The thing is, you can't not go.
How can anyone in this town justify not supporting a WRIR fundraiser? Where is there a better deal for the money than eight bands, comedy and assorted DJs for only 15 bucks? Why would I skip a party barely four blocks from home? Who doesn't love multiple kinds of birthday cake?
Walking over to WRIR's 11th annual Party for the Rest of Us, I ran into the photographer/printmaker I'd seen already twice this week. She attributed it to my presence at everything. "We need to make you a shirt that says EG - Everything Girl."
Once at the Renaissance, I was one of the early ones, meaning I could hear the DJ by the buffet and it was still full of food. As a favorite DJ put it, "I realized I'm here in time for the cheese cubes!" Her excitement was palpable.
The party's organizer walked by, enthusing, "Oh, my god, Karen, your tights!" I'd pulled out the Barcelona tights for the occasion, always an attention-getter.
Music began with Half Bascule, the quasi metal improv project of Dave and Nathaniel that always kicks ass. No surprise given Dave's massive pedal board and Nathaniel's exuberant drumming (his flannel shirt came off after the first song), but the two demonstrate remarkable compatibility considering how infrequently they play or rehearse.
From an improvised duo of two, I moved over to the ballroom for Brunswick, a 13-piece complete with jazz training, music stands and the inimitable (and noticeably slimmer) Reggie on percussion. For many, it was their first time seeing the band and they were clearly impressed, asking strangers who they were.
Lucy Dacus and her coat-clad band (sparkly t-shirts were revealed once they got hot enough to doff the coats) were next and seeing as Rolling Stone recently dubbed them a band to watch in 2016, the room filled up quickly.
I'd already run into Lucy in the loo, telling her I recall the first time I saw her play (long before the band stage) at Ghost Light Afterparty, where her acoustic cover of Prince's "I Would Die 4 U" made me weak in the knees. Now she's talking about the band soon making music full-time.
They grow up so fast, don't they?
Checking out the comedy showcase, I head a woman talking about her West Virginia/Muslim roots and somehow turning it into humor ("I moved to Richmond so now I drink craft beer and have cats tattooed on my back") before heading out for birthday cake.
With four kinds of cake, I chose chocolate chocolate, but had to cool my heels with other cake lovers until forks were brought out to eat it with. You want to eat with dignity when you're scarfing cake in front of hundreds of people.
Back in the ballroom, the all-female band Christi won my ears with a combination of girl group and punk influences, although as more than one friend pointed out, the incredibly high ceiling in that room compromised the sound quality ("They sound much better at Strange Matter," Paul told me and he would know) somewhat.
But their energy was terrific, the songs were all three minutes or less and lyrics resonated for those of us with girl parts. Besides, it's just such a treat to see an all female lineup, especially rocking that hard. You go, girls.
Night Idea played to a selection of silent movies behind them and their familiar math rock/proggy sound was well-suited to the black and white classics. "I think Richmond has more prog bands than metal bands these days," the film lover whispered to me.
I think Richmond has more independent radio fans than anything else and I can always count on seeing them at this birthday party.
From the dance party king just back from a shoot in Tidewater to the scooter queen recently back from a trip to Costa Rica to the literate guitarist with whom I discussed Elvis Costello's autobiography and Donald Fagen's charisma to the Australian I'd last met in a borrowed suit to the Gen X birthday boy whose party I have to miss Sunday to the former neighbor dapper in polka dots and boots to the various DJs I've come to know to the smiling friends I only saw in passing, it's a guaranteed get-together of just the kind of people you'd want at your own party, aka the rest of us.
You can count Everything Girl as happily part of that rest.
Showing posts with label party for the rest of us. Show all posts
Showing posts with label party for the rest of us. Show all posts
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Doing Up a Decade
When you don't want to stand out in a crowd, there's WRIR's party for the rest of us.
The annual fundraiser, this one celebrating ten years on the air, always delivers a dizzying array of music, plenty of familiar faces and cake. That it takes place six blocks from my apartment is, well, icing on it.
