What's the point in doing something for ten years if it isn't getting better with every year?
Potentially deep question, but simple answer: absolutely none. Just look at tonight's tenth annual Ghost of Pop show at Gallery 5. Timely start, appropriate set lengths, stellar performances and scads of friends.
Walking over in the pouring rain, I got there right at 8, counting on the fact that a five band bill would necessarily start on time and positioning myself against the radiator hoping for warmth.
None was to be found, as noted by a guy standing nearby.
He was a willing conversational partner, though, who'd been at last year's Ghost of Pop. Excited about tonight's Full Moon Fever set of Tom Petty covers, he shared that he'd seen Petty in concert in 1981 in Memphis.
He had me beat there. And then it was show time.
Adam Eubank and his band were up first and while his name rang no bells for me, his face did. I'd met him just last week at a Sound of Music show when he'd come to snag a beer from a bag stashed near where I was perched and introduced himself.
I was impressed from the opening notes of the band's tight, poppy set with the songwriting and performance they were delivering. How come these guys don't play out more? If they were first, the other bands were going to have to work to keep up.
The organizer of tonight's benefit for Home Again was the inimitable Prabir and he stopped by to chat with me during the first break. When I asked him what he was hoping for from tonight's show, he didn't miss a beat.
"I wanna see a couple making out while we're playing," he said. "Sure it's great that we're helping the homeless, but what I really want is to see some making out. So if we're on our last song and no one's making out, it's your duty to grab a dude and suck face. It's your duty, Karen!"
Curious about why this was required, he explained that at the first Ghost of Pop, a go-go dancer (that's a whole other topic right there) had thrown her arm with abandon and broken his glasses. When she offered to make it up to him, he suggested a make-out session.
Like I've said before, I couldn't make this stuff up.
Next up was Animal Beat, a band I hadn't seen in some time. Turns out this was a reunion show. Lead singer Travis looked like Eric Clapton in his post-drug, cleaned-up period (short hair, attractive glasses sliding down his nose) with just enough reverb on his amazing voice and a killer horn section beside him.
Despite that they hadn't played out together in a couple of years, they'd just finished a new album, "Piece of Cake" (because recording it had been anything but) which was for sale tonight and came with, what else, a piece of cake.
If only I'd brought more than the door price.
Favorite song: "Love In, Love Out," but I couldn't get enough of any notes out of his mouth or the soulful feel the horns added to the songs.
Break time brought more conversation with the guy next to me and his wife (who'd been getting a henna tattoo on her hand when our conversation had begun), namely about his first concert: Humble Pie with Roxy Music opening in 1972.
Said he'd gone in to the show never having heard of Roxy Music and been blown out of his seat by their sound and sky-high platform shoes. She recalled hitchhiking to see the Allman Brothers and getting to go backstage to meet them.
Ah, the good old days.
I was happy to see Long Arms take the stage because leader James is not just a talented musician but a nerd of the highest order (he later showed me a vintage Civil War photograph he is thinking of buying).
The band full-on rocked out, emoting all the way ("This is another song about our feelings") while breaking in a new guitar for James all the while.
"This tent is so cool," he said about the new drape atop the stage with lights above it for a softly lit effect. "You guys wanna have a sleepover in my tent?"
After their set, a WRIR DJ gave me a big hug and his yellow rain slicker wet my face in the process. I met the new squeeze of a long-time music loving friend, who'd shown up late expecting that the show would be running on Richmond time and instead had missed three bands.
As I told him, the sound guy had been extra efficient about how long he let each band play tonight. Too bad that doesn't happen more often.
My new friends were very much looking forward to seeing Andrew Leahy up next because they'd been so impressed with him and his Nashville band last year. This year was a reunion of his original Richmond band, including one of my favorite keyboard players, Ben Willson.
The band's alt-country sound was extremely well-executed but a lot of the comments were about Andrew's distinctive hair. One guy said he'd thought it was a wig, another warned that he frequently flipped it and another observed that if he cut bangs into it, he'd look like any number of '70s rock stars. guys, it's about the music, not the hair.
Several of the songs they did were written in Nashville, no doubt including "Silver Linings" about dealing with men in suits.
More familiar faces showed up while Full Moon Fever set up - the violinist I hadn't seen in months, the ukulele player, the lecture geek - leading the couple beside me to ask how I knew so many people there.
It's as simple as going to shows, friends. After a while, people just start talking to you and goodness knows, I never turn away from conversational opportunities.
When Prabir and his FMF crew began with "Listen to Her Heart," the crowd - not quite as big as earlier, but rabid Petty fans - moved closer and by "The Waiting" they were singing along to every word.
A friend came over and shared his opinion that Petty is the best songwriter who ever lived in this country, giving this lyric as proof:
Think of me what you will
I got a little space to fill
Before they closed with "American Girl," Prabir announced, "This song goes out to Erica if you're still here. If you're not, it goes out to the next girl."
I don't know Erica, so I can't say if she was there to hear her dedication or not. What I can say is that I decided against grabbing a dude and making out so Prabir could have his moment of pleasure.
If you want to keep things going after ten years like Ghost of Pop, it better be about feelings and momentary pleasure. Love in, love out, didn't you hear the man?
Showing posts with label prabir mehta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prabir mehta. Show all posts
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Monday, May 27, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
And There It Goes
Tonight was the calm before the storm.
I have birthday plans for the next few days, every night.
And while I intentionally plan it so my birthday gets celebrated for as long as possible, I know from previous years that it's wise to take a wee rest in the midst of the reveling.
So that was me tonight, sedately having a Tennessee dog (mustard, onions, chili, cole slaw) and chocolate shake at the bar of City Dogs when a panicked-looking guy came in.
"We were just here and my friend's sister left her green cell phone here," he said breathlessly, indicating the bar area immediately adjacent to where I sat.
The guy on the other side of the indicated area looked at me and we shrugged; neither of us had seen a green phone when we'd sat down.
We all checked the floor, the bar stools and nothing.
The bartender had the bright idea of telling the guy to call the girls' phone, but he said he didn't know her number.
That was when the friend and her sister, the one who'd lost the phone in the first place, came rushing in.
Fortunately, she knew her own number and gave it to the bartender to call, hoping to locate the phone that way.
He called, we heard nothing.
Just then an older guy with a backpack comes in the restaurant holding a green phone out in front of him.
Turns out he'd found it in the grass on Main Street, ringing, and brought it into the nearest business.
The girl who'd lost it snatched it out of his hand, saying, "Thanks, crazy guy," and flouncing out of the restaurant with her phone and friends in tow.
The guy two seats away who'd helped me look around for the phone looked at me incredulously.
I'm sure my look was identical.
She could have at least bought the guy a $1 RVA dog, I said to him, still amazed at her rudeness and sense of entitlement.
"You mean instead of calling him "crazy guy" for no good reason?" he asked.
Clearly some people were raised by wolves.
I left that crowd for something more civilized, the Listening Room.
Clearly the planets were still out of alignment, though, because despite arriving at 7:32, someone was already sitting in my seat.
Okay, it's not my seat but it is the one I always sit in.
Plan B, the seat directly in front of my usual.
Also unusual tonight was that there was no set decoration onstage because Firehouse Theater is between shows.
Playing first tonight was man-about-town Prabir, playing songs off his new album, "Once Upon a Breakfast Menu."
It took him no time at all to play the funny guy, asking the crowd, "How're you guys doing?" before putting out his hand to stop us from answering.
After all, there's no talking at the Listening Room.
He did a song called "Clouds" about reaching for a CD ("what an archaic reference") and one called "Sept. 7" with an analogy for the ages.
"I took out a knife and carved up this life."
After multiple exotic tunings, Prabir called a friend up on stage so they could have a bowl of cereal together while we watched.
It was breakfast as performance art, only with Silk because Prabir has apparently recently gone vegan.
He also invited violinist Treesa and bassist Matt up to augment a few songs and promote their show Sunday night.
"We're playing a show with Paul McCartney's son at the Camel Sunday night," Prabir said.
"He has a name, you know," Matt reminded him.
"Yea, ca-ching!" Prabir retorted, grinning.
Fortunately, it's okay to laugh at the Listening Room.
Next MC Chris introduced Mohawk Lodge, a Canadian band with most of the members on their way back to Canada.
The tour that had begun April 29 had the rest of the band members leaving in the band van to return to Canada today while leader Ryder continued solo in a rental car ("It's kind of tough but I couldn't not play a show").
Taking the stage with his electric guitar, he took a moment to listen to the silence and observed, "Wow, this is an amazing room."
There was a lot going on his songs, despite him subbing for an entire band.
Favorite lyric: "I call timber because everyone I know is falling."
He took requests from the audience and played them, to his credit.
"Canadian Girl," was requested, along with "Calm Down," about which he said, "I haven't played this in a really long time."
I'm sure I wasn't the only one touched when he said, "I woke up today and my grandmother died and I'm going to play some songs. This one is for my Dad."
He played a couple of songs that had been written when he was part of a songwriters' conference in Berlin, including a political one despite not being a political person, he said.
"You guys are rad," he said, promising, "I'm coming back to Virginia."
We should be so lucky.
During intermission, I heard a friend's report on the new Mellow Mushroom in Carytown.
He gave it a thumbs up for the extensive beer list and vegan cheese available, neither of which matter one bit to me.
I am curious to see the Plan 9 tribute wall, though.
The last band of the night was My Old Ways, whom I'd seen at the Listening Room last June.
Made up of members from a bunch of local bands, they feature acoustic guitar, pedal steel, bass, drums and backup vocals/shaker.
