Everyone's jumping on the ten-year challenge.
First there were the photos on Facebook and just today, I heard a radio program where they'd play an older song from a band and then one from ten years later. Let's just say it's a long way from "Creep" to "Burn the Witch," but it does prove a point.
Time marches on and it's kinder to some than others.
Without meaning to, tonight was sort of like that for me, except eight years. Back in 2011, I'd spent a weekend in D.C. alone, mainly to see the Joy Formidable at the Black Cat (although the offal happy hour at Bar Pilar was pretty stellar, too). When they played the National in 2013, I had no excuse not to go 3/4 of a mile to see them again.
I remember that the biggest surprise then was that they included some acoustic songs, which was a far cry from their effects-laden first tour.
Now here I was tonight, headed to Capital Ale House to see them in the smallest room yet. And yes, I was the second person to arrive, right behind a guy who immediately humble-bragged that he'd already seen the band before. Last fall.
Don't make me laugh, son. He was down from D.C. and had planned to come to the show with his Richmond buddy, who'd called in sick so he came alone. The door guy apparently mistook me for his companion, wrist-banded me and sent me through the door without ever asking if I had bought a ticket.
If I'd known, I wouldn't have and saved the money.
Once inside, I staked out real estate on the banquette, fully intending to sit on the ledge behind it once the music started. This wasn't my first Cap Ale rodeo. In the meantime, I amused myself with the rotating couples who sat down on the banquette next to me.
Good thing, too, or I'd never have met a woman whose first concert was Vanilla Ice. Even better, she wore harem pants to that show. That's how you win the first concert lottery.
There was the impossibly young-looking woman (VCU class of 2017) who, when I asked, admitted that while she'd seen the Joy Formidable at the National, too, she'd been so far gone ("I was young and stupid then") that she had no memory of it at all. Tonight was her chance at a make up.
There was the guy who'd seen them at the 9:30 Club but never knew they'd played the National. Then there was the guy who had all four of their albums, he said, but had never seen them and had brought his partner (a physician who has to get up at 5 a.m.) along, despite her lack of interest.
"Now he owes me," she deadpanned.
Sometimes I had to resort to eavesdropping, like when the beard nearest me told his companion, "I've been in a lot of depressing situations," before sharing the worst: finding himself in a New Jersey hotel bar at 3:00 on a Saturday afternoon.
I had to give it to him, that's right up there as far as depressing moments go.
From where I sat, it was a pastiche of a crowd, various ages and with a lot of people from beyond the city. I know I talked to couples from Midlothian, Henrico and the West End. All were proud to be out but worried about the lateness of a weekday show. I assured them all that Cap Ale shows top out at around 10:30, although they seemed to think that was still awfully late.
So maybe it wasn't my crowd.
Part of the reason I'd gone - besides to see how the band held up after 8 years - was to see Positive No open for them. The energetic band with the charismatic front woman (in the cutest vintage-style dress) and wailing guitar grabbed the crowd's attention almost at once, always a good thing when it's a local band.
When a couple came in and sat down by me just after Positive No finished, they asked if they'd missed anything good. Actually, you did. I have low tolerance for people who go to shows and opt out of the opener because they haven't heard of them.
How do you learn about new music that way, kids?
When the Joy Formidable came out, my first reaction was how much more polished lead singer Ritzy (full disclosure, her real name is Rhiannon and how Welsh witch is that?) looked with her sleek blond bob and print dress.
Ah, but who among us hasn't changed in 8 years?
And because this is Virginia, midway through the first song, some idiot yelled out, "I love you, Ritzy!" and embarrassed everyone else in the room.
She was only a few songs into the set list when the bassist began messing with her hair. "Stop, I'm really proud I've kept my headband on this long," she said, grabbing at it. "It's usually off by the second song and this is, what, the third or fourth?"
What she referred to as an evil fog machine in Berlin had left her with a raspy voice she was treating with a hot toddy, although she'd been told that the best treatment was swallowing a bottle of olive oil.
"Not bloody likely," she said in her charming Welsh way, which included a lot of f*ckings and f*cks. Polling the crowd to see who'd been to Wales, she asked one raised hand where he'd been. When he answered Swansea, she said they'd recently been there for a show. During the acoustic part of the set, a group of women in the center had continued talking loudly about not being able to find their friend Kenny Jordan. So loudly that the band had to stop playing and singing and make an appeal for Kenny to join her friends so everyone would quiet down finally and they could go on performing.
"And Kenny wasn't even their long-time friend, just somebody they'd met in the women's toilet!" Ritzy explained with exasperation. "But lots of things happen in the women's toilet. That's where I met our first manager." The five managers they've had since were apparently met elsewhere.
So, if the point of seeing a band in 2019 is to compare them to their 2011 incarnation, the Joy Formidable holds up without embarrassing itself.
The spiky hair may be gone, but the distinctive guitar and enormous pedal board are still hallmarks of their sound, along with Ritzy's voice. They banter between songs much more engagingly and the drummer lets out a drumroll after each clever remark. Polish, that's what they'd acquired.
