Once you've touched the lead singer's sweaty chest, it's hard to go back in the hot room.
Tonight was the going away party for Sprout, the restaurant/venue that went out of business yesterday.
For their last hurrah, they invited something like fourteen bands to perform beginning at 5:00. And in true RVA fashion, the first band didn't start till after 6:00.
Not that it mattered.
The late start gave us early arrivals time to mingle and remember the many shows we'd seen at Sprout.
A good part of the restaurant's CD collection was available for the taking.
Band photographer PJ Sykes pulled a half dozen out of the pile and handed them to me. "You need these," he said. I believed him.
When the music finally started, the small crowd all moved into the back room to hear Miss Bliss (apparently a TV reference, so I didn't get it).
The duo of guitarist/singer Allison Apperson and drummer Noell Alexander played psychedelic surf pop with, wait for it, kazoo solos.
They closed with a cover of the Drifters' "Up on the Roof," dedicating it to Spout and the Fourth of July.
During the break, I wandered out and ran into Coffee Guy and helped owner Laurie remove tea lights from punch cups.
Shannon Cleary played next with violinist Joon Kim backing him up on violin, making for a fuller sound than usual.
Shannon covered an Itchy Hearts song as well as doing a particularly lovely "On the Way Home" by the late Nathan Joyce.
Taking the stage quickly, Ben Shepherd placed his bottle of Beaujolais to the side, strapped on his guitar and jumped right in.
Ben's a strong songwriter; for the first song, my friend jumped up announcing, "I have to give my full attention to this song. It's so well done, written from two points of view."
He's got a strong, clear voice, too, and his pulls on the Beaujolais bottle didn't seem to affect that.
An audience member called out for "Silver Dog" and he closed with it.
The set up for the next band was going to take a few minutes, so everyone moved into the main dining room where Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats did an acoustic set.
I was smart enough to return to the back room and stake out my territory for Snowy Owls' set next.
Feel free to call me a Snowy Owls groupie; I love their reverb-soaked sound, distinctive bass lines and Matt's nu-gaze vocals.
I planted myself on the back of one of the benches so I was higher than everyone in the room despite being in the back.
It's a rare treat for someone 5'5" to look down at a crowd, so I savored it, letting the sound of music from a cave wash over me.
A definite highlight besides the music was hearing a musician friend acknowledge that Snowy Owls rocked way more than he remembered.
He'd been under the impression that since leader Matt is also in the folky Low Branches that Snowy Owls was similar. Now he knows better.
Just as I knew better than to leave my perch when the next band up was Baby Help Me Forget. The crowd began to migrate from the outside and other room and I held fast atop the bench.
No matter how many times I see these guys, I'm always eager to see them again.
The band is high energy and lead singer (and Sprout co-owner) Jamie is the best showman in town.
He joined the band tonight by jumping down from atop the pallet wall that separates the kitchen to the floor in front of the stage.
Laurie sat atop the wall moving and grooving, silhouetted from behind.
Dressed in tight white pants, a patterned shirt, chain belt and velveteen blazer, Jamie looked every inch the part as he danced, gyrated, dropped to his knees and generally tore it up.
The blazer came off after the first few songs.
His non-stop movements, jumping from the stage to the floor, singing on his knees and dancing amongst the crowd whipped up everyone in the room to a frenzy.
Jamie tried to say a few words about the occasion, but summed it up with, "F**king Sprout! That's all I'm going to say!" It was enough.
The shirt came off after a few more songs, tossed into the audience.
Everyone was moving non-stop and the room heated up quickly. But the energy was amazing.
When the band finished, the crowd applauded and demanded more. Despite cords already wound and instruments half put away, the band obliged.
No one tonight, no how, no way, was going to top what we had just experienced. I said as much to the girl sitting next to me.
The mass of humanity that was the audience began to exit the room then, looking for air to breathe although out in front was a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Chatting as I waited to get outside, Jamie came by, his shirt now back on. He greeted me and I teased him by asking if I could touch his sweat.
I asked for the sake of giving him a hard time about his exuberant performance, but he just grinned and said, "Gross!" as I touched him.
Standing outside talking to people, I heard the list of bands for the rest of the evening. Four more (three of which I've seen) followed by four noise bands.
The band that was about to start was an hour and a half behind schedule with seven more after them.
And I'd given up my prime real estate in the back room by coming outside.
Nothing was going to exceed the emotional peak I'd just witnessed. I wasn't going to touch anyone else's sweaty chest tonight.
Sprout, you will be missed.
Showing posts with label sprout. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sprout. Show all posts
Monday, September 5, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
A Locavore Loss
Tonight was Sprout Cafe's last night in business.
As someone who has eaten brunch, lunch and dinner, enjoyed more than a few drinks and heard countless bands play there, I am understandably upset about the loss.
Sprout's devotion to Virginia sourcing and live music made them practically a weekly destination for me.
That ended tonight with a full house, most of whom I had never laid eyes on before, despite being a regular.
It was interesting; looking around at the crowd, a friend commented on all the unfamiliar faces. Actually, so did the staff.
