Apparently it arouses suspicion if I answer an email at 9:45 p.m.
I thought you were out and about every evening. Here it is Friday night and you're answering me. Don't you have a restaurant to review or a gallery opening to attend?
Don't get smart with me, mister. My hired mouth had already met a friend for dinner and I was at home long enough to change clothes and shoes before going to Balliceaux to see Psychic Mirrors, the Miami funk septet I'd so enjoyed dancing to three years ago there.
A greeting at the front door evolved into a philosophical discussion of the myriad benefits of music - intellectually, physiologically, emotionally, spiritually - with the door guy. We only dropped our meeting of the minds when a line began to form to get in.
But not much of a line. Nothing like the line waiting to get into the line to ride the elevator to Quirk's rooftop bar was when I walked to dinner. Or the line for the '90s dance party at the National when I came back. Or even the two-sided line at the club on Harrison, with cops attending both side, on my second time out.
But enough of a line that he went back to work and I headed towards the back.
"Siouxsie!" the booker says, gesturing at my hair. When I don't have a snappy comeback, he prods. "And the Banshees?" like I'm an idiot, which I sort of feel like.
Moving on, we reminisce about how much both of us had gotten off on this band's last show.
Everyone I talk to - the gallerist, the record store employee, the IT guy - is here because these guys are from Miami and we get so little Miami music. Also, they note, Miamians don't even start playing until midnight.
In the meantime, to warm us up DJs are spinning obscure disco records getting the crowd in the mood. It's an odd assortment of people of all ages and colors who have not gone away for the holiday weekend. A guy walks in and his t-shirt tells me we must talk.
Rap - lies = Hip hop
Is it really this simple, I ask. He insists it is, saying that hip hop is about a vocal styling focused on a more laid back lifestyle than rap, one that focuses on kicking it old school and enjoying yourself with good people, not negativity.
Another guy decides to chat me up, but between his West End address, techie job and stiff manner, we're striking out until he asks if I'd like to see a picture of his girlfriend. Sure, why not?
He pulls out a picture of a shiny, red 1972 MGB, fully restored. Instead of fawning over the good-looking car, I tell him I had a 1971 MGB GT and his jaw drops. "Then you have to come for a ride in my car."
From there, we're just two MG nerds, swooning over chokes and lamenting electrical problems. "You know they were all hand-built?" he asks. Do I?
Before he cuts out mid-set, he hands me a card with the Barnes & Noble info scratched out. On the reverse side, he's written, "John 495 8230 MY CARD." Seeing that he's written MY CARD on this card may be the funniest thing I've seen all day.
He scuttles back to the West End and a weekend, he said, of doing chores around the house. Happy Memorial Day.
Once the merch table was being set up, we knew the show couldn't be far behind and if you could have seen the satisfaction on Psychic Mirror's sound guy's face when he looked at the singer just as the other five began playing, you'd have seen a Cheshire cat grin. Balliceaux is a good-sounding room.
I am dancing before the first song reaches the halfway mark and so is the guy beside me.
A song ends. "That song sounded like Steely Dan, didn't it?" Guy Next to Me asks. True enough. Before the set was over, any number of bands had been cannabalized: The Clash (particularly "Rock the Casbah"), all kinds of Stevie Wonder, the Time, maybe a bit of Sheila E. some '80s R & B obscurities.
Endlessly changing influences, the band stays in a constant groove like a disco DJ would have done, leaving very little time to recoup between songs. Most shocking is that some people are actually rooted in place, not moving so much as a shoulder or foot.
The set lasts just over an hour, we scream for one more and they oblige with a "new" song that sounds like '50s do-wop, except done with synth, screaming guitar, bass, keyboard, drums and multiple vocalists, including a woman.
Coming back to Jackson Ward, I spot two students on Marshall Street, each with one end of a white scarf in both hands. Standing under a tree, they are waving the scarves alternately to create a ripple effect and giggling with delight at the results in the warm night air. At 1:30 a.m.