Because I'd met a favorite couple for dinner first, it was an hour into the festivities before I arrived, left my coat in the unmanned black hole that is the coat closet and made my way to see the Dave Watkins Big Band.
I was far from the only one. I'd overheard the guy in the ticket line behind me say he'd come specifically for them and en route to the room, I picked up a girlfriend also intent on witnessing this musical event.
We all had good reason. Dave alone is unparalleled in what he does and Dumb Waiter and Navi are natural complementary sonic soul mates.
Spotting two empty chairs in the front of the room, we claimed them as the bands were setting up. I heard my name called and spotted my former Floyd Avenue neighbor, the long-time WRIR supporter.
Setting up the abundance of cords and pedal boards these bands required gave me a chance to hear about my friend's ongoing battle with her tonsils (I lobbied for removal since mine hadn't come out until I was an adult) while admiring her perfect skin.
A photographer friend arrived without his cute wife but with birthday cake in hand, so we quickly claimed ours, too, before it was all gone (this isn't my first WRIR rodeo). My slice was dark chocolate with white icing, my favorite combination.
Tonight's inaugural performance of this super group found namesake Dave Watkins all the way in the back (hardly surprising given his self-effacing demeanor), except for a few times when he stepped forward to point at the other musicians in succession to play. Guitar, sax, guitar, bass, dulcitar, each appointed musician grinning in delight when it was his brief turn.
Their opus was a free-ranging improvisation that also included two drummers for a total of seven musicians weaving together a sonic tapestry that occasionally dipped into pure effects (knob twirling, chains on drums) before finding the thread again. It was amazing.
Since I'd been all the way in the front for their set, I had no clue until I got up to leave how packed the room was behind me.
Making my way out through the party to the big stage, I ran into the ukulele player, more DJs than you could shake a stick at, the beer maker without his beloved and the J-Ward neighbors. Honestly, I'm always more surprised at who I don't see at this party than who I do.
Over in the ballroom, I said hello to the birthday boy and fell into a discussion of electronica, a kind of music we both adore despite the dearth of it in Richmond. Like me, he was totally stoked that Ki: Theory was the next band to play so we moved to the front for a better view.
"They're huge in Europe, huge in Japan, huge all over the country except Richmond," he said. "Their music has been used in all kinds of movies, TV shows and video games but no one here knows them." He was preaching to the choir. While I have seen them in Richmond, I've also seen them out of town open for other bands, so I already knew how much I liked the sound.
"Our show will be a lot cooler if you turn off these chandeliers," singer Joel said from under his black hoodie (which eventually he removed once sweat was streaming down his face after so much guitar/synth playing, singing and moving across stage) as the drummer began playing. They didn't, a shame since Ki: Theory's strobe light show deserved a darker room.
I know electronica isn't everyone's thing (I'm guessing they weren't dancing in clubs as much as I was in the '80s) so some in the crowd stayed for a while and then left for greener pastures, but there were plenty of people like me who couldn't stand still for the dance-worthy set the two-man band delivered.
The birthday boy and I agreed that they need to play out more around here until people start to appreciate them as much as the rest of the world.
Then it was back out into the party room which was like one big traffic jam of humanity as long lines at the bar and knots of people chatting made it tough going even to cross from one side to the other.
From the filmmaker, I learned that the documentary about D.C.'s hardcore scene, "Salad Days," will screen here next month. A friend shared his theory that eventually we'll have the technology that'll allow a drummer to program his style into his drum kit so others can play like him or her. I heard that a D.C. shoegaze band is coming to town for the filmmakers' forum.
The gallerist spotted me and gestured to his friend. "She's a writer, he's a farmer," he said by way of introduction. Turns out the farmer, a Richmond native, moved to Maryland to grow organic vegetables right about the time I moved to Richmond, meaning no possible overlap in lives or friends. Instead we talked CSAs and Maryland types.
From the jewelry maker, I heard about his soon-to-open studio in Church Hill near Sub Rosa. If only I wore jewelry. The musician whose band I'd gone to see last night came over to give me a hug and say hello. WRIR's volunteer of the year Richard was awarded a plaque for his efforts and we all applauded his hard work.
