Listen to the meteorologists and you miss too much.
Braving the ice and cold despite online warnings to stay in, I got exactly one block from home on my walk before taking a tumble on an ice-glazed brick sidewalk, landing on my hip and knee. Thankfully, there were no churchgoers nearby to overhear the string of expletives that came out of my mouth.
Refusing to be beaten by frozen water, I continued on, avoiding brick walkways as much as possible and covering nearly five miles as freezing rain continued to fall. While the terrain was dangerous, the city was silvery and nearly empty so I had it to myself for the most part.
Back at my house I discovered that my umbrella was completely iced over, hard and solid enough that I couldn't fold it up. Can't say that's ever happened before.
Upstairs, warm and making tea for a guest, Africa trumped Austria as I spent a couple of hours with a musician who's about to present the Richmond premiere of a documentary about the time he spent playing in Kenya.
We got so caught up in conversation about music and travel that by the time I looked up, I realized I'd missed the Mozart lecture.
The 2015 Mozart Festival was today in Carytown and I'd hoped to start with a Mozart primer courtesy of VCU Music's Daniel Myssyk, but we'd chatted right through that. But with more Mozart to come, I bade him farewell, layered up and headed to Babe's of Carytown, a place I'd never been.
Arriving 15 minutes before the program "Requiem and Symphonies" was due to start, I found the place crowded with other music lovers. Sitting at the bar in the front room was a guy in a white wig and red waistcoat that read "Mozart" on the back, letter jacket-style.
Inching forward into the back room where an orchestra was set up, I spotted a cello player also in a white curly wig. Periodically, I'd hear, "Musician coming through!" behind me and it would be a guy leading with his trombone or a woman with her instrument case in front of her trying to part the sea of humanity and reach the orchestra area.
Since I'd never been in Babe's before, I'd had no clue that they had that big back room, which was already mostly full. Passing by the bar behind rows of folding chairs, one guy told me he'd arrived an hour ago to score the stool on which he sat.
I finally made my way to the end of the bar directly in front of the violin section. I might not have been seated, but I had a damn fine view considering my arrival time.
Ellen of Classical Revolution, the non-profit devoted to bringing classical music to bars all over Richmond, began by announcing that this orchestra had never played together before. "This is how many rehearsals we've had," she said, holding up her hand and shaping a zero.
But because they're classical musicians, they were excited to be sight-reading Mozart for our listening pleasure. She mentioned that given the weather (humid, rainy), there would necessarily be a lot of tuning throughout the performance.
She also mentioned that the Richmond Symphony, sponsors of this show, were starting a new series of $15 one-hour symphony performances at Hardywood next season. It sounds exactly like the former Kicked Back Classics series that the symphony did for years at places like Tredegar.
Everything old is new again, at least to the young.
I was a huge fan of that series, in part because of the succinct playing time but also because they served free pizza at the end of each show. I vote to bring back that part of the series, too.
The same Daniel Myssyk whose lecture I'd missed came out to conduct the first piece, telling us that Mozart had composed it in four days while traveling from Salzburg to Vienna. He'd stopped in Linz for a break and, according to Myssyk, "Said to himself, what do I do here and wrote a quick symphony."
Next they did a movement from Symphony #41, known as the Jupiter symphony, but Myssyk said, "That's a 19th century name and Mozart wouldn't recognize it." Then we should never utter it again if you ask me.
This was working out better than I'd hope for. Myssyk was spilling all kinds of fun facts to make up for my missing his talk. If only the idiots in the back would stop blathering so I could hear his every word.
We got a real treat when the bassoon player arrived with her impressive instrument and took a chair right next to the conductor for the "Bassoon Concerto," a rare opportunity to hear so much solo bassoon, not to mention that I had a terrific vantage point for watching her play.
After each selection, the audience clapped mightily and the dapper man behind me yelled, "Bravo! Bravo! Yo, yo, yo!" You know, just like Mozart's 18th century audiences would have done.
Richmond Symphony assistant conductor Erin Freeman came out and with no introduction started up the next piece, which also included a chorus singing on the platform behind the orchestra.
Barely into it, she stopped them and turned to us, saying, "So, that," which resulted in the entire audience cracking up. "I always wanted to do that. That was Mozart's last eight bars or as one of the musicians said earlier, that's where he stopped composing and started decomposing."
Long hair humor. And speaking of long hairs, there was a young flute player in a knit cap, his long blond hair sticking out from under it and with a bushy, hipster-approved beard who gave me hope for the future of symphonic music.
Marketing tip: hire him and make him the new face of the symphony.
"Although I do hope you enjoy everything today, this is the most important piece," Erin said introducing "Requiem," the reason die-hard fans were there. When the chorus sang the final "amen," the room rose in an ovation, cheering.
But we couldn't end on something so somber, so next she introduced "the most perfect piece Mozart ever wrote, "Ave Verum Corpus," because it best embodied his spirit." It was truly beautiful.
Almost exactly an hour after the music had begun, it ended, breaking the spell of a roomful of people gathered together because they were willing to go out on a day when weathermen told us to stay in simply to hear Mozart played live.
As I began the slow procession past the bar to get out of the room, a handsome guy next to me made a comment about the people in the back who'd chatted throughout the performance. "I know it's a bar, but why come here and talk the whole time?"
Since this is one of my favorite soapboxes, we commiserated about the cretins as we made our way to the front. He looked like he wanted to punch them while all I wanted to do was escape them.
