Even after three decades here, I'm still discovering new places to plant myself.
At the Bijou, new were some (but not all) of the re-installed theater seats from the Westhampton Theatre, notable because it meant that we no longer have to abuse our asses with those ergonomically-incorrect white plastic chairs to see film of note.
Tonight's trivia question concerned Holly Hunter's role in the movie and we were instructed to signal when we spotted her. Bags of popcorn in hand, the small group at the 5:10 show settled in to the new seats, ready for what was to come.
Mostly, anyway. How anyone can watch that entire knife through the hand on the window sash scene without averting their eyes is beyond me. Just saying, I felt squirming on both sides of me.
The unexpected beauty of seeing a film you last saw 33 years ago when it was in first run is that it could almost be an entirely new-to-you movie this time around.
And I say "almost" because even with little to no memory of seeing "Blood Simple" in 1984, the film stands instantly recognizable as a Coen Brothers movie because everything they're known for now was fully formed and on display in this, their first film.
I had forgotten how perfectly lovely and very of-the-era 27-year old Frances McDormand looked, somewhere between Tony Tenille and Farah Fawcett. No wonder Joel Coen married her almost immediately.
Like all good '80s films, we saw men's blazer sleeves pushed up a la Miami Vice, as well as a man's shirt with only one button buttoned and far too much curly chest hair on display. But it was the geezer (M. Emmett Walsh's character) who showed his age by sporting a mustard yellow leisure suit with bell-bottom pants.
So completely un-hip by then.
The surprise was that apparently in '84, we were still tying up moving boxes with brown twine and, honestly, I'd have guessed that habit had long since been replaced with packing tape.
Midway through the film, I heard Holly Hunter's vice on an answering machine and signaled to win the evening's prize - two tickets to a future screening at the Bijou - a nanosecond before another woman in my row realized who it was.
After a mini-film discussion post-screening, I walked home in the dark, despite it barely being past 6:30. Autumn, I hate what you bring.
The newness in tonight's music adventure came not from the venue's name, Sound of Music Studio, because I'd seen bands at SoM on Foushee Street as well as at SoM on Broad Street, but tonight's SoM was on Altamont in the hipper-than-thou Scott's Addition 'hood.
I don't ask why they move, I just follow where the music goes.
When I arrived, I found two women bent over a map, one drawing and explaining Richmond to the other, who just moved here. When I saw she'd marked and labeled Short Pump, I took it upon myself to inform the newcomer that she had no need of venturing so far west.
Pointing to Willow Lawn and eastward, I assured her that all the life she needed could be found there, complete with Target on the far western fringes. What more could a person require?
She thanked me with wonder and gratitude in her eyes, or at least that's what I chose to tell myself.
A big reason I'd come was to hear Bad Magic, the musical project of Julie Karr, a guitarist and singer with a throaty voice and confessional delivery of whom I'd long been a fan but who used to do an acoustic solo act.
She was apologizing for her cold when I got there, saying, "The mic is gonna need a bacterial wash after this. That would be my advice!"
Behind the band, a dated film of roller bladers played, with occasional interview segments in front of a flag-draped fireplace.
Trying to decide what to play next, the band bantered about songs. "What's it called?" Julie asked the others, then turned to the crowd. "We named it in the computer, but not in our minds and hearts."
Turns out the song was called "Three" and had some terrific early Interpol-sounding guitar licks in it.
Between songs, she vented about the film behind her, saying, "I do not want to see a Confederate flag behind me again. Not at all. Can we make sure that happens? I do not want to see any more Confederate flags!" Since I'd already noticed the same thing, I appreciated her addressing it for the entire room.
Bad Magic rocks a lot harder than Julie solo did, making for an engaging set before she announced that Toronto's Greys, not local band Clair Morgan, were up next.
"That's what you do, you make a sandwich with the out of town band inside. Welcome to Richmond, we eat you!" she joked about being the rye bread slice to Greys' filling.
Their lead singer began by warning us that they were going to play a quick set and then start driving home. I only hope he meant after a god night's sleep.
Their sound pulled from decades of punk, primarily '90s, some of it crossing into thrash territory, some straight up pop punk and some indebted to the Pixies' alternating loud/soft dynamic. Violent head banging accompanied others while a light show rather than southern relics and tasteless flags played behind them.
