I'd hoped for red and instead get blood orange.
The theater lover and I conspired to score rush tickets to Virginia Repertory's production of "Red" after she wrote me, "Haven't seen a play in ages and am jonesing."
But the highlight of her message was yet to come. "I'm calling off date Saturday for greener Karen pastures."
I moved our date to Friday so she wouldn't disappoint an admirer and agreed to address her theater jones, adding in a pre-theater drink.
The box office gods were not with us.
I arrived at 5:59 to get tickets (the box office opens at 6:00), only to be told that there was only one ticket available.
What kind of friend would I be if I bought the one ticket for myself and left her in the lurch?
Exactly.
Fortunately, Rothko will be around for another month, so we intend to see it yet.
But for tonight, I punted, suggesting we do dinner instead.
Agreeable sort that she is, she promised to report to my house at once and we'd motor from there.
Rather than calling out my name when she arrived, I instead heard, "Stellaaaaaa," from the sidewalk out front.
It was an auspicious start.
Inexplicably, we made Bistro Bobette our destination, found an easy space in front of Fountain Books and walked back up the hill.
Past the diners we went, straight to the bar and seats at the end near a huge vase of lilies and eucalyptus.
The bartender I'd missed on my last two visits was there, happy to see us and we began with a bottle of Paul Mas Estate Picpaoul de Pinet from Languedoc, well-balanced and dry.
I'd been drinking a wonderful white Languedoc just last Friday with Holmes and was happy to continue the tradition this week.
From the moment I sat down, the music suited me so I asked about it, discovering it was Pandora set to Thievery Corporation.
Well done, Bobette.
Wine in hand, girlfriend and I got started when she looked at me, paused and announced, "I think my stepmother drunk-dialed me last night."
Honestly, I wouldn't be the least surprised if that sentence had never before been uttered.
The hysterical story that followed necessitated sustenance, so we listened to the specials.
Ostrich crudo with cilantro oil, capers, cayenne and shaved horseradish got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from us both.
Warm, crusty bread accompanied the lean and flavorful flightless bird.
I made a simple supper of mesclun salad, mushroom and bacon quiche and squid ink pasta with tomatoes and asparagus, while my friend did the "meatless," a selection of four sides.
We agreed that the spring squash sauteed with shallot and herbs was exquisite.
My friend told me that her comments about going to see "Red" with me tonight, and that it was about painter Mark Rothko, had been met by blank stares from co-workers.
This is why we are soul mates - no explanations are necessary.
A regular came in and sat down at the bar, a guy I've met before who's been here working, first on the "Killing Lincoln" movie for what seemed like ages and now on the "Killing Kennedy" movie.
It's gotten so we recognize each other by now.
Tonight he was joined by another film type and they had intense discussion of important stuff while my girlfriend and I discussed Bermuda, anacondas and working from home when the night before necessitates it.
In lieu of dessert, we had a digestif of blood orange wine, as beautifully colored as scented.
The chef came out to have a glass of Rose and enthusiastically jumped into the conversational fray.
"The best tartare is horse," he said when we got into a discussion of unusual meats.
Friend recalled seeing lion meat in a market and inquired about how best to serve it.
We heard rumors about Peking's space across the street being taken over by another tenant.
A server told us horror stories about a recent visit to a certain restaurant I long ago gave up on.
We got a full report on the French Food Festival, an event neither of us had ever before heard good things about.
We talked so long about boating with the chef that all at once we realized that we were the final customers of the day.
Wishing the chef a fine day on his boat tomorrow ("I don't care if it rains, I just want to feel the wind," he grinned, reminding me of the photo of him on his boat in the ladies' room), we headed out onto Cary Street, which was bustling and noisy compared to when we'd arrived.
A woman playing sax sat on a window ledge, wailing away.
Couples walked by, ignoring everyone else.
A couple of guys gave us a second look and a tentative compliment.
Down at the end of the block, the construction fence was up around the former parking lot and soon-to-be hotel at 14th Street.
We should have been having a post-theater drink to discuss how well Rothko had been portrayed.
Oh, well. "Red" will run for another month and you can be sure the two of us will see it.
You could say that'll be part of the future greener Karen pastures.
It's reassuring to know I'm considered one step away from a superlative.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Shutters and Mouths Open
Tonight's lesson: How to be a glutton after art and architecture.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
A Word Fittingly Spoke
You know you're a nerd when...
You read at 11:40 that there's a noon lecture at the Historical Society and you manage not only to change clothes and drive there, but be in your usual seat chatting with a guy from Westmintser-Canterbury by 11:58.
"You Need a Schoolhouse: Booker T. Washington, Julius Rosenwald and the Building of Schools for the Segregated South" sounded compelling enough to throw off my sweaty walking shorts and high-tail it to the Boulevard.
Speaker Stephanie Deutsch got a thumbs-up from me for speaking extemporaneously rather than reading from a script.
It was hardly surprising to learn that Booker T. Washington had been the product of an enslaved black mother and a nearby white planter.
She brought us up to speed on his life, including his tragic personal life, with two wives dying within a few years of marrying him and a child who died young.
We heard about him going to and teaching at Hampton before being recruited to start the Tuskegee Institute, for which he became known.
Almost as interesting was Julius Rosenwald, who'd bought into Sears when Roebuck wanted out and used his pragmatic, executive style to turn it into a moneymaker.