Where we also found common ground was in how lucky we'd been to have these musicians play for us on this miserable afternoon.
I made one final stop at Joe's Inn, meeting fellow music-lovers and comparing our upcoming road trip shows: Hooray for the Riffraff, Babymetal and T Swift, as assorted a range of acts as three people could come up with and still want to associate.
Where we could all agree was on chocolate mousse pie after dinner while "Papa, Don't Preach" played to a packed restaurant, all the more enjoyable for what came before it.
Bravo, yo, yo, yo.
Showing posts with label joe's inn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label joe's inn. Show all posts
Monday, March 2, 2015
Sunday, February 9, 2014
The Speed of a Lush Life
This I learned on my walk today: everywhere has a center.
In Virginia, the center is under the Harry Byrd memorial, a monument I noticed for the first time today strolling through Capital Square toward the Arts Commission.
It's apparently ground zero and the point from which all distances in the commonwealth are measured. Now who the hell knew that?
After adding to my mile marker knowledge and making a deadline this afternoon, it was time for some NASCAR.
VCU's Southern Film Fest kind of lost me this year with a sports theme, but the double allure of Richard Pryor and Pam Grier was enough to get me to the Grace Street theater to see 1977's "Greased Lightening."
I asked the woman next to me why she was there and she said her husband was chairman of the history department, the ones presenting the film fest, so she thought my reason for coming far superior.
The true story of Wendell Scott, a Virginian and the first black stock car racing champion, was being introduced by Scott's son and grandson who told us the film had premiered in Danville, Wendell's hometown.
He also advised us to take note of the way racial issues were portrayed, unnecessary because it would have been hard to miss ("Don't let him knock you up, young lady. You know how you people are").
Although this was not a comedy role for Pryor, he's so innately funny that a hapless look on his face and a side step became hilarious.
Wendell developed his speedy driving habits while running moonshine on the back roads of Franklin county, which he knew like the back of his hand. When he finally gets caught and jailed, a racetrack owner works a deal to get him out if he'll come race at his track.
He knows Wendell will draw blacks to the track (in the "colored only" section, of course), meaning more business for him, and that the white drivers will try to annihilate him, making for an exciting race. A sign outside the track that day read, "See the one and only negro race car driver."
Beau Bridges' character, a former driver who quits and befriends Wendell to become one of his mechanics, about stole the movie in a scene where he defends the two steak dinners he and Wendell are trying to eat in a whites-only restaurant by holding the rowdy customers at bay with a nearby Confederate flag.
Wendell's life made a great story, overcoming odds to become a champion, a near-fatal crash, a comeback and victory and all set in southern racetracks with the stands filled with people in mostly '70s clothes, a glaring mistake since no one, and I repeat, no one was wearing mini-dresses in 1947.
But at least I now know what the checkered flag means.
I left the '70s and images of Pam Grier's bodacious body for Joe's Inn and a travelogue about Nicaragua over drinks, BLTs and mozzarella sticks.
The returning traveler had scads of photographs of rain forests, low-hanging clouds, living rooves, strangler trees and adorable big-eyed children in colorful clothes.
Joe's was an early evening mob scene with strollers, tables of guys talking about "the" game and a line waiting for a table.
I wasn't sorry to get out of there.
By the time I got to CenterStage, the symphony was already warming up.
Tonight's program, "An Evening of Jazz with Rex Richardson" had its seeds in a show I'd gone to at the Singleton Center back in 2006.
Richardson had been playing in a group called Rhythm and Brass and that night's program had ranged from the Beatles to Radiohead with bits of everything in between.
That was the night I'd fallen for Rex's trumpet playing. I might have even gone up to him afterwards and gushed a bit.
Fast forward and now he's fronting an evening with the Richmond Symphony and you can be certain I'd gotten my $10, next-to-the-last-row ticket two weeks ago.
Waiting for the music to begin, I listened to the discussion behind me of the altitude of the seats, the fact that people were sneaking drinks in ("This is my first time, so I followed the rules. I did throw back a martini across the street first, but next time I'll know better," one woman said), and what was on the program, with one woman singing a snippet of "It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing). Badly.
I saw a higher than usual percentage of faces from VCU in addition to the usual mothball-scented crowd like the gent next to me who exuded eau de camphor every time he applauded.
With guest drummer Nate Smith and symphony pianist Russel Wilson front and center, they launched into the first piece called "Ellington Portrait," swinging the room through everything from "Sophisticated Lady" to "Prelude to a Kiss."
Then Rex came out to take us through "Rextreme," a piece composed especially for him by James Stephenson to highlight Rex's ability to jump around between wildly separate notes and blow incredibly long note sequences.
Watching and listening to him, it was hard to conceive of how he could hold enough air to make possible the sounds he was producing.
When the three-movement piece ended, the guy behind me wailed, "Yea!" not what you tend to hear at the symphony.
As intermission began, the center front of the stage began to slowly drop below main stage level, taking away the drums and piano for the start of the second half.
That began with Gershwin's overture to "Of Thee I Sing," which the conductor told us was the only musical to win the Pulitzer prize. What the what?
The things I was learning today!
Then the stage rose back up and Rex (his suit history and now wearing an untucked blue shirt), his three horns and friends - musicians playing drums, sax, upright bass and piano- played through more Gershwin and Ellington, including a very different version of "Caravan" than the one the symphony had done in the first half.
For me, one of the best parts of "Caravan" was watching pianist Russell Wilson's masterfully improvised solos because a few years back, I took a jazz appreciation class from Russell and that man has forgotten more about jazz than most of us will ever know, so hearing him play is always a treat.
