Sundays are a marathon, not a sprint.
It took asking five people to join my hired mouth for brunch before I was successful, the effort pretty much encompassing the shank of the afternoon but also leaving us utterly stuffed. I don't think there's any question that Richmond's first Black Restaurant Week has been a resounding success.
By that point, I had half an hour before Mac was showing up to walk with me to Movieland to see "Get Out," a feat we'd attempted Tuesday at 7 only to be told they were sold out until 10.
Today's 4:30 show was about 95% full and that's with a screening almost every hour. You make me proud, Richmond.
People who know me well had warned me about how difficult a movie like this would be for someone like me (that means someone who avoids suspense, thrillers and horror films), but everything I'd read made it crystal clear that this was a movie white people needed to see, if only to be completely unsettled.
You don't even know.
The best part was that the audience reacted as one, united in their reactions to not only the skulduggery of the bad guys, but the blatant racism of supposedly "nice" characters. That we had to watch the inevitable bad choices of people in horror movies - why does anyone go outside alone in the middle of the night? - only allowed us to cheer loudly together when evil got its comeuppance.
And yet, near the end when carnage is everywhere and a siren is heard, there was collective breath-holding by the entire audience for fear that whatever law enforcement showed up would misconstrue the situation and our young black, male hero would pay the price.
Happily, art did not imitate life.
Kudos to first time director Jordan Peele for instead going comedic. But that he so seamlessly blends genres and still manages to make some biting social critiques all but guarantees he's a director worth knowing and one we'll see much more from.
Walking out of the theater a little after 7 to blue skies and sunshine felt like a March gift, yet I heard a woman complaining to her companions, "I don't care about later light. I hate losing an hour of sleep! Give me my hour back."
Perhaps that lost hour of sleep is what made her crabby. I know I hate to miss any of my nightly 9 hours.
We had dinner - entrees of homey wonton soup and chicken and broccoli in brown sauce, with limeades - at My Noodle & Bar, comfortably ensconced in the very last tree-house booth, the electric fireplace flickering away nearby. Sure, real is preferable but warmth is warmth, even if it's fake fire when it's 30 degrees outside.
In the booth next to us, a young woman referred to the man she was talking to repeatedly as Benjamin. When they got up to leave, she apologized, saying she'd forgotten his name was really Brandon. He smiled politely, but you know he noticed every time.
Mac dropped me home with just enough time to change clothes and walk over to Strange Matter for a show where $1 of every ticket was going to Planned Parenthood, meaning I could listen to live music and support the cause. Win/win.
Opener Grass Panther was set up and just starting to play on the floor in front of the stage when I got there. Since crowds tend to be smaller for the opening band, I always enjoy it when a band is playing at eye level like that.
Most of their songs have a fierce energy to them, but for one, singer Michael suggested we slow dance with someone "or make a new friend," but I contented myself with swaying in place. Even that seemed unusual for Grass Panther.
I'd expected to see more familiar faces than I did, but a few represented: the prof, the ad man, the roadie, the guitarist, with someone attributing the small numbers in general to Spring Break just winding down. All I know is that walking over tonight, I'd seen scads more people than I've been seeing lately on campus.
Louisville's Twin Limb was a psychedelic dream pop trio: singer/accordion player, drummer/singer (both female) and a guy on guitar with a decidedly post-punk bent, which probably sounds far less compelling than they actually were.
Most obvious about their sound was a languid Beach House-like quality, but the accordionist had a voice that echoed that of Johnette Napolitano of Concrete Blond, all wail and beauty and when she and the drummer harmonized or traded vocals back and forth, it was nothing short of exquisite.
It occurred to me that this was the kind of talented, quirky band that would have played Balliceaux before it closed and everyone there would've known they were seeing something extraordinary. Tonight's mostly male crowd certainly seemed entranced.
After their set, a guy came up to me and asked if the band that had just played was Strand of Oaks. Nope, I told him and he went away looking perplexed.
A friend came over to chat about headliner Strand of Oaks and it turned out we'd both seen the band on their 2015 tour, me at S'Matter and he in Italy at a free festival. On a beach. With the XX. Doesn't seem fair to me.