And because he was Jewish, he had a history steeped in giving and started looking for more ways to do good beyond helping European Jews escape pogroms.
When he met Washington, a fast friendship was formed, with each visiting the other's home and place of work.
That was the crux of the talk, about how these two men got the ball rolling on the over 5,000 schools built for rural black children from Maryland to eastern Texas.
North Carolina got the most (800) and our own Virginia got 365 schools.
Rosenwald was a "matching funds" kind of guy, meaning he wasn't handing over money without the community raising a little of their own.
We all know a person's more invested when their hard-earned nickels are involved.
To induce the locals to raise funds, "arousement meetings" were held, not a tough sell in areas where blacks were desperate for their children to have access to education and a better life than they'd had.
By the time all was said and done, the county boards of education were also involved, finally contributing money to building schools for the children they'd once ignored.
That was the feel-good part of the story.
Deutsch said only 10% of the schools are still standing, but many have been rescued by alumni and former teachers at them and repurposed.
They're even now part of the "Most Endangered Historic Sites in America" listings and not a moment too soon.
See, that's something a nerd would say.
On the other hand, if I hadn't collected myself and gone to the lecture, I'd never have known about arousement meetings.
Now there's a meeting a nerd could really get into.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Look in the Mirror, We're Foxes
I officially rang in birthday season tonight.
Because I will not see my Paris-bound friend before my birthday next week, we met tonight to kick off the festivities.
Rowland offered sun streaming through the front windows and happy hour deals of the liquid and edible varieties.
Sitting directly behind us was an eight-top, a family birthday celebration complete with multiple generations and be-ribboned gifts.
Despite the pretense of ours being a birthday celebration, it was really a class A catch-up session.
She began with a jaw-dropping story of a girl crying wolf and the unexpected and potentially awful ramifications of her bad call.
Food-wise we had to order their signature butter bean cake along with another special, essentially a panko-crusted pork schnitzel with an oozing farm egg on top, a tomato Hollandaise and an arugula salad.
Pig with egg? Come on, that's as good as breakfast. Yum.
I heard about the dream screened-in porch she intends to have built and as an ardent fan of outdoor rooms, I envy her the future pleasures of it.
It's with fond memories I recall the one I had for thirteen years when I lived on Floyd Avenue; sadly, it's the one thing I don't have in Jackson Ward.
And hers is going to have a sleeping couch on it, the ultimate porch indulgence.
With nothing to top that, I told her about some of my recent escapades and she told me about an hilarious trip to a Charleston wedding.
And a dry wedding at that, necessitating her bringing a flask.
I loved the part where a guest asked her if she was a model and, true to her quick wit (and the truth), she quipped, "Only nude," a nod to her college days modeling for a drawing class.
That shut 'em up.
We finished with a chocolate cupcake that was more of a molten cake with a dollop of caramel to push it over the edge.
By then she had to leave to get home to hearth and husband and probably weeding in her splendid gardens.
My next stop was a cocktail/listening/birthday party at Balliceaux for a dear friend.
Playing on the screen behind the stage was a 1929 German silent film, "Pandora's Box."
And really, German is so guttural a language, it's really a prime contender for silent film.
He's a musician with a wide range and I'm always eager to hear what his latest direction is.
But we also talk about life with a capital "L" so shortly after our greeting, he put his hands on my shoulder, looked in my eyes and said, "I met a girl."
This was very good news indeed because he's such a terrific, interesting guy and his last girlfriend was a cereal-stealing alcoholic.
And, as I told him, no one should have to lock up their cereal.
But then he was off to play host and mingle until it was time for the debut of his new song.
I knew a few people at the party, said my hellos and then sat down at a table in the center.
A friend and former soul mate came over to chat, looking exceptionally dapper in a seersucker jacket and bow tie.
Bragging that he'd not only tied it himself but had an extra in his jacket pocket ("Gentlemen always carry an extra just in case"), I challenged him to teach me to tie it using my leg.
Despite several attempts, my lower thigh was never adorned with a bow, nor was my neck, the second location he tried.
You have to appreciate a party where someone tries to tie a bow tie on your leg.
Out of the blue, a girl standing near me said to me, "I work in a gun shop."
It was such a surprising way to start a conversation that I couldn't help but be sucked in.
What did I glean?
She makes $9 an hour, she'd never shot a gun before they hired her, they made her take a gun class and it's the largest shooting range in the country.
Oh, yes, and she's learned to keep her mouth shut when surrounded by Second Amendment-spouting customers.
There was a face painter there and my bow-tied friend came back with a disturbing clown face painted on.
After complimenting what a good job the painter had done, I said he needed to see himself in a mirror.
But the bar's bathroom doesn't have a real mirror, causing him to joke, "They don't need mirrors here because if you're at Balliceaux, you must look good."
Someone else postulated that it wasn't only good-looking people who came to Balliceaux, but that once you crossed its threshold, you were in another dimension that made you attractive.
I wasn't buying either theory but his clown face looked damn good.
Finally the birthday boy got up to announce his new song, "We Are Foxes," but it took the crowd a while to stop mingling and listen.
Someone called out for him to talk louder over the hubbub, to which he responded, "I'm trying to talk loud but I have small lungs."
And, no that wasn't a metaphor.
Unfortunately, he told the crowd that it wasn't like the Listening Room so they could talk over his song, and they took him up on that.
I liked what I heard and I'm looking forward to hearing it when people aren't chattering.
