It's like Matt said at Ghost Light afterparty last night, "With musical theater, you can do all the things."
The proof was in what I just witnessed: possibly the sweetest birthday tribute to a woman I've ever seen and lousy with musical theater. As one of the guests, I was sworn to complete secrecy - though because it's the theater panel that connects us, I only see her at plays and panel meetings, so I wasn't likely to be the one who blew it - and instructed when to arrive to stage the surprise.
The birthday girl had been fooled into thinking she was going to a cabaret for donors at Richmond Triangle Players, right down to the director reading a speech about the theater's accomplishments when she and her thoughtful husband arrived (intentionally) late. His speech ended with a nod to the real reason we were all there and that was our cue to roar, "Surprise!" and watch her face shift from attentive to shocked.
From there, it was part cabaret/part "This is Your Life," as Richmond luminary after Richmond talent after close friends regaled the celebrant with songs rewritten about her, along with poems, limericks and dramatic presentations written for her.
Scott Wichmann kicked things off doing "The Lady is Our Pat" to the tune of "The Lady is a Tramp," referencing her hatred for the Orange Dictator and her devotion to "the posse," her theater-going coterie, and setting the bar high for those who followed him.
Who else could sing about Pat as an Italian girl with serious cooking chops who found the love of her life in a "pasta-loving Jew" who didn't initially full respect her knives?
One of the men in the posse got up and praised her as thoughtful, considerate friend and fun to be with, before alluding to her dark side, deadpanning that, "Pat can get lost," and providing details of her lack of directional skills navigating the city, and the UR campus particularly.
It was awfully funny, but as someone who took years to come up to speed on that labyrinth of a campus, I empathized with the birthday girl.
Interspersed throughout the show were staged readings depicting everyday conversations between Pat and her husband, all of which demonstrated Pat's iron will, New York moxie and intolerance for fools. One involved Pat making an argument, starting the conversation with "A" and expounding from there. When her beloved asked what B was, she had nothing to say, to which he responded you couldn't have an "A" without a subsequent "B."
"Watch me," the actor playing Pat said, sounding exactly like the woman of the hour.
That beacon of sunshine, Georgia Rogers Farmer, sang both parts on Pat's favorite song from "Phantom of the Opera," whipping the white half-mask on and off depending on which part she was singing. Her vocal range was stunning and the song provided the opportunity for her to show off her operatic talent as well as do a headstand that caused her dress to fall, revealing shorts that said, "PAT" in pink block letters.
Leaving aside for a moment the sheer range of talent demonstrated during said number, afterward Georgia also noted, "Pat, I did that because I know you love that song from 'Phantom of the Opera' and that you wanted to see your name on my butt."
I mean, who wouldn't?
That's a birthday gift not soon forgotten. And that's not even counting the box of bacon she gift-wrapped and presented to Pat. Georgia is, after all, a domestic goddess in addition to her theater talents.
Party Organizer Jacquie O'Connor took a seat at a table onstage, pulled out a datebook and proceeded to sing a song about Pat's major preoccupation, "I Work on the List," a reference to the prodigious scheduling involved with all the posse's theater-going. Between her voice and the hilarious lyrics, the effect was like having a humorous window into Pat's daily life.
The emotional height of the evening took place when her adoring husband got onstage to read to us all the words he'd written and read to her when they married, a moving tribute to how lucky he felt to have found her.
Songbird Desiree Roots - wiping tears away from hearing his devoted words - called the happy couple up onstage and serenaded them, instructing after a moment, "You're supposed to dance!" which they proceeded to do.
After some quiet conversation between the birthday girl and the love of her life as they slow danced - the comment was, "They're discussing who's gonna lead!" - the lyrics became so powerful that Pat looked genuinely moved as they danced.
Singer Susan Greenbaum did a rousing take on "Oklahoma" that transmuted the "Ok" of "Ok-lahoma" to Pat's name and got the guests singing along to the chorus as she belted it out and did an arm jig between verses. The entertainment wound down with a group singalong about the birthday girl, set to the tune of "Mame," which anyone who knows Pat is required to know.
Once we broke for eats, I positioned myself in front of a screen showing photographs of Pat since she was a wee babe in her christening gown. I'm always fascinated to see snaps of people I know from before I knew them and sure enough, I loved seeing old pictures of her in the 70s and 80s when her curly hair was gorgeously wild (her words) and not straightened.
The kind of tresses we straight-haired girls covet. Lust after, even.
And since no birthday celebration, much less an important birthday like this one, would be complete without birthday cake, there were two: one fruit and one chocolate, both from Shyndigz. I can only speak to the latter, but let's just say the butter to salt ratio was swoon-worthy.
Birthdays come and go, so to see a heartfelt tribute by friends on such a festive occasion was like having a sugar buzz as the result of a top-notch show. Oh, wait...
There's a reason Pat always looks so happy. Proof positive that you're never too old to find the person who will dance with you onstage while everyone else toasts your happiness.
And from where I sat, A., it didn't look like either of them was looking to lead. Don't look for a B.
Showing posts with label scott wichmann. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scott wichmann. Show all posts
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Talk to Me
If I was going to jump back in, it might as well be whole hog.
The first thing that meant was dinner at a new place in Scott's Addition, namely Perch, because Mac had gotten a gift certificate for her birthday and wanted to share her good fortune. The funny part is, it was the women at her job who'd given it to her because they know she's an adventurous eater and they're not.
As in, they wanted to all take her out for dinner but she had so many celebrations going on that it couldn't be worked out, so instead they gave her a card for a restaurant none of them wanted to eat at anyway.
I call that a win/win.
Perch is located in the former Joy Garden space and while I'd only been there once (maybe 5 or 6 years ago), my memories of it were of a dark, divided up room and not that it was the rare Richmond restaurant with a parking lot. The new interior pays homage to the Joy Garden roots in a stylish way with all sight lines leading to the gorgeous green wood-fired oven in the back.
We dove right in, Mac with a Rust and Stardust cocktail (Woodford reserve bourbon, tamarind, vanilla, lemon and bitters, with an egg white froth) that was to die for, which is saying a lot coming from a non-bourbon fan. Having just come off a vacation involving enough wine and rum to choke a horse, I abstained with a mocktail involving guava and pineapple, among other things, called the Sound.
That it arrived in a glass resembling a carved coconut head was pure gravy.
The first thing to dazzle us post-drinks was arroz caldo, a thick soup of rice, huge pieces of shredded chicken, preserved lemon, garlic, chicken skin and egg. And while you might presume that the chicken skin was the star, it was actually the soy-marinated hard-cooked egg that had me moaning and Mac copping to a sudden love of eggs (she usually avoids them).
Every bit as stellar and with the chef's Filipino heritage on full display was pork lumpia, fried springroll-like cigars stuffed with local spiced pork and fried so lightly that I could almost forget that I shouldn't be eating them.
I always appreciate a place that sells oysters individually (even if they are overpriced that way) and Mac and I are oyster hounds, so we had to check out the offerings. Our bartender told us that the bivalves from Tom's Cove -coincidentally where he often went camping as a child - were less salty than the Ruby Salts, which was all I wanted to taste, but Mac insisted we needed to try both and who am I to argue when she's treating me?
Verdict: Ruby Salts took the prize, no surprise.
On a 34 degree night, shrimp bouillabaisse with parsnips, carrots, leeks and bread sounded like a warm dream come true. That it took the server multiple tries to figure out how to pour the broth from the little pitcher over the bowl of seafood and vegetables was more amusing than anything else.
To our surprise, it arrived with not just shrimp, but scallops and mussels too, a nice bonus but more bread would have been even better. I ask you, what's a good broth without sufficient sopping vehicles?
We had just enough time for a flourless chocolate torte with orange sorbet, a combo that's not one of Mac's favorites, but fortunately the two flavors were in separate dishes, so she didn't have to suffer the citrus/chocolate co-mingling that so offends her.
Meanwhile, we discovered on separate trips to the bathroom that they were frigid due to ongoing insulation problems and a sign on each stall informs the customer that their contractor is "working to correct the situation."
In the meantime, that's some mighty cold porcelain under a girl's tush.
We left giving a thumbs up to the industrial but softened interior, high marks to the soup and lumpia and passing grades to the bouillabaisse and dessert. The Ruby Salts worked for us but the Tom's Coves left us unmoved, so we'll call that a draw.
The second thing jumping back in whole hog meant was seeing "Talk Radio" at the Basement, a play about a character named Barry Champlain, an '80s shock jock a la Howard Stern. You know, the kind of on-air personality who will tell a handicapped caller, "Gotta run! I know you can't, but we can!" and hangs up on the guy.
For that matter, he hangs up on just about everybody, just for different reasons: they're boring, they're whining, they're missing the point. Fair enough.
His engineer wears an '80s-style sweater worthy of Bill Cosby, his producer wears a red silk blouse and flat gold necklace I can vouch for as being entirely era-appropriate and there's a never ending supply of tequila at the station.
As someone who worked in radio for a few years, albeit in the '90s, I can assure you that tequila is a mainstay, both in the general manager's office and in the sales manager's office.
A play with a central character who sits at a desk talking into a microphone the entire time has to rely on his facial gestures, eye direction and subtle head and hand movements to convey any sense of action, all of which the masterful Scott Wichmann as Barry did to keep things compelling.
And just to prove that shock jocks weren't animals, he manages to reference William Blake and Richard Speck, expecting his listeners to follow along and get every rapid-fire comment, no matter how pointed or downright rude.
For me, it was full immersion back into my regular life via a new restaurant and a solid play that brought to mind the kind of DJ birthed from the '80s.
When I lived in D.C., my husband managed a video store directly under DC 101 and Howard Stern used to call regularly to ask about XXX-rated movie titles or make crude jokes about porn stars, so I remember when people were transfixed by these new radio voices that sought to offend.
Maybe that was the beginning of the end of civility. Or maybe we didn't know how good we had it then compared to the daily depths of human discourse which have now become the new norm.
In either case, my brain seems to be engaged again, my palate teased by new dishes in a recently-opened restaurant. Mac keeps reminding me that I had my warm time and now I have to get used to winter again.
Life is returning to normal. Icy toilets aside, I can do this.
The first thing that meant was dinner at a new place in Scott's Addition, namely Perch, because Mac had gotten a gift certificate for her birthday and wanted to share her good fortune. The funny part is, it was the women at her job who'd given it to her because they know she's an adventurous eater and they're not.
As in, they wanted to all take her out for dinner but she had so many celebrations going on that it couldn't be worked out, so instead they gave her a card for a restaurant none of them wanted to eat at anyway.
I call that a win/win.
Perch is located in the former Joy Garden space and while I'd only been there once (maybe 5 or 6 years ago), my memories of it were of a dark, divided up room and not that it was the rare Richmond restaurant with a parking lot. The new interior pays homage to the Joy Garden roots in a stylish way with all sight lines leading to the gorgeous green wood-fired oven in the back.
