, I directed him and, surprisingly, he did.
Honestly, I was terribly impressed he was reading a book rather than staring at his phone and told him so.
"Yea, but if I'd been on my phone, you'd have told me to put that down, too," he guessed.
Correct.
After more banter, he informed me that the bands were delayed in I-95 traffic.
Disappointed that I'd left the party early needlessly, I made the most of it by detouring to Ipanema for a glass.
The patio was hopping, but it was relatively sedate inside so I ordered a glass of crisp and effervescent Santola Vinho Verde.
One of the servers spotted me and asked about my tiki bar experience the other night, sharing that the evening had been sheer madness for the staff.
I felt their pain, but had to rave about the Singapore Sling I'd had.
Wine break over, I returned to S'Matter just as the bands arrived and began setting up.
My favorite smart lady who loves music was there, so I had a comrade in arms to share two really good bands with.
She introduced me to Autumn, a member of The Love Language, who went off to change from her "van clothes" to her "show clothes," joking that they were remarkably similar.
First up was Eternal Summers who have morphed from a duo to a three-piece since I last saw them, giving them a much fuller sound.
Maybe I'm partial to female-fronted bands, but singer/guitarist Nicole is also a master shredder, making it tough to take your eyes off of her.
They were incredibly tight and maybe it was the delayed start, but they wasted no time with small talk, tearing through their well-crafted set like they were on a mission.
After a pit stop and some girlfriend chatter about the pleasures of a good Coke, upcoming brunch plans and her adorable ensemble, we moved to the front for The Love Language.
I'd been wishing and hoping they'd start with new material and because it was my lucky night, they did.
The energetic "Kids" was followed by the one song I had to hear (or leave disappointed), "Hi Life."
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
After satisfying my greatest need, they moved on to the longing of "For Izzy" and the epic soundscape of "Golden Age."
Sigh. I was the one swooning down in front.
Singer/bandleader Stuart said that tonight's show was the second to last night of the tour so the band was well-rehearsed, if focused on making up for lost time after their delay in starting.
"Okay, there's a dance party starting after this, so we have a time limit. We're going to string together a tight little set of songs here," he said.
The man (and his four accompanying musicians, including the adorable Autumn on keyboards) could sing me the phone book and given his voice and his passionate delivery, I'd happily listen.
They didn't have time to leave the stage to be called back for an encore, but I think it was pretty clear we wanted one and they delivered pronto.
My cute friend turned and said, "Here come the hits!"
"Calm Down," the opener on "Ruby Red" was followed by a Strokes cover and finally "Lalita" off their first record.
Bingo.
Now there's a show that will be ringing in my head for weeks to come.
And aren't I lucky for it?
Show over, I had my own time limit since I was meeting a friend at the floodwall for a movie.
Premiering tonight was "An Affair with the James," a film made over 52 weeks by a local woman to show off RVA's greatest natural resource.
I arrived just in time to find the hosts of the party I'd been to earlier setting up in the front row and soon found my friend who joined us there.
You know, just four people in beach chairs sitting on the grass in front of the floodwall.
Filmmaker Ellie was inspired by going to the Banff Mountain Film Fest, which is devoted to films about exotic locations.
After attending for several years, she decided to document the most exotic place she could think of - the James River.
She talked about how, sure, Nevada is exotic but they don't have what we have.
NYC is exciting, but they can't go jump off a rope swing downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
Going down to the river once a week, she used her iPhone to shoot footage of all kinds of river activity.
Guys catching catfish. Wetland paddling. First-time kayackers.
The Folk Fest at night, a train whistling by.
Ralph White's retirement.
The river at flood stage- 12 feet above and 14 feet above normal. Terrifying.
And yet, there were people out on the river even then.
The heron rookery. Kids rock-hopping with delight.
A stand-up paddle-boarding training class...with one guy doing headstands on his board.
The batteau festival, with shots of the girlfriend sitting next to me who's been part of the Lady Slipper batteau team for years.
The Christmas parade of lights, with all the boats lit up, an event I attended last year.
It was stunning and stirring to see the myriad ways the James can be enjoyed through the eyes of so many people, both locals and visitors.
We didn't get very far into the film before it occurred to me how glad I was that I was seeing this film during the summer.
Except for the extremists (the guy paddling when it was 31 degrees and showing off his frozen shorts), almost every scene made me eager to be at the river.
Fortunately, it hadn't been very long since I'd been there, either.
Just this past Tuesday, I'd spent several very pleasurable hours sitting on some rocks on Belle Isle, sipping Vinho Verde and watching dogs frolicing, kids swimming and the sun setting.
And when we'd left the river behind, it was to go make fried chicken under the stars.
Tonight, finishing that chicken and thinking about tonight's lively party, killer show and evocative film, I felt sure I'd hit the jackpot.
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
I think I will.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Welcome to Trader T's Tiki Bar
If you let too much time go in between visits with a friend, life happens.
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Recycling West Virginia
Earth Day is all in how you look at it.
Pie was celebrating today as a recycling day by offering $1 PBRs, meaning lots to recycle by the end of the night.
At least I'm guessing that was the point.