Man-about-town Prabir was there with sampler CDs of the new album he's working on.
While it wasn't the whole album, it did come with a sheet inside the CD case with a listing of how to say "breakfast" in every language.
I may have pointed out that he has too much time on his hands.
We got off on a tangent about how proudly weird Richmond is (he put caricature-drawing on a Wednesday night at a bar in that category), an element that seems to have become part of our citywide identification.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Lauren, the caricature artist, was doing impressively good drawings of anyone willing to sit for a few minutes.
I saw one of my music buddy Andrew on the wall, looking exactly like him, only with a much bigger head.
Nearby talking to a girl was a guy whose hair was pure Rick Astley, causing the funny guy near me eating meringues with fresh cream and fruit to jest, "He's never gonna give you up, honey."
Maybe you had to be there (circa 1987) but I found that hilarious.
But the final treat was a song from Capital Opera Richmond singer Sarah.
We'd been promised ponies, too, but I was more than happy with a new song, a bunch of friends and a classic bit of opera.
Or, as the invitation stated, "All this and the possibility that you'll get some if you kiss good."
I hate to sound like the voice of experience here, but there's always the possibility that you'll get some if you kiss good.
True story, kids.
Because I will not see my Paris-bound friend before my birthday next week, we met tonight to kick off the festivities.
Rowland offered sun streaming through the front windows and happy hour deals of the liquid and edible varieties.
Sitting directly behind us was an eight-top, a family birthday celebration complete with multiple generations and be-ribboned gifts.
Despite the pretense of ours being a birthday celebration, it was really a class A catch-up session.
She began with a jaw-dropping story of a girl crying wolf and the unexpected and potentially awful ramifications of her bad call.
Food-wise we had to order their signature butter bean cake along with another special, essentially a panko-crusted pork schnitzel with an oozing farm egg on top, a tomato Hollandaise and an arugula salad.
Pig with egg? Come on, that's as good as breakfast. Yum.
I heard about the dream screened-in porch she intends to have built and as an ardent fan of outdoor rooms, I envy her the future pleasures of it.
It's with fond memories I recall the one I had for thirteen years when I lived on Floyd Avenue; sadly, it's the one thing I don't have in Jackson Ward.
And hers is going to have a sleeping couch on it, the ultimate porch indulgence.
With nothing to top that, I told her about some of my recent escapades and she told me about an hilarious trip to a Charleston wedding.
And a dry wedding at that, necessitating her bringing a flask.
I loved the part where a guest asked her if she was a model and, true to her quick wit (and the truth), she quipped, "Only nude," a nod to her college days modeling for a drawing class.
That shut 'em up.
We finished with a chocolate cupcake that was more of a molten cake with a dollop of caramel to push it over the edge.
By then she had to leave to get home to hearth and husband and probably weeding in her splendid gardens.
My next stop was a cocktail/listening/birthday party at Balliceaux for a dear friend.
Playing on the screen behind the stage was a 1929 German silent film, "Pandora's Box."
And really, German is so guttural a language, it's really a prime contender for silent film.
He's a musician with a wide range and I'm always eager to hear what his latest direction is.
But we also talk about life with a capital "L" so shortly after our greeting, he put his hands on my shoulder, looked in my eyes and said, "I met a girl."
This was very good news indeed because he's such a terrific, interesting guy and his last girlfriend was a cereal-stealing alcoholic.
And, as I told him, no one should have to lock up their cereal.
But then he was off to play host and mingle until it was time for the debut of his new song.
I knew a few people at the party, said my hellos and then sat down at a table in the center.
A friend and former soul mate came over to chat, looking exceptionally dapper in a seersucker jacket and bow tie.
Bragging that he'd not only tied it himself but had an extra in his jacket pocket ("Gentlemen always carry an extra just in case"), I challenged him to teach me to tie it using my leg.
Despite several attempts, my lower thigh was never adorned with a bow, nor was my neck, the second location he tried.
You have to appreciate a party where someone tries to tie a bow tie on your leg.
Out of the blue, a girl standing near me said to me, "I work in a gun shop."
It was such a surprising way to start a conversation that I couldn't help but be sucked in.
What did I glean?
She makes $9 an hour, she'd never shot a gun before they hired her, they made her take a gun class and it's the largest shooting range in the country.
Oh, yes, and she's learned to keep her mouth shut when surrounded by Second Amendment-spouting customers.
There was a face painter there and my bow-tied friend came back with a disturbing clown face painted on.
After complimenting what a good job the painter had done, I said he needed to see himself in a mirror.
But the bar's bathroom doesn't have a real mirror, causing him to joke, "They don't need mirrors here because if you're at Balliceaux, you must look good."
Someone else postulated that it wasn't only good-looking people who came to Balliceaux, but that once you crossed its threshold, you were in another dimension that made you attractive.
I wasn't buying either theory but his clown face looked damn good.
Finally the birthday boy got up to announce his new song, "We Are Foxes," but it took the crowd a while to stop mingling and listen.
Someone called out for him to talk louder over the hubbub, to which he responded, "I'm trying to talk loud but I have small lungs."
And, no that wasn't a metaphor.
Unfortunately, he told the crowd that it wasn't like the Listening Room so they could talk over his song, and they took him up on that.
I liked what I heard and I'm looking forward to hearing it when people aren't chattering.
Man-about-town Prabir was there with sampler CDs of the new album he's working on.
