Keep It Moving

I was overdue for a good nine-hour evening.

First up was an in-store performance at my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds.

Performing were a Japanese duo called Elekibass, two Japanese guys who love the Beatles and the Kinks.

The lead singer had a Beatles-esque mop-top and the lead guitarist (wearing a brown short with a lace jabot, I kid you not) somehow had curly Asian hair, making them totally adorable.

They began with an upbeat, sunny song called "Good Morning Blues," sung in heavily-accented English as the lead singer, wearing a plaid suit and tie, walked among the small crowd in the record store.

After a couple of songs, two others joined them, one playing tambourine and shaker ball and the other bass.

At that point, the songs were sung in Japanese.

When they finished, the lead singer began passing out Elekibass buttons as souvenirs.

I don't know why. I'm quite sure none of us will forget a Japanese band anytime soon.

Ashley Eriksson followed, playing someone else's keyboards and singing young woman songs of loss and love.

But enough about that.

From there I went to Reynolds Gallery to hear an artists' talk with Sally Mann, Jessie Mann, Liz Liguori and Ray of the Mountain Lake workshop.

They were discoursing about the new show "Metempsychosis," large format pieces that had used laser imagery, linseed oil, paint and debris like pine needles and wasps to create a wholly new image over a Sally Man discard.

Sally Mann's daughter Jessie, both her muse and once her photographic subject, is all grown up and at the root of this project that used her Mom's photos to scratch, paint and essentially collage on.

The gallery was full of attendees eager to hear about the collaboration and processes (four months just to dry one of these images) required to bring these diptychs to fruition.

During the discussion, the subject of authorship of a collaborative piece came up, raising the issue of attribution when multiple artists use multiple processes to complete a single work.

Looking at the striking works afterwards, a combination of Sally Mann's "bonfire" pieces (discards), Liz's use of a laser through multiple prisms and Jessie's painting, assigning one name seemed ridiculous.

I left the over-crowded opening to go have a bite (the crabby patatas bravas were outstanding) and ran into a DJ friend who had messaged me just a few days ago, saying, "Hey, need a song for a mix. Got one?"

It had been many hours later when I got home and saw that message, so my input was no longer needed.

Tonight, he explained that he'd gone ahead with the mix and promptly went to his car, retrieved a copy of the mix tape and gifted me with it.

Not a bad outcome.

I chatted with a nearby beer-drinker who, when asked about music, told me he liked bands like Periphery and Born of Osiris.

"You know, progressive metal," he said condescendingly.

"Oh, you mean like Between the Buried and Me?" I asked earnestly.

"I have to hug you now," he said, jumping up. "You have changed my world."

Not only was Between the Buried and Me his favorite band, but he had never encountered a single person who knew of them.

Score one for me.

I may know about progressive metal, but it's not really my cup of tea, so when I left with my belly full of South African wine and patatas, it was to go to Balliceaux for music.

The Hi Steps were playing and they're a band who play vintage soul music for the current audience's dancing pleasure.

They say it right up front: they're not for listening to, they're for dancing to.

That means songs like "Higher and Higher,"Ain't Too Proud to Beg" and Curtis Mayfield's "Move on Up."

I ordered a Cazadores and found a spot  near all kinds of people I knew and I was set for the night.

Since I'd last seen the Hi Steps, they'd increased their repertoire, adding in songs like Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart," admirably sung by the red and black-clad Butterfly Vazquez with enough lung power to do Joplin proud.

The always impressive Bryce McCormick on keyboards handled vocals when Butterfly didn't, like on their superb cover of Al Green's "Let's Stay Together."

A couple of guys came in and positioned themselves near me, one of them leaning over and asking, "Do you recognize me?"

I did. It was Hugo, a gentle soul I knew from several restaurant jobs, who soon asked me to dance.

Bio Ritmo's conga player Giustino was in the audience and soon joined the band for "Proud Mary," playing with pliers in his teeth until he could stop and adjust his conga drum.

A restaurant friend suddenly appeared at my side, saying, "How did I not see you when I came in?"

I had no idea, but welcomed him in just as bandleader Jason entreated the crowd to fill the empty space in front of the stage. To come dance, in other words.

"Come into the light," he pleaded.

This somehow reminded my friend of a movie and he was soon sharing  a childhood memory.

"I remember when my parents took me to see "Jaws" at the drive-in," he said. "I was sitting on the roof of our mini-van and they were inside having sex and I remember the raft scene and rocking on the top of that van."

Too much information. That's the kind of thing that scars a kid for life.

Back in the real world, the band did a killer rendition of MJ's "PYT" and even I was tempted to dance.

When they began Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic," couples flooded the dance floor to slow dance, something I'd have done if I'd had someone appropriate to do it with.

About that time, three of the members of No BS Brass band came in to catch the final song, Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle."

You know what's not hard to handle?

Starting at 5:00 with cute little Japanese boys and finishing out at 1:45 with seasoned musicians playing music I never heard live until they came along.