VCU's Doug Richards, whom Rex called "one of the best arrangers in the world...and he lives right here," had done a beautifully inventive take on Billy Strayhorn's classic "Lush Life," which came next.
Before the last piece, Rex warned us not to be afraid even though it had been arranged by James Stephenson, he who'd done "Rextreme."
From the start of "A Tribute to Louis Armstrong," the crowd's pleasure in the joyous melodies everyone knows was palpable.
"Hello Dolly" about caused apoplexy and "What a Wonderful Life" got everyone sentimental.
But they couldn't leave us like that, so they finished with "When the Saints Come Marching In," a surefire way to get everyone in the cheap seats clapping along.
And while those of us up there hadn't paid $76 to hear a night of jazz, I'm willing to bet we enjoyed it just as much as those who did.
Mile markers and mozzarella, racers and Rex, what a wonderful life indeed.
Besides, you know how we people are.
In Virginia, the center is under the Harry Byrd memorial, a monument I noticed for the first time today strolling through Capital Square toward the Arts Commission.
It's apparently ground zero and the point from which all distances in the commonwealth are measured. Now who the hell knew that?
After adding to my mile marker knowledge and making a deadline this afternoon, it was time for some NASCAR.
VCU's Southern Film Fest kind of lost me this year with a sports theme, but the double allure of Richard Pryor and Pam Grier was enough to get me to the Grace Street theater to see 1977's "Greased Lightening."
I asked the woman next to me why she was there and she said her husband was chairman of the history department, the ones presenting the film fest, so she thought my reason for coming far superior.
The true story of Wendell Scott, a Virginian and the first black stock car racing champion, was being introduced by Scott's son and grandson who told us the film had premiered in Danville, Wendell's hometown.
He also advised us to take note of the way racial issues were portrayed, unnecessary because it would have been hard to miss ("Don't let him knock you up, young lady. You know how you people are").
Although this was not a comedy role for Pryor, he's so innately funny that a hapless look on his face and a side step became hilarious.
Wendell developed his speedy driving habits while running moonshine on the back roads of Franklin county, which he knew like the back of his hand. When he finally gets caught and jailed, a racetrack owner works a deal to get him out if he'll come race at his track.
He knows Wendell will draw blacks to the track (in the "colored only" section, of course), meaning more business for him, and that the white drivers will try to annihilate him, making for an exciting race. A sign outside the track that day read, "See the one and only negro race car driver."
Beau Bridges' character, a former driver who quits and befriends Wendell to become one of his mechanics, about stole the movie in a scene where he defends the two steak dinners he and Wendell are trying to eat in a whites-only restaurant by holding the rowdy customers at bay with a nearby Confederate flag.
Wendell's life made a great story, overcoming odds to become a champion, a near-fatal crash, a comeback and victory and all set in southern racetracks with the stands filled with people in mostly '70s clothes, a glaring mistake since no one, and I repeat, no one was wearing mini-dresses in 1947.
But at least I now know what the checkered flag means.
I left the '70s and images of Pam Grier's bodacious body for Joe's Inn and a travelogue about Nicaragua over drinks, BLTs and mozzarella sticks.
The returning traveler had scads of photographs of rain forests, low-hanging clouds, living rooves, strangler trees and adorable big-eyed children in colorful clothes.
Joe's was an early evening mob scene with strollers, tables of guys talking about "the" game and a line waiting for a table.
I wasn't sorry to get out of there.
By the time I got to CenterStage, the symphony was already warming up.
Tonight's program, "An Evening of Jazz with Rex Richardson" had its seeds in a show I'd gone to at the Singleton Center back in 2006.
Richardson had been playing in a group called Rhythm and Brass and that night's program had ranged from the Beatles to Radiohead with bits of everything in between.
That was the night I'd fallen for Rex's trumpet playing. I might have even gone up to him afterwards and gushed a bit.
Fast forward and now he's fronting an evening with the Richmond Symphony and you can be certain I'd gotten my $10, next-to-the-last-row ticket two weeks ago.
Waiting for the music to begin, I listened to the discussion behind me of the altitude of the seats, the fact that people were sneaking drinks in ("This is my first time, so I followed the rules. I did throw back a martini across the street first, but next time I'll know better," one woman said), and what was on the program, with one woman singing a snippet of "It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing). Badly.
I saw a higher than usual percentage of faces from VCU in addition to the usual mothball-scented crowd like the gent next to me who exuded eau de camphor every time he applauded.
With guest drummer Nate Smith and symphony pianist Russel Wilson front and center, they launched into the first piece called "Ellington Portrait," swinging the room through everything from "Sophisticated Lady" to "Prelude to a Kiss."
Then Rex came out to take us through "Rextreme," a piece composed especially for him by James Stephenson to highlight Rex's ability to jump around between wildly separate notes and blow incredibly long note sequences.
Watching and listening to him, it was hard to conceive of how he could hold enough air to make possible the sounds he was producing.
When the three-movement piece ended, the guy behind me wailed, "Yea!" not what you tend to hear at the symphony.
As intermission began, the center front of the stage began to slowly drop below main stage level, taking away the drums and piano for the start of the second half.
That began with Gershwin's overture to "Of Thee I Sing," which the conductor told us was the only musical to win the Pulitzer prize. What the what?
The things I was learning today!