My fellow celebrant and I are not PBR drinkers, so we inquired about a bottle of wine.
The bartender looked confused and said that he thought the owner might keep some of his bottles around and that whatever it was, "he drinks it all the time."
With a ringing endorsement like that, how could we not want him to find a bottle of whatever the boss keeps around?
It was a perfectly fine Cotes du Rhone, even if we weren't contributing much to the recycling effort.
We vacillated between the Greek and basil salad, eventually choosing a large basil because I wasn't in the mood for feta.
When the salad arrived, the kitchen had considerately split the salad onto two plates.
What had been split, however, was a Greek salad, not a basil.
We didn't say a word.
Pie is a place with a screen always on, but once we came in, the bartender had at least cranked up the music, perhaps sensing my dislike of screens in restaurants.
I'd have to say the high (or was it low?) point musically was Pretty Lights' remix of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," which every time we were sure was about to end, cranked back up leaving us laughing at a seemingly endless take on West Virginia.
I had to admit, it was recycling, albeit of a song.
When we got around to ordering pie, it was the Pamparius with pepperoni, red stag onions, ricotta and mozzarella, chosen mainly for the pig and onions, not that the red stag part meant anything to us.
Meanwhile, the crowd around us seemed less interested in pizza and more concerned about creating recycling with which to celebrate Earth Day.
Somebody had to do it and we sure weren't being much help.
Conversation revolved around celebrity chefs both of the pop-up variety and of course of the Bourdain variety, what with his impending visit tomorrow night.
I saw Bourdain speak back in 2007 in D.C. and I was convinced then that I was the sole person in the room who hadn't ever seen his TV show.
And although he'd been an excellent storyteller, once was enough, so I'd turned down not one, but two, invitations to go tomorrow while my fellow pie-eater had every intention of being there.
Pizza long gone, we left the PBR drinkers to their noble cause and went to Ipanema for dessert.
There I found a friend patiently biding her time waiting for draft night to start and I teased her because Monday nights tends to be a sausage-fest of guys and here she was waiting out the minutes till it began.
I told her she was a credit to our fair sex.
It wasn't long before the guys started straggling in, so we took a bar table and ordered Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba and a slice of chocolate coconut cake, one of my very favorite WPA cakes.
Since there were no screens, the music was far more to my taste, and everyone was drinking out of taps not cans, it ended up being the antithesis of our last stop.
The conversation centered on travel, his trip to Prague and mine to Italy, not the sites explored or the art seen, but various meals enjoyed in both places.
Because honestly, doesn't it always come down to food in the end?
And, for the record, by the end of the night we had managed to contribute a couple of bottles to the recycling effort.
Two people can only do so much, even on Earth Day.
Pie was celebrating today as a recycling day by offering $1 PBRs, meaning lots to recycle by the end of the night.
At least I'm guessing that was the point.
My fellow celebrant and I are not PBR drinkers, so we inquired about a bottle of wine.
The bartender looked confused and said that he thought the owner might keep some of his bottles around and that whatever it was, "he drinks it all the time."
With a ringing endorsement like that, how could we not want him to find a bottle of whatever the boss keeps around?
It was a perfectly fine Cotes du Rhone, even if we weren't contributing much to the recycling effort.
We vacillated between the Greek and basil salad, eventually choosing a large basil because I wasn't in the mood for feta.
When the salad arrived, the kitchen had considerately split the salad onto two plates.
What had been split, however, was a Greek salad, not a basil.
We didn't say a word.
Pie is a place with a screen always on, but once we came in, the bartender had at least cranked up the music, perhaps sensing my dislike of screens in restaurants.
I'd have to say the high (or was it low?) point musically was Pretty Lights' remix of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," which every time we were sure was about to end, cranked back up leaving us laughing at a seemingly endless take on West Virginia.
I had to admit, it was recycling, albeit of a song.
When we got around to ordering pie, it was the Pamparius with pepperoni, red stag onions, ricotta and mozzarella, chosen mainly for the pig and onions, not that the red stag part meant anything to us.
Meanwhile, the crowd around us seemed less interested in pizza and more concerned about creating recycling with which to celebrate Earth Day.
Somebody had to do it and we sure weren't being much help.
Conversation revolved around celebrity chefs both of the pop-up variety and of course of the Bourdain variety, what with his impending visit tomorrow night.
I saw Bourdain speak back in 2007 in D.C. and I was convinced then that I was the sole person in the room who hadn't ever seen his TV show.
And although he'd been an excellent storyteller, once was enough, so I'd turned down not one, but two, invitations to go tomorrow while my fellow pie-eater had every intention of being there.
Pizza long gone, we left the PBR drinkers to their noble cause and went to Ipanema for dessert.
There I found a friend patiently biding her time waiting for draft night to start and I teased her because Monday nights tends to be a sausage-fest of guys and here she was waiting out the minutes till it began.
I told her she was a credit to our fair sex.
It wasn't long before the guys started straggling in, so we took a bar table and ordered Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba and a slice of chocolate coconut cake, one of my very favorite WPA cakes.
Since there were no screens, the music was far more to my taste, and everyone was drinking out of taps not cans, it ended up being the antithesis of our last stop.
