Go away for a week and you've got a lot to make up for.
Stop one was the recently revamped Perly's, where I walked in to find a music-loving friend at the counter and sat down next to him.
Like me, he was fueling up before hitting Fall Line Fest shows tonight but we began by taking stock of the redone but still recognizable space.
Considering that it's mostly the same (the configuration), it's also very different in feel (a Jewish deli now).
I was particularly enamored of the paper place mats with the menu printed on them while he was impressed with the beer selection.
He was having a svelte corned beef sandwich (which was still pretty thick) but I swear my deli salad - chopped lettuce topped with chunks of pastrami, rolls of turkey and strips of salami, swiss, hard cooked eggs and a little too much Russian dressing- had more meat on it.
We'll call it a manly salad.
After dissecting the shows I'd missed and he'd seen at Fall Line Fest last night (Death, Matthew E. White), I left knowing I'd see him later at a show.
There was no way I was missing Potty Mouth, an all-girl punk pop band from Massachusetts, or the chance to see them with my cute friend at Gallery 5.
We stood right in front of the stage, waiting through bottled water being brought to the stage and drummer Victoria tying her shoes before the band could start.
After the first song, "Kids," singer Abby said, "I forgot to take out my ponytail. How can I have any fun like this?"
We all know punk requires flying hair, assuming you have it.
With that, she let down her long, blond hair, leaving it to hang in her face and move around as she sang and played guitar, not so different from Victoria's covering her face the whole time she drummed.
Some say you made a mistake
Well, you can taste my heartache
How does it taste?
Their set was high energy and I can only hope they were having as good a time as it looked like they were.
Inviting my friend to leave G5 for the National, her only request as that I drive.
When we stopped in front of Gallery 5 for the light, the girls of Potty Mouth were out front loading up their vehicle.
Never one to be shy, I called out to bassist Ally to tell her what a great show they'd put on, insisting they come back soon and play a longer set.
It never hurts to let one's admiration be known.
At the National, we were all kinds of surprised to find parking a snap, meaning not nearly enough people were inside.
After taking up residence in front of the sound booth, always my location at shows there, I saw a few friends, but not nearly as many as I'd expected.
Ditto the band, Sweden's Mary Onettes, which amounted to one guy instead of four.
"I was supposed to have my band withe me but they're busy wrestling ice bears in Sweden," singer/guitarist Philip explained.
I liked his sense of humor already.
But even if he hadn't had that, I'd still have been a sucker for the band's dream pop, which he performed using guitar and voice to recorded tracks by the rest of the band.
It may not have been ideal, but it still sounded great, echoing a lot of '80s bands' sounds I loved with songs such as "Everything, Everything," "God Knows I Had Plans" and the aching "Once I Was Pretty."
Everything I've ever done was a part of promising you and keeping true
Everything you've ever said is recorded in my heart.
Yep, I ate it all up with a spoon. I could have listened to them all night.
Instead, Philip introduced Amanda Mair, also from Sweden, who sang back-up for one Mary Onettes song and then did a set of her own of emotional piano ballads.
She reminded me a lot of '90s British songbird Lauren Christy, when my Perly's friend suddenly appeared right next to us, determined to hear her lovely voice from the best possible listening post in the room.
Why do you think this is my permanent position?
My friend got all excited when she saw that Potty Mouth had just tweeted about their set at Gallery 5, saying how friendly people in Richmond were.
"She's talking about you!" she insisted. Good, maybe they'll come back like I asked.
Although the show was running a tad behind schedule, they almost made up for it with an unusually short break and then, hello!
Real Estate took the stage in their unassuming, so very un-Jersey-like way.
What they do very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals, making for the best kind of wistful nerd pop.
I'd been fortunate enough to see them their first time in Richmond, back in April 2012, at Strange Matter in a room that felt like a sauna and left me dripping wet after the show.
Not that it wasn't worth it.
Like last time, lead singer Martin isn't big on banter between songs, or even smiling much, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
They began with the instrumental gem "Kinder Blumen," the ideal song to ease into their catalog, full of guitar interplay and catchy hooks and moved on to new stuff off their latest album, "Atlas."
Bassist Alex took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
Haven't we all had those moments in a relationship?
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams and extended finishes that equaled pure pop heaven.
Before it was all over, they mentioned the hot tub backstage and invited us all to bring swimsuits and join them.
After a week away, I had a lot to make up for but not enough time for a soak.
It's enough that I tried a new restaurant, saw four stellar bands and told complete strangers what to do, from my car no less.
I can't do everything in one night.
Showing posts with label real estate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label real estate. Show all posts
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Friday, May 2, 2014
Porn and Parks, Snow and Rings
Finish what you start, my mother always said (still does).