Proving the maxim that you don't appreciate what you have until you lose it, loads of people showed up tonight, probably giving Sprout a banner night in sales.
Unfortunately, not in time. Likewise, the FB response has been effusive and sentimental but likely not representative of how often people actually spent money at Sprout.
Still, better late than never.
By the time I arrived, their to-die-for sausage pizettas were history and the menu was down to just three items, all vegetarian.
I got the Feta cheese hushpuppies with a spicy dipping sauce and some Vinho Verde so I could (figuratively) cry into my wine.
Two bands played while I was there, but for a change I stayed in the main room chatting with friends and giving my eardrums a break.
As a friend pointed out tonight, some people complained about Sprout's prices, but an Extreme pizza runs $20, he said, so it's all about where you want your dining dollar to go.
There's a lot to be said for using it to keep Virginia's economy moving forward.
I don't know if I'll ever again be treated to a chocolate cake made with Virginia flour, milk, eggs and butter like I was the very first time I ate at Sprout.
It's not just my loss. It's Richmond's loss.
As owner Laurie pragmatically said tonight, "I hope it inspires someone else to carry it forward."
We can only hope.
As someone who has eaten brunch, lunch and dinner, enjoyed more than a few drinks and heard countless bands play there, I am understandably upset about the loss.
Sprout's devotion to Virginia sourcing and live music made them practically a weekly destination for me.
That ended tonight with a full house, most of whom I had never laid eyes on before, despite being a regular.
It was interesting; looking around at the crowd, a friend commented on all the unfamiliar faces. Actually, so did the staff.
Proving the maxim that you don't appreciate what you have until you lose it, loads of people showed up tonight, probably giving Sprout a banner night in sales.
Unfortunately, not in time. Likewise, the FB response has been effusive and sentimental but likely not representative of how often people actually spent money at Sprout.
Still, better late than never.
By the time I arrived, their to-die-for sausage pizettas were history and the menu was down to just three items, all vegetarian.
I got the Feta cheese hushpuppies with a spicy dipping sauce and some Vinho Verde so I could (figuratively) cry into my wine.
Two bands played while I was there, but for a change I stayed in the main room chatting with friends and giving my eardrums a break.
As a friend pointed out tonight, some people complained about Sprout's prices, but an Extreme pizza runs $20, he said, so it's all about where you want your dining dollar to go.
There's a lot to be said for using it to keep Virginia's economy moving forward.
I don't know if I'll ever again be treated to a chocolate cake made with Virginia flour, milk, eggs and butter like I was the very first time I ate at Sprout.
It's not just my loss. It's Richmond's loss.
As owner Laurie pragmatically said tonight, "I hope it inspires someone else to carry it forward."
We can only hope.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tom and Jerry Saved Me
In terms of music, last week was an epic fail.
For the first time in I don't know how long, I went nine days without seeing a show.
Nine. Days. I may have lost my music cred entirely.
So it wasn't difficult to decide what to do today. Music times four.
Tom and Jerry got me started. Brain Jones et al were doing a live score of jazz, classical and pop music to old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons at the Camel.
The beauty of those cartoons is that there was no dialogue, so instruments stand in for voice and sound effects.
When a bra is used as a parachute in "Yankee Doodle Mouse," the simulated wolf whistle came from a trombone.
And the last time I'd heard that trombone, which was courtesy of the inimitable Reggie Pace, was at the Bon Iver show at the National last month.
As cool as it had been seeing Reggie play in Bon Iver, and it was very cool, I was a whole lot closer to him tonight when he was playing his formidable trombone and triangle.
It's true; "Tom and Jerry" cartoons are incredibly violent (although bloodless), which is exactly why you need all that percussion.
How else could you hear Tom bite into a clam shell sandwich in "Salt Water Tabby"?
Enter the uber-talented Brian Jones, a man who always salutes me when he sees me.
As hard as it was going to be to top vintage cartoon music, I knew it wouldn't be enough of a music fix after my recent drought, so I headed to Sprout afterwards.
It was tall people night there, so I didn't have a prayer of seeing more than an occasional head or leg of a musician, but I heard plenty.
First, Old Swampy played a short, swampy set for an enthusiastic crowd.
As a friend told me, "These guys are trouble makers." Or maybe that was treble-makers.
As an unexpected bonus, some friends rolled in toward the end of their set, so now I had amusing (and smiling) company for the duration.
Next San Francisco's Electric Shepherd came out of nowhere and totally engaged the crowd.
After the first couple of songs, a friend gave them the thumbs up with a big Cheshire grin.
I asked if that meant that he was enjoying revisiting 60s-era druggie music and he positively beamed. I took that for a yes.
If that sounds in any way negative, it's not.
The trio of Electric Shepherd was psychedelic, extremely dynamic and very into what they were doing (which almost came across like a soundtrack or storytelling).
If not for the vocals, I would label it post-rock for how expressive and dynamic it was. I saw more than a few people buying their vinyl after their set, always a good sign.
There were a fair number of musicians at the show to check out a new local band, Peace Beast, with two members from The Diamond Center.
