Happy birthday and Merry Christmas all in the same night.
It was celebration time for a friend and former co-worker so he'd invited his dearly beloved to Pasture to fete him. I was just glad he'd picked Pasture and not someplace further afield since my vehicle is out of commission.
Walking by Rappahannock, I saw it was mobbed with suits (private party) and Pasture wasn't much less crowded with the birthday celebration coinciding with a Modern Richmond happy hour. I've been wanting to go to one of their events for a while and haven't yet, but I did get to meet the organizer tonight, where I was introduced as "Karen, a woman about town."
That's one way of putting it.
I'd brought my friend the gift of cookies, a nod to the first year we were friends when I left six dozen cookies on his desk at work and he about burst with pleasure at the unexpected gift. We've been friends long enough now that he knows to expect a doctored card (I fill in the speech bubbles to suit our history) and cookies.
After catching up with a theater-loving friend who'd missed seeing "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," I spent time chatting with a favorite music writer about the lack of local girl bands, upcoming shows we need to see and the importance of learning how to discourse rather than argue.
When you want to make a point, it's best to stay calm, we agreed.
To fuel our banter, I ordered pinto bean dip with garden salsa and hot oil for scooping with tortilla chips. I love me some beans.
When I couldn't finish the chips, I handed the little brown bag of remainders to the birthday boy who happily munched away after already having far too many birthday drinks bought for him. I foresee a hangover for him tomorrow, a shame since he has work training tomorrow.
Midway through my conversation with the music writer, I spotted a former restaurateur I hadn't seen in ages and took some time to catch up with her. Facebook had let me know that she'd met the love of her life, but I wanted to hear the story.
It was a doozy, beginning with a last minute invitation to a friend wedding in the islands, a persistently romantic man she met in the wedding party ("He said he knew the moment he laid eyes on me"), fireworks exploding over them on a darkened beach and now she's moving north to live with him happily ever after.
I couldn't have been happier for her happiness. She said she'd about given up at her age (34, pshaw!) of finding Mr. Right and getting the whole fairy tale romance when boom! It landed in her lap when she least expected it.
Heaven knows, I'm enthralled with a romantic love story.
After a couple of hours at the party, it was time to bundle up and walk over to the Speakeasy for a staged reading of Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge. The house was rapidly filling up when I asked a couple if I could join their table, followed by a noted dancer and a culture big shot and his wife.
The table's original occupants were there because their daughter was ushering and they had loads of questions about theater in Richmond since they'd only recently started getting out to see plays and readings with her. In short order, they wanted the scoop on Firehouse Theater and why everyone in the room seemed to know each other. Our advice was not to miss the Acts of Faith preview.
Then it was time for a seriously hilarious holiday mashup.
The story, a takeoff on A Christmas Carol was so politically incorrect, so irreverent and so funny that I felt it more than balanced the retro and wholesome Christmas vibes I'd gotten seeing "White Christmas" Sunday. Or walking through any store right now.
The performance had plenty of wicked asides as well as commentary about the play itself (the young Jacob Marley asking, "Why don't I have any lines?" after a long discourse by other characters). The play posits that Ebenezer Scrooge's habit of saying "bah humbug" would be considered Tourette's syndrome these days.
The Ghost of Christmases Past, Present and Future, written for a black woman and played to perfection by Katrinah Carol Lewis, got laughs when Scrooge tells her, "I don't think there even were any Negro people in 1843."
Mrs. Bob Cratchit turned out to be a miserable woman who hated her life and was always leaving to get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. She belittled her children mercilessly, ignored their requests for food and barely tolerated her cheerfully sanctimonious husband, who tells his children, "Okay, on the count of three, everybody weep." And they do while the Mrs. rolls her eyes.
In a play full of references to other times, she bemoaned the absence of feminism. "I wish it were 1977 so I'd be admired for my unpleasantness," she wailed. No feminist stereotype there.
Kenneth Lay and Jeffrey Skilling put in appearances trying to involve Scrooge in a scam to sell "energy shares" and the ghost of Christmas past came dressed as a UPS delivery man. A scene from Scrooge's childhood ends up being a scene from "Oliver" with the plaintive, "May I have more, sir?" getting a big laugh.
The ghost of Christmas present scene had a Dutch couple exchanging gifts - a watch chain and hair comb - a tableau straight out of "The Gift of the Magi."