"This is the last night of a really long tour," the singer said and his body language showed that he was feeling it, although the other three musicians seemed to be cranked up to 11, maybe as a sendoff for the tour's last show.
All kinds of audio issues kept Clair Morgan from playing right away, but feedback and dead mic problems were eventually resolved and Clair got right down to business, both musical and political.
"In a couple of days, there's going to be a thing." From nearby, someone shushed him. "No, I'm not going to stop. If you want to keep certain people out of the White House, please vote on Tuesday. If you're for Donald Trump, please vote November ninth!"
It's tough to argue with a man who writes such well-crafted songs about life and family and surrounds himself with solid talent, while a breathtaking car chase from Hitchcock's "Family Plot" plays behind them.
Could it be that the point was to remind us of the danger and treachery that lies ahead on Tuesday?
I think we can all agree, the entire country's going to need a bacterial wash after that.
Showing posts with label julie karr. Show all posts
Showing posts with label julie karr. Show all posts
Monday, November 7, 2016
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Hot Damn, Come Back Soon
Sometimes you gotta give back what wasn't yours in the first place.
Richmond's loss is Gainesville's, well, gain.
The lovely Julie Karr is returning home to Gainesville and tonight was her last show in Richmond.
So after a rainy day spent driving out to the Northern Neck and back, nothing sounded as appealing as a three-block walk to Gallery 5 for music.
I got there early enough to have to compete with an ear-splitting sound check to discuss a friend's cute new dresses and how to ride on bikes with them without, you know, flashing people.
Seems she's just discovered the glories of wearing a dress in the summertime and is trying to acquire them as rapidly as possible.
I've been doing the same for decades. Dresses are easy; no coordination required.
And speaking of coordination, first up was Hot Dolphin, and while I knew all the members in other bands, I'd never experienced this configuration.
The drummer came from the Diamond Center and the guitarist and bassist from Tyrannosaurus Awesome.
Out in front was Lindsey, dressed oh-so fetchingly in a "hot damn" t-shirt, shorts and a head scarf.
She. Never. Stopped. Dancing.
As if it wasn't enough to shake her scarf-tied tambourine and growl out garage pop, she kicked and pranced and jumped and danced to every song she sang.
By the third song, she ripped the cute scarf off her head and tossed it to the side of the stage.
Extra layer? Unnecessary.
When she said the next song owed a debt to Bo Diddley, audience-member Julie Karr yelled, "He lived in Gainesville!"
Gesturing with her hands, Lindsey humorously observed, "And it all comes full circle."
Cue Elton John music.
And now Julie is returning to the land of Bo Diddley.
As a friend pointed out, "I can't let myself be sad about Julie leaving, so I'll be angry that we're losing such a talented musician."
On Hot Dolphin's last song, "Animal," Lindsey exorcised her anger with more frenetic dancing, ending to big applause.
The next band took long enough to get set up that I walked outside to enjoy the lovely night air where drummer Tim looked half-melted sitting on the sidewalk having a cigarette post-set.
I couldn't help but admire that at nearly 9:15, the sky was still blue, not dark.
Summer is a beautiful thing.
I hadn't seen Little Master before, but a friend said she'd seen them and they'd done a Brian Eno cover, impressive enough for her to recall.
They played more covers tonight along with original stuff, but mostly I just watched the drummer's hands blur as he worked up a sweat keeping the requisite punk pop beat driving.
And sculpting nice arms.
By the time they finished, the show went into overdrive because the last band included Julie, our soon-to-depart songstress, and it had to be over by 11:00.
They chose to set up on the floor rather than on the stage, putting them in the middle of the crowd and making for a much more intimate vibe for their set.
Saying, "We're going to get started. I'm Bad and this is Magic," she gestured to Jimmy from White Laces on drums and Tim, whom we'd already seen, on bass.
If you never heard Julie sing during the years she was here, shame on you, because she's got a distinctively earthy voice unlike any other in this town.
I'd never seen her in this project, which was so straight-ahead rock that she was even playing an electric guitar, something I'd yet to see her do.
It's always been an acoustic.
But tonight the trio was going hard and sounding good and at one point she looked around and said, "There's not a single person here I don't recognize. Thank you all for coming."
This is the part where people were trying not to feel sad about her going to graduate school in Florida.
When she noticed how late it was getting she rearranged the remaining set list, saying, "We're crunching on time-age. We need to step it up."