Their sound was very different than that band, and while I didn't stay for the entire set, they had an appealing sound with jangley guitars and girly vocals.
I will need to see them again soon to enjoy a full set.
Standing outside saying my goodbyes, I had a moment unlike any I've had in months.
No, not the self-satisfied pleasure of finally hearing live music again.
Chill bumps when I was outside.
It was a little cool standing outside Sprout after midnight.
I know everyone else (besides the dress-loving Antonia and me) is happy that Fall is coming, but I wasn't ready for it tonight.
But I was definitely ready for music.
For the first time in I don't know how long, I went nine days without seeing a show.
Nine. Days. I may have lost my music cred entirely.
So it wasn't difficult to decide what to do today. Music times four.
Tom and Jerry got me started. Brain Jones et al were doing a live score of jazz, classical and pop music to old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons at the Camel.
The beauty of those cartoons is that there was no dialogue, so instruments stand in for voice and sound effects.
When a bra is used as a parachute in "Yankee Doodle Mouse," the simulated wolf whistle came from a trombone.
And the last time I'd heard that trombone, which was courtesy of the inimitable Reggie Pace, was at the Bon Iver show at the National last month.
As cool as it had been seeing Reggie play in Bon Iver, and it was very cool, I was a whole lot closer to him tonight when he was playing his formidable trombone and triangle.
It's true; "Tom and Jerry" cartoons are incredibly violent (although bloodless), which is exactly why you need all that percussion.
How else could you hear Tom bite into a clam shell sandwich in "Salt Water Tabby"?
Enter the uber-talented Brian Jones, a man who always salutes me when he sees me.
As hard as it was going to be to top vintage cartoon music, I knew it wouldn't be enough of a music fix after my recent drought, so I headed to Sprout afterwards.
It was tall people night there, so I didn't have a prayer of seeing more than an occasional head or leg of a musician, but I heard plenty.
First, Old Swampy played a short, swampy set for an enthusiastic crowd.
As a friend told me, "These guys are trouble makers." Or maybe that was treble-makers.
As an unexpected bonus, some friends rolled in toward the end of their set, so now I had amusing (and smiling) company for the duration.
Next San Francisco's Electric Shepherd came out of nowhere and totally engaged the crowd.
After the first couple of songs, a friend gave them the thumbs up with a big Cheshire grin.
I asked if that meant that he was enjoying revisiting 60s-era druggie music and he positively beamed. I took that for a yes.
If that sounds in any way negative, it's not.
The trio of Electric Shepherd was psychedelic, extremely dynamic and very into what they were doing (which almost came across like a soundtrack or storytelling).
If not for the vocals, I would label it post-rock for how expressive and dynamic it was. I saw more than a few people buying their vinyl after their set, always a good sign.
There were a fair number of musicians at the show to check out a new local band, Peace Beast, with two members from The Diamond Center.
Their sound was very different than that band, and while I didn't stay for the entire set, they had an appealing sound with jangley guitars and girly vocals.
I will need to see them again soon to enjoy a full set.
Standing outside saying my goodbyes, I had a moment unlike any I've had in months.
No, not the self-satisfied pleasure of finally hearing live music again.
Chill bumps when I was outside.
It was a little cool standing outside Sprout after midnight.
I know everyone else (besides the dress-loving Antonia and me) is happy that Fall is coming, but I wasn't ready for it tonight.
But I was definitely ready for music.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Texans and Telecasters
Sprout is spoiling live music lovers.
It's gotten to the point where a Monday night show isn't even all that unusual.
For that matter, looking at their August calendar (and today is only the first), there were already shows planned for every night except four.
And shows of all kinds: folk, metal, indie rock. Now if only they'd get the shows started before 10:30.
But a late starting time allows for conversation and food beforehand and their kitchen accommodates that (admittedly, the amount of conversation they offer varies).
Tonight I broke bad and had the chocolate raspberry torte, a decadent slice of very dark chocolate studded with fresh raspberries throughout and covered in real whipped cream.
As Chef Laurie said, "That other stuff isn't whipped cream." Amen to that. Give me full fat whipping cream every time.
Unbelievably, I couldn't even finish it. Now, at 1:30, it seems to be no problem.
On tonight's bill was Dane Ferguson, an affable folk singer from Southern Virginia. I say affable because he got the call two hours before the show asking him to open.
He did a fine job sharing his melodic songs on such short notice. A relative newcomer to the area, he'll be playing Sprout again later in the month.
The Lusitania was from El Paso, Texas and word in the room was that they were alt-country, but they rocked their alt-country hard. Sometimes even in a punk direction.
My favorite part of the band's sound was the keyboards, which kept the band from veering too close to classic rock-like for my taste (a cardinal sin in my book).
The singer's gravely southern voice and two strong guitarists made for an energetic set with songs about parties ("You know, those last few hours when things get weird and druggy") and songs about songs (Galaxie 500, being mentioned for the second time in a week by a performer).
In the crowd were former Texans The Diamond Center supporting their Lone Star State brethren.
Adah played last and you can always count on volume with any of Joon's line-ups.
