The Devil's Time

My evening began with a lesson in self-appreciation.

On my way to dinner, I stopped at the drugstore where a woman gasped and pointed at my legs, "I loooove your tights, girl!" Thanking her, I said they were an inexpensive Target pair, a confidence that got her talking.

"I bought myself some cute ones like that and wore them to church with a sweater dress and not too hootchie-kootcie, either," she said, gesturing to a skirt length far longer than mine. "You should have seen the nasty looks I got in church. I told them don't hate on me because I got these nice legs"

She outweighed me by a hundred pounds minimum and she was as confident about her nice legs as I am about my old ones.

We were soul sisters, she and I.

On that high note, I went to Curry Craft for dinner, finding it satisfyingly busy with a lot of Indian people and a table of gabbing women, so I became the lone bar sitter.

My place in the universe is secure. While I am happy to be that person at the bar sitting alone, if I'd thought it through, I'd have brought some reading material.

One of the servers took pity on me, coming over after putting my order in to chat me up, asking what I do.

Poor thing, before my food arrived, he heard about my walking and music show going and took questions about how he fills his days (applying to graduate school and doing laundry).

I bet he was glad when my Juhu beach-style chaat, a medium-hot melange of puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions, pomegranate and spices and naan arrived, saving him from further interrogation.

Karawali prawns made killer hot with roasted tomato, clove, chili and garlic masala was balanced by lemon/curry leaf vinaigrette drizzled on the plate for contrasting color and flavor.

Full as a tick after a lovely, albeit unusually quiet, meal, I left in the pouring rain to go to Balliceaux for music.

My first stop was the loo, where I found wall art saying, "Trouble, Come Home," with an arrow pointing toward the back room.

Underneath it, someone had scrawled, "Tried."

We can't always accomplish what we set out to do.

Ombak was just about to start and I wouldn't have wanted to miss any of their set. It's been close to three years since they played out and, having seen them three or four times before that, I knew what a treat they are.

The band is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class.

All of them - bandleader Bryan Hooten, Brian Jones, JC Kuhl, Trey Pollard and Cam Ralston- are so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.

Tonight I sat back to enjoy their intriguing sound full of odd time signatures, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between, with a couple of music lovers I knew.

On "Island," Brian Jones was so busy drumming on every possible part of his drum kit that I half expected him to reach over his shoulder and start playing on the wooden frame of the window above his head. Cam's sheet music kept getting knocked off the stand by the bows coming off his bass.

Introducing "Megatron," Bryan observed that it was obvious these were old songs by the cultural references; "Island" came from the TV show "Lost" and "Megatron" came from the Transformers series.

While the titles may have been a tad dated, the music was as fresh as a daisy.

Watching the musicians take such delight in each others' solos is a big part of the Ombak experience for the audience.

And tonight that small, jazz-loving crowd was as respectful as a listening room, an utterly rare occurrence at Balliceaux.

After intermission, they played an abbreviated but still stellar rendition of "Aware" off the "Framing the Void" album most of us in the room probably own.

Before launching into "Listen to the World," Cam looked at the music, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, man!" and causing Bryan to check with him to see if he still wanted to do it.

"Suuuure," the bassist said, evoking the anything goes philosophy of the night, also evident before they did Brian Jones' "R.H.," a nod to Pittsburgh drummer Roger Humphries.

"Let's vamp first," Brian instructed the band.

"It's cool, baby," leader Bryan agreed, head bobbing as the song exploded.

"Fresh out of the oven" he called the brand new song "Collapses," warning that it wasn't fully cooked before knocking everyone's socks off with a 5/4 beat that a musician near me identified as "devil's time."

Next time I'm having a difficult go of something, that's how I'll refer to it.

They finished with a Tuvan folk melody, with Bryan saying, "I don't know what it's about because I don't speak Tuvan."

It began with Cam bowing his bass for a change and Brian playing drums with no sticks and made all the better by guitarist Trey Pollard sliding notes into each other to mimic Tuvan throat singing.

God, these guys are good.

The best news is that Ombak is back and planning to play one night a month at Balliceaux for the foreseeable future.