But eventually Clarence, the angel from It's A Wonderful Life, came along to help out the ghost and solve both Scrooge's attitude problem (after he supplies happy Meals for the Cratchit's Christmas dinner) as well as Mrs. Cratchit's misery.
But not before Mia Farrow takes 18 of the unwanted Cratchit children off their hands.
Todd Schall-Vess did a superb job as George Bailey, mimicking not only the timbre of Jimmy Stewart's voice but the exact cadence of the lines. No surprise there since the Byrd shows it every Christmas and Todd introduces it.
The twist that joins Scrooge and Mrs. Bob Cratchit in co-joined nastiness lands them in, when else, 1977, where they become Harry and Leona Helmsley. "Do something mean and let me watch," Scrooge tells her.
By the end of the play, the ghost is searching for a moral to the story, offering several possibilities and finally settling on this: If you're happy, you can be poor and if you're mean, you better get money.
Walking home in the cold night air, it hit me. Happiness must be the reason I can be so poor.
On the flip side, a mean person wouldn't have had to walk. Even so, I'll take it.
Showing posts with label speakeasy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label speakeasy. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Titillating and Informative at the Same Time
It's probably terribly post-modern of me to write about writing, but here goes.
If, as Benjamin Franklin said, you should either write something worth reading or do something worth writing about, where does that leave writing something no one will read?
I spent a fair amount of my day writing a letter that I didn't send, but needed to capture. Thoughts have been swirling around in my head and in order to make them stop, I needed to get them down in words and sentences, which I did.
But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that no one needed to read them. But, plain and simple, I needed, really needed, to write them.
The words I wrote weren't about being the 282nd person to vote at my polling place or about the sweet old lady outside it who questioned me intently about whether I'd been challenged when I provided my photo ID to vote (I hadn't).
They weren't about taking my hired mouth and a friend to lunch and having him remind me that we should be getting together for more than lunch, say music or art.
And while it was a lovely meal, my words weren't about dinner at Lucy's where my fellow diner told me about a car chase, crash and arrest on Broad Street this afternoon, snarling traffic westward for hours.
Irresistible was the soup of the day, a tomato-based mahi mahi and potato with just a hint of heat, worth slurping up every spoonful. Then I tucked into the lemon-vinaigrette-dressed winter salad of kale, roasted Brussels sprouts and sunflower seeds while hearing tales of familiar faces showing up in commercials and TV shows (so I'll never see them).
Post-dinner, I made my way to the Speakeasy to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of "Writer's Weekend: A New Musical," sharing a table with two women, one of whom turned out to be in the show's band.
I'd seen the first reading of the play last Spring and thoroughly enjoyed the story of six people attending a writer's workshop in hopes of fine-tuning their writing skills or, as the only published writer in the bunch put it, "Jump-starting my literary libido."
A four-piece band of two keyboard players, a bassist and drummer accompanied the actors as they sang of their frustrations and hopes for their writing careers, all in various stages. The sci-fi writer was self-published with cartons of her books crowding her basement, the former TV action star wanted to be a playwright but his concept was weak, the newspaper reporter hoped to use his journalism background writing about crime to pen detective stories, the young technical writer was trying to branch out into fiction, the suburban slam poet still had more attitude than talent and the oversexed romance writer had writer's block but a string of best-sellers behind her. Add in the bitter writer who leads the sessions and the potential for snappy dialog was obvious.
Jacqueline Jones narrated the play, sometimes even helping it along when there was overly-long silence. "I think that's a music cue!" she said cheerily to get everyone back on track.
And just in case the audience was unclear on what being a writer means, it was spelled out in song. "A working writer means a writer who gets paid. Who knows, I might even get laid." Don't count on it, friend, it never got me laid.
I couldn't decide which character I found the funniest, the timid technical writer played by Mark Persinger who was seduced by the older woman ("Old is the new black") or the ebony goddess poet played by Carolyn Meade, all attitude and adjectives.
Like last time, there was a lot that made me laugh out loud (editor jokes, older woman comments) including the written-to-be-awful manuscripts the would-be writers shared with their peers ("Rickets: The Musical").