Tonight was the last in the Valentine Richmond History Center's community conversations with tonight's topic being the Boulevard. I'd been to every one since January, so I wasn't about to miss the grand finale.
The mostly female crowd met at the VMFA for a discussion of the Boulevard and all it entails.
I slid in at the last minute accompanied by a museum employee married to a cheese monger, a couple who have a 3 1/2 year old who has already learned to negotiate.
The Valentine's erudite and dapper director, Bill Martin, kicked things off by describing the Boulevard as "a cultural and green space, residential and retail, with baseball and abortion, porn and parks."
The crowd groaned at that last part. With each of these conversations, the crowd changes and this one was clearly full of museum district residents, lots of VMFA employees and the usual coterie of community conversation regulars.
I was seated next to a guy named Dennis who'd only lived here four years after moving from California, but had great memories of the Boulevard.
When he first moved here, he sought out a Kiwanis club meeting and wound up at Battle Abbey only to find that instead of a monthly meeting, the Kiwanis were having their annual Christmas party.
"I saw more suits in one night than I'd seen in 20 years in California," he observed. Welcome to the south, sir.
When he attended a Memorial Day celebration, he was surprised to find that it was a memorial for Confederates, not U.S. soldiers in general.
One guy recalled moving here in 1980 and going out on his bike to explore and happening onto Easter on Parade. It was an eye-opener for what Richmond offered,
A fact-filled woman informed us that the Boulevard represented the longest row of linden trees outside of Berlin. Who knew?
After establishing the demographics of the group, we moved on to the quiz portion of the evening where I learned that the Boulevard was named Clover Street until 1874. Fountain Lake was originally a gravel pit.
In 1919, there was a campaign to rename the Boulevard after Stonewall Jackson (it failed) and in 2003, one to rename it Arthur Ashe Boulevard (also failed).
Next came the knowledgeable and informative Bill Martin to show us photographs and provide commentary about the Boulevard.
Through three photographs, we saw the original Virginia Historical Society location when it was just trees and then the construction followed by the final building in 1912.
A shot of the Boulevard's line of "No Parking" signs down the center of the road had a lot of people murmuring, "I remember that." I don't.
A 1960 shot showed the first Bill's Barbeque and a 1967 shot showed flower sellers along Boulevard, with one woman recalling her family's weekly stop after church to get fresh flowers.
By far the most disturbing photos were of the construction of the downtown expressway in the '70s, with rows of big trees cut down and steep grades cut into the Byrd park neighborhood.
One shot of Parker Field also showed the Arena ("The Coliseum of its day," as Bill described it), located where the Ukrops soccer field is today.
Bill recalled the popular annual "dancing water" shows, essentially fountains, as, "It was the '50s and that was exciting." Try to make a millennial understand a night out at the Arena to see an evening of fountains spurting.
Before I left, the come-here Dennis told me about the big party he's throwing at the Hippodrome in October, complete with a jazz band and a chance to get a behind-the-scenes look at the Hippodrome. "You should come!" he enthused.
I have to appreciate a man who gives me plenty of notice.
After the conversation about the Boulevard, I had a date at Zeus Gallery Cafe.
Moments after I'd parked on Belmont, but before exiting my car, I watched as a car made an illegal u-turn and began to back into the space in front of me.
As the driver did so, suddenly she backed into my car with enough force to jar me out of my reverie listening to Real Estate's "Green Aisles" finish.
Under dormant trees
under bright lit skies
mountains of of maple leaves
standing side by side
The phone lines
the street lights
led me to you
And if you
just sit tight
I'll be there soon
Al those wasted miles
All those aimless drives
Through green aisles
Our careless lifestyle
It was not so unwise
No
I don't know how you'd react if someone bashed your car as you were sitting in it, but I admit it, I honked at her.
She jumped out of her car and ran to me, apologizing profusely. I accepted and she kept on. She went back to her car and let a 3-year old out of the car and they both came back and apologized.
They returned to the car and the child came back with an armful. "Black, red or tan?' she asked, her arms full of canvas bags still wrapped in plastic.
Er, awkward, I didn't need a bag as a consolation prize for being hit, but the woman insisted and I eventually accepted a red bag from a child to assuage the woman's conscience.
My date was waiting for me at the bar so dimly lit that we looked fabulous, beginning with glasses of Perrin et Fils Rose and an artisan cheese plate (Stilton, goat and manchego the server pronounced "manchengo," adding in a bonus consonant) while I told him about my encounter with a purse-pushing poor parallel parker.