We dove right in, Mac with a Rust and Stardust cocktail (Woodford reserve bourbon, tamarind, vanilla, lemon and bitters, with an egg white froth) that was to die for, which is saying a lot coming from a non-bourbon fan. Having just come off a vacation involving enough wine and rum to choke a horse, I abstained with a mocktail involving guava and pineapple, among other things, called the Sound.
That it arrived in a glass resembling a carved coconut head was pure gravy.
The first thing to dazzle us post-drinks was arroz caldo, a thick soup of rice, huge pieces of shredded chicken, preserved lemon, garlic, chicken skin and egg. And while you might presume that the chicken skin was the star, it was actually the soy-marinated hard-cooked egg that had me moaning and Mac copping to a sudden love of eggs (she usually avoids them).
Every bit as stellar and with the chef's Filipino heritage on full display was pork lumpia, fried springroll-like cigars stuffed with local spiced pork and fried so lightly that I could almost forget that I shouldn't be eating them.
I always appreciate a place that sells oysters individually (even if they are overpriced that way) and Mac and I are oyster hounds, so we had to check out the offerings. Our bartender told us that the bivalves from Tom's Cove -coincidentally where he often went camping as a child - were less salty than the Ruby Salts, which was all I wanted to taste, but Mac insisted we needed to try both and who am I to argue when she's treating me?
Verdict: Ruby Salts took the prize, no surprise.
On a 34 degree night, shrimp bouillabaisse with parsnips, carrots, leeks and bread sounded like a warm dream come true. That it took the server multiple tries to figure out how to pour the broth from the little pitcher over the bowl of seafood and vegetables was more amusing than anything else.
To our surprise, it arrived with not just shrimp, but scallops and mussels too, a nice bonus but more bread would have been even better. I ask you, what's a good broth without sufficient sopping vehicles?
We had just enough time for a flourless chocolate torte with orange sorbet, a combo that's not one of Mac's favorites, but fortunately the two flavors were in separate dishes, so she didn't have to suffer the citrus/chocolate co-mingling that so offends her.
Meanwhile, we discovered on separate trips to the bathroom that they were frigid due to ongoing insulation problems and a sign on each stall informs the customer that their contractor is "working to correct the situation."
In the meantime, that's some mighty cold porcelain under a girl's tush.
We left giving a thumbs up to the industrial but softened interior, high marks to the soup and lumpia and passing grades to the bouillabaisse and dessert. The Ruby Salts worked for us but the Tom's Coves left us unmoved, so we'll call that a draw.
The second thing jumping back in whole hog meant was seeing "Talk Radio" at the Basement, a play about a character named Barry Champlain, an '80s shock jock a la Howard Stern. You know, the kind of on-air personality who will tell a handicapped caller, "Gotta run! I know you can't, but we can!" and hangs up on the guy.
For that matter, he hangs up on just about everybody, just for different reasons: they're boring, they're whining, they're missing the point. Fair enough.
His engineer wears an '80s-style sweater worthy of Bill Cosby, his producer wears a red silk blouse and flat gold necklace I can vouch for as being entirely era-appropriate and there's a never ending supply of tequila at the station.
As someone who worked in radio for a few years, albeit in the '90s, I can assure you that tequila is a mainstay, both in the general manager's office and in the sales manager's office.
A play with a central character who sits at a desk talking into a microphone the entire time has to rely on his facial gestures, eye direction and subtle head and hand movements to convey any sense of action, all of which the masterful Scott Wichmann as Barry did to keep things compelling.
And just to prove that shock jocks weren't animals, he manages to reference William Blake and Richard Speck, expecting his listeners to follow along and get every rapid-fire comment, no matter how pointed or downright rude.
For me, it was full immersion back into my regular life via a new restaurant and a solid play that brought to mind the kind of DJ birthed from the '80s.
When I lived in D.C., my husband managed a video store directly under DC 101 and Howard Stern used to call regularly to ask about XXX-rated movie titles or make crude jokes about porn stars, so I remember when people were transfixed by these new radio voices that sought to offend.
Maybe that was the beginning of the end of civility. Or maybe we didn't know how good we had it then compared to the daily depths of human discourse which have now become the new norm.
In either case, my brain seems to be engaged again, my palate teased by new dishes in a recently-opened restaurant. Mac keeps reminding me that I had my warm time and now I have to get used to winter again.
Life is returning to normal. Icy toilets aside, I can do this.
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
Dodging the Angora Bullet
Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. ~ Emerson
Will do, Ralph, but some some evenings even exceed "best." That I spent said evening in a $6 thrift store dress I bought last May with no event in mind only served to make me feel both virtuous and celebratory.
Surely the best New Year's Eve blowouts begin in late afternoon because it's one holiday that is a marathon, not a sprint. Ours kicked off on Clay Street with Mr. Wright supplying a bottle of Clos Lentiscus Blanc de Noirs Brut Nature - chosen as a nod to 2019 agenda items - to set an appropriately festive mood.
That the bubbles were from a groovy, bio-dynamically-farmed single vineyard planted just south of Barcelona in the 1930s only added to the wine's romance, while the second fermentation being helped along courtesy of rosemary honey from the estate's beehives - picaresque much? - made for heady, pastoral sipping.
To you, Espana.
Three-hours were disappeared in the name of traditional NYE rituals involving Shakespeare, a unicorn and the best kind of crunch before our Uber driver appeared and whisked us to Aloi.
There we lounged in near darkness until Pru and Beau showed up. Both were a tad under the weather, but had nonetheless donned festive attire - Beau's textured, burgundy blazer, a Christmas gift from Pru, and pink shirt were swingin' '70s cool (a fact I know because I made my college boyfriend a blazer exactly that color), while Pru's teal velvet leggings and shoulder-dusting earrings conveyed the usual subtle sophistication - and gathered their forces for the big night.
Seated at a central table, everyone agreed that the recessed lighting above the table was too direct, too bright while the table beside ours sat in near darkness. That aside, consensus was how un-Richmond the vibe felt with the added oomph of NYE. The time Mr. Wright and I had been there, our perch was two stools on the far end of the bar, so a much different experience.
The menu for the evening involved an amuse bouche, a bubbly intermezzo and four choices. so I got to taste everything. Best in class goes to a couple of goodies I cadged off Mr. Wright's plate: wild mushrooms lightly fried up over peppedew romesco with a killer topping of sauteed sweet onions and endive escabeche (the contrasting textures! the balanced flavors!) and then Morrocan-spiced lamb over toasted fergola (golden raisin gastrique, mmm).
Every bit as welcome as the tasty chow was how well served we were, never rushed, Montand Blanc de Blancs flutes and water glasses never fully empty, as our hospitable server aided our cause unobtrusively with grace and stealth. I call that good service, especially on a busy night.
When the subject of hoe cakes came up - as it inevitably does at smart dinner parties - Beau shared that his only experience with them involved Bisquick and water griddled until near-charred blackness was achieved. He was quickly brought up to speed: "That's hardtack."
"That's why you like war," Pru deadpanned.
Although we'd allowed two and a half hours for dinner, before I knew it I was polishing off my dark chocolate mousse bar and accepting bites of sticky date cake with grilled pineapple (a swanky take on pineapple upside down cake without the vertigo) so we could walk around the block to Richmond Triangle Players.
Our objective was a 10:30 cabaret called "Scott Wichmann: A Very Good Year," a plan hatched by Mr. Wright and Beau, albeit independently of each other.
With a three-piece combo backing him, Scott dazzled the sold-out crowd with gems like "Strangers in the Night," the "Love Boat Theme" and, perhaps most charmingly of all, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" a 1947 song that takes me back to my parents' Christmas records. Invoking a 21st century Rat Pack feel, complete with e-cigarette, Scott demonstrated how effortlessly he can fill a theater twice in one night.
So. Much. Talent.
Even more adorable were the parts of the show that included his talented wife Eva DeVirgilis because of how unabashed they are in their over-the-moon happiness at having found each other.
Talk about people mooning over each other.
It was only after the show ended and we were heading out of the theater that Pru's first rule of picture-taking was blatantly ignored. (see Chapter 5, section 7, sub-article 3.92)
1. Pictures are always taken at the beginning of the evening, never at the end. No one looks fresher or more attractive after eight hours of revelry than they did just after getting doodied up. [paraphrased]
The woman's not wrong.
Even so, pictures of loopy people surfaced today, proof that having fun makes up for a lot of late night sins in terms of photographic documentation. I was only sorry I had on my coat, thus despriving my $6 dress of its shot at immortality.
So that was yesterday's best day of the year.
Today's best day of the year got a late start when Mac returned from her NYE revelry in Charlottesville so we could do our First Day Walk mid-afternoon. Since it's been months since we could get on the pipeline from the western end, we resolved for New Year's Day to climb down on the eastern end and walk it to the flooded part and back.
Upside of this decision? It had been far too long since we'd made our favorite local walk. Downside: Fair weather/newly resolved weekend warriors, meaning the pipeline was lousy with first-timers and families, one of whom carried a scooter, a decision that can only be called imbecilic on a narrow walkway over a raging river.
And raging it was, so much so that Mac and I, regular pipeline walkers that we've been for years, felt strongly that James River Parks should have had the chained off sign at the end of the walkway to prevent people unused to walking it from attempting to given how high and fast the water was.
"Especially the kind of people we saw on here today," Mac, the most tolerant person on the planet, pointed out.
But they didn't, so we took advantage and walked to the edge of where the river was covering the pipeline and promptly made a U-turn. The way back was our usual direction, which afforded us a comparison of what we would normally see in terms of the river's flow and ferocity and what we were seeing today.
Two of the usual crazy kayak types were bobbing up and down on Class IV rapids that probably qualify for Class V right now. A couple was scavenging for old railroad spikes, amassing their rusty collection on the walkway itself.
I feel sure we got some kind of science lesson as we walked, shivering to the cold dampness of the air between the supports of the railroad track above us and then feeling the temperature rise when we had river on both sides of us. Every now and then, we'd walk through an especially warm pocket of air and had no idea where it came from. When the river hit the pipeline just right, we got splashed by water that felt very January-like on my bare legs.
On the north bank where it's rocky, I spotted a Great Blue Heron, wet and hunkered down, putting off an I'm-not-happy vibe about having to still deal with whitewater when all you want is dinner. But even miserable, the heron was striking, the white feathers around its eyes in marked contrast to the blue feather tips huddled around its chest.
Pipeline fix aside, any day that has me opening all my windows before breakfast definitely qualifies as best day of the year.
2019, maybe it's much too early in the game, but if you're half as dazzling as last year, please send more of same.
In the pantheon of very good years, 2018 took my breath away.
Will do, Ralph, but some some evenings even exceed "best." That I spent said evening in a $6 thrift store dress I bought last May with no event in mind only served to make me feel both virtuous and celebratory.
