Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind. ~ Kipling
So call me a word junkie, but the most curious kind of junkie.
Question: In a post-fact world, when we read words telling us that Barry Manilow is gay - by the way, something we've known since the 70s - are we to presume this is but another example of alternative truth and he really isn't gay? Has it come to that?
Or are they merely distractionary words meant to keep us from noticing something far more dire? Because Barry deserves better, if only for his chutzpah.
I clearly remember hearing a Casey Kasem Top 40 show where he told a story about Barry, Springsteen and Billy Joel having a conversation at a dive venue when they were just starting out and Barry insisted he'd be bigger than either one of them.
I'm inclined to think he was mistaken, but that's just me. Still, looks like he made it.
And speaking of words, I got a slew of them from my Dad yesterday when I showed up to help Mom with a few things only to discover she'd broken a temporary crown and was headed off to the dentist, leaving Dad and I to take care of her "honey-do" list. As if.
I mean, we moved a desk and rearranged the computer's wiring, but along the way he told me about why he'd given up cigarettes in 1991, a story I'd never heard. Hell, I don't recall he was still smoking as late as the '90s.
I should have known there'd been competition involved given my Dad's athletic nature. He told me how we were at the engagement party for Sister #6 when Sister #3 threw down the gauntlet, saying she could go longer without a beer than he could without a cig.
Three weeks later, she was drinking again while 26 years later, he still doesn't smoke. How had I never heard this chestnut before?
While we were planting moonflowers on the screened porch, apropos of nothing, he said, "You know, it's an extraordinary string of circumstances that led to me even meeting your mother. I was in the army and the first time I was supposed to ship out to Europe, I was sick. The second time I was supposed to go to the South Seas, but I had a sports injury. Finally, they gave me a choice of Fort Lee or Fort McNair and I sure wasn't southern enough to want to go to Petersburg." So he went to D.C. and somehow met Mom.
Those words would never have come out of him if Mom had been there.
But that was yesterday. Today's words came courtesy of Poetry Month and a reading at University of Richmond, where I arrived a tad late (that labyrinthine campus) and while there were no multiple seats together, singletons can almost always find a lone chair.
Reading first was lanky and bespectacled Peter LaBerge coming across more like a theater student than a burgeoning poet with his animated reading and ease in talking to the room, looking up between each line of verse as if to re-engage us or perhaps check who was looking at their screens.
His elegiac poetry concerned the difficulties of growing up gay in suburban Ohio and several pieces were devoted to gay people who'd been senselessly attacked outside Target or in Texas simply because of their sexuality (too soon to make a crack about that being a factor in Barry's decision to hold off...discuss?).
Admitting he wrote a lot of dark poems, he went for lighter, reading one inspired by a man who wore high heels on "America's Next Top Model" and took guff from another contestant who had a problem with it. Peter could not only relate, but, said, "There was a poem there."
And there was but honestly, it was very dark, too.
"Thank you all for using your time to come here on a Wednesday night," he said earnestly from the lectern. "It is a good use of your time, though."
Chen Chen read next and his book was for sale tonight even though it doesn't technically come out until next Tuesday, so we were told to keep our mouths shut about that. He used humor and personal experience to write poetry about leaving China as a 3-year old and now not knowing whether his memories are real or imagined.
In "First Light" he wondered, "What is it to not remember your life?" He recalled his Mom telling him he'd have to be three times better than the white kids to be taken seriously, a surefire way to make a kid wish he wasn't Chinese. That and the frustration of being interchangeable in the eyes of white people.
He spoke of Paris and how it's impossible to be angry in Paris. Mad? Yes. Sad? Sure, but angry? Not in Paris, he asserted. I don't recall feeling angry in Paris last summer, so I think he's right on this one.
But mainly it was the underpinnings of a humorous observer of the universe that set his poetry apart.
Tarfia Faizullah, whom I'd heard read her challenging poems (about the lives of Bangladeshi women, about coming up in an Anglican school) as far back as 2010, was third and had a bit more gravitas then her predecessors.
Interestingly, she began by telling us that her dark focus had softened over the past few years, to the point that she added the word "illuminated" to her new book title in hopes of alerting readers to a shift in outlook. Some of her work dealt with being a brown-skinned woman and the assumptions that go along with that.
Eventually she pointed out her grad school professor, the poet David Wojahn, sitting in the second row, a fact that was making her nervous despite now living in Michigan, hanging around with fiction writers and long out of grad school. I can't imagine why when he was practically beaming with pride as she read a poem about water that had been inspired by signs pointing toward the city of Flint.
And while I wasn't beaming, my soul was most definitely feeling bathed in a calm I hadn't possessed when I walked in. It had been too long since I closed my eyes and let someone read poetry to me.
Coming back through the Fan, I stopped at Garnett's for a farmer's salad enjoyed at the counter directly in front of the open Dutch door, and every now and then, I could feel or smell a hint of Spring flowery breeze wafting in.
Since the soundtrack was right up my alley - guitar-driven indie rock, so New Pornographers, Wild Nothing, Real Estate - I didn't much need other amusements, so the two guys on a first date behind me were icing on the cake as they politely asked each other questions, each one proving a little more just how little they had in common.
Let me put it this way: the got separate checks.
Doing far better at connecting was the blond couple at the end of the counter - his stool swiveled toward hers, her hand on his arm to make a point - except that I found it a little weird that they both had on light blue and white gingham shirts.
When I asked the server who cut my slice of Almond Joy cake if she thought their matching attire was intentional, she said no. Seems that one day three Garnett's employees, including herself, had come to work in burgundy pants and blue denim shirts with no coordination whatsoever.
Randomness apparently happens. Hello, my life.
The two older woman at a table at the other end gabbed non-stop as if sharing state secrets, the only one of which I heard in its entirety was, "That's because the restaurant owner's mother was into horses." I only wish I understood whatever point that answer addressed.
Chances are there's a poem in it.
Showing posts with label university of richmond. Show all posts
Showing posts with label university of richmond. Show all posts
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Gear and Spikes
Handsome C-ville prof
Takes photographs of Pompeii
Shows slide of girlfriend
You know, just in case any of the women in the over-packed room and hall at UR had designs on him by the time he finished discussing his new exhibit, "Unseen Pompeii: The Photographs of William Wylie."
I kid you not, it was standing room only and UR worker bees had to bring in additional chairs at the last second, something I appreciated since I had been roosting on the air conditioning vents along with several female students, all of whom were freezing right along with me until we sat on our bags and blocked the direct air flow.
Pompeii as seen through the eyes of a UVA professor turned out to be a real draw. Who knew?
If I look beyond his well-sculpted professorial looks and ignore his self-deprecating humor, he'd still win points for admitting how thrilled he'd been to be in the amphitheater, the very same one where Pink Floyd had played a show to, well, no one, a show which was filmed in '72 and made into a documentary.
"I was thrilled that they'd had their gear there," he chuckled. Music nerds represent.
He was also a talker (not that I'd ever complain about such a desirable trait), but the end result was that he'd been so busy showing us images of the work of his photographic idols that he barely started showing us images of his work 45 minutes into the hour-long talk.
The screen, such as it was, fluttered in the crowded room, causing him to dryly observe, "I'm usually a still photographer."
Ordinarily, I'd be disappointed to be rushed through slides of art and deprived of information, except that with his exhibit opening, it's be far preferable to see the photographs in real life rather than digitally anyway.
Walking to Balliceaux along Hanover, I witnessed the business of life around me. A Dad arrived home only to have his two kids come running from the house, informing him that Mom isn't home yet.
"She's not?' he replies, his voice sinking.
A bit further down, a young woman sat comfortably in a rocking chair on her porch, talking work into her phone, with her face lit by the glow of her laptop.
On a slab of a concrete porch sprinkled with leaves, a shirtless guy sat on a plastic folding chair taking in the night air, looking very mellow indeed.
Like me, they all know that nights like this, nights that still feel warm and summery, are numbered. Fall and temperatures in the '80s have moved in to stay around here despite my pleas to the weather gods.
Dateless meal at bar
"Karen, sit here," calls prof friend
All "isms" fair game
Like me, she was there for Hand to Hand Haiku, but unlike me, she'd had to put her 17-year old cat down today while I've had five years to adjust to putting my 15-year old beagle down. Still, she was there to end the day on a better note than it had begun. Props.
Because food is forgotten when we lose loved ones, this was her first meal of the day, which she enjoyed while I had my third: caramelized chicken thigh with pickled cabbage, a killer complementary flavor duo that has yet to disappoint.
Naturally she, the vegetarian, fell in love with my cabbage.
We nattered on for a while about eating healthier, her new part time job and our fears about the development of the old Village before scooting to the back for poetry.
Among the many familiar haiku faces was a young couple at the table next to me, the woman explaining how excited she will be to become a second grade teacher. "I can already see how my classroom will look," she gushes. "I know how my bulletin boards will look!"
Youthful exuberance aside, I flashed back to dinner at the bar with my friend, who'd pointedly said, "I wouldn't go back to being 21 for anything, although I would take back my body then."
Hand to Hand Haiku got started with host Raven Mack riffing on his subject du jour, namely cleaning up the rubble of your life because everyone has it.
Oh, he likened the process to a myth and drove home the point that life is about cleaning up enough of your own personal rubble to create a small space where you could actually breathe a little, but the message was clear.
That's exactly why he's such a great MC - he can do it all. He sets the tone with a revelatory monologue, keeps score and plays cheerleaders to the haiku readers and writes haikus prolifically, honestly and cleverly.
Tonight we got a bonus rant because he'd chosen two flags to identify contestants: Uruguay's with a sun and Angola's with a machete, sending him off on a spirited tangent about the glories of owning machetes and their myriad uses.
Pulling the funny card, he was insistent that if we heard any haikus we'd heard before, we should boo. "Now, here's Ryan," he said to great effect.
Everyone's favorite anarchist was there with her four week old baby happily nursing at her breast (Raven says, "If anyone has a problem with a woman breastfeeding here, you can go outside." I'd already given her my thumbs up) even when she took the stage to read her haikus.
Her first, read in a clear, strong voice, set the tone:
Dude, if you are selling
moonshine legally
Then it's not moonshine. Duh.
Let me just say that hers was far from the only anti-hipster haiku. And Raven's so talented he managed to write haikus about everything from low fat desserts to burning bridges to entering silver crescents.
Only Benjamin, with his haiku about whips, being dominated and his mistress ("It's a good day") topped our host on that subject ("He seems all quiet, but now we know what he's really about..." Raven observed after he read it).
And the young couple next to me surprised us all by getting onstage and facing off, each having written exactly one haiku while they were there.
The judges picked hers over his, but he shrugged happily and said, "At least we did it!" Apply that to most things in life and you'll go far, kids.
There was a loser buy back round allowing those who'd lost in the preliminary rounds to come back for a second shot.
"One of them's going to fail a second time," Raven told the crowd before an older brother beat his younger brother while their Mom filmed the whole thing. The losers brought some fine writing to the buy back round.
Let us be powered
by the twin engines of
peace and tranquility
The powers that be
do a great job of keeping
us in our places
Raven read us a handful from his latest "American" series and they were outstanding and more than a little depressingly honest about things, such as being as American as high fructose corn syrup. Truth.
As American
as demolition of hoods
being called progress
Paul won the whole enchilada, earning himself a haiku-inscribed railroad spike, undoubtedly the most brilliant combination of words and hardware imaginable.
He closed out with a saga of going cross country via train from Charlottesville to Chicago, then bus from there to Seattle, then train to L.A. ("It was cheaper") then bus to New Orleans ("That was rough") before a final train back to C-ville.
His point? That he'd not been disappointed in the goodness of America or its people, in fact, quite the contrary.
His take-home was that we could all benefit from talking to each other more often and that doing so helps each of us deal with our personal rubble clean-up. My take?
We're as happy as
the space we clear out, Rubble
gone means new chances
I'd go so far as to say it's a good day even without the whips.
Takes photographs of Pompeii
Shows slide of girlfriend
You know, just in case any of the women in the over-packed room and hall at UR had designs on him by the time he finished discussing his new exhibit, "Unseen Pompeii: The Photographs of William Wylie."
I kid you not, it was standing room only and UR worker bees had to bring in additional chairs at the last second, something I appreciated since I had been roosting on the air conditioning vents along with several female students, all of whom were freezing right along with me until we sat on our bags and blocked the direct air flow.
Pompeii as seen through the eyes of a UVA professor turned out to be a real draw. Who knew?
If I look beyond his well-sculpted professorial looks and ignore his self-deprecating humor, he'd still win points for admitting how thrilled he'd been to be in the amphitheater, the very same one where Pink Floyd had played a show to, well, no one, a show which was filmed in '72 and made into a documentary.
"I was thrilled that they'd had their gear there," he chuckled. Music nerds represent.
He was also a talker (not that I'd ever complain about such a desirable trait), but the end result was that he'd been so busy showing us images of the work of his photographic idols that he barely started showing us images of his work 45 minutes into the hour-long talk.
The screen, such as it was, fluttered in the crowded room, causing him to dryly observe, "I'm usually a still photographer."
Ordinarily, I'd be disappointed to be rushed through slides of art and deprived of information, except that with his exhibit opening, it's be far preferable to see the photographs in real life rather than digitally anyway.
Walking to Balliceaux along Hanover, I witnessed the business of life around me. A Dad arrived home only to have his two kids come running from the house, informing him that Mom isn't home yet.
"She's not?' he replies, his voice sinking.
A bit further down, a young woman sat comfortably in a rocking chair on her porch, talking work into her phone, with her face lit by the glow of her laptop.
On a slab of a concrete porch sprinkled with leaves, a shirtless guy sat on a plastic folding chair taking in the night air, looking very mellow indeed.
Like me, they all know that nights like this, nights that still feel warm and summery, are numbered. Fall and temperatures in the '80s have moved in to stay around here despite my pleas to the weather gods.
Dateless meal at bar
"Karen, sit here," calls prof friend
All "isms" fair game
Like me, she was there for Hand to Hand Haiku, but unlike me, she'd had to put her 17-year old cat down today while I've had five years to adjust to putting my 15-year old beagle down. Still, she was there to end the day on a better note than it had begun. Props.
Because food is forgotten when we lose loved ones, this was her first meal of the day, which she enjoyed while I had my third: caramelized chicken thigh with pickled cabbage, a killer complementary flavor duo that has yet to disappoint.
Naturally she, the vegetarian, fell in love with my cabbage.
We nattered on for a while about eating healthier, her new part time job and our fears about the development of the old Village before scooting to the back for poetry.
Among the many familiar haiku faces was a young couple at the table next to me, the woman explaining how excited she will be to become a second grade teacher. "I can already see how my classroom will look," she gushes. "I know how my bulletin boards will look!"
Youthful exuberance aside, I flashed back to dinner at the bar with my friend, who'd pointedly said, "I wouldn't go back to being 21 for anything, although I would take back my body then."
Hand to Hand Haiku got started with host Raven Mack riffing on his subject du jour, namely cleaning up the rubble of your life because everyone has it.
Oh, he likened the process to a myth and drove home the point that life is about cleaning up enough of your own personal rubble to create a small space where you could actually breathe a little, but the message was clear.
That's exactly why he's such a great MC - he can do it all. He sets the tone with a revelatory monologue, keeps score and plays cheerleaders to the haiku readers and writes haikus prolifically, honestly and cleverly.
Tonight we got a bonus rant because he'd chosen two flags to identify contestants: Uruguay's with a sun and Angola's with a machete, sending him off on a spirited tangent about the glories of owning machetes and their myriad uses.
Pulling the funny card, he was insistent that if we heard any haikus we'd heard before, we should boo. "Now, here's Ryan," he said to great effect.
Everyone's favorite anarchist was there with her four week old baby happily nursing at her breast (Raven says, "If anyone has a problem with a woman breastfeeding here, you can go outside." I'd already given her my thumbs up) even when she took the stage to read her haikus.
Her first, read in a clear, strong voice, set the tone:
Dude, if you are selling
moonshine legally
Then it's not moonshine. Duh.
Let me just say that hers was far from the only anti-hipster haiku. And Raven's so talented he managed to write haikus about everything from low fat desserts to burning bridges to entering silver crescents.
Only Benjamin, with his haiku about whips, being dominated and his mistress ("It's a good day") topped our host on that subject ("He seems all quiet, but now we know what he's really about..." Raven observed after he read it).
And the young couple next to me surprised us all by getting onstage and facing off, each having written exactly one haiku while they were there.
The judges picked hers over his, but he shrugged happily and said, "At least we did it!" Apply that to most things in life and you'll go far, kids.
There was a loser buy back round allowing those who'd lost in the preliminary rounds to come back for a second shot.
"One of them's going to fail a second time," Raven told the crowd before an older brother beat his younger brother while their Mom filmed the whole thing. The losers brought some fine writing to the buy back round.
Let us be powered
by the twin engines of
peace and tranquility
The powers that be
do a great job of keeping
us in our places
Raven read us a handful from his latest "American" series and they were outstanding and more than a little depressingly honest about things, such as being as American as high fructose corn syrup. Truth.