The conversation centered on travel, his trip to Prague and mine to Italy, not the sites explored or the art seen, but various meals enjoyed in both places.
Because honestly, doesn't it always come down to food in the end?
And, for the record, by the end of the night we had managed to contribute a couple of bottles to the recycling effort.
Two people can only do so much, even on Earth Day.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Raw and Wry, Rags to Riches
Once upon a time, it was a good night if there was one interesting happening on any given evening.
No more.
Plenty of nights I end up having to choose from several very appealing options.
Like last Tuesday night, I had my pick of a lauded dance documentary, the Oberon Quartet or the Listening Room.
And there was no way to do more than one.
Tonight I had the same dilemma: Ghost Light Afterparty or Live at Ipanema.
I never miss either (well, unless I'm in another country).
So off I went to Ipanema to meet a friend for dessert (banana coconut cake), see friends and hear Dead Professional.
That would be one half of the Cinnamon Band and the purveyor of wry and raw pop songs and elemental rock and roll riffs using a cheapo guitar and rudimentary drum loops.
Just the thing on a Sunday night.
Using two mics for different effects, he delivered wry, raw and elemental to a rapt crowd.
Rapt, that is, except for the table closest to Dead Pro, who proceeded to try to talk louder than the man with the cheapo guitar and the drum loops.
Le sigh.
Explaining that it was only his second show, he said, "So I'll be back" and launched into "Bad Memory."
At one point, he started a song, singing, "Don't be cruel," before stopping and saying, "Let's come back to that one."
It was a nice segue into an unexpected cover of T Rex's "Main Man."
Then it was back to cruelty and the unfinished song, with the evocative lyric, "Don't keep on twisting the knife if you're not gonna cut me loose."
It was an understandably short set, but I'm counting on him being back.
The bonus was a short set meant that there was still time to get to the GLAP, where tonight's theme was "rags to riches."
I don't know where they come up with this stuff.
Walking in at intermission to find a lobby full of people eating pizza, I ran into Princess Di for the second time today, along with neighbors who hadn't been able to get hold of me to invite me to their Mardi Gras party.
They insisted that next year I just show up on the Saturday before Fat Tuesday, with or without an invitation.
You don't have to tell me twice.
I asked about what I'd missed, only to be told that it was a chill, coffeehouse-style evening for a change.
Perhaps it fit the set at Richmond Triangle Players tonight, one with stained glass windows and a massive wooden door.
Once the second half started, host Maggie began by saying, "Keeping the theme loose, I'm going to do an Elvis song. At least I think Elvis was the first one to sing it."
Let the record show she proceeded to do a killer version of "Can't Help Falling" with Scott accompanying her on guitar while Audra held her phone so he could read the music.
Starlet Knight took the stage, saying she'd had way too much bourbon (someone in the back yelled, "No such thing!").
Mid-song, she paused and said, "This is where the key change would be but I'm not going to do it."
That garnered major applause.
Matthew got up to impress us with Barry Manilow's "Weekend in New England" with Ben, sporting a mohawk, dramatically playing the keyboard for him.
"He's such a drama queen," Matt joked when he finished.
In a roomful of drama queens, who would even notice, much less care?
Aaron and Matt sang a song after announcing that it would mean a whole lot more to them than us.
At GLAP you just let people do what they need to do.
Carla and Matt did "Somewhere Out There" from "An American Tail," that classic piece of cinematography.
I was reassured to know that the cheese factor was as high as usual.
Matt stopped the room cold with his rendition of "Waiting for Life to Begin," saying that song had gotten him through some not so merry moments and even some sad orgasms.
Sara sang a song from Les Miz, but the best part was when she finished and shared that, "I spat on myself in the middle of the dramatic moment."
One reason I like to sit in the first or second row is because I like to see people spit when they perform. True story.
Ben of the Mohawk gave us a Tammy Wynette song, "Till I Can Make It on My Own," segueing nicely into Dolly Parton's "9 to 5" and causing a mass singalong.
Honestly, I had no idea so many people knew the words to that chestnut.
When it came time for raffle prizes, a friend won tickets to "Riding the Bull" and luckily for me, he and his lovely wife already had tickets for it, so they graciously handed them off to me.
See, you meet the nicest people at the GLAP.
Gray was called up to sing and Maggie praised her costume, saying, "Gray got entrance applause just walking in tonight."
It may have been the curlers made of cans in her hair, it may have been the smeared lipstick and blackened tooth or maybe even the ruffled white panties she flashed for us.
All at once, Starlet Knight volunteered to give the farewell song and even promised to do the requisite key change this time.
Boy, the time goes so quickly when you come in halfway through the festivities.
But I'd also made it to both can't-miss events, so the win was mine.
Who's got time to wait for life to begin?
No more.
Plenty of nights I end up having to choose from several very appealing options.
Like last Tuesday night, I had my pick of a lauded dance documentary, the Oberon Quartet or the Listening Room.
And there was no way to do more than one.
Tonight I had the same dilemma: Ghost Light Afterparty or Live at Ipanema.
I never miss either (well, unless I'm in another country).