The urban planner was entranced when I told him about the new exhibit "Reprogramming the City" at the Virginia Center for Architecture, adding it to his plans for tomorrow, right after a visit to Early Bird Biscuit (I raved about that, too). He was so grateful to hear about the show, he high-fived me. Twice.
My final band of the night was Bermuda Triangles because there is no better way to end a musical party than with their tribal drumming, a sound too big to be contained in the room in which they were playing. You'd think all those bodies in the audience would deaden the sound, but no. Their thundering beats bellowed out into the party room drowning out the mindless and even tipsy chatter of party-goers.
Walking home afterwards, there were people on the street post-artwalk and spilling out of restaurants. A group of guys in front of me made fun of every store window they passed ("You call that art? Who'd pay for that?"). Behind me, a couple talked about how they'd seen more bands tonight than they'd seen in months. A guy on a bike rode down the sidewalk, dodging us all.
I was just the innocuous Jackson Ward dweller headed home after supporting the best little radio station in Richmond. The rest of us had a ball at the birthday party.
The annual fundraiser, this one celebrating ten years on the air, always delivers a dizzying array of music, plenty of familiar faces and cake. That it takes place six blocks from my apartment is, well, icing on it.
Because I'd met a favorite couple for dinner first, it was an hour into the festivities before I arrived, left my coat in the unmanned black hole that is the coat closet and made my way to see the Dave Watkins Big Band.
I was far from the only one. I'd overheard the guy in the ticket line behind me say he'd come specifically for them and en route to the room, I picked up a girlfriend also intent on witnessing this musical event.
We all had good reason. Dave alone is unparalleled in what he does and Dumb Waiter and Navi are natural complementary sonic soul mates.
Spotting two empty chairs in the front of the room, we claimed them as the bands were setting up. I heard my name called and spotted my former Floyd Avenue neighbor, the long-time WRIR supporter.
Setting up the abundance of cords and pedal boards these bands required gave me a chance to hear about my friend's ongoing battle with her tonsils (I lobbied for removal since mine hadn't come out until I was an adult) while admiring her perfect skin.
A photographer friend arrived without his cute wife but with birthday cake in hand, so we quickly claimed ours, too, before it was all gone (this isn't my first WRIR rodeo). My slice was dark chocolate with white icing, my favorite combination.
Tonight's inaugural performance of this super group found namesake Dave Watkins all the way in the back (hardly surprising given his self-effacing demeanor), except for a few times when he stepped forward to point at the other musicians in succession to play. Guitar, sax, guitar, bass, dulcitar, each appointed musician grinning in delight when it was his brief turn.
Their opus was a free-ranging improvisation that also included two drummers for a total of seven musicians weaving together a sonic tapestry that occasionally dipped into pure effects (knob twirling, chains on drums) before finding the thread again. It was amazing.
Since I'd been all the way in the front for their set, I had no clue until I got up to leave how packed the room was behind me.
Making my way out through the party to the big stage, I ran into the ukulele player, more DJs than you could shake a stick at, the beer maker without his beloved and the J-Ward neighbors. Honestly, I'm always more surprised at who I don't see at this party than who I do.
Over in the ballroom, I said hello to the birthday boy and fell into a discussion of electronica, a kind of music we both adore despite the dearth of it in Richmond. Like me, he was totally stoked that Ki: Theory was the next band to play so we moved to the front for a better view.
"They're huge in Europe, huge in Japan, huge all over the country except Richmond," he said. "Their music has been used in all kinds of movies, TV shows and video games but no one here knows them." He was preaching to the choir. While I have seen them in Richmond, I've also seen them out of town open for other bands, so I already knew how much I liked the sound.
"Our show will be a lot cooler if you turn off these chandeliers," singer Joel said from under his black hoodie (which eventually he removed once sweat was streaming down his face after so much guitar/synth playing, singing and moving across stage) as the drummer began playing. They didn't, a shame since Ki: Theory's strobe light show deserved a darker room.