Since we'd both last seen the band, leader Timothy had gotten his marriage together and stopped being so miserable about life, resulting in a new sound on his latest album, which probably explains why he led with "Radio Kids" from it.
After he finished singing it, he exhorted the crowd to come closer. "What's all this about?" he said, circling his hand over empty space near the stage. "Come on up here. I got no one to sing to." So we all moved so he could sing "Shut-in." Telling the drummer he had a good beat, he launched into the driving rhythm of "Heal" and it was like the '70s all over again.
Between songs he expressed appreciation for Green Panther, corrected himself to Grass Panther and said they didn't seem like the kind of precious band who'd get upset over a mistake.
"And Twin Limb, man! They should be playing opera halls or the halls of Valhalla! That's a cheap ticket getting to see them. We're still a $10 ticket, but you got all that, too. Richmond, you're lucky!" You know it, man.
By the time they played the anthemic "Goshen '97," it was midnight and the marathon was over. My only regret was that it hadn't been on a beach in Italy.
Bet I could have made a new friend there.
Showing posts with label strand of oaks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strand of oaks. Show all posts
Monday, March 13, 2017
Monday, June 15, 2015
What's to Come
Let's adjust to the rhythms of almost summer, shall we?
When the sky is still pale blue at 9:00 and the temperature's only dropped to 80 outside, it only makes sense to go to a show that starts at 10.
Even so, when I'd bought my ticket weeks ago, I'd had no clue how oppressive it would be or that I was signing on to spend a hot night in a venue known for its anemic air conditioning. Good thing I like heat.
Mid-afternoon, the phone unexpectedly rings and it's the recent blast from my past with an invitation to go see Tom Chapin play at Tin Pan tonight. I no sooner decline when a friend posts that she's got an extra Prince ticket for the show in D.C. tonight.
If I didn't have such stellar memories of seeing Prince twice in the '90s, I might have jumped on that second offer, but no. I was going to see Avers and Strand of Oaks, as planned.
Positioning myself in my usual spot at Strange Matter - in front of the water dispenser - and waiting for Avers to take the stage, a favorite bartender I hadn't seen in ages came over for water and spotted me. He was on a guys' night out and as thoughtful as ever ("It's so nice to see you. And you look great!" while gesturing at my flowered sundress) and I was genuinely happy to chat with him until the band began.
Filing onstage in single file, Avers proceeded to reward their local fans with their usual well-oiled machine of a set. With four guitars for any given song, it's a constant guitar fest with meaty interludes where everyone gets to show off, the way they also do with the many false stops and precision restarts that characterize their songs.
I love watching guitarist Charlie (whom I know from the Trillions) because he's not only multi-talented but a showman as well, lifting his knee to prop up his guitar or playing it perpendicular to his body. When his considerable talents were required to play keyboard, he'd sling his guitar behind him and proceed to use his knees and full body to play it. When the bass player sang lead vocal, Charlie played her bass for her.
My fourth grade teacher would have called him an asset to the class.
Also a pleasure to watch is James, a guitarist I first heard as part of Mason Brothers a couple years ago, for his expressive voice and low key yet appealing stage presence. He doesn't play or sing with a "look at me" frenzy, but I often found myself looking at him.
After their set ended and a trip to the always amusing bathroom (no TP but graffiti that read, "F*ck Punk!"), I had time to take attendance in the room and note the DJ who hadn't been able to take a nap despite laying down this afternoon, the guy my age who goes to as many shows as I do, the WRIR crew, the pensive songwriter.
Usual cast of characters, in other words.
During the break, the room cooled down a bit as people went outside to smoke, but once back, the infrequent hits of cooler air could barely address the radiating warmth of all the bodies. Good thing I like heat.
Then Strand of Oaks took the stage, with leader Timothy announcing, "It's Sunday f*cking night in Richmond! This is gonna be good!" A friend and I had already discussed that we'd made the right choice of where to be tonight.
Part of that is that Strand of Oaks' music references the '70s with wailing guitars, a sound I know well from my youth but don't listen to much now, but with an Americana feel that resonates as harder than most music of that genre. "Goshen '97" about growing up in his hometown got the crowd's attention with lyrics about teenage angst and shredding guitars.