So off I went to Ipanema to meet a friend for dessert (banana coconut cake), see friends and hear Dead Professional.
That would be one half of the Cinnamon Band and the purveyor of wry and raw pop songs and elemental rock and roll riffs using a cheapo guitar and rudimentary drum loops.
Just the thing on a Sunday night.
Using two mics for different effects, he delivered wry, raw and elemental to a rapt crowd.
Rapt, that is, except for the table closest to Dead Pro, who proceeded to try to talk louder than the man with the cheapo guitar and the drum loops.
Le sigh.
Explaining that it was only his second show, he said, "So I'll be back" and launched into "Bad Memory."
At one point, he started a song, singing, "Don't be cruel," before stopping and saying, "Let's come back to that one."
It was a nice segue into an unexpected cover of T Rex's "Main Man."
Then it was back to cruelty and the unfinished song, with the evocative lyric, "Don't keep on twisting the knife if you're not gonna cut me loose."
It was an understandably short set, but I'm counting on him being back.
The bonus was a short set meant that there was still time to get to the GLAP, where tonight's theme was "rags to riches."
I don't know where they come up with this stuff.
Walking in at intermission to find a lobby full of people eating pizza, I ran into Princess Di for the second time today, along with neighbors who hadn't been able to get hold of me to invite me to their Mardi Gras party.
They insisted that next year I just show up on the Saturday before Fat Tuesday, with or without an invitation.
You don't have to tell me twice.
I asked about what I'd missed, only to be told that it was a chill, coffeehouse-style evening for a change.
Perhaps it fit the set at Richmond Triangle Players tonight, one with stained glass windows and a massive wooden door.
Once the second half started, host Maggie began by saying, "Keeping the theme loose, I'm going to do an Elvis song. At least I think Elvis was the first one to sing it."
Let the record show she proceeded to do a killer version of "Can't Help Falling" with Scott accompanying her on guitar while Audra held her phone so he could read the music.
Starlet Knight took the stage, saying she'd had way too much bourbon (someone in the back yelled, "No such thing!").
Mid-song, she paused and said, "This is where the key change would be but I'm not going to do it."
That garnered major applause.
Matthew got up to impress us with Barry Manilow's "Weekend in New England" with Ben, sporting a mohawk, dramatically playing the keyboard for him.
"He's such a drama queen," Matt joked when he finished.
In a roomful of drama queens, who would even notice, much less care?
Aaron and Matt sang a song after announcing that it would mean a whole lot more to them than us.
At GLAP you just let people do what they need to do.
Carla and Matt did "Somewhere Out There" from "An American Tail," that classic piece of cinematography.
I was reassured to know that the cheese factor was as high as usual.
Matt stopped the room cold with his rendition of "Waiting for Life to Begin," saying that song had gotten him through some not so merry moments and even some sad orgasms.
Sara sang a song from Les Miz, but the best part was when she finished and shared that, "I spat on myself in the middle of the dramatic moment."
One reason I like to sit in the first or second row is because I like to see people spit when they perform. True story.
Ben of the Mohawk gave us a Tammy Wynette song, "Till I Can Make It on My Own," segueing nicely into Dolly Parton's "9 to 5" and causing a mass singalong.
Honestly, I had no idea so many people knew the words to that chestnut.
When it came time for raffle prizes, a friend won tickets to "Riding the Bull" and luckily for me, he and his lovely wife already had tickets for it, so they graciously handed them off to me.
See, you meet the nicest people at the GLAP.
Gray was called up to sing and Maggie praised her costume, saying, "Gray got entrance applause just walking in tonight."
It may have been the curlers made of cans in her hair, it may have been the smeared lipstick and blackened tooth or maybe even the ruffled white panties she flashed for us.
All at once, Starlet Knight volunteered to give the farewell song and even promised to do the requisite key change this time.
Boy, the time goes so quickly when you come in halfway through the festivities.
But I'd also made it to both can't-miss events, so the win was mine.
Who's got time to wait for life to begin?
Monday, February 4, 2013
An Advice for You
Just to be clear, I did my Superbowl duty.
I made a batch of chili today. With corn muffins, even.
That bit of athletic patriotism done, I did what any red-blooded nerd would do for the first half of game day.
I went to see a Brazilian movie.
It was part of UR's international film series, which I hadn't been to in almost a year, so I knew I'd be in the company of other gym class dropouts.
In fact, my fellow Brazilian cinephile bet me there'd be less than ten people at the screening.
I knew better and guessed 35.
For the record, there were 39 including us.
The film, Riscado (which means craft), was about an actress who works for an event company impersonating celebrities while trying to further her acting career.
Marilyn Monroe, Carmen Miranda, Betty Paige. She did them all.
And not because she particularly looked like them, even in costume, but her acting skills sold them.
The film had a decided European sensibility, something I loved, from the opening shots of the actress smoking on her balcony while Brazilian music played and she stared directly into the camera to intermittent, random artsy shots.
And by that, I mean slo-mo non sequiter shots of hands in a sink or a woman in a pool set to music.
My only complaint with the film was the half-assed subtitles with glaring mistakes in them for anyone with even a slipshod command of the English language.