I know electronica isn't everyone's thing (I'm guessing they weren't dancing in clubs as much as I was in the '80s) so some in the crowd stayed for a while and then left for greener pastures, but there were plenty of people like me who couldn't stand still for the dance-worthy set the two-man band delivered.
The birthday boy and I agreed that they need to play out more around here until people start to appreciate them as much as the rest of the world.
Then it was back out into the party room which was like one big traffic jam of humanity as long lines at the bar and knots of people chatting made it tough going even to cross from one side to the other.
From the filmmaker, I learned that the documentary about D.C.'s hardcore scene, "Salad Days," will screen here next month. A friend shared his theory that eventually we'll have the technology that'll allow a drummer to program his style into his drum kit so others can play like him or her. I heard that a D.C. shoegaze band is coming to town for the filmmakers' forum.
The gallerist spotted me and gestured to his friend. "She's a writer, he's a farmer," he said by way of introduction. Turns out the farmer, a Richmond native, moved to Maryland to grow organic vegetables right about the time I moved to Richmond, meaning no possible overlap in lives or friends. Instead we talked CSAs and Maryland types.
From the jewelry maker, I heard about his soon-to-open studio in Church Hill near Sub Rosa. If only I wore jewelry. The musician whose band I'd gone to see last night came over to give me a hug and say hello. WRIR's volunteer of the year Richard was awarded a plaque for his efforts and we all applauded his hard work.
The urban planner was entranced when I told him about the new exhibit "Reprogramming the City" at the Virginia Center for Architecture, adding it to his plans for tomorrow, right after a visit to Early Bird Biscuit (I raved about that, too). He was so grateful to hear about the show, he high-fived me. Twice.
My final band of the night was Bermuda Triangles because there is no better way to end a musical party than with their tribal drumming, a sound too big to be contained in the room in which they were playing. You'd think all those bodies in the audience would deaden the sound, but no. Their thundering beats bellowed out into the party room drowning out the mindless and even tipsy chatter of party-goers.
Walking home afterwards, there were people on the street post-artwalk and spilling out of restaurants. A group of guys in front of me made fun of every store window they passed ("You call that art? Who'd pay for that?"). Behind me, a couple talked about how they'd seen more bands tonight than they'd seen in months. A guy on a bike rode down the sidewalk, dodging us all.
I was just the innocuous Jackson Ward dweller headed home after supporting the best little radio station in Richmond. The rest of us had a ball at the birthday party.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Perfect Amount of Art and Awkward
Just another Friday night that starts with a makeshift disco and ends with strippers.
A photographer friend and I were walking to dinner when he spied some interesting tile work on a building and paused to take a picture.
Next thing we know, the owner of the building, a charming Mexican, comes out and invites us in for a tour of the building he is renovating for his construction company.
I'm sure my mother would disapprove of going into a stranger's building with him, but I figure my sturdy male friend is my insurance against bodily harm.
Inside, the owner tells us that the building was a laundry for 75 years, showing off massive sliding metal doors, huge exhaust fans and an abundance of windows to let out the hot, steamy air.
Everywhere but the front of the building is still a work in progress, with part of the floor torn up in one place and a walkway over the hole.
When we get almost to the back, though, we find an intact floor, finished walls and where, wait for it, he says nonchalantly, "Here is my discotheque," while hitting a switch which starts the mirror ball turning and myriad strobe lights flashing along the roof line.
He says this is where they dance when he holds employee parties. It was about the last thing on earth I'd expected when we'd walked in the building.
That said, if he'd put on some music, I might have tried it out and I bet my friend would have, too.
Neither of us could get over the unexpected invitation followed by a peek inside a building we would otherwise never have seen.
While we were eating dinner afterwards, we caught up with each other's lives, the best part being when I asked how his relationship is going. I'd guessed that since he never has time to get together, it must be going quite well.
He affirmed how happy he was, saying, "She's smart, she likes to talk, she's good company and she used to be a cheerleader so she's flexible."
A man couldn't really ask for much more than that, could he?