Me, I'm the one sitting atop the banquette, taking it all in. The only downside is not being able to get up and go to the women's toilet to see if something good awaits me.
Not bloody likely.
Showing posts with label joy formidable. Show all posts
Showing posts with label joy formidable. Show all posts
Thursday, March 7, 2019
Sunday, May 12, 2013
This Much Delight
So I finally got to be a VIP.
After countless trips to the National, the only time I'd ever sat down was at the very first show, Lou Reed.
Every show since, and there have been many, I have stood on the main floor, pretty much always right in front of the sound booth.
Arriving for the Joy Formidable show tonight, I was at the window picking up my ticket when I heard my name called from the left.
My evening's companion had scored VIP passes, so regular tickets were unnecessary.
As I soon learned, that mean a private bar, a separate bathroom and tables and chairs or a padded banquette to sit on.
We made a stop at the bar where I got Cazadores and noticed an open window.
It seemed unlikely to me that the clubby bar with deep, leather couches and a screen showing what was being set up onstage, would have a window open to Broad Street.
Naturally, I wasted no time leaning out it to look down on the cityscape, despite my friend seeing it as no big deal.
Drinks in hand, we walked down the hall, showed our VIP wristbands and took seats on the banquette, right smack in the middle.
First up was Fort Lean, a quintet of endless exuberance and guitars from NYC.
They were breaking no new ground, but the sound was energetically infectious and there was no reason not to enjoy a young band who had me bopping in place from the first jangly song.
Friend described them as a "vivacious My Morning Jacket," while I heard more power pop than anything else.
The unexpected part was how we ended up playing "name that tune," finding all kinds of already-written songs in each of theirs.
The Go-Gos' "We Got the Beat," Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" and even Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran" all made appearances with new lyrics and a few new licks to dress them up.
Not that anyone in the band had been alive when those songs came out.
It was after their brief set that I learned the true pleasures of being a VIP - an empty bar at which to get a refill and use a spacious bathroom.
We watched the set up of the next band, IO Echo, from one of the leather sofas in the bar before returning just in time for them to begin their set on a stage modified with Asian accents.
Two rice paper screens stood on either side, with a large open fan on the floor between them.
All at once, strobe lights went off and the androgynous-looking, kimono-clad lead singer, Joanna, all but exploded on stage.
She was a long, tall drink of water in a t-shirt, jeans and boots under a pale pink kimono who spent a lot of their set pogo-ing as she sang.
On either side of her, tall, black-clad men played their instruments set dramatically against the backlit screens, with guitarist Leopold swinging his long, black hair dramatically with every power chord.
It was goth rock theatricality of the highest order.
On the way in, I'd run into a guy I always see at shows and he'd given me a head-up about IO Echo, citing their Japanese embellishments and saying he thought they had a "Cocteau Twins meets My Bloody Valentine" sound.
I'd call it bombast, pure and simple.
Singer Joanna wavered between sounding like Florence (as in, & the Machine) and vintage Grace Slick, but her twirling dance style was pure Stevie Nicks, without any of the femininity.
They were a band with high entertainment value, whether intentionally or not, we couldn't decide.
By now we knew the drill, returning to the bar area and slouching on the couch to watch the set-up for the Joy Formidable.
We'd both seen the Joy a little over two years ago at the Black Cat, so we both knew exactly what to expect.
Of course, it wasn't that simple.
When we left the bar, we took seats at a front-row table so we could have an even better view of the band and the crowd.
Lead singer Ritzy (real name: Rhiannon, I kid you not), a tiny, blond slip of a Welsh woman, came out looking like she'd had a TV makeover.
Instead of the spiky-haired platinum blond in jeans and leather we'd seen in 2011, tonight she had a sleek bob of the warmest blond color, a cute little black dress, a big silver collar necklace and black tights.
It didn't look very rock and roll, more like just cute.
She still had her massive pedal board from which she made big sounds on her guitar, although the absolute center of this band is the bass player, Rhydian, from whom all songs emanate.
Drummer Matthew got big points for having a gong behind his drum set, the better to make big noise.
By the third song, a black and white video screen had come on behind them, further evidence of how much more polished their act had become in two years.
Add in that now it's not just the three of them making music like it had been at the Black Cat, but a lot of sounds pre-recorded coming from off stage.
Ditto the songs off their new album, "Wolf's Law," which show a lot more range than its predecessors, although I never had any complaint with their original sound.
Nor did the crowd and when the tore into "Whirring," everyone went crazy for the massive sound of it.
This much delight
Fills columns to new heights
All these things about me you never can tell
Colors in prime
Paint a picture so bright
All these things about me you never can tell
You make me sleep so badly, invisible friend
But when they got to a song where Rhydian was playing an acoustic guitar instead of his effects-laden bass, my friend and I looked at each other like another band had dropped down on stage instead of the one we'd come to see.
Ritzy said it was the last night of a tour they'd been on since January and soon after scuttled off the stage and into the crowd, moving along the front row, a tiny slip of a blond lost between the stage and rabid fans.