As American
as demolition of hoods
being called progress
Paul won the whole enchilada, earning himself a haiku-inscribed railroad spike, undoubtedly the most brilliant combination of words and hardware imaginable.
He closed out with a saga of going cross country via train from Charlottesville to Chicago, then bus from there to Seattle, then train to L.A. ("It was cheaper") then bus to New Orleans ("That was rough") before a final train back to C-ville.
His point? That he'd not been disappointed in the goodness of America or its people, in fact, quite the contrary.
His take-home was that we could all benefit from talking to each other more often and that doing so helps each of us deal with our personal rubble clean-up. My take?
We're as happy as
the space we clear out, Rubble
gone means new chances
I'd go so far as to say it's a good day even without the whips.
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Learning from the Past
It's come to this: strangers are mocking me.
That's your conversation piece today: I have Fios!
So that was what Dean, a cable-splicing technician, said to me after I told him that I felt so modern now. This was also after Dean told me that I was the only person he'd ever met who didn't have a cell phone. Dean works for Verizon and had come to change me from an antiquated copper wiring system to whatever fiber optics means.
Apparently 1876 houses are resistant to change because Dean called me at 8:10 (ouch!), arrived at 8:30 (sigh) and stayed until almost noon trying to make it happen. On the plus side, being tied to the apartment for hours meant I got a ton of writing done before I even headed down to Belle Isle to walk.
Where, I might add, the river was crazy high and rushing like a locomotive, all my favorite rock perches were underwater and the island was overrun by outdoor enthusiasts - a fair number of whom were overdressed in jackets - making the most of a warm, sunny day.
I came home to a message from my two favorite septuagenarians inviting me over, assuming I was willing to bring a cup of bleach with me. Fair enough trade for the pleasure of their company. I poured it into a mason jar for the moonshine effect and deposited myself on the Church Hill porch where I found Septie 1 and Septie 2.
This golden weather dictated that we do our storytelling on the porch while watching the neighborhood goings-on - the power washer truck awkwardly turning around, people pretending they meant to end up on a dead-end street, the neighbor laboriously backing his big truck into his small driveway.
And what struck the visitor from Mexico most about porch-sitting? She could smell the river. Of course she's right, but I also realize how spoiled I am that sometimes I don't even notice it. Or maybe I still had it in my nose from walking the island earlier.
All kinds of life event stories were exchanged between the three of us because how better to get to know two colorful women who were roommates for five years?
Septie 2 and I took a walk up the block so she could photograph a fine, old house as a souvenir of the visit. As we're walking, she casually mentions reading about herself in my blog and being struck by the word "septuagenarian," which was how I'd described her. She wasn't yet sure if it wasn't ageism. "I'm going to have to think about that," she told me earnestly.
I made a case for my posts being exactly the opposite, a reminder that age is a state of mind. She's still thinking about it. And that wasn't the only time. She was that true conversationalist who's in it for the marathon, not the sprint.
Between her and Septie 1, her partner in crime whom I've only known for about six months now, it was a ball to watch them bounce off each other. When one comes downstairs dressed for dinner, the other - already in a great dress and fabulous jewelry - looks at her visitor's statement gold earrings and announces, "Those might not go home with you."
Through nonstop blathering and cackling in the living room, I glean all kinds of things about these two - their toughest moments, their ribald adventures - who like to travel as much as I do, but have been around longer to do it.
Photographing them became my hobby for the afternoon because they both radiated happiness at being together and I knew they'd never think to do it.
Much as I dreaded leaving, we had no choice because the dynamic duo were off to a wild game dinner at Julep's and my hired mouth had homework to do. Fingers crossed I'll get to see them tomorrow so we can share more oral histories.
Post dinner, I was off to the final night of UR's Vietnam War film series and tonight's was "Full Metal Jacket," which, predictably, I'd never seen. The funny part was that when I mentioned going to see it, more than one person had concerns for me about its intensity.
Regardless, you don't pass up a free chance to see a classic Kubrick film on the big screen if you can help it. A woman's got to continuously add to her pop culture history knowledge if she knows what's good for her.
All I knew besides Kubrick was that it was made in '87, that it was a Vietnam war flick and that it had two distinct parts.
Hardly surprisingly on Veterans Day, there were lots of them in the audience, and almost as many Marines, making me wonder what it feels like for a vet to see such an anti-war movie from 50 years' distance.
Parts of it were impossible for me to watch, but overall, it didn't pack nearly the over-the-top gruesomeness of present-day movie violence which, mercifully, I only see in previews. It was fascinating to learn that the man who played the brutal drill sergeant really was one and not an actor.
More than once, I was reminded of "Dr. Strangelove," which I only saw for the first time a year ago, because of the black comedy running throughout. That closing shot of the squad walking away singing the Mickey Mouse theme killed me.
Presumably, Kubrick was trying to make us uncomfortable (hello, "A Clockwork Orange") and does so in his usual taut style. Friends were right, I probably couldn't have handled it in 1987, but now, in this life, I can.
The unexpected bonus was the discussion afterwards because there were so many vets in the room. "Wow, what do you say about this movie?" asked our host after the credits rolled.
One pointed out how unrealistic some parts had been while others were completely true to life. A former Marine noticed that the private who committed suicide had the safety on his gun on. Calling continuity!
But the last question asked of the audience was whether or not it was an anti-war film. Several people shook their head "no" and one guy said it had been, but only in parts. What the what?
I'd seen it as virulently anti-war, and I'm not talking about the peace button on Joker's jacket. Maybe it was Kubrick's slyly intelligent filmmaking that wove the condemnations of war into a story of men surviving under the harshest of circumstances that prevented them from noticing Kubrick's message.
Not me. Despite having been awakened at the butt crack of dawn by Dean, I was sharp as a tack.
Damn, I forgot to brag to my septies that I have Fios!
That's your conversation piece today: I have Fios!
So that was what Dean, a cable-splicing technician, said to me after I told him that I felt so modern now. This was also after Dean told me that I was the only person he'd ever met who didn't have a cell phone. Dean works for Verizon and had come to change me from an antiquated copper wiring system to whatever fiber optics means.
Apparently 1876 houses are resistant to change because Dean called me at 8:10 (ouch!), arrived at 8:30 (sigh) and stayed until almost noon trying to make it happen. On the plus side, being tied to the apartment for hours meant I got a ton of writing done before I even headed down to Belle Isle to walk.
Where, I might add, the river was crazy high and rushing like a locomotive, all my favorite rock perches were underwater and the island was overrun by outdoor enthusiasts - a fair number of whom were overdressed in jackets - making the most of a warm, sunny day.
I came home to a message from my two favorite septuagenarians inviting me over, assuming I was willing to bring a cup of bleach with me. Fair enough trade for the pleasure of their company. I poured it into a mason jar for the moonshine effect and deposited myself on the Church Hill porch where I found Septie 1 and Septie 2.
This golden weather dictated that we do our storytelling on the porch while watching the neighborhood goings-on - the power washer truck awkwardly turning around, people pretending they meant to end up on a dead-end street, the neighbor laboriously backing his big truck into his small driveway.
And what struck the visitor from Mexico most about porch-sitting? She could smell the river. Of course she's right, but I also realize how spoiled I am that sometimes I don't even notice it. Or maybe I still had it in my nose from walking the island earlier.
All kinds of life event stories were exchanged between the three of us because how better to get to know two colorful women who were roommates for five years?
Septie 2 and I took a walk up the block so she could photograph a fine, old house as a souvenir of the visit. As we're walking, she casually mentions reading about herself in my blog and being struck by the word "septuagenarian," which was how I'd described her. She wasn't yet sure if it wasn't ageism. "I'm going to have to think about that," she told me earnestly.
I made a case for my posts being exactly the opposite, a reminder that age is a state of mind. She's still thinking about it. And that wasn't the only time. She was that true conversationalist who's in it for the marathon, not the sprint.
Between her and Septie 1, her partner in crime whom I've only known for about six months now, it was a ball to watch them bounce off each other. When one comes downstairs dressed for dinner, the other - already in a great dress and fabulous jewelry - looks at her visitor's statement gold earrings and announces, "Those might not go home with you."
Through nonstop blathering and cackling in the living room, I glean all kinds of things about these two - their toughest moments, their ribald adventures - who like to travel as much as I do, but have been around longer to do it.
Photographing them became my hobby for the afternoon because they both radiated happiness at being together and I knew they'd never think to do it.
Much as I dreaded leaving, we had no choice because the dynamic duo were off to a wild game dinner at Julep's and my hired mouth had homework to do. Fingers crossed I'll get to see them tomorrow so we can share more oral histories.
Post dinner, I was off to the final night of UR's Vietnam War film series and tonight's was "Full Metal Jacket," which, predictably, I'd never seen. The funny part was that when I mentioned going to see it, more than one person had concerns for me about its intensity.
Regardless, you don't pass up a free chance to see a classic Kubrick film on the big screen if you can help it. A woman's got to continuously add to her pop culture history knowledge if she knows what's good for her.
All I knew besides Kubrick was that it was made in '87, that it was a Vietnam war flick and that it had two distinct parts.
Hardly surprisingly on Veterans Day, there were lots of them in the audience, and almost as many Marines, making me wonder what it feels like for a vet to see such an anti-war movie from 50 years' distance.
Parts of it were impossible for me to watch, but overall, it didn't pack nearly the over-the-top gruesomeness of present-day movie violence which, mercifully, I only see in previews. It was fascinating to learn that the man who played the brutal drill sergeant really was one and not an actor.
More than once, I was reminded of "Dr. Strangelove," which I only saw for the first time a year ago, because of the black comedy running throughout. That closing shot of the squad walking away singing the Mickey Mouse theme killed me.
Presumably, Kubrick was trying to make us uncomfortable (hello, "A Clockwork Orange") and does so in his usual taut style. Friends were right, I probably couldn't have handled it in 1987, but now, in this life, I can.
The unexpected bonus was the discussion afterwards because there were so many vets in the room. "Wow, what do you say about this movie?" asked our host after the credits rolled.
One pointed out how unrealistic some parts had been while others were completely true to life. A former Marine noticed that the private who committed suicide had the safety on his gun on. Calling continuity!
But the last question asked of the audience was whether or not it was an anti-war film. Several people shook their head "no" and one guy said it had been, but only in parts. What the what?
I'd seen it as virulently anti-war, and I'm not talking about the peace button on Joker's jacket. Maybe it was Kubrick's slyly intelligent filmmaking that wove the condemnations of war into a story of men surviving under the harshest of circumstances that prevented them from noticing Kubrick's message.
Not me. Despite having been awakened at the butt crack of dawn by Dean, I was sharp as a tack.
Damn, I forgot to brag to my septies that I have Fios!
Thursday, September 10, 2015
The 10,000 Day War
From dolls to the demilitarized zone, I'm keeping my film streak alive.
For the fourth day in a row, I had plans to see a movie. This time it was opening night for UR's new series, "Documenting the Vietnam War: Journalism, Scholarship and Film," conceived to commemorate the 50th anniversary of US involvement there and complement the new Robert Hodierne photography show of war images.
Best of all, the speaker introducing tonight's film was Peter Arnett, as in the Pulitzer Prize-winning war correspondent. That alone would have gotten me to the labyrinthine UR campus whether they showed a movie or not. This was a man with Stories with a capital "S."
Tonight's crowd at Ukrop Auditorium looked to be about 90% people who remember the Vietnam war on the nightly news and 10% students, some with sandwiches in hand, one in a Mumford & Sons t-shirt (yes, I judged him for that) and more than a few arriving after Hodierne had introduced Arnett as a living legend.
The movie Arnett had chosen was "A Bright Shining Lie" from Neil Sheehan's award-winning book about Lt. Colonel John Paul Vann and the US involvement in Vietnam, a movie made ten years after the book came out in 1988.
"By then, memories were fading of the war, so it's not as good a movie as book," Arnett explained. Still, it was the one he wanted us to see before he spoke.
It was an intriguing choice because the film focused on what a critic of the war Vann was, first as a military adviser and then as a civilian adviser, and his unorthodox methods of addressing the situation. Equal parts arrogant and courageous, he was was also a deeply flawed man in his personal life.
I'm sure for many of the students there tonight, the film was a crash course on the trajectory of the war, from the corrupt and incompetent South Vietnamese officials to the deeply flawed US military policy. I doubt many had heard the term "Vietnamize the war" - let them fight what we couldn't win - before.
When Vann unexpectedly dies in a helicopter crash during a rainstorm, not in battle, you got the sense that he would have preferred that random death to seeing the eventual unsatisfactory conclusion of so many years and wasted lives.
But the highlight was the Q & A after the movie with Arnett, who gamely answered question after question, some about his experiences and many about his opinions. Erudite and well-spoken, the man knew everyone.
"I never got along with Westmoreland personally, " he admitted of the military commander who so vexed Vann with his dogmatic approach and fealty to Washington. "At the time, his peers were reluctant to criticize him, but lately they're not so reluctant." Arnett characterized him as an old-school military man who followed orders because that was his job.
He also told us he'd spent a lot of time with Vann back in the day, getting his assessment of events such as the Tet Offensive. "I knew Daniel Ellsberg when he arrived as a hawk, but by 1966-67, he was telling MacNamara the war was unwinnable."
He mentioned that he had been married to a Vietnamese woman (qualifying it with "who hated communists"), particularly interesting because Vann had married a local woman after impregnating her.
A question about the Viet Cong led to Hodierne, the war photographer, sharing that he'd gone back to Vietnam ten years ago to visit the village he'd photographed in 1967 after the US troops burned it. He'd always been curious if the attack had been justified, if the villagers had been Viet Cong.
No one left said they had been, but one old man came out wearing an ancient VC uniform, so Hodierne asked when he'd become VC. "Three days after you burned our village," he'd said.
Multiplied by how many others? Tragic.
Only one question came from a student and it was about what our country had learned from Vietnam.
"We learned not to do it again and then did it again in 2003 in Afghanistan?" Arnett quipped, before giving a more serious answer about how it was a post-war lesson that US power could not be sustained and it wasn't our role to try to impose democracy everywhere we wanted.
If only we had truly learned that lesson.
"It's impressive to see so many people of our years here tonight," Arnett said, looking out at the Boomers who had stayed for the Q & A.
"Speak for yourself," Hodierne joked before asking the Vietnam vets in the audience to stand. There were about ten of them and the rest of us gave them a huge round of applause. Once I saw who they were, I realized several of them had been the ones asking questions of Arnett.
The evening ended with humor when Hodierne thanked Arnett for flying all the way from California to speak, especially considering he wasn't being given an honorarium.
"But we do have a gift for you," he said, pulling a mug out from under the podium. On one side was the University of Richmond crest. On the other side, it read, "I spoke at UR and all I got was this lousy mug."
I went to see a violent war movie, a genre I usually avoid, and all I got was a fascinating evening with a living legend. I won't need a mug to remind me of that.
For the fourth day in a row, I had plans to see a movie. This time it was opening night for UR's new series, "Documenting the Vietnam War: Journalism, Scholarship and Film," conceived to commemorate the 50th anniversary of US involvement there and complement the new Robert Hodierne photography show of war images.
Best of all, the speaker introducing tonight's film was Peter Arnett, as in the Pulitzer Prize-winning war correspondent. That alone would have gotten me to the labyrinthine UR campus whether they showed a movie or not. This was a man with Stories with a capital "S."
Tonight's crowd at Ukrop Auditorium looked to be about 90% people who remember the Vietnam war on the nightly news and 10% students, some with sandwiches in hand, one in a Mumford & Sons t-shirt (yes, I judged him for that) and more than a few arriving after Hodierne had introduced Arnett as a living legend.
The movie Arnett had chosen was "A Bright Shining Lie" from Neil Sheehan's award-winning book about Lt. Colonel John Paul Vann and the US involvement in Vietnam, a movie made ten years after the book came out in 1988.
"By then, memories were fading of the war, so it's not as good a movie as book," Arnett explained. Still, it was the one he wanted us to see before he spoke.
It was an intriguing choice because the film focused on what a critic of the war Vann was, first as a military adviser and then as a civilian adviser, and his unorthodox methods of addressing the situation. Equal parts arrogant and courageous, he was was also a deeply flawed man in his personal life.
I'm sure for many of the students there tonight, the film was a crash course on the trajectory of the war, from the corrupt and incompetent South Vietnamese officials to the deeply flawed US military policy. I doubt many had heard the term "Vietnamize the war" - let them fight what we couldn't win - before.
When Vann unexpectedly dies in a helicopter crash during a rainstorm, not in battle, you got the sense that he would have preferred that random death to seeing the eventual unsatisfactory conclusion of so many years and wasted lives.
But the highlight was the Q & A after the movie with Arnett, who gamely answered question after question, some about his experiences and many about his opinions. Erudite and well-spoken, the man knew everyone.
"I never got along with Westmoreland personally, " he admitted of the military commander who so vexed Vann with his dogmatic approach and fealty to Washington. "At the time, his peers were reluctant to criticize him, but lately they're not so reluctant." Arnett characterized him as an old-school military man who followed orders because that was his job.
