An Auvergne Kind of Evening

So now I know I can sub out for a 92-year old woman.

Holmes and Beloved had an extra ticket for the symphony because his Mom had plans and couldn't use it.

Enter moi, who, when asked if she wanted to be taken to the symphony, responded with a resounding yes.

The invitation came with pick-up service and I even got to choose the pre-theater dinner location: Aziza's.

Most of the tables were taken or reserved, but we preferred sitting at the bar anyway, reservations be damned.

Holmes chose a South African sauvignon blanc and we started with a cheese plate of buttery and grassy-tasting Point Reyes Toma and Fourme d'Ambert, a creamy bleu from Auvergne.

Here's where I get nerdy. Auvergne was a recurring theme tonight, although I didn't know it at this point.

The cheeses came with the loveliest toasted fruit and nut bread, a welcome change to the ubiquitous baguette slices.

Because my couple date had never had gnudi, we got the ricotta and spinach version in a decadent sage butter so they could experience pasta-less ravioli.

Overhead, the music was fine with songs by Al Green and Gladys Knight and the Pips audible when the dining room wasn't too lively.

To compensate for the absent pasta, we also had some of the real thing, garganelli with broccoli rabe and hot Italian sausage in a garlic white wine sauce, a dish that led to a discussion of the wonders of really good Italian sausage.

A guy who'd been eating by himself came over while we were eating it and said he'd heard us say we were going to the symphony.

He wanted to tell us he'd been recently and been overwhelmed by Verdi's breathtaking crescendos, describing his rapture to strangers. Then he remembered himself and wished us a good evening.

For our last savory course we got octopus (from Spain, according to the menu) with sauteed red Russian kale, chickpeas, mixed peppers and walnuts, an appetizer so generously-sized it could have been an entree for one.

And the R & B played on.

We were quickly running out of time to have dessert and get to CenterStage, but what's the point in going to Aziza's and not getting cream puffs?

Our fate was sealed with two puffs split three ways as we pondered cream puffs versus eclairs and ate every crumb of both.

Holmes even took a swipe of some leftover cream on Beloved's plate before it was whisked away.

Don't judge until you, too, have been faced with these fat beauties even after you've had enough food to last you the weekend and still can't resist.

And then it was back up the hill to hear a local celebrity sing her heart out.

Former Chesterfield County resident Kate Lindsey, now a rising mezzo-soprano who sings with the Metropolitan Opera and Los Angeles opera, was in the house.

Booya and all that.

The only sour note was that our seats were directly in front of three overly-perfumed women with Paula Deen-like southern accents (Deltaville managed to be four syllables: del-ta-vee-ul) and an incessant need to talk.

After hearing the prelude to "Carmen," Kate came out in a stunning copper-colored evening gown and began the process of reminding Richmonders how proud they were that she'd come from their midst.

"Well, Kate, welcome home!" conductor Steven Smith greeted her.

"Hey, y'all," she called out to the adoring crowd. When he asked her for memories, she recalled family trips into the city for shows and eating.

"We used to come downtown and eat at the Robin Inn. Is it still there?" she asked to much delight.

She went on to do a major shout-out to symphony librarian (also bass player for Goldrush and the symphony) Matt Gold, citing his hard work in tracking down all the music for tonight's program.

"You have to search and search for all this stuff," she said. "And there's 15 different versions of each one. Thank you, Matt, for making it happen."

Looking over at Matt behind his bass, his handsome face was grinning even wider than usual.

She also graciously thanked all her music and drama teachers dating back to elementary school and, of course, her parents, sitting somewhere down front.

Her first piece was selections from Canteloube's "Chants d'Auvergne," an unexpected thread from our cheese plate earlier.

Make fun of me all you want, but how often do you suppose I'm served a cheese and folk music selections from the same part of central France in one evening?

And, yes, I'm aware of what it says about me that I even noticed such a thing.

Kate was a bit stiff for the first couple of songs, arms hanging at her side like slabs of meat on a hook, but by the third song, she began slipping into character and her demonstrative hand gestures added a great deal to her interpretation of the songs.

She left for the Debussy that ended the first half and after intermission, Kate came out to stay, naturally in another knockout of a dress.

Doing arias from a variety of composers, she played Cinderella, Ophelia and a duchess who far preferred the array of men in the military to the one man who'd been chosen for her to marry. She played that role to the hilt, vamping and flirting with the imaginary men.