All of a sudden, being a VIP wasn't doing me much good.
My friend and I agreed that the best part of seeing tonight's show was the fact that we'd seen the band the last time.
No one keeps an edge indefinitely and as good as the band sounded tonight, the show that'll stick in my memory is the one that's been firmly planted there since March 2011.
It was a little like seeing a favorite classic black and white movie colorized.
I can't see he says what he means
I can't say what he means when he says
That I'll pretend, I'll pretty pretend
When all I want to see is the end of this
Or maybe I just wasn't meant to be a VIP.
After countless trips to the National, the only time I'd ever sat down was at the very first show, Lou Reed.
Every show since, and there have been many, I have stood on the main floor, pretty much always right in front of the sound booth.
Arriving for the Joy Formidable show tonight, I was at the window picking up my ticket when I heard my name called from the left.
My evening's companion had scored VIP passes, so regular tickets were unnecessary.
As I soon learned, that mean a private bar, a separate bathroom and tables and chairs or a padded banquette to sit on.
We made a stop at the bar where I got Cazadores and noticed an open window.
It seemed unlikely to me that the clubby bar with deep, leather couches and a screen showing what was being set up onstage, would have a window open to Broad Street.
Naturally, I wasted no time leaning out it to look down on the cityscape, despite my friend seeing it as no big deal.
Drinks in hand, we walked down the hall, showed our VIP wristbands and took seats on the banquette, right smack in the middle.
First up was Fort Lean, a quintet of endless exuberance and guitars from NYC.
They were breaking no new ground, but the sound was energetically infectious and there was no reason not to enjoy a young band who had me bopping in place from the first jangly song.
Friend described them as a "vivacious My Morning Jacket," while I heard more power pop than anything else.
The unexpected part was how we ended up playing "name that tune," finding all kinds of already-written songs in each of theirs.
The Go-Gos' "We Got the Beat," Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" and even Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran" all made appearances with new lyrics and a few new licks to dress them up.
Not that anyone in the band had been alive when those songs came out.
It was after their brief set that I learned the true pleasures of being a VIP - an empty bar at which to get a refill and use a spacious bathroom.
We watched the set up of the next band, IO Echo, from one of the leather sofas in the bar before returning just in time for them to begin their set on a stage modified with Asian accents.
Two rice paper screens stood on either side, with a large open fan on the floor between them.
All at once, strobe lights went off and the androgynous-looking, kimono-clad lead singer, Joanna, all but exploded on stage.
She was a long, tall drink of water in a t-shirt, jeans and boots under a pale pink kimono who spent a lot of their set pogo-ing as she sang.
On either side of her, tall, black-clad men played their instruments set dramatically against the backlit screens, with guitarist Leopold swinging his long, black hair dramatically with every power chord.
It was goth rock theatricality of the highest order.
On the way in, I'd run into a guy I always see at shows and he'd given me a head-up about IO Echo, citing their Japanese embellishments and saying he thought they had a "Cocteau Twins meets My Bloody Valentine" sound.
I'd call it bombast, pure and simple.
Singer Joanna wavered between sounding like Florence (as in, & the Machine) and vintage Grace Slick, but her twirling dance style was pure Stevie Nicks, without any of the femininity.
They were a band with high entertainment value, whether intentionally or not, we couldn't decide.
By now we knew the drill, returning to the bar area and slouching on the couch to watch the set-up for the Joy Formidable.
We'd both seen the Joy a little over two years ago at the Black Cat, so we both knew exactly what to expect.
Of course, it wasn't that simple.
When we left the bar, we took seats at a front-row table so we could have an even better view of the band and the crowd.
Lead singer Ritzy (real name: Rhiannon, I kid you not), a tiny, blond slip of a Welsh woman, came out looking like she'd had a TV makeover.
Instead of the spiky-haired platinum blond in jeans and leather we'd seen in 2011, tonight she had a sleek bob of the warmest blond color, a cute little black dress, a big silver collar necklace and black tights.
It didn't look very rock and roll, more like just cute.
She still had her massive pedal board from which she made big sounds on her guitar, although the absolute center of this band is the bass player, Rhydian, from whom all songs emanate.
Drummer Matthew got big points for having a gong behind his drum set, the better to make big noise.
By the third song, a black and white video screen had come on behind them, further evidence of how much more polished their act had become in two years.
Add in that now it's not just the three of them making music like it had been at the Black Cat, but a lot of sounds pre-recorded coming from off stage.
Ditto the songs off their new album, "Wolf's Law," which show a lot more range than its predecessors, although I never had any complaint with their original sound.
Nor did the crowd and when the tore into "Whirring," everyone went crazy for the massive sound of it.
This much delight
Fills columns to new heights
All these things about me you never can tell
Colors in prime
Paint a picture so bright
All these things about me you never can tell
You make me sleep so badly, invisible friend
But when they got to a song where Rhydian was playing an acoustic guitar instead of his effects-laden bass, my friend and I looked at each other like another band had dropped down on stage instead of the one we'd come to see.