Between songs, Tim told a joke about the difference between a rubber and a rattlesnake,
"Nothing, I don't want to f*ck with either," he deadpanned.
Ba-dum-bum.
Facing him with her guitar poised, Julie said, "As a soon-to-be health care professional, I say don't tell that joke again."
I don't know if you can tell Tim what to do, but she sure sounded serious.
Then it was back to the business of rocking as Bad Magic finished out their final set.
It felt a little emotional.
But everyone there wishes Julie nothing but the best, so the evening ended with many hugs and farewells.
But let's not focus on that. Better to focus on being mad at losing one of the really good ones.
If we're lucky, she'll cycle back through Richmond again someday.
Cause she's Bad.
Richmond's loss is Gainesville's, well, gain.
The lovely Julie Karr is returning home to Gainesville and tonight was her last show in Richmond.
So after a rainy day spent driving out to the Northern Neck and back, nothing sounded as appealing as a three-block walk to Gallery 5 for music.
I got there early enough to have to compete with an ear-splitting sound check to discuss a friend's cute new dresses and how to ride on bikes with them without, you know, flashing people.
Seems she's just discovered the glories of wearing a dress in the summertime and is trying to acquire them as rapidly as possible.
I've been doing the same for decades. Dresses are easy; no coordination required.
And speaking of coordination, first up was Hot Dolphin, and while I knew all the members in other bands, I'd never experienced this configuration.
The drummer came from the Diamond Center and the guitarist and bassist from Tyrannosaurus Awesome.
Out in front was Lindsey, dressed oh-so fetchingly in a "hot damn" t-shirt, shorts and a head scarf.
She. Never. Stopped. Dancing.
As if it wasn't enough to shake her scarf-tied tambourine and growl out garage pop, she kicked and pranced and jumped and danced to every song she sang.
By the third song, she ripped the cute scarf off her head and tossed it to the side of the stage.
Extra layer? Unnecessary.
When she said the next song owed a debt to Bo Diddley, audience-member Julie Karr yelled, "He lived in Gainesville!"
Gesturing with her hands, Lindsey humorously observed, "And it all comes full circle."
Cue Elton John music.
And now Julie is returning to the land of Bo Diddley.
As a friend pointed out, "I can't let myself be sad about Julie leaving, so I'll be angry that we're losing such a talented musician."
On Hot Dolphin's last song, "Animal," Lindsey exorcised her anger with more frenetic dancing, ending to big applause.
The next band took long enough to get set up that I walked outside to enjoy the lovely night air where drummer Tim looked half-melted sitting on the sidewalk having a cigarette post-set.
I couldn't help but admire that at nearly 9:15, the sky was still blue, not dark.
Summer is a beautiful thing.
I hadn't seen Little Master before, but a friend said she'd seen them and they'd done a Brian Eno cover, impressive enough for her to recall.
They played more covers tonight along with original stuff, but mostly I just watched the drummer's hands blur as he worked up a sweat keeping the requisite punk pop beat driving.
And sculpting nice arms.
By the time they finished, the show went into overdrive because the last band included Julie, our soon-to-depart songstress, and it had to be over by 11:00.
They chose to set up on the floor rather than on the stage, putting them in the middle of the crowd and making for a much more intimate vibe for their set.
Saying, "We're going to get started. I'm Bad and this is Magic," she gestured to Jimmy from White Laces on drums and Tim, whom we'd already seen, on bass.
If you never heard Julie sing during the years she was here, shame on you, because she's got a distinctively earthy voice unlike any other in this town.
I'd never seen her in this project, which was so straight-ahead rock that she was even playing an electric guitar, something I'd yet to see her do.
It's always been an acoustic.
But tonight the trio was going hard and sounding good and at one point she looked around and said, "There's not a single person here I don't recognize. Thank you all for coming."
This is the part where people were trying not to feel sad about her going to graduate school in Florida.
When she noticed how late it was getting she rearranged the remaining set list, saying, "We're crunching on time-age. We need to step it up."
Between songs, Tim told a joke about the difference between a rubber and a rattlesnake,
"Nothing, I don't want to f*ck with either," he deadpanned.
Ba-dum-bum.
Facing him with her guitar poised, Julie said, "As a soon-to-be health care professional, I say don't tell that joke again."
I don't know if you can tell Tim what to do, but she sure sounded serious.