I saw a musician in the audience go to the bathroom for t.p. to use as earplugs after only two songs.
Mother Nature did the lighting for the show with heat lightening providing a strobe effect in the room throughout the evening.
Usually, Joon plays at least part of the band's set on violin (and ends up writhing on the floor playing it), but tonight he stuck to guitar, asking band mates at one point if he should go get his violin for the next song.
After being told no, he said to the audience, "Okay, here's a song I don't know how to play on guitar." Not so.
For the finale, he instructed musician Matt Klimas, standing in the crowd, to grab the Telecaster and warned the audience, "If you were thinking of leaving, now is the time to leave."
Naturally no one left.
The band launched into Yo la Tengo's "Tom Courtenay" much to the delight of the music geeks in the room, some of whom could not resist dancing in place.
I just reveled in hearing a song from one of my all-time favorite bands covered by other YLT lovers.
Dark chocolate and reverb on a Monday night, oh, my!
It's gotten to the point where a Monday night show isn't even all that unusual.
For that matter, looking at their August calendar (and today is only the first), there were already shows planned for every night except four.
And shows of all kinds: folk, metal, indie rock. Now if only they'd get the shows started before 10:30.
But a late starting time allows for conversation and food beforehand and their kitchen accommodates that (admittedly, the amount of conversation they offer varies).
Tonight I broke bad and had the chocolate raspberry torte, a decadent slice of very dark chocolate studded with fresh raspberries throughout and covered in real whipped cream.
As Chef Laurie said, "That other stuff isn't whipped cream." Amen to that. Give me full fat whipping cream every time.
Unbelievably, I couldn't even finish it. Now, at 1:30, it seems to be no problem.
On tonight's bill was Dane Ferguson, an affable folk singer from Southern Virginia. I say affable because he got the call two hours before the show asking him to open.
He did a fine job sharing his melodic songs on such short notice. A relative newcomer to the area, he'll be playing Sprout again later in the month.
The Lusitania was from El Paso, Texas and word in the room was that they were alt-country, but they rocked their alt-country hard. Sometimes even in a punk direction.
My favorite part of the band's sound was the keyboards, which kept the band from veering too close to classic rock-like for my taste (a cardinal sin in my book).
The singer's gravely southern voice and two strong guitarists made for an energetic set with songs about parties ("You know, those last few hours when things get weird and druggy") and songs about songs (Galaxie 500, being mentioned for the second time in a week by a performer).
In the crowd were former Texans The Diamond Center supporting their Lone Star State brethren.
Adah played last and you can always count on volume with any of Joon's line-ups.
I saw a musician in the audience go to the bathroom for t.p. to use as earplugs after only two songs.
Mother Nature did the lighting for the show with heat lightening providing a strobe effect in the room throughout the evening.
Usually, Joon plays at least part of the band's set on violin (and ends up writhing on the floor playing it), but tonight he stuck to guitar, asking band mates at one point if he should go get his violin for the next song.
After being told no, he said to the audience, "Okay, here's a song I don't know how to play on guitar." Not so.
For the finale, he instructed musician Matt Klimas, standing in the crowd, to grab the Telecaster and warned the audience, "If you were thinking of leaving, now is the time to leave."
Naturally no one left.
The band launched into Yo la Tengo's "Tom Courtenay" much to the delight of the music geeks in the room, some of whom could not resist dancing in place.
I just reveled in hearing a song from one of my all-time favorite bands covered by other YLT lovers.
Dark chocolate and reverb on a Monday night, oh, my!
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Long and Winding Road
Even when it's not stated, the first rule of the Listening Room remains the same.
And it wasn't stated tonight; the new Chris, who replaced the former Chris as emcee, neglected to remind attendees that there is no talking at the Listening Room.
But when you have two bands as hushed and beautiful as South China and Small Sur, people instinctively shut up anyway.
But just in case, I had brought my official badge of the Listening Room police, a birthday gift from a favorite couple. I was advised to consider mounting it on a sash for a feminine look. I'm considering it.
Upon walking in, I also fell into a discussion of the old "Perry Mason" show, of which I am a huge fan.
Give me '50s-era Los Angeles, an imposing attorney, his hot secretary and the big lug of a detective set to the most unsettling theme music ever composed and you've got some magnificent TV noir.
I was just amazed to find a kindred soul who appreciated it as much as I do. Who knew there were others?
But then I had to remind myself that I was really there for the music.
Portland Maine's South China made it easy with their set consisting of cello, accordion and guitar with two voices.
It would be too simplistic to call them folk because they had an experimental edge to them, especially evident in the cello playing. It was a unique sound for the Listening Room, compelling but unusual.
They'd come down a day early to visit Hollywood Cemetery and were still adjusting to the heat. Imagine if they'd come during that last heat wave, the poor northerners.
Baltimore's Small Sur was up next and although I had heard them last night, here, I enjoyed them no less tonight.
A few songs in and the lead singer asked the audience if we had any questions.
"Did you play that song last night?" I asked. A friend had thought not when I asked her, but it turned out she was mistaken so I got public validation. Besides no on else was asking anything.