Surely the best New Year's Eve blowouts begin in late afternoon because it's one holiday that is a marathon, not a sprint. Ours kicked off on Clay Street with Mr. Wright supplying a bottle of Clos Lentiscus Blanc de Noirs Brut Nature - chosen as a nod to 2019 agenda items - to set an appropriately festive mood.
That the bubbles were from a groovy, bio-dynamically-farmed single vineyard planted just south of Barcelona in the 1930s only added to the wine's romance, while the second fermentation being helped along courtesy of rosemary honey from the estate's beehives - picaresque much? - made for heady, pastoral sipping.
To you, Espana.
Three-hours were disappeared in the name of traditional NYE rituals involving Shakespeare, a unicorn and the best kind of crunch before our Uber driver appeared and whisked us to Aloi.
There we lounged in near darkness until Pru and Beau showed up. Both were a tad under the weather, but had nonetheless donned festive attire - Beau's textured, burgundy blazer, a Christmas gift from Pru, and pink shirt were swingin' '70s cool (a fact I know because I made my college boyfriend a blazer exactly that color), while Pru's teal velvet leggings and shoulder-dusting earrings conveyed the usual subtle sophistication - and gathered their forces for the big night.
Seated at a central table, everyone agreed that the recessed lighting above the table was too direct, too bright while the table beside ours sat in near darkness. That aside, consensus was how un-Richmond the vibe felt with the added oomph of NYE. The time Mr. Wright and I had been there, our perch was two stools on the far end of the bar, so a much different experience.
The menu for the evening involved an amuse bouche, a bubbly intermezzo and four choices. so I got to taste everything. Best in class goes to a couple of goodies I cadged off Mr. Wright's plate: wild mushrooms lightly fried up over peppedew romesco with a killer topping of sauteed sweet onions and endive escabeche (the contrasting textures! the balanced flavors!) and then Morrocan-spiced lamb over toasted fergola (golden raisin gastrique, mmm).
Every bit as welcome as the tasty chow was how well served we were, never rushed, Montand Blanc de Blancs flutes and water glasses never fully empty, as our hospitable server aided our cause unobtrusively with grace and stealth. I call that good service, especially on a busy night.
When the subject of hoe cakes came up - as it inevitably does at smart dinner parties - Beau shared that his only experience with them involved Bisquick and water griddled until near-charred blackness was achieved. He was quickly brought up to speed: "That's hardtack."
"That's why you like war," Pru deadpanned.
Although we'd allowed two and a half hours for dinner, before I knew it I was polishing off my dark chocolate mousse bar and accepting bites of sticky date cake with grilled pineapple (a swanky take on pineapple upside down cake without the vertigo) so we could walk around the block to Richmond Triangle Players.
Our objective was a 10:30 cabaret called "Scott Wichmann: A Very Good Year," a plan hatched by Mr. Wright and Beau, albeit independently of each other.
With a three-piece combo backing him, Scott dazzled the sold-out crowd with gems like "Strangers in the Night," the "Love Boat Theme" and, perhaps most charmingly of all, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" a 1947 song that takes me back to my parents' Christmas records. Invoking a 21st century Rat Pack feel, complete with e-cigarette, Scott demonstrated how effortlessly he can fill a theater twice in one night.
So. Much. Talent.
Even more adorable were the parts of the show that included his talented wife Eva DeVirgilis because of how unabashed they are in their over-the-moon happiness at having found each other.
Talk about people mooning over each other.
It was only after the show ended and we were heading out of the theater that Pru's first rule of picture-taking was blatantly ignored. (see Chapter 5, section 7, sub-article 3.92)
1. Pictures are always taken at the beginning of the evening, never at the end. No one looks fresher or more attractive after eight hours of revelry than they did just after getting doodied up. [paraphrased]
The woman's not wrong.
Even so, pictures of loopy people surfaced today, proof that having fun makes up for a lot of late night sins in terms of photographic documentation. I was only sorry I had on my coat, thus despriving my $6 dress of its shot at immortality.
So that was yesterday's best day of the year.
Today's best day of the year got a late start when Mac returned from her NYE revelry in Charlottesville so we could do our First Day Walk mid-afternoon. Since it's been months since we could get on the pipeline from the western end, we resolved for New Year's Day to climb down on the eastern end and walk it to the flooded part and back.
Upside of this decision? It had been far too long since we'd made our favorite local walk. Downside: Fair weather/newly resolved weekend warriors, meaning the pipeline was lousy with first-timers and families, one of whom carried a scooter, a decision that can only be called imbecilic on a narrow walkway over a raging river.
And raging it was, so much so that Mac and I, regular pipeline walkers that we've been for years, felt strongly that James River Parks should have had the chained off sign at the end of the walkway to prevent people unused to walking it from attempting to given how high and fast the water was.
"Especially the kind of people we saw on here today," Mac, the most tolerant person on the planet, pointed out.
But they didn't, so we took advantage and walked to the edge of where the river was covering the pipeline and promptly made a U-turn. The way back was our usual direction, which afforded us a comparison of what we would normally see in terms of the river's flow and ferocity and what we were seeing today.
Two of the usual crazy kayak types were bobbing up and down on Class IV rapids that probably qualify for Class V right now. A couple was scavenging for old railroad spikes, amassing their rusty collection on the walkway itself.
I feel sure we got some kind of science lesson as we walked, shivering to the cold dampness of the air between the supports of the railroad track above us and then feeling the temperature rise when we had river on both sides of us. Every now and then, we'd walk through an especially warm pocket of air and had no idea where it came from. When the river hit the pipeline just right, we got splashed by water that felt very January-like on my bare legs.
On the north bank where it's rocky, I spotted a Great Blue Heron, wet and hunkered down, putting off an I'm-not-happy vibe about having to still deal with whitewater when all you want is dinner. But even miserable, the heron was striking, the white feathers around its eyes in marked contrast to the blue feather tips huddled around its chest.
Pipeline fix aside, any day that has me opening all my windows before breakfast definitely qualifies as best day of the year.
2019, maybe it's much too early in the game, but if you're half as dazzling as last year, please send more of same.
In the pantheon of very good years, 2018 took my breath away.
Thursday, December 6, 2018
There's Bound To Be Talk
The problem with this town - besides snow flurries on the fifth day of December - is that the restaurant scene hasn't caught up with the theater scene.
How else to explain having to have a 5:15 dinner reservation in order to make an 8:00 curtain? To start with, that's an ungodly early hour to begin the evening meal (I've had lunches where I didn't get back until 5:15 and there's no shame in that) and secondly, I hang with serious food warriors who don't want to be rushed as they eat through nearly everything on the menu.
But, alas, eating after the play ends is challenging at best in Richmond, especially on a Thursday night, so we were gathering at the front table in the window at the Roosevelt, shortly after the clock hit 5. With a new chef in place, I was especially eager to revisit one of my long-time favorite eateries.
My hopes of beginning with a bottle of Virginia Fizz - the first wine I ever drank at the Roosevelt - were dashed when our server got a stricken look on her face when I ordered it, went to check and returned with bad news: all gone.
I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead requested a bottle of Dr. K. Frank Gruner Veltliner while Pru and Beau went with Illahe Pinot Gris because they're fans of Willamette. dammit. Queen B, as usual, abstained, although how she puts up with us sober is a miracle.
First topic: the banishment of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" from the holiday songbook canon because of its suddenly now questionable lyrics. The consensus seemed to be that applying current standards to lyrics written in 1949 is a clear case of political correctness gone amuck.
Everyone seems to forget that in the original film where the song debuted, it was sung by two couples: a man to a woman and a woman to a man and nobody was forcing anyone to do anything. Somewhere, songwriter Frank Loesser is rolling his eyes in disgust.
Food arriving derailed any further discussion.
With the exception of the Queen who couldn't resist the braised boneless short ribs entree, the rest of the table made our meals of snacks and small plates. Chicken liver mousse with huckleberry jam seemed appropriate given that this week is Hannukah, while chicken wings with Alabama white sauce - which, I swear, have been on the Roosevelt's menu practically since Day One - were life-changing for Pru and Beau, who'd never had them before.
I foresee many future orders of those wings procured and devoured at the manse.
Perfectly Fall-like was roasted butternut squash with buttermilk ricotta and sunflower seeds, while Beau moaned over the creamy parsnip soup with apple butter, nutmeg, sage and peanuts.
Apple butter became the next topic when I recalled that "Have a slice of bread with apple butter" was my Mom's go-to suggestion when my sisters and I wanted a snack growing up because there was no junk food in our house. For Pru, apple butter conjured up memories of boarding school, since its location in the mountains meant she was in apple country.
She and Mr. Wright both got the roasted honey-glazed baby carrots with sumac, orange and dill, although I seemed to be the only one who appreciated how toothsome they were. "Just this side of raw but with a honey glaze, but I like them" Pru decreed, but that was a slight exaggeration.
When the owner, a long-time friend, came over to say hello, I introduced her as the woman who also owns Garnett's, Laura Lee's and Ipanema. She was surprised, announcing to the table that I usually introduce her as "the woman who taught me to drink," which is 100% true, but not my favorite way to introduce her, as I reminded her.
"Oh, yea, she usually tells people that if I were a man, she would have married me," she said grinning, to the surprise of everyone at the table, not the least of which had to be Mr. Wright.
Roasted beets got a boost from bleu cheese, pumpkin seeds and our old friend apple butter vinaigrette, but it was their arrangement resembling a Christmas wreath that got everyone's attention. An enormous bowl of mussels swimming in cider broth with bacon didn't even get finished, but the two green goddess salads with cornbread croutons sure did.
With an eye on the clock, we ordered chocolate mousse and corn cake with buttercream frosting to accompany Pru and Beau's requisite liquid final course, although Pru did jazz things up a bit by two-fisting caffeine with an Irish coffee and a regular coffee.
I had all the caffeine I needed in that mousse.
And while we rushed out of there and up 301 to Hanover Tavern, a series of badly-timed lights ensured that we all arrived moments after the play had begun. The Greatest Generation usher who greeted us informed us that the director stipulated that no one be let in late until the initial "play within a play" ended, which took until we heard a shot being fired.
In the interim, he filled us in on what was happening onstage, assuring us, "You're not missing anything important." Whether it was true or not, it made us feel better about our tardiness.
Then we scampered to our seats for "The Game's Afoot: Holmes for the Holidays," a story set in 1936 of a group of touring actors who gather for a Christmas eve party at the Connecticut home of the actor who plays Sherlock Holmes in their production.
On a side note, what is it with Connecticut and the holidays? You know, like that Barbara Stanwyck movie "Christmas in Connecticut," or "Holiday Inn," which also takes place in Connecticut? Discuss.
The ensemble of actors was incredibly strong - and really, what play with Scott Wichmann starring is ever anything but outstanding? - making for a fast-moving and hilarious story about the unexpected murder of a theater critic (prompting the question, does anyone really care if a critic is killed?) after dinner.