Then the stage rose back up and Rex (his suit history and now wearing an untucked blue shirt), his three horns and friends - musicians playing drums, sax, upright bass and piano- played through more Gershwin and Ellington, including a very different version of "Caravan" than the one the symphony had done in the first half.
For me, one of the best parts of "Caravan" was watching pianist Russell Wilson's masterfully improvised solos because a few years back, I took a jazz appreciation class from Russell and that man has forgotten more about jazz than most of us will ever know, so hearing him play is always a treat.
VCU's Doug Richards, whom Rex called "one of the best arrangers in the world...and he lives right here," had done a beautifully inventive take on Billy Strayhorn's classic "Lush Life," which came next.
Before the last piece, Rex warned us not to be afraid even though it had been arranged by James Stephenson, he who'd done "Rextreme."
From the start of "A Tribute to Louis Armstrong," the crowd's pleasure in the joyous melodies everyone knows was palpable.
"Hello Dolly" about caused apoplexy and "What a Wonderful Life" got everyone sentimental.
But they couldn't leave us like that, so they finished with "When the Saints Come Marching In," a surefire way to get everyone in the cheap seats clapping along.
And while those of us up there hadn't paid $76 to hear a night of jazz, I'm willing to bet we enjoyed it just as much as those who did.
Mile markers and mozzarella, racers and Rex, what a wonderful life indeed.
Besides, you know how we people are.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Anti-Social Behavior
It's not often two people insist on taking my picture.
A day that began with breakfast at Joe's Inn ended at Camden's for an "oyster informal," an evening of bubbles and bivalves.
With a reservation for three, we entered to find lots of people already indulging, so we claimed three bar stools and a bottle of champagne.
Over the course of the next few hours, I enjoyed Anderson's Neck oysters on the half shell and roasted with spinach, cheese and bacon.
There's really no way I won't eat these things.
No surprise, I talked to everyone I could find - the guy who'd just been down to New Orleans for his anniversary, the new Mom who had to leave before she finished eating, the tunic-wearer who'd matched her outfit to her lipstick.
I met a Saints fan, talked to a guy who thought fried chicken and champagne were the perfect pairing (agreed) and a woman who hated oysters but came anyway.
Meanwhile the Anderson's Neck people shucked non-stop and we ate pretty much at the same rate.
A friend had wanted to join me this evening until a nest of wasps had attacked her yesterday, but I'd promised to eat oysters and drink bubbly in her honor since she couldn't.
"Thank you for falling on that sword for me. XXXOXX," she'd written from her swollen bedside.
The music had begun with the Replacements and stayed in that era for the most part (R.E.M., Echo and the Bunnymen, Joy Division, the Cure), keeping things lively if a tad old-school and eventually working its way around, appropriately, to solo Paul Westerburg.
Do you remember me long ago
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve
I guess it still shows
My little group switched to Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut not long before the focus of the evening changed from bivalves to football.
Since the Redskins were playing the Cowboys, the plan was for those so inclined to stick around after the oyster informal and eat wings and watch large men crash into each other.
As an extra incentive, anyone who wore a Redskins jersey got their first half dozen wings for free.
Well, you didn't think I was going to pass up an opportunity for free food, did you?
Negative. I'd made sure to borrow a Mark Rypien jersey (Redskins quarterback 1986-93), putting it on post-oysters and pre-game.
The friend on my right immediately exclaimed, "I need to take a picture!" followed by another woman at the end of the bar saying the same thing. Say cheese.
You'd think it was a big deal for me to wear a football jersey or something.
My wings arrived shortly thereafter with what my friend called the best blue cheese dressing she'd ever inhaled.
And she should know because she ate all of ours and most of what belonged to the guy next to me as well (he offered it up, having eaten two celery sticks, his quota he said).
The wings were every bit as good as the killer dressing and we polished them off in short order, only to watch the Skins fall to the Cowboys.
Not my fault, I did my part. I wore the jersey and unfortunately, now there's a picture of me to prove it.
That's the last time I'll wear myheart team on my sleeve jersey.
A day that began with breakfast at Joe's Inn ended at Camden's for an "oyster informal," an evening of bubbles and bivalves.
With a reservation for three, we entered to find lots of people already indulging, so we claimed three bar stools and a bottle of champagne.
Over the course of the next few hours, I enjoyed Anderson's Neck oysters on the half shell and roasted with spinach, cheese and bacon.
There's really no way I won't eat these things.
No surprise, I talked to everyone I could find - the guy who'd just been down to New Orleans for his anniversary, the new Mom who had to leave before she finished eating, the tunic-wearer who'd matched her outfit to her lipstick.
I met a Saints fan, talked to a guy who thought fried chicken and champagne were the perfect pairing (agreed) and a woman who hated oysters but came anyway.
Meanwhile the Anderson's Neck people shucked non-stop and we ate pretty much at the same rate.
A friend had wanted to join me this evening until a nest of wasps had attacked her yesterday, but I'd promised to eat oysters and drink bubbly in her honor since she couldn't.
"Thank you for falling on that sword for me. XXXOXX," she'd written from her swollen bedside.
The music had begun with the Replacements and stayed in that era for the most part (R.E.M., Echo and the Bunnymen, Joy Division, the Cure), keeping things lively if a tad old-school and eventually working its way around, appropriately, to solo Paul Westerburg.
Do you remember me long ago
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve
I guess it still shows
My little group switched to Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut not long before the focus of the evening changed from bivalves to football.