He also told us he'd spent a lot of time with Vann back in the day, getting his assessment of events such as the Tet Offensive. "I knew Daniel Ellsberg when he arrived as a hawk, but by 1966-67, he was telling MacNamara the war was unwinnable."
He mentioned that he had been married to a Vietnamese woman (qualifying it with "who hated communists"), particularly interesting because Vann had married a local woman after impregnating her.
A question about the Viet Cong led to Hodierne, the war photographer, sharing that he'd gone back to Vietnam ten years ago to visit the village he'd photographed in 1967 after the US troops burned it. He'd always been curious if the attack had been justified, if the villagers had been Viet Cong.
No one left said they had been, but one old man came out wearing an ancient VC uniform, so Hodierne asked when he'd become VC. "Three days after you burned our village," he'd said.
Multiplied by how many others? Tragic.
Only one question came from a student and it was about what our country had learned from Vietnam.
"We learned not to do it again and then did it again in 2003 in Afghanistan?" Arnett quipped, before giving a more serious answer about how it was a post-war lesson that US power could not be sustained and it wasn't our role to try to impose democracy everywhere we wanted.
If only we had truly learned that lesson.
"It's impressive to see so many people of our years here tonight," Arnett said, looking out at the Boomers who had stayed for the Q & A.
"Speak for yourself," Hodierne joked before asking the Vietnam vets in the audience to stand. There were about ten of them and the rest of us gave them a huge round of applause. Once I saw who they were, I realized several of them had been the ones asking questions of Arnett.
The evening ended with humor when Hodierne thanked Arnett for flying all the way from California to speak, especially considering he wasn't being given an honorarium.
"But we do have a gift for you," he said, pulling a mug out from under the podium. On one side was the University of Richmond crest. On the other side, it read, "I spoke at UR and all I got was this lousy mug."
I went to see a violent war movie, a genre I usually avoid, and all I got was a fascinating evening with a living legend. I won't need a mug to remind me of that.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Never Enough Sun and Sea
Fall is making its imminent arrival known and I'm not at all happy about it.
You see, I'm a summer person, never happier than when it's warm enough that I need a minimum of clothes. Unlike so many people I know, I'm not into scarves, layers and jackets.
So while parts of my walk this morning on the North Bank trail were delightfully sunny and warm, the shaded parts were feeling cooler than they have all summer.
When I got to Texas Beach to wade in, the river was not the bathwater temperature it's been for months now.
That leaves me hoping for many weeks of Indian summer but acknowledging that Fall is just around the corner. Sadly.
The only thing I like about the approaching season is that the cultural calendar is back in swing, meaning things such as UR's international film series, which kicked off tonight.
Before taking on an Italian film on a serious subject, though, I scooted over to Saison for fried chicken night, sliding into the one remaining bar stool between two guys watching football.
The one to the left was gracious, making sure I had enough room and welcoming me while the other was deep in his crossword puzzle.
When he asked if he could have a vodka and pineapple juice, the bartender paused noticeably and then said okay.
Both his friend and I noticed the pause, assuming that the bartender wanted him to consider the cocktail menu and perhaps order something more interesting.
His friend insisted he try something different, but the guy held fast even after tasting the other's drink ("too spicy!").
You have to respect a guy who knows what he wants.
Their half chicken arrived shortly before my quarter chicken did and it was as I was carving into my thigh that the vodka drinker said, "Look at you using a fork and knife."
Putting them down, I explained that I was only cutting into it to release some heat so I'd be able to eat it sooner with my fingers.
"Look, don't mess with her," his friend said cutting into his own. "She's been to fried chicken night here before and knows the deal."
I was pleased to see that tonight's sides were different: a cucumber and red onion marinated salad and cornbread, but not that sticky sweet variety that passes for cornbread so many places these days.
No, this was a much drier crumb and not nearly as sweet, much closer to my Richmond grandmother's classic cornbread.
You know how I do, smearing honey butter all over it, but Mr. Vodka couldn't get behind the honey butter. Too weird, he claimed, although he loved the cuke salad.
When I abruptly got up to leave for my movie, he turned to me smiling and said, "Thanks for our first dinner date."
Went pretty well for strangers, don't you think?
Then it was on to University of Richmond where I joined a decidedly mixed audience, half students and half middle-aged and up.
Tonight's offering was "Miele," which means honey and was the title character's nickname, interesting because her occupation was assisting people with suicide due to terminal illness.
The directorial debut of Valeria Golino, it was a beautifully shot, gorgeously lit character study highlighting the beauty of life and the importance of music.
What struck me was that the film didn't take a position on assisted suicide, just showed suffering people who had made the decision to check out, so Honey felt she was helping them with their request.
That is, until a man asks for her to provide the drugs to do it himself (a first since she always attends the ritual, providing the drug and often the music), which she reluctantly does.
Only afterwards does she learn that he has no terminal illness, he's just depressed and tired of life.
The rest of the film follows their relationship as she tries to talk him out of it and he holds fast to his plans.
Spotting the stud in her tongue he asks about it and she explains it has Aztec roots but he's unimpressed.
"Contemporary idiocy knows no limits," he observes. Amen to that.
When he finally comes to visit her at her tiny and spare oceanfront house, he comments, "Too much sun, too much sea, too much wind," summarily dismissing her choice of habitation.
Oh, and P.S., there's no such thing, in my humble opinion.
Not one but two older couples got up and walked out after seeing the second assisted suicide, not at all a violent thing to watch but most definitely a sad one to see the reaction of the loved one who remains.
Their loss. They missed a visually stunning film, honest to its core, with the kind of complex characters superbly acted rarely seen in American films. A film that never came to Richmond.
My summer days are waning and Fall is beginning to seem like an inevitability but at least the culture quotient is seeing an uptick.
And no matter the season, there's always the beauty of life and the importance of music..honey.
You see, I'm a summer person, never happier than when it's warm enough that I need a minimum of clothes. Unlike so many people I know, I'm not into scarves, layers and jackets.
So while parts of my walk this morning on the North Bank trail were delightfully sunny and warm, the shaded parts were feeling cooler than they have all summer.
When I got to Texas Beach to wade in, the river was not the bathwater temperature it's been for months now.
That leaves me hoping for many weeks of Indian summer but acknowledging that Fall is just around the corner. Sadly.
The only thing I like about the approaching season is that the cultural calendar is back in swing, meaning things such as UR's international film series, which kicked off tonight.
Before taking on an Italian film on a serious subject, though, I scooted over to Saison for fried chicken night, sliding into the one remaining bar stool between two guys watching football.
The one to the left was gracious, making sure I had enough room and welcoming me while the other was deep in his crossword puzzle.
When he asked if he could have a vodka and pineapple juice, the bartender paused noticeably and then said okay.
Both his friend and I noticed the pause, assuming that the bartender wanted him to consider the cocktail menu and perhaps order something more interesting.
His friend insisted he try something different, but the guy held fast even after tasting the other's drink ("too spicy!").
You have to respect a guy who knows what he wants.
Their half chicken arrived shortly before my quarter chicken did and it was as I was carving into my thigh that the vodka drinker said, "Look at you using a fork and knife."
Putting them down, I explained that I was only cutting into it to release some heat so I'd be able to eat it sooner with my fingers.
"Look, don't mess with her," his friend said cutting into his own. "She's been to fried chicken night here before and knows the deal."
I was pleased to see that tonight's sides were different: a cucumber and red onion marinated salad and cornbread, but not that sticky sweet variety that passes for cornbread so many places these days.
No, this was a much drier crumb and not nearly as sweet, much closer to my Richmond grandmother's classic cornbread.
You know how I do, smearing honey butter all over it, but Mr. Vodka couldn't get behind the honey butter. Too weird, he claimed, although he loved the cuke salad.
When I abruptly got up to leave for my movie, he turned to me smiling and said, "Thanks for our first dinner date."
Went pretty well for strangers, don't you think?
Then it was on to University of Richmond where I joined a decidedly mixed audience, half students and half middle-aged and up.
Tonight's offering was "Miele," which means honey and was the title character's nickname, interesting because her occupation was assisting people with suicide due to terminal illness.
The directorial debut of Valeria Golino, it was a beautifully shot, gorgeously lit character study highlighting the beauty of life and the importance of music.
What struck me was that the film didn't take a position on assisted suicide, just showed suffering people who had made the decision to check out, so Honey felt she was helping them with their request.
That is, until a man asks for her to provide the drugs to do it himself (a first since she always attends the ritual, providing the drug and often the music), which she reluctantly does.
Only afterwards does she learn that he has no terminal illness, he's just depressed and tired of life.
The rest of the film follows their relationship as she tries to talk him out of it and he holds fast to his plans.
Spotting the stud in her tongue he asks about it and she explains it has Aztec roots but he's unimpressed.
"Contemporary idiocy knows no limits," he observes. Amen to that.
When he finally comes to visit her at her tiny and spare oceanfront house, he comments, "Too much sun, too much sea, too much wind," summarily dismissing her choice of habitation.
Oh, and P.S., there's no such thing, in my humble opinion.
Not one but two older couples got up and walked out after seeing the second assisted suicide, not at all a violent thing to watch but most definitely a sad one to see the reaction of the loved one who remains.
Their loss. They missed a visually stunning film, honest to its core, with the kind of complex characters superbly acted rarely seen in American films. A film that never came to Richmond.
My summer days are waning and Fall is beginning to seem like an inevitability but at least the culture quotient is seeing an uptick.
And no matter the season, there's always the beauty of life and the importance of music..honey.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Heaven Knows
Sometimes a gamble pays off.
After seeing a link to band Johnnyswim's Tiny Desk Concert on NPR Monday, I gave them a listen. Why not? She's Donna Summer's daughter and they were playing UR tonight, so it seemed at the very least worth a look.
I got up from watching the NPR clip and drove directly to UR to buy a ticket for the show even though a half hour before, I'd never heard of Johnnyswim.
Sitting in my third row center seat tonight, a woman sat down next to me, also by herself. When I asked what had brought her, she told me she'd driven from Hampton after months waiting for them to play anywhere close to home.
She'd seen them open for another band last year and had been on a mission ever since to see them headline. Another good indicator that I was in the right place.
The husband and wife duo of Amanda and Abner came out with a drummer, guitarist and bassist behind them and proceeded to flirt and sing with each other while their music crossed genres of soul, country, Cuban, pop and folk.
It didn't hurt that both of them are gorgeous and obviously madly in love. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those things.
The show began with them facing each other to sing "Falling for Me." He had his acoustic guitar in hand (although Hampton woman told me he's a classically trained violinist) and she would grab the fullness of her skirt as she leaned forward and into him to sing.
I'm looking for a hand to hold me
You're just looking for a chance to bring me to my knees
After that first song, he shrugged and said, "We're Johnnyswim. This is what we do."
By that, he meant they sang well-crafted songs, both of them with fabulous voices, she swayed and sashayed and between songs they told stories and shared bits about their relationship and life.
Unlike me, there were people in the audience who knew of these guys before Monday, including one who, while they were singing "A Million Years," took it upon himself to sing the "oh, oh, oh, oh" part to perfection.
In a million years, tell me, will they think about us, dear?
Tell me will the star keep shining even when our bodies disappear?
Abner was so impressed he entreated the rest of us to join that guy and sing more of the "oh, oh" part.
"I think we can all agree that you're super sexy when you sing in Spanish," Amanda said to her husband before turning back to us. "Wouldn't you like to hear a Cuban song?" We would.
He cracked wise, asking if anyone in the crowd spoke Spanish. "Okay, so about a dozen of you will know I'm making up words," he joked before doing a beautiful song he said was a favorite of his tone-deaf father.
When he sang alone, she crouched nearby, the folds of her skirt covering her legs, staring intently at his face.
There was what he characterized as an angry song that he stopped mid-strum because he'd noticed in his shadow that his hair was looking crazy. Running his hand through it, he said, "Okay, now back to that dark, angry place."
"Live While We're Young" might as well have been their anthem as they traded off lead vocals.
Make no mistake, we'll live while we're young
We'll chase down the sun
hands off the brake
We can die when we're done.
Together they told the story of how they got engaged which involved ten days in Paris and her not knowing that's what they were going for. He was resolved to propose on the third anniversary of their first date and equally resolved not to do it at the Eiffel Tower.
They ended up on a lighted bridge after she suggested it and he said it was then that he learned that she's always right.
No wonder she said yes to his proposal. If a man thinks you're always right, he's worth hanging on to.
That experience led to "Paris in June" because everything that happens in their life is fodder for a song (or a blog, as the case may be).
Oh how lovely you seem
Each day I fall for you
and you keep falling for me
At one point, they moved away from the mics and came to the very lip of the stage, which was only a few feet in front of me, saying they were going to take us to Nashville, where they'd originally met.
They then sang off-mic, doing the classic Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazelwood song, "Jackson," although it was impossible to imagine that the fire in their marriage could ever go out.
Their first album just came out two weeks ago and it was obvious they were bursting with pride about it. It occurred to me that I was catching them at exactly the right moment, just in case the starmaker machine eventually wears them down and out.
I hope it doesn't because theirs are not only two voices that stand out head and shoulders above so much of current music, but their charmingly sweet mutual attraction is a delight to witness.
Driving home from UR, I decided to make a pit stop at Curry Craft because today is (drum roll, please) National Aperitif Day and I had nothing better to do than celebrate that.
Some would say I need to get a life.
The bartender, sure I wanted wine, was overjoyed to hear the occasion and that I was in search of a mixed drink, something I usually disdain.
The lovely pink colored libation started clean and light and as it warmed up a bit took on notes of grapefruit peel, a lovely thing to have in a glass.
As I sipped it, I struck up a conversation with a nearby bar sitter who was two days back from a week in Costa Rica, where she'd been part of a fishing group that had caught a 10' blue marlin.
Explaining that the boat captain usually did "catch and release," this time the fish became dinner because it had swallowed the hook, making release impossible.
As we chatted, it occurred to me that an apperitif is intended to whet the appetite and now that I had a bit of one, what I wanted was dessert.
The chef had recently come up with a new flavor of kulfi, so I took a chance on banana and lime, a delicately nuanced combination that sang with fresh flavor.
Trying new bands, drinks and desserts. I'm Karen and this is what I do.
After seeing a link to band Johnnyswim's Tiny Desk Concert on NPR Monday, I gave them a listen. Why not? She's Donna Summer's daughter and they were playing UR tonight, so it seemed at the very least worth a look.
I got up from watching the NPR clip and drove directly to UR to buy a ticket for the show even though a half hour before, I'd never heard of Johnnyswim.
Sitting in my third row center seat tonight, a woman sat down next to me, also by herself. When I asked what had brought her, she told me she'd driven from Hampton after months waiting for them to play anywhere close to home.
She'd seen them open for another band last year and had been on a mission ever since to see them headline. Another good indicator that I was in the right place.
The husband and wife duo of Amanda and Abner came out with a drummer, guitarist and bassist behind them and proceeded to flirt and sing with each other while their music crossed genres of soul, country, Cuban, pop and folk.
It didn't hurt that both of them are gorgeous and obviously madly in love. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those things.
The show began with them facing each other to sing "Falling for Me." He had his acoustic guitar in hand (although Hampton woman told me he's a classically trained violinist) and she would grab the fullness of her skirt as she leaned forward and into him to sing.
I'm looking for a hand to hold me
You're just looking for a chance to bring me to my knees
After that first song, he shrugged and said, "We're Johnnyswim. This is what we do."
By that, he meant they sang well-crafted songs, both of them with fabulous voices, she swayed and sashayed and between songs they told stories and shared bits about their relationship and life.
Unlike me, there were people in the audience who knew of these guys before Monday, including one who, while they were singing "A Million Years," took it upon himself to sing the "oh, oh, oh, oh" part to perfection.
In a million years, tell me, will they think about us, dear?
Tell me will the star keep shining even when our bodies disappear?
Abner was so impressed he entreated the rest of us to join that guy and sing more of the "oh, oh" part.
"I think we can all agree that you're super sexy when you sing in Spanish," Amanda said to her husband before turning back to us. "Wouldn't you like to hear a Cuban song?" We would.
He cracked wise, asking if anyone in the crowd spoke Spanish. "Okay, so about a dozen of you will know I'm making up words," he joked before doing a beautiful song he said was a favorite of his tone-deaf father.
When he sang alone, she crouched nearby, the folds of her skirt covering her legs, staring intently at his face.
There was what he characterized as an angry song that he stopped mid-strum because he'd noticed in his shadow that his hair was looking crazy. Running his hand through it, he said, "Okay, now back to that dark, angry place."
"Live While We're Young" might as well have been their anthem as they traded off lead vocals.
Make no mistake, we'll live while we're young
We'll chase down the sun
hands off the brake
We can die when we're done.
Together they told the story of how they got engaged which involved ten days in Paris and her not knowing that's what they were going for. He was resolved to propose on the third anniversary of their first date and equally resolved not to do it at the Eiffel Tower.
They ended up on a lighted bridge after she suggested it and he said it was then that he learned that she's always right.
No wonder she said yes to his proposal. If a man thinks you're always right, he's worth hanging on to.
That experience led to "Paris in June" because everything that happens in their life is fodder for a song (or a blog, as the case may be).