The ensuing comedy results from William Gillette, the actor who'd played Holmes, thinking his mother, played by the bombastic Catherine Shaffner, is the murderer. No one wants Mom to be the perp.
The manse group has long loved a good drawing room mystery, while I was seduced by the frequent quotations from Shakespeare woven into the dialog at every opportunity. Audra Honaker played the quirky police detective who shows up to investigate, although it turns out she also has an acting bent and wouldn't mind auditioning should the right role come up.
Acting! (insert raised arm)
It didn't hurt that the story was full of twists and turns so that by the time the inspector arrives, every person at the party is a suspect. Characters come and go from the drawing room, just missing each other, but constantly delivering witty dialog. First a closet then a hidden bar is used to store the corpse, which won't stay put and on the wall hangs a collection of murder weapons: guns, swords, axes, you name it, within easy reach. And don't get me started on the gorgeous period costumes,
The charm was that the wacky antics were pretty much non-stop until the very last moment when we found out who'd really put a knife in the critic's back (and right through that stunning red velvet dress of hers).
In a perfect world, we'd have left Hanover at 10:00 and gone out for a lovely post-theater dinner at a little bistro somewhere where we could all discuss the energetic romp and laugh-out-loud worthy dialog we'd just experienced, but that's not how Richmond works.
Instead, we were split up into separate discussion groups. I don't know about theirs, but ours may have gotten a little off topic.
Cause, baby, it's cold outside.
How else to explain having to have a 5:15 dinner reservation in order to make an 8:00 curtain? To start with, that's an ungodly early hour to begin the evening meal (I've had lunches where I didn't get back until 5:15 and there's no shame in that) and secondly, I hang with serious food warriors who don't want to be rushed as they eat through nearly everything on the menu.
But, alas, eating after the play ends is challenging at best in Richmond, especially on a Thursday night, so we were gathering at the front table in the window at the Roosevelt, shortly after the clock hit 5. With a new chef in place, I was especially eager to revisit one of my long-time favorite eateries.
My hopes of beginning with a bottle of Virginia Fizz - the first wine I ever drank at the Roosevelt - were dashed when our server got a stricken look on her face when I ordered it, went to check and returned with bad news: all gone.
I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead requested a bottle of Dr. K. Frank Gruner Veltliner while Pru and Beau went with Illahe Pinot Gris because they're fans of Willamette. dammit. Queen B, as usual, abstained, although how she puts up with us sober is a miracle.
First topic: the banishment of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" from the holiday songbook canon because of its suddenly now questionable lyrics. The consensus seemed to be that applying current standards to lyrics written in 1949 is a clear case of political correctness gone amuck.
Everyone seems to forget that in the original film where the song debuted, it was sung by two couples: a man to a woman and a woman to a man and nobody was forcing anyone to do anything. Somewhere, songwriter Frank Loesser is rolling his eyes in disgust.
Food arriving derailed any further discussion.
With the exception of the Queen who couldn't resist the braised boneless short ribs entree, the rest of the table made our meals of snacks and small plates. Chicken liver mousse with huckleberry jam seemed appropriate given that this week is Hannukah, while chicken wings with Alabama white sauce - which, I swear, have been on the Roosevelt's menu practically since Day One - were life-changing for Pru and Beau, who'd never had them before.
I foresee many future orders of those wings procured and devoured at the manse.
Perfectly Fall-like was roasted butternut squash with buttermilk ricotta and sunflower seeds, while Beau moaned over the creamy parsnip soup with apple butter, nutmeg, sage and peanuts.
Apple butter became the next topic when I recalled that "Have a slice of bread with apple butter" was my Mom's go-to suggestion when my sisters and I wanted a snack growing up because there was no junk food in our house. For Pru, apple butter conjured up memories of boarding school, since its location in the mountains meant she was in apple country.
She and Mr. Wright both got the roasted honey-glazed baby carrots with sumac, orange and dill, although I seemed to be the only one who appreciated how toothsome they were. "Just this side of raw but with a honey glaze, but I like them" Pru decreed, but that was a slight exaggeration.
When the owner, a long-time friend, came over to say hello, I introduced her as the woman who also owns Garnett's, Laura Lee's and Ipanema. She was surprised, announcing to the table that I usually introduce her as "the woman who taught me to drink," which is 100% true, but not my favorite way to introduce her, as I reminded her.
"Oh, yea, she usually tells people that if I were a man, she would have married me," she said grinning, to the surprise of everyone at the table, not the least of which had to be Mr. Wright.
Roasted beets got a boost from bleu cheese, pumpkin seeds and our old friend apple butter vinaigrette, but it was their arrangement resembling a Christmas wreath that got everyone's attention. An enormous bowl of mussels swimming in cider broth with bacon didn't even get finished, but the two green goddess salads with cornbread croutons sure did.
With an eye on the clock, we ordered chocolate mousse and corn cake with buttercream frosting to accompany Pru and Beau's requisite liquid final course, although Pru did jazz things up a bit by two-fisting caffeine with an Irish coffee and a regular coffee.
I had all the caffeine I needed in that mousse.
And while we rushed out of there and up 301 to Hanover Tavern, a series of badly-timed lights ensured that we all arrived moments after the play had begun. The Greatest Generation usher who greeted us informed us that the director stipulated that no one be let in late until the initial "play within a play" ended, which took until we heard a shot being fired.
In the interim, he filled us in on what was happening onstage, assuring us, "You're not missing anything important." Whether it was true or not, it made us feel better about our tardiness.
Then we scampered to our seats for "The Game's Afoot: Holmes for the Holidays," a story set in 1936 of a group of touring actors who gather for a Christmas eve party at the Connecticut home of the actor who plays Sherlock Holmes in their production.
On a side note, what is it with Connecticut and the holidays? You know, like that Barbara Stanwyck movie "Christmas in Connecticut," or "Holiday Inn," which also takes place in Connecticut? Discuss.
The ensemble of actors was incredibly strong - and really, what play with Scott Wichmann starring is ever anything but outstanding? - making for a fast-moving and hilarious story about the unexpected murder of a theater critic (prompting the question, does anyone really care if a critic is killed?) after dinner.
The ensuing comedy results from William Gillette, the actor who'd played Holmes, thinking his mother, played by the bombastic Catherine Shaffner, is the murderer. No one wants Mom to be the perp.
The manse group has long loved a good drawing room mystery, while I was seduced by the frequent quotations from Shakespeare woven into the dialog at every opportunity. Audra Honaker played the quirky police detective who shows up to investigate, although it turns out she also has an acting bent and wouldn't mind auditioning should the right role come up.
Acting! (insert raised arm)
It didn't hurt that the story was full of twists and turns so that by the time the inspector arrives, every person at the party is a suspect. Characters come and go from the drawing room, just missing each other, but constantly delivering witty dialog. First a closet then a hidden bar is used to store the corpse, which won't stay put and on the wall hangs a collection of murder weapons: guns, swords, axes, you name it, within easy reach. And don't get me started on the gorgeous period costumes,
The charm was that the wacky antics were pretty much non-stop until the very last moment when we found out who'd really put a knife in the critic's back (and right through that stunning red velvet dress of hers).
In a perfect world, we'd have left Hanover at 10:00 and gone out for a lovely post-theater dinner at a little bistro somewhere where we could all discuss the energetic romp and laugh-out-loud worthy dialog we'd just experienced, but that's not how Richmond works.
Instead, we were split up into separate discussion groups. I don't know about theirs, but ours may have gotten a little off topic.
Cause, baby, it's cold outside.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Pate and Pearls
The queen had a migraine, but the court carried on.
The moment I saw that Richmond Triangle Players was remounting "I Am My Own Wife" with Scott Wichmann playing 35 roles - a play I was awestruck by in its original run in 2006 - I alerted the posse.
Taking my word for it, Pru, Beau and Queen B signed on without hesitation.
Fast forward to Saturday night and Pru is down for the count with a migraine, so the quartet is now a trio as we headed to Belmont Food Shop for a pre-theater supper at Queen B's favorite restaurant in all of Richmond.
Between the unique vibe and the killer food, I've long been a fan of Belmont and although it had been too long, the meal was a start to finish reminder of why I won't stop going until Mike closes the place or I die and they have to pry his pate with hot mustard, pickled mushrooms and lotus root out of my cold, dead hands.
And the pate was after I'd swooned over a plate of winter vegetables and scored some of Beau's bleu cheese custard. Queen B never let me near her mushroom soup, so I'll never know how good it was, although if her moans were any indication, I should have begged.
The only fly in the ointment of the entire experience was an annoying late arrival to the private party in the Belmont space next door, a young woman who arrived in the tiny and very full dining room with a dozen balloons (including the numbers 3 and 0). Despite the bartender telling her to go back out and enter through the next door, she proceeded to navigate the balloon bouquet through crowded tables, all the while saying loudly, "Oh, I'm so sorry about this," over and over as if it were a performance and she was the star.
There was a collective sigh of relief when she finally exited the restaurant.
For dinner, I chose the matelote, a wine and onion fish stew with rockfish, monkfish, scallop mousse and tiny purple potatoes, a heavenly combination of sea and earth that I washed down with Grillo. Both my companions went with beef cheeks with sirloin and, as Beau put it, "I pulled a Pru," meaning he dove into it with laser focus, only looking up long enough to pretend that he wished he'd shared it.
Two desserts - chocolate silk pie, easily the richest chocolate dessert in the city, and maple semi-freddo with cranberries - were shared by all three of us in a vain attempt to feel better about having polished off so much food. That said, if someone had suggested more pate, I've no doubt we'd have devoured that, too. Belmont does that to a person.
Or, as Beau so eloquently put it, "This group travels on its stomach." If that was supposed to be an insult, I ignored it as we drove to Richmond Triangle Players for a different kind of indulgence.
Seeing "I Am My Own Wife" with the same actor and director twelve years after seeing it the first time was a revelation, as much for the changes in Scott's performance as an actor with an additional dozen years of experience under his belt as for seeing it in a completely different cultural and political climate.
One of the biggest surprises for me was how much more often the audience laughed. As we discovered at intermission, a startlingly large number of people were there solely because they're huge Scott Wichmann fans and hadn't had much idea what the play was about.
Especially in the first act, every time he'd change characters (which he did solely with posture, accent and demeanor), people in the audience would titter. It wasn't that the line was funny, but that they were giggling at his chameleon-like ability to turn character on a dime. As someone more caught up in the words being said, it was an unnecessary distraction.
On the other hand, there's no comparison between how much more comfortable the public is with transgender issues now than it was in 2006. When I saw it back then, the play had a far more exotic undertone - how had this trans woman managed to live in plain sight throughout the Nazi and communist regimes? - because there was so little open discussion of trans issues.
It also resonated quite differently because of the country's unfortunate present leadership, which seems to be leading us backward in time rather than forward when it comes to gender issues. In that way, the play has a new urgency that it didn't last time I saw it.