Then it was back to the business of rocking as Bad Magic finished out their final set.
It felt a little emotional.
But everyone there wishes Julie nothing but the best, so the evening ended with many hugs and farewells.
But let's not focus on that. Better to focus on being mad at losing one of the really good ones.
If we're lucky, she'll cycle back through Richmond again someday.
Cause she's Bad.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Talent vs. Pac-Man
I once had a seafood terrine so well-done that when I finished eating it, I immediately ordered another. That was at the Inn at Montross back in the 90s and I've never forgotten it or had a comparable one since.
Until tonight.
I spent the day road tripping on the Northern Neck doing research for a piece I'm writing on wineries (I know, I know, but somebdy's got to do it). For road music, I went all-girl today: Nellie McKay for theatrics, Petula Clark for the retro touch and Neko Case for that voice and the heartbreak. Women and wine, it just made sense.
When I got home, I had a call from a friend suggesting dinner, but after a solitary day alone with my thoughts, I wasn't ready to do the dinner companion thing, at least not well, so I declined and decided on Aziza's alone instead.
Perfect choice. My favorite server welcomed me in, poured me the Marques de Riscal Tempranillo and gave me a moment with the menu, saying, "I don't need to explain any of that to you." No indeed.
And there it was, waiting for me: scallop and lobster terrine with mixed greens, leeft (turnips pickled in beet and jalapeno juice), pickled onions and anchovy aioli. Oh. My. God.
The slices of creamy terrine, with their delicate flavor and full of chunks of seafood, were atop a creamy lobster sauce set off perfectly by the tang of the leeft and the salty ailoi.
One bite and I was transported back to that restaurant on the Northern Neck that had introduced me to this dish. How had it taken so long for me to enjoy that sublime taste again?
Between the wine, the crusty bread, the terrine, and the Sinatra bandstand channel they were playing, it was a perfect meal.
My server friend provided just enough conversation when I wasn't reading the Post article about six DC chefs losing weight despite the restaurant lifestyle (kind of fascinating, actually). I couldn't have asked for anything more (alright, maybe...).
When it came time to make the big decision (cream puff: yea or nay?), she helped swing my vote to wine over dessert with a most compelling argument. Besides, that puff really is enormous for one person, not that I'm not talented in the dessert arena, although certainly less so than I once was. Wine it was.
The other server later joined our conversation on Fresca and food at Bottom bars, and I listened to their thoughts on the Biggest Loser and the Oprah channel (unable to contribute much to TV topics), as they did their end-of-the-night duties while I finished my wine (and they finished theirs, Aziza's being closed by then).
From there, I went to Strange Matter for a show by the uber-talented Julie Karr, a performer whose shows I try not to miss.
For those who aren't familiar with her amazing talent, she has a sort of Fiona Apple voice, full of deepness and clarity. As I stood there surrounded by people who had never heard her before, I eavesdropped on their comments as they tried to wrap their heads around her raspy, beautiful voice.
She began by saying, "I forgot when you play here you compete with video games and the sounds of fighting demons like Pac-man." Honestly, Strange Matter's 80s video games were no match for what she was putting out.
And, because she's the self-deprecating type, she apologized for her guitar sounding jangly ("like an Indian adventure cruise") and her voice being congested (she's just over three days of the flu). No one in the room would have noticed either.
After a set of heartbreak and longing, she closed with an a capella number that silenced the room. Her gravelly ode to a match with the devil was mesmerizing. And, in typical Julie fashion, she finished with a joke about buying her CD so you could hear her some more.
The fact is, her voice stays with you like the taste of a magnificent seafood terrine. But even with a golden memory, you still want to experience it for real again.
Tonight I got to do both. Lucky me.
Until tonight.
I spent the day road tripping on the Northern Neck doing research for a piece I'm writing on wineries (I know, I know, but somebdy's got to do it). For road music, I went all-girl today: Nellie McKay for theatrics, Petula Clark for the retro touch and Neko Case for that voice and the heartbreak. Women and wine, it just made sense.
When I got home, I had a call from a friend suggesting dinner, but after a solitary day alone with my thoughts, I wasn't ready to do the dinner companion thing, at least not well, so I declined and decided on Aziza's alone instead.
Perfect choice. My favorite server welcomed me in, poured me the Marques de Riscal Tempranillo and gave me a moment with the menu, saying, "I don't need to explain any of that to you." No indeed.