It's only late if you're not out and about. Let's face it, no one would be the least bit surprised to get an email from me at this hour, now would they?
Showing posts with label psychic mirrors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychic mirrors. Show all posts
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Saturday, March 30, 2013
F*ck Off and Boogie On
Never has the f-word been used so many times at the VMFA.
Okay, maybe amongst the staff, but definitely not at a marble hall event.
Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story had paired up with the museum to show a film silently while people told stories relating to the film's themes.
The movie was Jim Jarmusch's "Down By Law," a very southern black and white story of jail mates who escape.
Walking in early, I heard Tom Waites music playing (he also stars) and saw not only a bar but food for sale.
Since neither was yet on sale, I laid claim to my seat and went upstairs to Amuse for a quickie.
Standing at the end of the bar while my absinthe drip was prepared, a woman from Texas asked for a quick lesson in the green fairy.
Happy to oblige.
"Mmm, it smells so good," she said, eyes closed.
It is so good, I told her.
When I returned to the marble hall, a crowd had begun to gather with lots of familiar faces, many of whom I'd never seen before at a Secretly Y'All event.
Who wouldn't want to hear other people's secrets?
I took advantage of the southern food available, scoring a pork barbecue and cole slaw sandwich and a bag of Cheetos.
When I suggested to the food servers that pork rinds would have been more southern-appropriate, they agreed, saying that they hadn't been able to get them despite trying.
First up was Glynn, who'd impressed at a previous storytelling night.
Her theme was break-ups and her story was a doozy.
She mentioned the many red flags she ignored as she met and set up housekeeping with what turned out to be a seriously deranged man.
Within moments of starting, people in the audience were making empathetic noises as she told her incredible story of a mate who decides to take up with the woman next door (leaving a note saying "Do not try to find me") and move into her house.
Again, next door.
It's a brave woman who can share publicly a breakup story of that magnitude.
The best part was how she managed to move on, find a good man and live happily ever after. Next door.
Chris' story was about a scoop he got when working for the Times Dispatch about a divorce.
The wife wanted it known that her husband was a woman pretending to be a man.
Turns out he was also a liar, a cheat and a Republican.
In between stories, the sound would be restored on "Down By Law" and we'd get a few minutes dialog to keep us abreast of the story.
GWAR's lead singer Dave came next and he brought show and tell.
His first question of us was how many had been arrested and hands went up all over the room, although not mine.
He shared a tale of being arrested in Charlotte, N.C. for wearing the cuttlefish of cthulhu, an enormous phallic piece he apparently wears strapped to his loins during GWAR performances.
Feeling that he didn't deserve a prurient charge, he also pulled out a plastic penis, making the point that the cuttlefish in no way resembled it.
Guy came out and his first request was, "Please don't ever make me follow Dave Brockie again."
He had a point.
Explaining that he doesn't generally get into fights, he'd been in two in his life.
"The first happened when I accidentally joined the army," he deadpanned.
Most of us cringed when he told of a guy's leg being held and a pipe wrench brought down on it.
And the moral?
"If you don't like fighting, "Married with Children" is a bad influence, just like hard drugs."
Four-time Grammy loser Randy Blythe of metal band Lamb of God told his amazing saga of ending up in a Czech jail on manslaughter charges.
Seriously, here's the guy who made international headlines telling us his story at Secretly Y'All.
See why I don't miss this event?
His story of a cellmate who knew little English and whistled "Jingle Bells" incessantly provided one of the best lines of the evening.
"Come find me if the zombie apocalypse comes."
Will do.
Mark's story was called "The Hidden Man" and involved being an aide to an old man with dementia (who didn't like wearing pants) in Philly.
Despite non-sequiters like "You'll break your neck!" after Mark sneezed, he had some lucid moments when he gave Mark life advice.
It was actually a very touching story.
During the intermission, I bought another bag of Cheetos (don't judge) and stood in the endless bathroom line, where I overheard a girl tell Glynn how moved she was by the honesty of her story.