"Live it on the floor" instead of "leave."
Damn became dam. Seems showed up as seams.
But sometimes the subtitles' fractured translations were quite charming, as in, "An advice for you. Enjoy it a lot."
The movie had some highly comic moments, but at its heart it was a drama about a woman staying true to her passion, acting, despite lectures from landladies, not enough money and a fear her time was running out to make it.
Clearly certain problems transcend cultures.
We left UR essentially for VCU, our second half happening being Live at Ipanema.
Walking up Grace Street, we noticed the signboard in front of Strange Matter read, "Yes, we'll be showing the sports ball game."
They sounded about as into it as I was.
Happily, Ipanema has no televisions for watching sports ball.
What they did have was dessert, so we scored some fine WPA Bakery banana/coconut cake and Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for The Black Brothers to get set up.
Before long, I could smell the incense burning.
With no announcement, much less fanfare, the quartet (guitar, drums, bass, trumpet) began playing their pastiche of indie/jazz/blues/rock as people continued to come in the door.
It was my third time seeing them, so while I know what to expect, I am still pleasantly surprised when the horn kicks in or the drumming gets especially jazzy.
Singer and guitarist Justin's voice was on point right from the first song with the lyric, "This time I'm getting it right."
The four-piece was squished into the front alcove and at times Justin's guitar neck threatened to knock into Lucas' horn mic and eventually it caught a cord of it.
When he introduced the next song as being called "Warsaw," I immediately wondered which Warsaw he might mean, at least right up until he sang, "This is a prison song."
Oh, that Warsaw.
Franklin Massey and his acoustic guitar joined the band in the already-cramped front for one song, making for an even denser sound.
Their last song was about escaping to West Virginia and from the first guitar notes, it sounded to me like a driving song, as in a windows-rolled-down kind of driving song.
Which, on a cold February night, seems like something very pleasurable to imagine.
So I took the Brazilian's advice and enjoyed it a lot.
I made a batch of chili today. With corn muffins, even.
That bit of athletic patriotism done, I did what any red-blooded nerd would do for the first half of game day.
I went to see a Brazilian movie.
It was part of UR's international film series, which I hadn't been to in almost a year, so I knew I'd be in the company of other gym class dropouts.
In fact, my fellow Brazilian cinephile bet me there'd be less than ten people at the screening.
I knew better and guessed 35.
For the record, there were 39 including us.
The film, Riscado (which means craft), was about an actress who works for an event company impersonating celebrities while trying to further her acting career.
Marilyn Monroe, Carmen Miranda, Betty Paige. She did them all.
And not because she particularly looked like them, even in costume, but her acting skills sold them.
The film had a decided European sensibility, something I loved, from the opening shots of the actress smoking on her balcony while Brazilian music played and she stared directly into the camera to intermittent, random artsy shots.
And by that, I mean slo-mo non sequiter shots of hands in a sink or a woman in a pool set to music.
My only complaint with the film was the half-assed subtitles with glaring mistakes in them for anyone with even a slipshod command of the English language.
"Live it on the floor" instead of "leave."
Damn became dam. Seems showed up as seams.
But sometimes the subtitles' fractured translations were quite charming, as in, "An advice for you. Enjoy it a lot."
The movie had some highly comic moments, but at its heart it was a drama about a woman staying true to her passion, acting, despite lectures from landladies, not enough money and a fear her time was running out to make it.
Clearly certain problems transcend cultures.
We left UR essentially for VCU, our second half happening being Live at Ipanema.
Walking up Grace Street, we noticed the signboard in front of Strange Matter read, "Yes, we'll be showing the sports ball game."
They sounded about as into it as I was.
Happily, Ipanema has no televisions for watching sports ball.
What they did have was dessert, so we scored some fine WPA Bakery banana/coconut cake and Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for The Black Brothers to get set up.
Before long, I could smell the incense burning.
With no announcement, much less fanfare, the quartet (guitar, drums, bass, trumpet) began playing their pastiche of indie/jazz/blues/rock as people continued to come in the door.
It was my third time seeing them, so while I know what to expect, I am still pleasantly surprised when the horn kicks in or the drumming gets especially jazzy.
Singer and guitarist Justin's voice was on point right from the first song with the lyric, "This time I'm getting it right."
The four-piece was squished into the front alcove and at times Justin's guitar neck threatened to knock into Lucas' horn mic and eventually it caught a cord of it.
When he introduced the next song as being called "Warsaw," I immediately wondered which Warsaw he might mean, at least right up until he sang, "This is a prison song."
Oh, that Warsaw.
Franklin Massey and his acoustic guitar joined the band in the already-cramped front for one song, making for an even denser sound.
Their last song was about escaping to West Virginia and from the first guitar notes, it sounded to me like a driving song, as in a windows-rolled-down kind of driving song.
Which, on a cold February night, seems like something very pleasurable to imagine.
So I took the Brazilian's advice and enjoyed it a lot.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Dizzy in the Head
Only an idiot would go to the Roosevelt at 6:30 on a Saturday night.
Guilty as charged, but that's what the bench by the kitchen is for.