And there it was, waiting for me: scallop and lobster terrine with mixed greens, leeft (turnips pickled in beet and jalapeno juice), pickled onions and anchovy aioli. Oh. My. God.
The slices of creamy terrine, with their delicate flavor and full of chunks of seafood, were atop a creamy lobster sauce set off perfectly by the tang of the leeft and the salty ailoi.
One bite and I was transported back to that restaurant on the Northern Neck that had introduced me to this dish. How had it taken so long for me to enjoy that sublime taste again?
Between the wine, the crusty bread, the terrine, and the Sinatra bandstand channel they were playing, it was a perfect meal.
My server friend provided just enough conversation when I wasn't reading the Post article about six DC chefs losing weight despite the restaurant lifestyle (kind of fascinating, actually). I couldn't have asked for anything more (alright, maybe...).
When it came time to make the big decision (cream puff: yea or nay?), she helped swing my vote to wine over dessert with a most compelling argument. Besides, that puff really is enormous for one person, not that I'm not talented in the dessert arena, although certainly less so than I once was. Wine it was.
The other server later joined our conversation on Fresca and food at Bottom bars, and I listened to their thoughts on the Biggest Loser and the Oprah channel (unable to contribute much to TV topics), as they did their end-of-the-night duties while I finished my wine (and they finished theirs, Aziza's being closed by then).
From there, I went to Strange Matter for a show by the uber-talented Julie Karr, a performer whose shows I try not to miss.
For those who aren't familiar with her amazing talent, she has a sort of Fiona Apple voice, full of deepness and clarity. As I stood there surrounded by people who had never heard her before, I eavesdropped on their comments as they tried to wrap their heads around her raspy, beautiful voice.
She began by saying, "I forgot when you play here you compete with video games and the sounds of fighting demons like Pac-man." Honestly, Strange Matter's 80s video games were no match for what she was putting out.
And, because she's the self-deprecating type, she apologized for her guitar sounding jangly ("like an Indian adventure cruise") and her voice being congested (she's just over three days of the flu). No one in the room would have noticed either.
After a set of heartbreak and longing, she closed with an a capella number that silenced the room. Her gravelly ode to a match with the devil was mesmerizing. And, in typical Julie fashion, she finished with a joke about buying her CD so you could hear her some more.
The fact is, her voice stays with you like the taste of a magnificent seafood terrine. But even with a golden memory, you still want to experience it for real again.
Tonight I got to do both. Lucky me.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Reading to an Omnivore
Because I'm so shallow I need the validation of others, I was hugely gratified to go to a fiction reading at Chop Suey Books and see every chair taken.
Even better, additional chairs had to be brought in.
Who would have guessed that so many people other than me wanted to be read to on a Saturday evening?
Marie Potoczny got things started by saying, "Get ready to weep," as she read one of her short stories, I Don't Want to Know What's Not a Good Idea.
The story of a woman dealing with loss and longing was made all the more touching for Potoczny's reading style.
Occasionally she even laughed at her own lines, endearing herself to the audience.
Favorite line: "Halitosis is inexcusable for someone in the talking profession."
The second author was Emma Rathbone and she was reading from her well-received book The Patterns of Paper Monsters.
The narrator of the book is a17-year old living in Juvenile Detention and Rathbone read a section detailing his thoughts and memories of girls and sex (some hysterical, but others, like sex with one of his foster mothers, a bit disturbing).
I'm not usually a fan of books about teens, but the character was so engagingly written that I found myself chuckling at his thoughts and observations despite myself.
I'm not sure I'll ever outgrow the pleasure of being read to, but then why do I need to as long as Ward keeps bringing in authors to share their words with me and other listeners?
Tonight's reading was such a pleasurable way to begin my night.
Dinner was at 821 Cafe and by sheer happenstance I ran into a musician friend who took the barstool next to me moments after I ordered my favorite black bean nachos.
Julie Karr, she of the big and bluesy singing voice, told me that she'd just recently finished recording a CD with Lance Koehler at Minimum Wage Studio in Oregon Hill.
I was excited for her because hers is the kind of voice I can listen to more often than she plays shows.
Julie's a vegan, so I felt mildly guilty when my cheese covered plate of beans showed up, because she'd said that cheese was about the only thing she'd ever missed since going vegan eight years ago.