Ritzy said it was the last night of a tour they'd been on since January and soon after scuttled off the stage and into the crowd, moving along the front row, a tiny slip of a blond lost between the stage and rabid fans.
All of a sudden, being a VIP wasn't doing me much good.
My friend and I agreed that the best part of seeing tonight's show was the fact that we'd seen the band the last time.
No one keeps an edge indefinitely and as good as the band sounded tonight, the show that'll stick in my memory is the one that's been firmly planted there since March 2011.
It was a little like seeing a favorite classic black and white movie colorized.
I can't see he says what he means
I can't say what he means when he says
That I'll pretend, I'll pretty pretend
When all I want to see is the end of this
Or maybe I just wasn't meant to be a VIP.
Monday, January 2, 2012
My So-Called List
While 2011 wasn't my favorite year ever, it had some good music to redeem it, at least from where I stood.
So here, in no particular order, are the albums that defined the past twelve months of my life along with my rationalizations for why they captured my head and heart.
Yuck: "Yuck"
Last winter, back when a musician friend first told me how much I'd like this album, I was unprepared for how quickly it would become a mainstay in my CD player. Whether I'm making my ears bleed with Yo la Tengo-like distortion and Dinosaur Jr.-like guitars or getting moony to some sweet slower lyrics, this collection of songs has something for every one of my moods.
Favorite track: "Shook Down" because Yuck isn't just a '90s noise copycat.
The show: October at the Black Cat, here
Washed Out: "Within and Without"
A chillwave artist named Ernest sounds like the set-up for a bad joke, but I've been a fan of his beautiful sounds since I got 2010's EP "Life of Leisure" and made it my beach record. The new full-length is even lusher and longer, meaning Ernest can take me further into his world of swirling sounds.
Favorite track: "Eyes Be Closed" because it sounds like the beginning of an evening with a lover.
Wye Oak: "Civilian"
Charm City never grabbed me like it has the past few years, first with Beach House and this year with Wye Oak. These two musicians can make a lot of noise and the resulting dream pop has enough full-on shoegaze to satisfy my needs while they can also do the earnest folk-based thing to balance it out.
Favorite track: "Holy, Holy" because girls and guitars are the root of all energy.
The show: September at the National, here.
Other Lives: "Tamer Animals"
Sometimes you hear a band and it just stirs your soul. That's how I felt about Other Lives, but the first time I heard them was live and their majestic folk pop made me wish I could make time stop. There is never a throwaway note or word sung with this band and I will sing their praises to the world.
Favorite track: "Dark Horse" because horns and folk music make me swoon.
The show: October at Black Iris Studio, here.
Bon Iver: "Bon Iver"
Believe me, I hate putting something so obvious on my list but even if no one else had, I would have had to. If "For Emma, Forever Ago" was the soundtrack to having your heart broken, this one is the sound of a man in love and so it's even more beautiful, if that's possible.
Favorite track; "Calgary" because his lyrics are poetry. "I was only for your very space." Sigh.
The show: July at the National, here
Raphael Saadiq: "Stone Rollin"
I'm happy to see how many performers are trying to keep R & B alive, or even resurrect it from what it has degenerated into. When I listen to this album, it sounds timeless to me, like it could have come from decades ago. Saadiq is mid-forties, so he may actually have memories of the music he is perpetuating. And thank god he is.
Favorite track: "Just Don't" because Stevie Wonder should always be an inspiration for the ages.
Sleepy Vikings:"They Will Find You Here"
I happened into these guys at a show and fell in love with their spacey guitars, chill drumming and overall jangly pop as they played their entire set seated. I won't deny their shoegaze influences but it's filtered through something simpler and more earnest.
Favorite track: "Calm" because it wears its emotion on its sleeve and that's a wondrous thing.
The show: June at Sprout, here.
Joy Formidable: "The Big Roar"
Last year's EP "A Balloon Called Moaning" made my best of list but I still had to put their first full length on this year's list. I worship at the altar of music from a cave and Ritzy and company deliver with an audio assault; her little girl voice and big fuzzy guitar (not to mention immense pedal board) are the stuff my late night dreams are made of.
Favorite track: "I Don't Want to See You Like This" because it charges ahead and leaves the weak behind.
The show: March at the Black Cat, here.
I know, I know. No one else could possibly have come up with this oddball assortment of favorites and call it their best of list except me.
But in my world, it's new music that makes the world go round. Well, among other things...
So here, in no particular order, are the albums that defined the past twelve months of my life along with my rationalizations for why they captured my head and heart.
Yuck: "Yuck"
Last winter, back when a musician friend first told me how much I'd like this album, I was unprepared for how quickly it would become a mainstay in my CD player. Whether I'm making my ears bleed with Yo la Tengo-like distortion and Dinosaur Jr.-like guitars or getting moony to some sweet slower lyrics, this collection of songs has something for every one of my moods.
Favorite track: "Shook Down" because Yuck isn't just a '90s noise copycat.