And like with all his staged readings, director B.C. Maupin had made sure we got a lot more than just actors with scripts reading in chairs. Characters made eyes at each other, moved as if to dance, met at a bar and just generally suggested a lot more staging than some readings deliver.
Even though I knew the story, it was interesting to hear the songs come out of different mouths this time - and there were some excellent voices in the cast - and watch how these actors put their spins on the characters I'd met last May.
Seeing "Writer's Weekend" satisfied old Ben Franklin's directive to do something worth writing about. As to the other part of his wisdom, I'd even go so far as to say my earlier, unsent letter was worth reading.
Didn't get paid, didn't get laid, but there's always tomorrow. I'll probably write about that, too.
If, as Benjamin Franklin said, you should either write something worth reading or do something worth writing about, where does that leave writing something no one will read?
I spent a fair amount of my day writing a letter that I didn't send, but needed to capture. Thoughts have been swirling around in my head and in order to make them stop, I needed to get them down in words and sentences, which I did.
But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that no one needed to read them. But, plain and simple, I needed, really needed, to write them.
The words I wrote weren't about being the 282nd person to vote at my polling place or about the sweet old lady outside it who questioned me intently about whether I'd been challenged when I provided my photo ID to vote (I hadn't).
They weren't about taking my hired mouth and a friend to lunch and having him remind me that we should be getting together for more than lunch, say music or art.
And while it was a lovely meal, my words weren't about dinner at Lucy's where my fellow diner told me about a car chase, crash and arrest on Broad Street this afternoon, snarling traffic westward for hours.
Irresistible was the soup of the day, a tomato-based mahi mahi and potato with just a hint of heat, worth slurping up every spoonful. Then I tucked into the lemon-vinaigrette-dressed winter salad of kale, roasted Brussels sprouts and sunflower seeds while hearing tales of familiar faces showing up in commercials and TV shows (so I'll never see them).
Post-dinner, I made my way to the Speakeasy to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of "Writer's Weekend: A New Musical," sharing a table with two women, one of whom turned out to be in the show's band.
I'd seen the first reading of the play last Spring and thoroughly enjoyed the story of six people attending a writer's workshop in hopes of fine-tuning their writing skills or, as the only published writer in the bunch put it, "Jump-starting my literary libido."
A four-piece band of two keyboard players, a bassist and drummer accompanied the actors as they sang of their frustrations and hopes for their writing careers, all in various stages. The sci-fi writer was self-published with cartons of her books crowding her basement, the former TV action star wanted to be a playwright but his concept was weak, the newspaper reporter hoped to use his journalism background writing about crime to pen detective stories, the young technical writer was trying to branch out into fiction, the suburban slam poet still had more attitude than talent and the oversexed romance writer had writer's block but a string of best-sellers behind her. Add in the bitter writer who leads the sessions and the potential for snappy dialog was obvious.
Jacqueline Jones narrated the play, sometimes even helping it along when there was overly-long silence. "I think that's a music cue!" she said cheerily to get everyone back on track.
And just in case the audience was unclear on what being a writer means, it was spelled out in song. "A working writer means a writer who gets paid. Who knows, I might even get laid." Don't count on it, friend, it never got me laid.
I couldn't decide which character I found the funniest, the timid technical writer played by Mark Persinger who was seduced by the older woman ("Old is the new black") or the ebony goddess poet played by Carolyn Meade, all attitude and adjectives.
Like last time, there was a lot that made me laugh out loud (editor jokes, older woman comments) including the written-to-be-awful manuscripts the would-be writers shared with their peers ("Rickets: The Musical").
And like with all his staged readings, director B.C. Maupin had made sure we got a lot more than just actors with scripts reading in chairs. Characters made eyes at each other, moved as if to dance, met at a bar and just generally suggested a lot more staging than some readings deliver.
Even though I knew the story, it was interesting to hear the songs come out of different mouths this time - and there were some excellent voices in the cast - and watch how these actors put their spins on the characters I'd met last May.
Seeing "Writer's Weekend" satisfied old Ben Franklin's directive to do something worth writing about. As to the other part of his wisdom, I'd even go so far as to say my earlier, unsent letter was worth reading.
Didn't get paid, didn't get laid, but there's always tomorrow. I'll probably write about that, too.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Daylight and Champagne
Virginia is no longer just for straight lovers, but for all lovers. And about damn time.