Driving home, Beau and Queen B searched for words (tour de force was being tossed around) to describe how impressed they'd been with Scott's performance, all the more so because neither had ever seen him before.
Meanwhile, I marveled at how a masterful performance that had so wowed me that I still remembered it 12 years later had affected me every bit as strongly tonight, albeit with slightly different nuances.
That's entertainment.
The moment I saw that Richmond Triangle Players was remounting "I Am My Own Wife" with Scott Wichmann playing 35 roles - a play I was awestruck by in its original run in 2006 - I alerted the posse.
Taking my word for it, Pru, Beau and Queen B signed on without hesitation.
Fast forward to Saturday night and Pru is down for the count with a migraine, so the quartet is now a trio as we headed to Belmont Food Shop for a pre-theater supper at Queen B's favorite restaurant in all of Richmond.
Between the unique vibe and the killer food, I've long been a fan of Belmont and although it had been too long, the meal was a start to finish reminder of why I won't stop going until Mike closes the place or I die and they have to pry his pate with hot mustard, pickled mushrooms and lotus root out of my cold, dead hands.
And the pate was after I'd swooned over a plate of winter vegetables and scored some of Beau's bleu cheese custard. Queen B never let me near her mushroom soup, so I'll never know how good it was, although if her moans were any indication, I should have begged.
The only fly in the ointment of the entire experience was an annoying late arrival to the private party in the Belmont space next door, a young woman who arrived in the tiny and very full dining room with a dozen balloons (including the numbers 3 and 0). Despite the bartender telling her to go back out and enter through the next door, she proceeded to navigate the balloon bouquet through crowded tables, all the while saying loudly, "Oh, I'm so sorry about this," over and over as if it were a performance and she was the star.
There was a collective sigh of relief when she finally exited the restaurant.
For dinner, I chose the matelote, a wine and onion fish stew with rockfish, monkfish, scallop mousse and tiny purple potatoes, a heavenly combination of sea and earth that I washed down with Grillo. Both my companions went with beef cheeks with sirloin and, as Beau put it, "I pulled a Pru," meaning he dove into it with laser focus, only looking up long enough to pretend that he wished he'd shared it.
Two desserts - chocolate silk pie, easily the richest chocolate dessert in the city, and maple semi-freddo with cranberries - were shared by all three of us in a vain attempt to feel better about having polished off so much food. That said, if someone had suggested more pate, I've no doubt we'd have devoured that, too. Belmont does that to a person.
Or, as Beau so eloquently put it, "This group travels on its stomach." If that was supposed to be an insult, I ignored it as we drove to Richmond Triangle Players for a different kind of indulgence.
Seeing "I Am My Own Wife" with the same actor and director twelve years after seeing it the first time was a revelation, as much for the changes in Scott's performance as an actor with an additional dozen years of experience under his belt as for seeing it in a completely different cultural and political climate.
One of the biggest surprises for me was how much more often the audience laughed. As we discovered at intermission, a startlingly large number of people were there solely because they're huge Scott Wichmann fans and hadn't had much idea what the play was about.
Especially in the first act, every time he'd change characters (which he did solely with posture, accent and demeanor), people in the audience would titter. It wasn't that the line was funny, but that they were giggling at his chameleon-like ability to turn character on a dime. As someone more caught up in the words being said, it was an unnecessary distraction.
On the other hand, there's no comparison between how much more comfortable the public is with transgender issues now than it was in 2006. When I saw it back then, the play had a far more exotic undertone - how had this trans woman managed to live in plain sight throughout the Nazi and communist regimes? - because there was so little open discussion of trans issues.
It also resonated quite differently because of the country's unfortunate present leadership, which seems to be leading us backward in time rather than forward when it comes to gender issues. In that way, the play has a new urgency that it didn't last time I saw it.
Driving home, Beau and Queen B searched for words (tour de force was being tossed around) to describe how impressed they'd been with Scott's performance, all the more so because neither had ever seen him before.
Meanwhile, I marveled at how a masterful performance that had so wowed me that I still remembered it 12 years later had affected me every bit as strongly tonight, albeit with slightly different nuances.
That's entertainment.
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
'Neath the Cover of November Skies
Not gonna lie, I like a man with range.
And that Scott Wichmann has range to spare. It's been so long I can't even remember when I first saw him onstage and though I've seen him dozens of times since, he never fails to dazzle, chewing scenery and singing with a voice that belies his height.
He'd dubbed his show tonight at Richmond Triangle Players "Leave Them Wanting Less" and with a three piece combo backing him up (including the always stellar Scott Clark on drums), he pretty much succeeded, although I'm pretty sure the devoted crowd would have stayed as long as he was willing to sing.
My seat was in the second row, off to the side, making for a fine view that included a canoodling couple in front of me and easy proximity to theater friends in the row behind.
Appearing from the back of the theater, Scott bounded to the stage and started right in with Van Morrison's "Moondance," singing, snapping his fingers and reminding us that it was a marvelous night to listen to him, too.
It immediately became clear that all his song choices had personal reasons behind them. His first date with his wife had been to see "Muppets Most Wanted," so he did "I Can Get You What You Want" and then bragged he'd already gotten her the dog and the ice cream cone and he was working on the moon.
No indication whether he intended to lasso or acquire it otherwise.
In 2003, he'd gotten a message from a director saying he had the perfect role for him ("It's probably Hamlet," he cracked), which turned out to be the lead in "Batboy, the Musical." Before singing a song from it, he quipped, "The play ran during Isabel when people didn't have power, but Firehouse was on a good grid so people came for the air conditioning and it sold out!"
I remember that production because my then-boyfriend suggested we go, only to find out it was sold out. As a consolation prize, he took me to see it while we were in London, which was pretty wonderful, albeit absent Scott.
There was a Mel Torme (one of his heroes, along with Sinatra and Bobby Darin) arrangement of a song from "The Nutty Professor" and a sweet tribute to his wife who's been away for a while ("Don't Dream of Anybody But Me") and tonight was sitting in the back.
"I love the feeling of being in the middle of the Great American songbook," he enthused to a roomful of people feeling the same without having to do any of the work.
Then he moved into hilarious mode for a couple songs, beginning with the favorite song of an older friend called "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park," complete with skipping and tossing out poisonous bits to the birds as he sang about strychnine and arsenic. In a nod to the fact that he was performing on the set of "The Santaland Diaries," next came a holiday classic he first heard as a 15-year old listening to Dr. Demento on the radio.
Whip me, Santa Claus
Spank me, Santa Claus
Don't worry if my flesh be seared
I should be harshly punished
For being bad all year
Choosing the correction is solely up to you
But I would like a reddened butt
Do what you have to do
Periodically as he sang, he'd face the drummer and raise his coat jacket enough to provide easy access to his backside. The audience roared. For "You've Got a Lot to See" from "Family Guy," he had us laughing so hard some of us missed lyrics.
The PC age has moved the bar
A word like "redneck" is a step too far
The proper term is "country music star"
You've got a lot to see
That's a big part of the Wichmann charm: he doesn't just sing anything, he acts and sings everything. Midway through the American standard "Skylark" when the pianist began a solo, Scott sat down on the floor and gazed at him raptly.
During intermission, I chatted with fellow theater regulars about the trend toward plays without intermissions, musing about the causes for it. Someone posited that it's an attempt to woo younger audiences with shorter attention spans, another complained that it hurt bar sales.
I was introduced to a woman, a devoted beer drinker, who'd just recently started drinking cocktails. Tonight was her first Cosmo ("I'm buzzed," she admitted when asked if she'd liked it) and her plan for next time was to have a Blue Lagoon. You've got to admire a woman with a plan.
Scott came back swinging with "Settle for Me," from a TV series I'd never even heard of (not that that's saying much) and using all his acting ability to sell it.
Settle for me
Darling, just settle for me
I think you'll have to agree
We make quite a pair
I know I'm only second place in this game
But like 2% milk or seitan beef
I almost taste the same
Then he got all serious on us, saying there's so much tumult and bad stuff happening in the world, so it was a good thing that we'd come out to hear some music and be with people. Just as we were buying into his solemnity, he launched into "From Russia With Love," ending by turning in profile and crouching with an imaginary gun. The crowd about lost it.
That song took us on a tangent about the Columbia Record and Tape Club where you'd send them a penny and get 13 records or tapes and then be indebted to them for the rest of your life. After scoring a penny from his Mom, one of young Scott's 13 records had been a selection of James Bond movie themes.
"So while the other kids were out playing football or baseball, I was singing Nancy Sinatra's "You Only Live Twice" in my backyard. That led me to where I am today," he joked, but probably everyone in the room was grateful for that penny.
As a proud member of the Navy Reserve, he dedicated "I'll Be Seeing You (In All the Old Familiar Places)" to his retiring commanding officer and everyone in the Greatest Generation who'd won the war at home.
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
"I'm So Lucky To Be Me" went to "all the people who come up to me in the grocery store and say, hey, I saw you in that play or, hey, I thought you were taller! This song is about how you make me feel."
The song he sang for his estranged biological father who died this summer left him in tears, so he moved right into one about driving to Cape Cod, tying it into his Massachusetts childhood. The satirical "Entering Marion" managed to combine a road trip with enough sexual innuendo about townships to be full-on comedy.
Explaining that there were two basic truths - he would never play Alexander Hamilton on Broadway and we would never get tickets to see it, so as a matter of public service, he was going to perform "My Shot" and play all the characters.
Of course he nailed, right down to the distinctive accents and mannerisms of each of the participants and the show ended. At least until the standing ovation dictated that he return for an encore.
Turns out his last role in high school had been against actress Elizabeth Banks, so he took his next song from that. "This song is my personal musical statement," he said and began singing "The Impossible Dream." Goosebumps.
Classic songs, unlikely songs, hysterical songs and moving songs and not one pigeon harmed in the making of this song fest. Who could ask for anything more?
As for wanting less, I don't know that anyone left with a reddened butt, but I didn't check, either.
And that Scott Wichmann has range to spare. It's been so long I can't even remember when I first saw him onstage and though I've seen him dozens of times since, he never fails to dazzle, chewing scenery and singing with a voice that belies his height.
He'd dubbed his show tonight at Richmond Triangle Players "Leave Them Wanting Less" and with a three piece combo backing him up (including the always stellar Scott Clark on drums), he pretty much succeeded, although I'm pretty sure the devoted crowd would have stayed as long as he was willing to sing.
My seat was in the second row, off to the side, making for a fine view that included a canoodling couple in front of me and easy proximity to theater friends in the row behind.
Appearing from the back of the theater, Scott bounded to the stage and started right in with Van Morrison's "Moondance," singing, snapping his fingers and reminding us that it was a marvelous night to listen to him, too.
It immediately became clear that all his song choices had personal reasons behind them. His first date with his wife had been to see "Muppets Most Wanted," so he did "I Can Get You What You Want" and then bragged he'd already gotten her the dog and the ice cream cone and he was working on the moon.