The show: October at the Black Cat, here
Washed Out: "Within and Without"
A chillwave artist named Ernest sounds like the set-up for a bad joke, but I've been a fan of his beautiful sounds since I got 2010's EP "Life of Leisure" and made it my beach record. The new full-length is even lusher and longer, meaning Ernest can take me further into his world of swirling sounds.
Favorite track: "Eyes Be Closed" because it sounds like the beginning of an evening with a lover.
Wye Oak: "Civilian"
Charm City never grabbed me like it has the past few years, first with Beach House and this year with Wye Oak. These two musicians can make a lot of noise and the resulting dream pop has enough full-on shoegaze to satisfy my needs while they can also do the earnest folk-based thing to balance it out.
Favorite track: "Holy, Holy" because girls and guitars are the root of all energy.
The show: September at the National, here.
Other Lives: "Tamer Animals"
Sometimes you hear a band and it just stirs your soul. That's how I felt about Other Lives, but the first time I heard them was live and their majestic folk pop made me wish I could make time stop. There is never a throwaway note or word sung with this band and I will sing their praises to the world.
Favorite track: "Dark Horse" because horns and folk music make me swoon.
The show: October at Black Iris Studio, here.
Bon Iver: "Bon Iver"
Believe me, I hate putting something so obvious on my list but even if no one else had, I would have had to. If "For Emma, Forever Ago" was the soundtrack to having your heart broken, this one is the sound of a man in love and so it's even more beautiful, if that's possible.
Favorite track; "Calgary" because his lyrics are poetry. "I was only for your very space." Sigh.
The show: July at the National, here
Raphael Saadiq: "Stone Rollin"
I'm happy to see how many performers are trying to keep R & B alive, or even resurrect it from what it has degenerated into. When I listen to this album, it sounds timeless to me, like it could have come from decades ago. Saadiq is mid-forties, so he may actually have memories of the music he is perpetuating. And thank god he is.
Favorite track: "Just Don't" because Stevie Wonder should always be an inspiration for the ages.
Sleepy Vikings:"They Will Find You Here"
I happened into these guys at a show and fell in love with their spacey guitars, chill drumming and overall jangly pop as they played their entire set seated. I won't deny their shoegaze influences but it's filtered through something simpler and more earnest.
Favorite track: "Calm" because it wears its emotion on its sleeve and that's a wondrous thing.
The show: June at Sprout, here.
Joy Formidable: "The Big Roar"
Last year's EP "A Balloon Called Moaning" made my best of list but I still had to put their first full length on this year's list. I worship at the altar of music from a cave and Ritzy and company deliver with an audio assault; her little girl voice and big fuzzy guitar (not to mention immense pedal board) are the stuff my late night dreams are made of.
Favorite track: "I Don't Want to See You Like This" because it charges ahead and leaves the weak behind.
The show: March at the Black Cat, here.
I know, I know. No one else could possibly have come up with this oddball assortment of favorites and call it their best of list except me.
But in my world, it's new music that makes the world go round. Well, among other things...
Saturday, March 26, 2011
A Balloon Called Moaning
When I checked into the B & B, the desk clerk told me breakfast was served from 7-10:00; when I laughed, she asked why. "I don't think I'll make it," I explained.
An hour later when I left the B & B for Bar Pilar, recommended to me by my D.C. food critic friend, I was debating whether to move my car or not before beginning my evening. Not sure how strict the parking enforcement was, I turned to the guy walking behind me and asked.
He turned out to be a neighborhood resident, full of information and absolutely charming. He was surprised to hear that I was a D.C. native since he was not.
When I mentioned I was going to a show, he asked which one because he was, too (his was Harlem Dance Theater at the Lincoln). Then he asked where I was headed to eat and I told him Bar Pilar, he said he'd walk me there.
I told him I'd seen the Gauguin show this afternoon and he had a quick response. "Yes, but did you see the Canaletto show?" he challenged me, asking about the National Gallery's "Venice: Canaletto and his Rivals."
Of course I'd made a point to see the exhibit of 18th-century Venetian view painters; the enormous canvasses with the minutest of details were breathtaking in their scope and revelatory in the depiction of daily live, both of upper and lower classes (and dogs were in so many scenes it surprised me).
I mentioned the Picasso show at home but it was the mention of the Ife art of ancient Nigeria that made his eyes light up. Confirming to him that it is a must-see show, I tried to convey the sculptural beauty with which he'd be rewarded for the soul-sucking drive down I-95.
"I just need to find someone to go down with me and do it," he said. I assured him that if he couldn't find someone, he could come down anyway and that I'd happily see the show again. There's nothing like a fellow art geek with which to enjoy something like that.
Then we reached Bar Pilar and he extended his hand, so I introduced myself. Then it was his turn, "I'm Tom and it's been delightful walking and talking with you."
My evening was off to a great start and I wasn't ten minutes in. Inside, BP was filling up, just as I'd been warned it would early. Taking the only free stool, the bartender put a menu in front of me; it was the Bar Pilar "Offal" happy hour menu, which I already knew I had every intention of sampling.