Oh how lovely you seem
Each day I fall for you
and you keep falling for me
At one point, they moved away from the mics and came to the very lip of the stage, which was only a few feet in front of me, saying they were going to take us to Nashville, where they'd originally met.
They then sang off-mic, doing the classic Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazelwood song, "Jackson," although it was impossible to imagine that the fire in their marriage could ever go out.
Their first album just came out two weeks ago and it was obvious they were bursting with pride about it. It occurred to me that I was catching them at exactly the right moment, just in case the starmaker machine eventually wears them down and out.
I hope it doesn't because theirs are not only two voices that stand out head and shoulders above so much of current music, but their charmingly sweet mutual attraction is a delight to witness.
Driving home from UR, I decided to make a pit stop at Curry Craft because today is (drum roll, please) National Aperitif Day and I had nothing better to do than celebrate that.
Some would say I need to get a life.
The bartender, sure I wanted wine, was overjoyed to hear the occasion and that I was in search of a mixed drink, something I usually disdain.
The lovely pink colored libation started clean and light and as it warmed up a bit took on notes of grapefruit peel, a lovely thing to have in a glass.
As I sipped it, I struck up a conversation with a nearby bar sitter who was two days back from a week in Costa Rica, where she'd been part of a fishing group that had caught a 10' blue marlin.
Explaining that the boat captain usually did "catch and release," this time the fish became dinner because it had swallowed the hook, making release impossible.
As we chatted, it occurred to me that an apperitif is intended to whet the appetite and now that I had a bit of one, what I wanted was dessert.
The chef had recently come up with a new flavor of kulfi, so I took a chance on banana and lime, a delicately nuanced combination that sang with fresh flavor.
Trying new bands, drinks and desserts. I'm Karen and this is what I do.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Helluva Hootenanny
It isn't every Monday night that a musicologist with ties to folk royalty hits Richmond.
But tonight was UR's annual Neumann lecture and the speaker was Tony Seeger, UCLA professor emeritus and director emeritus of the Smithsonian Folkways Recordings.
Not to mention Pete Seeger's nephew, so given the legend's death last week, we got part music talk, "Is Music Prophetic or Reflexive? Music, Activism and Social Change," and part family tribute to his uncle.
Walking in to Camp Concert hall at UR, I heard a woman motioning a friend to her row with the entreaty, "This is the 'Hootenanny' crowd."
I have to assume what she meant was here were the people old enough to remember when Pete Seeger was blacklisted from the "Hootenanny" TV show for his overly left wing views.
I didn't qualify, so I sat elsewhere, but I did spot a row of WRIR DJs front and center.
Coming onstage, Seeger used a banjo ("My travel banjo," he called it. "It didn't travel too well") and a computer to give a lively talk and singalong about protest music and his uncle.
It was a far-ranging talk starting with his assumption that all cultures had protest music. Not so, he discovered while studying Brazilian music which had not only no protest songs, but no children's songs or love songs.
Refusing to sing or dance constituted protest for Brazilians, a novel concept to a mouthy culture like ours.
He put the lyrics to "We Shall Not Be Moved" on the screen and then played banjo and led us in singing it, encouraging us first to be louder and then to try it with harmony
"The experience of singing together is part of what this talk is about," he said.
Discussing whether protest music was reflective (like the laments of the blues) or prophetic (music that gives direction or information and leads to change), he showed a quote to explain the power of music.
"People read a pamphlet only once but sing a song a thousand times," said Joe Hill, an IWW member and songwriter of the early 1900s.
Explaining that political parties had songbooks up until the '20s or '30s, he sang one about John Quincy Adams and how if he wasn't elected, Satan was coming.
Imagine what they could have come up with for Nixon or W.
Saying that the union movement was a singing movement because it was more fun for unionizers to sing than to listen to speakers, he proceeded to sing "Union Maid" about a female worker.
Having firmly grounded us in protest musicology, he got down to family business with a picture of the Seeger clan backstage at Carnegie Hall in 1963.
In it, he was a teen and I'm sure to the students in the room there was no resemblance between the young man in the photograph and the one on stage 50 years older.
He said the key to protest music's role was what it meant to people and that was affected by all kinds of factors: changing the speed of the song, the volume, or even the place and time.
To illustrate his point, he played Hendrix's rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" at Woodstock, something I am embarrassed to say I've heard but never seen.
I was mesmerized by how beautiful his hands were, the fingers long and expressive, but not everyone was.
When the lights came up, half the students were grinning like fools and the other half were texting, ignoring the performance all together.
Does it say something about me that I wanted to slap the phones out of their hands and banish them from the room because they were not worthy?
Probably.
Seeger made the point that even when no words were sung, changing the speed and place of the anthem amounted to using sound to make a statement.
He showed another video clip about Seeger's civil rights movement work, singing "We Shall Overcome."
The footage of Pete Seeger had him saying all he'd done was add a few verses and change "will" to "shall" and that he'd gotten far too much credit for that song.
Everyone else interviewed disagreed, saying him singing it had played a huge role in the movement.
We even saw a short clip of him singing "If I Had a Hammer," to a school group, a song I remember singing in music class in elementary school.
And throughout the videos and the talk, Tony Seeger would periodically have us singing "We Shall Not Be Moved" again and again.
Pete Seeger's last big effort had been years spent in getting the Hudson River cleaned up, so he'd built a sloop called "Clearwater" and performed on it up and down the river so people would notice how polluted it was and start cleaning it up.
No surprise, it worked and the river became swimmable and clean again.
The talk couldn't end until we sang together some more and harmonized one last time, his final slide saying, "Sing together," a message that might as well have come from his uncle.
During the Q & A, someone asked why Seeger had gotten so angry with Dylan when he went electric for the first time at the Newport Folk Fest.
When Seeger began with, "Well, I was 17 or 18 and I was there," I knew we were in for a good story.
He explained that part of the beauty of Newport was that it was a democratic event with all performers being paid the same and no one getting more attention or time than anyone else.
So when Dylan plugged in at an all-acoustic festival, his music became louder than everyone else's.
And since there weren't supposed to be electric instruments, the equipment wasn't designed for anything but acoustic. "The sound was an unholy mess," Seeger recalled, unpleasant and muddy. "it became an unequal field for the other musicians."
Imagine hearing first-hand why Pete Seeger took issue with Dylan for plugging in from someone who not only was there, but talked to his uncle about it afterwards.
Man, I love me some musicology.
After that kind of excitement, I could hardly go home so I stopped by the Camel to catch the last band of a three-band set.
Quintet Clair Morgan was getting set up, so I talked to the dance party king about the local DJ scene and the pot roast his brother had made him for dinner.
I checked in with the friend I'd seen Saturday night to see if he'd followed through on his plans to sleep in and take a bike ride in yesterday's glorious warmth.
Yes to the first, no to the ride, but he had spent the afternoon on his porch and proudly shared that he'd left his phone at work the day before, so he'd not only had porch time but a phone-free day.
Kind of like every day for me.
The band was having problems with their computer, eventually electing to start even though it wasn't working, meaning some songs were absent the ambient sound the computer provides.
But Clair's voice, songwriting and guitar playing are all stellar, so the band rallied around and made do without technology.
Toward the end, he taught the crowd a line for us to sing and had us practice, so I found myself once again singing together with others.
Instructing us to sing louder once he began the rest of the song, he said, "You, guy-on-a-first-date, sing really loud and she'll be impressed. So impressed she'll go out for coffee with you."
Maybe even come to your apartment and listen to Sigur Ros with you. Eventually move in.
As I learned tonight, such is the power of singing together.
But tonight was UR's annual Neumann lecture and the speaker was Tony Seeger, UCLA professor emeritus and director emeritus of the Smithsonian Folkways Recordings.
Not to mention Pete Seeger's nephew, so given the legend's death last week, we got part music talk, "Is Music Prophetic or Reflexive? Music, Activism and Social Change," and part family tribute to his uncle.
Walking in to Camp Concert hall at UR, I heard a woman motioning a friend to her row with the entreaty, "This is the 'Hootenanny' crowd."
I have to assume what she meant was here were the people old enough to remember when Pete Seeger was blacklisted from the "Hootenanny" TV show for his overly left wing views.
I didn't qualify, so I sat elsewhere, but I did spot a row of WRIR DJs front and center.
Coming onstage, Seeger used a banjo ("My travel banjo," he called it. "It didn't travel too well") and a computer to give a lively talk and singalong about protest music and his uncle.
It was a far-ranging talk starting with his assumption that all cultures had protest music. Not so, he discovered while studying Brazilian music which had not only no protest songs, but no children's songs or love songs.
Refusing to sing or dance constituted protest for Brazilians, a novel concept to a mouthy culture like ours.
He put the lyrics to "We Shall Not Be Moved" on the screen and then played banjo and led us in singing it, encouraging us first to be louder and then to try it with harmony
"The experience of singing together is part of what this talk is about," he said.
Discussing whether protest music was reflective (like the laments of the blues) or prophetic (music that gives direction or information and leads to change), he showed a quote to explain the power of music.
"People read a pamphlet only once but sing a song a thousand times," said Joe Hill, an IWW member and songwriter of the early 1900s.
Explaining that political parties had songbooks up until the '20s or '30s, he sang one about John Quincy Adams and how if he wasn't elected, Satan was coming.
Imagine what they could have come up with for Nixon or W.
Saying that the union movement was a singing movement because it was more fun for unionizers to sing than to listen to speakers, he proceeded to sing "Union Maid" about a female worker.
Having firmly grounded us in protest musicology, he got down to family business with a picture of the Seeger clan backstage at Carnegie Hall in 1963.
In it, he was a teen and I'm sure to the students in the room there was no resemblance between the young man in the photograph and the one on stage 50 years older.
He said the key to protest music's role was what it meant to people and that was affected by all kinds of factors: changing the speed of the song, the volume, or even the place and time.
To illustrate his point, he played Hendrix's rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" at Woodstock, something I am embarrassed to say I've heard but never seen.
I was mesmerized by how beautiful his hands were, the fingers long and expressive, but not everyone was.
When the lights came up, half the students were grinning like fools and the other half were texting, ignoring the performance all together.
Does it say something about me that I wanted to slap the phones out of their hands and banish them from the room because they were not worthy?
Probably.
Seeger made the point that even when no words were sung, changing the speed and place of the anthem amounted to using sound to make a statement.
He showed another video clip about Seeger's civil rights movement work, singing "We Shall Overcome."
The footage of Pete Seeger had him saying all he'd done was add a few verses and change "will" to "shall" and that he'd gotten far too much credit for that song.
Everyone else interviewed disagreed, saying him singing it had played a huge role in the movement.
We even saw a short clip of him singing "If I Had a Hammer," to a school group, a song I remember singing in music class in elementary school.
And throughout the videos and the talk, Tony Seeger would periodically have us singing "We Shall Not Be Moved" again and again.
Pete Seeger's last big effort had been years spent in getting the Hudson River cleaned up, so he'd built a sloop called "Clearwater" and performed on it up and down the river so people would notice how polluted it was and start cleaning it up.
No surprise, it worked and the river became swimmable and clean again.
The talk couldn't end until we sang together some more and harmonized one last time, his final slide saying, "Sing together," a message that might as well have come from his uncle.
During the Q & A, someone asked why Seeger had gotten so angry with Dylan when he went electric for the first time at the Newport Folk Fest.
When Seeger began with, "Well, I was 17 or 18 and I was there," I knew we were in for a good story.
He explained that part of the beauty of Newport was that it was a democratic event with all performers being paid the same and no one getting more attention or time than anyone else.
So when Dylan plugged in at an all-acoustic festival, his music became louder than everyone else's.
And since there weren't supposed to be electric instruments, the equipment wasn't designed for anything but acoustic. "The sound was an unholy mess," Seeger recalled, unpleasant and muddy. "it became an unequal field for the other musicians."
Imagine hearing first-hand why Pete Seeger took issue with Dylan for plugging in from someone who not only was there, but talked to his uncle about it afterwards.
Man, I love me some musicology.
After that kind of excitement, I could hardly go home so I stopped by the Camel to catch the last band of a three-band set.
Quintet Clair Morgan was getting set up, so I talked to the dance party king about the local DJ scene and the pot roast his brother had made him for dinner.
I checked in with the friend I'd seen Saturday night to see if he'd followed through on his plans to sleep in and take a bike ride in yesterday's glorious warmth.
Yes to the first, no to the ride, but he had spent the afternoon on his porch and proudly shared that he'd left his phone at work the day before, so he'd not only had porch time but a phone-free day.
Kind of like every day for me.
The band was having problems with their computer, eventually electing to start even though it wasn't working, meaning some songs were absent the ambient sound the computer provides.
But Clair's voice, songwriting and guitar playing are all stellar, so the band rallied around and made do without technology.
Toward the end, he taught the crowd a line for us to sing and had us practice, so I found myself once again singing together with others.
Instructing us to sing louder once he began the rest of the song, he said, "You, guy-on-a-first-date, sing really loud and she'll be impressed. So impressed she'll go out for coffee with you."
Maybe even come to your apartment and listen to Sigur Ros with you. Eventually move in.
As I learned tonight, such is the power of singing together.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Across the Universe
A friend recently called me a hedonist.
Giving credence to his theory, I sold out history and literature for wine and conversation.
My intention was to go to the Library of Virginia to hear Dr. Barbara Perry talk about her new book, "Rose Kennedy: The Life and Times of a Political Matriarch."
And wouldn't you just know that as I was getting dressed for that, an e-mail came in asking if I was free for cocktail hour?
Call me what I am, a sell-out.
Off to Lemaire I went for Renoto Feudo Maccari Nero d'Alva and Syrah, a full-bodied wine with a hint of smoke but I at least made it clear to my friend that I had limited time.
I was going to fit in some culture tonight, come hell or high water.
Before long, we had a third join us and because they're both in the business, most of the talk centered around restaurants.
Who's selling what (and why!), stations versus pooling tips (they hadn't seen the NYT article), and the food truck craze.
We ordered sustenance - fried barcat oysters, pimento cheese and tuna tartare- but before I got three bites in, it was time for me to go.
Destination: an art lecture at University of Richmond.
Curator Phyllis Wrynn was giving a talk about "Leon Bibel: Art, Activism and the WPA," the new exhibit that just opened.
I don't know about you, but the WPA fascinates me.
The idea of government stepping in to keep the creative class employed during tough economic times seems as relevant today as it was during the Great Depression.
Wrynn's a New Yorker, so her talk was given at New Yorker speed (fine by me) as she flipped through a presentation of everything from Bibel's work to the Daily Show to a "Metropolis" clip.
The show's themes of racism, unemployment, social injustice, poverty and war could have been taken from today's headlines.
I was particularly struck by her comparison of the Renaissance and the WPA era; both periods represented a spectacularly comprehensive sponsorship of the arts by a governing body.
Oh, if only such a thing were possible today.
Walking through the exhibit, it's impressive how many formats Bibel used, everything from silk-screening (previously only used for posters and advertising), lithography and dry point to watercolor and oils.
And all of them with a message.
By the time I left campus, my brain felt sufficiently fed to allow for more debauchery, so I stopped at Secco for a bite.
The tables were mostly full but there was a lone seat at the bar (hello, beautiful) and the servers and I concluded that it may have been due to Carytown restaurant week, in which they were not participating.
Keeping my Sicilian theme going, I ordered a glass of Fondo Antico "Aprile," a refreshing Rose (if not now, when?) bursting with cherry flavors and got a thumbs up from my server.
The music, as always, was loud enough and appealingly chosen, if a little surprising to hear the Beatles in between the Arcade Fire and Franz Ferdinand.
Not long after I sat down, the couples on both sides of me decided to leave and, I swear, it wasn't two minutes before all four seats were again occupied.
Before I could look for company, though, I had to order, choosing fettucini with rock shrimp, rapini, espelette butter and topped by a fried egg.
When it arrived, the woman sitting next to me took one look at it, laid her menu down and told the server, "I'll have what she has."
It was my "When Harry Met Sally" moment, but without the moaning.
She made a good call because the red chili pepper in the sauce was an inspired choice to update a rich, buttery pasta dish.
The couple on the other side shared that they'd been to the Daily and had been underwhelmed, both by the food and the crowd.
"It'll be interesting to see how it holds up once they're not the new kid on the block," she sniffed. Won't it?
Not that I needed more food, but Chef Mike had come up with a new dish (it was right there on Facebook), so I had to get it.
Paired with a half glass of Bauer Riesling, the seared scallops with parsnip puree, Tuscan kale and pickled mushrooms and cashews was as decadent as my last dish and every bit as delightfully unique.
Fortunately, since I had no capacity to move, that's when a nearby bar sitter began a travel discussion with me, telling me about her escapades in Florence and wanting to hear mine.
Seems she'd gone with a group of twelve and by the fourth day was tired of their company.
She was especially disdainful of those who couldn't get their bearings.
You've got the river here and the cathedral there so you're never really lost, she'd told them.
Right she was, since that's exactly how I'd oriented myself while there. It's not rocket science, kids.