But she got her biggest reaction when she came out with a bottle of champagne and a glass for Offenbach's "Ah, quel diner" from "La Perichole," playing it for all kinds of laughs.

Ah, what a dinner I just ate!
And what an extraordinary wine!
I drank so much, so very much
I believe that now
I'm a little tipsy. But hush!
Should not we say, shh!

Of course, she was singing it in French, complete with hiccups, stagger and more pouring and drinking and the audience ate it up.

When the song ended, she meandered off stage with the champagne glass waving high over her head.

The performance closed with a Spanish-influenced Ravel piece that did not involved the lovely Kate.

It seemed an unlikely way to end a show with our favorite local opera singer.

So out she came and held up a finger to indicate she had a surprise.

Launching into "Shenandoah," the loudest mouth behind us announced, "Oh, god, now I'm going to cry!" but fortunately that was the last we heard of her.

Kate's rendition of the American folk song was sublime, the added meaning of a song about leaving Virginia making it all the more poignant.

I don't know Kate Lindsey from Adam, but hearing her sing that song so beautifully, so achingly, was truly a high point in music-going for me.

A transcendent moment courtesy of our very own Richmond symphony and a local girl.

Thanks, Mrs. Holmes' Mom. I owe you big time.

What a dinner! What an evening! And I'm not even tipsy.

Melodic Little Pill

You can't count on many Memorial Day Sunday throwdowns that involve the spawn of a Beatle.

And yet, here we had one tonight, being thrown down at the Camel.

Risa Binder and Goldrush were opening for the son of Sir Paul McCartney, James.

Given that it's the second day of a three day weekend, I never thought for a minute that the show would start on time (8:00).

And yet when I arrived at 8:23, I caught only the last of Risa's songs before her set ended.

I hate when that happens.

I found a music buddy who works at the National to chat with (heard a fabulous story of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon being led down Broad Street in a shower towel drunk) while Goldrush set up.

I'd already heard from bandleader Prabir that they were playing as a trio, not a quartet tonight, with the assurance, "This is just a tangent. We'll get back to being a quartet."

As huge Beatles fans, I felt sure that Goldrush's adrenaline was running especially hard tonight.

Working off of Prabir's phone for their set list ("We've gone paperless at Goldrush," he said), the band played a bunch of newer songs, including one violinist Treesa and bassist Matt had written for Prabir's birthday.

Mid-song, a threesome came in and proceeded to stand directly in front of the stage.

The problem was, everyone else in the room was sitting, and the only standing people were against the wall.

The man behind me got huffy at his blocked view, demanding of his server, "Is this the way it's gonna be?" to which she shrugged.

"No, really!" he said to show his displeasure at having a potentially blocked view of Macca 2.

I eventually asked the trio to move to the side and they did.

Goldrush sounded really strong and the crowd repaid them with an almost Listening Room-attentiveness.

Or maybe they were just captivated by a band with a purple-haired violinist in the cutest pencil skirt and slingbacks.

When they finished, a friend came over and said, "You were right! I like them better as a trio!"

But as we discussed, some rooms require a bigger sound and then you need your drummer.

Bassist Matt put it best. "I miss my Gregs. The trio sound is the sound of my loneliness."

Kind of breaks your heart, doesn't it?

During the break, I saw Prabir signing CDs for fans. So cute.

The stage was set for James McCartney's set with a piano, lots of guitars and even more candles.

"Ooh, very atmospheric," a friend said. "I like it."

I like how he rhymed "right" and "shite," but then, I'm a language geek.

In fact, I liked a lot of his British phrasing, including the title of the second song he did, "Life's a Pill."

Life is a pill
Give it to me now

An inordinate number of his song titles were one word - "Angel," "Bluebell," "Wisteria-" and, yes, he looks a lot like Dad, especially around the eyes and mouth.

Especially when his lips were pursed.

His show attire was a black t-shirt with leather braces hanging at his side.

"Thanks for coming out," he said by way of greeting. "I do have a song called "Virginia" on my new album, but I'm not gonna play it tonight. Just thought I'd mention that."

And then he launched into "You and Me, Individually."

Hey, he's Paul McCartney's son; he can do whatever the hell he pleases, I'm sure.

And he wanted to do Neil Young's "Old Man," full of lyrics one could take any number of ways.

Old man, look at my life
I'm a lot like you were

The man had a powerful voice (good DNA, you know), and whether he was playing guitar or piano, a talented musician.

What he wasn't was much of a talker.

At one point fairly far in, he joked, "I'll try not to not talk a little. Okay, this song is "Snow" and it's about spiders and things."