Our beverage of choice brought up discussion of an article we'd both seen today about the Trump Brut Rose 2011, its winemaker and recent accolades. You say Kluge, I say Trump, potato, potahto.
Returning from the bathroom, I found a couple I know from around town and they soon joined us at the bar for beets and meatloaf over a discussion of the food scene.
She was recalling their rehearsal dinner at La Grotta back in 1997 and the flawless service that came with it, a tough thing to find anymore.
From there, we took a tangent about career servers, something this city has in short supply unfortunately, unlike bigger markets.
Hearing about their rehearsal dinner got my curiosity up about how they got together in the first place and that story was divulged, too.
Seems they were in Florida in 1996 when that big snowstorm hit - I can't be the only one who still remembers it- stranding them there day after day, unable to escape.
Each day they'd go to the airport, hoping for a flight out, end up disappointed and re-rent the same rental car they'd arrived in again.
One day, they ended up at a jewelry store and an engagement happened. Funny the things that being snowed in in Florida does to a couple.
Although, if they were seeing enough of each other to make a trip to Florida, it sounds like they'd already started something pretty hot and heavy.
Which must have meant it was time to... Well, you know what my mother always says.
Tonight was the last in the Valentine Richmond History Center's community conversations with tonight's topic being the Boulevard. I'd been to every one since January, so I wasn't about to miss the grand finale.
The mostly female crowd met at the VMFA for a discussion of the Boulevard and all it entails.
I slid in at the last minute accompanied by a museum employee married to a cheese monger, a couple who have a 3 1/2 year old who has already learned to negotiate.
The Valentine's erudite and dapper director, Bill Martin, kicked things off by describing the Boulevard as "a cultural and green space, residential and retail, with baseball and abortion, porn and parks."
The crowd groaned at that last part. With each of these conversations, the crowd changes and this one was clearly full of museum district residents, lots of VMFA employees and the usual coterie of community conversation regulars.
I was seated next to a guy named Dennis who'd only lived here four years after moving from California, but had great memories of the Boulevard.
When he first moved here, he sought out a Kiwanis club meeting and wound up at Battle Abbey only to find that instead of a monthly meeting, the Kiwanis were having their annual Christmas party.
"I saw more suits in one night than I'd seen in 20 years in California," he observed. Welcome to the south, sir.
When he attended a Memorial Day celebration, he was surprised to find that it was a memorial for Confederates, not U.S. soldiers in general.
One guy recalled moving here in 1980 and going out on his bike to explore and happening onto Easter on Parade. It was an eye-opener for what Richmond offered,
A fact-filled woman informed us that the Boulevard represented the longest row of linden trees outside of Berlin. Who knew?
After establishing the demographics of the group, we moved on to the quiz portion of the evening where I learned that the Boulevard was named Clover Street until 1874. Fountain Lake was originally a gravel pit.
In 1919, there was a campaign to rename the Boulevard after Stonewall Jackson (it failed) and in 2003, one to rename it Arthur Ashe Boulevard (also failed).
Next came the knowledgeable and informative Bill Martin to show us photographs and provide commentary about the Boulevard.
Through three photographs, we saw the original Virginia Historical Society location when it was just trees and then the construction followed by the final building in 1912.
A shot of the Boulevard's line of "No Parking" signs down the center of the road had a lot of people murmuring, "I remember that." I don't.
A 1960 shot showed the first Bill's Barbeque and a 1967 shot showed flower sellers along Boulevard, with one woman recalling her family's weekly stop after church to get fresh flowers.
By far the most disturbing photos were of the construction of the downtown expressway in the '70s, with rows of big trees cut down and steep grades cut into the Byrd park neighborhood.
One shot of Parker Field also showed the Arena ("The Coliseum of its day," as Bill described it), located where the Ukrops soccer field is today.
Bill recalled the popular annual "dancing water" shows, essentially fountains, as, "It was the '50s and that was exciting." Try to make a millennial understand a night out at the Arena to see an evening of fountains spurting.
Before I left, the come-here Dennis told me about the big party he's throwing at the Hippodrome in October, complete with a jazz band and a chance to get a behind-the-scenes look at the Hippodrome. "You should come!" he enthused.
I have to appreciate a man who gives me plenty of notice.
After the conversation about the Boulevard, I had a date at Zeus Gallery Cafe.
Moments after I'd parked on Belmont, but before exiting my car, I watched as a car made an illegal u-turn and began to back into the space in front of me.
As the driver did so, suddenly she backed into my car with enough force to jar me out of my reverie listening to Real Estate's "Green Aisles" finish.