Conveniently, that was the day she met two charming Australians and decided to spend the next 36 hours seeing the city with them.
From what I was told, they were far better company than the group had been.
And I thought I'd had a great time in Florence.
Well, I had, but I'm also a hedonist, so I pretty much have a great time whatever I do, whomever I'm with.
They don't even have to be Australian...and in most cases, one will do.
Giving credence to his theory, I sold out history and literature for wine and conversation.
My intention was to go to the Library of Virginia to hear Dr. Barbara Perry talk about her new book, "Rose Kennedy: The Life and Times of a Political Matriarch."
And wouldn't you just know that as I was getting dressed for that, an e-mail came in asking if I was free for cocktail hour?
Call me what I am, a sell-out.
Off to Lemaire I went for Renoto Feudo Maccari Nero d'Alva and Syrah, a full-bodied wine with a hint of smoke but I at least made it clear to my friend that I had limited time.
I was going to fit in some culture tonight, come hell or high water.
Before long, we had a third join us and because they're both in the business, most of the talk centered around restaurants.
Who's selling what (and why!), stations versus pooling tips (they hadn't seen the NYT article), and the food truck craze.
We ordered sustenance - fried barcat oysters, pimento cheese and tuna tartare- but before I got three bites in, it was time for me to go.
Destination: an art lecture at University of Richmond.
Curator Phyllis Wrynn was giving a talk about "Leon Bibel: Art, Activism and the WPA," the new exhibit that just opened.
I don't know about you, but the WPA fascinates me.
The idea of government stepping in to keep the creative class employed during tough economic times seems as relevant today as it was during the Great Depression.
Wrynn's a New Yorker, so her talk was given at New Yorker speed (fine by me) as she flipped through a presentation of everything from Bibel's work to the Daily Show to a "Metropolis" clip.
The show's themes of racism, unemployment, social injustice, poverty and war could have been taken from today's headlines.
I was particularly struck by her comparison of the Renaissance and the WPA era; both periods represented a spectacularly comprehensive sponsorship of the arts by a governing body.
Oh, if only such a thing were possible today.
Walking through the exhibit, it's impressive how many formats Bibel used, everything from silk-screening (previously only used for posters and advertising), lithography and dry point to watercolor and oils.
And all of them with a message.
By the time I left campus, my brain felt sufficiently fed to allow for more debauchery, so I stopped at Secco for a bite.
The tables were mostly full but there was a lone seat at the bar (hello, beautiful) and the servers and I concluded that it may have been due to Carytown restaurant week, in which they were not participating.
Keeping my Sicilian theme going, I ordered a glass of Fondo Antico "Aprile," a refreshing Rose (if not now, when?) bursting with cherry flavors and got a thumbs up from my server.
The music, as always, was loud enough and appealingly chosen, if a little surprising to hear the Beatles in between the Arcade Fire and Franz Ferdinand.
Not long after I sat down, the couples on both sides of me decided to leave and, I swear, it wasn't two minutes before all four seats were again occupied.
Before I could look for company, though, I had to order, choosing fettucini with rock shrimp, rapini, espelette butter and topped by a fried egg.
When it arrived, the woman sitting next to me took one look at it, laid her menu down and told the server, "I'll have what she has."
It was my "When Harry Met Sally" moment, but without the moaning.
She made a good call because the red chili pepper in the sauce was an inspired choice to update a rich, buttery pasta dish.
The couple on the other side shared that they'd been to the Daily and had been underwhelmed, both by the food and the crowd.
"It'll be interesting to see how it holds up once they're not the new kid on the block," she sniffed. Won't it?
Not that I needed more food, but Chef Mike had come up with a new dish (it was right there on Facebook), so I had to get it.
Paired with a half glass of Bauer Riesling, the seared scallops with parsnip puree, Tuscan kale and pickled mushrooms and cashews was as decadent as my last dish and every bit as delightfully unique.
Fortunately, since I had no capacity to move, that's when a nearby bar sitter began a travel discussion with me, telling me about her escapades in Florence and wanting to hear mine.
Seems she'd gone with a group of twelve and by the fourth day was tired of their company.
She was especially disdainful of those who couldn't get their bearings.
You've got the river here and the cathedral there so you're never really lost, she'd told them.
Right she was, since that's exactly how I'd oriented myself while there. It's not rocket science, kids.
Conveniently, that was the day she met two charming Australians and decided to spend the next 36 hours seeing the city with them.
From what I was told, they were far better company than the group had been.
And I thought I'd had a great time in Florence.
Well, I had, but I'm also a hedonist, so I pretty much have a great time whatever I do, whomever I'm with.
They don't even have to be Australian...and in most cases, one will do.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Pancakes and Purple Martins
The day began with a mutual admiration society brunch.
At Lunch, which for a while, played out a bit like "who's on first?" for one of our trio.
Once she was clear that we were meeting at Lunch but not for lunch, things could move forward.
The only requirement of our third was that mimosas be available and they were.
We only had to wait fifteen minutes for a table and we used that time outside to cover some preliminary bases.
Who did what on Record Store Day and whose hair looked like a punk rocker's.
If this sounds like it was going to be a major debriefing, it was, only because the three of us had not been out together since election day.
And that day, one of us had been so nervous about the outcome that she could hardly even dish for looking at the results on the TV screen.
You wouldn't think three women who like each so much would wait so long in between dates, but life always seems to intervene.
Mimosas and Bloodies in hand, we looked around on the menu to see what suited whom.
I'd gone in knowing I'd be having syrup-drenched pancakes and sausage patties, but the other two were unsure.
Not surprisingly, the one who'd had a chocolate bar for breakfast was looking for something savory like a quesadilla.
It was her first time with eggs in a tortilla, confirming that we need to get her out more.
The one with the mimosa requirement was trying to decide about Texas toast french toast, muttering, "I know it's wrong, but I want whipped cream with my French toast."
Nothing is wrong at brunch, if you ask me.
We'd come right at the end of the rush, so our food was out in no time and we put chatting on hold for chowing down.
Once everybody cleaned their plate, we moved on to the business at hand and were still lingering and nodding in agreement as the other tables emptied out.
We were also in a bit of a food coma as we headed out into the afternoon.
My next stop, after picking up two accomplices, was to head to the Greek theater at UR.
Judging by the hordes of people walking toward the theater, it was obvious we weren't the only ones intrigued with the idea of a 99-piece group performing a 75-minute composition in the woods.
John Luther Adams' "Inuksuit" was written to be performed outside so that the noises of nature co-mingle with what the musicians are playing.
Set up in random places in and around the theater were drums, cymbals, gongs, glockenspiels and the like.
When we got there, we found the Greek theater filling up, with many people having brought snacks, blankets and even chairs.
And while all that sounds like a good idea, we were soon told otherwise.
A man came out on stage, ostensibly to tell us to move our cars if they were parked illegally (mine wasn't) and to tell us we shouldn't be in our seats for long.
"You might think you have a good seat, but you'll find out that's not true," he said. "You're going to want to move around, even if you think you're comfortable now."
Soon dozens of musicians with hand-held instruments began placing themselves onstage.
They stood motionless for a while ("It would be great if they're tuning up," a companion noted) and all I could hear was the sound of tennis balls bouncing on the court nearby.
Just as I was admiring the abundance of flowering dogwood trees, someone began blowing a conch shell.
One by one, others joined in playing the oddest assortment of things.
Plastic tubes twirled overhead emitted a high-pitched sound.
Animal horns sounded deep, like the sound of the animal who'd lost the horn.
A guy rubbed a rock and a brick fragment together.
We sat for maybe ten minutes before getting up to wander the acre or so of woods surrounding the theater.
Everywhere I looked, in bushes, behind hedges, by the lake, up a hill, there was an expressionless musician playing something.
Or sometimes, not playing something, just waiting for his or her turn in the score.
Because there was a score and many musicians had music stands set up in front of them in the dirt with the score on them.
One of my favorite finds was a music stand with a score labeled "Purple martin" with the directive, "light and airy" on it.
Composer Adams always visits the site where his piece will be performed so he can adapt certain parts of the score to the local birds.
I guess the purple martins had contributed to the Richmond version.
After walking around for a bit, the drummers started joining in, adding an impressive depth to the sound.
I happened to be standing near one of them just before he started playing and the initial boom of his drum reverberated through my insides.
Down closer to the lake, the drum sounds rolled out across the water, growing as they did so.
I came upon a cymbal stack in a bush and lingered to hear her play them.
In the same way that the drums had come in partway through the composition, soon I began seeing musicians with triangles tucked away on hills, behind trees and down footpaths.
It seemed like every time I made another loop around the theater and back through the woods or down by the lake, a new set of instruments was in place, like siren-sounding devices being turned.
There were two unanticipated bonuses to the concert.
First, I found friends everywhere.
One was arriving on his bike as I walked in, unrecognizable with his helmet on.
The poet and her entourage arrived with smiles and blankets.
Coming back up the hill, I saw a favorite sax/clarinet/flute player who wasn't the least surprised to see me and told me he had heard there'd be piccolos.
I'd expected to see drum master Brian Jones, but I ran into him on a trail, not playing and he said he hadn't been able to because he hadn't had time for rehearsals.
The other unexpected delight was how much walking the afternoon involved.
From ten minutes into the performance until it ended, I was walking non-stop.
Given the beautiful afternoon, I couldn't fathom a better way to experience music than while making my way up and down hills, through wooded paths and along the lake.
That's not to say that plenty of people didn't stay planted in the theater, but the loss was theirs.
Moving around as I did, I was constantly changing direction because something new caught my ear and I turned around to find its source.
After about an hour, I began seeing piccolo players (Jason had been right) all over the place, mimicking the sound of birds.
Gradually the drums stopped, the cymbals faded and there was only piccolos and birds.
From what I could tell, one was imitating the other.
When even the piccolos stopped and it was only the birds, the crowd began applauding.
As for the purple martins, they sang on.
At Lunch, which for a while, played out a bit like "who's on first?" for one of our trio.
Once she was clear that we were meeting at Lunch but not for lunch, things could move forward.
The only requirement of our third was that mimosas be available and they were.
We only had to wait fifteen minutes for a table and we used that time outside to cover some preliminary bases.
Who did what on Record Store Day and whose hair looked like a punk rocker's.
If this sounds like it was going to be a major debriefing, it was, only because the three of us had not been out together since election day.
And that day, one of us had been so nervous about the outcome that she could hardly even dish for looking at the results on the TV screen.
You wouldn't think three women who like each so much would wait so long in between dates, but life always seems to intervene.
Mimosas and Bloodies in hand, we looked around on the menu to see what suited whom.
I'd gone in knowing I'd be having syrup-drenched pancakes and sausage patties, but the other two were unsure.
Not surprisingly, the one who'd had a chocolate bar for breakfast was looking for something savory like a quesadilla.
It was her first time with eggs in a tortilla, confirming that we need to get her out more.
The one with the mimosa requirement was trying to decide about Texas toast french toast, muttering, "I know it's wrong, but I want whipped cream with my French toast."
Nothing is wrong at brunch, if you ask me.
We'd come right at the end of the rush, so our food was out in no time and we put chatting on hold for chowing down.
Once everybody cleaned their plate, we moved on to the business at hand and were still lingering and nodding in agreement as the other tables emptied out.
We were also in a bit of a food coma as we headed out into the afternoon.
My next stop, after picking up two accomplices, was to head to the Greek theater at UR.
Judging by the hordes of people walking toward the theater, it was obvious we weren't the only ones intrigued with the idea of a 99-piece group performing a 75-minute composition in the woods.
John Luther Adams' "Inuksuit" was written to be performed outside so that the noises of nature co-mingle with what the musicians are playing.
Set up in random places in and around the theater were drums, cymbals, gongs, glockenspiels and the like.
When we got there, we found the Greek theater filling up, with many people having brought snacks, blankets and even chairs.
And while all that sounds like a good idea, we were soon told otherwise.
A man came out on stage, ostensibly to tell us to move our cars if they were parked illegally (mine wasn't) and to tell us we shouldn't be in our seats for long.
"You might think you have a good seat, but you'll find out that's not true," he said. "You're going to want to move around, even if you think you're comfortable now."
Soon dozens of musicians with hand-held instruments began placing themselves onstage.
They stood motionless for a while ("It would be great if they're tuning up," a companion noted) and all I could hear was the sound of tennis balls bouncing on the court nearby.
Just as I was admiring the abundance of flowering dogwood trees, someone began blowing a conch shell.
One by one, others joined in playing the oddest assortment of things.
Plastic tubes twirled overhead emitted a high-pitched sound.
Animal horns sounded deep, like the sound of the animal who'd lost the horn.
A guy rubbed a rock and a brick fragment together.
We sat for maybe ten minutes before getting up to wander the acre or so of woods surrounding the theater.
Everywhere I looked, in bushes, behind hedges, by the lake, up a hill, there was an expressionless musician playing something.
Or sometimes, not playing something, just waiting for his or her turn in the score.
Because there was a score and many musicians had music stands set up in front of them in the dirt with the score on them.
One of my favorite finds was a music stand with a score labeled "Purple martin" with the directive, "light and airy" on it.
Composer Adams always visits the site where his piece will be performed so he can adapt certain parts of the score to the local birds.
I guess the purple martins had contributed to the Richmond version.
After walking around for a bit, the drummers started joining in, adding an impressive depth to the sound.
I happened to be standing near one of them just before he started playing and the initial boom of his drum reverberated through my insides.
Down closer to the lake, the drum sounds rolled out across the water, growing as they did so.
I came upon a cymbal stack in a bush and lingered to hear her play them.
In the same way that the drums had come in partway through the composition, soon I began seeing musicians with triangles tucked away on hills, behind trees and down footpaths.
It seemed like every time I made another loop around the theater and back through the woods or down by the lake, a new set of instruments was in place, like siren-sounding devices being turned.
There were two unanticipated bonuses to the concert.
First, I found friends everywhere.
One was arriving on his bike as I walked in, unrecognizable with his helmet on.
The poet and her entourage arrived with smiles and blankets.
Coming back up the hill, I saw a favorite sax/clarinet/flute player who wasn't the least surprised to see me and told me he had heard there'd be piccolos.
I'd expected to see drum master Brian Jones, but I ran into him on a trail, not playing and he said he hadn't been able to because he hadn't had time for rehearsals.
The other unexpected delight was how much walking the afternoon involved.
From ten minutes into the performance until it ended, I was walking non-stop.
Given the beautiful afternoon, I couldn't fathom a better way to experience music than while making my way up and down hills, through wooded paths and along the lake.
That's not to say that plenty of people didn't stay planted in the theater, but the loss was theirs.
Moving around as I did, I was constantly changing direction because something new caught my ear and I turned around to find its source.
After about an hour, I began seeing piccolo players (Jason had been right) all over the place, mimicking the sound of birds.
Gradually the drums stopped, the cymbals faded and there was only piccolos and birds.
From what I could tell, one was imitating the other.
When even the piccolos stopped and it was only the birds, the crowd began applauding.
As for the purple martins, they sang on.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Not a Lackluster Life
If variety is the spice of life, today had some well-seasoned flavor.
The first was Portuguese.
Renowned fado singer Ana Moura was giving a talk and performance at UR this afternoon.
And while you might think only under-employed writers have the time to catch something like that at 3:00 on a weekday, I walked in to all kinds of familiar faces.
In fact, after waiting close to half an hour with no sign of Ana, the musician sitting behind me observed, "Guess we're starting at jazz thirty, huh?"
Seems Ana and her two guitar players (one in distinctive pointy-toed black leather shoes and the other in Chucks, one with a green shoelace and one with a red shoelace) had been delayed in transit, but eventually they appeared.
She began by explaining how the Portuguese are emotional people who like to share their feelings.
"We like to look out at the sea and we have all Europe on our back," she said in her delightfully fractured English.
The laments of the women whose men went off to sea became fado.
We got a lesson in the 12-string Quimbra guitar (as opposed to the Lisbon guitar), a lute-looking instrument that goes hand in hand with fado.
As such, she explained, the voice poses the question and the guitar is the answer.
I'm sure everyone in the room, like me, was looking forward to heating Ana sing after the talk but she begged off, claiming to be exhausted by all her travel.
To be fair, she did have a performance at the Modlin Center tonight, but come on, you can't sing one song for all the people who showed up to see you?
Instead, the classical guitarist and the Quimba guitar each sang some fado for us.
If longing is killing me
I have to have a long life to die of longing
That's fado for you.
Of all unlikely sequels, my next stop was Steady Sounds for basement band the Ar-Kaics.
Waiting for them to set up, I revisited the '80s via a bin of 12" singles and talked to an old rocker about Elvis Costello and Todd Rundgren before the music cranked up to 11.
Fortunately, it was soon adjusted, leaving our ears only bleeding slightly and the vocals audible at last.
The trio had a blond-banged girl drummer who added a nice counterpoint to the two guitarists shredding and singing.
I noticed a friend sneak out toward the end of the first song but most of the crowd was enjoying themselves, bopping enthusiastically in place.
They certainly weren't breaking any ground musically or lyrically, but their '60s garage band sound gave my ears a workout after the delicate sounds of fado.