Not everyone would share such a difficult break-up, but Glynn's a Secretly Y'All pro.
Another Dave came out first once the movie was restarted.
His story of camping out at a quarry involved silent bloodhounds, supposedly teaching a blind girl to scuba dive and torrential rain.
Turns out the scuba was a ruse and the guy was really staking out the lesbians on the hill.
I kid you not.
Another Chris began his tale by saying, "I still camp out with my family despite the story I'm about to tell you."
He's a better man than I am because if I'd been forced to hike ("more of a traipse") ten miles as a six-year old, over a yellowjacket nest and after being charged by a bull, I might have ended my family camping adventures.
On the plus side, he did learn that day that his Dad was not all-knowing and we all need to learn that lesson.
James, whom I know from the James River Film Society, got up to share next.
His tale of a road trip to NYC when he was in college with his buddy Rodney Honeycutt included many humorous asides ("There was dinner and supper, no lunch, in the world I grew up in") in his drawling North Carolina accent.
He told of stopping at his grandmother's house on the way north, where she loaded them up with biscuits with ham and sausage.
Ah, pig.
And as anyone (like me) who's ever had a southern biscuit-making grandma knows, there is nothing like homemade biscuits.
When they arrived early in NYC, they killed time because, "I was taught a lot of things and one was that you don't show up to someone's house four hours early."
I was taught the same thing, James.
The two North Carolina boys found kindred souls in the Bronx with two divorced women singing show tunes and the trip turned out better than they could have hoped.
By this time, the movie was going faster than the stories, so it had to be paused for us to catch up.
Richard came up saying, "Boston cream pie is not a pie. It's a cake."
That was a lead-in to his story of teaching in jails.
As he explained, that meant teaching to people like the woman who had microwaved her baby.
And the UR professor who'd killed her husband.
Not exactly a plum teaching job.
He told of how women in jail use moistened M & Ms as make-up, a garish visual image if ever there was one.
Richard said it was DeAntonio (Tony) who had originally made the Boston cream pie observation, which led to several other philosophical discussions between teacher and pupil.
He'd even tried to teach his students the Robert Frost poem, "The Road Not Taken," which dovetailed nicely with the movie's ending, where the two characters part ways at a fork in the road.
Well, all except Roberto Benigni's character, who conveniently happened on a beautiful Italian woman and stayed put in the bayou.
Some people might call that a night, but I was having none of it.
After a phone call to help a kindred soul resolve some matters of the heart, I was off to Balliceaux for music.
It was already crowded and the band wasn't even starting until 11:30.
No problem. I ordered Cazadores and found a good spot to enjoy the DJ collective that had come up from Miami with the band, Psychic Mirrors.
Chris, who'd booked the band, told me that he'd like their sound, that it reminded him of K.C. and the Sunshine Band.
Enough said to know it was going to be fun.
The music the DJs were playing was Miami-sounding boogie, right down to the covers.
And let me tell you, a Miami-fied version of "Cheek to Cheek" is a far cry from Fred Astaire.
When the eight members of Psychic Mirrors took the stage (guitar, bass, drums, percussion, keyboards/vocals, synths and two vocalists), it was to force Richmond to shake their collective booty.
Front man Mickey Introducing the band, said they were from Miami (duh) and began with "Money Crazy," a song that jump-started the night.
Somehow, they managed to infuse "Rapper's Delight" with enough funk to make the few people in the crowd who remembered the Sugarhill gang forget them
They introduced one of their own songs, "Midnight Lover," saying it was on a D.C. label, but qualifying that they were doing it "Miami gangster style."
Honestly, it just sounded as dance-able as everything else they'd played, a very good thing if you ask me.
Their whole set was like that; if you weren't dancing or shaking your booty, something was wrong with you.
But nothing was wrong with me and I found it impossible not to dance, despite some of the people around me more interested in checking their phones than moving their groove things.
Tragic.