Playing drums and every kind of percussion he could get his hands on was Willis, the guy who adds immeasurably to any band he plays in.
And he has dimples.
There were sad songs, pirate jokes, a song called "Dance" ("I just want to dance") and one written only two days ago, "And There It Goes."
I have to admire a band willing to debut something so new, although the lead singer acknowledged, "This last song we're going to play may be a disaster."
Favorite lyric: "Can we just go back to 2003?"
As evocative a lyric as that is, I don't really want to.
I've already carved up the last ten years and that knife is a tad dull at the moment.
Maybe I'll call timber instead.
I have birthday plans for the next few days, every night.
And while I intentionally plan it so my birthday gets celebrated for as long as possible, I know from previous years that it's wise to take a wee rest in the midst of the reveling.
So that was me tonight, sedately having a Tennessee dog (mustard, onions, chili, cole slaw) and chocolate shake at the bar of City Dogs when a panicked-looking guy came in.
"We were just here and my friend's sister left her green cell phone here," he said breathlessly, indicating the bar area immediately adjacent to where I sat.
The guy on the other side of the indicated area looked at me and we shrugged; neither of us had seen a green phone when we'd sat down.
We all checked the floor, the bar stools and nothing.
The bartender had the bright idea of telling the guy to call the girls' phone, but he said he didn't know her number.
That was when the friend and her sister, the one who'd lost the phone in the first place, came rushing in.
Fortunately, she knew her own number and gave it to the bartender to call, hoping to locate the phone that way.
He called, we heard nothing.
Just then an older guy with a backpack comes in the restaurant holding a green phone out in front of him.
Turns out he'd found it in the grass on Main Street, ringing, and brought it into the nearest business.
The girl who'd lost it snatched it out of his hand, saying, "Thanks, crazy guy," and flouncing out of the restaurant with her phone and friends in tow.
The guy two seats away who'd helped me look around for the phone looked at me incredulously.
I'm sure my look was identical.
She could have at least bought the guy a $1 RVA dog, I said to him, still amazed at her rudeness and sense of entitlement.
"You mean instead of calling him "crazy guy" for no good reason?" he asked.
Clearly some people were raised by wolves.
I left that crowd for something more civilized, the Listening Room.
Clearly the planets were still out of alignment, though, because despite arriving at 7:32, someone was already sitting in my seat.
Okay, it's not my seat but it is the one I always sit in.
Plan B, the seat directly in front of my usual.
Also unusual tonight was that there was no set decoration onstage because Firehouse Theater is between shows.
Playing first tonight was man-about-town Prabir, playing songs off his new album, "Once Upon a Breakfast Menu."
It took him no time at all to play the funny guy, asking the crowd, "How're you guys doing?" before putting out his hand to stop us from answering.
After all, there's no talking at the Listening Room.
He did a song called "Clouds" about reaching for a CD ("what an archaic reference") and one called "Sept. 7" with an analogy for the ages.
"I took out a knife and carved up this life."
After multiple exotic tunings, Prabir called a friend up on stage so they could have a bowl of cereal together while we watched.
It was breakfast as performance art, only with Silk because Prabir has apparently recently gone vegan.
He also invited violinist Treesa and bassist Matt up to augment a few songs and promote their show Sunday night.
"We're playing a show with Paul McCartney's son at the Camel Sunday night," Prabir said.
"He has a name, you know," Matt reminded him.
"Yea, ca-ching!" Prabir retorted, grinning.
Fortunately, it's okay to laugh at the Listening Room.
Next MC Chris introduced Mohawk Lodge, a Canadian band with most of the members on their way back to Canada.
The tour that had begun April 29 had the rest of the band members leaving in the band van to return to Canada today while leader Ryder continued solo in a rental car ("It's kind of tough but I couldn't not play a show").
Taking the stage with his electric guitar, he took a moment to listen to the silence and observed, "Wow, this is an amazing room."
There was a lot going on his songs, despite him subbing for an entire band.
Favorite lyric: "I call timber because everyone I know is falling."
He took requests from the audience and played them, to his credit.
"Canadian Girl," was requested, along with "Calm Down," about which he said, "I haven't played this in a really long time."
I'm sure I wasn't the only one touched when he said, "I woke up today and my grandmother died and I'm going to play some songs. This one is for my Dad."
He played a couple of songs that had been written when he was part of a songwriters' conference in Berlin, including a political one despite not being a political person, he said.
"You guys are rad," he said, promising, "I'm coming back to Virginia."
We should be so lucky.
During intermission, I heard a friend's report on the new Mellow Mushroom in Carytown.
He gave it a thumbs up for the extensive beer list and vegan cheese available, neither of which matter one bit to me.
I am curious to see the Plan 9 tribute wall, though.
The last band of the night was My Old Ways, whom I'd seen at the Listening Room last June.
Made up of members from a bunch of local bands, they feature acoustic guitar, pedal steel, bass, drums and backup vocals/shaker.
Playing drums and every kind of percussion he could get his hands on was Willis, the guy who adds immeasurably to any band he plays in.
And he has dimples.
There were sad songs, pirate jokes, a song called "Dance" ("I just want to dance") and one written only two days ago, "And There It Goes."
I have to admire a band willing to debut something so new, although the lead singer acknowledged, "This last song we're going to play may be a disaster."
Favorite lyric: "Can we just go back to 2003?"
As evocative a lyric as that is, I don't really want to.
I've already carved up the last ten years and that knife is a tad dull at the moment.
Maybe I'll call timber instead.
Friday, May 13, 2011
As Sad as You Want to Be
Tarrant's is a half a mile from my house, but we went the long way, the three mile way.
A good friend had suggested a walk and an early lunch, so she came to Jackson Ward and we began walking east. At her request, our first stop was Lift because she badly needed coffee.
"You totally dissed me Saturday night," the counter girl said to me the moment she saw me. What? When? Seems she'd been waving madly to me at the Firehouse show Saturday and I never even saw her. I pleaded myopia and smiled as sincerely as I could. Honestly, never saw her.
Rock god Prabir (minus the Goldrush) walked up to the counter behind us, jarring my memory. "I had a dream about you last night," I blurted out. He shrugged nonchalantly.
"He hears that so often, it's no big deal," my friend pointed out. He wasn't a major part of the dream, but you'd have thought he could have been a tad more surprised to hear he'd made mine. Nope (yawn). Just another day for Prabir.
Life-giving coffee in hand, my friend and I headed down Broad Street, passing all the school buses in front of the Empire Theater for "Honk," passing the many buildings being rehabbed into apartments and condos, passing the colorful crowds waiting for buses.
She was enjoying every minute of our discovery mission, not having walked this stretch of Broad in years. We paused at the National box office to peruse the schedule, but nothing caught her eye. Eventually, we crossed over to Grace Street for a change of scenery.
We marveled at the Honey Shop (how long has that place been there?), peered in the windows of Jason Alley's new venture, Pasture, abuzz with construction activity, and admired hats at Chic Chapeaux. She showed me her favorite empty storefronts and I showed her mine.
Eventually we were almost back to Belvidere and and definitely in "early lunch" range, so we backtracked to Tarrant's for salads. They really do have an impressive selection of interesting salad choices. And a table next to a sunny window is a delightful thing.
The Cobb salad spoke to her and I got the Pear and Goat Cheese salad, a filling bowl of those two plus strawberries, grapes, cucumbers, tomatoes, mixed greens, and candied walnuts in a creamy sesame dressing. Since it had only been two hours since breakfast for me, it was astonishing that I ate as much of it as I did (98%).
Walking back, we made an art stop at Quirk Gallery to check out Shelly Klein's whimsical paintings on white canvasses. Her new show, "There's No Free Lunch." explores themes of sadness and forgetting the negatives that underpin happiness, about caring too much or not enough, about the sadness connected to the things that make us happy.
Frankly, when I'm walking, talking and eating with a close friend, sadness is the furthest thing from my mind. Without so much as an inward glance, I prefer to enjoy experiences as they happen.
Sorry, Shelly, but there just may be a free lunch, figuratively speaking, as long as you stay in the moment.
A good friend had suggested a walk and an early lunch, so she came to Jackson Ward and we began walking east. At her request, our first stop was Lift because she badly needed coffee.
"You totally dissed me Saturday night," the counter girl said to me the moment she saw me. What? When? Seems she'd been waving madly to me at the Firehouse show Saturday and I never even saw her. I pleaded myopia and smiled as sincerely as I could. Honestly, never saw her.
Rock god Prabir (minus the Goldrush) walked up to the counter behind us, jarring my memory. "I had a dream about you last night," I blurted out. He shrugged nonchalantly.
"He hears that so often, it's no big deal," my friend pointed out. He wasn't a major part of the dream, but you'd have thought he could have been a tad more surprised to hear he'd made mine. Nope (yawn). Just another day for Prabir.
Life-giving coffee in hand, my friend and I headed down Broad Street, passing all the school buses in front of the Empire Theater for "Honk," passing the many buildings being rehabbed into apartments and condos, passing the colorful crowds waiting for buses.
She was enjoying every minute of our discovery mission, not having walked this stretch of Broad in years. We paused at the National box office to peruse the schedule, but nothing caught her eye. Eventually, we crossed over to Grace Street for a change of scenery.
We marveled at the Honey Shop (how long has that place been there?), peered in the windows of Jason Alley's new venture, Pasture, abuzz with construction activity, and admired hats at Chic Chapeaux. She showed me her favorite empty storefronts and I showed her mine.
Eventually we were almost back to Belvidere and and definitely in "early lunch" range, so we backtracked to Tarrant's for salads. They really do have an impressive selection of interesting salad choices. And a table next to a sunny window is a delightful thing.