While it wasn't the whole album, it did come with a sheet inside the CD case with a listing of how to say "breakfast" in every language.
I may have pointed out that he has too much time on his hands.
We got off on a tangent about how proudly weird Richmond is (he put caricature-drawing on a Wednesday night at a bar in that category), an element that seems to have become part of our citywide identification.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Lauren, the caricature artist, was doing impressively good drawings of anyone willing to sit for a few minutes.
I saw one of my music buddy Andrew on the wall, looking exactly like him, only with a much bigger head.
Nearby talking to a girl was a guy whose hair was pure Rick Astley, causing the funny guy near me eating meringues with fresh cream and fruit to jest, "He's never gonna give you up, honey."
Maybe you had to be there (circa 1987) but I found that hilarious.
But the final treat was a song from Capital Opera Richmond singer Sarah.
We'd been promised ponies, too, but I was more than happy with a new song, a bunch of friends and a classic bit of opera.
Or, as the invitation stated, "All this and the possibility that you'll get some if you kiss good."
I hate to sound like the voice of experience here, but there's always the possibility that you'll get some if you kiss good.
True story, kids.
View to a Night
A neighborhood regular walks into a bar and an entire evening's plan goes out the window as she contemplates farm life.
When I got to Bistro 27, I had to run the gauntlet of a group cocktail party surrounding the bar.
As it turned out, they were a group who is the liaison between social workers and Presbyterians and they were presenting someone with a giant gold key tonight.
I didn't pretend to understand.
Because it was Brazilian night, my wine of choice was Vega Douro, the chef's choice for the evening's featured dishes.
I saw another Brazilian regular and when he couldn't recall what we'd been drinking the last time we'd both been there for Brazilian night, I jogged his memory for him.
When his date arrived, she fell in line with our wine choice, too.
Then another neighborhood regular showed up and also went Portuguese.
Carlos' plan was working exactly according to his master plan.
In an annual rite of spring, albeit one much later this year than last, I had my first soft shell crab tonight.
They were doing two Brazilian redneck dishes (as he calls them), the braised short ribs and yucca I'd had a couple of weeks ago and a soft shell Bobo.
The rich dish with its sauce of yucca root puree, palm oil and coconut milk was a siren call I couldn't resist, especially with a molting crustacean front and center.
So I was going to have the crab, natch, but I also couldn't resist the short ribs, making for a very filling meal.
While eating the Bobo, it occurred to me that this might be a Virginia take on Brazilian food, given the crab.
I called over answer man Carlos to inquire if this was actually something Brazilians ate or if he was just riffing on a traditional dish.
Oh, no, he explained, it was very much rooted in Brazilian cuisine although they used their native crabs rather than blue crabs.
After hearing about their local crabs - large, long-legged, hairy and living in shallow tidal pools- I had a whole new appreciation for our own species.
My neighbor told me about his new riding mower, bought earlier today and apparently already his pride and joy, while the chef welcomed his wife and baby girls, daughter, sister, niece and nephew.
All of a sudden, it was turning into a Tuesday night Brazilian party with Portuguese not just in the glasses but being spoken all around the bar.
Before I realized it, I had missed the movie I'd intended to go see and was blathering away with the other bar sitters and the chef as dusk turned to night time.
Eventually the liaison group left, the big parties on the other side departed and it was just the bar group still drinking and laughing.
The rest ended up across the street at Comfort for a nightcap.
The music was exquisitely awful (Duran Duran, Survivor, Peter Cetera), leading to discussion with a nearby couple about what constitutes bad music.
Our conclusion: depends on when you were born.
They were sipping whiskeys while we stayed with wine, a lovely cinnamon-nosed Bielsa Garnacha with the silkiest of mouthfeels.
Down at the end of the bar, a woman was so obviously savoring her dessert that a guy sitting at mid-bar finally gave up admiring and ordered his own.
A couple of bites in, he caught me looking covetously at his dessert and apropos of nothing, looked at me and said, "You should get this."
The woman at the end, who was nearing the end of hers concurred, saying, "You know you want it."
It's good to know I'm an easy read for perfect strangers.
I ordered my own chocolate mousse and enjoyed it with my garnacha while eavesdropping on the whiskey lecture that was going on to my left.
Truth is, I always feel like an interloper in a place that focuses on a spirit I never drink.
Conversation flowed as I heard about a talented local chef who'd gotten married and moved to a farm to live theback-breaking bucolic life.
And while it's a charming, even romantic notion, all I could think about was how do you get soft shell Bobo and late night mousses when you live on a farm?
Not to mention the ungodly early hours.
I figure our party departed Comfort approximately three hours before any farmer worth his salt was rolling out of bed.
Shoot me now.
I'm more likely to eat a hairy crab than take on early morning chores, even for the sake of romance.
Luckily, no one's asking me to.
When I got to Bistro 27, I had to run the gauntlet of a group cocktail party surrounding the bar.
As it turned out, they were a group who is the liaison between social workers and Presbyterians and they were presenting someone with a giant gold key tonight.
I didn't pretend to understand.
Because it was Brazilian night, my wine of choice was Vega Douro, the chef's choice for the evening's featured dishes.
I saw another Brazilian regular and when he couldn't recall what we'd been drinking the last time we'd both been there for Brazilian night, I jogged his memory for him.
When his date arrived, she fell in line with our wine choice, too.
Then another neighborhood regular showed up and also went Portuguese.
Carlos' plan was working exactly according to his master plan.