If Ombak is trouble, they tried and have finally come home.

It's cool, baby. So cool.

Meeting My Match(es) at Balliceaux

"We'd have had a great time at the wedding if we hadn't fallen down so much."

Tonight's couple date was priceless for many reasons, but the above comment, offered to our server who had also been at the wedding, is example enough.

I met said couple at Pescado's China Street, a place they'd never been but were eager to try, especially when I told them that it was half price wine night. A bottle of Montecillo Albarino was a mere $13.50, positively irresistible to my friends.Me? I was along for the ride.

To buy time, we ordered the Happy Oysters with Caribbean slaw, hoping that they were as lightly breaded as promised. They were. The slaw was fabulous, spicy, crunchy and as good a complement for the crusty oysters as could be hoped for.

While catching up on theater, art and first dates, we gobbled the oysters and ordered dinner. He went with paella deconstructed, she with crab cakes and I with the saffron mussels. roasted pork belly, purple potatoes and white wine/saffon/serrano broth.

We hadn't seen each other since St. Patrick's Day, so there was much to discuss. She's as big an art geek as I am, so I told her about today's visit to the museum. They told me about their Restaurant Week forays.

Owner Bob Windsor came in and I introduced him to my first-timer friends. Before I knew it, they were comparing who they knew who had attended T.J. I sat quietly and pretended like they were discussing something interesting.

We finished up with the dessert special of the day, a roasted banana cheesecake. Although the girlfriend and I are no fans of cheesecake, this one lacked the cloying sweetness of your typical cheesecake and all three of us found it to have a deep and delicious flavor. It didn't make me like cheesecake any better, but it was the best kind of exception to a rule.

My friend inexplicably commented on, of all things, my breasts, and it was at that point that we ended the evening. They  were headed home and I was going to Balliceaux for music and Salneval Albarino.

Ombak was playing, but I stopped at the front bar to see a favorite bartender and the next thing I knew, I was deep in conversation with a professor of philosophy at UR. We had a surprising amount in common.

She was there with a friend who was already in the back room listening to Ombak, but that didn't stop her from lingering with me and discussing gender roles and music, she also being a National fanatic.

All of a sudden, things changed when she headed to the back room and a couple of unlikely guys breezed in. It was the bartender from Bobette and the Welshman I'd recently met there and they were ready for some fun.

We were soon joined by the wine pro and it resulted in all kinds of fascinating and varied conversations. Up for grabs were the British monarchy, tennis parties and restaurant owners taking time off.

Personal  highlights were many. Multiple requests to leave lip prints abounded (no, I'm not kissing any shirttails) for no clear reason. Amongst the the  most satisfying commentary:

The bartender: "Karen's not like any other girl."
The Welshman: "You're quite the lovely person."
The wine pro: "Reading you is a guilty pleasure."

And while I got to hear Ombak from the front bar, I never actually saw the band performing tonight (in the past, yes). It's not that I'm easily distracted, but this was not your usual bar distraction; each of them had lots to say to me and the group. I got my shoulders rubbed, my blog complimented and my humor tickled.

But to be clear, no one was falling down; this was not like a wedding. We were just happy to see each other.

Of course, what happened after I left them, I have no idea.

Swedish Pop Rocks

People who go camping are really intense. That's what was on the TV screen when I walked into Lemaire this evening to meet a friend.

My only basis for agreeing with that sentiment is that a few years back, I had a date with a guy and we were chatting about something unrelated when suddenly he said, "Do you camp? Cause my ex-wife didn't camp and I love to camp." Fairly intense, I thought. First and last date for sure.

My friend was running late so I went ahead and ordered a bottle of Sicilian wine, the 2006 Fuedo Maccari ReNoto Nero d'Alva/Syrah, so her glass was filled and waiting for her when she arrived.

It had been a month since our last date and she'd had both flu and a crisis of relationship in that time. But what she couldn't wait for was details of my recent dates, so we alternated with our stories until we both knew everything that had happened in the other's world.

One of the funniest moments was when a suit walked directly up to us, stopped a foot away and made an abrupt right turn, apparently having just realized that he didn't know us after all. We looked at each other and laughed out loud.