The icing on the cake was when he surprised me by saying, "Since I won't be seeing you on Valentine's day, I have a present for you," pulling out a large pink eraser shaped like a diamond ring. "Anyone who doesn't put a ring on it is a dumbass."
Clearly he didn't want to be among that group. It was my first pink eraser diamond ring and although I'm not a jewelry person, I wore it all night.
Our next stop was Glave Kocen gallery to See "Click III," a biannual invitational photography show with the theme "From Mountains to Sea."
We both recognized several of the photographers' names while taking in a fascinating array of photography styles from photo montage to pinhole Polaroids to photo-journalism to abstractions. Our post-gallery discussion involved how the best digital photographs look like they were shot on 35 mm.
We parted ways in the arts district since I had First Fridays artwalking to do and he had other plans.
My first stop was at Black Iris gallery to see "Public Eye: Civil Rights Case Study," a series of photographs and videos shot for surveillance purposes during the '60s and '70s in Richmond.
The mug shots looked like Joe Average people, a comment I made to a woman who responded, "Yea, there's one of my sister."
I'm willing to bet if you're of an age and were in Richmond during the days of protests and demonstrations, you might recognize some young person's mug in the exhibit, too.
Projected on the back wall was a series of film clips, like a 1970 busing protest on Belvidere, a memorial for Martin Luther King at the state capital in 1968 (with women in white gloves and hats), a KKK parade and a Black Panther meeting on Laurel Street.
Of course Laurel Street. Where else but Oregon Hill would you expect to find Black Panthers and anarchists?
A black and white no-frills look at a period in RVA's history I missed, presented without political agenda or bias. As in, just the facts, ma'am. Definitely worth checking out.
From there, it was just a short walk to the Renaissance for WRIR's annual "party for the rest of us" to celebrate their ninth birthday.
I made a point to get there early enough to see River City Taiko, a group that plays traditional Japanese drums, which I have to assume means one person on either side of the drum playing different rhythms because that's what these people were doing, sometimes two at a time and sometimes the entire group at once.
The Colloquial Orchestra was next and while I've seen them many times, that's meaningless because the orchestra is defined as Dave Watkins on dulcitar and anyone else he asks to play with him, so never the same.
It can be a three piece, a six-piece or, like tonight, a 14-piece: two drummers, six guitarists (one acoustic), bass, trumpet, keyboard, violin,and a late-arriving sax player.
Improvising for a half hour, they wove elaborate soundscapes around the bass and drum center, creating what one first-timer described to me as sounding like "bagpipes on acid."
Changing rooms to catch some storytelling courtesy of Secretly Y'All, I heard the inimitable Herschel tell a tale of falling hard for a girl after hearing her laugh because, "it was the best laugh I ever heard."
Now there's a hell of a compliment.
He accompanied himself on ukulele when he sang a song partially based on their interaction.
Justin's story was about moving from Powhatan and an outdoor-centered life to Church Hill and having to push himself "to get off my ass and go outside," and his song was called "Silver and Diamonds."
Patrick's story was about a girl joining his group traveling Europe and after spending 24 hours with her, knowing he was deeply in love. Two months here went great but six weeks in Berlin made it painfully obvious she'd lost interest. His heartbreaking tribute was called "Waltz to Noel."
No one had mentioned that tonight's theme would be "guys with sad stories."
Milling about between bands, I ran into the DJ who works at WPA and had made all the lovely birthday cakes for tonight's party. I had him give me a rundown on what kind of cake was inside each since they all looked different.
Chocolate coconut and caramel chocolate seemed to hold the most promise for me. I took a swipe of icing just to be sure, alarming a DJ.
That's an annual tradition for me at this party, my friend. Just ask Andrew.
The one band I wanted to make sure I caught tonight was Hypercolor and walking into the ballroom as their set began, I knew in an instant that they were right up my alley.
A ruby-throated female lead singer playing guitar ("She's not your typical lead, she's even doing some finger-picking," the guy behind me whispered to me), two other lush-sounding guitars including one of the guys from Avers whom I'd just seen and the bassist from Fear of Music (also just seen last weekend) who together with the drummer kept everyone from wandering off into psychedelic bliss.