In an annual rite of spring, albeit one much later this year than last, I had my first soft shell crab tonight.
They were doing two Brazilian redneck dishes (as he calls them), the braised short ribs and yucca I'd had a couple of weeks ago and a soft shell Bobo.
The rich dish with its sauce of yucca root puree, palm oil and coconut milk was a siren call I couldn't resist, especially with a molting crustacean front and center.
So I was going to have the crab, natch, but I also couldn't resist the short ribs, making for a very filling meal.
While eating the Bobo, it occurred to me that this might be a Virginia take on Brazilian food, given the crab.
I called over answer man Carlos to inquire if this was actually something Brazilians ate or if he was just riffing on a traditional dish.
Oh, no, he explained, it was very much rooted in Brazilian cuisine although they used their native crabs rather than blue crabs.
After hearing about their local crabs - large, long-legged, hairy and living in shallow tidal pools- I had a whole new appreciation for our own species.
My neighbor told me about his new riding mower, bought earlier today and apparently already his pride and joy, while the chef welcomed his wife and baby girls, daughter, sister, niece and nephew.
All of a sudden, it was turning into a Tuesday night Brazilian party with Portuguese not just in the glasses but being spoken all around the bar.
Before I realized it, I had missed the movie I'd intended to go see and was blathering away with the other bar sitters and the chef as dusk turned to night time.
Eventually the liaison group left, the big parties on the other side departed and it was just the bar group still drinking and laughing.
The rest ended up across the street at Comfort for a nightcap.
The music was exquisitely awful (Duran Duran, Survivor, Peter Cetera), leading to discussion with a nearby couple about what constitutes bad music.
Our conclusion: depends on when you were born.
They were sipping whiskeys while we stayed with wine, a lovely cinnamon-nosed Bielsa Garnacha with the silkiest of mouthfeels.
Down at the end of the bar, a woman was so obviously savoring her dessert that a guy sitting at mid-bar finally gave up admiring and ordered his own.
A couple of bites in, he caught me looking covetously at his dessert and apropos of nothing, looked at me and said, "You should get this."
The woman at the end, who was nearing the end of hers concurred, saying, "You know you want it."
It's good to know I'm an easy read for perfect strangers.
I ordered my own chocolate mousse and enjoyed it with my garnacha while eavesdropping on the whiskey lecture that was going on to my left.
Truth is, I always feel like an interloper in a place that focuses on a spirit I never drink.
Conversation flowed as I heard about a talented local chef who'd gotten married and moved to a farm to live the
And while it's a charming, even romantic notion, all I could think about was how do you get soft shell Bobo and late night mousses when you live on a farm?
Not to mention the ungodly early hours.
I figure our party departed Comfort approximately three hours before any farmer worth his salt was rolling out of bed.
Shoot me now.
I'm more likely to eat a hairy crab than take on early morning chores, even for the sake of romance.
Luckily, no one's asking me to.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Perverse Jazz for Barbers
I am the darling of the barbershop set today.
After this morning's encounter at Adams Barbershop, it happened again tonight.
I went to the Nile for a show, a very interesting sounding show.
When I arrived, openers Godzilla Meets King Kong Quintet had just begun.
Seats were already getting scarce, so I pulled a bar stool over to the side of the restaurant with music and perched myself on it.
Within moments, a guy walks up with a drink, points his finger at me and says, "You walk by the shop every day, right?"
Scrambling to place his face, I took a stab at it, asking if he worked at Salon Z (with the window sign that always makes me smile: "Come on in and get fresh!"), which is another barber shop on my daily walk.
Bingo.
Angelo asked what had brought me out and I asked the same, only to find the Nile is his usual after-work bar.
What I was surprised to learn was that his work day finished at 8:00, far later than I would have guessed guys are in for a trim.
We shut up to listen to the mega monster battle going on with instruments.
During the break, a lot more people came in, no doubt drawn by the duo that was taking the stage next.
A friend who teaches at VCU arrived and I inquired if school was finally over for her.
Not over for good, but over for the day and that was enough for now, she said, leaving to get a beer.
Soon percussionist Tatsuya Nakatani started beating on a wood block to get everyone's attention.
He introduced soprano saxophonist Michael Doneda, saying this was their 18th show of the tour and that they'd be in Norway by May 31st.
"Great times, we have," he said, grinning and sounding very Yoda-like.
Then they got down to the business of free improvisation with Nakatani doing the most amazing things on a drum set I've ever witnessed.
Using broken cymbals and metal bowls, he scraped the surface of the drums, sometimes rocking a cymbal with his fingers, sometimes using a bow on the large gong in front of him, sometimes blowing a noisemaker.
Meanwhile, Frenchman Doneda was creating the most exquisite tension with his sax, alternately blowing long, thick tones and other times almost making it stutter for a moody counterpoint to the pony-tailed Nakatani.
During one particularly interesting part, he began making big loops in the air with his instrument, making it circle around to complement what he was playing.
The music was at times frenetic and at times as hushed as distant thunder, but always completely mesmerizing.
And if you hadn't been able to see them, you'd have sworn it was way more than just two people making music.
But it would have been a shame not to see because watching Nakatani was fascinating for how many percussive things he was doing at any one time.
Even so, at one point I looked around to see no less than half a dozen people using their phones to film what was happening instead of watching it live.
I don't care how many times they can watch the video, it could never equal actually watching it unfold live in the small side room at the Nile.