With gender issues blaring from the headlines this week as same sex marriage became legal here, it's kind of thrilling to step out of the shadow of so many embarrassing stories about Virginia and feel proud we are, if not ahead of the curve, at last riding the wave of progressive thought for a change.
What better reason to spend an evening further blurring gender lines using magnificent language and a ratio of 13 women to 4 men to tell a tale of cross-dressing, passionate love and drunkenness? What I mean is, I may not want to be a man, but I can dig watching women play men all night long.
That's just what I was going for when Pru and I made our way to the Speakeasy, right here in lovely downtown Jackson Ward, for a gender-reversed exploration of "Twelfth Night."
The latest in director BC Maupin's mission to produce Shakespeare's entire canon using women in men's roles, I've yet to miss a reading and, frankly, it's because of girl parts.
I love seeing that many women on stage. It doesn't matter what the play is - goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" produced a lot - because even a familiar play takes on a different shape and feel when women are playing the male roles.
We arrived in time to grab a good table and eat bowls of gumbo full of shrimp, chicken and sausage topped with a perfect ball of rice and cornbread buttons before the play began. I was asked to move my chair around a bit as I was apparently right in one of the paths the actors would be using to come and go.
The action began with several locations - on top of the upright piano, from upstairs in the balcony where part of the audience sat and from either side of the bar behind us.
It was clear we were in for a treat when Molly Hood and Melissa Johnston Price stumbled out from between the tables playing drunken cohorts Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch.
A plague o' these pickle herring!
While technically, these gender-reversed plays are readings because the cast is still holding their scripts, it's not the kind of reading where actors sit in chairs and just read. Instead, they're out there cutting a caper, one might say, especially these two drunken masters.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now.
Ditto Robert Throckmorton who was playing the fair Olivia, the object of the Duke of Orsino's affection, who after saying the line, "Give me my veil. Come, throw it over my face," proceeded to clip sunglasses shades over his regular glasses.
Our cross-dressing heroine Viola was played by Alexander Sapp with a scarf on his head and adoration in his eyes.
During the scene where the fake letter is left out for Malvolio to "accidentally" discover," the drunken trio of Toby, Andrew and Fabian (the always funny Jacqueline O'Connor) crouched behind a nearby bar table subbing for a hedge of bushes. Moving from there to beside our table, Toby and Fabian pulled out straws to mooch sips of people's drinks from them, including Toby taking a long pull on Pru's Pinot Noir.
The versatility award went to the energetic Rebecca Anne Muhleman playing Feste, the fool, singing like an angel and even playing piano when necessary.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The Speakeasy space was put to excellent use, given that it was crowded with tables full of Shakespeare fans, like when the excellent Becki Jones as the beleaguered Malvolio is in jail, with the railing of the balcony suggesting the bars on his cell.
Watching the tall Jay Millman play the servant wench and instigator Maria, a character I think of as short and curvy (busty even), I had to keep reminding myself he was a she.
No matter how well you know the play, it was inevitable that there'd be times when you were looking at the actors trying to remember who was who. As a guy at the next table asked, "So, that's a guy playing a girl who's a boy?" His date nailed the answer. "Okay."
To put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.
It was easier just to go with the flow and enjoy watching the sexes play each other. One thing I did notice was how much more believable women are at playing men than men playing women. Maybe it's just me, but it rings truer to see women showing strength than seeing men showing adoration and fawning.
Of course, an added bonus of "Twelfth Night" is that in addition to all that great comedy plus love stories, you get the touching scene at the end where siblings Viola and Sebastian realize the other isn't dead, a truly moving moment even after so many times.
Love sought is good but given unsought, better.
During the talkback with the actors afterwards, there was much discussion of whether it's harder playing the opposite sex in a comedy or drama.
Price/Sir Toby was adamant that doing comedy as a man was much more difficult and that she only relaxed after she'd gotten her first few big laughs from the crowd. "We knew you had a drunk man inside you," quipped Sapp.
Even if we didn't, it was a distinct pleasure to watch the actors relax into their roles, begging the question of what a full production with plenty of rehearsal time to work out playing against your sex might be like.
Good question. I'm still working out getting good at the one I was born with and it's taking a lot longer than I expected.
One thing I do know is Sir Toby, you're wrong. 'Tis never too late to go to bed. 'Tis only too early to get up.