I kept moving closer and closer to the front to watch and listen to the impressive execution and well-written songs. I'll need to see them again soon.
The Silent Music Revival was presenting the avant-garde 1947 film "The Cage" with improvised soundtrack by Snack Truck and their thunderous rock was a fine match for the falling eyeballs, nude women running, leek stealers and other assorted oddities of the silent movie.
I could tell that a lot of people watching had never seen a SMR presentation before as they focused solely on the band and ignored the movie.
Guys, guys, guys.
Back in the main ballroom, the Ar-Kaics had morphed from a trio to a quartet since I'd last seen them at Steady Sounds but hard and fast ear-splitting garage rock was still their metier.
For something completely different, I crossed rooms to hear the RVA Squares, a bluegrass band with a dance caller.
Eight couples took the challenge, including three all girl couples (one of each was given a tie to make her easier to identify as the male) and squared off as Grant Hunnicutt, hat, microphone and all, proceed to call out the square dancing instructions.
Gents go round the outside line
Pass your partner one time by
Pick a new girl on the fly
Swing her round
Step right back and watch her strut
Step back up and bump your butt
I'm not sure those are the same square dancing calls I heard when we square danced in elementary school, but they seemed to elicit much the same results.
It really did look like fun and while I'm sure I would have made a mess of it, I'd have tried square dancing for the first time since elementary school if someone had asked.
But they didn't, so I accepted an invitation from my favorite J-Ward couple to leave for Gallery 5 and the last of their evening of burlesque and boylesque.
The place was packed and we heard major hooting and hollering from outside, so I found a place by the radiator and stood on tip-toe to see the ample Dante the Inferno gyrate and strip down.
"That was just the perfect amount of awkward," host Parker said afterwards while scantily clad women were sweeping up the stripping droppings of Dante.
The lovely and zaftig Ellie "Iron Lady" Quinn was next and her red and gold costume zipped off while she danced provocatively to reveal a gold bikini top and gold thong with tassels .
The crowd ate it up, cheering her on until she removed her bikini top and it was just pasties with tassels, which she then proceeded to twirl like a pro, shimmying wildly.
Buster Britches was introduced as "the cream show Casanova" and Parker instructed us to make a path down the center of the room "cause he's gonna be coming from the back, just the way he likes it."
In a short floral robe and carrying an umbrella, the ample Buster strutted onstage to Billie Holiday's "He's a Tramp," dropped the robe and then spent the rest of the time adding clothes back on.
The night ended with Deanna Danger, not only a burlesque performer but a teacher ("You, too, can be up here taking your clothes off!" Parker said by way of introduction) in a fabulous gold and black dress with a slit skirt that got twirled and swirled overhead before being removed to reveal the tiniest of pasties and leopard briefs.
The audience was practically salivating and clearly disappointed that the evening's stripping was over.
Not me. Despite the fact that I hadn't danced at the discotheque, hadn't square danced, hadn't danced while taking my clothes off and no one's writing a "Waltz to Karen," tonight was a terrific lot of fun.
Not only am I wearing the latest in pink eraser jewelry, but I was told me that I always add laughter to a room.
A woman couldn't really ask for much more than that, could she?
A photographer friend and I were walking to dinner when he spied some interesting tile work on a building and paused to take a picture.
Next thing we know, the owner of the building, a charming Mexican, comes out and invites us in for a tour of the building he is renovating for his construction company.
I'm sure my mother would disapprove of going into a stranger's building with him, but I figure my sturdy male friend is my insurance against bodily harm.
Inside, the owner tells us that the building was a laundry for 75 years, showing off massive sliding metal doors, huge exhaust fans and an abundance of windows to let out the hot, steamy air.
Everywhere but the front of the building is still a work in progress, with part of the floor torn up in one place and a walkway over the hole.
When we get almost to the back, though, we find an intact floor, finished walls and where, wait for it, he says nonchalantly, "Here is my discotheque," while hitting a switch which starts the mirror ball turning and myriad strobe lights flashing along the roof line.