Eventually a seat opened up at the bar and White Hall Cab Franc in hand, I appropriated it while my partner in crime stood nearby.
I watched as the woman next to me tasted a wine, rejected it, tasted another and rejected it and finally gave up, saying, "Maybe it's my taste buds. Can I see your cocktail list?"
Or maybe it's that she wasn't aware of the all-Virginia wine list and was expecting a big California or Australian wine.
Silly woman.
Bartender Brandon, whom I'd seen play with his band, Sea of Storms, for the first time the other night, thanked me for coming to his show.
I felt reassured seeing him back as the mild-mannered guy I used to know.
Our order of crispy fried spicy pork rinds arrived on baking parchment, much like the fried onions we'd been served in Florence before dinner one night, and they got everyone's attention at the bar.
One guy immediately pointed and asked, "What are those?" and I barely answered before another guy asked me the same.
When I told him, he responded, "Not too worried about fat, are you?"
It's Saturday night, I reminded him.
Sheesh.
The airy rinds had an addictive spiciness to them so we tore through them.
I don't want to brag, but it wasn't long before two more plates of rinds came out for the people on either side of us.
Next came lamb neck crostini with pickled cranberries and it was like in those romantic movies where all of a sudden time slows.
The combination of earthy, spicy lamb set off by the piquancy of the pickled cranberries on toasted bread made the conversations around me go faint and the lights dim.
I have been and continue to be Lee Gregory's unabashed groupie for all these years for just that reason.
It was so good it gave me nerve.
One of tonight's specials was rockfish with pork cheeks, farro, red cabbage and Parmesan, but I wasn't in the mood for rockfish, having had an all-seafood lunch yesterday.
A polite request to bartender T. resulted in a big yes from the kitchen to deliver the cheeks and farro without the fish.
I don't care if you like cheeks or even know what farro is, the dish was out of this world.
Even the micro-greens on top enhanced the deep flavor of the cheeks and the nutty, toothsome texture of the farro.
Meanwhile, the dining room was bustling non-stop and the well-chosen music of the hillbilly/rockabilly variety kept the energy in the room going musically.
For the next course, we chose the pork belly over refried black lentils with a soft-cooked egg and salsa verde.
Some might question why two people would order what we did, but bartender T. never wavered. "All pork all the time," he chuckled. "I like it."
Later, the woman next to me mentioned it was her first time there, and asked what I'd eaten.
After I told her, she looked surprised, saying, "Boy, you must really like pork."
Oh, does it show?
"Is this woman bothering you?" bartender Brandon asked tongue in cheek of my new curious friend.
Everyone's a comedian at the Roosevelt. Maybe that's why I like it so much.
I saw the director of the VMFA patiently waiting for a table and came *this* close to going over and telling him about the unbridled enthusiasm I'd encountered at the museum yesterday, here, but refrained.
After all, the man was out on a Saturday night and who was I to talk work with him?
So I did not become the woman that bothered him, just for the record.
Our meal had been just another reminder of how the Roosevelt kitchen just keeps on knocking my socks off, even on a stupid busy night when I had no business being there to add to the mayhem.
For shame, I'm a more experienced eater than that.
But, alas, we couldn't eat dessert there because the night was young and the Blood Brothers were both in town.
That required a change of venue to Ipanema, where the Brothers promised, "Wax sides to move your back sides!"
Irresistible, right?
Jamie and Duane used to do a regular gig before Duane abandoned River City for the Big Apple, so I have to catch them when I can.
Driving to Ipanema, Grace Street was backed up like a funeral was going by, but we don't do those at night, so it had to be something else.
We'd timed it perfectly; the VCU game had just ended.
Some of the game-goers decided to drown their sorrows at Ips, so the place was filling up quickly.
I grabbed a stool and my fellow criminal waited patiently for another to clear.
Then it was on to mixed berry pie a la mode with a couple of glasses of Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for the brothers to get set up.
Ah, simple pleasures.
The place was getting mobbed with distraught fans, a large birthday group and people like us who'd come for the wax sides.
I overheard a guy behind me tell his friend, "Dude, I'm telling you, in another 20 years, Richmond is going to be like a real city."
Someone needs to sit that boy down for a talk and tell him a thing or two, but it wasn't going to be me, at least tonight.
Finally the music started and because they're playing vinyl, the sound was wonderfully distinctive, even more so given the low-slung ceilings, so reminiscent of listening to records in somebody's basement.
Fact is, I only recognized a very few of the '60s and early '70s garage/soul/psych/pop rock they played, but I can totally wiggle my backside to almost all of it.
But I pat myself on the back when I hear the Who's "Can't Explain" or the Yardbirds "For Your Love," and recognize them on the first few notes.
Soon people begin dancing over by the turntables, but we are tucked into a corner by the brick wall, so I content myself with dancing in my seat, a fact my companion points out.
Better here than not at all.
It's like the fatty pork rinds.
It is, after all, Saturday night.
Guilty as charged, but that's what the bench by the kitchen is for.
Eventually a seat opened up at the bar and White Hall Cab Franc in hand, I appropriated it while my partner in crime stood nearby.