With gender issues blaring from the headlines this week as same sex marriage became legal here, it's kind of thrilling to step out of the shadow of so many embarrassing stories about Virginia and feel proud we are, if not ahead of the curve, at last riding the wave of progressive thought for a change.
What better reason to spend an evening further blurring gender lines using magnificent language and a ratio of 13 women to 4 men to tell a tale of cross-dressing, passionate love and drunkenness? What I mean is, I may not want to be a man, but I can dig watching women play men all night long.
That's just what I was going for when Pru and I made our way to the Speakeasy, right here in lovely downtown Jackson Ward, for a gender-reversed exploration of "Twelfth Night."
The latest in director BC Maupin's mission to produce Shakespeare's entire canon using women in men's roles, I've yet to miss a reading and, frankly, it's because of girl parts.
I love seeing that many women on stage. It doesn't matter what the play is - goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" produced a lot - because even a familiar play takes on a different shape and feel when women are playing the male roles.
We arrived in time to grab a good table and eat bowls of gumbo full of shrimp, chicken and sausage topped with a perfect ball of rice and cornbread buttons before the play began. I was asked to move my chair around a bit as I was apparently right in one of the paths the actors would be using to come and go.
The action began with several locations - on top of the upright piano, from upstairs in the balcony where part of the audience sat and from either side of the bar behind us.
It was clear we were in for a treat when Molly Hood and Melissa Johnston Price stumbled out from between the tables playing drunken cohorts Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch.
A plague o' these pickle herring!
While technically, these gender-reversed plays are readings because the cast is still holding their scripts, it's not the kind of reading where actors sit in chairs and just read. Instead, they're out there cutting a caper, one might say, especially these two drunken masters.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now.
Ditto Robert Throckmorton who was playing the fair Olivia, the object of the Duke of Orsino's affection, who after saying the line, "Give me my veil. Come, throw it over my face," proceeded to clip sunglasses shades over his regular glasses.
Our cross-dressing heroine Viola was played by Alexander Sapp with a scarf on his head and adoration in his eyes.
During the scene where the fake letter is left out for Malvolio to "accidentally" discover," the drunken trio of Toby, Andrew and Fabian (the always funny Jacqueline O'Connor) crouched behind a nearby bar table subbing for a hedge of bushes. Moving from there to beside our table, Toby and Fabian pulled out straws to mooch sips of people's drinks from them, including Toby taking a long pull on Pru's Pinot Noir.
The versatility award went to the energetic Rebecca Anne Muhleman playing Feste, the fool, singing like an angel and even playing piano when necessary.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The Speakeasy space was put to excellent use, given that it was crowded with tables full of Shakespeare fans, like when the excellent Becki Jones as the beleaguered Malvolio is in jail, with the railing of the balcony suggesting the bars on his cell.
Watching the tall Jay Millman play the servant wench and instigator Maria, a character I think of as short and curvy (busty even), I had to keep reminding myself he was a she.
No matter how well you know the play, it was inevitable that there'd be times when you were looking at the actors trying to remember who was who. As a guy at the next table asked, "So, that's a guy playing a girl who's a boy?" His date nailed the answer. "Okay."
To put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.
It was easier just to go with the flow and enjoy watching the sexes play each other. One thing I did notice was how much more believable women are at playing men than men playing women. Maybe it's just me, but it rings truer to see women showing strength than seeing men showing adoration and fawning.
Of course, an added bonus of "Twelfth Night" is that in addition to all that great comedy plus love stories, you get the touching scene at the end where siblings Viola and Sebastian realize the other isn't dead, a truly moving moment even after so many times.
Love sought is good but given unsought, better.
During the talkback with the actors afterwards, there was much discussion of whether it's harder playing the opposite sex in a comedy or drama.
Price/Sir Toby was adamant that doing comedy as a man was much more difficult and that she only relaxed after she'd gotten her first few big laughs from the crowd. "We knew you had a drunk man inside you," quipped Sapp.
Even if we didn't, it was a distinct pleasure to watch the actors relax into their roles, begging the question of what a full production with plenty of rehearsal time to work out playing against your sex might be like.
Good question. I'm still working out getting good at the one I was born with and it's taking a lot longer than I expected.