As usual for the two of us, the discussion lasts as long as the bottle and cheese (tonight Midnight Moon and Humbolt Fog) do before we both have places to be, but not before I've been thoroughly grilled.

My plans were at the University of Richmond for a screening of The Desert of Forbidden Art, a documentary about a secret art museum in Soviet Uzbekistan where, in defiance of the KGB, a driven and dedicated curator assembled an enormous collection of paintings by avant-garde artists who settled there after the Russian Revolution in 1917.

This man was such a fanatic about collecting the forbidden art that he made twenty 1700=mile trips to take the art he bought from Moscow to Uzbekistan. Interestingly, most of the artists have no name recognition because of the Soviet government having banned them.

To an art history lover like me, this documentary was fascinating, made more so by all the archival film and still footage the government had taken, stored and forgotten. It fleshed out the historical parts of the film in such a compelling way.

The director, Amanda Pope, took questions afterwards and told of years of trying to get the money to make the film.

Once she saw an out-of-print book of the museum's contents, she was driven by a desire to have Western documentation of the extensive collection for fear that something may happen to the outlying museum and its unparalleled collection; Islamic fundamentalists have been known to destroy art in the region.

The film was a sobering reminder about the role art plays in culture and a gift for the look at some of the magnificent canvasses, many of them never before seen. It'll be interesting to see what kind of response the film gets once it is in theatrical release (it premieres in NYC this weekend).

From the far reaches of UR, I drove to Balliceaux for music, parking the car on Hanover and heading down the street. I was stopped in my tracks in front of Pie by their sign touting avocado nachos- $6. Sold!

I'd never heard of such a thing, but I'm a big avocado fan and a certified nacho lover, so I was game for something different. Inside, there was only one other couple downstairs and I was invited to have my choice of tables.

In no time at all, my nachos were in front of me and showing plenty of sliced avocado throughout. They also had jalapenos, tomatoes, shredded lettuce and the requisite cheese and sour cream, but it was the nature's butter that made these special.

I didn't recognize the music, so I had to inquire of my personable server what it was (DJ Shadow) and that led to a most excellent discussion of music and photography. We discovered we have a mutual admiration for Swedish pop and even exchanged recommendations.

It makes my day when that happens. As I write, I'm listening to Mike Snow at Adam's suggestion, reveling in being introduced to music I'm seriously enjoying because of a chance encounter with another music lover.

At Balliceaux, Ombak's set was already audible when I walked in, but I stopped to chat with Austin who's enjoying rubbing my face in the fact that he's seeing Beach House this weekend and I'm not. I have seen them, but not since "Teen Dream" came out; I adore that album and would love to hear it played live.

Also at the bar was musician Marshall and I made the colossal error in judgment of throwing my arms around him.

Within seconds I was sneezing and he asked, "Are you allegoric to cats?" Um, yes. His jacket was covered in cat hair it turned out and I continued to react to him even as we went into the back room for music.

Ombak is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class. Everyone - Hooten, Jones, Kuhl, Pollard and Ralston- is so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.

Brian Jones was playing Chris Farmer's drum set (Chris was headlining) and noted that it was fun to watch Brian play his set and have to make adjustments throughout because they weren't his usual drums.

I pointed out that given his virtuosity, Brian probably enjoys the challenge of it and both Chris and Marshall agreed.

Farmer's drumming, played to recorded tracks, is hard hitting. A video of a train passing over a camera on the tracks played repeatedly during his first song; it seemed like an apt metaphor for being run over by the sheer amount of energetic sound he produces.

Eventually my sneezing became a royal pain and I excused myself, satisfied at having heard some outstanding music after a delicious take on an old favorite dish, following a moving and revealing documentary once I parted from my friend and some important girl talk.

Just don't call me intense because I don't go camping.

Bastille Day at Bouchon

I really had no intention of celebrating Bastille Day but how could I resist a party invitation from a Frenchman? Francis and Wendy at Bouchon were throwing a soiree as a thank you for those they referred to as loyal supporters, as well as to celebrate French independence. All of a sudden I was on the Bastille Day bandwagon.