Their all-too short set ended with a song off their 12" EP before another Miami DJ kicked it back into overdrive to keep the party going.
Tell me stories and I'll dance until the band stops. Promise.
Okay, maybe amongst the staff, but definitely not at a marble hall event.
Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story had paired up with the museum to show a film silently while people told stories relating to the film's themes.
The movie was Jim Jarmusch's "Down By Law," a very southern black and white story of jail mates who escape.
Walking in early, I heard Tom Waites music playing (he also stars) and saw not only a bar but food for sale.
Since neither was yet on sale, I laid claim to my seat and went upstairs to Amuse for a quickie.
Standing at the end of the bar while my absinthe drip was prepared, a woman from Texas asked for a quick lesson in the green fairy.
Happy to oblige.
"Mmm, it smells so good," she said, eyes closed.
It is so good, I told her.
When I returned to the marble hall, a crowd had begun to gather with lots of familiar faces, many of whom I'd never seen before at a Secretly Y'All event.
Who wouldn't want to hear other people's secrets?
I took advantage of the southern food available, scoring a pork barbecue and cole slaw sandwich and a bag of Cheetos.
When I suggested to the food servers that pork rinds would have been more southern-appropriate, they agreed, saying that they hadn't been able to get them despite trying.
First up was Glynn, who'd impressed at a previous storytelling night.
Her theme was break-ups and her story was a doozy.
She mentioned the many red flags she ignored as she met and set up housekeeping with what turned out to be a seriously deranged man.
Within moments of starting, people in the audience were making empathetic noises as she told her incredible story of a mate who decides to take up with the woman next door (leaving a note saying "Do not try to find me") and move into her house.
Again, next door.
It's a brave woman who can share publicly a breakup story of that magnitude.
The best part was how she managed to move on, find a good man and live happily ever after. Next door.
Chris' story was about a scoop he got when working for the Times Dispatch about a divorce.
The wife wanted it known that her husband was a woman pretending to be a man.
Turns out he was also a liar, a cheat and a Republican.
In between stories, the sound would be restored on "Down By Law" and we'd get a few minutes dialog to keep us abreast of the story.
GWAR's lead singer Dave came next and he brought show and tell.
His first question of us was how many had been arrested and hands went up all over the room, although not mine.
He shared a tale of being arrested in Charlotte, N.C. for wearing the cuttlefish of cthulhu, an enormous phallic piece he apparently wears strapped to his loins during GWAR performances.
Feeling that he didn't deserve a prurient charge, he also pulled out a plastic penis, making the point that the cuttlefish in no way resembled it.
Guy came out and his first request was, "Please don't ever make me follow Dave Brockie again."
He had a point.
Explaining that he doesn't generally get into fights, he'd been in two in his life.
"The first happened when I accidentally joined the army," he deadpanned.
Most of us cringed when he told of a guy's leg being held and a pipe wrench brought down on it.
And the moral?
"If you don't like fighting, "Married with Children" is a bad influence, just like hard drugs."
Four-time Grammy loser Randy Blythe of metal band Lamb of God told his amazing saga of ending up in a Czech jail on manslaughter charges.
Seriously, here's the guy who made international headlines telling us his story at Secretly Y'All.
See why I don't miss this event?
His story of a cellmate who knew little English and whistled "Jingle Bells" incessantly provided one of the best lines of the evening.
"Come find me if the zombie apocalypse comes."
Will do.
Mark's story was called "The Hidden Man" and involved being an aide to an old man with dementia (who didn't like wearing pants) in Philly.
Despite non-sequiters like "You'll break your neck!" after Mark sneezed, he had some lucid moments when he gave Mark life advice.
It was actually a very touching story.
During the intermission, I bought another bag of Cheetos (don't judge) and stood in the endless bathroom line, where I overheard a girl tell Glynn how moved she was by the honesty of her story.
Not everyone would share such a difficult break-up, but Glynn's a Secretly Y'All pro.
Another Dave came out first once the movie was restarted.