No indication whether he intended to lasso or acquire it otherwise.
In 2003, he'd gotten a message from a director saying he had the perfect role for him ("It's probably Hamlet," he cracked), which turned out to be the lead in "Batboy, the Musical." Before singing a song from it, he quipped, "The play ran during Isabel when people didn't have power, but Firehouse was on a good grid so people came for the air conditioning and it sold out!"
I remember that production because my then-boyfriend suggested we go, only to find out it was sold out. As a consolation prize, he took me to see it while we were in London, which was pretty wonderful, albeit absent Scott.
There was a Mel Torme (one of his heroes, along with Sinatra and Bobby Darin) arrangement of a song from "The Nutty Professor" and a sweet tribute to his wife who's been away for a while ("Don't Dream of Anybody But Me") and tonight was sitting in the back.
"I love the feeling of being in the middle of the Great American songbook," he enthused to a roomful of people feeling the same without having to do any of the work.
Then he moved into hilarious mode for a couple songs, beginning with the favorite song of an older friend called "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park," complete with skipping and tossing out poisonous bits to the birds as he sang about strychnine and arsenic. In a nod to the fact that he was performing on the set of "The Santaland Diaries," next came a holiday classic he first heard as a 15-year old listening to Dr. Demento on the radio.
Whip me, Santa Claus
Spank me, Santa Claus
Don't worry if my flesh be seared
I should be harshly punished
For being bad all year
Choosing the correction is solely up to you
But I would like a reddened butt
Do what you have to do
Periodically as he sang, he'd face the drummer and raise his coat jacket enough to provide easy access to his backside. The audience roared. For "You've Got a Lot to See" from "Family Guy," he had us laughing so hard some of us missed lyrics.
The PC age has moved the bar
A word like "redneck" is a step too far
The proper term is "country music star"
You've got a lot to see
That's a big part of the Wichmann charm: he doesn't just sing anything, he acts and sings everything. Midway through the American standard "Skylark" when the pianist began a solo, Scott sat down on the floor and gazed at him raptly.
During intermission, I chatted with fellow theater regulars about the trend toward plays without intermissions, musing about the causes for it. Someone posited that it's an attempt to woo younger audiences with shorter attention spans, another complained that it hurt bar sales.
I was introduced to a woman, a devoted beer drinker, who'd just recently started drinking cocktails. Tonight was her first Cosmo ("I'm buzzed," she admitted when asked if she'd liked it) and her plan for next time was to have a Blue Lagoon. You've got to admire a woman with a plan.
Scott came back swinging with "Settle for Me," from a TV series I'd never even heard of (not that that's saying much) and using all his acting ability to sell it.
Settle for me
Darling, just settle for me
I think you'll have to agree
We make quite a pair
I know I'm only second place in this game
But like 2% milk or seitan beef
I almost taste the same
Then he got all serious on us, saying there's so much tumult and bad stuff happening in the world, so it was a good thing that we'd come out to hear some music and be with people. Just as we were buying into his solemnity, he launched into "From Russia With Love," ending by turning in profile and crouching with an imaginary gun. The crowd about lost it.
That song took us on a tangent about the Columbia Record and Tape Club where you'd send them a penny and get 13 records or tapes and then be indebted to them for the rest of your life. After scoring a penny from his Mom, one of young Scott's 13 records had been a selection of James Bond movie themes.
"So while the other kids were out playing football or baseball, I was singing Nancy Sinatra's "You Only Live Twice" in my backyard. That led me to where I am today," he joked, but probably everyone in the room was grateful for that penny.
As a proud member of the Navy Reserve, he dedicated "I'll Be Seeing You (In All the Old Familiar Places)" to his retiring commanding officer and everyone in the Greatest Generation who'd won the war at home.
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
"I'm So Lucky To Be Me" went to "all the people who come up to me in the grocery store and say, hey, I saw you in that play or, hey, I thought you were taller! This song is about how you make me feel."
The song he sang for his estranged biological father who died this summer left him in tears, so he moved right into one about driving to Cape Cod, tying it into his Massachusetts childhood. The satirical "Entering Marion" managed to combine a road trip with enough sexual innuendo about townships to be full-on comedy.
Explaining that there were two basic truths - he would never play Alexander Hamilton on Broadway and we would never get tickets to see it, so as a matter of public service, he was going to perform "My Shot" and play all the characters.
Of course he nailed, right down to the distinctive accents and mannerisms of each of the participants and the show ended. At least until the standing ovation dictated that he return for an encore.
Turns out his last role in high school had been against actress Elizabeth Banks, so he took his next song from that. "This song is my personal musical statement," he said and began singing "The Impossible Dream." Goosebumps.
Classic songs, unlikely songs, hysterical songs and moving songs and not one pigeon harmed in the making of this song fest. Who could ask for anything more?
As for wanting less, I don't know that anyone left with a reddened butt, but I didn't check, either.
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Waiting for a Pass on a Train
I go out thinking I'm having a ladies-who-lunch kind of a day.
You know, the kind of day where one woman drops an evocative bon mot such as, "All I know is he made a pass at her on a train," except it winds up being so much more than a girly lunch of salads and chocolate at Chez Foushee followed by a matinee.
First of all, how is it that I'd never seen the musical "1776"?
When I casually mentioned it last night, I was rewarded with a lyric sung to me from one of its songs and the intel that he who was serenading me once owned the soundtrack.
Even my date today, the former theater queen, knew little, asking me when she arrived if the play had been written in 1976, during that drawn-out Bicentennial celebration some of us lived through.
But, no, a bit of quick research revealed that it had been inexplicably written in 1969, the year of Woodstock and during the dark days of Vietnam.
That something so potentially corny and old-fashioned for the time went on to win three Tony awards only increased my amazement at knowing nothing about it.
All I can say is I'm wholly indebted to Virginia Repertory for choosing to stage such a compelling and informative piece of theater with a top-notch cast to bring me up to speed.
After three decades in the Commonwealth, my delight in all the Virginia references was immense.
So when the simple Richard Henry Lee says, "Why, hell! I'll leave right now if you like! I'll just stop off in Stratford long enough to refresh the missus and then straight to the matter," I have no problem conjuring up Stratford Hall, where we celebrated my mother's birthday a few years back.
"Refreshing the missus," now there's a phrase you don't hear often enough.
And when Benjamin Franklin, played masterfully by Jason Marks, explains away Lee's exuberance by saying, "They're a warm-blooded people, Virginians," it's laugh-out-loud funny to me.
Summing up how the British empire has stifled the colonists' spirit, Franklin's words, while straight out of 1969, could describe a whole lot of people at political rallies of today: "We've spawned a new race here, Mr. Dickinson. Rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising, less refined."
Just as of the eras - both the mid 1770s as well as the late '60s, that is - is John Adams (played to passionate and playful perfection by the inimitable Scott Wichmann) whose Puritanical roots blush to their core when he discovers that Jefferson intends to bed his wife before so much as writing the first word of the Declaration of Independence.
"Good god, you don't mean...they're not going to?...in the middle of the afternoon?" to which Franklin dryly informs him, "Not everybody's from Boston, John."
Oh, and, by the way, they're a warm-blooded people, Virginians, so let's hear it for afternoon delight, shall we?
Looking exceptionally dandy in brocade and lace, Alexander Sapp as South Carolina's Edward Rutledge delivered a master class in staying in character, his pinky always elevated, his eyebrow conveying disdain, even the motion of sitting down repeatedly executed with the impeccable grace of a gentleman.
As far as the music went, his defense of slavery, "Molasses to Rum" was a show-stopper while it was tough to resist the charm of "The Lees of Old Virginia" - The FFV, the first family, in the sovereign colony of Virginia. And may my wife refuse my bed, if I can't deliver, as I said, the resolution on independency - as much for the mocking of Virginia pride as for the '60s emphasis on sex.
But easily the most currently topical song was "Cool, Cool Considerate Men" - We have land, cash in hand, self-command, future planned, Fortune flies, society survives, in neatly ordered lives with well-endowed wives - about the southern delegates' determination to move ever to the right, never to the left, because they won't risk losing the white male dominated way of life they've established.
Pshaw, such blind partisanship is both not cool and inconsiderate.
Truth be told, my main takeaway from the production was mortification at how little I knew (remembered?) about the Second Continental Congress and how central to the drafting of the Declaration of Independence John Adams was.
This is a revolution, dammit! We're going to have to offend SOMEbody!"
Ah, but Mr. Adams, we're still offending people. We could hardly help it given how much rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising and less refined we are.
Since 1776, forging ahead and in bed, it's practically the American way.
You know, the kind of day where one woman drops an evocative bon mot such as, "All I know is he made a pass at her on a train," except it winds up being so much more than a girly lunch of salads and chocolate at Chez Foushee followed by a matinee.
First of all, how is it that I'd never seen the musical "1776"?
When I casually mentioned it last night, I was rewarded with a lyric sung to me from one of its songs and the intel that he who was serenading me once owned the soundtrack.
Even my date today, the former theater queen, knew little, asking me when she arrived if the play had been written in 1976, during that drawn-out Bicentennial celebration some of us lived through.
But, no, a bit of quick research revealed that it had been inexplicably written in 1969, the year of Woodstock and during the dark days of Vietnam.
That something so potentially corny and old-fashioned for the time went on to win three Tony awards only increased my amazement at knowing nothing about it.
All I can say is I'm wholly indebted to Virginia Repertory for choosing to stage such a compelling and informative piece of theater with a top-notch cast to bring me up to speed.
After three decades in the Commonwealth, my delight in all the Virginia references was immense.
So when the simple Richard Henry Lee says, "Why, hell! I'll leave right now if you like! I'll just stop off in Stratford long enough to refresh the missus and then straight to the matter," I have no problem conjuring up Stratford Hall, where we celebrated my mother's birthday a few years back.
"Refreshing the missus," now there's a phrase you don't hear often enough.
And when Benjamin Franklin, played masterfully by Jason Marks, explains away Lee's exuberance by saying, "They're a warm-blooded people, Virginians," it's laugh-out-loud funny to me.
Summing up how the British empire has stifled the colonists' spirit, Franklin's words, while straight out of 1969, could describe a whole lot of people at political rallies of today: "We've spawned a new race here, Mr. Dickinson. Rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising, less refined."
Just as of the eras - both the mid 1770s as well as the late '60s, that is - is John Adams (played to passionate and playful perfection by the inimitable Scott Wichmann) whose Puritanical roots blush to their core when he discovers that Jefferson intends to bed his wife before so much as writing the first word of the Declaration of Independence.
"Good god, you don't mean...they're not going to?...in the middle of the afternoon?" to which Franklin dryly informs him, "Not everybody's from Boston, John."
Oh, and, by the way, they're a warm-blooded people, Virginians, so let's hear it for afternoon delight, shall we?