He says this is where they dance when he holds employee parties. It was about the last thing on earth I'd expected when we'd walked in the building.
That said, if he'd put on some music, I might have tried it out and I bet my friend would have, too.
Neither of us could get over the unexpected invitation followed by a peek inside a building we would otherwise never have seen.
While we were eating dinner afterwards, we caught up with each other's lives, the best part being when I asked how his relationship is going. I'd guessed that since he never has time to get together, it must be going quite well.
He affirmed how happy he was, saying, "She's smart, she likes to talk, she's good company and she used to be a cheerleader so she's flexible."
A man couldn't really ask for much more than that, could he?
The icing on the cake was when he surprised me by saying, "Since I won't be seeing you on Valentine's day, I have a present for you," pulling out a large pink eraser shaped like a diamond ring. "Anyone who doesn't put a ring on it is a dumbass."
Clearly he didn't want to be among that group. It was my first pink eraser diamond ring and although I'm not a jewelry person, I wore it all night.
Our next stop was Glave Kocen gallery to See "Click III," a biannual invitational photography show with the theme "From Mountains to Sea."
We both recognized several of the photographers' names while taking in a fascinating array of photography styles from photo montage to pinhole Polaroids to photo-journalism to abstractions. Our post-gallery discussion involved how the best digital photographs look like they were shot on 35 mm.
We parted ways in the arts district since I had First Fridays artwalking to do and he had other plans.
My first stop was at Black Iris gallery to see "Public Eye: Civil Rights Case Study," a series of photographs and videos shot for surveillance purposes during the '60s and '70s in Richmond.
The mug shots looked like Joe Average people, a comment I made to a woman who responded, "Yea, there's one of my sister."
I'm willing to bet if you're of an age and were in Richmond during the days of protests and demonstrations, you might recognize some young person's mug in the exhibit, too.
Projected on the back wall was a series of film clips, like a 1970 busing protest on Belvidere, a memorial for Martin Luther King at the state capital in 1968 (with women in white gloves and hats), a KKK parade and a Black Panther meeting on Laurel Street.
Of course Laurel Street. Where else but Oregon Hill would you expect to find Black Panthers and anarchists?
A black and white no-frills look at a period in RVA's history I missed, presented without political agenda or bias. As in, just the facts, ma'am. Definitely worth checking out.
From there, it was just a short walk to the Renaissance for WRIR's annual "party for the rest of us" to celebrate their ninth birthday.
I made a point to get there early enough to see River City Taiko, a group that plays traditional Japanese drums, which I have to assume means one person on either side of the drum playing different rhythms because that's what these people were doing, sometimes two at a time and sometimes the entire group at once.
The Colloquial Orchestra was next and while I've seen them many times, that's meaningless because the orchestra is defined as Dave Watkins on dulcitar and anyone else he asks to play with him, so never the same.
It can be a three piece, a six-piece or, like tonight, a 14-piece: two drummers, six guitarists (one acoustic), bass, trumpet, keyboard, violin,and a late-arriving sax player.
Improvising for a half hour, they wove elaborate soundscapes around the bass and drum center, creating what one first-timer described to me as sounding like "bagpipes on acid."
Changing rooms to catch some storytelling courtesy of Secretly Y'All, I heard the inimitable Herschel tell a tale of falling hard for a girl after hearing her laugh because, "it was the best laugh I ever heard."
Now there's a hell of a compliment.
He accompanied himself on ukulele when he sang a song partially based on their interaction.
Justin's story was about moving from Powhatan and an outdoor-centered life to Church Hill and having to push himself "to get off my ass and go outside," and his song was called "Silver and Diamonds."
Patrick's story was about a girl joining his group traveling Europe and after spending 24 hours with her, knowing he was deeply in love. Two months here went great but six weeks in Berlin made it painfully obvious she'd lost interest. His heartbreaking tribute was called "Waltz to Noel."
No one had mentioned that tonight's theme would be "guys with sad stories."