The Cobb salad spoke to her and I got the Pear and Goat Cheese salad, a filling bowl of those two plus strawberries, grapes, cucumbers, tomatoes, mixed greens, and candied walnuts in a creamy sesame dressing. Since it had only been two hours since breakfast for me, it was astonishing that I ate as much of it as I did (98%).
Walking back, we made an art stop at Quirk Gallery to check out Shelly Klein's whimsical paintings on white canvasses. Her new show, "There's No Free Lunch." explores themes of sadness and forgetting the negatives that underpin happiness, about caring too much or not enough, about the sadness connected to the things that make us happy.
Frankly, when I'm walking, talking and eating with a close friend, sadness is the furthest thing from my mind. Without so much as an inward glance, I prefer to enjoy experiences as they happen.
Sorry, Shelly, but there just may be a free lunch, figuratively speaking, as long as you stay in the moment.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Same Musicians, Different Songs
It isn't often that you can see two musicians perform with the Richmond Symphony and then head to Gallery 5 and see the same two perform in a rock band. But it happens.
But eating usually proceeds music, so I met my couple date at The Empress, a place they'd never been and one I always enjoy.
The Mr. of the couple ordered a bottle of the La Pere La Grolle Beaujolais for our drinking pleasure. The amuse bouche was a cheese wafer stuffed with chopped zucchini and peppers in pico de gallo. Very nice.
After an arugula salad with chick peas, Fontina cheese and pine nuts, I ordered the grilled rosemary lamb chops, crispy horseradish cheddar polenta cakes and roasted grape tomatoes. Is there anything better than gnawing medium rare lamb chops down to the bones? The female half of the couple referred to this as "eating Henry the Eighth style."
Couple dining guarantees extra dessert and tonight was no exception. We told our server not to even bother telling us any of the non-chocolate options and wound up with the chocolate banana crepes and the ginger/chili chocolate pate.
Call us crude, but there was finger-swiping involved to get the last of the chocolate filling off the crepe plate. I didn't say I was proud about it, but it sure was good.
We found a prime parking space at Fifth and Main and enjoyed the balmy walk to CenterStage. We'd barely taken our seats when the lights went down and some of the old men began dozing.
The first piece came courtesy of the Sphinx Organization,a group dedicated to getting more black and Latino composers symphonically performed.
Tonight's was by Haitian-American Daniel Bernard Roumain, also known as DBR, and was based on the 21-second dance between Ellen deGeneres and Barack Obama in 2007. TV-oblivious one that I am, I hadn't even known such a thing had happened.
Conductor Steven Smith introduced the piece, "Dancers, Dreamers and Presidents for Orchestra" by saying, "Fundamentally, this is a dance piece, so if you feel like it, get up and dance in the aisles."
The piece was interesting, by turn great and just okay. Let's say it was Shaft meets Pink Floyd meets Sufjan Stevens and that should give you some idea of the range of the piece. Sadly, no one danced.
The second piece, "Concerto for Trumpet" featured guest trumpeter Thomas Hooten of the Atlanta Symphony. Although written in 1948 by Tomasi, it had a decidedly 1950s feel and was over in the blink of an eye. What, intermission already?
Tchaikovsky's "Symphony No. 6 in B Minor" was the last thing the composer wrote before dying and an example of High Romanticism in classical music. It also confounded the audience who was never sure exactly what was going on.
A rousing round of applause burst out between movements (a no-no) and yet, when the symphony ended, there was a delayed reaction before the crowd knew to clap. Part of that may have been the way it ended with a whimper rather than the usual big symphonic bang.
As the woman behind me noted to her husband afterwards, "Well that certainly didn't follow the usual format of a symphony!" And while that was true, a lot of the appeal of tonight's program was the oddness of it.
My couple date was kind enough to drop me at Gallery 5 on the way home. I walked in shortly after Horsehead had begun their raucous rock set. Only the suit jackets the band wears give away that they're not straight out of 1975.
I'd missed Harsh Realm's set, but saw band member Jamie and asked him how it had gone. Apparently, the crowd was small and mostly confused about their full-on passionate Iggy Pop-like style. I was sorry to have missed that.
Eventually the handsome Matt, bassist for the Symphony, arrived minus his tux and I got a chance to ask him about the program he'd just played and I'd just heard. His favorite had been the Tchaikovsky for its sweeping romanticism.
Shortly afterwards, more symphony musicians arrived, recognizable for the instruments strapped to their backs, for music of a very different kind. I talked to them, too, to see what their take on the program had been and all agreed that Tchaikovsky was the hands-down favorite. Symphony musicians! They're so predictable.
With bassist Matt and symphony violinist Treesa finally in the house, Prabir and the Goldrush could start their set. Tonight was Prabir's birthday, so the show was even more lively than usual with toasting and drinking and tributes on stage.
Original material soon enough gave way to Beatles covers and guests on stage, including Amanda Robinson, director of Gallery 5, and Kevin Inge of Horsehead. They closed with "I am the Walrus," and it got no more dancers on the floor than "Dancers, Dreamers and Presidents for Orchestra" had.
Not that it mattered to the band. They were up there going at it, all of them singing, swigging and obviously having a great time.
Rock musicians! They're so predictable.
But eating usually proceeds music, so I met my couple date at The Empress, a place they'd never been and one I always enjoy.
The Mr. of the couple ordered a bottle of the La Pere La Grolle Beaujolais for our drinking pleasure. The amuse bouche was a cheese wafer stuffed with chopped zucchini and peppers in pico de gallo. Very nice.
After an arugula salad with chick peas, Fontina cheese and pine nuts, I ordered the grilled rosemary lamb chops, crispy horseradish cheddar polenta cakes and roasted grape tomatoes. Is there anything better than gnawing medium rare lamb chops down to the bones? The female half of the couple referred to this as "eating Henry the Eighth style."
Couple dining guarantees extra dessert and tonight was no exception. We told our server not to even bother telling us any of the non-chocolate options and wound up with the chocolate banana crepes and the ginger/chili chocolate pate.
Call us crude, but there was finger-swiping involved to get the last of the chocolate filling off the crepe plate. I didn't say I was proud about it, but it sure was good.
We found a prime parking space at Fifth and Main and enjoyed the balmy walk to CenterStage. We'd barely taken our seats when the lights went down and some of the old men began dozing.
The first piece came courtesy of the Sphinx Organization,a group dedicated to getting more black and Latino composers symphonically performed.
Tonight's was by Haitian-American Daniel Bernard Roumain, also known as DBR, and was based on the 21-second dance between Ellen deGeneres and Barack Obama in 2007. TV-oblivious one that I am, I hadn't even known such a thing had happened.
Conductor Steven Smith introduced the piece, "Dancers, Dreamers and Presidents for Orchestra" by saying, "Fundamentally, this is a dance piece, so if you feel like it, get up and dance in the aisles."
The piece was interesting, by turn great and just okay. Let's say it was Shaft meets Pink Floyd meets Sufjan Stevens and that should give you some idea of the range of the piece. Sadly, no one danced.
The second piece, "Concerto for Trumpet" featured guest trumpeter Thomas Hooten of the Atlanta Symphony. Although written in 1948 by Tomasi, it had a decidedly 1950s feel and was over in the blink of an eye. What, intermission already?
Tchaikovsky's "Symphony No. 6 in B Minor" was the last thing the composer wrote before dying and an example of High Romanticism in classical music. It also confounded the audience who was never sure exactly what was going on.
A rousing round of applause burst out between movements (a no-no) and yet, when the symphony ended, there was a delayed reaction before the crowd knew to clap. Part of that may have been the way it ended with a whimper rather than the usual big symphonic bang.
As the woman behind me noted to her husband afterwards, "Well that certainly didn't follow the usual format of a symphony!" And while that was true, a lot of the appeal of tonight's program was the oddness of it.
My couple date was kind enough to drop me at Gallery 5 on the way home. I walked in shortly after Horsehead had begun their raucous rock set. Only the suit jackets the band wears give away that they're not straight out of 1975.
I'd missed Harsh Realm's set, but saw band member Jamie and asked him how it had gone. Apparently, the crowd was small and mostly confused about their full-on passionate Iggy Pop-like style. I was sorry to have missed that.
Eventually the handsome Matt, bassist for the Symphony, arrived minus his tux and I got a chance to ask him about the program he'd just played and I'd just heard. His favorite had been the Tchaikovsky for its sweeping romanticism.
Shortly afterwards, more symphony musicians arrived, recognizable for the instruments strapped to their backs, for music of a very different kind. I talked to them, too, to see what their take on the program had been and all agreed that Tchaikovsky was the hands-down favorite. Symphony musicians! They're so predictable.
With bassist Matt and symphony violinist Treesa finally in the house, Prabir and the Goldrush could start their set. Tonight was Prabir's birthday, so the show was even more lively than usual with toasting and drinking and tributes on stage.
Original material soon enough gave way to Beatles covers and guests on stage, including Amanda Robinson, director of Gallery 5, and Kevin Inge of Horsehead. They closed with "I am the Walrus," and it got no more dancers on the floor than "Dancers, Dreamers and Presidents for Orchestra" had.
Not that it mattered to the band. They were up there going at it, all of them singing, swigging and obviously having a great time.
Rock musicians! They're so predictable.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Musical Tuesday: Preachers' Guns and Sons
If I'd set out to have an evening of contrasting musical experiences, I couldn't have accomplished it any better than where I found myself tonight.
It was the end of an era at the Listening Room, with tonight's show being the final one at the Michaux House; after a stellar fifteen-month run there, the monthly event is moving to the Firehouse Theater.