When they finished, the drummer pulled out a peach cardigan to cover her arms now that they weren't getting a workout.
Foul Swoops, the band I'd come to see had, like Ana, gotten stuck in traffic, so we never saw them at all.
Such are the hazards of trying to get to Richmond sometimes, as I'd seen twice in a day.
Because of the late start, by the time the in-store performance was over, it was time to head to Scott's Addition to grab dinner and go to the theater.
Lunch had only one other table occupied when we walked in and 45 minutes later all but one two-top was accounted for.
I usually go for pig at Lunch but after chicken and waffles for lunch, I was in the mood for something else.
The crab nebula sandwich with sriracha mayo on a kaiser roll was just the ticket and after an exhausting afternoon of music, I devoured it in no time.
As always, the soundtrack was exactly right for the moment, in this case vintage R & B, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and I was finally able to remove my sunglasses.
Sadly, there wasn't time for Coca Cola cake because we had a curtain to make.
Richmond Triangle Players was previewing "The Pride" tonight and offering an enticing $10 ticket price.
Even better, the ticket seller asked for my seat preference and when I jokingly said "front row," handed them over like it was no big deal.
And to every theater company in town, I say never doubt the pull of a dirt-cheap ticket to suck in those of us on a limited budget.
"The Pride" was a compelling (and prize-winning) story about the changing attitudes toward sexuality told alternately in 1958 and 2008.
In much the same way that it would have sucked to have been a woman in the pre-birth control era, it clearly sucked to be gay before, say, 1971 when the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from its list of mental disorders.
I don't honestly believe there is such a thing as a lackluster life
It was a four-actor play that required strong performances out of all four and did they ever deliver.
I was impressed with Steve Rice's physicality, whether he was drunkenly trying to climb off the floor and onto the couch or being thrown down on the floor by his lover.
My boyfriend broke up with me and this time it's for real. He took his records.
Nicholas Aliff was heartbreaking as the conflicted man afraid to admit his feelings for another man, making it doubly sweet when, at the end, he finally takes the hand of the man he loves.
Coming onstage in a killer red satin dress, Stacie Reardon Hall perfectly nailed the woman who in 1958 is married to a closet gay man as well as the 2008 best friend he turns to when his love life goes south.
Do you believe in change?
And Evan Nasteff, well, where do I start?
Touchingly hurt as a Nazi/S & M role player for hire, hysterical as a journalist talking about his gay uncle and terrifying as a doctor about to use "aversion therapy" to cure a man of his homosexuality, he was a man for all scenes.
And while the themes of the play were heavy, they were leavened with great dialog about gays ("You guys were innovators, what with fashion and outdoor sex"), straights ("They're not bad people, maybe a bit unimaginative") and boyfriends ("He writes his own songs, he has a guitar and he reads!").
The play portrayed such interesting conflicts and human issues that by the end all I could think about was Richmond Triangle Players' motto, "If we didn't do it, who would?"
Who else would have finished off my day with terrific spicy flavor?
And, yes, I believe in change.
The first was Portuguese.
Renowned fado singer Ana Moura was giving a talk and performance at UR this afternoon.
And while you might think only under-employed writers have the time to catch something like that at 3:00 on a weekday, I walked in to all kinds of familiar faces.
In fact, after waiting close to half an hour with no sign of Ana, the musician sitting behind me observed, "Guess we're starting at jazz thirty, huh?"
Seems Ana and her two guitar players (one in distinctive pointy-toed black leather shoes and the other in Chucks, one with a green shoelace and one with a red shoelace) had been delayed in transit, but eventually they appeared.
She began by explaining how the Portuguese are emotional people who like to share their feelings.
"We like to look out at the sea and we have all Europe on our back," she said in her delightfully fractured English.
The laments of the women whose men went off to sea became fado.
We got a lesson in the 12-string Quimbra guitar (as opposed to the Lisbon guitar), a lute-looking instrument that goes hand in hand with fado.
As such, she explained, the voice poses the question and the guitar is the answer.
I'm sure everyone in the room, like me, was looking forward to heating Ana sing after the talk but she begged off, claiming to be exhausted by all her travel.
To be fair, she did have a performance at the Modlin Center tonight, but come on, you can't sing one song for all the people who showed up to see you?
Instead, the classical guitarist and the Quimba guitar each sang some fado for us.
If longing is killing me
I have to have a long life to die of longing
That's fado for you.
Of all unlikely sequels, my next stop was Steady Sounds for basement band the Ar-Kaics.
Waiting for them to set up, I revisited the '80s via a bin of 12" singles and talked to an old rocker about Elvis Costello and Todd Rundgren before the music cranked up to 11.
Fortunately, it was soon adjusted, leaving our ears only bleeding slightly and the vocals audible at last.
The trio had a blond-banged girl drummer who added a nice counterpoint to the two guitarists shredding and singing.
I noticed a friend sneak out toward the end of the first song but most of the crowd was enjoying themselves, bopping enthusiastically in place.
They certainly weren't breaking any ground musically or lyrically, but their '60s garage band sound gave my ears a workout after the delicate sounds of fado.
When they finished, the drummer pulled out a peach cardigan to cover her arms now that they weren't getting a workout.
Foul Swoops, the band I'd come to see had, like Ana, gotten stuck in traffic, so we never saw them at all.
Such are the hazards of trying to get to Richmond sometimes, as I'd seen twice in a day.
Because of the late start, by the time the in-store performance was over, it was time to head to Scott's Addition to grab dinner and go to the theater.
Lunch had only one other table occupied when we walked in and 45 minutes later all but one two-top was accounted for.
I usually go for pig at Lunch but after chicken and waffles for lunch, I was in the mood for something else.
The crab nebula sandwich with sriracha mayo on a kaiser roll was just the ticket and after an exhausting afternoon of music, I devoured it in no time.
As always, the soundtrack was exactly right for the moment, in this case vintage R & B, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and I was finally able to remove my sunglasses.
Sadly, there wasn't time for Coca Cola cake because we had a curtain to make.
Richmond Triangle Players was previewing "The Pride" tonight and offering an enticing $10 ticket price.
Even better, the ticket seller asked for my seat preference and when I jokingly said "front row," handed them over like it was no big deal.
And to every theater company in town, I say never doubt the pull of a dirt-cheap ticket to suck in those of us on a limited budget.
"The Pride" was a compelling (and prize-winning) story about the changing attitudes toward sexuality told alternately in 1958 and 2008.
In much the same way that it would have sucked to have been a woman in the pre-birth control era, it clearly sucked to be gay before, say, 1971 when the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from its list of mental disorders.
I don't honestly believe there is such a thing as a lackluster life
It was a four-actor play that required strong performances out of all four and did they ever deliver.
I was impressed with Steve Rice's physicality, whether he was drunkenly trying to climb off the floor and onto the couch or being thrown down on the floor by his lover.
My boyfriend broke up with me and this time it's for real. He took his records.
Nicholas Aliff was heartbreaking as the conflicted man afraid to admit his feelings for another man, making it doubly sweet when, at the end, he finally takes the hand of the man he loves.
Coming onstage in a killer red satin dress, Stacie Reardon Hall perfectly nailed the woman who in 1958 is married to a closet gay man as well as the 2008 best friend he turns to when his love life goes south.
Do you believe in change?
And Evan Nasteff, well, where do I start?
Touchingly hurt as a Nazi/S & M role player for hire, hysterical as a journalist talking about his gay uncle and terrifying as a doctor about to use "aversion therapy" to cure a man of his homosexuality, he was a man for all scenes.
And while the themes of the play were heavy, they were leavened with great dialog about gays ("You guys were innovators, what with fashion and outdoor sex"), straights ("They're not bad people, maybe a bit unimaginative") and boyfriends ("He writes his own songs, he has a guitar and he reads!").
The play portrayed such interesting conflicts and human issues that by the end all I could think about was Richmond Triangle Players' motto, "If we didn't do it, who would?"
Who else would have finished off my day with terrific spicy flavor?
And, yes, I believe in change.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Full Moon Soul Cage
It's a hell of a swing from prepared piano to R & B.
The final installment of UR's John Cage Centennial celebration was tonight.
Pianist Paul Hanson was playing Cage's "Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano," so I gathered some adventurous music lovers to hear this seminal Cage work.
I'd had a taste of prepared piano at least week's Cage concert but tonight it was only about the prepared.
And by prepared piano, we're talking about Cage's instructions to insert all kinds of things into and on the piano's strings.
Stuff like screws of different sizes, some with bolts, wing nuts, strips of rubber, pieces of plastic.
Even a whole pink eraser.
You can imagine what interesting things that does to the sound when the keys are played.
If you can't, I'll tell you.
I heard what sounded like a toy piano, a muted gong, xylophone, harp, vibes and occasionally, an actual piano sound.
When a normal note cropped up during the performance, it was a surprise and a bit jarring, since my ear very quickly attuned to the prepared sound.
Hanson took a few minutes before he began playing to talk about the piece, saying it certainly qualified as "art music" and saying that it takes three hours to "prepare" the piano according to Cage's notes and specifications.
Then he sat down on his bench and since he was all clad in black and the piano was also black, they were a contrast to the orange-lit backdrop behind him.
For the next hour, he played Cage's masterpiece, alternately challenging and lulling the audience.
Most gorgeous of all were Sonatas XIV and XV, known as "Gemini," and they were also the most structured.
It hinted at the more conventional direction Cage could have gone had he chosen to do so.
Afterwards, Hanson invited the crowd up on stage to look at the prepared piano and, like most of the rest of the audience, I couldn't resist.
Seeing the assortment of random objects placed just so on the piano's strings explained a lot about the sounds we'd just heard.
A UR music student, leaning in as I did, regaled me with a tidbit about pianist Ben Folds.
"You know, he always put an empty Altoids box on the high strings for his last couple of songs," she informed me, clearly taking her Ben Folds very seriously.
No, no I hadn't known he did that, but I suppose it speaks to Cage's legacy in some small way.
Leaving Booker Hall, I decided to surprise my companions with another musical stop.
Tonight was Mekong's 18th anniversary celebration and the Hi-Steps, a band neither of them had seen, was playing.
I suggested a beer and some music and then drove them there without waiting to hear them agree to it.
Not surprisingly, the place was mobbed when we arrived and everywhere I looked were people with glasses of beer in their hands.
I don't drink the stuff myself, as I told drummer Pinson Chanselle when he said hi, so it was the promise of vintage soul played live that put me in the middle of a beer fest.
Mekong is one of those Asian places with room after room and I found the Hi-Steps setting up in a back one.
Later, bandleader Jason Scott cracked that it looked like a smoking lounge at an airport and he wasn't far off.
From the fake plastic ficus tree to the peeling paint on a column to the wall of mirrors (so '80s), it was not the most attractive room.
Like anyone cared.
The octet of trombone, sax, trumpet, drums, guitar, bass, keyboard and singer proceeded to fill the room with a funky backbeat that, in a better-suited room, would have had the crowd up and dancing within minutes.
Clearly everyone was well-lubricated enough to shake their groove thing if there was room enough.
Sadly, there wasn't, since I have heard Jason exhort audiences on more than one occasion to dance, reminding them that they are not meant to be watched, but danced to.
The horn section did it up right, swinging their instruments side to side as they played, like generations of soul bands before them did.
The set list ran the gamut from "Lonely Hearts" to the ubiquitous "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" to "Higher and Higher."
The slow burn of Lee Dorsey's "Get Out of My Life, Woman" was especially well-executed.
The talented left-handed guitarist was a treat to watch, both for the soulful voice coming out a skinny white boy body, but also for his excellent guitar faces.
His female counterpart, singer Brittany, brought her mother up to sing "Chain of Fools" and there's nothing like hearing family members harmonize.
After their spirited number, the dutiful daughter kissed her mama goodbye and went back to work with the band.
And I don't want to brag, but the two music lovers I'd brought along were totally digging the surprise musical treat, so different than Cage.
As the set progressed, even more people kept arriving, beer glasses in hand, adding to the party-like vibe of the room.
Look, I'm happy for any restaurant who makes it 18 years in this town.
That Mekong has established itself as the premiere RVA beer venue is also a good thing; I've brought an out of town guests there myself to wow them with the myriad choices.
But for this non-beer drinker, it was all about the Hi-Steps tonight.
Throw in a little John Cage and it might just have been the best possible way celebrate full moon fever.
The final installment of UR's John Cage Centennial celebration was tonight.
Pianist Paul Hanson was playing Cage's "Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano," so I gathered some adventurous music lovers to hear this seminal Cage work.
I'd had a taste of prepared piano at least week's Cage concert but tonight it was only about the prepared.
And by prepared piano, we're talking about Cage's instructions to insert all kinds of things into and on the piano's strings.
Stuff like screws of different sizes, some with bolts, wing nuts, strips of rubber, pieces of plastic.
Even a whole pink eraser.
You can imagine what interesting things that does to the sound when the keys are played.
If you can't, I'll tell you.
I heard what sounded like a toy piano, a muted gong, xylophone, harp, vibes and occasionally, an actual piano sound.
When a normal note cropped up during the performance, it was a surprise and a bit jarring, since my ear very quickly attuned to the prepared sound.
Hanson took a few minutes before he began playing to talk about the piece, saying it certainly qualified as "art music" and saying that it takes three hours to "prepare" the piano according to Cage's notes and specifications.
Then he sat down on his bench and since he was all clad in black and the piano was also black, they were a contrast to the orange-lit backdrop behind him.
For the next hour, he played Cage's masterpiece, alternately challenging and lulling the audience.
Most gorgeous of all were Sonatas XIV and XV, known as "Gemini," and they were also the most structured.
It hinted at the more conventional direction Cage could have gone had he chosen to do so.
Afterwards, Hanson invited the crowd up on stage to look at the prepared piano and, like most of the rest of the audience, I couldn't resist.
Seeing the assortment of random objects placed just so on the piano's strings explained a lot about the sounds we'd just heard.
A UR music student, leaning in as I did, regaled me with a tidbit about pianist Ben Folds.
"You know, he always put an empty Altoids box on the high strings for his last couple of songs," she informed me, clearly taking her Ben Folds very seriously.
No, no I hadn't known he did that, but I suppose it speaks to Cage's legacy in some small way.
Leaving Booker Hall, I decided to surprise my companions with another musical stop.
Tonight was Mekong's 18th anniversary celebration and the Hi-Steps, a band neither of them had seen, was playing.
I suggested a beer and some music and then drove them there without waiting to hear them agree to it.
Not surprisingly, the place was mobbed when we arrived and everywhere I looked were people with glasses of beer in their hands.
I don't drink the stuff myself, as I told drummer Pinson Chanselle when he said hi, so it was the promise of vintage soul played live that put me in the middle of a beer fest.
Mekong is one of those Asian places with room after room and I found the Hi-Steps setting up in a back one.
Later, bandleader Jason Scott cracked that it looked like a smoking lounge at an airport and he wasn't far off.
From the fake plastic ficus tree to the peeling paint on a column to the wall of mirrors (so '80s), it was not the most attractive room.
Like anyone cared.
The octet of trombone, sax, trumpet, drums, guitar, bass, keyboard and singer proceeded to fill the room with a funky backbeat that, in a better-suited room, would have had the crowd up and dancing within minutes.
Clearly everyone was well-lubricated enough to shake their groove thing if there was room enough.
Sadly, there wasn't, since I have heard Jason exhort audiences on more than one occasion to dance, reminding them that they are not meant to be watched, but danced to.
The horn section did it up right, swinging their instruments side to side as they played, like generations of soul bands before them did.
The set list ran the gamut from "Lonely Hearts" to the ubiquitous "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" to "Higher and Higher."
The slow burn of Lee Dorsey's "Get Out of My Life, Woman" was especially well-executed.
The talented left-handed guitarist was a treat to watch, both for the soulful voice coming out a skinny white boy body, but also for his excellent guitar faces.
His female counterpart, singer Brittany, brought her mother up to sing "Chain of Fools" and there's nothing like hearing family members harmonize.
After their spirited number, the dutiful daughter kissed her mama goodbye and went back to work with the band.
And I don't want to brag, but the two music lovers I'd brought along were totally digging the surprise musical treat, so different than Cage.
As the set progressed, even more people kept arriving, beer glasses in hand, adding to the party-like vibe of the room.
Look, I'm happy for any restaurant who makes it 18 years in this town.
That Mekong has established itself as the premiere RVA beer venue is also a good thing; I've brought an out of town guests there myself to wow them with the myriad choices.
But for this non-beer drinker, it was all about the Hi-Steps tonight.
Throw in a little John Cage and it might just have been the best possible way celebrate full moon fever.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Talk, Talk
Sherman Alexie came to Richmond.
Let me repeat that. Sherman Alexie came to town to talk for free.
The man who writes villanelles, those nineteen-line poetic forms that consist of five tercets followed by a quatrain.
And not just one, but six in his last book.
The poetry, fiction and young adult writer who's won most of the prizes available to him flew into Richmond last night, spent the day reading (mostly in the bathtub) and gave a meandering two hour-plus talk at UR's Alumni Center.
I found a seat next to two UR students, one in blue chiffon over a black lace dress and the other busy texting with her Mom.