I admire the vegan lifestyle, but I'm constitutionally unable to give up bacon.
Or any kind of pig for that matter.
Or, god forbid, cheese. Or butter. Or cheeseburgers.
Okay, I could never go vegetarian, much less vegan.
Fortunately, when it comes to eating, I do not need the validation of others.
Perhaps that means that I'm only selectively shallow.
Perhaps it just means I like to eat.
Everything.
Even better, additional chairs had to be brought in.
Who would have guessed that so many people other than me wanted to be read to on a Saturday evening?
Marie Potoczny got things started by saying, "Get ready to weep," as she read one of her short stories, I Don't Want to Know What's Not a Good Idea.
The story of a woman dealing with loss and longing was made all the more touching for Potoczny's reading style.
Occasionally she even laughed at her own lines, endearing herself to the audience.
Favorite line: "Halitosis is inexcusable for someone in the talking profession."
The second author was Emma Rathbone and she was reading from her well-received book The Patterns of Paper Monsters.
The narrator of the book is a17-year old living in Juvenile Detention and Rathbone read a section detailing his thoughts and memories of girls and sex (some hysterical, but others, like sex with one of his foster mothers, a bit disturbing).
I'm not usually a fan of books about teens, but the character was so engagingly written that I found myself chuckling at his thoughts and observations despite myself.
I'm not sure I'll ever outgrow the pleasure of being read to, but then why do I need to as long as Ward keeps bringing in authors to share their words with me and other listeners?
Tonight's reading was such a pleasurable way to begin my night.
Dinner was at 821 Cafe and by sheer happenstance I ran into a musician friend who took the barstool next to me moments after I ordered my favorite black bean nachos.
Julie Karr, she of the big and bluesy singing voice, told me that she'd just recently finished recording a CD with Lance Koehler at Minimum Wage Studio in Oregon Hill.
I was excited for her because hers is the kind of voice I can listen to more often than she plays shows.
Julie's a vegan, so I felt mildly guilty when my cheese covered plate of beans showed up, because she'd said that cheese was about the only thing she'd ever missed since going vegan eight years ago.
I admire the vegan lifestyle, but I'm constitutionally unable to give up bacon.
Or any kind of pig for that matter.
Or, god forbid, cheese. Or butter. Or cheeseburgers.
Okay, I could never go vegetarian, much less vegan.
Fortunately, when it comes to eating, I do not need the validation of others.
Perhaps that means that I'm only selectively shallow.
Perhaps it just means I like to eat.
Everything.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Trying Out Republic Before First Friday
Despite living in Jackson Ward, the epicenter of the arts district, I know enough not to try to eat in my neighborhood on First Friday evenings. Instead, Andrew and I decided to test uncharted waters by going to Republic before starting our gallery hopping.
For those who don't know, Republic is one of those places who opted to divide their restaurant with a door to allow for smoking and non-smoking sections. Despite an initial attempt to sit on the breathable side, it was completely full, so we settled for a table on the smokey side (and by smokey, I mean every bar patron was in full puff mode, including the cigar smokers). Our only consolation was that our table was at least in the far back on what was once the stage.
The food was...well, food. I had a really decent cup of soup of the day (a beef stew) followed by Grilled Chorizo and Ricotta canapes with sauteed onions and drizzled with balsamic reduction; essentially they were bruschetta with unnecessary frisee between the meat and cheese. Andrew had the Three Cheese Macaroni topped with Sauteed Shrimp. Enough said about the food.
Arriving back in J-Ward, our walk to Broad Street revealed plenty of parking and a surprisingly small number of attendees. Apparently Richmonders aren't willing to suffer the cold for the sake of art. At Ada Gallery, Bernard Martin's "New Hero" paintings were large-form takes on vintage comics with random elements included. They were striking, and at $8500 each pricey, but visually arresting to say the least. Ghostprint Gallery had carried over Deborah Turbeville's "Unseen Versailles "show, which I had seen last month. There was a film projection on the side of a building on Jefferson Street between Broad and Marshall, the first time I had seen that, but the temperature discouraged lingering to watch for long.
Gallery 5 was where the action was tonight with "Say Love: An Exhibition of Love and Hate." Photographs of ordinary people defining love and hate lined the walls. In the center of the room was James Robertson's sculpture of a seated figure on a bed. It was a striking centerpiece and the artist had not finished it until 5:20 today. I had a fascinating conversation with him about the installation work he is currently doing for the VMFA; unexpected moments like that are the best reason to attend First Fridays.