No more will we walk down the outdoor staircase to the basement for a talk-free show, so it was a little bittersweet knowing I'd never again eat a donut or ask a dumb musical question of a musician there.
Tonight's show was a strong one, making for the appropriate sendoff for the turning of the venue page. Singer-songwriter Knox Hubard was introduced with the words, "I have seen grown women swoon at the sound of his voice."
I know for sure that he was the first LR performer ever to wear a corduroy blazer or have his lyrics/set list taped to his guitar.
He did have a beautiful voice, showcased with well-written songs and impeccable delivery. He sang about trains, a song he'd written after a trip with his son, and about finding the love of your life, with assistance from Mark of Louisiana Territory (whom he'd written it for on the occasion of his marriage) and Chris and Antonia of the Speckled Bird.
Up second was Allison Self, a long-time favorite of mine who'd been traveling so much the past year that she hadn't been playing out much.
Tonight's near-capacity crowd (the baked goods were completely gone by the end of the first set) was treated to her classic Americana big voice and enthusiastic ukulele playing.
The buzz after her set was incredible; apparently a lot of people were hearing her for the first time and being blown away. She played music from her new EP "Self-Titled," (get it?), which she had for sale for $1 to $500, buyer's choice a la Radiohead.
She also covered vintage country, blues and folk, including Leadbelly's "Good Night Irene," Loretta Lynn and "St. Louis Blues." Lyric: "If it weren't for powder and store-bought hair, That man of mine wouldn't have gone nowhere." Classic stuff.
Tyler Crowley played last and he also had a new EP to play. Before he even got started, the string of lights that falls nearly every LR show fell, causing him to note, "I was at the very first Listening Room show and watched the lights fall."
As was I; now it's practically guaranteed to happen every time. Regulars laugh; newbies are just surprised.
Tyler had brought the crew with whom he'd recorded, including Lance Koehler, Marcus Tenney, and Reggie Chapman (all of No BS) and Jonathan Vassar and Antonia (JV & the Speckled Bird), making for the biggest band ever for the LR stage and a very full sound.
Tyler's songs were all taken from slices of his life, including "Preacher and his Gun," a song he described as, "Imagine if Clint Eastwood and Jimmy Swaggert morphed into one man."
My favorite was the lush "Restless Feeling," full of warm horns and indie swagger. He said it sounded even better on the CD than it had live, but I don't see how that's possible.
He closed with a cover of his favorite song, Radiohead's "Let Down." I went to compliment him on the set after the show and before I could, he asked if I'd been at the Symphony Sunday because he thought he'd seen me. "You are at every kind of show," he laughed.
It was appropriate because Tyler and I first met at the Camel when he came up to me and said, "I see you at every show I go to. Who are you?"
After saying good-bye to the Micheaux House for the last time, a couple of friends and I took the short drive to the Republic for a very different sort of musical event.
Prabir and Treesa, half of Prabir and the Goldrush, were playing music from movies. It's part of their themed series at Republic; last time it was all about sex.
They were finishing up their first set when we got there and during the break, Treesa came up to hug me and thank me for coming because, she said, "I know you hate this venue."
It's the smoke I hate and the reeking afterwards actually, but, even so, I told her, I wouldn't have missed seeing what the set list was.
Besides, 48 hours ago, I had been listening to Treesa play violin with the Richmond Symphony performing Pucini and Verdi; how could I resist hearing something so different from her tonight?
And there were some doozies. They opened with the theme from Star Wars and Jaws before cutting loose on "Gangsta's Paradise."
Imagine a white girl from Kansas playing violin and rapping while using her phone for the lyrics. It really needed to be seen and heard to be believed. The crowd roared their approval and her husband taped the entire thing for posterity (or blackmail, I don't know which).
There was an exuberant (read: drunk and loud) crowd at Republic for the show and much enthusiasm as they launched into music from Pulp Fiction, including "Son of a Preacher Man."
The theme to Aladdin, "A Whole New World" was familiar enough to Treesa that she didn't even need her phone, nor did the singalong crowd. Who knew there were so many Aladdin fans at the Republic on a Tuesday night?
For "Ghostbusters," they turned on the fog machine and really got the crowd going. Afterwards, Treesa pouted, "I don't want to stop using the fog machine." Not a complaint you hear every day.
But she did because it wasn't needed for the cheesiest possible one-two punch closer ever imagined, a medley of "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Everything I Do (I Do for You)." Some of the girls in the crowd were clearly in rapture mode as they belted out the lyrics with the band.
If Prabir hadn't set out to pick two of the absolute corniest songs ever written, he'd inadvertently shown cornball genius.
Or, as Treesa's husband Matt summed it up for the ages, "This is really a comedy show." Musical comedy, but comedy for sure.
That's fine. From earnest early on to laughing later on, I'll take my music every way I can get it.
It was the end of an era at the Listening Room, with tonight's show being the final one at the Michaux House; after a stellar fifteen-month run there, the monthly event is moving to the Firehouse Theater.
No more will we walk down the outdoor staircase to the basement for a talk-free show, so it was a little bittersweet knowing I'd never again eat a donut or ask a dumb musical question of a musician there.
Tonight's show was a strong one, making for the appropriate sendoff for the turning of the venue page. Singer-songwriter Knox Hubard was introduced with the words, "I have seen grown women swoon at the sound of his voice."
I know for sure that he was the first LR performer ever to wear a corduroy blazer or have his lyrics/set list taped to his guitar.
He did have a beautiful voice, showcased with well-written songs and impeccable delivery. He sang about trains, a song he'd written after a trip with his son, and about finding the love of your life, with assistance from Mark of Louisiana Territory (whom he'd written it for on the occasion of his marriage) and Chris and Antonia of the Speckled Bird.
Up second was Allison Self, a long-time favorite of mine who'd been traveling so much the past year that she hadn't been playing out much.
Tonight's near-capacity crowd (the baked goods were completely gone by the end of the first set) was treated to her classic Americana big voice and enthusiastic ukulele playing.
The buzz after her set was incredible; apparently a lot of people were hearing her for the first time and being blown away. She played music from her new EP "Self-Titled," (get it?), which she had for sale for $1 to $500, buyer's choice a la Radiohead.
She also covered vintage country, blues and folk, including Leadbelly's "Good Night Irene," Loretta Lynn and "St. Louis Blues." Lyric: "If it weren't for powder and store-bought hair, That man of mine wouldn't have gone nowhere." Classic stuff.
Tyler Crowley played last and he also had a new EP to play. Before he even got started, the string of lights that falls nearly every LR show fell, causing him to note, "I was at the very first Listening Room show and watched the lights fall."
As was I; now it's practically guaranteed to happen every time. Regulars laugh; newbies are just surprised.
Tyler had brought the crew with whom he'd recorded, including Lance Koehler, Marcus Tenney, and Reggie Chapman (all of No BS) and Jonathan Vassar and Antonia (JV & the Speckled Bird), making for the biggest band ever for the LR stage and a very full sound.
Tyler's songs were all taken from slices of his life, including "Preacher and his Gun," a song he described as, "Imagine if Clint Eastwood and Jimmy Swaggert morphed into one man."
My favorite was the lush "Restless Feeling," full of warm horns and indie swagger. He said it sounded even better on the CD than it had live, but I don't see how that's possible.
He closed with a cover of his favorite song, Radiohead's "Let Down." I went to compliment him on the set after the show and before I could, he asked if I'd been at the Symphony Sunday because he thought he'd seen me. "You are at every kind of show," he laughed.
It was appropriate because Tyler and I first met at the Camel when he came up to me and said, "I see you at every show I go to. Who are you?"
After saying good-bye to the Micheaux House for the last time, a couple of friends and I took the short drive to the Republic for a very different sort of musical event.
Prabir and Treesa, half of Prabir and the Goldrush, were playing music from movies. It's part of their themed series at Republic; last time it was all about sex.
They were finishing up their first set when we got there and during the break, Treesa came up to hug me and thank me for coming because, she said, "I know you hate this venue."
It's the smoke I hate and the reeking afterwards actually, but, even so, I told her, I wouldn't have missed seeing what the set list was.
Besides, 48 hours ago, I had been listening to Treesa play violin with the Richmond Symphony performing Pucini and Verdi; how could I resist hearing something so different from her tonight?
And there were some doozies. They opened with the theme from Star Wars and Jaws before cutting loose on "Gangsta's Paradise."
Imagine a white girl from Kansas playing violin and rapping while using her phone for the lyrics. It really needed to be seen and heard to be believed. The crowd roared their approval and her husband taped the entire thing for posterity (or blackmail, I don't know which).
There was an exuberant (read: drunk and loud) crowd at Republic for the show and much enthusiasm as they launched into music from Pulp Fiction, including "Son of a Preacher Man."
The theme to Aladdin, "A Whole New World" was familiar enough to Treesa that she didn't even need her phone, nor did the singalong crowd. Who knew there were so many Aladdin fans at the Republic on a Tuesday night?
For "Ghostbusters," they turned on the fog machine and really got the crowd going. Afterwards, Treesa pouted, "I don't want to stop using the fog machine." Not a complaint you hear every day.
But she did because it wasn't needed for the cheesiest possible one-two punch closer ever imagined, a medley of "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Everything I Do (I Do for You)." Some of the girls in the crowd were clearly in rapture mode as they belted out the lyrics with the band.
If Prabir hadn't set out to pick two of the absolute corniest songs ever written, he'd inadvertently shown cornball genius.
Or, as Treesa's husband Matt summed it up for the ages, "This is really a comedy show." Musical comedy, but comedy for sure.
That's fine. From earnest early on to laughing later on, I'll take my music every way I can get it.