Tonight's show differed from last night's in that sax/guitar player Andy also played the piano on several songs, the Firehouse Theater conveniently having a piano stage-side and all. It was a lovely addition to their sound.
Like last night, the songs were romantically beautiful, full of imagery of entwined lovers and much longing.
Afterwards, I joined some friends in going to Sprout to wish co-owner Jamie a happy birthday and enjoy some Gatao vinho verde. It is the first day of summer, after all.
As we sat there talking about Best Coast and happy hours, I heard music start up in the back room.
A last minute show had been booked for Philly's Chris Kasper; when I went to check it out, he and a violinist were in the back room playing their hearts out and sounding terrific...for no one.
Which was a real shame because as someone who has seen him perform twice before, he's the kind of talent that deserves a roomful of listeners, like he had at the Listening Room when he played there.
Even so, I stood at the archway to the room listening to the well-crafted songs and beautiful harmonies, finally going inside and sitting down with my wine. It was a show for just me.
I felt obligated to apologize for the absence of Richmond's music-loving population, but they knew the show had been booked at the last minute and understood.
When they finished, he insisted I take one of his CDs and I was happy for the gift, both of the record and of the unexpected performance.
To quote a regular commenter to this blog, "It's a long road with many twists and turns."
I count myself as fortunate for how often that road puts me in a surprisingly interesting place.
And it wasn't stated tonight; the new Chris, who replaced the former Chris as emcee, neglected to remind attendees that there is no talking at the Listening Room.
But when you have two bands as hushed and beautiful as South China and Small Sur, people instinctively shut up anyway.
But just in case, I had brought my official badge of the Listening Room police, a birthday gift from a favorite couple. I was advised to consider mounting it on a sash for a feminine look. I'm considering it.
Upon walking in, I also fell into a discussion of the old "Perry Mason" show, of which I am a huge fan.
Give me '50s-era Los Angeles, an imposing attorney, his hot secretary and the big lug of a detective set to the most unsettling theme music ever composed and you've got some magnificent TV noir.
I was just amazed to find a kindred soul who appreciated it as much as I do. Who knew there were others?
But then I had to remind myself that I was really there for the music.
Portland Maine's South China made it easy with their set consisting of cello, accordion and guitar with two voices.
It would be too simplistic to call them folk because they had an experimental edge to them, especially evident in the cello playing. It was a unique sound for the Listening Room, compelling but unusual.
They'd come down a day early to visit Hollywood Cemetery and were still adjusting to the heat. Imagine if they'd come during that last heat wave, the poor northerners.
Baltimore's Small Sur was up next and although I had heard them last night, here, I enjoyed them no less tonight.
A few songs in and the lead singer asked the audience if we had any questions.
"Did you play that song last night?" I asked. A friend had thought not when I asked her, but it turned out she was mistaken so I got public validation. Besides no on else was asking anything.
Tonight's show differed from last night's in that sax/guitar player Andy also played the piano on several songs, the Firehouse Theater conveniently having a piano stage-side and all. It was a lovely addition to their sound.
Like last night, the songs were romantically beautiful, full of imagery of entwined lovers and much longing.
Afterwards, I joined some friends in going to Sprout to wish co-owner Jamie a happy birthday and enjoy some Gatao vinho verde. It is the first day of summer, after all.
As we sat there talking about Best Coast and happy hours, I heard music start up in the back room.
A last minute show had been booked for Philly's Chris Kasper; when I went to check it out, he and a violinist were in the back room playing their hearts out and sounding terrific...for no one.
Which was a real shame because as someone who has seen him perform twice before, he's the kind of talent that deserves a roomful of listeners, like he had at the Listening Room when he played there.
Even so, I stood at the archway to the room listening to the well-crafted songs and beautiful harmonies, finally going inside and sitting down with my wine. It was a show for just me.
I felt obligated to apologize for the absence of Richmond's music-loving population, but they knew the show had been booked at the last minute and understood.
When they finished, he insisted I take one of his CDs and I was happy for the gift, both of the record and of the unexpected performance.
To quote a regular commenter to this blog, "It's a long road with many twists and turns."
I count myself as fortunate for how often that road puts me in a surprisingly interesting place.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Nipples and Disco Balls
A friend was looking for a way to kill time until his 10:00 date and decided to use me.
I told him I was beginning my evening at the VMFA for the documentary "A Woman Like That" about the only female Baroque artist, Artemisia Gentileschi.
The two filmmakers were there to introduce the film, and assured us that "This is not a dead artist film."
In fact, it had many funny moments such as one of the filmmakers strapping a camera to her body to surreptitiously film an exhibit of Gentileschi's paintings after the museum refused her permission.
She was an interesting woman for many reasons, not the least of which was how audacious she was for her time, painting female nudes in a more realistically natural way than male artists had done.
Because she was a freelance artist with no patron, she had to forcefully speak up for herself to be treated fairly as an artist and as a result, was called a virago. You know, a woman like that.
I suppose it's a lot like Madonna saying that by holding her own with music executives back in the 80s, she was called a bitch, unlike a male artist who might do the same.