Great times are had in the here and now, people, not watching later.
After this morning's encounter at Adams Barbershop, it happened again tonight.
I went to the Nile for a show, a very interesting sounding show.
When I arrived, openers Godzilla Meets King Kong Quintet had just begun.
Seats were already getting scarce, so I pulled a bar stool over to the side of the restaurant with music and perched myself on it.
Within moments, a guy walks up with a drink, points his finger at me and says, "You walk by the shop every day, right?"
Scrambling to place his face, I took a stab at it, asking if he worked at Salon Z (with the window sign that always makes me smile: "Come on in and get fresh!"), which is another barber shop on my daily walk.
Bingo.
Angelo asked what had brought me out and I asked the same, only to find the Nile is his usual after-work bar.
What I was surprised to learn was that his work day finished at 8:00, far later than I would have guessed guys are in for a trim.
We shut up to listen to the mega monster battle going on with instruments.
During the break, a lot more people came in, no doubt drawn by the duo that was taking the stage next.
A friend who teaches at VCU arrived and I inquired if school was finally over for her.
Not over for good, but over for the day and that was enough for now, she said, leaving to get a beer.
Soon percussionist Tatsuya Nakatani started beating on a wood block to get everyone's attention.
He introduced soprano saxophonist Michael Doneda, saying this was their 18th show of the tour and that they'd be in Norway by May 31st.
"Great times, we have," he said, grinning and sounding very Yoda-like.
Then they got down to the business of free improvisation with Nakatani doing the most amazing things on a drum set I've ever witnessed.
Using broken cymbals and metal bowls, he scraped the surface of the drums, sometimes rocking a cymbal with his fingers, sometimes using a bow on the large gong in front of him, sometimes blowing a noisemaker.
Meanwhile, Frenchman Doneda was creating the most exquisite tension with his sax, alternately blowing long, thick tones and other times almost making it stutter for a moody counterpoint to the pony-tailed Nakatani.
During one particularly interesting part, he began making big loops in the air with his instrument, making it circle around to complement what he was playing.
The music was at times frenetic and at times as hushed as distant thunder, but always completely mesmerizing.
And if you hadn't been able to see them, you'd have sworn it was way more than just two people making music.
But it would have been a shame not to see because watching Nakatani was fascinating for how many percussive things he was doing at any one time.
Even so, at one point I looked around to see no less than half a dozen people using their phones to film what was happening instead of watching it live.
I don't care how many times they can watch the video, it could never equal actually watching it unfold live in the small side room at the Nile.
Great times are had in the here and now, people, not watching later.
55 Years and Still Looking
You never know who notices you.
Today I was walking down Broad Street past the barbershop where a guy inside has waved hello at me for years.
Ditto today where he waved as I cruised by.
From behind, I suddenly hear a voice. "Good morning! Come here, please!"
I turn around to see an older man gesturing me into the barber shop.
Since there are no customers, I go in and there, sitting in a chair, is the dark-haired barber who waves hello every time I pass, even if he's cutting hair with scissors in hand.
The two men introduce themselves and tell me they look forward to me walking by everyday.
"How long you been coming by now?" the older one asks.
Almost seven years, I tell him.
"I've been cutting hair right here for 55 years," he says, to my astonishment. "After a while, I nickname the regulars who pass by. Wanna know yours?"
The dark-haired one is grinning. "Are you gonna tell her?" he asks incredulously.
"Sure," says the older one. "Legs! That's what I been calling you since you first started coming by here. You got the best legs I ever saw on a woman. To me, you're Legs."
Just so they know, I tell them my actual name is Karen.
"Karen," the dark haired one says. "I saw you at 27 a while back but I couldn't figure out how I knew you. We even talked across the bar, but I just couldn't place you. I woke up in the middle of the night and it hit me. Legs! I'd been talking to Legs at 27!"
He remembered the specific evening - Chef Carlos' birthday party- and that I'd been wearing a dress, something he'd obviously never seen me in on my walks.
"How could you not have recognized those legs?" the older one asked him in disbelief.
Out of context, I guessed. I'd been completely out of context.
Still, it's always flattering to hear that a man woke up in the middle of the night because his brain hadn't been able to stop thinking about me.
Even if it was only my legs.
Today I was walking down Broad Street past the barbershop where a guy inside has waved hello at me for years.
Ditto today where he waved as I cruised by.
From behind, I suddenly hear a voice. "Good morning! Come here, please!"
I turn around to see an older man gesturing me into the barber shop.
Since there are no customers, I go in and there, sitting in a chair, is the dark-haired barber who waves hello every time I pass, even if he's cutting hair with scissors in hand.
The two men introduce themselves and tell me they look forward to me walking by everyday.
"How long you been coming by now?" the older one asks.
Almost seven years, I tell him.
"I've been cutting hair right here for 55 years," he says, to my astonishment. "After a while, I nickname the regulars who pass by. Wanna know yours?"
The dark-haired one is grinning. "Are you gonna tell her?" he asks incredulously.
"Sure," says the older one. "Legs! That's what I been calling you since you first started coming by here. You got the best legs I ever saw on a woman. To me, you're Legs."
Just so they know, I tell them my actual name is Karen.
"Karen," the dark haired one says. "I saw you at 27 a while back but I couldn't figure out how I knew you. We even talked across the bar, but I just couldn't place you. I woke up in the middle of the night and it hit me. Legs! I'd been talking to Legs at 27!"