Holding it up, I said, "I drove two hours for this!" and the guy sitting next to me responded, "On the house then!" to the bartender. To get the ball rolling, I ordered the Aria Cava and grilled beef heart with salsa verde off the offal menu, each a steal at $4.
My seatmate Mark was curious about where I'd come from and why, but he was delighted to learn I'd grown up in the same county he had ("P.G. County represent!" he exclaimed), even going to the same high school as my first (that would be first everything), DeMatha. We'd found our first common bond.
The Hemingway-themed restaurant had an old Underwood typewriter at the end of the bar and photographs of Papa with fish on a dock. Everywhere around me, people were ordering Dark and Stormies, which arrived in a glass half full of dark rum with an accompanying small bottle of Fentiman's ginger beer.
Meanwhile, I felt like I was being rewarded for my drive; when my glass of Cava reached half-mast, the bartender said, "Let me top that off for you," and filled it to the brim. What a lovely thing.
My three pieces of beef heart were delivered and I couldn't help myself, so I dug right in while Mark and I continued to chat each other up. It was wonderful, crispy-grilled but rare on the inside and the salsa verde gave it a nice spice. Mark was on his way to a dinner date, but with a twist: he planned to tell his date that he just wanted to be friends.
He lives in the Atlas neighborhood, which I haven't visited but am eager to, so he gave me the skinny on where I need to go. We laughed about our childhood memories of H Street, so different from now.
I ordered another wine off the offal menu, this time a Ruffino Orvieto, but paired it with a regular menu item, the salad of warm frisse, bacon, sunny egg and bleu cheese. I figured it best to put some sort of plant in my belly before returning to offal. And do I even need to wax poetic about warm greens with bacon, egg and cheese on top? I think not.
Mark asked about my plans for the night, which led us to music and we never looked back. He was envious that I'd seen the Mountain Goats last night ("Do you go to a show every night?" he wondered) because they are a huge favorite of his. Turned out we had loads of music favorites in common.
My next course was veal sweetbreads with polenta and caper sauce paired with Casa de Campo Malbec. I'd now had five of the six offal menu items, but at $4 a pop, who was counting?
All of a sudden, it was time for Mark to leave for his date, but not before telling me how much he'd enjoyed our conversation. "At the very least, we need to be friends on Facebook," he said. By the time I got back here from the Black Cat, the friend request was waiting for me.
I finished out my BP time with an enormous red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing and a chat with an Indian attorney who extolled the virtues of life in Mississippi, of all places. We hit it off when we discovered he eats out every night of the week and more restaurant recommendations rolled my way.
It was great, I barely had to walk half a block to get to the Black Cat and I arrived in time to snag a stool at the bar for the first two bands.
My bartender was older, smart-assed, tattooed and accommodating ("Would you like another Hornitos?" and when I said he'd have to twist my arm, he actually took hold of it...and grinned before bringing it to me).
Washington state-based Lonely Forest had a poppy indie sound and the singer's voice had lots of character. I really enjoyed them.
The next band was from Nashville, but less to my taste. It worked out well, though, because a guy sat down next to me and we began chatting. He asked what I thought of the band, I shared and he clutched his heart. "Ooh, that was harsh. I can't listen to them the same after that.."
A graduate student in philosophy at American University, Philip was ashamed to admit that it was his first Black Cat show after almost five years living in D.C.
I didn't judge (okay, maybe a tad) but I also didn't hesitate to tease him unmercifully about his musical laziness, which he readily acknowledged. "You just met me and you've already figured me out," he laughed. Years of practice, my friend. He'd only discovered the Joy Formidable this morning while searching for something to do tonight.
We left our stools and made our way to the stage, maybe three people back, for an excellent vantage point to hear the Joy Formidable play. I'd seen them up close all evening because they were sitting two bar stools away, just around the corner of the bar from me.
This was epic, primal, shoegaze-sounding rock full of reverb from a Welsh trio who looked like they were thrilled with how into them the crowd was. Lead singer Ritzy was adorable, her eyes wide when she sang and her pale blond bob swinging in time as she shredded.
Fact: I wouldn't have been anywhere else but front and center for that aural assault on my eardrums tonight. I've been waiting almost a year to hear the songs on their EP "Balloon" live and I finally got that pleasure.
Color me blissed out. Walking back to the B & B afterwards, my ears were ringing, which I expect will continue well into tomorrow.
Which is just fine, because tomorrow involves only brunch and more art, so all I'll need are my mouth and eyes, both of which got a workout tonight, but are still fully functional.
I should only be so lucky as to have such great random conversation from strangers again. Fingers crossed...
And, if not, there's always art and food.
An hour later when I left the B & B for Bar Pilar, recommended to me by my D.C. food critic friend, I was debating whether to move my car or not before beginning my evening. Not sure how strict the parking enforcement was, I turned to the guy walking behind me and asked.
He turned out to be a neighborhood resident, full of information and absolutely charming. He was surprised to hear that I was a D.C. native since he was not.