I tried not to judge.
After an effusive introduction of the native American writer ("his poems have footnotes with footnotes"), Sherman said, "Ryan almost made me cry. I like that white boy. I like saying white boy in the south."
So we knew early on that it was going to be that kind of evening.
He called himself, "a liberal feminist because I objectify women out of the corner of my eye."
He won my heart when he told the crowd of literary geeks and UR students, "You're going to experience a lot of tangents tonight. Tangents are a scared part of the oral tradition."
Be still my heart.
During a wide-ranging talk that covered what he ate last night (a turkey sandwich from room service at 1 a.m.) to his own shift post-9/11 ("I'm trying to be less fundamental about Indians and liberalism") to digital literature ("I'm not sure great writers will embrace it"), he held the adults in his thrall and occasionally even captured the students.
About hating Amazon he observed, "You're trading your liberal philosophies for free shipping. Discuss among yourselves."
I'd rather not.
Because he's been publishing short stories online ("I've been writing short stories that fit on one page of my iPad"), he read us some.
And he won my heart a second time when he read, "Walls, floor, ceiling, thrumming with grasshoppers."
Thrumming? Quick, my smelling salts, I'm getting the vapors.
That one finished with the line, "I closed my eyes and stepped into the swarm," causing him to quip, "That's very Catholic. I'm Catholic. Catholicism and Indianism is guilt squared. The Catholic church can kiss my ass. I don't like fundamentalism among my tribe, either."
Hilarious, right? It gets better.
"Some of these jokes some of you may not get, so look them up on Wikipedia."
Boom. Clueless students put in place.
He read a story called "Analog," about preferring an answering machine with a tiny cassette tape and his friends complaining about his lack of cell phone.
I can relate.
"Call me, leave a message," he read. "I'm keeping count. We're all in this together."
He shared a short story attributed to Hemingway ("For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."), noting, "Killer, huh?"
Dead on the floor.
"Focus on the Family" read, "My ex-husband, my sister, they eloped."
A pattern was developing and Sherman confirmed it. "These stories often function as jokes. Lead-in, set-up, punchline. The pauses make it poetry and stand-up comedy."
And, let me assure, you, Sherman was a master, long a student, of stand-up comedy.
"Richard Pryor was a better poet than Yeats ever was," he intoned. My only fear was that most of the students had no idea who Yeats was and he hadn't reminded them to look it up on Wikipedia.
"He followed her to his house," read "Murder Suicide."
He said the only time he'd published online ("The instant gratification is dangerous") was when "Pachyderm" published in The Awl.
"There was an immediate response," he shared. "I got a bunch of likes. It felt so high school."
Isn't that essence of FB?
He talked some about his upbringing on an Indian reservation without running water or electricity (he was born in 1966), apologizing because, "I became wealthy through metaphors."
I suppose I had never considered that that was a possibility.
He read "Facebook Sonnet," with the line, "Welcome to the endless high school reunion" and closed with, "Let fame and shame intertwine here at the altar of loneliness."
As justification, he spoke of marital law figures saying that 33% of divorce cases mentioned Facebook.
Truly, it is abrave sad, new world.
Talking about how amazing language is, he stated that, "One of the most beautiful words in the English language is gonorrhea. Now say it together."
And don't you know that a room full of adults and students said it for him?
He took a tangent into sex, saying, "Marriage is blue-collar labor," and talking about having kids and stepping on a Lego at 3 a.m. and screaming in pain.
"That's not sacred. If you want gays to stop having sex, let them get married," he assured us.
Sherman was not hesitant to call out everyone- liberals, conservatives, whites, blacks, browns- and say exactly what he thought.
After a particularly pithy remark directed at conservatives, he said, "You conservatives can discuss that over your liberally-created craft beer."
But what was even funnier was when he said, "That's another complicated joke."
Truthfully, all of his jokes were complicated, as were his stories, truly not an evening for the faint of intellect.
But it was also screamingly funny, as when he began complimenting a woman in the third row.
Addressing her mate, Sherman said, "One of the perks of this job is I get to hit on women in front of their men."
He explained how he walks in two worlds. "It's awesome. I don't know if you've noticed, but I've done it eight or nine times tonight."
Noticed? I'd practically worshiped at his altar for it.
A talk that had been scheduled to run an hour with a half hour reception was now entering its third hour with the reception nowhere in sight.
I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven.
Here was a Tuesday evening of poetry, short stories, pithy commentary, philosophical challenges, brilliant humor and devastating self-deprecation the likes of which I haven't seen in many moons.
Just as I was thinking that life couldn't get much rosier, I glanced over at the spiral notebook of the chiffon-clad student next to me.
At the top of the page was Shermans' name, followed by the words, "poetry, short stories, young adult."
Underneath that she'd written in large block letters, "SO MANY TANGENTS!"
And under that, she'd played tic-tac-toe with the Momma's girl next to her.
God help us, these are the golf-playing leaders of tomorrow?
All I can say is, I wouldn't have wanted to be listening to anyone else other than Sherman tonight.
Whether telling a future writer not to care about his audience or challenging a man to bench press more than he could, his words were fascinating, well-thought out and hysterical.
And yes, I could have gone home after so much stimulation, but why would I?
Instead, I stopped by Secco in the pouring rain for no reason other than to tell someone, anyone, what I'd just heard.
Poor things, I told at least three of them about Sherman's wit, the clueless students and the ripping good time I'd had hearing so many of this man's thoughts.
As long as I was there, I enjoyed a glass of Cabernet Franc and a dish of chickpea gnocchi with lamb ragu and preserved lemon.
The delicacy of thee preserved lemon peeking through the earthier flavors was almost as impressive as the six-word short stories that had bowled me over earlier.
As luck would have it, a friend came in and I ended up with a fellow reader who happily listened to tales of having my gray matter prodded, stroked and piqued.
Like me, she was shocked and amazed that Sherman had paid us a visit, but disappointed that she hadn't known about it.
I told her about Sherman's tangents and how some people avoid them to stay on topic.
"No!" she wailed. "Get lost in them instead!"
Truly a woman after my own heart.
While I enjoyed a chocolate budino, we chatted with a nearby couple about wine.
At one point, my friend remarked about a wine that it "tasted like butt," causing the women to gasp and ask if she'd heard that correctly.
My friend went into an in-depth discussion of various terroirs and the resulting wine notes and somehow we end up talking about how horse poop smells.
Apparently it's not nearly as offensive as, say, dog poop or cow poop.
The woman, who worked at a spay/neuter facility, concurred and I realized that after an intense talk about race, religion and sex at UR, I was now embroiled in a passionate discussion of the animal poop notes in some wines.
As it should be. Tangents are a scared part of the oral tradition.
Getting lost in them is as satisfying as listening to the steady thrum of tonight's rain.
I realize that's no villanelle, but then I'm not the one who got wealthy off metaphors.
Let me repeat that. Sherman Alexie came to town to talk for free.
The man who writes villanelles, those nineteen-line poetic forms that consist of five tercets followed by a quatrain.
And not just one, but six in his last book.
The poetry, fiction and young adult writer who's won most of the prizes available to him flew into Richmond last night, spent the day reading (mostly in the bathtub) and gave a meandering two hour-plus talk at UR's Alumni Center.
I found a seat next to two UR students, one in blue chiffon over a black lace dress and the other busy texting with her Mom.
I tried not to judge.
After an effusive introduction of the native American writer ("his poems have footnotes with footnotes"), Sherman said, "Ryan almost made me cry. I like that white boy. I like saying white boy in the south."
So we knew early on that it was going to be that kind of evening.
He called himself, "a liberal feminist because I objectify women out of the corner of my eye."
He won my heart when he told the crowd of literary geeks and UR students, "You're going to experience a lot of tangents tonight. Tangents are a scared part of the oral tradition."
Be still my heart.
During a wide-ranging talk that covered what he ate last night (a turkey sandwich from room service at 1 a.m.) to his own shift post-9/11 ("I'm trying to be less fundamental about Indians and liberalism") to digital literature ("I'm not sure great writers will embrace it"), he held the adults in his thrall and occasionally even captured the students.
About hating Amazon he observed, "You're trading your liberal philosophies for free shipping. Discuss among yourselves."
I'd rather not.
Because he's been publishing short stories online ("I've been writing short stories that fit on one page of my iPad"), he read us some.
And he won my heart a second time when he read, "Walls, floor, ceiling, thrumming with grasshoppers."
Thrumming? Quick, my smelling salts, I'm getting the vapors.
That one finished with the line, "I closed my eyes and stepped into the swarm," causing him to quip, "That's very Catholic. I'm Catholic. Catholicism and Indianism is guilt squared. The Catholic church can kiss my ass. I don't like fundamentalism among my tribe, either."
Hilarious, right? It gets better.
"Some of these jokes some of you may not get, so look them up on Wikipedia."
Boom. Clueless students put in place.
He read a story called "Analog," about preferring an answering machine with a tiny cassette tape and his friends complaining about his lack of cell phone.
I can relate.
"Call me, leave a message," he read. "I'm keeping count. We're all in this together."
He shared a short story attributed to Hemingway ("For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."), noting, "Killer, huh?"
Dead on the floor.
"Focus on the Family" read, "My ex-husband, my sister, they eloped."
A pattern was developing and Sherman confirmed it. "These stories often function as jokes. Lead-in, set-up, punchline. The pauses make it poetry and stand-up comedy."
And, let me assure, you, Sherman was a master, long a student, of stand-up comedy.
"Richard Pryor was a better poet than Yeats ever was," he intoned. My only fear was that most of the students had no idea who Yeats was and he hadn't reminded them to look it up on Wikipedia.
"He followed her to his house," read "Murder Suicide."
He said the only time he'd published online ("The instant gratification is dangerous") was when "Pachyderm" published in The Awl.
"There was an immediate response," he shared. "I got a bunch of likes. It felt so high school."
Isn't that essence of FB?
He talked some about his upbringing on an Indian reservation without running water or electricity (he was born in 1966), apologizing because, "I became wealthy through metaphors."
I suppose I had never considered that that was a possibility.
He read "Facebook Sonnet," with the line, "Welcome to the endless high school reunion" and closed with, "Let fame and shame intertwine here at the altar of loneliness."
As justification, he spoke of marital law figures saying that 33% of divorce cases mentioned Facebook.
Truly, it is a
Talking about how amazing language is, he stated that, "One of the most beautiful words in the English language is gonorrhea. Now say it together."
And don't you know that a room full of adults and students said it for him?
He took a tangent into sex, saying, "Marriage is blue-collar labor," and talking about having kids and stepping on a Lego at 3 a.m. and screaming in pain.
"That's not sacred. If you want gays to stop having sex, let them get married," he assured us.
Sherman was not hesitant to call out everyone- liberals, conservatives, whites, blacks, browns- and say exactly what he thought.
After a particularly pithy remark directed at conservatives, he said, "You conservatives can discuss that over your liberally-created craft beer."
But what was even funnier was when he said, "That's another complicated joke."
Truthfully, all of his jokes were complicated, as were his stories, truly not an evening for the faint of intellect.
But it was also screamingly funny, as when he began complimenting a woman in the third row.
Addressing her mate, Sherman said, "One of the perks of this job is I get to hit on women in front of their men."
He explained how he walks in two worlds. "It's awesome. I don't know if you've noticed, but I've done it eight or nine times tonight."
Noticed? I'd practically worshiped at his altar for it.
A talk that had been scheduled to run an hour with a half hour reception was now entering its third hour with the reception nowhere in sight.
I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven.
Here was a Tuesday evening of poetry, short stories, pithy commentary, philosophical challenges, brilliant humor and devastating self-deprecation the likes of which I haven't seen in many moons.
Just as I was thinking that life couldn't get much rosier, I glanced over at the spiral notebook of the chiffon-clad student next to me.
At the top of the page was Shermans' name, followed by the words, "poetry, short stories, young adult."
Underneath that she'd written in large block letters, "SO MANY TANGENTS!"
And under that, she'd played tic-tac-toe with the Momma's girl next to her.
God help us, these are the golf-playing leaders of tomorrow?
All I can say is, I wouldn't have wanted to be listening to anyone else other than Sherman tonight.
Whether telling a future writer not to care about his audience or challenging a man to bench press more than he could, his words were fascinating, well-thought out and hysterical.
And yes, I could have gone home after so much stimulation, but why would I?
Instead, I stopped by Secco in the pouring rain for no reason other than to tell someone, anyone, what I'd just heard.
Poor things, I told at least three of them about Sherman's wit, the clueless students and the ripping good time I'd had hearing so many of this man's thoughts.
As long as I was there, I enjoyed a glass of Cabernet Franc and a dish of chickpea gnocchi with lamb ragu and preserved lemon.
The delicacy of thee preserved lemon peeking through the earthier flavors was almost as impressive as the six-word short stories that had bowled me over earlier.
As luck would have it, a friend came in and I ended up with a fellow reader who happily listened to tales of having my gray matter prodded, stroked and piqued.
Like me, she was shocked and amazed that Sherman had paid us a visit, but disappointed that she hadn't known about it.
I told her about Sherman's tangents and how some people avoid them to stay on topic.
"No!" she wailed. "Get lost in them instead!"
Truly a woman after my own heart.
While I enjoyed a chocolate budino, we chatted with a nearby couple about wine.
At one point, my friend remarked about a wine that it "tasted like butt," causing the women to gasp and ask if she'd heard that correctly.
My friend went into an in-depth discussion of various terroirs and the resulting wine notes and somehow we end up talking about how horse poop smells.
Apparently it's not nearly as offensive as, say, dog poop or cow poop.
The woman, who worked at a spay/neuter facility, concurred and I realized that after an intense talk about race, religion and sex at UR, I was now embroiled in a passionate discussion of the animal poop notes in some wines.
As it should be. Tangents are a scared part of the oral tradition.
Getting lost in them is as satisfying as listening to the steady thrum of tonight's rain.
I realize that's no villanelle, but then I'm not the one who got wealthy off metaphors.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Circle of Fifths
They might have officially called it the Neumann Lecture on Music, but it may as well have been the Karen Lecture on Music.
University of Richmond's music department was presenting Yale's Dr. Craig Wright speaking on "Music and the Brain," about how the brain processes and interprets music.
If ever there was a talk I was passionately looking forward to hearing, this was it.
Two fellow music geeks were accompanying me and the younger of the two suggested a pre-music meal at Garnett's.
Low key with only three other patrons when we arrived, the little lunch counter soon exploded with four more tables and the long-bored cook was suddenly swamped.
I made it easy on him ordering off the happy hour menu: grilled ham and garlic aioli tea sandwiches and angels on horseback (dates with bacon and bleu cheese).
Being music-minded, we discussed Thom York's new Atoms for Peace project and the obsession two of us are currently having with the new Local Natives album, "Hummingbird."
Meanwhile, the music mix being played was strictly old-school with Janis Joplin and Johnny Cash keeping it real.
We ended up sharing a massive slice of chocolate coconut cake, an offering I'd never seen at Garnett's, Ipanema or the Roosevelt.
The thick layers of moist, chocolate cake with white frosting and toasted coconut was like a grown up Hostess Snowball.
Without the preservatives and artificial colors, that is.
I continue to worship at the altar of W.P.A.'s baker David.
And if he's looking for suggestions, mine would be that this cake be available at all three restaurants at all times for my convenience.
When that plate was licked clean, we high-tailed it to UR and the Modlin Center.
All three of us wanted a good seat for the lecture and performance by ensemble-in-residence eighth blackbird.
And we got them, fourth row and center, despite a far more crowded auditorium than I'd expected.
I had Dr. Wright pegged as a funny guy from the moment I finished reading his bio in the program, taken from the Yale University website.
Besides mentioning several people from his youth ("All survived the experience"), it also said that his music appreciation class was currently, "The fourth most popular online course in China."
When he walked out, we saw a trim, handsome older guy who immediately said, "I'm going to talk without a sports jacket on, if that's okay."
You have to be of another era to even think people might care, a fact I found charming.
He introduced eighth blackbird, saying he intended to use them as "relief from my talking."
Better put, he used them to illustrate his many points.
He began by asking us what kind of music we liked and when one of my partners-in-crime said classical and specifically Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring," Wright quipped, "That's one you gotta get used to. It's like spinach."
I knew he was going to be a funny guy.
We were told to imagine a desert island scenario and we could take only two albums, but then had to jettison one.
To prove his point, he had eighth blackbird play a piece of a Mozart piano concerto followed by a piece of Schoenberg, asking which of us would keep the first and which the second.
It came out about 50/50, surprising him because, the second piece with its non-conforming elements (no scale, no chords), we should have all gone for the Mozart.
That's due in part to cultural conditioning and partly to nature, he explained.
Throughout the lecture, he'd ask pianist Lisa to demonstrate things for him, eventually just going over to the keys and playing what he wanted himself rather than explain.
"This is funny," he warned us before a good story. "I went to the Eastman School of Music and you were only required to take one science class to graduate. This part is even funnier. I didn't take it."
This information was a prelude to him explaining that he was essentially giving a science lecture.
Now I was in trouble.