Since the Redskins were playing the Cowboys, the plan was for those so inclined to stick around after the oyster informal and eat wings and watch large men crash into each other.
As an extra incentive, anyone who wore a Redskins jersey got their first half dozen wings for free.
Well, you didn't think I was going to pass up an opportunity for free food, did you?
Negative. I'd made sure to borrow a Mark Rypien jersey (Redskins quarterback 1986-93), putting it on post-oysters and pre-game.
The friend on my right immediately exclaimed, "I need to take a picture!" followed by another woman at the end of the bar saying the same thing. Say cheese.
You'd think it was a big deal for me to wear a football jersey or something.
My wings arrived shortly thereafter with what my friend called the best blue cheese dressing she'd ever inhaled.
And she should know because she ate all of ours and most of what belonged to the guy next to me as well (he offered it up, having eaten two celery sticks, his quota he said).
The wings were every bit as good as the killer dressing and we polished them off in short order, only to watch the Skins fall to the Cowboys.
Not my fault, I did my part. I wore the jersey and unfortunately, now there's a picture of me to prove it.
That's the last time I'll wear my
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Breakfast Bullitt
It was a day with some age on it.
When I got back from my walk, it was to an invitation to breakfast at Joe's Inn.
As in Joe's Inn, begun in 1952 Joe's Inn.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been in Joe's and while I know the citywide consensus is that it's the place for breakfast, it had probably been more like eight years since I'd started my day at Joe's.
The sidewalk was crowded with large groups of hungry people, meaning that our small group slid right in and got a booth at the back.
It's always easier to get in to Joe's if you don't bring nine of your closest friends or family members.
As in the past, the wait to get into Joe's is always longer than the wait to get food and in a twinkling, I had a pile of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
Over conversation about the similarities of Portland and Richmond, the new classical/jazz series starting next week at Commercial Taphouse and the benefits of Relay Food, I worked that stack down.
When we left, people were still gathered in clumps on the sidewalk awaiting their shot at plentiful, cheap food.
Our city is nothing if not predictable.
Full of pancake and pig, my next stop was the Byrd Theater for a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
They were showing "Bullitt," a 1968 movie I've never seen, so naturally I was meeting up with someone who'd seen it many, many times, albeit never on the big screen.
Out in front of the Byrd, I was surprised to find several vintage Mustangs, the car star of the film, parked on Cary Street.
Apparently the Central Virginia Mustang Club was doing some showing off and helping lure film goers inside.
As I checked out the pristine cars, I heard the three guys sitting in chairs guarding them talking.
The big one with the Southern accent was telling the others, "Yea, I took her out 360 past Pole Green Road and you know where the road dips way down there? Well, I come over that hill at a right good clip and every one of them pine trees musta dropped its pollen that day, 'cause it was like being in a sandstorm. Now, I been in some fierce sandstorms in Saudi Arabia, but this pollen had them beat!"
The discussion devolved into the importance of keeping one's Mustang as clean as possible, no matter how often washing was required.
Luckily my companion arrived before I got sucked into that conversation.
When we went to get popcorn (yes, popcorn after breakfast), I found a favorite musician behind the counter.
She was amazed that I'd never seen "Bullitt," although she, too, had only seen it at home.
I told her I hoped she was coming inside to watch it then.
"Oh, yea, I'm gonna stick my head in," she grinned. "Steve McQueen is a dreamboat."
While a cop drama is not my usual cup of tea, I reveled in the period details of 1968.
Taxi drivers gave hand signals to make turns.
Nurses and stewardesses wore caps.
Every woman, old or young, fat or skinny, wore her skirts above the knees.
Men's sideburns were epic and everywhere.
People locked their car doors with a key and wore lap seat belts if they wore them at all (most didn't).
When people checked in at an airline, the attendant looked at a list to see the passengers' names. A list!
Despite never having seen the movie, even I knew of its seminal car chase scene through the hills of San Francisco.
It wasn't just the beauty of San Fran architecture whizzing by (although it was lovingly shot) or the ridiculously fast speeds they were doing that made it so compelling.
No, it was the way it had been filmed, with the camera angle replicating every up and down motion of the car until I felt my stomach go queasy like it does on a roller coaster.
It wasn't hard to see why the picture had won an Oscar for best editing.
The movie also had a jazz-influenced score that conveyed the tension of the four-day period encompassed in the story, giving it a very hep 1968 feel.
But the two most interesting things I noticed were the absence of bad language ("bullshit" was as risque as it got) and how it wasn't until the final scene that Bullitt fired his gun.
Not that there hadn't been tons of shooting by bad guys throughout, but not our man Bullitt.
And despite his stolid countenance, he even had a romantic moment with his girlfriend. Once.
What will happen to us time, she asks him after viewing a murder victim.
Time starts now, Bullitt says, although what that means, I have no idea.
I guess that's what makes him a dreamboat.
When I got back from my walk, it was to an invitation to breakfast at Joe's Inn.
As in Joe's Inn, begun in 1952 Joe's Inn.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been in Joe's and while I know the citywide consensus is that it's the place for breakfast, it had probably been more like eight years since I'd started my day at Joe's.
The sidewalk was crowded with large groups of hungry people, meaning that our small group slid right in and got a booth at the back.
It's always easier to get in to Joe's if you don't bring nine of your closest friends or family members.
As in the past, the wait to get into Joe's is always longer than the wait to get food and in a twinkling, I had a pile of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
Over conversation about the similarities of Portland and Richmond, the new classical/jazz series starting next week at Commercial Taphouse and the benefits of Relay Food, I worked that stack down.