When I mentioned I was going to a show, he asked which one because he was, too (his was Harlem Dance Theater at the Lincoln). Then he asked where I was headed to eat and I told him Bar Pilar, he said he'd walk me there.
I told him I'd seen the Gauguin show this afternoon and he had a quick response. "Yes, but did you see the Canaletto show?" he challenged me, asking about the National Gallery's "Venice: Canaletto and his Rivals."
Of course I'd made a point to see the exhibit of 18th-century Venetian view painters; the enormous canvasses with the minutest of details were breathtaking in their scope and revelatory in the depiction of daily live, both of upper and lower classes (and dogs were in so many scenes it surprised me).
I mentioned the Picasso show at home but it was the mention of the Ife art of ancient Nigeria that made his eyes light up. Confirming to him that it is a must-see show, I tried to convey the sculptural beauty with which he'd be rewarded for the soul-sucking drive down I-95.
"I just need to find someone to go down with me and do it," he said. I assured him that if he couldn't find someone, he could come down anyway and that I'd happily see the show again. There's nothing like a fellow art geek with which to enjoy something like that.
Then we reached Bar Pilar and he extended his hand, so I introduced myself. Then it was his turn, "I'm Tom and it's been delightful walking and talking with you."
My evening was off to a great start and I wasn't ten minutes in. Inside, BP was filling up, just as I'd been warned it would early. Taking the only free stool, the bartender put a menu in front of me; it was the Bar Pilar "Offal" happy hour menu, which I already knew I had every intention of sampling.
Holding it up, I said, "I drove two hours for this!" and the guy sitting next to me responded, "On the house then!" to the bartender. To get the ball rolling, I ordered the Aria Cava and grilled beef heart with salsa verde off the offal menu, each a steal at $4.
My seatmate Mark was curious about where I'd come from and why, but he was delighted to learn I'd grown up in the same county he had ("P.G. County represent!" he exclaimed), even going to the same high school as my first (that would be first everything), DeMatha. We'd found our first common bond.
The Hemingway-themed restaurant had an old Underwood typewriter at the end of the bar and photographs of Papa with fish on a dock. Everywhere around me, people were ordering Dark and Stormies, which arrived in a glass half full of dark rum with an accompanying small bottle of Fentiman's ginger beer.
Meanwhile, I felt like I was being rewarded for my drive; when my glass of Cava reached half-mast, the bartender said, "Let me top that off for you," and filled it to the brim. What a lovely thing.
My three pieces of beef heart were delivered and I couldn't help myself, so I dug right in while Mark and I continued to chat each other up. It was wonderful, crispy-grilled but rare on the inside and the salsa verde gave it a nice spice. Mark was on his way to a dinner date, but with a twist: he planned to tell his date that he just wanted to be friends.
He lives in the Atlas neighborhood, which I haven't visited but am eager to, so he gave me the skinny on where I need to go. We laughed about our childhood memories of H Street, so different from now.
I ordered another wine off the offal menu, this time a Ruffino Orvieto, but paired it with a regular menu item, the salad of warm frisse, bacon, sunny egg and bleu cheese. I figured it best to put some sort of plant in my belly before returning to offal. And do I even need to wax poetic about warm greens with bacon, egg and cheese on top? I think not.
Mark asked about my plans for the night, which led us to music and we never looked back. He was envious that I'd seen the Mountain Goats last night ("Do you go to a show every night?" he wondered) because they are a huge favorite of his. Turned out we had loads of music favorites in common.
My next course was veal sweetbreads with polenta and caper sauce paired with Casa de Campo Malbec. I'd now had five of the six offal menu items, but at $4 a pop, who was counting?
All of a sudden, it was time for Mark to leave for his date, but not before telling me how much he'd enjoyed our conversation. "At the very least, we need to be friends on Facebook," he said. By the time I got back here from the Black Cat, the friend request was waiting for me.
I finished out my BP time with an enormous red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing and a chat with an Indian attorney who extolled the virtues of life in Mississippi, of all places. We hit it off when we discovered he eats out every night of the week and more restaurant recommendations rolled my way.
It was great, I barely had to walk half a block to get to the Black Cat and I arrived in time to snag a stool at the bar for the first two bands.
My bartender was older, smart-assed, tattooed and accommodating ("Would you like another Hornitos?" and when I said he'd have to twist my arm, he actually took hold of it...and grinned before bringing it to me).
Washington state-based Lonely Forest had a poppy indie sound and the singer's voice had lots of character. I really enjoyed them.
The next band was from Nashville, but less to my taste. It worked out well, though, because a guy sat down next to me and we began chatting. He asked what I thought of the band, I shared and he clutched his heart. "Ooh, that was harsh. I can't listen to them the same after that.."
A graduate student in philosophy at American University, Philip was ashamed to admit that it was his first Black Cat show after almost five years living in D.C.