"Those with absolute pitch have different brains," he said while colored images of brain stems and temporal lobes showed on the screen. "It's simple physiology."
Simple?
And here's where I have to admit that parts of this lecture went over my head.
Whiz! Right past.
The science part was almost easier to me than some of the more involved parts about music.
Next he covered why we like certain music.
Using himself as an example, he spoke about how he can't play his favorite music in front of his wife or colleagues at Yale.
"They wouldn't fire me," he said, "But they wouldn't be my friends."
"His" music was country and a picture of Billy Jo Shaver came up as we heard one of his Texas country music songs.
And Dr. Wright loved this shit music.
He thought the reason was that as a child, when he was supposed to be napping, he was listening to AM country radio stations, and thus shaping his taste.
"I think it kind of grew in my hippocampus," he deadpanned.
Now, that's funny.
"My parents tried to "correct" my education," he said as a picture of Mozart came up.
The good part was that meant we got to hear Mozart and Rachmaninoff to illustrate his taste.
"That's the power of music. It causes excitement.It's physically empowering."
On this point, I understood completely.
But, as he explained, sometimes we want to set a mood with music and a picture of a candlelit dinner table came up, with him asking what we might play to set the mood if we were hoping for certain results.
He had eighth blackbird play Bach's "The Art of Fugue" to demonstrate and then asked why it wouldn't be good music to set the romantic mood.
One of my companions was first to volunteer, saying it was too complicated to listen to when romance was the goal.
"You hit the nail on the head exactly," Wright exclaimed. "That music makes the mind think about something other than what your original plan was."
Note to amorous types: fugues will not help you score.
He covered how memory works with music, helping us recall past experiences and making us associate certain songs or pieces with specific life events.
"I remember exactly where I was standing when I first heard Elvis' "Jailhouse Rock," he offered.
Likewise, I remember exactly where I was standing when I first heard Pete Yorn's "Strange Condition."
I'd just walked up from the beach to the cottage to hit the bathroom when I was stopped cold, sandy feet and all, in the living room by the song and instantly fell in love with voice and songwriter.
It just makes me another scientific example.
To further illustrate this point, he showed film clips with and without music.
From "The King's Speech," we saw the pivotal speech scene with part of Beethoven's Symphony No. 7 behind it.
"Beethoven makes that scene," he said, pointing out the obvious and I recall when I saw the movie thinking how perfect a choice it had been.
We saw a scene from Hitchcock's "Psycho" with and without the screeching violin and there was no comparison.
Without music, the scene was stiff and contrived but once we heard wood on strings, it was terrifying.
His last clip was to demonstrate how some music can give a person chills, his example being Pavarotti singing an aria from "Turandot."
It's as simple as blood flow increasing and decreasing.
Oh, my. I was learning so much.
From opera that made us tingle, we went to the power of rhythm and the beat.
How does music take control of the body?
Well, for Dr. Wright it was as easy as putting on a pop song and dancing onstage uncontrollably.
Let me tell you, it was a highlight of the lecture.
"That's the primordial power of the beat," said this learned Yale man with degrees to spare.
And we all know it's true.
Some music gives us no choice but to shake our groove things.
And for that, no knowledge of science is required. Whew.
University of Richmond's music department was presenting Yale's Dr. Craig Wright speaking on "Music and the Brain," about how the brain processes and interprets music.
If ever there was a talk I was passionately looking forward to hearing, this was it.
Two fellow music geeks were accompanying me and the younger of the two suggested a pre-music meal at Garnett's.
Low key with only three other patrons when we arrived, the little lunch counter soon exploded with four more tables and the long-bored cook was suddenly swamped.
I made it easy on him ordering off the happy hour menu: grilled ham and garlic aioli tea sandwiches and angels on horseback (dates with bacon and bleu cheese).
Being music-minded, we discussed Thom York's new Atoms for Peace project and the obsession two of us are currently having with the new Local Natives album, "Hummingbird."
Meanwhile, the music mix being played was strictly old-school with Janis Joplin and Johnny Cash keeping it real.
We ended up sharing a massive slice of chocolate coconut cake, an offering I'd never seen at Garnett's, Ipanema or the Roosevelt.
The thick layers of moist, chocolate cake with white frosting and toasted coconut was like a grown up Hostess Snowball.
Without the preservatives and artificial colors, that is.
I continue to worship at the altar of W.P.A.'s baker David.
And if he's looking for suggestions, mine would be that this cake be available at all three restaurants at all times for my convenience.
When that plate was licked clean, we high-tailed it to UR and the Modlin Center.
All three of us wanted a good seat for the lecture and performance by ensemble-in-residence eighth blackbird.
And we got them, fourth row and center, despite a far more crowded auditorium than I'd expected.
I had Dr. Wright pegged as a funny guy from the moment I finished reading his bio in the program, taken from the Yale University website.
Besides mentioning several people from his youth ("All survived the experience"), it also said that his music appreciation class was currently, "The fourth most popular online course in China."
When he walked out, we saw a trim, handsome older guy who immediately said, "I'm going to talk without a sports jacket on, if that's okay."
You have to be of another era to even think people might care, a fact I found charming.
He introduced eighth blackbird, saying he intended to use them as "relief from my talking."
Better put, he used them to illustrate his many points.
He began by asking us what kind of music we liked and when one of my partners-in-crime said classical and specifically Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring," Wright quipped, "That's one you gotta get used to. It's like spinach."
I knew he was going to be a funny guy.
We were told to imagine a desert island scenario and we could take only two albums, but then had to jettison one.
To prove his point, he had eighth blackbird play a piece of a Mozart piano concerto followed by a piece of Schoenberg, asking which of us would keep the first and which the second.
It came out about 50/50, surprising him because, the second piece with its non-conforming elements (no scale, no chords), we should have all gone for the Mozart.
That's due in part to cultural conditioning and partly to nature, he explained.
Throughout the lecture, he'd ask pianist Lisa to demonstrate things for him, eventually just going over to the keys and playing what he wanted himself rather than explain.
"This is funny," he warned us before a good story. "I went to the Eastman School of Music and you were only required to take one science class to graduate. This part is even funnier. I didn't take it."
This information was a prelude to him explaining that he was essentially giving a science lecture.
Now I was in trouble.
"Those with absolute pitch have different brains," he said while colored images of brain stems and temporal lobes showed on the screen. "It's simple physiology."
Simple?
And here's where I have to admit that parts of this lecture went over my head.
Whiz! Right past.
The science part was almost easier to me than some of the more involved parts about music.
Next he covered why we like certain music.
Using himself as an example, he spoke about how he can't play his favorite music in front of his wife or colleagues at Yale.
"They wouldn't fire me," he said, "But they wouldn't be my friends."
"His" music was country and a picture of Billy Jo Shaver came up as we heard one of his Texas country music songs.
And Dr. Wright loved this
He thought the reason was that as a child, when he was supposed to be napping, he was listening to AM country radio stations, and thus shaping his taste.
"I think it kind of grew in my hippocampus," he deadpanned.
Now, that's funny.
"My parents tried to "correct" my education," he said as a picture of Mozart came up.
The good part was that meant we got to hear Mozart and Rachmaninoff to illustrate his taste.
"That's the power of music. It causes excitement.It's physically empowering."
On this point, I understood completely.
But, as he explained, sometimes we want to set a mood with music and a picture of a candlelit dinner table came up, with him asking what we might play to set the mood if we were hoping for certain results.
He had eighth blackbird play Bach's "The Art of Fugue" to demonstrate and then asked why it wouldn't be good music to set the romantic mood.
One of my companions was first to volunteer, saying it was too complicated to listen to when romance was the goal.
"You hit the nail on the head exactly," Wright exclaimed. "That music makes the mind think about something other than what your original plan was."
Note to amorous types: fugues will not help you score.
He covered how memory works with music, helping us recall past experiences and making us associate certain songs or pieces with specific life events.
"I remember exactly where I was standing when I first heard Elvis' "Jailhouse Rock," he offered.
Likewise, I remember exactly where I was standing when I first heard Pete Yorn's "Strange Condition."
I'd just walked up from the beach to the cottage to hit the bathroom when I was stopped cold, sandy feet and all, in the living room by the song and instantly fell in love with voice and songwriter.
It just makes me another scientific example.
To further illustrate this point, he showed film clips with and without music.
From "The King's Speech," we saw the pivotal speech scene with part of Beethoven's Symphony No. 7 behind it.
"Beethoven makes that scene," he said, pointing out the obvious and I recall when I saw the movie thinking how perfect a choice it had been.
We saw a scene from Hitchcock's "Psycho" with and without the screeching violin and there was no comparison.
Without music, the scene was stiff and contrived but once we heard wood on strings, it was terrifying.
His last clip was to demonstrate how some music can give a person chills, his example being Pavarotti singing an aria from "Turandot."
It's as simple as blood flow increasing and decreasing.
Oh, my. I was learning so much.
From opera that made us tingle, we went to the power of rhythm and the beat.
How does music take control of the body?
Well, for Dr. Wright it was as easy as putting on a pop song and dancing onstage uncontrollably.
Let me tell you, it was a highlight of the lecture.
"That's the primordial power of the beat," said this learned Yale man with degrees to spare.
And we all know it's true.
Some music gives us no choice but to shake our groove things.
And for that, no knowledge of science is required. Whew.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Go with the Flow
Yea or nay, video games as art?
Game designer Kellee Santiago gave the talk, "Flow in Games and in Life," for the opening of UR's new exhibit, "Flow, Just Flow: Variations on a Theme."
It's not as unlikely as it sounds.
Kellee's non-competitive video game "Flow" is part of the show.
She's also one of the proponents of games as an art form, along with MoMA who've just added fourteen to their collection.
Who am I to disagree?
And while I've never played a video game before, I played "Flow" as part of this show.
I didn't wait for games to be considered art to play one, it just happened that way.
No, really.
Unlike the healthy contingent of young men in the audience tonight, most of Kellee's stories about game development went over my head.
The part that I did get was about flow itself, that feeling of being engaged in an activity, the feeling of focusing your energy, the enjoyment of the process.
Completely focused motivation.
Which, not surprisingly, most of the young men who asked questions of Kellee during the Q & A, seemed to have on the subject of game design.
But for me it was all about the 21 pieces of contemporary art awaiting us in the galleries in addition to the video game.
The concept of "flow" was expressed in myriad ways throughout the exhibit.
Humming engines and wires, on mulberry paper, with airplane flight patterns, on video and on burnt paper.
And as varied as the mediums were, always the essence of flow came through.
Near a mesmerizing kinetic sculpture hanging from the ceiling was an explanation of the principles behind it.
I read it twice without clearly understanding the concept and turned to the student standing next to me, telling her it was too scientific for me.
"Oh, good!" she said, sounding very relieved. "Me, too."
Call me simple.
One thing was very clear, though. In the context of contemporary art, a video game did not seem out of place.
In fact, it brought to mind the age-old argument about language.
I know people who believe language is a malleable thing, constantly shape-shifting to what the culture is speaking and writing, while others think that language provides guidelines that we adhere to.
Marcel Duchamp proved that the concept of art is every bit as open to interpretation and the proof was in the flat screen and controllers that greeted us in the Hartnett.
We live in a post-Pacman world. It was bound to happen.
The smart money's on enjoying the process.
Even for those of us who will never again play a video game.
One is my limit, even if it is considered art.
Game designer Kellee Santiago gave the talk, "Flow in Games and in Life," for the opening of UR's new exhibit, "Flow, Just Flow: Variations on a Theme."
It's not as unlikely as it sounds.
Kellee's non-competitive video game "Flow" is part of the show.
She's also one of the proponents of games as an art form, along with MoMA who've just added fourteen to their collection.
Who am I to disagree?
And while I've never played a video game before, I played "Flow" as part of this show.
I didn't wait for games to be considered art to play one, it just happened that way.
No, really.
Unlike the healthy contingent of young men in the audience tonight, most of Kellee's stories about game development went over my head.
The part that I did get was about flow itself, that feeling of being engaged in an activity, the feeling of focusing your energy, the enjoyment of the process.
Completely focused motivation.
Which, not surprisingly, most of the young men who asked questions of Kellee during the Q & A, seemed to have on the subject of game design.
But for me it was all about the 21 pieces of contemporary art awaiting us in the galleries in addition to the video game.
The concept of "flow" was expressed in myriad ways throughout the exhibit.
Humming engines and wires, on mulberry paper, with airplane flight patterns, on video and on burnt paper.
And as varied as the mediums were, always the essence of flow came through.
Near a mesmerizing kinetic sculpture hanging from the ceiling was an explanation of the principles behind it.
I read it twice without clearly understanding the concept and turned to the student standing next to me, telling her it was too scientific for me.
"Oh, good!" she said, sounding very relieved. "Me, too."
Call me simple.
One thing was very clear, though. In the context of contemporary art, a video game did not seem out of place.
In fact, it brought to mind the age-old argument about language.
I know people who believe language is a malleable thing, constantly shape-shifting to what the culture is speaking and writing, while others think that language provides guidelines that we adhere to.
Marcel Duchamp proved that the concept of art is every bit as open to interpretation and the proof was in the flat screen and controllers that greeted us in the Hartnett.
We live in a post-Pacman world. It was bound to happen.
The smart money's on enjoying the process.
Even for those of us who will never again play a video game.
One is my limit, even if it is considered art.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Once Was Enough
It was all about the paradox of intimacy aggressively explored.
After setting the tone with some soft and dark fruited Franco Serra Dolcetto d'Alba, it was time for some art.
And not just any art, but a retrospective, "Dancing with the Dark," a career-spanning look at the work of painter/printmaker Joan Snyder from 1963 to 2010.
UR's Harnett Museum was having a curator/artist talk so not only could I see Snyder's work but I also got to hear her talk about it tonight.
Striking in black and purple with her curly white hair, she explained how she created pieces that read from left to right like a piece of music.
Her colorful works often included words and female imagery, whatever that's supposed to be.
But her talent was in exploring intimacy, sometimes aggressively and sometimes very sweetly.
During the talk, she blew off minor details, leaving them to the curator to fill in, but spoke passionately about her work.
After setting the tone with some soft and dark fruited Franco Serra Dolcetto d'Alba, it was time for some art.
And not just any art, but a retrospective, "Dancing with the Dark," a career-spanning look at the work of painter/printmaker Joan Snyder from 1963 to 2010.
UR's Harnett Museum was having a curator/artist talk so not only could I see Snyder's work but I also got to hear her talk about it tonight.
Striking in black and purple with her curly white hair, she explained how she created pieces that read from left to right like a piece of music.
Her colorful works often included words and female imagery, whatever that's supposed to be.
But her talent was in exploring intimacy, sometimes aggressively and sometimes very sweetly.
During the talk, she blew off minor details, leaving them to the curator to fill in, but spoke passionately about her work.
That feeling was echoed in an etching called "My Work...1997" in which a scattering of words surround a central heart-shaped form above the declaration: “My work has been absolutely faithful to me.”
Apparently she's repaid that fidelity with her own devotion and an exhaustive catalog.
During the Q & A afterwards, a student asked her if it was easier to work in a large or smaller format since she's done both.
"I can do anything," she answered honestly. For an artist who didn't even start creating until her senior year of college, that's quite an arc of a career.
Walking the galleries after the talk, the development of her talent was clear in the chronological progression.
Life events were incorporated into her work.
Things like giving birth, her first affair with a woman and a tribute to her current partner ("My Maggie") chronicled her life.
Things like giving birth, her first affair with a woman and a tribute to her current partner ("My Maggie") chronicled her life.
And the colors! She sometimes printed the same print but the colors used on the drawing varied widely, giving completely different feels to essentially the same piece.
The show was the largest retrospective of her work ever done and by the time I took in everything, it was dinner time.
Since we were in an area I don't often frequent, it seemed like the perfect chance to check out the recently-relocated Phil's and see how it had fared in the short move west.
Not as big, still too many TVs, a bar of what looked like neighbors and regulars and the same reliable menu.
As long as you can still get a vodka limeade, I guess it's the same old Phil's.
We kept it simple (what else, it's Phil's?), me with the (square) fried cod sandwich and my partner in crime with the Reuben (and an unfortified limeade).
He's a real slow eater and our server (who looked original to Phil's) kept trying to take his plate away from him before he was finished.
Eat and go, that's just how they roll at Phil's.
We lingered long enough to have a piece of French silk pie and cringe at the local radio station playing (seriously, commercial radio in a restaurant? it's not fair to do that to people trying to eat!).
For the final chapter of the evening, it was mix tape time again, these two courtesy of Richmond's best band photographer and his main squeeze.
His was a compilation of some of the bands he'd most enjoyed shooting in 2011 (Dum Dum Girls, Netherfriends) and hers was songs she loved in 2011 ("Civilian" and "My Terrible Friend") and, whoa, my first time ever hearing a Beyonce song.
I love having friends who make great mix tapes and give me copies.
Hearing other's people's music taste is so revealing, so intimate, even when you think you know them.
It takes a special kind of friend and a lot of other good music on the mix to make me listen to a Beyonce song, even once.
As I'm learning, there's a first time for everything.
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