After pulling his braces up, apropos of nothing, he announced, "Who likes awkward conversations? Yea, I do, too."

So that explained that.

He closed his set with the single, "Strong as You," from his new album, saying, "I wrote this while listening to "Here Comes the Sun."

Hard for me to say 
How happy I am
Happy man
I am strong enough
To make it through
I am strong enough
Strong as you

When he returned for his encore (led by an assistant with a flashlight, no less), he did three songs for the crowd who hadn't budged when he walked off.

After doing "New York Times," he said, "If that song was my penultimate song, this song is my grand finale. It's called "Thinkin' About Rock and Roll."

I doubt there was ever a moment in his life when he could think about anything else.

Which made it my de rigueur Memorial Day Sunday throwdown.

A Mad and Faithful Telling

I promised my mother I'd eat pancakes today

And I meant to, I really did (not that I'm a good Catholic girl or anything), but the evening got away from me.

But not the celebrating, which began with an overdue happy hour with a theater type.

We met at Heritage by default because she was parked near it, but I knew better and should have changed course.

Instead, I walked right up to it, passing a man by the door who said, "Those are great tights," without ever breaking stride or making eye contact with me.

Since Heritage got two stellar reviews, it looks to be busy every night I drive by it.

Which is great, except that means no more happy hour prices and why would anyone be drinking for full price at 5:45 in this town?

It had been over a month since Maxine's daughter and I last met up, so as soon as I got my Virginia on with a glass of the oh-so-smooth Breaux Vineyards Equation Merlot X, she insisted we order something off the menu that boasts, "Chef/ Daddy Joe Sparatta."

I'd say congrats were in order.

We chose the Virginia cheese plate  (Mountaineer, Appalachian, Grayson) to go with the local wine along with a charcuterie plate.

Tasso ham, beef summer sausage, lomo, Berkshire lardo, and duck ham sat next to pickled quails' egg halves, pickled veggies and pimento cheese.

Pick-up food allowed us to grab bites between stories about dated plays, gun talk at parties and storytelling with a mic.

And that was just her.

Meanwhile, the restaurant was filling up non-stop, making our stools valuable real estate.

A man came in and eyed one stool next to her and one next to me.

After requesting us to move down, I agreed but asked what was in it for me.

"A glass of wine?" he offered. My backside slid over in no time.

By 8:00, the joint was jumping, we'd both been debriefed and she was off to have dinner with her husband.

What else was there for me to do but get myself to a Mardi Gras party?

If not today, I was going to have to wait a while for another opportunity to laissez les bons temps rouler.

It was being hosted by two of the Richmond Symphony's finest, also known as Treesa and Matt of Goldrush.

So, right there, that assured me I'd know a bunch of people plus there'd be symphony types.

Hell, yea.

Walking up the sidewalk to their abode, a neighbor came down her steps, stopped and complimented my tights.

One of the guests socializing on the front porch stopped me on the way in and insisted on putting beads on me so as to be spared an attack by Treesa, apparently tonight's bead pusher.

The guy got one strand around my neck before I let him know that I'm really not the jewelry type, even on Lent eve.

Inside, I learned that Matt reads my blog when he told me, "I hope other people don't read your blog like I do. Blah, blah, Matt, blah, blah, Goldrush."

I think it's safe to say they do, Matt.

The party got dancing in earnest when M.J.'s "PYT" came on, but Matt stopped it toward the end and settled into a slower groove.

"Classy, huh?" he asked me, pointing at me. "I changed the music for you."

I was fine, I told him. I like "PYT."

You see, Matt and I have a history when it comes to the music he plays at his parties.

At their housewarming extravaganza two summers ago, I'd blogged some harsh words about his party mix. Something exactly along the lines of:

Prince, Janet Jackson and Rick Astley (the evening's wild card and actually a treat to hear after so long) I could handle, but Journey and Billy Joel made my skin crawl. But it wasn't my party.

I'd completely forgotten what I'd written but during a Nas song, Matt sidled up in his hat and mask and when I said I'd been expecting an eclectic mix from him tonight, said, "Apparently you aren't the only person who doesn't like Rick Astley and Journey."

You don't say?

Still, if I can do my small part to enrich parties at Gold Manor, I know I will sleep better at night.

Because I'd arrived midway through the party, the jambalaya was pretty much gone.

I was offered some bourbon punch, a concoction of bourbon, ice cream, fruit juicy red Hawaiian Punch and god knows what else.