Friday, December 17, 2010
J-Ward Represent
Jackson Ward knows how to throw a party, let me tell you.
Tonight was our annual Christmas soiree at Club 534 and, having attended last year (and being J-Ward Girl), I knew enough to be there again to eat, meet neighbors and enjoy the distinctive DJ stylings.
A writing assignment made me later than I intended to be, so the party was in full swing when I arrived. Friends had saved me a spot at their table, also where another couple was sitting.
Coincidentally, he was a guy I see at shows all over town but I had no idea he was from the Ward, and we'd never met. That was corrected, followed by him complimenting me on my tights. The night was off to a good start.
I had to play catch-up, though, so I began by going to get food. They'd already run out of crab cakes, but I loaded my plate with carved turkey, bean cakes and salsa, veggies, meatballs and cheeses. My association dues at work.
When I went to the bar to get a drink, the bartender told me she wanted my pink scarf. A woman standing next to me said, "If you could see her legs, you'd want her tights." The bartender craned her neck to check me out.
Without missing a beat, she said, "If I had a bottle of vodka, I'd get those tights from her." Yes, well, I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably just as well that she didn't have that bottle with her, whichever way that was going to go.
My favorite part of these parties is after dinner when the DJ cranks the music and the dancing starts. J-Ward is full of rhythm and practically everyone there was a terrific dancer. From little kids who knew all the steps to the gray-haired crowd who danced song after song, these people were all about the dance floor.
And every year my neighbor Larry, an enthusiastic and excellent dancer, insists that I dance with him and every year I remind him that I'm a white girl and not worthy.
It's almost a Christmas ritual for us. This year he actually reached under my armpits to lift me out of my chair as he insisted. That's a man who loves to dance.
When it was time for me to leave for my next destination, the dancing was still in full swing and Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, delaying my departure while I listened to a song I hadn't heard in a million years, but which I recognized from the first note. That's some classic r & b, in my humble opinion.
Stop number two was Six Burner for music. The show, originally scheduled for 10:00, had been pushed up to 8:00 because of the snow. When I arrived, Josh told me it had been moved back to its original time.
Luckily I had good company to keep me occupied until whatever time the music might start, including tonight's performer David Brookings ("Haven't we met before?") and his Dad.
Brookings was apparently an active part of Richmond's music scene about ten years ago and many of the other musicians who were part of that scene showed up tonight, making for a reunion of sorts. He had long ago moved to Memphis where he gave tours of Sun Studios until he was recruited to move to San Jose and work for iTunes. So this was a homecoming show.
Bartender Josh had long ago given me one of Brookings' CDs (he has five, two of which are out of print), so I knew to expect sunny, poppy songs with some excellent guitar work. He introduced one song by saying, "There are only two songs I get minor royalty payments from and this is not one of them."
Josh looked at me and responded, "That's some random shit." Indeed it was and Josh should know; he produced some of David's albums.
One of his best intros was, "If someone held a gun to my head and said 'Play the best song you wrote that doesn't suck' this is the song I would play." High praise, I thought, as he launched into yet another catchy little number.
Prabir and part of the Goldrush (Matt and Treesa) had come in to join the crowd and Prabir always adds a certain wild card element to any evening. After an old-fashioned, he asked Josh for a drink suggestion, requesting something "tasty," whatever that means in drink terms (obviously I have no idea).
Josh suggested a 1930s cocktail, the Godfather (Amaretto and scotch), and when he delivered it, announced that it might taste like "band aids and candy." It was not to Prabir's taste, but a nearby musician tasted and praised it, saying "These vintage cocktails always have great texture."
Brookings is on day 158 of a 209-day project to record every Beatles song and post it on youtube. At this point, he's halfway through the White album and tonight's song, recorded live, was "I'm So Tired."
Naturally, this led to a Beatles discussion amongst those around me: Sgt. Pepper vs. Magical Mystery Tour and Rubber Soul vs. Revolver (the same arguments Beatles lovers have been having since the albums came out). I shared my opinions and then backed away from the fray to mingle.
A friend told me about his idea for the ultimate RVA bar (it would be in Carver), a sous chef neighbor I hadn't seen lately told me about his upcoming gig and a musician I met tonight gave me credit for skirts and tights in this frigid weather, after asking if I had any sweat pants (I don't).
In a late discussion of neighborhoods with both a Church Hill and a Union Hill resident, I was asked where I live. "Jackson Ward," I told them proudly.
"And that's why you're so awesome," James said.
But not nearly as awesome as my neighbors who can really dance.
Tonight was our annual Christmas soiree at Club 534 and, having attended last year (and being J-Ward Girl), I knew enough to be there again to eat, meet neighbors and enjoy the distinctive DJ stylings.
A writing assignment made me later than I intended to be, so the party was in full swing when I arrived. Friends had saved me a spot at their table, also where another couple was sitting.
Coincidentally, he was a guy I see at shows all over town but I had no idea he was from the Ward, and we'd never met. That was corrected, followed by him complimenting me on my tights. The night was off to a good start.
I had to play catch-up, though, so I began by going to get food. They'd already run out of crab cakes, but I loaded my plate with carved turkey, bean cakes and salsa, veggies, meatballs and cheeses. My association dues at work.
When I went to the bar to get a drink, the bartender told me she wanted my pink scarf. A woman standing next to me said, "If you could see her legs, you'd want her tights." The bartender craned her neck to check me out.
Without missing a beat, she said, "If I had a bottle of vodka, I'd get those tights from her." Yes, well, I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably just as well that she didn't have that bottle with her, whichever way that was going to go.
My favorite part of these parties is after dinner when the DJ cranks the music and the dancing starts. J-Ward is full of rhythm and practically everyone there was a terrific dancer. From little kids who knew all the steps to the gray-haired crowd who danced song after song, these people were all about the dance floor.
And every year my neighbor Larry, an enthusiastic and excellent dancer, insists that I dance with him and every year I remind him that I'm a white girl and not worthy.
It's almost a Christmas ritual for us. This year he actually reached under my armpits to lift me out of my chair as he insisted. That's a man who loves to dance.
When it was time for me to leave for my next destination, the dancing was still in full swing and Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, delaying my departure while I listened to a song I hadn't heard in a million years, but which I recognized from the first note. That's some classic r & b, in my humble opinion.
Stop number two was Six Burner for music. The show, originally scheduled for 10:00, had been pushed up to 8:00 because of the snow. When I arrived, Josh told me it had been moved back to its original time.
Luckily I had good company to keep me occupied until whatever time the music might start, including tonight's performer David Brookings ("Haven't we met before?") and his Dad.
Brookings was apparently an active part of Richmond's music scene about ten years ago and many of the other musicians who were part of that scene showed up tonight, making for a reunion of sorts. He had long ago moved to Memphis where he gave tours of Sun Studios until he was recruited to move to San Jose and work for iTunes. So this was a homecoming show.
Bartender Josh had long ago given me one of Brookings' CDs (he has five, two of which are out of print), so I knew to expect sunny, poppy songs with some excellent guitar work. He introduced one song by saying, "There are only two songs I get minor royalty payments from and this is not one of them."
Josh looked at me and responded, "That's some random shit." Indeed it was and Josh should know; he produced some of David's albums.
One of his best intros was, "If someone held a gun to my head and said 'Play the best song you wrote that doesn't suck' this is the song I would play." High praise, I thought, as he launched into yet another catchy little number.
Prabir and part of the Goldrush (Matt and Treesa) had come in to join the crowd and Prabir always adds a certain wild card element to any evening. After an old-fashioned, he asked Josh for a drink suggestion, requesting something "tasty," whatever that means in drink terms (obviously I have no idea).
Josh suggested a 1930s cocktail, the Godfather (Amaretto and scotch), and when he delivered it, announced that it might taste like "band aids and candy." It was not to Prabir's taste, but a nearby musician tasted and praised it, saying "These vintage cocktails always have great texture."
Brookings is on day 158 of a 209-day project to record every Beatles song and post it on youtube. At this point, he's halfway through the White album and tonight's song, recorded live, was "I'm So Tired."
Naturally, this led to a Beatles discussion amongst those around me: Sgt. Pepper vs. Magical Mystery Tour and Rubber Soul vs. Revolver (the same arguments Beatles lovers have been having since the albums came out). I shared my opinions and then backed away from the fray to mingle.
A friend told me about his idea for the ultimate RVA bar (it would be in Carver), a sous chef neighbor I hadn't seen lately told me about his upcoming gig and a musician I met tonight gave me credit for skirts and tights in this frigid weather, after asking if I had any sweat pants (I don't).
In a late discussion of neighborhoods with both a Church Hill and a Union Hill resident, I was asked where I live. "Jackson Ward," I told them proudly.
"And that's why you're so awesome," James said.
But not nearly as awesome as my neighbors who can really dance.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Epiphanies Are Us
It was a slow night for finding fun in River City and, believe me, I looked.
Even tomorrow night has more going on than tonight did. But I managed, through perseverance and dumb luck, to find enough to keep me occupied.
VCU's Fishbowl Gallery was presenting "Interaction 37," an exhibit of painting (of which there was only one) and printmaking work by sixteen graduating seniors.
The work was striking for its modernity.
There were lithographs, laser-cut prints, Epson prints, screen prints and, yes, even digital prints.
And, while I hate to admit it, my personal "best in show" would have gone to a digital print.
Patrick Quinn's "Negro Art" was created by stacking transparencies, photocopies, scraps and other studio debris and then scanning the pile to create the final flat composition.
The assorted debris comprised a visually satisfying graphic arrangement with the words "Negro Art" written horizontally near the bottom and the words "The Art of Africa" written vertically on the opposite side.