When we left, people were still gathered in clumps on the sidewalk awaiting their shot at plentiful, cheap food.
Our city is nothing if not predictable.
Full of pancake and pig, my next stop was the Byrd Theater for a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
They were showing "Bullitt," a 1968 movie I've never seen, so naturally I was meeting up with someone who'd seen it many, many times, albeit never on the big screen.
Out in front of the Byrd, I was surprised to find several vintage Mustangs, the car star of the film, parked on Cary Street.
Apparently the Central Virginia Mustang Club was doing some showing off and helping lure film goers inside.
As I checked out the pristine cars, I heard the three guys sitting in chairs guarding them talking.
The big one with the Southern accent was telling the others, "Yea, I took her out 360 past Pole Green Road and you know where the road dips way down there? Well, I come over that hill at a right good clip and every one of them pine trees musta dropped its pollen that day, 'cause it was like being in a sandstorm. Now, I been in some fierce sandstorms in Saudi Arabia, but this pollen had them beat!"
The discussion devolved into the importance of keeping one's Mustang as clean as possible, no matter how often washing was required.
Luckily my companion arrived before I got sucked into that conversation.
When we went to get popcorn (yes, popcorn after breakfast), I found a favorite musician behind the counter.
She was amazed that I'd never seen "Bullitt," although she, too, had only seen it at home.
I told her I hoped she was coming inside to watch it then.
"Oh, yea, I'm gonna stick my head in," she grinned. "Steve McQueen is a dreamboat."
While a cop drama is not my usual cup of tea, I reveled in the period details of 1968.
Taxi drivers gave hand signals to make turns.
Nurses and stewardesses wore caps.
Every woman, old or young, fat or skinny, wore her skirts above the knees.
Men's sideburns were epic and everywhere.
People locked their car doors with a key and wore lap seat belts if they wore them at all (most didn't).
When people checked in at an airline, the attendant looked at a list to see the passengers' names. A list!
Despite never having seen the movie, even I knew of its seminal car chase scene through the hills of San Francisco.
It wasn't just the beauty of San Fran architecture whizzing by (although it was lovingly shot) or the ridiculously fast speeds they were doing that made it so compelling.
No, it was the way it had been filmed, with the camera angle replicating every up and down motion of the car until I felt my stomach go queasy like it does on a roller coaster.
It wasn't hard to see why the picture had won an Oscar for best editing.
The movie also had a jazz-influenced score that conveyed the tension of the four-day period encompassed in the story, giving it a very hep 1968 feel.
But the two most interesting things I noticed were the absence of bad language ("bullshit" was as risque as it got) and how it wasn't until the final scene that Bullitt fired his gun.
Not that there hadn't been tons of shooting by bad guys throughout, but not our man Bullitt.
And despite his stolid countenance, he even had a romantic moment with his girlfriend. Once.
What will happen to us time, she asks him after viewing a murder victim.
Time starts now, Bullitt says, although what that means, I have no idea.
I guess that's what makes him a dreamboat.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
I Came to See You
The funny part is, I originally planned to have a two-hour evening. No, seriously, I was shooting for a simple little Saturday night listening to friends play folk music and then home to bed. 10:30 to 12:30 and then out. Really.
And then a friend called out of the blue and suggested meeting for a drink at Julep and although I'd just been there Thursday night, I had been eating, not drinking, despite Bobby's attentive offers to pour me a variety of tequilas, so I said yes.
Tonight I gave him the opportunity to pour me Corazon and he graciously made me the first customer to use the new metal spoon-straws he'd brought back from his NYC trip last week. "You don't really need it with tequila on ice," he said, smiling, but it was still a nice gesture to make me the inaugural user.
The bar was packed, so we were standing near the end behind the hostess stand. At one point, one of my favorite servers, the handsome Kent, came over with a startled look on his face.
"You're like a Ninja," he said. "You come in here so stealthily I never even realize you're here and then, surprise, there you are." Yea, that's me, the stealthy type. I think more likely my lack of height hides me among the tall masses.
After a couple of hours (the original targeted length of my entire evening) about pasties, bar ambiance and pot-stirrers, I left for Balliceaux. A new friend had suggested meeting for music tonight, but didn't know of anything happening. Since I already had plans to go to a show, we decided to make it a twosome.
Austin greeted me at the front bar, so I decided to linger there a while there sipping Herradura Anejo and waiting for my evening's company, whom I wasn't even sure would recognize me since we hadn't seen each other since our original meeting nearly two months ago.
I told Austin about the dueling soloists show I'd seen last night because two of the guys at the show were mutual friends, including the drummer who'd lost me with his reference to pocket rhythm drumming.
Reassuringly, Austin gave me the same "huh?" look I'd given the drummer when he mentioned it. I felt better knowing I wasn't the only one confused by obscure drumming terminology.
As the dining crowd began to leave, the pretty people started arriving, so I knew I had to make my way to the back bar and establish territory.
My friend was due to arrive shortly and I wanted to have a place where we could actually see the show. I found that spot at the stool-less bar, where the most popular request from the youngest of the females was for Stella, a beer Balliceaux doesn't even carry (I like to think just to challenge them).
I'd come for the show with Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird and the Go Rounds, a Brooklyn band.