Looking exceptionally dandy in brocade and lace, Alexander Sapp as South Carolina's Edward Rutledge delivered a master class in staying in character, his pinky always elevated, his eyebrow conveying disdain, even the motion of sitting down repeatedly executed with the impeccable grace of a gentleman.
As far as the music went, his defense of slavery, "Molasses to Rum" was a show-stopper while it was tough to resist the charm of "The Lees of Old Virginia" - The FFV, the first family, in the sovereign colony of Virginia. And may my wife refuse my bed, if I can't deliver, as I said, the resolution on independency - as much for the mocking of Virginia pride as for the '60s emphasis on sex.
But easily the most currently topical song was "Cool, Cool Considerate Men" - We have land, cash in hand, self-command, future planned, Fortune flies, society survives, in neatly ordered lives with well-endowed wives - about the southern delegates' determination to move ever to the right, never to the left, because they won't risk losing the white male dominated way of life they've established.
Pshaw, such blind partisanship is both not cool and inconsiderate.
Truth be told, my main takeaway from the production was mortification at how little I knew (remembered?) about the Second Continental Congress and how central to the drafting of the Declaration of Independence John Adams was.
This is a revolution, dammit! We're going to have to offend SOMEbody!"
Ah, but Mr. Adams, we're still offending people. We could hardly help it given how much rougher, simpler, more violent, more enterprising and less refined we are.
Since 1776, forging ahead and in bed, it's practically the American way.
Friday, October 23, 2015
Consigned to History
That time a man you've just met tells you he's expecting you to dance "for us" once the music starts and offers four reasons why. I don't, but that's not the point.
Which could only happen when you go solo to a Tom Smith show - their first playing out together - at Balliceaux. The Tom in question is Waites and the Smith is the Smiths and the hat-wearing, gravel-voiced singer says they were shooting for a weird combination. Done.
Upright bass, acoustic guitar, sax and drums. Heard? "This Charming Man" to "Downtown Train" to "Girlfriend in a Coma" with a whole lot of Tom Waites songs I didn't know in between.
Which only came after I'd arrived outside and been asked for ID by a guy who referred to me as "young lady." After guaranteeing me that he was older, we shook on a bet.The stakes: good will.
Don't bet me on age because I'll almost always win. What follows is wildly complimentary and leads to a discussion of DNA versus lifestyle, and his belief in the power of being happy. Of course he's a musician and perfectly charming.
But I don't get to him until I finish with the play "Peter and the Starcatcher," a sort of prequel to "Peter Pan" produced by Virginia Rep at the November Theater.
There's Scott Wichmann playing a pirate named Black Stache (or Nancy, if you ask his crew) in a thick black mustache and curly black wig that make him a ringer for John Oates circa 1984.
Combining wordplay, modern references ("Please, is there a vegetarian option?" when an orphan is given a bucket of worms to eat, or "It's the Cadillac Escalade of dilemmas!") and actors as part of the set, it's a madcap romp through Peter's back story, complete with an effeminate pirate, a food-obsessed orphan and the man born to play a woman - Robert Throckmorton - as the besotted Nanny.
It's a damn clever take on how Peter Pan ended up so messed up and the patron saint of non-committalmen boys.
But before we got to Peter Pan Syndrome, Maple and Pine at Quirk beckoned with Prosecco, Virginia pork rilettes (meh) and oxtail egg rolls (more, sir) perched at one of the overly-small bar tables with the uncomfortable pedestal bottoms.
Which was only possible after Pru came straight from work to my house in order to primp and powder here before starting out for dinner and a play.
Just two girlfriends sitting at the dining table by a sunny open window while one puts on make-up and brings the other up to date and Pet Shop Boys' "Discography" blasts through the warm, late afternoon air of the wide-open apartment.
And that only happens after driving to Middlesex County for lunch with strangers to talk oysters and reefs, music blasting the entire way.
Especially satisfying on such a perfect, warm October afternoon is Del Amitri's 1992 "Change Everything" record on repeat. I'm a sucker for a Scottish band, much less one where the lead singer is nothing more than an '80s poet, a Romeo in black jeans with a jangley guitar.
Listening as I drive back, I hear for the 748th time how his choice of words, his phrasing and his brooding Scottish soul conspire to make me love every lyric and note of this album. Few can do yearning, heartache and drinking songs like the Scots. And precipitation.
Under seasick skies
I pick up the paper in the useless decent of the rain
With your standard-issue broken heart
Hopelessly honeymoon-bound
Another hour without you is consigned to history
Every line evocative, every line from a different song. Combined, just because it's a leisurely drive and I have time to let the words linger in my head.
It's that standard issue broken heart that changes everything, isn't it? Luckily, I'm way ahead on good will.
Which could only happen when you go solo to a Tom Smith show - their first playing out together - at Balliceaux. The Tom in question is Waites and the Smith is the Smiths and the hat-wearing, gravel-voiced singer says they were shooting for a weird combination. Done.
Upright bass, acoustic guitar, sax and drums. Heard? "This Charming Man" to "Downtown Train" to "Girlfriend in a Coma" with a whole lot of Tom Waites songs I didn't know in between.
Which only came after I'd arrived outside and been asked for ID by a guy who referred to me as "young lady." After guaranteeing me that he was older, we shook on a bet.The stakes: good will.
Don't bet me on age because I'll almost always win. What follows is wildly complimentary and leads to a discussion of DNA versus lifestyle, and his belief in the power of being happy. Of course he's a musician and perfectly charming.
But I don't get to him until I finish with the play "Peter and the Starcatcher," a sort of prequel to "Peter Pan" produced by Virginia Rep at the November Theater.
There's Scott Wichmann playing a pirate named Black Stache (or Nancy, if you ask his crew) in a thick black mustache and curly black wig that make him a ringer for John Oates circa 1984.
Combining wordplay, modern references ("Please, is there a vegetarian option?" when an orphan is given a bucket of worms to eat, or "It's the Cadillac Escalade of dilemmas!") and actors as part of the set, it's a madcap romp through Peter's back story, complete with an effeminate pirate, a food-obsessed orphan and the man born to play a woman - Robert Throckmorton - as the besotted Nanny.
It's a damn clever take on how Peter Pan ended up so messed up and the patron saint of non-committal
But before we got to Peter Pan Syndrome, Maple and Pine at Quirk beckoned with Prosecco, Virginia pork rilettes (meh) and oxtail egg rolls (more, sir) perched at one of the overly-small bar tables with the uncomfortable pedestal bottoms.
Which was only possible after Pru came straight from work to my house in order to primp and powder here before starting out for dinner and a play.
Just two girlfriends sitting at the dining table by a sunny open window while one puts on make-up and brings the other up to date and Pet Shop Boys' "Discography" blasts through the warm, late afternoon air of the wide-open apartment.
And that only happens after driving to Middlesex County for lunch with strangers to talk oysters and reefs, music blasting the entire way.
Especially satisfying on such a perfect, warm October afternoon is Del Amitri's 1992 "Change Everything" record on repeat. I'm a sucker for a Scottish band, much less one where the lead singer is nothing more than an '80s poet, a Romeo in black jeans with a jangley guitar.
Listening as I drive back, I hear for the 748th time how his choice of words, his phrasing and his brooding Scottish soul conspire to make me love every lyric and note of this album. Few can do yearning, heartache and drinking songs like the Scots. And precipitation.
Under seasick skies
I pick up the paper in the useless decent of the rain
With your standard-issue broken heart
Hopelessly honeymoon-bound
Another hour without you is consigned to history
Every line evocative, every line from a different song. Combined, just because it's a leisurely drive and I have time to let the words linger in my head.
It's that standard issue broken heart that changes everything, isn't it? Luckily, I'm way ahead on good will.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Not Afraid to Pair Food and Music
Given my present mood, did I need to see a tear jerking play tonight?
Not really.
Would I have missed Firehouse Theater's staged reading of "In My Father's Eyes"?
Not a chance.
The playwright was a heart surgeon (he has surgery scheduled tomorrow), the composer was David Friedman ("Beauty and the Beast," "Aladdin," and "Pocahontas") and the cast consisted of four people and a a narrator.
The story of a man who falls madly in love with an aspiring actress/singer/dancer who dies when her child is born flashed back and forth in time.
The dysfunctional relationship between father and daughter alternated with the epic love story of man and the woman he worshipped but never really knew.
And I wasn't the only one tearing up at various developments in the story.
At intermission, several people acknowledged how moving some of the relationships were (the painter and the widower? the dead wife's longing for a different life? both achingly sad).
The cast was uniformly strong (Scott Wichmann being a personal favorite) and because of the extensive staging, the audience got a lot of bang for their five dollar buck.
But then that seems to be the case with all of Firehouse's staged readings.
At the talkback afterwards, playwright John Anastasi told of working with Broadway composer Friedman.
Apparently the man could sit at the piano and come up with a melody in minutes.
"Do you like that?' he'd ask to Anastasi's enthusiastic yes. "Okay, what do you need in this part?"
He'd then create lyrics on the spot to fit the scene. That's talent with a capital "T."
Before the show, I had the good fortune to run into a friend and her group, making for satisfying theater talk and chef talk.
Plus it's not every day I meet Phyllis Richman's cousin.
That group left after the play but my friend and I decided to have a quick drink at Ballieaux.
When our bartender told us it was half priced wine by the bottle night, we were less concerned about quickness and decided to enjoy a little Provence pink for peanuts.
Our Mas de la Dame Rose kept us going through the talkative company that showed up.
And the soundtrack? Interpol, Killers and the like, all loud.
A music friend and I got off on talk of Ian Dury and Wye Oak.
A massage therapist joined us to share his input on healthy eating, cheap pasta and tooth repairs.
We were joined by the chef for the upcoming Mint in the Fan who waxed poetic about lamb innards, quality salt and creative panna cotta.
And music. Finally, a chef devoted to making the music heard in a restaurant as creative and interesting as the food.
Count me in.
Good company, spirited conversation and girl talk make a person forget all about the sad relationships that began the evening.
Besides, in my father's eyes, I'm golden. He told me so earlier today.
Not really.
Would I have missed Firehouse Theater's staged reading of "In My Father's Eyes"?
Not a chance.
The playwright was a heart surgeon (he has surgery scheduled tomorrow), the composer was David Friedman ("Beauty and the Beast," "Aladdin," and "Pocahontas") and the cast consisted of four people and a a narrator.
The story of a man who falls madly in love with an aspiring actress/singer/dancer who dies when her child is born flashed back and forth in time.
The dysfunctional relationship between father and daughter alternated with the epic love story of man and the woman he worshipped but never really knew.
And I wasn't the only one tearing up at various developments in the story.
At intermission, several people acknowledged how moving some of the relationships were (the painter and the widower? the dead wife's longing for a different life? both achingly sad).
The cast was uniformly strong (Scott Wichmann being a personal favorite) and because of the extensive staging, the audience got a lot of bang for their five dollar buck.
