Vamp and Punk

Without birthdays, there can be no death.

The birthday was my aunt's and it required me to drive up to Maryland for a luncheon.

Don't get me wrong, I love my aunt, a woman who was a role model for me in terms of her abiding passion for books and travel when I was a kid.

But having to spend my morning driving up soul-sucking I-95 is a lot to ask of me.

The luncheon was fine and to soothe my soul, I came home via Route 301 so I could avoid the aggressive drivers and speed demons than distract me from my road trip music.

By the time I meandered back down the back roads (it took 45 minutes longer than I-95), it was time to get on with the night.

It was a night of film, starting at Gallery 5.

The Silent Music Revival was breaking form and showing a long film tonight, Charlie Chaplin's "The Kid," billed as a "comedy with a smile and perhaps a tear."

Wolf//Goat was providing the soundtrack from behind the screen, a presence heard but unseen.

Organizer Jameson introduced the movie as a significant because it was Chaplin's first feature-length film and because it was made just after Chaplin's own baby son died.

No there was a poignant fact to contemplate and no doubt the source of the "tear" possibility.

He also said Chaplin had done everything for this film - directed, produced starred and even written the score- "But you won;t hear that tonight," Jameson reminded us.

As "The Kid" began, local band Wolf//Goat started with a rendition of "Amazing Grace" and the marriage of film and improvised score began.

The story of an orphan brought up by Chaplin's little tramp showed a man thrust into fatherhood (he found the baby in an alley) who handled it well.

I loved a scene of the adorable five-year old boy making pancakes for the two of them while Chaplin laid in bed reading the paper.

That was only way being a kid sucked in 1921, though; lots of other less than sterling things happened to the kid, from his real mother leaving him in a car to the welfare authorities trying to cart him off to the workhouse to his two-bit life of crime with the tramp.

I'll give Jameson credit; once again, he'd chosen the ideal band to match the film.

Wolf//Goat played much tighter tonight than the first time I'd seen them and their "score" was a terrific match for the movie's action.

One of my favorite moments came during the little tramp's dream sequence when a devil advises a woman to tempt him, instructing, "Vamp him!"

Haven't we all wanted to vamp someone at one time or another?

The minute the kid and the tramp found their happy ending, I was out of my seat and off to the Visual Arts Center for more James River Film Festival.

Tonight they were showing another documentary and since in my world you can never have too many docs, I'd gotten my ticket almost a week ago at Steady Sounds, who was co-sponsoring the event.

The room was nearly full of people of all ages when a fellow music-lover and I got there, with lots of musicians in attendance.

It was the story of three teen-aged black brothers from Detroit who'd started a band in the early seventies, which would've been no big deal if it had been a funk or disco band, but it wasn't.

It was proto-punk, which if it had gotten any attention at the time (it didn't), would have been a sea change in the music scene.

It would have been the first punk band.

But when black guys tried to do rock and roll in Motown in 1973 with a name like "Death," nobody much wanted to listen.

One guy at a record company believed in their sound, so they recorded an album's worth of material and released a single.

But no radio station was willing to play it, so the story basically ended there.

And even if it hadn't one of the three brothers, David, the leader and the one who refused to change the band's name to garner more of a shot at fame, died young of lung cancer.

And that's what was great to see, how the filmmakers documented when a few rabid record collectors got wind of the single thirty years alter and tracked down a few copies, leading to the son of Death's bass player getting wind of the band via a friend who'd heard the single and called it the best thing she'd ever heard.

You can imagine his surprise when he discovered that his Dad and two uncles had been that band.

To paraphrase one of the sons, how cool is that?

You can also see how a story like this would have never happened in the pre-Internet days.

The sons formed a tribute band and began doing shows of Death's music.

The old master tapes from the recording session were found in the family attic and the album mastered and put out.

And, best of all, the two remaining members of Death found a worthy guitar player to replace their brother and started playing shows to packed houses.

You can only imagine the fanatical interest of what is now multiple generations of punk fans getting to hear a band that was capturing that sound and energy, even that tinniness due to the era, before anyone else.