I spent as much time admiring this one piece as I did looking at all the others combined.
I only wish I could have justified spending the money so I could look at it every day.
Stopping briefly at home, I got a message from musician and man-about-town Prabir asking what was going on tonight.
Wine and then not much, I told him regretfully.
What was he up to?
His only plans were to go running and break up with a girl, so he suggested meeting later to assess our evenings.
Why not?
Every Tuesday The Empress does a four-course wine tasting with small plate pairings and tonight's theme was Thanksgiving pairings.
The crowd was smaller than the last one of these I'd attended, no doubt due to traveling and the holiday, but no less enjoyable.
We began with parsnip mashed potatoes with black pepper butter and Dry Creek Chenin Blanc. T
he rich butter was a lovely complement to the wine.
Course #2 was perfectly braised kale with cranberry chutney and the most divine Cantina Zaccagnini, a Montepulciano d'Aruzzo.
Its dry, aromatic qualities made it very food-friendly.
Herb grilled turkey with maple-roasted carrots came with hot sake-spiked apple cider.
The turkey had an unexpectedly spicy crust and although I'm not much of a cider person, the combination worked well.
We finished with a baked Alaska (homemade carrot cake topped by brandy-poached apples and ice cream all in a meringue coating which was then torched).
With it, we had the Empress Hot Tottie, made with Kluge Cru, a fortified (20%!) apperitif wine, sake and lemon juice.
All of a sudden, I'm drinking sake. And mixed drinks.
What's happening here?
These Tuesday tastings, with their mere $15 price tag, are great fun and always well-thought out food and wine-wise.
Next time I'll bring a friend, although the eavesdropping was quite good tonight (what happens at the Empress stays at the Empress) so I never lacked for entertainment.
I'd told a friend I would meet her at Ipanema to try out some of their new cocktails, but I was late and she was gone by the time I arrived.
But only recently gone.
As the bartender put it so succinctly, "Her drink spot is still wet."
Now that's a recent departure.
But I'd missed my second chance at a mixed drink; probably just as well.
Prabir and I had agreed on the Nile for meeting because of its walkability to J-Ward, but I would also add, because of its excellent music and chill vibe.
We shared the highlights of our day, leading to some interesting realizations and causing Prabir to dub this the "Karen/Prabir Epiphany Night.com"
He decreed that it was not just enough to have the epiphanies, but that acting on them was also a requirement.
Sounds like a lot of work to me.
It wasn't long before the rest of the crowd cleared out and the charming bartender joined our discussion of the sexes.
After a bit, a heart-bruised artist who's doing a mural for the Nile made it four and our discussion group was complete.
On the table were such topics as why men choose women on a purely visual basis, the relevance (or lack thereof) of marriage and the advantages of dating girls over the age of 28.
Oh, yes, and the wisdom of not dating members of the opposite sex first encountered in bars.
Someone should have been taking notes.
It's probably worth noting that not one of the four of us is in an actual relationship, so in all likelihood, we knew not of what we spoke, despite several hours of speaking anyway.
Eventually Prabir remembered his early morning meeting and we said our farewells to the other men-folk.
Turns out I was mistaken; there was more than enough to do tonight.
I just had to move around to find it all.
Even tomorrow night has more going on than tonight did. But I managed, through perseverance and dumb luck, to find enough to keep me occupied.
VCU's Fishbowl Gallery was presenting "Interaction 37," an exhibit of painting (of which there was only one) and printmaking work by sixteen graduating seniors.
The work was striking for its modernity.
There were lithographs, laser-cut prints, Epson prints, screen prints and, yes, even digital prints.
And, while I hate to admit it, my personal "best in show" would have gone to a digital print.
Patrick Quinn's "Negro Art" was created by stacking transparencies, photocopies, scraps and other studio debris and then scanning the pile to create the final flat composition.
The assorted debris comprised a visually satisfying graphic arrangement with the words "Negro Art" written horizontally near the bottom and the words "The Art of Africa" written vertically on the opposite side.
I spent as much time admiring this one piece as I did looking at all the others combined.
I only wish I could have justified spending the money so I could look at it every day.
Stopping briefly at home, I got a message from musician and man-about-town Prabir asking what was going on tonight.
Wine and then not much, I told him regretfully.
What was he up to?
His only plans were to go running and break up with a girl, so he suggested meeting later to assess our evenings.
Why not?
Every Tuesday The Empress does a four-course wine tasting with small plate pairings and tonight's theme was Thanksgiving pairings.
The crowd was smaller than the last one of these I'd attended, no doubt due to traveling and the holiday, but no less enjoyable.
We began with parsnip mashed potatoes with black pepper butter and Dry Creek Chenin Blanc. T
he rich butter was a lovely complement to the wine.
Course #2 was perfectly braised kale with cranberry chutney and the most divine Cantina Zaccagnini, a Montepulciano d'Aruzzo.
Its dry, aromatic qualities made it very food-friendly.
Herb grilled turkey with maple-roasted carrots came with hot sake-spiked apple cider.
The turkey had an unexpectedly spicy crust and although I'm not much of a cider person, the combination worked well.
We finished with a baked Alaska (homemade carrot cake topped by brandy-poached apples and ice cream all in a meringue coating which was then torched).
With it, we had the Empress Hot Tottie, made with Kluge Cru, a fortified (20%!) apperitif wine, sake and lemon juice.
All of a sudden, I'm drinking sake. And mixed drinks.
What's happening here?
These Tuesday tastings, with their mere $15 price tag, are great fun and always well-thought out food and wine-wise.
Next time I'll bring a friend, although the eavesdropping was quite good tonight (what happens at the Empress stays at the Empress) so I never lacked for entertainment.
I'd told a friend I would meet her at Ipanema to try out some of their new cocktails, but I was late and she was gone by the time I arrived.
But only recently gone.
As the bartender put it so succinctly, "Her drink spot is still wet."
Now that's a recent departure.
But I'd missed my second chance at a mixed drink; probably just as well.
Prabir and I had agreed on the Nile for meeting because of its walkability to J-Ward, but I would also add, because of its excellent music and chill vibe.
We shared the highlights of our day, leading to some interesting realizations and causing Prabir to dub this the "Karen/Prabir Epiphany Night.com"
He decreed that it was not just enough to have the epiphanies, but that acting on them was also a requirement.
Sounds like a lot of work to me.
It wasn't long before the rest of the crowd cleared out and the charming bartender joined our discussion of the sexes.
After a bit, a heart-bruised artist who's doing a mural for the Nile made it four and our discussion group was complete.
On the table were such topics as why men choose women on a purely visual basis, the relevance (or lack thereof) of marriage and the advantages of dating girls over the age of 28.
Oh, yes, and the wisdom of not dating members of the opposite sex first encountered in bars.
Someone should have been taking notes.
It's probably worth noting that not one of the four of us is in an actual relationship, so in all likelihood, we knew not of what we spoke, despite several hours of speaking anyway.
Eventually Prabir remembered his early morning meeting and we said our farewells to the other men-folk.
Turns out I was mistaken; there was more than enough to do tonight.
I just had to move around to find it all.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Boy Bar/Girl Bar
You won't often find me at Penny Lane Pub, soured as I was by a night of watching really bad karaoke there last fall. And then there's that male-only crowd that sits on the patio assessing each new customer as if they were grading meat.
But Prabir and company were having an All Access Blog Launch party for the Richmond Symphony and the intersection of the two was too compelling to pass up. That and I was sure Prabir would give me crap if I didn't show.
Based on what was being shown at the party, the new website will definitely be a step forward in attracting viewers. It looks like there will be interviews and offbeat stories about the musicians and staff (like Prabir) and it'll be updated at least twice a week, making for some interesting reading and viewing for RSO fans and even the mildly interested. Hey, symphony musicians are people, too, or so I was told.
Prabir introduced me to a local show poster designer with great musical taste, so I enjoyed myself talking to him about my poster collection, why opening bands matter and how Shepard Fairey came through town without either of us being aware, despite our mutual rabid interest in seeing him. I love meeting new people who share my interests and like to talk.
When I left the pub, I went straight to the VMFA for a showing of the documentary Amandla! A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony, a tie-in to the South African photography exhibit I saw last week. The film was powerful, depicting the chronology of the South African liberation struggle for blacks in music and protests.
I was fascinated by the way the people used song to unite themselves and share their struggles with one another during those bleak years that their townships and lives were being destroyed. Ten years in the making, the combination of interviews and performances (some as casual as back yard a capella) encompassed countless musicians, activists and exiles to tell the story.
The audience was absolutely silent throughout, probably because of the need to listen to heavily accented voices in some cases and also because of the poignancy of the stories people shared. The combination of news footage and present-day interviews seamlessly told a story in which we all knew the ending, but were nonetheless drawn in.
Images of protesters being beaten and even shot were difficult to watch but a necessary part of the story. And throughout, the music was uplifting and inspiring and shared by the masses. As one former exile said, for black South Africans, the good times have just begun.
After the screening, I headed right up to the Best Cafe because I knew Hotel X was playing. The cafe was positively frigid, so I found a chair on the outside deck and settled in with a piece of chocolate torte for some world music-inspired jazz. I knew from seeing the band last winter that I would not be disappointed with their wide-ranging sound.
Even better, the weather put on a visual show while Hotel X provided the musical accompaniment. Facing west, I was surrounded by the reflecting pool with a view of the sculpture garden and the Pauley Center. Lightening lit up the sky over the trees and occasional thunder rumbled in the distance. It was perfect late summer night weather.