Referring to one of her works, St. Louis Museum curator Judith Mann said, "This was the first time a breast was really painted, even showing the areola." Women know what breasts look like without a bra, she said.
During the discussion with the filmmakers and curator after the screening, a woman asked Mann what her thoughts were on the VMFA's Gentileschi, "Venus and Cupid," a beautifully languorous work showing a reclining nude looking rapturous (I have my theory as to why).
Mann was quick to say that she no longer believed it was done by Gentileschi as she once had when she'd included it in a show of the artist's work in St. Louis.
The collective surprise at her statement resonated with a huge silence in the room. The near-capacity crowd clearly loved our presumed Gentileschi.
I'm not going to lie; it was a bit of a buzz kill after watching a movie about such a fascinating and talented woman.
Afterwards, my friend and I stopped for a bite at 821 for, what else, black bean nachos (I've made a convert of him) while listening to the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs being blasted on the sound system.
That's a little bit of heaven right there, music and food-wise anyway.
Just as we were tearing into our food, my friend noticed the woman next to him as a regular customer (he's a bartender), which led to an extended discussion about food and restaurants while I ate away and minimally contributed.
On the plus side, she gave us her plate of onion rings which she was too full to eat and which had been torturing us with its smell as we awaited our food.
Her fawning over my friend ended when his girlfriend called to see when he was picking her up. They were headed to Sprout, as was I.
My timing was perfect as Lydia Ooghe was just starting her soft-sung set when I walked in.
It was good to hear some new material from her upcoming album, even if the bar crowd did provide an overly-loud backdrop for her sweet voice.
A last minute addition, Terror Pigeon Dance Revolt, put on as unusual a show as their name would suggest.
After a lengthy set-up, the singer said, "We're going to do a tiny little sound check and then melt your faces."
There was a colorful backdrop, an enormous blow-up Winnie the Pooh, and the drummer's drums were taped together and strapped to his body.
The guitarist wore a furry dog rug around his waist, its head dangling between his legs suggestively. The lead singer had a Robert Smith of the Cure haircut circa 1983 and wore a dress. Everyone else wore helmets that lit up.
The band played on the floor rather than the stage as the singer moved through the crowd dancing and throwing his body around.
The only female member put on a disco ball helmet and twirled while someone pointed a flashlight at her head.
It was performance art and pure theater.
Their disco-ish sound was all about dancing and the crowd was quickly engaged. I sat atop the booth back to stay out of the fray and give me a bird's-eye view of the action.
The singer spent a fair amount of time writhing on the floor as he sang, sometimes to prerecorded music as the band accompanied it live.
It certainly wasn't like anything I've ever witnessed at Sprout before and I could see why the New York Times has written them up.
Atlanta's Omelet followed and they were a tad odd, too, but in a much different way. Wigs, unusual clothing, masks and sunglasses were part of their Zappa-meets-GWAR energy.
A friend described them as Primus-like and I could see that. The saxophone and clarinet were a nice touch for an otherwise classic progressive metal sound.
By that point, I'd swung as far as I cared to for the evening and was ready to move on despite two more bands being on the bill.
A girl has to recognize when she's had enough of everything she needs for the moment.
At least audacious women like that do and I'd like to think that I'm one of those.
I told him I was beginning my evening at the VMFA for the documentary "A Woman Like That" about the only female Baroque artist, Artemisia Gentileschi.
The two filmmakers were there to introduce the film, and assured us that "This is not a dead artist film."
In fact, it had many funny moments such as one of the filmmakers strapping a camera to her body to surreptitiously film an exhibit of Gentileschi's paintings after the museum refused her permission.
She was an interesting woman for many reasons, not the least of which was how audacious she was for her time, painting female nudes in a more realistically natural way than male artists had done.
Because she was a freelance artist with no patron, she had to forcefully speak up for herself to be treated fairly as an artist and as a result, was called a virago. You know, a woman like that.
I suppose it's a lot like Madonna saying that by holding her own with music executives back in the 80s, she was called a bitch, unlike a male artist who might do the same.
Referring to one of her works, St. Louis Museum curator Judith Mann said, "This was the first time a breast was really painted, even showing the areola." Women know what breasts look like without a bra, she said.
During the discussion with the filmmakers and curator after the screening, a woman asked Mann what her thoughts were on the VMFA's Gentileschi, "Venus and Cupid," a beautifully languorous work showing a reclining nude looking rapturous (I have my theory as to why).
Mann was quick to say that she no longer believed it was done by Gentileschi as she once had when she'd included it in a show of the artist's work in St. Louis.
The collective surprise at her statement resonated with a huge silence in the room. The near-capacity crowd clearly loved our presumed Gentileschi.
I'm not going to lie; it was a bit of a buzz kill after watching a movie about such a fascinating and talented woman.
Afterwards, my friend and I stopped for a bite at 821 for, what else, black bean nachos (I've made a convert of him) while listening to the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs being blasted on the sound system.
That's a little bit of heaven right there, music and food-wise anyway.
Just as we were tearing into our food, my friend noticed the woman next to him as a regular customer (he's a bartender), which led to an extended discussion about food and restaurants while I ate away and minimally contributed.