Milling about between bands, I ran into the DJ who works at WPA and had made all the lovely birthday cakes for tonight's party. I had him give me a rundown on what kind of cake was inside each since they all looked different.
Chocolate coconut and caramel chocolate seemed to hold the most promise for me. I took a swipe of icing just to be sure, alarming a DJ.
That's an annual tradition for me at this party, my friend. Just ask Andrew.
The one band I wanted to make sure I caught tonight was Hypercolor and walking into the ballroom as their set began, I knew in an instant that they were right up my alley.
A ruby-throated female lead singer playing guitar ("She's not your typical lead, she's even doing some finger-picking," the guy behind me whispered to me), two other lush-sounding guitars including one of the guys from Avers whom I'd just seen and the bassist from Fear of Music (also just seen last weekend) who together with the drummer kept everyone from wandering off into psychedelic bliss.
I kept moving closer and closer to the front to watch and listen to the impressive execution and well-written songs. I'll need to see them again soon.
The Silent Music Revival was presenting the avant-garde 1947 film "The Cage" with improvised soundtrack by Snack Truck and their thunderous rock was a fine match for the falling eyeballs, nude women running, leek stealers and other assorted oddities of the silent movie.
I could tell that a lot of people watching had never seen a SMR presentation before as they focused solely on the band and ignored the movie.
Guys, guys, guys.
Back in the main ballroom, the Ar-Kaics had morphed from a trio to a quartet since I'd last seen them at Steady Sounds but hard and fast ear-splitting garage rock was still their metier.
For something completely different, I crossed rooms to hear the RVA Squares, a bluegrass band with a dance caller.
Eight couples took the challenge, including three all girl couples (one of each was given a tie to make her easier to identify as the male) and squared off as Grant Hunnicutt, hat, microphone and all, proceed to call out the square dancing instructions.
Gents go round the outside line
Pass your partner one time by
Pick a new girl on the fly
Swing her round
Step right back and watch her strut
Step back up and bump your butt
I'm not sure those are the same square dancing calls I heard when we square danced in elementary school, but they seemed to elicit much the same results.
It really did look like fun and while I'm sure I would have made a mess of it, I'd have tried square dancing for the first time since elementary school if someone had asked.
But they didn't, so I accepted an invitation from my favorite J-Ward couple to leave for Gallery 5 and the last of their evening of burlesque and boylesque.
The place was packed and we heard major hooting and hollering from outside, so I found a place by the radiator and stood on tip-toe to see the ample Dante the Inferno gyrate and strip down.
"That was just the perfect amount of awkward," host Parker said afterwards while scantily clad women were sweeping up the stripping droppings of Dante.
The lovely and zaftig Ellie "Iron Lady" Quinn was next and her red and gold costume zipped off while she danced provocatively to reveal a gold bikini top and gold thong with tassels .
The crowd ate it up, cheering her on until she removed her bikini top and it was just pasties with tassels, which she then proceeded to twirl like a pro, shimmying wildly.
Buster Britches was introduced as "the cream show Casanova" and Parker instructed us to make a path down the center of the room "cause he's gonna be coming from the back, just the way he likes it."
In a short floral robe and carrying an umbrella, the ample Buster strutted onstage to Billie Holiday's "He's a Tramp," dropped the robe and then spent the rest of the time adding clothes back on.
The night ended with Deanna Danger, not only a burlesque performer but a teacher ("You, too, can be up here taking your clothes off!" Parker said by way of introduction) in a fabulous gold and black dress with a slit skirt that got twirled and swirled overhead before being removed to reveal the tiniest of pasties and leopard briefs.
The audience was practically salivating and clearly disappointed that the evening's stripping was over.
Not me. Despite the fact that I hadn't danced at the discotheque, hadn't square danced, hadn't danced while taking my clothes off and no one's writing a "Waltz to Karen," tonight was a terrific lot of fun.
Not only am I wearing the latest in pink eraser jewelry, but I was told me that I always add laughter to a room.
A woman couldn't really ask for much more than that, could she?
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