A light rain fell too quietly to hear, but I could see the drops hitting the pool in the dim light. Overhead, the deck of Amuse shielded me from getting wet while I enjoyed the balmy night air. The only jarring note was when someone inadvertently left the cafe door open and a blast of arctic air hit me. Although the dancing crowd would probably have disagreed, I really did feel like I had the best seat in the house.
When their last set ended, I decided to finish the night at nearby Secco. By some miracle, it was not mobbed, although every single barstool was taken. Julia surrendered her spot at the bar, closed her laptop and suggested we share a couch and catch up.
There was rose, there was cheese (Midnight Moon) and loveliest of all, there were even pink bubbles (Manoir de la Tete "Tete a Claques" sparkling rose), all necessary fortification for the tales of obtuse fathers, audacious young men and observation of overly botoxed customers ("Wait till she turns around. She looks like the Joker!" She did, too).
And that's not even counting the street theater that is the corner of Sheppard and Cary Streets, a magnet for colorful characters and unexpected behavior the later in the evening it gets ("Did he just...?" Yes, he did).
Julia mentioned the irony of a tomboy, which she most certainly is, ending up with a wine bar that attracts a majority female clientele. It's definitey not a place to go if a girl is hoping to meet someone of the opposite sex; the few men in attendance are inevitably with a female.
It's sort of the anti-Penny Lane Pub. Tonight I was one of those females who can go either way...or both.
But Prabir and company were having an All Access Blog Launch party for the Richmond Symphony and the intersection of the two was too compelling to pass up. That and I was sure Prabir would give me crap if I didn't show.
Based on what was being shown at the party, the new website will definitely be a step forward in attracting viewers. It looks like there will be interviews and offbeat stories about the musicians and staff (like Prabir) and it'll be updated at least twice a week, making for some interesting reading and viewing for RSO fans and even the mildly interested. Hey, symphony musicians are people, too, or so I was told.
Prabir introduced me to a local show poster designer with great musical taste, so I enjoyed myself talking to him about my poster collection, why opening bands matter and how Shepard Fairey came through town without either of us being aware, despite our mutual rabid interest in seeing him. I love meeting new people who share my interests and like to talk.
When I left the pub, I went straight to the VMFA for a showing of the documentary Amandla! A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony, a tie-in to the South African photography exhibit I saw last week. The film was powerful, depicting the chronology of the South African liberation struggle for blacks in music and protests.
I was fascinated by the way the people used song to unite themselves and share their struggles with one another during those bleak years that their townships and lives were being destroyed. Ten years in the making, the combination of interviews and performances (some as casual as back yard a capella) encompassed countless musicians, activists and exiles to tell the story.
The audience was absolutely silent throughout, probably because of the need to listen to heavily accented voices in some cases and also because of the poignancy of the stories people shared. The combination of news footage and present-day interviews seamlessly told a story in which we all knew the ending, but were nonetheless drawn in.
Images of protesters being beaten and even shot were difficult to watch but a necessary part of the story. And throughout, the music was uplifting and inspiring and shared by the masses. As one former exile said, for black South Africans, the good times have just begun.
After the screening, I headed right up to the Best Cafe because I knew Hotel X was playing. The cafe was positively frigid, so I found a chair on the outside deck and settled in with a piece of chocolate torte for some world music-inspired jazz. I knew from seeing the band last winter that I would not be disappointed with their wide-ranging sound.
Even better, the weather put on a visual show while Hotel X provided the musical accompaniment. Facing west, I was surrounded by the reflecting pool with a view of the sculpture garden and the Pauley Center. Lightening lit up the sky over the trees and occasional thunder rumbled in the distance. It was perfect late summer night weather.
A light rain fell too quietly to hear, but I could see the drops hitting the pool in the dim light. Overhead, the deck of Amuse shielded me from getting wet while I enjoyed the balmy night air. The only jarring note was when someone inadvertently left the cafe door open and a blast of arctic air hit me. Although the dancing crowd would probably have disagreed, I really did feel like I had the best seat in the house.
When their last set ended, I decided to finish the night at nearby Secco. By some miracle, it was not mobbed, although every single barstool was taken. Julia surrendered her spot at the bar, closed her laptop and suggested we share a couch and catch up.
There was rose, there was cheese (Midnight Moon) and loveliest of all, there were even pink bubbles (Manoir de la Tete "Tete a Claques" sparkling rose), all necessary fortification for the tales of obtuse fathers, audacious young men and observation of overly botoxed customers ("Wait till she turns around. She looks like the Joker!" She did, too).
And that's not even counting the street theater that is the corner of Sheppard and Cary Streets, a magnet for colorful characters and unexpected behavior the later in the evening it gets ("Did he just...?" Yes, he did).
Julia mentioned the irony of a tomboy, which she most certainly is, ending up with a wine bar that attracts a majority female clientele. It's definitey not a place to go if a girl is hoping to meet someone of the opposite sex; the few men in attendance are inevitably with a female.
It's sort of the anti-Penny Lane Pub. Tonight I was one of those females who can go either way...or both.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Holy Happy Hour, Batman!
Best happy hour in recent memory: today from 5-7:30 at Garnett's.
Because during the arsenic hours, wine is only $3 a glass.
Because all the time, they have appetizers that only cost $6 or $7.
Because it ends up qualifying as dinner it's so satisfying.
And when the check comes, you'll marvel at how full and wine-happy you are for so little cost.
A couple of glasses of shiraz, a couple of malbecs, the smoked salmon plate with tomato, capers, red onion, brown bread, Benedictine spread and Mac's fabulous pickles as well as the cheese plate (Gorgonzola, Brie and Muenster) with oil-brushed toast points and we had enough food to keep my girlfriend and me occupied for most of our visit.
It also fueled the required girl talk, which was why we met up in the first place.
Perennial Garnett's customer Cy came in and sat down next to me with a companion.
He and my friend kept eyeing each other until they both acknowledged that they recognized the other.
A few quick questions and hints and voila!
The two degrees of separation in RVA were revealed. "Your were at so and so's party! You're the one who was dancing with all the middle-aged women!" my friend exclaimed when she figured it out.
Cy's blush and ducked head confirmed every word. Hilarious.
Up next was Gallery 5 and what an interesting experience that was.
The bands playing were Shark Attack (firmly rooted in the 70s), Duchess of York (technically proficient but seemingly without any passion) and Trillions (formed from the ashes of Prabir and the Substitutes).
Fear not, though, Prabir may be long-gone, but the rest of the band's coifs remain firmly in place.
I say that with tongue in cheek only because I remember seeing a Prabir gig in NOVA listed as a "must-see" in the Washington Post's "Going Out" section, with a reference to the band's poppy sound and hipster haircuts.
Present and accounted for.
Trillion's sound is still plenty poppy, but with a more recent angular heritage, including a lot of The Strokes' influence.
Appealing voices and well-played instruments made for the best set of the night.
I had met Charlie, the singer and organizer of the show, earlier and stumped him when I asked him what he was listening to lately.
"Romantic period classical," he finally said.
Anything recent. I wondered? Not that he could name, to his embarrassment.
Oddly enough, the same thing had happened when I'd asked the sound guy Matt that exact question earlier.
After he acknowledged his parents' classic rock and a few jam bands, he had a hard time citing any current music he's listening to.
Does this strike anyone else as odd?
If a 20-something musician or sound guy isn't paying attention to the music his generation is making, who is?
I probably already know the answer, but I think it needs addressing.
Talkin' 'bout your generation.
Because during the arsenic hours, wine is only $3 a glass.
Because all the time, they have appetizers that only cost $6 or $7.
Because it ends up qualifying as dinner it's so satisfying.
And when the check comes, you'll marvel at how full and wine-happy you are for so little cost.
A couple of glasses of shiraz, a couple of malbecs, the smoked salmon plate with tomato, capers, red onion, brown bread, Benedictine spread and Mac's fabulous pickles as well as the cheese plate (Gorgonzola, Brie and Muenster) with oil-brushed toast points and we had enough food to keep my girlfriend and me occupied for most of our visit.
It also fueled the required girl talk, which was why we met up in the first place.
Perennial Garnett's customer Cy came in and sat down next to me with a companion.
He and my friend kept eyeing each other until they both acknowledged that they recognized the other.
A few quick questions and hints and voila!
The two degrees of separation in RVA were revealed. "Your were at so and so's party! You're the one who was dancing with all the middle-aged women!" my friend exclaimed when she figured it out.
Cy's blush and ducked head confirmed every word. Hilarious.
Up next was Gallery 5 and what an interesting experience that was.
The bands playing were Shark Attack (firmly rooted in the 70s), Duchess of York (technically proficient but seemingly without any passion) and Trillions (formed from the ashes of Prabir and the Substitutes).
Fear not, though, Prabir may be long-gone, but the rest of the band's coifs remain firmly in place.
I say that with tongue in cheek only because I remember seeing a Prabir gig in NOVA listed as a "must-see" in the Washington Post's "Going Out" section, with a reference to the band's poppy sound and hipster haircuts.
Present and accounted for.
Trillion's sound is still plenty poppy, but with a more recent angular heritage, including a lot of The Strokes' influence.
Appealing voices and well-played instruments made for the best set of the night.
I had met Charlie, the singer and organizer of the show, earlier and stumped him when I asked him what he was listening to lately.
"Romantic period classical," he finally said.
Anything recent. I wondered? Not that he could name, to his embarrassment.
Oddly enough, the same thing had happened when I'd asked the sound guy Matt that exact question earlier.
After he acknowledged his parents' classic rock and a few jam bands, he had a hard time citing any current music he's listening to.
Does this strike anyone else as odd?