Unfortunately for the bands (and me) 90% of the crowd had come to get drunk and shout. It was a shame for my companion, who had never heard JV & TSB before because the crowd roar drowned out the accordion almost completely
On the other hand, he got to hear Antonia's vox saw (turning to me, he said, "For a minute, I thought someone was playing saw!"), a real treat for anyone who's never heard it. I couldn't resist mentioning that I'd seen a band earlier this week that had two saw players. Two!
The Go Rounds were a duo playing earnest folk music and they had just as difficult a time making themselves heard over the inane conversations going on in the crowd. I can say that because I eavesdropped on enough to know that nothing was really being said.
During the break, we got to talking about classic country music after I told him my only real musical prejudice is contemporary country. A friend had recently played several vintage country records for me and I loved both the heartfelt sincerity of the lyrics and unique delivery.
While waiting in the loo line, I chatted up the guy in line behind me after he asked if I had waited as long as he had to finally get in line (I had). Funny the things people use to strike up conversations.
A few well-placed questions and I discovered that his current music passion is 80s Italian disco and that we both shared an affinity for Joy Division. Now I feel the need to explore 80s Italian disco just to know.
After the show, it was only 12:30, so my companion asked if I wanted to do some more talking (clearly we're new to each other if he has to ask me if I want more conversation) and get a bite to eat.
Given the time, our choices were limited, but Joe's Inn wasn't far and I hadn't been in since the "cool side" had been made into the smoking side (as I'd been told by more than one friend lately), so I was game.
The non-smoking side was empty and closed for the evening, so we took a booth amongst the cool kids, the only seats available actually, on the other side.
Standing next to our booth were a guy in bright red plaid pants and another guy in a shocking blue flower-print shirt. Despite my electric-blue tank top peeking out from under my dress, clearly we weren't nearly colorful enough for this crowd.
Deciding on what to eat was easily accomplished by him picking two things and me picking from his choices. That resulted in a Greek salad followed by spaghetti a la Greek with marinara, something I would have never ordered on my own, which made it a good choice for me.
As we worked our way through the mound of pasta the size of my head, we played the question and answer game, meaning we barely finished before they closed at 2:00.
As our ancient waitress informed us, "We've turned the coffee pots off." We assumed that meant that they were ready to lock the doors next.
End result: my planned simple little two-hour evening morphed into something like a simple seven instead. No complaints here.
Simple is in the eye of the beholder.
And then a friend called out of the blue and suggested meeting for a drink at Julep and although I'd just been there Thursday night, I had been eating, not drinking, despite Bobby's attentive offers to pour me a variety of tequilas, so I said yes.
Tonight I gave him the opportunity to pour me Corazon and he graciously made me the first customer to use the new metal spoon-straws he'd brought back from his NYC trip last week. "You don't really need it with tequila on ice," he said, smiling, but it was still a nice gesture to make me the inaugural user.
The bar was packed, so we were standing near the end behind the hostess stand. At one point, one of my favorite servers, the handsome Kent, came over with a startled look on his face.
"You're like a Ninja," he said. "You come in here so stealthily I never even realize you're here and then, surprise, there you are." Yea, that's me, the stealthy type. I think more likely my lack of height hides me among the tall masses.
After a couple of hours (the original targeted length of my entire evening) about pasties, bar ambiance and pot-stirrers, I left for Balliceaux. A new friend had suggested meeting for music tonight, but didn't know of anything happening. Since I already had plans to go to a show, we decided to make it a twosome.
Austin greeted me at the front bar, so I decided to linger there a while there sipping Herradura Anejo and waiting for my evening's company, whom I wasn't even sure would recognize me since we hadn't seen each other since our original meeting nearly two months ago.
I told Austin about the dueling soloists show I'd seen last night because two of the guys at the show were mutual friends, including the drummer who'd lost me with his reference to pocket rhythm drumming.
Reassuringly, Austin gave me the same "huh?" look I'd given the drummer when he mentioned it. I felt better knowing I wasn't the only one confused by obscure drumming terminology.
As the dining crowd began to leave, the pretty people started arriving, so I knew I had to make my way to the back bar and establish territory.
My friend was due to arrive shortly and I wanted to have a place where we could actually see the show. I found that spot at the stool-less bar, where the most popular request from the youngest of the females was for Stella, a beer Balliceaux doesn't even carry (I like to think just to challenge them).
I'd come for the show with Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird and the Go Rounds, a Brooklyn band.
Unfortunately for the bands (and me) 90% of the crowd had come to get drunk and shout. It was a shame for my companion, who had never heard JV & TSB before because the crowd roar drowned out the accordion almost completely
On the other hand, he got to hear Antonia's vox saw (turning to me, he said, "For a minute, I thought someone was playing saw!"), a real treat for anyone who's never heard it. I couldn't resist mentioning that I'd seen a band earlier this week that had two saw players. Two!
The Go Rounds were a duo playing earnest folk music and they had just as difficult a time making themselves heard over the inane conversations going on in the crowd. I can say that because I eavesdropped on enough to know that nothing was really being said.
During the break, we got to talking about classic country music after I told him my only real musical prejudice is contemporary country. A friend had recently played several vintage country records for me and I loved both the heartfelt sincerity of the lyrics and unique delivery.
While waiting in the loo line, I chatted up the guy in line behind me after he asked if I had waited as long as he had to finally get in line (I had). Funny the things people use to strike up conversations.
A few well-placed questions and I discovered that his current music passion is 80s Italian disco and that we both shared an affinity for Joy Division. Now I feel the need to explore 80s Italian disco just to know.