That and changing a guy's world with the just the right music talk.

His and Her Camera Views

How could I be so foolish as to trust the RTD?

Once again, they have shown their ineptitude, this time with something as simple as a fricking calendar.

But the afternoon wasn't a complete loss because the book talk at Fountain Books with Chip Jones, author of War Shots: Norm Hatch and the U.S. Marine Corps Combat Cameramen of WW II, was fascinating and supplemented by some of the most compelling WW II photographs I've ever laid eyes on.

Using images shot by the very cameramen he writes about, Jones talked about former Marine Hatch and his happenstance route to becoming the preeminent photographer of the island-hopping campaign late in the war.

The kid who couldn't afford college ended up documenting the key moments of the war and eventually becoming an advisor to Hollywood on war films.

A photo of Hatch wading ashore with a hundred pounds of film and photo equipment on his shoulders to avoid the waves said it all.

All I could think was that it was a good thing he was young and strong, although Jones said Hatch still has amazing upper body strength, even at 90.

There were photos of Hatch shooting fires, the devastation after Nagasaki and flag-raising at Iwo Jima, all striking for how dangerous his work in documenting the war effort was.

When Jones asked Hatch about how he dealt with being surrounded by such awfulness and death, Hatch claimed "emotional detachment," a difficult thing to believe given what he witnessed.

The audience was full of former Marines, no doubt sharing Jones' sentiment that hearing Hatch's stories somehow gave them a window into their own fathers' wartime experiences.

Without that frame of reference, my interest was mainly in hearing a first-hand witness' take on it all.

I had been joined by my fellow nerd James, who claimed to Fountain owner Kelly that we compete to attend the most nerdy events.

Trying to impress James with my event knowledge, I asked if he was going to the artist talk after the book talk.

Since he didn't even know about it, that round went to me.

Reynolds Gallery was hosting a gallery talk with artist Sally Mann at 1 (or so the unreliable RTD had printed) and James was beside himself about it when I told him.

All of a sudden, we were heading straight from Fountain to Reynolds for more shared learning.

So you can imagine our mutual disappointment when we walked in to a full house and owner Bev Reynolds immediately apologizing because the gallery talk had been earlier.

She told us to come in for the question and answer session in progress and apologized profusely for the RTD error. I lost all my points right there.

Sorry, James.

I don't know who looked the most crestfallen, James, me, or the other latecomers clustered around us.

We only got to hear about ten minutes worth of Mann talking and while it was really good stuff (her developing methods, her shooting strategies), it was only a fraction of what she'd shared with the audience before we arrived.

Over-sized mounted copies of one of Mann's photographs were given to the audience, so there was that unexpected gift, but either of us would have preferred listening to Mann for an hour to a consolation prize.

On the other hand, we got to hear Mann talk about her work for ten minutes and for that we were grateful.

It doesn't excuse the RTD's sloppiness (or my error in taking them at their word), but we had to appreciate the satisfaction of a Saturday spent hearing about the art of photography past and present.

And that, I'm afraid, is what makes us nerds.

Visiting the Body Farm

Never take a photographer to an exhibit of photography.

Oh, they're helpful when it comes to explaining things like collodion (I get it, a wet plate process), but they can also be a bit of a buzz kill with their over-analysis of it all.

This afternoon's trip to the VMFA to see "Sally Mann: The Flesh and the Spirit" was yet another couple date (he's the photographer, she's the charming girlfriend), which is fine now that I'm saying yes to more than just couples.

Given the size of the show and the range of years covered, I found it fascinating to see the work of the 20-something Mann morph into that of the almost-60 year old.

The show is a visual representation of what was written on one of the placards in the exhibit: the evanescence of youth yielding to the slow decline of age and inevitable death.

Sounds a bit harsh to me, but I suppose it summarily says it all.

I found the black and white nudes of her husband as evocative for their titles as for the images.

The Quality of the Affection from 2006 showed his back, a sensuous curve partly in shadow.

2009's Was Ever Love was a shot of his head in profile, in repose with his eyes closed. Both somehow spoke to a long-standing relationship.

In another gallery, the large-format pictures of her children's faces were so softly focused as to become completely abstract from a short distance.

All sense of a face was lost to unrecognizable forms; eyes and freckles were strokes and blobs.

Looking at the color prints from the then-controversial "Immediate Family" series taken in the early 90s, I tried to adopt the mindset of those who had found the photos objectionable.

Instead I saw only the personal detailing of a mother's appreciation for her children's beauty and the fleeting time that is childhood.

My favorite of the bunch was Bloody Nose with her son's bare torso, and mouth covered in bright red blood.

Despite all the blood, he looked as blase as any kid who has regular nosebleeds would.

As one who had more than my share of youthful nosebleeds, it was as evocative an image of childhood as any for me.

Probably the most visually arresting photographs were those taken at the University of Tennessee Forensic Anthropology Center (aka the body farm).

Since I haven't seen a whole lot of decomposing and decaying bodies, I was irresistibly and morbidly attracted to the images of bones, skulls and maggots.