He remembered the specific evening - Chef Carlos' birthday party- and that I'd been wearing a dress, something he'd obviously never seen me in on my walks.
"How could you not have recognized those legs?" the older one asked him in disbelief.
Out of context, I guessed. I'd been completely out of context.
Still, it's always flattering to hear that a man woke up in the middle of the night because his brain hadn't been able to stop thinking about me.
Even if it was only my legs.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Musical Coaster
On the busiest eating-out day of the year, it's hard to find a place to just eat.
I mean, I wasn't looking for a Mother's Day kind of meal, just quick sustenance before a show.
Thinking Don't Look Back would fit the bill, I was relieved of that notion simply by stepping in the door.
The place was mobbed with what looked like other Mother's Day refugees.
Rather than join the line of people waiting for a table or bar stool, I opted for eating in the "lounge," a euphemism for the back area with couches and a coffee table.
A couple was deep in discussion about dancing while rapping onstage, something he professed to have experience in while all she'd done was dance professionally.
But, hey, a server came over almost at once and my black bean nachos arrived shortly thereafter.
When the dancers left, they were replaced by a couple waiting for a table and no matter how often they were told they could eat back there, they declined.
Tables mean a lot more to some people than others.
She kept looking covetously at my food but held fast to an endless wait for that magic table.
They finally got it as I was leaving.
My next stop was Commercial Taphouse for the premiere of Pairs, a new music series showcasing classical music in the first half and jazz after intermission.
Organizer Ellen was setting out coasters on each table; one side had the info about Scrio, the avant-garde jazz ensemble playing tonight, and the other side wittily read, "On tap."
Listed out were the six pieces to be performed, along with the musicians names and instruments.
It was easily the cleverest program I've ever seen. And useful.
Symphony violinist Treesa came in, looking fabulous with her purple-streaked hair and instrument in hand, pointed at me and said, "I knew you'd be here!"
Since I'd last seen her from afar earlier at the symphony performance this afternoon, she'd been hosting a party of symphony musicians at her house.
She'd slipped out long enough to come play at Pairs and was hoping to return without anyone noticing her absence.
It'd be tough not to notice the purple hair was missing, though.
The first piece featured Mary who, we were told, had been the first trumpet at today's performance, doing an Albinoni piece.
The clear tones of her trumpet were a thing of beauty in that small room.
She shone again in a Vivaldi double horn concerto with Rachel on French horn.
Ellen gave us a quick lesson in the make-up of a string quartet, followed by the fact that she'd quilted together a four-movement string quartet of four movements from composers spanning 200 years.
So we first heard Haydn (the father of string quartets), then Schumann, followed by Debussy and finally Shostakovich.
It was an incredibly brilliant and beautiful way to teach the ignorant among us (okay, me) about the movements and various compositional styles of string quartets.
But things stayed real when we heard fajita meat sizzling in the pan in the nearby kitchen during the Haydn movement.
Classical music, it's not just for stuffed shirts anymore.
The moment it ended, the guy behind me exploded out of his seat to go to the bathroom, telling his friends, "I've been holding it. You don't want to walk through a string quartet to pee."
His Momma didn't raise no fool.
Intermission followed, meaning Scott Clark, one of the the three musicians with Scott in his name who form Scrio (Scott trio, get it?) set up his drums.
It really doesn't take any time for Scott Burton to take his guitar from its case or Jason Scott to hook his sax around his neck.
But then who in RVA doesn't understand how jazz time works?
The talented trio played music from a variety of sources - an early '80s jazz composer, guitarist Scott, saxophonist Jason, John Coltrane ("But just the melody because it's so good").
"We're playing pretty much the entire sax/guitar/drum repertoire that exists," Jason joked.
Both the Burton and Scott pieces had #2 in their title, causing him to wax poetic, "We're a trio playing songs with the number two in them. Deep."
Okay, not that deep, but full of Scott's alternately busy and spare drumming, Scott's nuanced and tasty guitar playing and Jason's melodic wailing on sax.
It was a far cry from a string quartet or double horn concerto, but every bit as impressive to hear, as evidenced by all the classical players who hung around for it.
But then, it was an enviable port in a Mother's Day storm.
I mean, I wasn't looking for a Mother's Day kind of meal, just quick sustenance before a show.
Thinking Don't Look Back would fit the bill, I was relieved of that notion simply by stepping in the door.
The place was mobbed with what looked like other Mother's Day refugees.
Rather than join the line of people waiting for a table or bar stool, I opted for eating in the "lounge," a euphemism for the back area with couches and a coffee table.
A couple was deep in discussion about dancing while rapping onstage, something he professed to have experience in while all she'd done was dance professionally.
But, hey, a server came over almost at once and my black bean nachos arrived shortly thereafter.
When the dancers left, they were replaced by a couple waiting for a table and no matter how often they were told they could eat back there, they declined.
Tables mean a lot more to some people than others.
She kept looking covetously at my food but held fast to an endless wait for that magic table.
They finally got it as I was leaving.
My next stop was Commercial Taphouse for the premiere of Pairs, a new music series showcasing classical music in the first half and jazz after intermission.
Organizer Ellen was setting out coasters on each table; one side had the info about Scrio, the avant-garde jazz ensemble playing tonight, and the other side wittily read, "On tap."
Listed out were the six pieces to be performed, along with the musicians names and instruments.