After the show, it was only 12:30, so my companion asked if I wanted to do some more talking (clearly we're new to each other if he has to ask me if I want more conversation) and get a bite to eat.
Given the time, our choices were limited, but Joe's Inn wasn't far and I hadn't been in since the "cool side" had been made into the smoking side (as I'd been told by more than one friend lately), so I was game.
The non-smoking side was empty and closed for the evening, so we took a booth amongst the cool kids, the only seats available actually, on the other side.
Standing next to our booth were a guy in bright red plaid pants and another guy in a shocking blue flower-print shirt. Despite my electric-blue tank top peeking out from under my dress, clearly we weren't nearly colorful enough for this crowd.
Deciding on what to eat was easily accomplished by him picking two things and me picking from his choices. That resulted in a Greek salad followed by spaghetti a la Greek with marinara, something I would have never ordered on my own, which made it a good choice for me.
As we worked our way through the mound of pasta the size of my head, we played the question and answer game, meaning we barely finished before they closed at 2:00.
As our ancient waitress informed us, "We've turned the coffee pots off." We assumed that meant that they were ready to lock the doors next.
End result: my planned simple little two-hour evening morphed into something like a simple seven instead. No complaints here.
Simple is in the eye of the beholder.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
A Festival for the Rest of Us
I gave up on the Watermelon Festival years ago; too hot, too many strollers, too little reward for the effort. But I've been a regular at the Jonny Z Festival since its inception and today was my third. Mercifully, it wasn't the hotter-than-hell weather that it was last year, so vendors were still smiling rather than melting.
Although Joe's Inn was open, it was crowded, so we made do with slices of pizza and lemonade. Mexican Cokes were also very popular, so there was a lot of bottle-swigging going on. I love how old-school it looks.
A lot of the appeal of this festival is that it's populated by the craftspeople and artisans of the Bizarre Market, easily some of RVA's most talented creators. We strolled from table to table, checking out recycled stationary, essential oils and all kinds of jewelry (I may not wear it, but I can admire it). My friend bought a beautiful handcrafted necklace for his new sweetie.
The Farm to Family bus was there and a friend stocked up on corn and peaches, both of which are superb at the moment. I passed a woman with a baby on her back and a melon in each hand; if she'd had a basket on her head, the picture would have been complete.
As always, the music at the festival was terrific. I thoroughly enjoyed Catnip Dreams, an all-girl five-piece with Allison of Hot Lava on drums. They had loads of energy and it's hard to resist all those female voices (not to mention those white sunglasses!). On bass was Laurie from Sprout; clearly she's a woman of many talents. Josh Small was up next and he never disappoints with his heartfelt delivery. I just don't know how he could stand wearing that knit Redskins cap on a day like today.
I think there may have been fewer vendors this year than the last two. In the past I've been able to score an original drawing or print, but the only art today was of the painting variety and nothing called to me, as art should if you're going to live with it. Not that I should be buying art right now, but if I'd seen the right thing, I'm sure I would have been able to rationalize it.
Of course I ran into plenty of friends, especially around the band area, a surprising number of whom I'd seen just last night at the art walk. A music lover need never want in this town, that's for sure.
For the third year in a row, I left thinking that the funky little festival would be exactly the kind of thing Jonny Z. would have thought of, organized and participated in; it's a fitting tribute to a guy who had his hand in so many aspects of this city's culture. I have one of his prints hanging in my bedroom so I'm constantly reminded of his legacy.
Like the button says, "Live your life like Jonny Z." It's not even corny; it's as worthwhile a goal as any I can think of.
Although Joe's Inn was open, it was crowded, so we made do with slices of pizza and lemonade. Mexican Cokes were also very popular, so there was a lot of bottle-swigging going on. I love how old-school it looks.
A lot of the appeal of this festival is that it's populated by the craftspeople and artisans of the Bizarre Market, easily some of RVA's most talented creators. We strolled from table to table, checking out recycled stationary, essential oils and all kinds of jewelry (I may not wear it, but I can admire it). My friend bought a beautiful handcrafted necklace for his new sweetie.
The Farm to Family bus was there and a friend stocked up on corn and peaches, both of which are superb at the moment. I passed a woman with a baby on her back and a melon in each hand; if she'd had a basket on her head, the picture would have been complete.
As always, the music at the festival was terrific. I thoroughly enjoyed Catnip Dreams, an all-girl five-piece with Allison of Hot Lava on drums. They had loads of energy and it's hard to resist all those female voices (not to mention those white sunglasses!). On bass was Laurie from Sprout; clearly she's a woman of many talents. Josh Small was up next and he never disappoints with his heartfelt delivery. I just don't know how he could stand wearing that knit Redskins cap on a day like today.
I think there may have been fewer vendors this year than the last two. In the past I've been able to score an original drawing or print, but the only art today was of the painting variety and nothing called to me, as art should if you're going to live with it. Not that I should be buying art right now, but if I'd seen the right thing, I'm sure I would have been able to rationalize it.
Of course I ran into plenty of friends, especially around the band area, a surprising number of whom I'd seen just last night at the art walk. A music lover need never want in this town, that's for sure.
For the third year in a row, I left thinking that the funky little festival would be exactly the kind of thing Jonny Z. would have thought of, organized and participated in; it's a fitting tribute to a guy who had his hand in so many aspects of this city's culture. I have one of his prints hanging in my bedroom so I'm constantly reminded of his legacy.
Like the button says, "Live your life like Jonny Z." It's not even corny; it's as worthwhile a goal as any I can think of.
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