On the plus side, she gave us her plate of onion rings which she was too full to eat and which had been torturing us with its smell as we awaited our food.
Her fawning over my friend ended when his girlfriend called to see when he was picking her up. They were headed to Sprout, as was I.
My timing was perfect as Lydia Ooghe was just starting her soft-sung set when I walked in.
It was good to hear some new material from her upcoming album, even if the bar crowd did provide an overly-loud backdrop for her sweet voice.
A last minute addition, Terror Pigeon Dance Revolt, put on as unusual a show as their name would suggest.
After a lengthy set-up, the singer said, "We're going to do a tiny little sound check and then melt your faces."
There was a colorful backdrop, an enormous blow-up Winnie the Pooh, and the drummer's drums were taped together and strapped to his body.
The guitarist wore a furry dog rug around his waist, its head dangling between his legs suggestively. The lead singer had a Robert Smith of the Cure haircut circa 1983 and wore a dress. Everyone else wore helmets that lit up.
The band played on the floor rather than the stage as the singer moved through the crowd dancing and throwing his body around.
The only female member put on a disco ball helmet and twirled while someone pointed a flashlight at her head.
It was performance art and pure theater.
Their disco-ish sound was all about dancing and the crowd was quickly engaged. I sat atop the booth back to stay out of the fray and give me a bird's-eye view of the action.
The singer spent a fair amount of time writhing on the floor as he sang, sometimes to prerecorded music as the band accompanied it live.
It certainly wasn't like anything I've ever witnessed at Sprout before and I could see why the New York Times has written them up.
Atlanta's Omelet followed and they were a tad odd, too, but in a much different way. Wigs, unusual clothing, masks and sunglasses were part of their Zappa-meets-GWAR energy.
A friend described them as Primus-like and I could see that. The saxophone and clarinet were a nice touch for an otherwise classic progressive metal sound.
By that point, I'd swung as far as I cared to for the evening and was ready to move on despite two more bands being on the bill.
A girl has to recognize when she's had enough of everything she needs for the moment.
At least audacious women like that do and I'd like to think that I'm one of those.
Friday, June 17, 2011
From Monk to Minimalism
I can only be the poster child for doing things by myself for so long before I crave friends.
Tonight's odyssey began at the VMFA for their weekly Jazz Cafe, tonight featuring Monk's Playground, a quartet that re-imagines Thelonious Monk's music for an electric guitar-led group.
I hadn't been to the Jazz cafe in months so I was surprised that it wasn't nearly as mobbed as it had been last winter. More options at this time of year, I suppose.
But I found a seat and settled in to listen to the group's interpretations of Monk with a crowd clearly more familiar with him than I. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the music a lot; I just lacked familiarity with it.
I'd be the first to admit that about all I know of the great composer/pianist is that he's the second most recorded jazz composer and he only wrote seventy-some songs.
As a bonus, the sun was slowly setting behind the Pauley Center (the former Home for Confederate Women), making for a stunning visual to accompany the seminal music. I didn't get that last winter.
A couple of sets in, I was getting hungry, so I drove the few blocks to Acacia for dinner. The barely populated bar had plenty of room for me and there was a new bartender in place.
After a taste, I chose the J. Mourat "Collection" Rose, an elegantly dry pink wine made from Cabernet Franc, Negrette and Pinot Noir to sip while making my food choices.
I was reminded that Chef Dale had driven to the river to get softshells yesterday, but decided to go more in a tasting direction.
Starting with the tempura-fried squash blossoms with chive mascarpone was a choice as seasonally appropriate and short-lived as softshells.
I love when squash are flowering and begin showing up on menus all over town. The delicate flower is really about the tempura and the mascarpone was decadently rich and flavorful. I came this close to ordering another plate of them.
Instead, I tried the fried wontons over seaweed salad. The crispy wontons were filled to bursting with a flavorful mixture of chicken and cabbage, much enhanced by the seaweed and accompanying honey/soy sauce. I was two for two.
I decided to end on a richer note, choosing the rabbit raviolis with roasted mushrooms in a rabbit jus. Three good-sized hat-looking pillows contained the delicate-tasting shredded rabbit which sang when dipped in the jus.
For dessert I had more Rose while the bartender and I discussed the best brunch spots because it's the only meal he and his girlfriend can eat out together due to their nighttime schedules.
That led to a discussion of cooking eggs, a subject on which he was passionate. For whatever reason, not everyone in the business can do eggs well, much to his disgust (he's a former cook). I have a good friend who says the same thing.
We finally wound up our discussion so that I could go to Sprout for a show where I knew I'd see all kinds of friends and hear some interesting music.
And the friends were there and I even made a new one. A girl introduced herself saying, "Have we not met officially? I feel like I see you everywhere."
That's a line I've heard literally dozens of times, causing others around me to nod in acknowledgement.
One of the bearded ones piped up with, "Karen! She's everywhere you should be!" I appreciate a good smart-assed comment when I hear one.
I couldn't have asked for a better musical start to the night than recent transplant Nelly Kate, a girl capable of a dense sound thanks to her looping abilities.