His story of camping out at a quarry involved silent bloodhounds, supposedly teaching a blind girl to scuba dive and torrential rain.
Turns out the scuba was a ruse and the guy was really staking out the lesbians on the hill.
I kid you not.
Another Chris began his tale by saying, "I still camp out with my family despite the story I'm about to tell you."
He's a better man than I am because if I'd been forced to hike ("more of a traipse") ten miles as a six-year old, over a yellowjacket nest and after being charged by a bull, I might have ended my family camping adventures.
On the plus side, he did learn that day that his Dad was not all-knowing and we all need to learn that lesson.
James, whom I know from the James River Film Society, got up to share next.
His tale of a road trip to NYC when he was in college with his buddy Rodney Honeycutt included many humorous asides ("There was dinner and supper, no lunch, in the world I grew up in") in his drawling North Carolina accent.
He told of stopping at his grandmother's house on the way north, where she loaded them up with biscuits with ham and sausage.
Ah, pig.
And as anyone (like me) who's ever had a southern biscuit-making grandma knows, there is nothing like homemade biscuits.
When they arrived early in NYC, they killed time because, "I was taught a lot of things and one was that you don't show up to someone's house four hours early."
I was taught the same thing, James.
The two North Carolina boys found kindred souls in the Bronx with two divorced women singing show tunes and the trip turned out better than they could have hoped.
By this time, the movie was going faster than the stories, so it had to be paused for us to catch up.
Richard came up saying, "Boston cream pie is not a pie. It's a cake."
That was a lead-in to his story of teaching in jails.
As he explained, that meant teaching to people like the woman who had microwaved her baby.
And the UR professor who'd killed her husband.
Not exactly a plum teaching job.
He told of how women in jail use moistened M & Ms as make-up, a garish visual image if ever there was one.
Richard said it was DeAntonio (Tony) who had originally made the Boston cream pie observation, which led to several other philosophical discussions between teacher and pupil.
He'd even tried to teach his students the Robert Frost poem, "The Road Not Taken," which dovetailed nicely with the movie's ending, where the two characters part ways at a fork in the road.
Well, all except Roberto Benigni's character, who conveniently happened on a beautiful Italian woman and stayed put in the bayou.
Some people might call that a night, but I was having none of it.
After a phone call to help a kindred soul resolve some matters of the heart, I was off to Balliceaux for music.
It was already crowded and the band wasn't even starting until 11:30.
No problem. I ordered Cazadores and found a good spot to enjoy the DJ collective that had come up from Miami with the band, Psychic Mirrors.
Chris, who'd booked the band, told me that he'd like their sound, that it reminded him of K.C. and the Sunshine Band.
Enough said to know it was going to be fun.
The music the DJs were playing was Miami-sounding boogie, right down to the covers.
And let me tell you, a Miami-fied version of "Cheek to Cheek" is a far cry from Fred Astaire.
When the eight members of Psychic Mirrors took the stage (guitar, bass, drums, percussion, keyboards/vocals, synths and two vocalists), it was to force Richmond to shake their collective booty.
Front man Mickey Introducing the band, said they were from Miami (duh) and began with "Money Crazy," a song that jump-started the night.
Somehow, they managed to infuse "Rapper's Delight" with enough funk to make the few people in the crowd who remembered the Sugarhill gang forget them
They introduced one of their own songs, "Midnight Lover," saying it was on a D.C. label, but qualifying that they were doing it "Miami gangster style."
Honestly, it just sounded as dance-able as everything else they'd played, a very good thing if you ask me.
Their whole set was like that; if you weren't dancing or shaking your booty, something was wrong with you.
But nothing was wrong with me and I found it impossible not to dance, despite some of the people around me more interested in checking their phones than moving their groove things.
Tragic.
Their all-too short set ended with a song off their 12" EP before another Miami DJ kicked it back into overdrive to keep the party going.
Tell me stories and I'll dance until the band stops. Promise.
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