I didn't judge (okay, maybe a tad) but I also didn't hesitate to tease him unmercifully about his musical laziness, which he readily acknowledged. "You just met me and you've already figured me out," he laughed. Years of practice, my friend. He'd only discovered the Joy Formidable this morning while searching for something to do tonight.
We left our stools and made our way to the stage, maybe three people back, for an excellent vantage point to hear the Joy Formidable play. I'd seen them up close all evening because they were sitting two bar stools away, just around the corner of the bar from me.
This was epic, primal, shoegaze-sounding rock full of reverb from a Welsh trio who looked like they were thrilled with how into them the crowd was. Lead singer Ritzy was adorable, her eyes wide when she sang and her pale blond bob swinging in time as she shredded.
Fact: I wouldn't have been anywhere else but front and center for that aural assault on my eardrums tonight. I've been waiting almost a year to hear the songs on their EP "Balloon" live and I finally got that pleasure.
Color me blissed out. Walking back to the B & B afterwards, my ears were ringing, which I expect will continue well into tomorrow.
Which is just fine, because tomorrow involves only brunch and more art, so all I'll need are my mouth and eyes, both of which got a workout tonight, but are still fully functional.
I should only be so lucky as to have such great random conversation from strangers again. Fingers crossed...
And, if not, there's always art and food.
Friday, March 25, 2011
How To Be Happy by Paul Gauguin
Amongst the pleasurable lessons I learned at the crowded National Gallery's "Gauguin: Maker of Myths" exhibition was this: Be in love and you will be happy.
It was the name of a woodcut print. It was the name of a carved and painted linden wood piece. It was one of two things inscribed on the wooden panels Gauguin made for the entrance to his house (which he called the house of sensual pleasure) in Tahiti.
To enter his studio, you had to walk under the inscription and through his bedroom. There was really no missing his point.
The exhibition explored how Gauguin used myths throughout his career, blending fact and fiction to blur the lines between reality and his fertile imagination.
And given his artistic gift (when he was 28, his landlord taught him marble-carving and a bust of his wife showed his immediate mastery of the medium), he could blur that line using any number of methods.
This was beautifully illustrated in one of my favorites in the show, "Clovis Asleep," an especially Impressionistic piece for Gauguin, with a lovely blue wall covered in planets and stars over the slumbering child's head, surely signifying his dreams.
Another piece I couldn't resist was a pair of wooden Dutch shoes from which Gauguin had removed the bright paint, adding two decorative motifs (Breton women and a goose); he took to wearing them frequently to show his identification with the Breton peasantry, as well as his rejection of Parisian excesses.
I found it fascinating how Gauguin used questions for titles of paintings. It is supposed that many of the questions came from overheard conversations in Tahiti, but it gave an intimacy to the figures in the works, as you literally saw them and figuratively heard them.
"Ondine in the Waves" was the simplest of compositions and yet spectacular: a nude woman's back with an S-curve of red hair stood against an entire background of green waves. A study in color and form, it was mesmerizing.
Making my way through the exhibition and around the masses of humankind, it was hard not to get caught up in the beauty of the tropics. Even through the primitive paradise Gauguin sought turned out to be a thing of the past, I'm thinking he may have been right about the secret to happiness.
I was all kinds of happy looking at the fruits of his labors of love this afternoon, even without being in love. Yet. Give me time.
It was the name of a woodcut print. It was the name of a carved and painted linden wood piece. It was one of two things inscribed on the wooden panels Gauguin made for the entrance to his house (which he called the house of sensual pleasure) in Tahiti.
To enter his studio, you had to walk under the inscription and through his bedroom. There was really no missing his point.
The exhibition explored how Gauguin used myths throughout his career, blending fact and fiction to blur the lines between reality and his fertile imagination.
And given his artistic gift (when he was 28, his landlord taught him marble-carving and a bust of his wife showed his immediate mastery of the medium), he could blur that line using any number of methods.
This was beautifully illustrated in one of my favorites in the show, "Clovis Asleep," an especially Impressionistic piece for Gauguin, with a lovely blue wall covered in planets and stars over the slumbering child's head, surely signifying his dreams.
Another piece I couldn't resist was a pair of wooden Dutch shoes from which Gauguin had removed the bright paint, adding two decorative motifs (Breton women and a goose); he took to wearing them frequently to show his identification with the Breton peasantry, as well as his rejection of Parisian excesses.
I found it fascinating how Gauguin used questions for titles of paintings. It is supposed that many of the questions came from overheard conversations in Tahiti, but it gave an intimacy to the figures in the works, as you literally saw them and figuratively heard them.
"Ondine in the Waves" was the simplest of compositions and yet spectacular: a nude woman's back with an S-curve of red hair stood against an entire background of green waves. A study in color and form, it was mesmerizing.
Making my way through the exhibition and around the masses of humankind, it was hard not to get caught up in the beauty of the tropics. Even through the primitive paradise Gauguin sought turned out to be a thing of the past, I'm thinking he may have been right about the secret to happiness.
I was all kinds of happy looking at the fruits of his labors of love this afternoon, even without being in love. Yet. Give me time.
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