When I arrived, it was business as usual up front in the restaurant but the bar area in the back was jam-packed with other loyals in full party swing. The charming Olivier was pouring as fast as two French hands can pour and both Francis and Wendy were passing trays of delectables (tiny pea-stuffed tomatoes, pork rillete crostini, tuna-stuffed mushrooms, fish mousse on bread crisps) to the noisy crowd.

I found my spot at the end of the bar, tucked against the wall, the perfect vantage point for both crowd observation and servicing by Olivier. At one point, he brought over a tray of goodies, saying that Francis had told him to bring them to me. "He's trying to fatten me up," I told Olivier, taking two. "We like our women with curves," Olivier said, leaning on the bar and speaking for Frenchmen everywhere.

I had plenty of visitors to my corner, many of them lawyers due to Bouchon's popularity as the legal lunchtime hot spot. I met a French Canadian, a New Yorker and a Puerto Rican, all of them enthusiastic transplants with nothing but good things to say about their adopted city. And when asked for recommendations both cultural and dining, I volunteered my humble opinion. Transplants love to get the skinny from another transplant, or so it would seem.

Following so much French fun, I met a friend and we walked over to Balliceaux to hear Ombak play. I'd only heard them once before and that was at Lance Koehler's Minimum Wage Studio in Oregon Hill when they were recording their CD, so the experience had been a bit disjointed. I was looking forward to hearing them in total.

Tonight I was able to sit back and enjoy their intriguing sound, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between. The combination of acoustic bass, guitar, drums and trombone soars because of the sheer musical talent of the band: Cameron Ralston. Trey Pollard, Brian Jones and Brian Hooten, all major players on the local jazz scene.

If I'd thought of it, I could have recommended to the lawyer set that they stop by Balliceaux for music after the party, like I did. As it was, one couple had invited me to go to dinner with them after the party, but I'd declined because of my musical plans (although they took my card, and I feel certain I'll hear from them again).

Even on Bastille Day, music trumps all else. Well, that and Francis had fed me enough food for three curvy Frenchwomen. Who needed dinner?

RVA Jazzfest Killed It

Given how many events were cancelled for tonight, I felt lucky to find that the RVA Jazzfest was on.

With a focus on the Richmond jazz scene due to the snow-related absence of the two visiting artists, Ray Anderson and Adam Larrabee, our local musicians represented exceedingly well.

The crowd was much smaller than usual when the music began around 9, but fortunately people continued to come in for the first hour.

It was too bad for some of the late arrivals, because missing any of Trio of Justice's set was a major loss.

Reggie (Can't Stop/Won't Stop) Pace's latest project of low brass and percussion meant loud volume and heavy weights.

Trombone, tuba and drums drove the grooves and captured the audience in the palm of their musical hands.

Talking to Reggie before the show, he assured me that he'll be doing the Thompson and Grace balcony series again this summer; it's still one of my favorite free summer events and a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

And Reggie remains one of the most genuinely nice and most talented musicians in this town and that's saying a lot.

And did I mention that his lemonade is legendary?

The second act was the indomitable Kuhl (JC) + Jones (Brian), practically the RVA godfathers of jazz, despite their relatively young ages.

Jones' drumming may be a blur to watch, but it's such an amazing thing to hear.

There's no part of the sticks, mallets or drums themselves that he doesn't use and it's mesmerizing.

Headlining was Ombak, composer and trombonist Bryan Hooten's project, with their pastiche of musical influences and original compositions.

Luckily if you missed tonight's show, they do a regular gig at Balliceaux.

Needless to say, the audience was full of local musicians, as eager to enjoy this array of talent as the non-musical of us in the audience.

WCVE's Peter Solomon was there, taking in the show and offering me job advice.

There also looked to be students from VCU's jazz studies program, worshiping at the feet of their jazz elders, so to speak.

It was my third year for the Jazzfest, yet another example of the stellar and low-cost entertainment that goes on in RVA all the time.

If you weren't willing to brave the elements to check it out tonight, I won't judge you, but it's not that hard to find these musicians playing around town on a regular basis and often at the Camel.

You won't be disappointed and you'll likely be hugely impressed, I can assure you.