I watched as the woman next to me tasted a wine, rejected it, tasted another and rejected it and finally gave up, saying, "Maybe it's my taste buds. Can I see your cocktail list?"
Or maybe it's that she wasn't aware of the all-Virginia wine list and was expecting a big California or Australian wine.
Silly woman.
Bartender Brandon, whom I'd seen play with his band, Sea of Storms, for the first time the other night, thanked me for coming to his show.
I felt reassured seeing him back as the mild-mannered guy I used to know.
Our order of crispy fried spicy pork rinds arrived on baking parchment, much like the fried onions we'd been served in Florence before dinner one night, and they got everyone's attention at the bar.
One guy immediately pointed and asked, "What are those?" and I barely answered before another guy asked me the same.
When I told him, he responded, "Not too worried about fat, are you?"
It's Saturday night, I reminded him.
Sheesh.
The airy rinds had an addictive spiciness to them so we tore through them.
I don't want to brag, but it wasn't long before two more plates of rinds came out for the people on either side of us.
Next came lamb neck crostini with pickled cranberries and it was like in those romantic movies where all of a sudden time slows.
The combination of earthy, spicy lamb set off by the piquancy of the pickled cranberries on toasted bread made the conversations around me go faint and the lights dim.
I have been and continue to be Lee Gregory's unabashed groupie for all these years for just that reason.
It was so good it gave me nerve.
One of tonight's specials was rockfish with pork cheeks, farro, red cabbage and Parmesan, but I wasn't in the mood for rockfish, having had an all-seafood lunch yesterday.
A polite request to bartender T. resulted in a big yes from the kitchen to deliver the cheeks and farro without the fish.
I don't care if you like cheeks or even know what farro is, the dish was out of this world.
Even the micro-greens on top enhanced the deep flavor of the cheeks and the nutty, toothsome texture of the farro.
Meanwhile, the dining room was bustling non-stop and the well-chosen music of the hillbilly/rockabilly variety kept the energy in the room going musically.
For the next course, we chose the pork belly over refried black lentils with a soft-cooked egg and salsa verde.
Some might question why two people would order what we did, but bartender T. never wavered. "All pork all the time," he chuckled. "I like it."
Later, the woman next to me mentioned it was her first time there, and asked what I'd eaten.
After I told her, she looked surprised, saying, "Boy, you must really like pork."
Oh, does it show?
"Is this woman bothering you?" bartender Brandon asked tongue in cheek of my new curious friend.
Everyone's a comedian at the Roosevelt. Maybe that's why I like it so much.
I saw the director of the VMFA patiently waiting for a table and came *this* close to going over and telling him about the unbridled enthusiasm I'd encountered at the museum yesterday, here, but refrained.
After all, the man was out on a Saturday night and who was I to talk work with him?
So I did not become the woman that bothered him, just for the record.
Our meal had been just another reminder of how the Roosevelt kitchen just keeps on knocking my socks off, even on a stupid busy night when I had no business being there to add to the mayhem.
For shame, I'm a more experienced eater than that.
But, alas, we couldn't eat dessert there because the night was young and the Blood Brothers were both in town.
That required a change of venue to Ipanema, where the Brothers promised, "Wax sides to move your back sides!"
Irresistible, right?
Jamie and Duane used to do a regular gig before Duane abandoned River City for the Big Apple, so I have to catch them when I can.
Driving to Ipanema, Grace Street was backed up like a funeral was going by, but we don't do those at night, so it had to be something else.
We'd timed it perfectly; the VCU game had just ended.
Some of the game-goers decided to drown their sorrows at Ips, so the place was filling up quickly.
I grabbed a stool and my fellow criminal waited patiently for another to clear.
Then it was on to mixed berry pie a la mode with a couple of glasses of Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for the brothers to get set up.
Ah, simple pleasures.
The place was getting mobbed with distraught fans, a large birthday group and people like us who'd come for the wax sides.
I overheard a guy behind me tell his friend, "Dude, I'm telling you, in another 20 years, Richmond is going to be like a real city."
Someone needs to sit that boy down for a talk and tell him a thing or two, but it wasn't going to be me, at least tonight.
Finally the music started and because they're playing vinyl, the sound was wonderfully distinctive, even more so given the low-slung ceilings, so reminiscent of listening to records in somebody's basement.
Fact is, I only recognized a very few of the '60s and early '70s garage/soul/psych/pop rock they played, but I can totally wiggle my backside to almost all of it.
But I pat myself on the back when I hear the Who's "Can't Explain" or the Yardbirds "For Your Love," and recognize them on the first few notes.
Soon people begin dancing over by the turntables, but we are tucked into a corner by the brick wall, so I content myself with dancing in my seat, a fact my companion points out.
Better here than not at all.
It's like the fatty pork rinds.
It is, after all, Saturday night.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Be Still, My Oscillating Heart
If you're going to take someone on a first date and impress them, tonight was the time to do it.
It was the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema and Way, Shape or Form was playing.
The name meant nothing to me but Allen, the guy who chooses the bands and records the show, has an unerring ear for choosing the best local music to showcase.