One thing I do know is Sir Toby, you're wrong. 'Tis never too late to go to bed. 'Tis only too early to get up.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
A Little Wisp of a Scherzo
You start slow and you build on a hot Wednesday evening.
Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.
No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.
Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.
As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.
I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.
Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.
As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.
Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"
The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.
Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.
Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.
A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.
Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.
The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.
I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.
Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.
The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).
Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.
When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.
And just one fillet, not two.
But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.
It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.
The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.
"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.
It was.
Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.
Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..
I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.
Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.
That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.
Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.
Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.
As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.
Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.
Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.
Brilliant.
The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.
When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.
"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."
I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.
She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.
Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.
She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.
It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.
Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.
On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"
Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.
Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms like "big boys don't cry."
During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.
It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.
"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.
They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."
The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.
I just know it was really beautiful.
My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.
I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.
That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.
By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.
Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.
"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.
It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.
But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.
Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.
Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.
No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.
Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.
As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.
I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.
Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.
As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.
Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"
The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.
Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.
Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.
A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.
Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.
The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.
I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.
Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.
The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).
Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.
When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.
And just one fillet, not two.
But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.
It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.
The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.
"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.
It was.
Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.
Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..
I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.
Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.
That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.
Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.
Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.
As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.
Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.
Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.
Brilliant.
The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.
When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.
"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."
I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.
She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.
Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.
She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.
It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.
Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.
On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"
Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.
Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms like "big boys don't cry."
During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.
It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.
"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.
They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."
The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.
I just know it was really beautiful.
My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.
I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.
That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.
By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.
Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.
"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.
It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.
But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.
Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
In the Jungle
The Mobay was stellar. The monsters were laughable. The music was oddly-lit.
Our ambitions were hardly lofty tonight - bad Japanese sci-fi was more than enough.
Since it was showing at the VMFA, Amuse got the nod for dinner.
Sitting at the end of the bar, I sipped VMFA Meritage as I watched drinks with a strong visual element being concocted.
The Kaleidoscope, with its multiple jello "jewels," went out in droves and the woman next to me got the Ice Cube, hers with a big round blue ice cube in the enclosed glass.
Our amuse bouche was a housemade cracker with Mobay (a Wisconsin made version of Morbier done with sheep and goats' milk) and a half grape on top.
It was one exquisite bite.
Tuscan kale and potato stew with housemade lamb sausage followed, although the broth was rather thin to be called a stew.
The flavors, though, were spot on.
Mussels with Surry sausage rounded out the meal as the hordes began to arrive and fill up the restaurant.
After sopping up the broth with as much bread as they'd give us, we beat feet for the auditorium.
Back section, front row, we got center seats for the show.
Goldrush was performing an original score for "Destroy All Monsters," a bad 1968 Japanese movie.
Host Trent Nicholas greeted the crowd, saying, "Welcome to our lecture on ancient Egyptian sarcophagi."
He did his best Ed Sullivan imitation, noting of Goldrush, "They're a great bunch of kids."
Bandleader Prabir broke it down even further. "Alright, thanks for coming. Let's do this!"
Over visuals of Monster Island (Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan) and the undersea farm, the band played their original score which, not surprisingly, included many of their usual songs.
Let's just say "Roll One" reared its familiar head.
There was a feminine alien race (the leader wore gold pumps and white gloves while looking through binoculars on the beach) controlling the scientific minds of the men.
So easily led.
And then there was Prabir singing while peering out from under his bangs while Matt, Treesa and Greg tore it up on bass, violin and drums respectively.
There was also the pleasure of Japanese movie subtitles.
"If they fail, we'll be vaporized, too."
"Let's just relax and have some coffee."
Clearly authenticity was not a goal in 1968.
Half the time the monsters looked like they were dancing not terrorizing and the models of buildings used in the devastation scenes looked like Monopoly houses.
Picky, picky.
Luckily, the seamless soundtrack was entertainment enough...at least for those of us who like a "really big shew."
End of corny humor.
With the movie over by 8:15, I had plenty of time to get back to J-Ward and the Speakeasy.
It was my first time there and I was encouraged by the doors and hallways required to enter it.
Once in, though, it was a bit underwhelming.
High ceilings, overpriced bevvies and the feel of a room for rent.
Club music was pumping and little green pinpoints of light flashed, but it was not a club crowd.
It was the CD release show for Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat and I walked in to find a favorite friend at the bar.