She sang, she played guitar, she banged on a wooden box, she scratched said box and it all became part of a bigger whole.
Her experimental pop and little girl voice made for an entrancing sound and I was sorry her set was so short. Hopefully now that she's in RVA, we'll see her play out more often.
Broken Fences were from Pittsburgh and their sound was more folky, with two guitars and a male and female voice.
At times, their songs put me in mind of old English folk songs like "Greensleeves" or "Black is the Color." There was no denying that they made pretty music.
Last up was the dynamic duo of Jonathan Vassar and David Shultz of Ophelia (minus bass and drums) and tonight the focus was on David.
He did some of his own material, they did a couple of Ophelia songs and he closed with a Paul Simon cover, as the adoring crowd yelled encouragement.
Good as the music was, one of the unexpected pleasures of the evening was the return of a favorite couple who've been traveling since February.
They got back early and it was great to see them and talk to them after their absence. As she said, "It's so great not to have to be nice to new people all the time now that we're home."
And isn't that what friends are for, so that you don't have to be nice all the time?
Nobody would believe it if I tried it anyway.
Tonight's odyssey began at the VMFA for their weekly Jazz Cafe, tonight featuring Monk's Playground, a quartet that re-imagines Thelonious Monk's music for an electric guitar-led group.
I hadn't been to the Jazz cafe in months so I was surprised that it wasn't nearly as mobbed as it had been last winter. More options at this time of year, I suppose.
But I found a seat and settled in to listen to the group's interpretations of Monk with a crowd clearly more familiar with him than I. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the music a lot; I just lacked familiarity with it.
I'd be the first to admit that about all I know of the great composer/pianist is that he's the second most recorded jazz composer and he only wrote seventy-some songs.
As a bonus, the sun was slowly setting behind the Pauley Center (the former Home for Confederate Women), making for a stunning visual to accompany the seminal music. I didn't get that last winter.
A couple of sets in, I was getting hungry, so I drove the few blocks to Acacia for dinner. The barely populated bar had plenty of room for me and there was a new bartender in place.
After a taste, I chose the J. Mourat "Collection" Rose, an elegantly dry pink wine made from Cabernet Franc, Negrette and Pinot Noir to sip while making my food choices.
I was reminded that Chef Dale had driven to the river to get softshells yesterday, but decided to go more in a tasting direction.
Starting with the tempura-fried squash blossoms with chive mascarpone was a choice as seasonally appropriate and short-lived as softshells.
I love when squash are flowering and begin showing up on menus all over town. The delicate flower is really about the tempura and the mascarpone was decadently rich and flavorful. I came this close to ordering another plate of them.
Instead, I tried the fried wontons over seaweed salad. The crispy wontons were filled to bursting with a flavorful mixture of chicken and cabbage, much enhanced by the seaweed and accompanying honey/soy sauce. I was two for two.
I decided to end on a richer note, choosing the rabbit raviolis with roasted mushrooms in a rabbit jus. Three good-sized hat-looking pillows contained the delicate-tasting shredded rabbit which sang when dipped in the jus.
For dessert I had more Rose while the bartender and I discussed the best brunch spots because it's the only meal he and his girlfriend can eat out together due to their nighttime schedules.
That led to a discussion of cooking eggs, a subject on which he was passionate. For whatever reason, not everyone in the business can do eggs well, much to his disgust (he's a former cook). I have a good friend who says the same thing.
We finally wound up our discussion so that I could go to Sprout for a show where I knew I'd see all kinds of friends and hear some interesting music.
And the friends were there and I even made a new one. A girl introduced herself saying, "Have we not met officially? I feel like I see you everywhere."
That's a line I've heard literally dozens of times, causing others around me to nod in acknowledgement.
One of the bearded ones piped up with, "Karen! She's everywhere you should be!" I appreciate a good smart-assed comment when I hear one.
I couldn't have asked for a better musical start to the night than recent transplant Nelly Kate, a girl capable of a dense sound thanks to her looping abilities.
She sang, she played guitar, she banged on a wooden box, she scratched said box and it all became part of a bigger whole.
Her experimental pop and little girl voice made for an entrancing sound and I was sorry her set was so short. Hopefully now that she's in RVA, we'll see her play out more often.
Broken Fences were from Pittsburgh and their sound was more folky, with two guitars and a male and female voice.
At times, their songs put me in mind of old English folk songs like "Greensleeves" or "Black is the Color." There was no denying that they made pretty music.
Last up was the dynamic duo of Jonathan Vassar and David Shultz of Ophelia (minus bass and drums) and tonight the focus was on David.
He did some of his own material, they did a couple of Ophelia songs and he closed with a Paul Simon cover, as the adoring crowd yelled encouragement.
Good as the music was, one of the unexpected pleasures of the evening was the return of a favorite couple who've been traveling since February.
They got back early and it was great to see them and talk to them after their absence. As she said, "It's so great not to have to be nice to new people all the time now that we're home."
And isn't that what friends are for, so that you don't have to be nice all the time?
Nobody would believe it if I tried it anyway.
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