"I haven't drank Black Label in 12 years," Timothy said, holding up a can. "It's good to be back." Turns out most of his tattoos had been acquired here on frequent trips while touring. Our ink cred stays strong.
"Daniel's Blues" was about Dan Aykroyd wanting revenge on Belushi's drug dealer. After the song, he said, "I remember my Dad had the Blues Brothers album on vinyl, pink vinyl. It had a naked lady picture on it, a Playboy picture. Thanks for showing a young man what was to come!"
His band was excellent, a fact he acknowledged when he introduced them, recalling the days when he toured alone with his guitar (and apparently frequently to Richmond). Now the band brings to life his big-as-the-'70s guitar sound and he seems thrilled, much like the crowd when they did "Shut In," a song with a big anthemic chorus that got the guy in front of me playing air guitar.
My bartender friend walked by, looking happy as a clam, and telling me he was blown away by the band. "I can't take my eyes off his face," he said. Timothy has a look with long, dark hair halfway down his chest and a huge beard, but there was such happy energy he was projecting that I found it compelling.
It was after midnight when he told the room they could play all night but that they would play one more song and "burn it extra long." It was "JM," a song about singer Jason Molina, and the band did indeed take us out with swelling and crashing guitars that sounded post punk and classic rock simultaneously.
Walking out into the warm night air that had barely dropped in temperature since I'd gone in, I found Grace Street quiet. The students are gone and everyone else must be in their air-conditioned homes.
A perfect time to walk home enjoying a summer night. Good thing I like the heat.
When the sky is still pale blue at 9:00 and the temperature's only dropped to 80 outside, it only makes sense to go to a show that starts at 10.
Even so, when I'd bought my ticket weeks ago, I'd had no clue how oppressive it would be or that I was signing on to spend a hot night in a venue known for its anemic air conditioning. Good thing I like heat.
Mid-afternoon, the phone unexpectedly rings and it's the recent blast from my past with an invitation to go see Tom Chapin play at Tin Pan tonight. I no sooner decline when a friend posts that she's got an extra Prince ticket for the show in D.C. tonight.
If I didn't have such stellar memories of seeing Prince twice in the '90s, I might have jumped on that second offer, but no. I was going to see Avers and Strand of Oaks, as planned.
Positioning myself in my usual spot at Strange Matter - in front of the water dispenser - and waiting for Avers to take the stage, a favorite bartender I hadn't seen in ages came over for water and spotted me. He was on a guys' night out and as thoughtful as ever ("It's so nice to see you. And you look great!" while gesturing at my flowered sundress) and I was genuinely happy to chat with him until the band began.
Filing onstage in single file, Avers proceeded to reward their local fans with their usual well-oiled machine of a set. With four guitars for any given song, it's a constant guitar fest with meaty interludes where everyone gets to show off, the way they also do with the many false stops and precision restarts that characterize their songs.
I love watching guitarist Charlie (whom I know from the Trillions) because he's not only multi-talented but a showman as well, lifting his knee to prop up his guitar or playing it perpendicular to his body. When his considerable talents were required to play keyboard, he'd sling his guitar behind him and proceed to use his knees and full body to play it. When the bass player sang lead vocal, Charlie played her bass for her.
My fourth grade teacher would have called him an asset to the class.
Also a pleasure to watch is James, a guitarist I first heard as part of Mason Brothers a couple years ago, for his expressive voice and low key yet appealing stage presence. He doesn't play or sing with a "look at me" frenzy, but I often found myself looking at him.
After their set ended and a trip to the always amusing bathroom (no TP but graffiti that read, "F*ck Punk!"), I had time to take attendance in the room and note the DJ who hadn't been able to take a nap despite laying down this afternoon, the guy my age who goes to as many shows as I do, the WRIR crew, the pensive songwriter.
Usual cast of characters, in other words.
During the break, the room cooled down a bit as people went outside to smoke, but once back, the infrequent hits of cooler air could barely address the radiating warmth of all the bodies. Good thing I like heat.