We shared our disappointment at expecting the feel of a speakeasy and walking into what felt like a banquet hall, but we also shared our ideas on how it could be turned into something far more interesting as venues go.
Sadly, management was not asking us to do any consulting on taking the business in a new direction.
Pity.
Jonathan Vassar was opening and his beautiful and sad songs had to fight to be heard over the mindless chatter of the growing crowd.
If nothing else, they could have shut up given the auspicious occasion.
"This is the last show I'm going to play till I'm a father," Jonathan noted.
Considering that's not happening until February, I did everything I could to hear what he was offering tonight.
As usual, well-written songs full of sadness and even a new Speckled Bird song (the bird is the one on the nest until February).
The minute his Americana stopped, the music came back on at 120 beats per minute.
My friend and I just looked at each other and started laughing at the incongruity.
Meanwhile, all kinds of musician friends I hadn't seen lately stopped by my stool to say hello.
The good news is some of my favorite musicians are practicing a new lineup, a fact which had me smiling almost as much as they were when talking about it.
Finally Zac and the Junglebeat took the stage to celebrate their new record release with angelic voices, schooled musicianship and non-traditional song structures.
Oh, yes, and a lamp at the back of the stage.
Zac loves cracking wise and it wasn't long before he said, "I hope y'all took LSD or Ecstasy before this or the $1000 deposit for the lights was a waste."
He was referring to the green lights and the flashing circles of lights that made it feel like a bad middle school dance.
Saying, "If you're able-bodied or even just like us, then come closer to the front," he pulled the crowd in and they did as they were told.
The band moved effortlessly through old, new and brand new material, including a song Zac described as, "This song is about Mila Kunis but it's also about my lack of masculinity."
A song so new that humans other than the band hadn't heard it was "Colossus" with its three-part harmonies.
Another such stellar first-timer was "Babbayagga," which came from a bad dream about chicken legs and for a while meandered in a Latin direction.
Older songs like "Shoot Me to Sleep" got big responses from what was clearly a crowd of friends and fans.
"This song is about being at a party and you're stoned and everyone else is drunk," Zac said by way of introduction. "Sorry, Mom and Dad."
His parents smiled back proudly.
At the end of "In the Jungle," violinist Jessica chastised the bandleader, saying, "Zac made it too fast."
He kept to tempo for the next one, saying, "This song is called 'Fond of Blonds.' I'm open to anything but I'm just saying I'm fond of blonds."
"Fresh Beast" galloped along and all of a sudden the band was through and Zac was exhorting everyone to buy CDs.
He thanked the crowd, he thanked Jonathan, noting how handsome he looked, and he thanked the Speakeasy.
It was a great show by a beautifully musical band who doesn't play out much in a new-to-me venue right in my charming neighborhood.
And, yes, a speakeasy in Jackson Ward has the potential to be a great idea.
For that matter, I've got a few suggestions on how to realize that potential.
You know, in case anyone's interested.
Our ambitions were hardly lofty tonight - bad Japanese sci-fi was more than enough.
Since it was showing at the VMFA, Amuse got the nod for dinner.
Sitting at the end of the bar, I sipped VMFA Meritage as I watched drinks with a strong visual element being concocted.
The Kaleidoscope, with its multiple jello "jewels," went out in droves and the woman next to me got the Ice Cube, hers with a big round blue ice cube in the enclosed glass.
Our amuse bouche was a housemade cracker with Mobay (a Wisconsin made version of Morbier done with sheep and goats' milk) and a half grape on top.
It was one exquisite bite.
Tuscan kale and potato stew with housemade lamb sausage followed, although the broth was rather thin to be called a stew.
The flavors, though, were spot on.
Mussels with Surry sausage rounded out the meal as the hordes began to arrive and fill up the restaurant.
After sopping up the broth with as much bread as they'd give us, we beat feet for the auditorium.
Back section, front row, we got center seats for the show.
Goldrush was performing an original score for "Destroy All Monsters," a bad 1968 Japanese movie.
Host Trent Nicholas greeted the crowd, saying, "Welcome to our lecture on ancient Egyptian sarcophagi."
He did his best Ed Sullivan imitation, noting of Goldrush, "They're a great bunch of kids."
Bandleader Prabir broke it down even further. "Alright, thanks for coming. Let's do this!"