I saw a decomposing raccoon on Monument Avenue last week and I've been describing it to anyone who will listen ever since.

Pictures of decaying corpses trump even that.

My couple date didn't have time to stay for the documentary What Remains: The Life and Work of Sally Mann, so this documentary dork will definitely be going back to watch it.

I've already heard from people who saw it this weekend that it's riveting for what it reveals of her intent and processes.

I'll let my photographer friend accompany me only if he agrees to keep his matter-of-fact opinions to himself.

Art is in the eye of the beholder, even the non-artistic beholder like me.

A Lot of It is Luck*

I was out of town today, so I missed the opening of the Sally Mann exhibit at the VMFA.

Boo-hoo for me.

The only way I could deal with that loss was by attending the artist's reception for Mann's show "Afterlight" at Reynolds Gallery tonight.

Walking into the gallery was like seeing a who's who of the local art scene.

My only complaint was that there was so much schmoozing going on that actually seeing Mann's photographs was a challenge.

Not easily deterred when it comes to photography, I persevered and was rewarded with landscapes showcasing the eerie beauty of the south: Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, and naturally Virginia.

I ran into a photographer I know who works at Zeus (she'd taken the evening off for this momentous occasion) who, unlike me, had already seen and been wowed by the VMFA show.

She told me that many of the photographs in the show were her original inspiration for taking up photography back in the 90s.

In fact, she was pinching herself to believe that she was in the same room with Mann.

Not able to resist making my way around the gallery twice, I dwelt on some photographs more than others, trying to figure what about them spoke to me.

The theme of death and decay hung over most of them in the most beautiful possible black and white way.

I left with a feeling similar to that of having just finished reading Faulkner.

When I finally left the art elite behind, I took the path of least resistance and walked up a block to Six Burner.

I hadn't gotten the memo, but clearly it was the place to be tonight; every table was occupied and I heard that the next available table was in two hours.

None of which concerned me because while the bar was mostly full, a trio of guys at the corner had conveniently left my end stool free.

I slid in under the canopy of tiny white light-lit branches.

I was there to enjoy some wining, dining and crowd-watching, with the recently-back-in-action Josh as my conversational partner (bartender interrupted...by babyhood).

After ordering my Saint M Riesling and the 6B wings (done with spicy harissa butter), I insinuated myself into the conversation of the three charming guys to my right while they ate a cheese platter.

They'd come in looking for a table and had settled for a snack at the bar, so I asked what their Plan B was.

Wanting to stay parked (because, deep down, we all want to park once and party twice...or even thrice when we can), they'd decided to mosey down to Bellytimber for dinner.

I found it tough to understand how they could have had Six Burner in their sites and been willing to settle for Bellytimber, so I tried to get a feel for their restaurant preferences.

I was in full rescue mode.

After a lengthy discussion of what restaurants we all liked (and didn't), the consensus was that they should eat at Rowland's.

The butterbean cake alone was worth five minutes of discussion and if you've had it you know why.

I felt better for their change of plans and can only hope that they do too.

With any luck, they'll give me a full report back.

Another guy was telling me about when his 95-year old father was in a nursing home and his physician prescribed 4 ounces of vodka over ice twice a day, once at 4:00 and once at 4:30.

If his "Rx" hadn't arrived by 4:02, apparently his dad was on the phone questioning its whereabouts with the staff.

I can certainly understand a near-centenarian needing his meds.

My spicy wings arrived and with them, server T brought me a wad of paper towels.

"We don't usually need these at Six Burner, but here you go," he said.

The six meaty wings packed some Tunisian heat but had great flavor and crispy skin. I ate, I sucked bones and I destroyed my wad of paper towels with my buttery fingers.

6B Heaven.

Really, I kept meaning to leave but Josh kept sucking me back into a good conversation ("So how was the Sufjan show? I know you must have been there.") and interesting bar sitters kept arriving and leaving, so I stayed put.

I stayed through the uptight couple who tore through their drinks and appetizers and never once smiled at each other.

I stayed long enough for Chef Philip to come out of the kitchen and give me the opportunity to compliment his wings.

We got to talking about recently running into each other at Aziza and how much we both love that place despite the fact that so many people don't know it (Aziza? Where's that?).

"It's going to end up like Mama Zu's, where you can't get in," he predicted.

"We'd better go while we can," I agreed.

He's right. It's not big and eventually it will be discovered and mobbed.

I stayed through the discussion with Josh and a local musician about winning the lottery.

We all agreed that our needs are simple and that banking the principle and living off the interest was the way to go.

Talk is cheap, after all.

"I'm rich in spirit," Josh proclaimed. "This bartending gig is just a social experiment."

And we're the experiment's guinea pigs, the musician and I presumed.

No complaint from my cage.

This guinea pig is just fine with what she's expected to do.

 Just don't be too cocky about predicting the experiment's results.

To paraphrase Sally Mann, "A lot of it is just luck."