I demurred because I don't drink bourbon, but the best assessment came from a music-loving girl I know from shows.

Gesturing toward the punch bowl, she said, "That would be a horrible thing to puke."

It was never even an option.

King cake was brought out and while I didn't give a fig about finding the baby in the cake, I did enjoy several slivers of it while chatting with a favorite drummer about the importance of dating someone whose musical passion matches your own.

As expected, the party was full of musicians and friends I knew and symphony musicians I didn't.

One, a handsome and new-to-the symphony violinist, walked up to the host and inquired, "Where are the single women?"

No question, men outnumbered women, so I felt his pain.

Luckily, he didn't have to suffer at an all night party.

Our hosts had informed us that they had to be up at 6 a.m., so they wanted us partied and out by midnight.

Fair enough.

By that time, Treesa had draped me with additional pink and green beads she deemed more coordinated with my outfit.

Matt had me laughing like mad when he lectured me about longevity, saying, "Don't give me that, "Back in my day we had cell phones stuck to the walls" bullshit!"

The guitarist had raved about the recent Milkstains show and how good they'd sounded.

The drummer had kindly invited me to his upcoming birthday celebration.

The music lover already knew what upcoming shows I'm going to, thanks to Facebook (I'm hoping).

And, Mom, I had enough king cake (i.e., flour and sugar topping) to make up for the pancakes (also known as flour and sugar topping) I promised but never ate.

So maybe I'll start Ash Wednesday by stacking 'em high to make up for it.

I'll even wear my beads while I eat them.

Begin My Blisteringly Fast Romantic Period

It was my last time subbing for Mom and I knew it.

That is, my last couple date for the symphony because my friend's Mom (whose ticket I was using) will soon be back in town and she'll be wanting to go to the rest of the season with her son and his girlfriend.

So she'll be the one meeting them for dinner beforehand.

For our last symphony date, I chose Chez Foushee for dinner and was rewarded with a window table right over the heat vent.

Our server kept asking if it was getting too warm but after the bitter cold and driving wind outside, I thought it felt divine.

In my perfect world, there's always a heat vent under the table.

Considering we'd walked in without a reservation and every table was taken except the one we got for which they'd just moments before had a cancellation, we were pretty damn lucky.

We began with a bottle of Mont Marcal Cava because it's always a party when the three of us get together.

Given the chill factor, I began with a zesty tomato soup as creamy as a bisque and with spiced croutons floating on top.

I decided that the perfect accompaniment was the Comte "grilled cheese" with wild mushrooms and beef marrow.

The earthy mushrooms and marrow atop thick-slices of bread and smothered in the slightly sweet and oh-so strong Gruyere-like cheese, made for the most adult of grilled cheeses.

My friend's girlfriend, born and raised in the Museum District, had fond memories of the space, recalling when it housed her hairdresser's salon.

"The shampoo station used to be right over there," she said pointing to the side. She's always a treasure trove of tidbits about RVA before I got here.

We didn't have time for dessert, so we left craving it and heading to CenterStage.

Tonight's program went something like this: minimalist, romantic, romantic.

Naturally the minimalist was the American and the romantics the Europeans.

"The Chairman Dances" by John Adams and written in 1985 was conceived of as a prelude to the opera "Nixon in China."

No, really.

Not surprisingly, it had a soundtrack feel to it, but I found plenty to like in the twelve-minute piece.

Mendelssohn's "Die Erste Walpurgisnacht" offered up three soloists and the Richmond Symphony Chorus for a dramatic piece about druids and Christians and fairies and sacrifices.

You know, the usual things poets write about.

My friend Homes, ever the musician, observed afterwards, "You don't often get to see that many down bows in one piece."

I'm sure that's true and I'm equally sure I'd never have noticed.

After intermission and a spirited discussion of dessert options, we got to the main event, Beethoven's "Seventh Symphony."

Fast best describes the movements of the piece and the program even said some parts were "blisteringly so."

Watching my friend Matt Gold play double bass, I loved seeing his handsome head move with emphasis in the blistering parts.

I know for a fact what a fan of Romantic Period composers he is.

By mutual decision, we decided to stop at Pasture when we left the theater and score some long-awaited dessert.

Bellying up to the bar, we got a bottle of Ruffino Prosecco and a couple of chocolate candy bars, that fabulous dessert of chocolate that stops just short of fudge with hazelnut crunch, Nutella and chocolate that Pasture does so well.