Over visuals of Monster Island (Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan) and the undersea farm, the band played their original score which, not surprisingly, included many of their usual songs.
Let's just say "Roll One" reared its familiar head.
There was a feminine alien race (the leader wore gold pumps and white gloves while looking through binoculars on the beach) controlling the scientific minds of the men.
So easily led.
And then there was Prabir singing while peering out from under his bangs while Matt, Treesa and Greg tore it up on bass, violin and drums respectively.
There was also the pleasure of Japanese movie subtitles.
"If they fail, we'll be vaporized, too."
"Let's just relax and have some coffee."
Clearly authenticity was not a goal in 1968.
Half the time the monsters looked like they were dancing not terrorizing and the models of buildings used in the devastation scenes looked like Monopoly houses.
Picky, picky.
Luckily, the seamless soundtrack was entertainment enough...at least for those of us who like a "really big shew."
End of corny humor.
With the movie over by 8:15, I had plenty of time to get back to J-Ward and the Speakeasy.
It was my first time there and I was encouraged by the doors and hallways required to enter it.
Once in, though, it was a bit underwhelming.
High ceilings, overpriced bevvies and the feel of a room for rent.
Club music was pumping and little green pinpoints of light flashed, but it was not a club crowd.
It was the CD release show for Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat and I walked in to find a favorite friend at the bar.
We shared our disappointment at expecting the feel of a speakeasy and walking into what felt like a banquet hall, but we also shared our ideas on how it could be turned into something far more interesting as venues go.
Sadly, management was not asking us to do any consulting on taking the business in a new direction.
Pity.
Jonathan Vassar was opening and his beautiful and sad songs had to fight to be heard over the mindless chatter of the growing crowd.
If nothing else, they could have shut up given the auspicious occasion.
"This is the last show I'm going to play till I'm a father," Jonathan noted.
Considering that's not happening until February, I did everything I could to hear what he was offering tonight.
As usual, well-written songs full of sadness and even a new Speckled Bird song (the bird is the one on the nest until February).
The minute his Americana stopped, the music came back on at 120 beats per minute.
My friend and I just looked at each other and started laughing at the incongruity.
Meanwhile, all kinds of musician friends I hadn't seen lately stopped by my stool to say hello.
The good news is some of my favorite musicians are practicing a new lineup, a fact which had me smiling almost as much as they were when talking about it.
Finally Zac and the Junglebeat took the stage to celebrate their new record release with angelic voices, schooled musicianship and non-traditional song structures.
Oh, yes, and a lamp at the back of the stage.
Zac loves cracking wise and it wasn't long before he said, "I hope y'all took LSD or Ecstasy before this or the $1000 deposit for the lights was a waste."
He was referring to the green lights and the flashing circles of lights that made it feel like a bad middle school dance.
Saying, "If you're able-bodied or even just like us, then come closer to the front," he pulled the crowd in and they did as they were told.
The band moved effortlessly through old, new and brand new material, including a song Zac described as, "This song is about Mila Kunis but it's also about my lack of masculinity."
A song so new that humans other than the band hadn't heard it was "Colossus" with its three-part harmonies.
Another such stellar first-timer was "Babbayagga," which came from a bad dream about chicken legs and for a while meandered in a Latin direction.
Older songs like "Shoot Me to Sleep" got big responses from what was clearly a crowd of friends and fans.
"This song is about being at a party and you're stoned and everyone else is drunk," Zac said by way of introduction. "Sorry, Mom and Dad."
His parents smiled back proudly.
At the end of "In the Jungle," violinist Jessica chastised the bandleader, saying, "Zac made it too fast."
He kept to tempo for the next one, saying, "This song is called 'Fond of Blonds.' I'm open to anything but I'm just saying I'm fond of blonds."
"Fresh Beast" galloped along and all of a sudden the band was through and Zac was exhorting everyone to buy CDs.
He thanked the crowd, he thanked Jonathan, noting how handsome he looked, and he thanked the Speakeasy.
It was a great show by a beautifully musical band who doesn't play out much in a new-to-me venue right in my charming neighborhood.
And, yes, a speakeasy in Jackson Ward has the potential to be a great idea.
For that matter, I've got a few suggestions on how to realize that potential.
You know, in case anyone's interested.
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