So my companion and I made sure to arrive in time to grab a prime seat and munch on some focaccia and sip Dolcetta d'Alba while the band set up.
My carefully-laid plan was for naught, though, when all at once an influx of people, no doubt fans and friends of the band, showed up en masse and my view was lost.
On the bright side, a girlfriend showed up unexpectedly, so her company helped compensate for the tallest man on earth deciding to stand directly in front of me.
It was about 30 seconds in when the music-lover I'd brought with me turned, grinned and acknowledged, "This is right up your alley. This is Karen music."
And, boy, was it ever.
Ipanema is a small space and the band was a four-piece with drums.
While the drummer definitely qualified as a hard-hitter and he'd covered his drums to soften the sound, it was the interesting time signatures that got my attention.
"The drummer is holding it down," my friend said.
I admit I'm a sucker for electronica and the band's poppy songs used it brilliantly to move the songs forward.
The jazzy guitars did the same, never too loud or intrusive, but always winding their way into my ear.
There was so much going on that I felt like I was listening to math rock filtered through a pop punk aesthetic (and I say pop punk rather than just pop due to their ages) and the result was speaking to my inner music geek directly.
I was pretty much in heaven, but as I soon noticed, so were the people on either side of me.
Some songs had lyrics, some didn't, but the rapt crowd was as engaged with one as the other.
As I listened to leader Troy's confessional-sounding vocals, I marveled at how I hadn't yet heard of these guys.
I am, after all, out hearing live music three or four nights a week.
Let's just say I've already put their vinyl release show into my calendar (or, as my fellow Gemini called it, my "prehistoric Blackberry."), very much looking forward to hearing a longer set next time.
Tonight's ended way too soon and Troy said, "It's really packed in here. Thanks! We have t-shirts for sale, long sleeves for the cool times."
Except that the room was anything but cool because of the mass of humanity who had crowded in to hear these guys.
Mingling afterwards, I was curious as to what Troy had been listening to and wasn't the least surprised to hear that we'd both been to Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
Even later still, I ran into a favorite friend coming in, only to learn he'd been on a date there the whole time.
He'd brought his date for dinner and music, and she, being a relative newcomer to Richmond's scene, had marveled at what a great show it had been, wondering how often stuff like this happened.
"Pretty much all the time, if you know where to go," my bearded friend had assured her.
All I can say is if a guy took me on a first date to an intimate show at Ipanema featuring a local band as talented/catchy/listenable as Way, Shape or Form, I'd ask him for a second date.
And that's saying something.
It was the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema and Way, Shape or Form was playing.
The name meant nothing to me but Allen, the guy who chooses the bands and records the show, has an unerring ear for choosing the best local music to showcase.
So my companion and I made sure to arrive in time to grab a prime seat and munch on some focaccia and sip Dolcetta d'Alba while the band set up.
My carefully-laid plan was for naught, though, when all at once an influx of people, no doubt fans and friends of the band, showed up en masse and my view was lost.
On the bright side, a girlfriend showed up unexpectedly, so her company helped compensate for the tallest man on earth deciding to stand directly in front of me.
It was about 30 seconds in when the music-lover I'd brought with me turned, grinned and acknowledged, "This is right up your alley. This is Karen music."
And, boy, was it ever.
Ipanema is a small space and the band was a four-piece with drums.
While the drummer definitely qualified as a hard-hitter and he'd covered his drums to soften the sound, it was the interesting time signatures that got my attention.
"The drummer is holding it down," my friend said.
I admit I'm a sucker for electronica and the band's poppy songs used it brilliantly to move the songs forward.
The jazzy guitars did the same, never too loud or intrusive, but always winding their way into my ear.
There was so much going on that I felt like I was listening to math rock filtered through a pop punk aesthetic (and I say pop punk rather than just pop due to their ages) and the result was speaking to my inner music geek directly.
I was pretty much in heaven, but as I soon noticed, so were the people on either side of me.
Some songs had lyrics, some didn't, but the rapt crowd was as engaged with one as the other.
As I listened to leader Troy's confessional-sounding vocals, I marveled at how I hadn't yet heard of these guys.
I am, after all, out hearing live music three or four nights a week.
Let's just say I've already put their vinyl release show into my calendar (or, as my fellow Gemini called it, my "prehistoric Blackberry."), very much looking forward to hearing a longer set next time.
Tonight's ended way too soon and Troy said, "It's really packed in here. Thanks! We have t-shirts for sale, long sleeves for the cool times."
Except that the room was anything but cool because of the mass of humanity who had crowded in to hear these guys.
Mingling afterwards, I was curious as to what Troy had been listening to and wasn't the least surprised to hear that we'd both been to Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.
Even later still, I ran into a favorite friend coming in, only to learn he'd been on a date there the whole time.
He'd brought his date for dinner and music, and she, being a relative newcomer to Richmond's scene, had marveled at what a great show it had been, wondering how often stuff like this happened.
"Pretty much all the time, if you know where to go," my bearded friend had assured her.
All I can say is if a guy took me on a first date to an intimate show at Ipanema featuring a local band as talented/catchy/listenable as Way, Shape or Form, I'd ask him for a second date.
And that's saying something.
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