Under dormant trees
under bright lit skies
mountains of of maple leaves
standing side by side
The phone lines
the street lights
led me to you
And if you
just sit tight
I'll be there soon
Al those wasted miles
All those aimless drives
Through green aisles
Our careless lifestyle
It was not so unwise
No
I don't know how you'd react if someone bashed your car as you were sitting in it, but I admit it, I honked at her.
She jumped out of her car and ran to me, apologizing profusely. I accepted and she kept on. She went back to her car and let a 3-year old out of the car and they both came back and apologized.
They returned to the car and the child came back with an armful. "Black, red or tan?' she asked, her arms full of canvas bags still wrapped in plastic.
Er, awkward, I didn't need a bag as a consolation prize for being hit, but the woman insisted and I eventually accepted a red bag from a child to assuage the woman's conscience.
My date was waiting for me at the bar so dimly lit that we looked fabulous, beginning with glasses of Perrin et Fils Rose and an artisan cheese plate (Stilton, goat and manchego the server pronounced "manchengo," adding in a bonus consonant) while I told him about my encounter with a purse-pushing poor parallel parker.
Our beverage of choice brought up discussion of an article we'd both seen today about the Trump Brut Rose 2011, its winemaker and recent accolades. You say Kluge, I say Trump, potato, potahto.
Returning from the bathroom, I found a couple I know from around town and they soon joined us at the bar for beets and meatloaf over a discussion of the food scene.
She was recalling their rehearsal dinner at La Grotta back in 1997 and the flawless service that came with it, a tough thing to find anymore.
From there, we took a tangent about career servers, something this city has in short supply unfortunately, unlike bigger markets.
Hearing about their rehearsal dinner got my curiosity up about how they got together in the first place and that story was divulged, too.
Seems they were in Florida in 1996 when that big snowstorm hit - I can't be the only one who still remembers it- stranding them there day after day, unable to escape.
Each day they'd go to the airport, hoping for a flight out, end up disappointed and re-rent the same rental car they'd arrived in again.
One day, they ended up at a jewelry store and an engagement happened. Funny the things that being snowed in in Florida does to a couple.
Although, if they were seeing enough of each other to make a trip to Florida, it sounds like they'd already started something pretty hot and heavy.
Which must have meant it was time to... Well, you know what my mother always says.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Prime Real Esate
Life is good when you're a ticket holder to a sold-out show.
And by ticket, I mean an actual small blue piece of card stock, not a computer-generated piece of paper.
In fact, when I walked through the door of Strange Matter (where a sign screamed "Sold Out" just in case you hadn't seen the endless Facebook event page notifications telling you the same), the ticket taker asked if I wanted to keep my ticket.
You know, for my scrapbook. Or posterity. Or something.
So I did.
As old-school tickets become more of a rarity, why not?
After all, we live in an age where you can buy a ticket online and a day later receive an e-mail asking if you'd like to purchase a commemorative ticket for eight bucks.
It won't get you in the door (only your computer printout can do that) but, for a premium, you'll have a souvenir of the show.
But enough about 21st century ticketing.
After a satisfying plate of black bean nachos and a thrash soundtrack at 821, I arrived in time to score a place on one of the booth benches, ensuring I'd have a bird's eye view of the stage once the show began.
Good thing, too, because a lot of tall guys in plaid shirts showed up and I would have been looking at their backs otherwise.
The Diamond Center played first and judging from the crowd's reaction, there were a lot of people seeing them for the first time.
A friend and I discussed the novelty of seeing them so early.
"I've never seen the Diamond Center before 1 a.m.," he noted, but for a change they were the opener.
Their sound was also the hardest of the three, but it's such well executed psychedelia that it totally worked to have them lead off.
Australia's Twerps were next and they were energetic, jangly and completely infectious.
"We're from Australia," lead singer Marty said, resulting in some cheering. "Do you really know where that is?"
Well, some of us do, but given the abundance of people with a large X on their hands to indicate non-drinking eligibility, perhaps a geography lesson is in order.
Marty was losing his voice and by the last song, having a tough go of it but he soldiered on.
"That last song was about my girlfriend," he said gesturing at the other guitar player before singing another about her.
It seemed very sincere and very sweet.
Their poppy songs and surfy guitars reminded me of local musician Allison Apperson's former band Hot Lava.
It's hard not to bop to that kind of music.
During the break, people flooded in turning a comfortable room on a 47-degree night into a much sweatier place.
And suddenly the stage was full of Jersey boys and there wasn't a t-shirt in the bunch.
Clearly they do things differently in the garden state.
But what the band does very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals that sound like the best kind of wistful pop.
"This is our first time in Richmond," the gregarious bass player Alex told the crowd. "It's pretty cool."