Then Strand of Oaks took the stage, with leader Timothy announcing, "It's Sunday f*cking night in Richmond! This is gonna be good!" A friend and I had already discussed that we'd made the right choice of where to be tonight.
Part of that is that Strand of Oaks' music references the '70s with wailing guitars, a sound I know well from my youth but don't listen to much now, but with an Americana feel that resonates as harder than most music of that genre. "Goshen '97" about growing up in his hometown got the crowd's attention with lyrics about teenage angst and shredding guitars.
"I haven't drank Black Label in 12 years," Timothy said, holding up a can. "It's good to be back." Turns out most of his tattoos had been acquired here on frequent trips while touring. Our ink cred stays strong.
"Daniel's Blues" was about Dan Aykroyd wanting revenge on Belushi's drug dealer. After the song, he said, "I remember my Dad had the Blues Brothers album on vinyl, pink vinyl. It had a naked lady picture on it, a Playboy picture. Thanks for showing a young man what was to come!"
His band was excellent, a fact he acknowledged when he introduced them, recalling the days when he toured alone with his guitar (and apparently frequently to Richmond). Now the band brings to life his big-as-the-'70s guitar sound and he seems thrilled, much like the crowd when they did "Shut In," a song with a big anthemic chorus that got the guy in front of me playing air guitar.
My bartender friend walked by, looking happy as a clam, and telling me he was blown away by the band. "I can't take my eyes off his face," he said. Timothy has a look with long, dark hair halfway down his chest and a huge beard, but there was such happy energy he was projecting that I found it compelling.
It was after midnight when he told the room they could play all night but that they would play one more song and "burn it extra long." It was "JM," a song about singer Jason Molina, and the band did indeed take us out with swelling and crashing guitars that sounded post punk and classic rock simultaneously.
Walking out into the warm night air that had barely dropped in temperature since I'd gone in, I found Grace Street quiet. The students are gone and everyone else must be in their air-conditioned homes.
A perfect time to walk home enjoying a summer night. Good thing I like the heat.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Going to Confession
Josh said it best. "I wouldn't come out for one band on a Sunday night, but for these two..."
It was a fabulous bill for an off night like Sunday and after a non-stop Halloween weekend at that.
I found my friends waiting at the bar and we immediately adjourned to the front table for the best possible view.
Music geeks at Table 1.
Local singer/songwriter Clint Maul was on first and started right on time. If The Camel isn't careful, people will begin to think they can do timely shows.
Even the often-problematic sound proved to be a non-issue tonight.
Clint did a handful of his famously short songs and closed with Do-Over," a song about relationships, one of many we heard tonight.
A friend had turned me on to the next band, Strand of Oaks, after listening to them obsessively the past few weeks.
Once I began doing the same, I felt her passion.
Well, maybe not the full extent of it ("Man, I really can't wait. I'm going to die so please bring your CPR manual."), but I was definitely hooked.
Their sound turned out to be everything we'd hoped for.
Mesmerizing and passionate with obtuse lyrics, they at times reminded me of post-rock (minus the vocals of course) and my friend of '80s classic rock with a little ambient sound thrown in.
Lead singer Tim tried describing his looks as like those of Frodo (and his bandmates as elves) and that devolved to Dildo, which made the audience laugh.
"It's good to laugh because these songs are f**king sad!" he told the crowd.
And they were, but beautifully sad, entrancingly sad, especially those written right after his house burned down and he got dumped.
The trio covered Moby and played a song about John Belushi's drug dealer in addition to playing a lot off their new critically-acclaimed album.
Tim said he tended to hurry through their set because of his eagerness to hear Crooked Fingers, understandable but the crowd would have loved a longer set.
Luckily, my friend has already asked them to come back to play a house show. Score.
And then the tall one ascended the stage with his band. Eric Bachmann's band Crooked Fingers were the main event tonight.
His wit became apparent at once.
"Thanks for coming out on the Sabbath. Except the Sabbath was really yesterday."
There's something wonderful about his voice; you hear the weariness of a life lived and with his tendency toward confessional songs, you feel like he's singing the journal of it all.