If a 20-something musician or sound guy isn't paying attention to the music his generation is making, who is?
I probably already know the answer, but I think it needs addressing.
Talkin' 'bout your generation.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Scenes From An Evening
5:30. Phone rings.
"Why aren't you at your neighborhood bar?" the caller asks. Because I'm at home? It's the charming Nicholas, in town for rehearsal and a performance and assuring me I want to come meet him and his friend. Off I go to the B @ B to enjoy conversation with worthy conversational partners, including the astutely politically savvy friend. Highlight: Nicholas telling me, "You should put video on your blog. You ought to be on TV."
7:15. Chop Suey Books.
Authors Joanna Smith Rakoff ("A Fortunate Age") and Dylan Landis ("Normal People Don't Live Like This") read from their new works of fiction, one a novel and the other a short story collection and both quite compelling. I always appreciate hearing a writer's words in their own voice and these two were no exception. Both books grabbed the listener and put them right into the story. Highlight: An audience member breastfed during the reading, prompting Rakoff to share a time when she brought her infant to a reading in Soho and ended up having to breastfeed during the taped interview afterwards to quiet the baby. Her breast ended up on Japanese TV.
10:00. Six Burner.
Prabir Mehta (minus the Substitutes) and two musicians, Treesa (on violin) and Matt (on upright double bass), both from the Richmond Symphony, playing new material written for the occasion. The music was well crafted with a classical bent and full of hooks, as Prabir does so well. They finished with a superb rendition of "Eleanor Rigby." Highlight: Being told, "Don't stop wearing fishnets. You are working those fishnets," by a random attendee.
12:15. Catherine Street
Finally meeting the new neighbor whom I'd been told was as enthusiastic about J-Ward as I am. He was. His wife was already asleep, but I hope to meet her soon. Highlight: An unexpected and most enjoyable twenty-minute conversation at midnight with a person I didn't know when I began my day...and yet we had plenty to talk about.
Just another day in the life.
"Why aren't you at your neighborhood bar?" the caller asks. Because I'm at home? It's the charming Nicholas, in town for rehearsal and a performance and assuring me I want to come meet him and his friend. Off I go to the B @ B to enjoy conversation with worthy conversational partners, including the astutely politically savvy friend. Highlight: Nicholas telling me, "You should put video on your blog. You ought to be on TV."
7:15. Chop Suey Books.
Authors Joanna Smith Rakoff ("A Fortunate Age") and Dylan Landis ("Normal People Don't Live Like This") read from their new works of fiction, one a novel and the other a short story collection and both quite compelling. I always appreciate hearing a writer's words in their own voice and these two were no exception. Both books grabbed the listener and put them right into the story. Highlight: An audience member breastfed during the reading, prompting Rakoff to share a time when she brought her infant to a reading in Soho and ended up having to breastfeed during the taped interview afterwards to quiet the baby. Her breast ended up on Japanese TV.
10:00. Six Burner.
Prabir Mehta (minus the Substitutes) and two musicians, Treesa (on violin) and Matt (on upright double bass), both from the Richmond Symphony, playing new material written for the occasion. The music was well crafted with a classical bent and full of hooks, as Prabir does so well. They finished with a superb rendition of "Eleanor Rigby." Highlight: Being told, "Don't stop wearing fishnets. You are working those fishnets," by a random attendee.
12:15. Catherine Street
Finally meeting the new neighbor whom I'd been told was as enthusiastic about J-Ward as I am. He was. His wife was already asleep, but I hope to meet her soon. Highlight: An unexpected and most enjoyable twenty-minute conversation at midnight with a person I didn't know when I began my day...and yet we had plenty to talk about.
Just another day in the life.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tonight I Have To Leave It
Probably the only advantages of being dumped by someone you love madly, but can be difficult to get to know, is that out of the blue, certain people seek you out and want to be your friend.
Such was the case with my pre-March neighbors who said they'd always wanted to socialize with me but didn't care for my partner (although, to be fair, they didn't really know him). I'd run into them recently and yesterday found me at a big party at their house, a place I'd always longed to see from the inside. The building was originally a butcher shop and now it's an art collection in which they make their home.
The house is chock-a-block with the owner's extremely inventive sculptures and extensive collections. No surface and no wall is not full of art and/or history.
There are vintage signs and clocks, historical artifacts like coins and cannon balls and the most amazing poison bottle collection adorning every window. There was a mobile taller than me, original works by underground and comix artists and an insect collection of scarab beetles.
I was given two tours of the place and wanted a third because there was so much to see.
But it was, after all, a party, so I denied myself more art ogling and went back to socializing with a most eclectic crowd: a restaurant owner, several artists and writers and a soon-to-be farmer, among others. The owner has a single cowboy friend he wants me to meet. I had intended to spend an hour at the party and was there for much longer.
Luckily, my friends know how to throw a party right: an obscene amount of alcohol, an enormous and varied food spread so guests could graze constantly without getting trashed and music loud enough to enjoy but not overwhelm conversation. When I finally left, it was with the assurance that we'd meet up again and that I would definitely attend their holiday soiree.
Next up was the Bro-Down at the Camel, to benefit Big Brothers/Big Sisters; in a brilliant musical stroke, the show featured five sets of local musical siblings.
I was treated to the company of Micheal (of Now Sleepyhead and Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) for the first few sets and enjoyed the benefit of his musician's take on the show before he had to go work the sound.
It began with the Burton brothers, Scott of Glows in the Dark whom I've seen many times and Taylor of Cold Toast, whom I've only seen once. Their set was the perfect start to the evening.
Next up were the Scolero sisters and jeez, what beautiful voices those two have. Then came the Hyrciaks (Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and Zach of the Jungle Beat) and that, too, was vocally mesmerizing. The Shultz brothers followed with their always excellent music and then Prabir and Herschel took the stage for covers and banter.
The big finale was All You Need is Love, performed by all the sibling groups.
At that point, I hadn't left enough time for stool sitting and socializing, so I came home like a good girl. I even started this blog post before deciding it could wait until morning.
So good morning.
Such was the case with my pre-March neighbors who said they'd always wanted to socialize with me but didn't care for my partner (although, to be fair, they didn't really know him). I'd run into them recently and yesterday found me at a big party at their house, a place I'd always longed to see from the inside. The building was originally a butcher shop and now it's an art collection in which they make their home.
The house is chock-a-block with the owner's extremely inventive sculptures and extensive collections. No surface and no wall is not full of art and/or history.
There are vintage signs and clocks, historical artifacts like coins and cannon balls and the most amazing poison bottle collection adorning every window. There was a mobile taller than me, original works by underground and comix artists and an insect collection of scarab beetles.
I was given two tours of the place and wanted a third because there was so much to see.
But it was, after all, a party, so I denied myself more art ogling and went back to socializing with a most eclectic crowd: a restaurant owner, several artists and writers and a soon-to-be farmer, among others. The owner has a single cowboy friend he wants me to meet. I had intended to spend an hour at the party and was there for much longer.
Luckily, my friends know how to throw a party right: an obscene amount of alcohol, an enormous and varied food spread so guests could graze constantly without getting trashed and music loud enough to enjoy but not overwhelm conversation. When I finally left, it was with the assurance that we'd meet up again and that I would definitely attend their holiday soiree.
Next up was the Bro-Down at the Camel, to benefit Big Brothers/Big Sisters; in a brilliant musical stroke, the show featured five sets of local musical siblings.
I was treated to the company of Micheal (of Now Sleepyhead and Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) for the first few sets and enjoyed the benefit of his musician's take on the show before he had to go work the sound.
It began with the Burton brothers, Scott of Glows in the Dark whom I've seen many times and Taylor of Cold Toast, whom I've only seen once. Their set was the perfect start to the evening.
Next up were the Scolero sisters and jeez, what beautiful voices those two have. Then came the Hyrciaks (Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and Zach of the Jungle Beat) and that, too, was vocally mesmerizing. The Shultz brothers followed with their always excellent music and then Prabir and Herschel took the stage for covers and banter.
The big finale was All You Need is Love, performed by all the sibling groups.
At that point, I hadn't left enough time for stool sitting and socializing, so I came home like a good girl. I even started this blog post before deciding it could wait until morning.
So good morning.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Prabir's Plan
You might assume that a local rock legend like Prabir (of Prabir and the Substitutes) is always a victor in the game of love.
Not so, he told me before his acoustic show last night when I asked about his latest conquests.
Even a pop prince gets his heart broken, it would seem.
But never fear, Prabir has a sure-fire plan for working through a broken heart and the way he told me, it goes something like this:
1. Drink too much
2. Make a list of all the things you want to accomplish in life
3. Start dating
4. Drink too much
5. Abruptly stop dating
6. Compile a list of all the sexual conquests you want to make (by type and activity, not by name).
I have a feeling I know what the next step is, but that was as far as he got in telling me the plan because that's as far as he's gotten in his recovery process.
These are words to live by, folks, from a rock god who knows the score.
You have to admire a man with so much musical talent and a plan.
Not so, he told me before his acoustic show last night when I asked about his latest conquests.
Even a pop prince gets his heart broken, it would seem.
But never fear, Prabir has a sure-fire plan for working through a broken heart and the way he told me, it goes something like this:
1. Drink too much
2. Make a list of all the things you want to accomplish in life
3. Start dating
4. Drink too much
5. Abruptly stop dating
6. Compile a list of all the sexual conquests you want to make (by type and activity, not by name).
I have a feeling I know what the next step is, but that was as far as he got in telling me the plan because that's as far as he's gotten in his recovery process.
These are words to live by, folks, from a rock god who knows the score.
You have to admire a man with so much musical talent and a plan.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