Actually, what was pretty cool was that a rising band like Real Estate was playing a tiny venue like Strange Matter and I got to be there.
Lead singer Martin was not big on banter between songs, or even on smiling until near the end of the set, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
The bassist took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams that managed to be pure pop heaven.
And the crowd ate it all up. "Exactly Nothing" is going to end up on my next mix tape.
After a set that included a dance song ("Back up so you have room to move") and a couple of covers ("It's good to get the covers out of the way early in the set") in addition to so many summery songs, they finished their last song.
Only Marty took off his guitar before the others gave him the look and he strapped it back on.
"We'll skip the going all the way to the back and coming back up," Alex said with a grin.
So we got one last pop masterpiece and so much guitar noodling that it visibly surprised Marty when it continued on. And then it was all over.
The good part? Escaping out into the cool night air after standing on a bench sweating like crazy for hours.
The bad? Losing the pleasure of seeing live the sunniest music I've heard in a long time.
There goes the day, oh, what a shame
It's okay, that's all the same
It's alright, it's okay
Because the night is just another day
And with Real Estate, it was as sunny a night as my sky-blue ticket.
And by ticket, I mean an actual small blue piece of card stock, not a computer-generated piece of paper.
In fact, when I walked through the door of Strange Matter (where a sign screamed "Sold Out" just in case you hadn't seen the endless Facebook event page notifications telling you the same), the ticket taker asked if I wanted to keep my ticket.
You know, for my scrapbook. Or posterity. Or something.
So I did.
As old-school tickets become more of a rarity, why not?
After all, we live in an age where you can buy a ticket online and a day later receive an e-mail asking if you'd like to purchase a commemorative ticket for eight bucks.
It won't get you in the door (only your computer printout can do that) but, for a premium, you'll have a souvenir of the show.
But enough about 21st century ticketing.
After a satisfying plate of black bean nachos and a thrash soundtrack at 821, I arrived in time to score a place on one of the booth benches, ensuring I'd have a bird's eye view of the stage once the show began.
Good thing, too, because a lot of tall guys in plaid shirts showed up and I would have been looking at their backs otherwise.
The Diamond Center played first and judging from the crowd's reaction, there were a lot of people seeing them for the first time.
A friend and I discussed the novelty of seeing them so early.
"I've never seen the Diamond Center before 1 a.m.," he noted, but for a change they were the opener.
Their sound was also the hardest of the three, but it's such well executed psychedelia that it totally worked to have them lead off.
Australia's Twerps were next and they were energetic, jangly and completely infectious.
"We're from Australia," lead singer Marty said, resulting in some cheering. "Do you really know where that is?"
Well, some of us do, but given the abundance of people with a large X on their hands to indicate non-drinking eligibility, perhaps a geography lesson is in order.
Marty was losing his voice and by the last song, having a tough go of it but he soldiered on.
"That last song was about my girlfriend," he said gesturing at the other guitar player before singing another about her.
It seemed very sincere and very sweet.
Their poppy songs and surfy guitars reminded me of local musician Allison Apperson's former band Hot Lava.
It's hard not to bop to that kind of music.
During the break, people flooded in turning a comfortable room on a 47-degree night into a much sweatier place.
And suddenly the stage was full of Jersey boys and there wasn't a t-shirt in the bunch.
Clearly they do things differently in the garden state.
But what the band does very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals that sound like the best kind of wistful pop.
"This is our first time in Richmond," the gregarious bass player Alex told the crowd. "It's pretty cool."
Actually, what was pretty cool was that a rising band like Real Estate was playing a tiny venue like Strange Matter and I got to be there.
Lead singer Martin was not big on banter between songs, or even on smiling until near the end of the set, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
The bassist took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams that managed to be pure pop heaven.
And the crowd ate it all up. "Exactly Nothing" is going to end up on my next mix tape.
After a set that included a dance song ("Back up so you have room to move") and a couple of covers ("It's good to get the covers out of the way early in the set") in addition to so many summery songs, they finished their last song.
Only Marty took off his guitar before the others gave him the look and he strapped it back on.
"We'll skip the going all the way to the back and coming back up," Alex said with a grin.
So we got one last pop masterpiece and so much guitar noodling that it visibly surprised Marty when it continued on. And then it was all over.
The good part? Escaping out into the cool night air after standing on a bench sweating like crazy for hours.
The bad? Losing the pleasure of seeing live the sunniest music I've heard in a long time.
There goes the day, oh, what a shame
It's okay, that's all the same
It's alright, it's okay
Because the night is just another day
And with Real Estate, it was as sunny a night as my sky-blue ticket.
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