Obviously the police department had anticipated the light crowds because the usual traffic-directing and large police presence were absent. We did see cops on bike and foot, but they were more a part of the crowd than anything else, friendly and chatty.
I saw lots of interesting people at Gallery 5, including Tom Robinson, the G5 building's owner, who dropped to his knees to kiss my hand in greeting and what girl doesn't love that? I ran into a favorite fan of my blog with whom I enjoyed an empathetic conversation about my so-called life and then musician Julie Karr, she of the magnificent voice and throaty laugh. She and I caught up after months of not seeing each other; she was the third person this week to tell me I must go check out the magnificence of the recently reopened Cary Street Gym.
Performing live tonight at G5 were Nude Photos of Celebrities, who began with some technical difficulties and moved on to a post-punk kind of set which was quite enjoyable, sort of a wanna-be Bloc Party sound. The crowd was large and into it, but then a free show should always be worth a listen.
You'd think that after all the walking around we did, we might have lost the smokey scent we acquired at Republic, but that wasn't the case. Honestly, though, we aren't Republic's target customers so we'll know to leave our seats to those who are. In any case, they did provide sustenance for the remainder of a fine evening of art and music. And that's what the evening was really about anyway.
For those who don't know, Republic is one of those places who opted to divide their restaurant with a door to allow for smoking and non-smoking sections. Despite an initial attempt to sit on the breathable side, it was completely full, so we settled for a table on the smokey side (and by smokey, I mean every bar patron was in full puff mode, including the cigar smokers). Our only consolation was that our table was at least in the far back on what was once the stage.
The food was...well, food. I had a really decent cup of soup of the day (a beef stew) followed by Grilled Chorizo and Ricotta canapes with sauteed onions and drizzled with balsamic reduction; essentially they were bruschetta with unnecessary frisee between the meat and cheese. Andrew had the Three Cheese Macaroni topped with Sauteed Shrimp. Enough said about the food.
Arriving back in J-Ward, our walk to Broad Street revealed plenty of parking and a surprisingly small number of attendees. Apparently Richmonders aren't willing to suffer the cold for the sake of art. At Ada Gallery, Bernard Martin's "New Hero" paintings were large-form takes on vintage comics with random elements included. They were striking, and at $8500 each pricey, but visually arresting to say the least. Ghostprint Gallery had carried over Deborah Turbeville's "Unseen Versailles "show, which I had seen last month. There was a film projection on the side of a building on Jefferson Street between Broad and Marshall, the first time I had seen that, but the temperature discouraged lingering to watch for long.
Gallery 5 was where the action was tonight with "Say Love: An Exhibition of Love and Hate." Photographs of ordinary people defining love and hate lined the walls. In the center of the room was James Robertson's sculpture of a seated figure on a bed. It was a striking centerpiece and the artist had not finished it until 5:20 today. I had a fascinating conversation with him about the installation work he is currently doing for the VMFA; unexpected moments like that are the best reason to attend First Fridays.
Obviously the police department had anticipated the light crowds because the usual traffic-directing and large police presence were absent. We did see cops on bike and foot, but they were more a part of the crowd than anything else, friendly and chatty.
I saw lots of interesting people at Gallery 5, including Tom Robinson, the G5 building's owner, who dropped to his knees to kiss my hand in greeting and what girl doesn't love that? I ran into a favorite fan of my blog with whom I enjoyed an empathetic conversation about my so-called life and then musician Julie Karr, she of the magnificent voice and throaty laugh. She and I caught up after months of not seeing each other; she was the third person this week to tell me I must go check out the magnificence of the recently reopened Cary Street Gym.
Performing live tonight at G5 were Nude Photos of Celebrities, who began with some technical difficulties and moved on to a post-punk kind of set which was quite enjoyable, sort of a wanna-be Bloc Party sound. The crowd was large and into it, but then a free show should always be worth a listen.
You'd think that after all the walking around we did, we might have lost the smokey scent we acquired at Republic, but that wasn't the case. Honestly, though, we aren't Republic's target customers so we'll know to leave our seats to those who are. In any case, they did provide sustenance for the remainder of a fine evening of art and music. And that's what the evening was really about anyway.
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