But then that seems to be the case with all of Firehouse's staged readings.
At the talkback afterwards, playwright John Anastasi told of working with Broadway composer Friedman.
Apparently the man could sit at the piano and come up with a melody in minutes.
"Do you like that?' he'd ask to Anastasi's enthusiastic yes. "Okay, what do you need in this part?"
He'd then create lyrics on the spot to fit the scene. That's talent with a capital "T."
Before the show, I had the good fortune to run into a friend and her group, making for satisfying theater talk and chef talk.
Plus it's not every day I meet Phyllis Richman's cousin.
That group left after the play but my friend and I decided to have a quick drink at Ballieaux.
When our bartender told us it was half priced wine by the bottle night, we were less concerned about quickness and decided to enjoy a little Provence pink for peanuts.
Our Mas de la Dame Rose kept us going through the talkative company that showed up.
And the soundtrack? Interpol, Killers and the like, all loud.
A music friend and I got off on talk of Ian Dury and Wye Oak.
A massage therapist joined us to share his input on healthy eating, cheap pasta and tooth repairs.
We were joined by the chef for the upcoming Mint in the Fan who waxed poetic about lamb innards, quality salt and creative panna cotta.
And music. Finally, a chef devoted to making the music heard in a restaurant as creative and interesting as the food.
Count me in.
Good company, spirited conversation and girl talk make a person forget all about the sad relationships that began the evening.
Besides, in my father's eyes, I'm golden. He told me so earlier today.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Dirty Rotten Reckoning
The last time I went to a Barksdale production where people walked out, it was the older contingent and because of full frontal male nudity.
Today it was wholesome families and because of crude humor and loads of sexual references ("Wrap your legs around my head and crush it like a grape").
Kudos to Barksdale. I say if you can't stand the heat of comedy, stay out of the theatrical kitchen.
We went to the matinee of "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" at the Empire Theater, making for an easy five-block walk from my apartment to our ninth row center seats.
The story of two con men trying to see who can score with a wealthy woman first allowed for lots of physical humor and bawdy talk, but also several local references.
During Scott Wichmann's masterfully-done "Great Big Stuff" rap, he was singing about the things he could afford if only he had money.
"I can finally see a Barksdale show!" he sang to much amusement among the theater-going set.
Later when the seasoned con goes to divide up the world into con territories, he gives the newcomer the lowest locations: China, Iceland, El Salvador...and Goochland. Ouch.
Dialog was funny, often raunchy and quick, so some of the oldsters near me missed a lot of good lines.
You need to stay awake at the opera!
It was six hours!
It was WAGNER!
I don't want to have sex and eat bacon for SIX hours!
Because, as we all know, the barometer by which we measure pleasure in life is having sex and eating bacon. No, really.
But I think it was the references to shaved testicles, genital clamps, KY Jelly, and milkshake enemas that may have caused the happy family next to me to jump ship at intermission, leaving candy wrappers and soda cups strewn in their part of the row they had just vacated.
I could tell when they didn't laugh at seeing Wichmann in boxers with one cheek fully visible, much less at the political jokes, that Mom was not enjoying herself.
Too bad they couldn't just focus on the humor, like the character singing about her heart's desire:
Let me have love unending
Let me look good in shorts
What she said.
I know, it's asking a lot, but it's funny. That's why it's called comedy.
Today it was wholesome families and because of crude humor and loads of sexual references ("Wrap your legs around my head and crush it like a grape").
Kudos to Barksdale. I say if you can't stand the heat of comedy, stay out of the theatrical kitchen.
We went to the matinee of "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" at the Empire Theater, making for an easy five-block walk from my apartment to our ninth row center seats.
The story of two con men trying to see who can score with a wealthy woman first allowed for lots of physical humor and bawdy talk, but also several local references.
During Scott Wichmann's masterfully-done "Great Big Stuff" rap, he was singing about the things he could afford if only he had money.
"I can finally see a Barksdale show!" he sang to much amusement among the theater-going set.
Later when the seasoned con goes to divide up the world into con territories, he gives the newcomer the lowest locations: China, Iceland, El Salvador...and Goochland. Ouch.
Dialog was funny, often raunchy and quick, so some of the oldsters near me missed a lot of good lines.
You need to stay awake at the opera!
It was six hours!
It was WAGNER!
I don't want to have sex and eat bacon for SIX hours!
Because, as we all know, the barometer by which we measure pleasure in life is having sex and eating bacon. No, really.
But I think it was the references to shaved testicles, genital clamps, KY Jelly, and milkshake enemas that may have caused the happy family next to me to jump ship at intermission, leaving candy wrappers and soda cups strewn in their part of the row they had just vacated.
I could tell when they didn't laugh at seeing Wichmann in boxers with one cheek fully visible, much less at the political jokes, that Mom was not enjoying herself.
Too bad they couldn't just focus on the humor, like the character singing about her heart's desire:
Let me have love unending
Let me look good in shorts
What she said.
I know, it's asking a lot, but it's funny. That's why it's called comedy.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Seduce Away
Walking into Avalon, Jason the bartender looked at me and in his usual smarmy tone said, "Well, well, well." I was looking for a group of birthday party celebrants but they were nowhere in sight, not that I told him that.
Taking a seat, I spotted a good friend already at the bar. "Meeting someone?" he asked and then answered his own question, "Of course you are." I explained the celebratory nature of my visit to him and he expressed insincere-sounding concern for me being stood up.
With no sign of the birthday girl in sight and somewhere to be at 7:30, it seemed wisest to order a glass of wine and find my own entertainment.
They pickings were slim, though; Jason shared his latest melodrama (dropouts! rich aunts! wood chopping!) and the couple next to me vacillated over whether the family bed situation is good for youngsters...and they were talking about their poodle. I ordered a sandwich and prayed for strength.
Fortunately, about that time my friend decided to move himself and his cocktail down next to me and save me from eavesdropping for entertainment. My grilled cheese was a nice combination of Mozzarella, pesto, onion and tomato on focaccia and as I munched, friend began talking about building me the stereo system of a lifetime.
It began with an innocent enough question: what did I listen to CDs on? I told him, but apparently my answer was inadequate, which surely meant that my system was inadequate. He began explaining, yet again, the elaborate but sonically perfect system he has been dying to build for me.
Frankly, I think he's just looking for an excuse to start digging around on e-Bay for the obscure parts he needs to piece together a system he knows full well he doesn't need, but wants to build anyway.
I tried begging off (I don't really need it, after all), but finally caved to his enthusiasm. Yes, I need this, I really do, was what he wanted to hear and as a good friend, I gave it to him.
And then had to leave without ever having celebrated anyone's birthday. Hey, I tried.
Firehouse Theater was doing Scott Organ's "Phoenix" as part of its Readers' Theater series and I didn't want to miss it. Organ is a former Chester resident turned Brooklynite and this two-person play was featuring one of my very favorite Richmond actors, Scott Wichmann.
The deceptively simple story was about a couple who'd had one date and then met up four weeks later to discuss it. The dialog was quick, witty and realistic. Wichmann and Laine Satterfield totally sold themselves as insecure, complex and very real people who made the audience care about them.
No surprise, Wichmann had the audience howling within about fifteen seconds of the lights coming up; both his delivery and facial expressions are comedic expression at their finest. But Organ's dialog gets a lot of the credit, too.
"As far as drinks with strangers go, that was my most enjoyable yet," perfectly exemplified the understated post-modern humor throughout the staged reading. The characters, with their commitment issues battling the innate desire to be together, seemed taken from anyone's life.
There was an interesting part of the dialog about the future (hint: batteries will be so much better and there will still be no proof of god), but most noteworthy was that men of the future will be much better at relationships and seduction ("If you see it, it ain't seduction"), surely good news to the female portion of the audience.
Afterwards, at the talk-back with the playwright, the audience expressed much interest in seeing the play produced. Issues of language (the f bomb) and topic (abortion) were much talked about, but the consensus seemed to be that it was a perfect future Firehouse project.
As for hearing more about men becoming better at seduction, I'm all ears. Show me, do.
Taking a seat, I spotted a good friend already at the bar. "Meeting someone?" he asked and then answered his own question, "Of course you are." I explained the celebratory nature of my visit to him and he expressed insincere-sounding concern for me being stood up.
With no sign of the birthday girl in sight and somewhere to be at 7:30, it seemed wisest to order a glass of wine and find my own entertainment.
They pickings were slim, though; Jason shared his latest melodrama (dropouts! rich aunts! wood chopping!) and the couple next to me vacillated over whether the family bed situation is good for youngsters...and they were talking about their poodle. I ordered a sandwich and prayed for strength.
Fortunately, about that time my friend decided to move himself and his cocktail down next to me and save me from eavesdropping for entertainment. My grilled cheese was a nice combination of Mozzarella, pesto, onion and tomato on focaccia and as I munched, friend began talking about building me the stereo system of a lifetime.
It began with an innocent enough question: what did I listen to CDs on? I told him, but apparently my answer was inadequate, which surely meant that my system was inadequate. He began explaining, yet again, the elaborate but sonically perfect system he has been dying to build for me.
Frankly, I think he's just looking for an excuse to start digging around on e-Bay for the obscure parts he needs to piece together a system he knows full well he doesn't need, but wants to build anyway.
I tried begging off (I don't really need it, after all), but finally caved to his enthusiasm. Yes, I need this, I really do, was what he wanted to hear and as a good friend, I gave it to him.
And then had to leave without ever having celebrated anyone's birthday. Hey, I tried.
Firehouse Theater was doing Scott Organ's "Phoenix" as part of its Readers' Theater series and I didn't want to miss it. Organ is a former Chester resident turned Brooklynite and this two-person play was featuring one of my very favorite Richmond actors, Scott Wichmann.
The deceptively simple story was about a couple who'd had one date and then met up four weeks later to discuss it. The dialog was quick, witty and realistic. Wichmann and Laine Satterfield totally sold themselves as insecure, complex and very real people who made the audience care about them.
No surprise, Wichmann had the audience howling within about fifteen seconds of the lights coming up; both his delivery and facial expressions are comedic expression at their finest. But Organ's dialog gets a lot of the credit, too.
"As far as drinks with strangers go, that was my most enjoyable yet," perfectly exemplified the understated post-modern humor throughout the staged reading. The characters, with their commitment issues battling the innate desire to be together, seemed taken from anyone's life.
There was an interesting part of the dialog about the future (hint: batteries will be so much better and there will still be no proof of god), but most noteworthy was that men of the future will be much better at relationships and seduction ("If you see it, it ain't seduction"), surely good news to the female portion of the audience.
Afterwards, at the talk-back with the playwright, the audience expressed much interest in seeing the play produced. Issues of language (the f bomb) and topic (abortion) were much talked about, but the consensus seemed to be that it was a perfect future Firehouse project.
As for hearing more about men becoming better at seduction, I'm all ears. Show me, do.
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