I may have enjoyed it even more than usual given that there had been such a gap between my savory and sweet courses.

There's a lot to be said for anticipation.

By the same token, there's a lot to be said for blisteringly fast, at least when it comes to some things.

Like Beethoven. Or better yet, a romantic period.

Street Art, Shoegaze and Strangers

Every now and then, a girl's got to cross the river...always, mind you, for a good reason. Tonight's incentive was Strassen Kunst, an exhibit at Artspace of ten graffiti artists whose work was painted, stenciled and projected on the walls, along with additional photographs of graffiti art from Berlin.

There was even a model of a graffiti artist in process, clad in a black hoodie and jeans, holding a can of spray paint (which fell mid-opening, amusing the artists in the room. "His hand went dead," one explained. "You know that feeling?").

Because so many of the images were from Germany, it was only natural that the occasional tag in English caught my eye. Among my favorites; "Smiling makes me thin" (great concept), "Catalonia is NOT Spain" (but what do you really think?) and "Too. Much. Thought." (a sin I am often guilty of). Some of the canvasses were floor to ceiling, impressive for their presence in the room, but even so, scaled back compared to buildings and walls as canvasses.

Seeing the proliferation of street art in Berlin, a city which would have been a blank canvas after the wall came down, was a thoughtful reminder that sometimes the best use of derelict and deteriorating buildings may be sanctioned public art. It's something I'd like to see addressed in RVA.

Heading back to the city, traffic was halted at the south end of the Mayo bridge for a flock of geese crossing. They took their sweet time about it and I could see drivers around me getting impatient. I just sat back and enjoyed watching their leisurely saunter and nipping antics with each other. It was still about 97 degrees so I understood them not being in a hurry.

Further up and waiting at a light, I saw a group of skateboarders practicing tricks over the canal walk. From the back, one looked awfully familiar and when he turned in profile, I saw it was one of Ipanema's low-key bartenders whom I know well. He must have felt my eyes boring into his back 'cause he turned and waved hello. And speaking of heat, skateboarding today? That's dedication, man.

I deposited the car in the Ward and walked over to Gallery 5 for music, eager to hear the Diamond Center again. I love their shimmery shoegaze sound (with two standing drummers even!) but they were having sound issues due to sweat. Taking a moment to fix it, the lead singer said, "This is the part of the show where I should probably entertain you, but I'm so awkward at it. Like now."

After their set I ran into Prabir (he and the Goldrush were playing later) and he showed me his current reading material. It was a thin red booklet called The Art of Kissing and published in 1936 with illustrations. Prabir said he'd taken it from a girl's nightstand in order to study it. He seemed to think I'd be interested and, okay, I was.

With chapters on French kissing, electric shock parties and lip size, there was a lot of information in this handy guide. I read it cover to cover during a set break and it generated a lot of conversation for me, as you might imagine. Here's a tip, guys: arrange it so that the girl is up against the arm of the couch for easiest kissing maneuvering.

Matt, bass player for the Goldrush, had earlier promised me a better sound mix for their set (in past shows his bass has been inaudible behind the drums, something he and I detest) and it wasn't an empty promise. When he waled on his giant bass I could hear it in the back of the room near the bar (where I'd taken up residence since it was the only place in the room where the air conditioning could be felt). If you're going to be a four-piece, all four instruments should be heard. Finally they were.

Walking home past Crossroads, a neighborhood place that must have been a nip joint in a previous incarnation, men were milling about everywhere. One guy said to me, "You're not done for the night are you?" and another, calling down from the stairs that lead to the second floor, said, "Are you coming up to join us?" I declined both offers, but appreciated the thoughts.

I was within a block of home when my former Whiskey Wednesday neighbor appeared on the sidewalk. After having moved to the Fan a while back, he missed the Ward so much that he's moved back. I'd told him that that would happen; once Jackson Ward is in your blood, nothing else will do.

Personal validation aside, it was still good to see him and hear about his latest antics, including a trip to West Virginia for the All Good Festival. Endless jam band performances and a cornucopia of drugs available (LSD and pink mushrooms seemed to be the crowd favorites, he told me) seemed to be the hallmarks of this obscure festival. Or perhaps it's just obscure to me because I'm not a jam band fan.

When I finally made it home, it was to find a message from a stranger complimenting my Facebook picture (it has a lot in common with my blog profile picture) which he'd found through random surfing. "Do I know you?" I wrote back challenging his nerve.

But just look at my blog posts...or my life. Random could be my middle name.