Slim Jims and Falling Men

What is the good of kissing a girl if she does not feel it? 


This and other pertinent questions about love were addressed in a movie I'd never even heard of but saw tonight at VMFA called "Stairway to Heaven" from 1946.


The film had an unusual disclaimer showing what I took to be the dry British wit:
This is the story of two worlds, the one we know and another which exists only in the mind...of a young airman whose life and imagination have been violently shaped by war.
Any resemblance to any other world, known or unknown, is purely coincidental.


It also had a credit for "Motor Bike Shots," apparently a distinct skill set in 1946.


Filmed in glorious Technicolor which practically made color one of the characters of this English film, it told the story of a WWII flyer who had to jump from his plane without a parachute to avoid being burned to death. 


He radios this information to the ground and it's received by a young American woman who is as taken with his voice as he is with hers ("I could love a man like you, Peter.").


And while he should have died, he didn't and coincidentally lands near where she lives. From their first meeting on a beach, they're in love, but Heaven isn't so quick to give him up. 


He was scheduled to die and cheating death isn't allowed, a good thing to know on the night before the end of the world.


Most of the movie was devoted to him making a case (and his eventual trial) for being allowed to live now that he's smitten ("I've fallen in love with her. Her accent is foreign, but it sounds sweet to me. We were born thousands of miles apart, but we were made for each other").


Not surprisingly, the movie attracted mostly couples (there were a lot of hands on each other's thighs), not that a single couldn't enjoy the sheer romance of it (when asked to prove his love, Peter responds, "Well, give me time, sir. Fifty years will do").


The hopeless romantic in me needed to come back to reality after that, so I went to Sprout for dinner and music. After a laughable recommendation from my server for the tofu salad, I got the steak salad instead and devoured it will chatting with the evening's headliner.


The topic du jour was the death of somebody I'd never heard of, but it had resulted in a shot called the Macho Man that purported to taste like a Slim Jim. 


Those brave enough were required to say, "Oh, yea!" before downing the dark brown shot. Of the three people I saw take one, to a man (no female was so foolish) they drank and then said, "That does taste like a Slim Jim."


The only thing I can attest to is one guy's breath, which reeked of Slim Jim.


All three bands played hard and fast, beginning with Precious Fluids, a fraternal duo, who covered Neil Young, the Beatles and Dylan in a nod to his 70th birthday on Tuesday (yes, he's a Gemini, too).


Who Are the Southern Baptists? played next and with their raspy-voiced singer, they covered the Grateful Dead, which got some girls dancing, and mercifully declined to cover "Free Bird."


Paul Ivey vs. Board of Education had a new guitarist tonight, but she admirably held her own and had a clutch of friends and fans cheering her on.


They covered "Both Sides Now" and the Clash and did a tribute to the Rapture but it was the song "Crushed Glass Pastry" about the difficulties of love that closed their energetic set.


As Paul had mentioned during our dinner chat earlier, despite years of experience, relationships are still tough to figure out at any age.


If only it were as easy as talking to a man on the phone and then having him fall out of the sky from a burning plane. I'm confident I could make the most of that.


I've got a birthday coming up and I'm not getting any younger, after all. I need to get started on that fifty-year plan as soon as I can.

Wishing for Music and Sausage

Here's my restaurant wish for Richmond: more places near Center Stage where people can park once and party twice.

I had a couple date to go to the symphony and we made a reservation for 9 North Fourth beforehand. Perfect plan, right? Well, it was until they called and said they'd be closed tonight for "mechanical problems." Rats.

That left us with exactly one choice, Capital Ale House, which was fine because they're beer fans and all three of us are fans of food in casings. Done and done, as my friend Scott is fond of saying.

And while the two of them stuck to the menu, he with kielbasa and pierogies and she with knockwurst and bratwurst, I was special of the day all the way.

There was no resisting the pork belly sausage banh mi with pickled carrots, onions, cilantro, spicy aioli and fries. Or if there was, I didn't know how to do it. And might I mention that the star of the dish was courtesy of Sausagecraft? Enough said.

Oh, was it good. A baguette barely contained the sausage (which our server described as "pork belly in skin"), cut into fat slices.

The fatty richness of the sausage married beautifully with the crunch of the pickled toppings and heat of the sauce; it was banh mi heaven (Kevin, eat your heart out). I was so glad I'd suggested Cap Ale as Plan B.

After an enormous and shared piece of chocolate cake a la mode, we moseyed up to Center Stage for some Weber, Schuman and Brahms.

Guest conducting tonight was Victor Yampolsky, impressive with his mane of white hair and dapper in his tails. I remarked to my friend that he had a certain Leonard Bernstein-quality, only to later read in the program that he worked under Bernstein.

I especially loved his dramatic bowing style, which involved throwing his head back before dipping forward into a bow. Perhaps it was to better showcase that shock of thick hair.

After intermission came the highlight of the evening, the guest artist Awadagin Pratt, originally from Pittsburgh.

He took the stage in black shirt and pants and I think I'm safe in saying that it was undoubtedly the first time a man with mid-back-length dreadlocks had sat down at the grand piano with the RSO. And who better to play Brahms' Concerto No. 1 in D Minor for Piano, Opus 15?

I loved the way he wiped the sweat from his face between movements, undoubtedly caused by his enthusiastic playing style which often brought him up off his stool. I was also taken by the way his left foot kept time so hard that it could be heard in between piano notes.

Brahms was followed by Live at Ipanema, switched from its usual Sunday slot because of the Superbowl. That turned out to be an error in judgment for all of us.

Playing was French-born Blasco, a talented singer-songwriter, but a man with a quiet sound unable to compete with the raucous Saturday night crowd.

He began his set by saying, "This is going to be quiet, so if you're going to keep talking, you'll have to whisper. But everything sounds more important when you whisper." The problem was people talked over him saying that.

Accompanied only by his auto harp and crystal-clear whistling, he put on a beautiful performance for the few of us actually listening.

The others tried shouting and making disparaging remarks ("He sounds like Rufus Wainwright and that's a good thing. But not tonight and not here," one idiot said) before eventually leaving.

One very drunk guy said he wanted to leave for the Village. "You either want a milkshake or a nineteen-year old," his friend smirked. "Actually, both," he slurred. Gross. By about half an hour into Blasco's set, most of the truly obnoxious and drunk crowd had left.

Only then did it start to feel like the cozy and intimate affair Live at Ipanema usually is for music lovers who regularly attend.

Better late than never, those of us who stayed till the end agreed. All of us felt fortunate to have heard a rare evening of song accompanied by auto harp playing and whistling.

My last stop was Sprout for their show, which I knew would continue right up until closing.

I arrived in time to hear Charlie Glen of the Trillions play keys and sing his hooky pop songs to an enthusiastic crowd. He finished with the crowd favorite "Bad Potato," attributed to his geeky father and played standing up.

Paul Ivy vs. the Board of Education unexpectedly took the stage next, although they had been slated as the headliner. From the first note, the crowd was into them.

These guys had a garage rock sound (although I'm sure Paul will correct me on that if I mislabeled) led by Paul's excellent guitar playing.

Their set began with a kick-ass version of "Both Sides Now," hardly your typical garage rock band song choice. I was impressed, even as I wondered how many in the crowd knew the song's origins.

The show ended with singer-songwriter Ben Shepherd singing his cryptic and heartfelt lyrics. A heckler marred the vibe in the room, not once, but twice before mercifully disappearing. Ben, a local favorite, ended his set with a song he said had no music: a poem.

After a night like tonight, unlike with the restaurant issue, I can't say I have any music wishes for Richmond.

Just keep it coming.