At one point he introduced his band, thanked them and thanked Strand of Oaks and Clint.
"I'm thanking everyone except Jesus," he said. "I hope that doesn't offend you. I doubt it does."
Band member Liz added her beautiful voice to the mix, killing it on "Your Control," a song on which the band originally dueted with Neko Case.
But the standout song of the evening was both voices on "Sleep All Summer," as achingly romantic a song as anyone has ever written.
We take our empty hearts and fill them up with broken things
To hang on humming wire like cheap lamps down a dead end street
Close your weary eyes until the wintertime
And every time we turn away, it hits me like a tidal wave
I would change for you, but babe, that doesn't mean I'll be a better man
Give the ocean what I took from you
So one day you could find it in the sand
And hold it in your hands again
Their emotional intensity had the crowd holding their breath until the last note.
And that was noteworthy, too. The people who came out tonight for this show were die hard fans.
You could have heard a pin drop during Crooked Fingers' set and that included the bar area, a true rarity.
Okay, what is this place and what have you done with the Camel?
And can this be the new Camel reality?
It was a fabulous bill for an off night like Sunday and after a non-stop Halloween weekend at that.
I found my friends waiting at the bar and we immediately adjourned to the front table for the best possible view.
Music geeks at Table 1.
Local singer/songwriter Clint Maul was on first and started right on time. If The Camel isn't careful, people will begin to think they can do timely shows.
Even the often-problematic sound proved to be a non-issue tonight.
Clint did a handful of his famously short songs and closed with Do-Over," a song about relationships, one of many we heard tonight.
A friend had turned me on to the next band, Strand of Oaks, after listening to them obsessively the past few weeks.
Once I began doing the same, I felt her passion.
Well, maybe not the full extent of it ("Man, I really can't wait. I'm going to die so please bring your CPR manual."), but I was definitely hooked.
Their sound turned out to be everything we'd hoped for.
Mesmerizing and passionate with obtuse lyrics, they at times reminded me of post-rock (minus the vocals of course) and my friend of '80s classic rock with a little ambient sound thrown in.
Lead singer Tim tried describing his looks as like those of Frodo (and his bandmates as elves) and that devolved to Dildo, which made the audience laugh.
"It's good to laugh because these songs are f**king sad!" he told the crowd.
And they were, but beautifully sad, entrancingly sad, especially those written right after his house burned down and he got dumped.
The trio covered Moby and played a song about John Belushi's drug dealer in addition to playing a lot off their new critically-acclaimed album.
Tim said he tended to hurry through their set because of his eagerness to hear Crooked Fingers, understandable but the crowd would have loved a longer set.
Luckily, my friend has already asked them to come back to play a house show. Score.
And then the tall one ascended the stage with his band. Eric Bachmann's band Crooked Fingers were the main event tonight.
His wit became apparent at once.
"Thanks for coming out on the Sabbath. Except the Sabbath was really yesterday."
There's something wonderful about his voice; you hear the weariness of a life lived and with his tendency toward confessional songs, you feel like he's singing the journal of it all.
At one point he introduced his band, thanked them and thanked Strand of Oaks and Clint.
"I'm thanking everyone except Jesus," he said. "I hope that doesn't offend you. I doubt it does."
Band member Liz added her beautiful voice to the mix, killing it on "Your Control," a song on which the band originally dueted with Neko Case.
But the standout song of the evening was both voices on "Sleep All Summer," as achingly romantic a song as anyone has ever written.
We take our empty hearts and fill them up with broken things
To hang on humming wire like cheap lamps down a dead end street
Close your weary eyes until the wintertime
And every time we turn away, it hits me like a tidal wave
I would change for you, but babe, that doesn't mean I'll be a better man
Give the ocean what I took from you
So one day you could find it in the sand
And hold it in your hands again
Their emotional intensity had the crowd holding their breath until the last note.
And that was noteworthy, too. The people who came out tonight for this show were die hard fans.
You could have heard a pin drop during Crooked Fingers' set and that included the bar area, a true rarity.
Okay, what is this place and what have you done with the Camel?
And can this be the new Camel reality?
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