The diversity of the people at Death's shows roughly mirrored the diversity of the people at tonight's JRFF sold-out screening of "A Band called Death."

Like the son of Death said, how cool is that?

Music, Music Everywhere

"You won't hear a thing; you'll hear everything." I wish those were my words, but they belong to the Musicircus event creator, composer John Cage; the annual rva incarnation was held tonight at the Visual Arts Center. Last year's event was at the old Chop Suey Books and featured far fewer musicians; tonight's Musicircus had over 60 musicians, playing solo, in groups and in every combination in between and spread out over two floors, the entryway and the garden out back. A visitor couldn't walk more than a few steps without encountering more music. And that's exactly the point.

The beauty of the Musicircus is that you have to almost be on top of the performers to distinguish what they're playing. If you attempt to listen from a distance, you're bound to hear music from other sources; it can be disconcerting to be watching a banjo player and hearing Christmas carolers. Or watching a jazz trio and hearing the beats of a dj's mixes. Several musicians incorporated multi-media into their performances, providing additional visual stimulation. As the audience walks endlessly through the spaces, each was creating their own individual Musicircus experience, just as Cage intended.

Cage dictated that because the musicians are not paid, the event must be free to the public. How fortunate for Richmond that our own drum king Brian Jones has made this event an annual feast for the ears. I spoke with a half a dozen local musicians, both performers and attendees, tonight and every single one mentioned how lucky we are to have an annual Musicircus here. Don't I know it.

Following Richard Carlyon

I was in the minority without a memory of the man himself.

As I was standing at the Anderson Gallery admiring a Richard Carlyon painting from the 1970s, a man approached me and asked if I remembered the paintings from that period. I didn't because they were before my time; I didn't get to Richmond until the late '80s.

He looked like he felt sorry for me, but introduced himself as a former art history student and fan of Carlyon's work.

Minutes later I was inspecting a large work, intrigued by the pencil-looking lines etched into the flat color plains of the painting when another man asked me if I thought the lines were intentional (I did). He was an artist and also, it seems, a Carlyon admirer of many years.

We backed up from the work and admired it from a distance, losing sight of the lines and seeing nothing but color.

The retrospective I saw tonight at Reynolds Gallery, Visual Arts Center and the Anderson Gallery (I ran out of time and didn't make it to 1708 Gallery by 9:00 for the fourth part of the show) was a fascinating look at a major local artist whose work mirrored all the important periods in modern art.

I'm telling you, the transition from the art of his senior portfolio to his post 9/11 work was staggering and inspiring at the same time.

I loved that his actual studio, in which he had created art for over 50 years, had been fully recreated, down to his house slippers and music collection. As I admired paint brushes of all sizes and shapes and more art supplies than I even knew existed, it wasn't difficult to get a real sense of Carlyon's devotion to his art.

And my goodness, walking home just now, wasn't that a beautiful moon?

Poetry to Feed the Soul and Mind

Fresh Ink, a new author series at the Visual Arts Center debuted tonight with two poets doing the reading.

Carol Ann Davis and James Hoch were very different stylistically, which made for a most enjoyable contrast in what the audience heard. I couldn't have been the only one who appreciated the contrast.

Davis' work was far more introspective and even she acknowledged having to look for "something lighter" to read us toward the end. Her poems had the loveliest phrasing and, not surprisingly, I could relate to her female take on things.

On the other hand, much of Hoch's poetry contained a great deal of humor, both overt and implied. Not all of it was humorous by any means, but when it was there, it caused many of us to chuckle or even laugh out loud.

I know poetry readings aren't for everyone, but then neither is poetry. In my humble opinion, though, far more people would appreciate poetry if they heard it read, rather than just reading it silently themselves as is so often the case.

Not sure I'm right? Close your eyes and imagine a lover reading a poem to you.

Especially when it's read by the author, poetry read aloud can be a beautiful experience.

And who isn't looking for beautiful experiences?