It was easily the cleverest program I've ever seen. And useful.
Symphony violinist Treesa came in, looking fabulous with her purple-streaked hair and instrument in hand, pointed at me and said, "I knew you'd be here!"
Since I'd last seen her from afar earlier at the symphony performance this afternoon, she'd been hosting a party of symphony musicians at her house.
She'd slipped out long enough to come play at Pairs and was hoping to return without anyone noticing her absence.
It'd be tough not to notice the purple hair was missing, though.
The first piece featured Mary who, we were told, had been the first trumpet at today's performance, doing an Albinoni piece.
The clear tones of her trumpet were a thing of beauty in that small room.
She shone again in a Vivaldi double horn concerto with Rachel on French horn.
Ellen gave us a quick lesson in the make-up of a string quartet, followed by the fact that she'd quilted together a four-movement string quartet of four movements from composers spanning 200 years.
So we first heard Haydn (the father of string quartets), then Schumann, followed by Debussy and finally Shostakovich.
It was an incredibly brilliant and beautiful way to teach the ignorant among us (okay, me) about the movements and various compositional styles of string quartets.
But things stayed real when we heard fajita meat sizzling in the pan in the nearby kitchen during the Haydn movement.
Classical music, it's not just for stuffed shirts anymore.
The moment it ended, the guy behind me exploded out of his seat to go to the bathroom, telling his friends, "I've been holding it. You don't want to walk through a string quartet to pee."
His Momma didn't raise no fool.
Intermission followed, meaning Scott Clark, one of the the three musicians with Scott in his name who form Scrio (Scott trio, get it?) set up his drums.
It really doesn't take any time for Scott Burton to take his guitar from its case or Jason Scott to hook his sax around his neck.
But then who in RVA doesn't understand how jazz time works?
The talented trio played music from a variety of sources - an early '80s jazz composer, guitarist Scott, saxophonist Jason, John Coltrane ("But just the melody because it's so good").
"We're playing pretty much the entire sax/guitar/drum repertoire that exists," Jason joked.
Both the Burton and Scott pieces had #2 in their title, causing him to wax poetic, "We're a trio playing songs with the number two in them. Deep."
Okay, not that deep, but full of Scott's alternately busy and spare drumming, Scott's nuanced and tasty guitar playing and Jason's melodic wailing on sax.
It was a far cry from a string quartet or double horn concerto, but every bit as impressive to hear, as evidenced by all the classical players who hung around for it.
But then, it was an enviable port in a Mother's Day storm.
Fifths and Sacred Dances
The only thing missing was the rioting.
On this glorious spring afternoon, I was at CenterStage for the Richmond Symphony's program of "Musical Revolutionaries."
Our seats were in the nosebleed section, but given the $10 ticket price, neither me nor either of my companions was complaining about the height.
Hell, I've bought $10 seats that landed me in the very last row and this time there were two rows behind us, so it was plenty uptown for me.
Even from so far away, I spotted my favorite bass clarinet player, looking handsome and ready to play.
Likewise, the lanky bass player with whom I love to chat was holding up his large instrument (and no, that's not a metaphor although I feel sure he'd say it was).
The program began with Monteverdi's "Toccata and Ritornelli" from an opera, "Orfeo" he'd written in 1607.
Yea, that didn't mean anything to me, either.
Wait, wasn't that the year the colonists were landing in Jamestown?
The short piece was notable mainly for how the orchestra had to simulate the sounds of instruments no longer in use.
Fast forward 200 years for Beethoven's "Symphony No. 5," or as it was called in the '70s, "A fifth of Beethoven."
From the first distinctive four notes, da da da DA, I could only think of one thing.
Just how many cartoons have used this piece of music.
When the orchestra finished the four-movement piece, the audience rose to its feet for a standing ovation.
After intermission came the reason I was at CenterStage today: Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring."
This month is the centennial of the first performance of the composer's tradition-smashing work.
My only complaint was that the program, in describing it, referred to "the shear noise of new music."
Two of our group are serious language geeks, and that egregious error left us shaking our heads in disgust.
Perhaps I should volunteer my proofreading skills to the symphony.
But that aside, hearing "The Rite of Spring" performed live was a magical experience.
Just before it began, one of my companions began adjusting stuff on the floor, saying, "I need to clear the decks for toe-tapping."
Let's just say before long my toes, my legs and everything else was pulsating along with the pagan rhythms.
Conductor Steven Smith called the revolutionary piece of music a "sonic extravaganza," trying to prepare us for what we were about to hear.
And that was the music written for a ballet about a pagan rite, namely old men sitting around watching a young girl dance herself to death.
As you can imagine, that didn't go over terribly well in 1913.
Today, however, it was a tour de force beginning with a bassoon and moving through, according to Smith, revolutionary rhythmic patterns that sounded both tribal and primitive, evocations with which we're far more comfortable today than they were 100 years ago.
So instead of throwing catcalls and insults at the musicians, today's audience sat there raptly and when the piece ended, gave a prolonged standing ovation, topping even the one we'd given Beethoven's fifth.
Why riot when it's so much more satisfying to indulge your primal side?
On this glorious spring afternoon, I was at CenterStage for the Richmond Symphony's program of "Musical Revolutionaries."
Our seats were in the nosebleed section, but given the $10 ticket price, neither me nor either of my companions was complaining about the height.
Hell, I've bought $10 seats that landed me in the very last row and this time there were two rows behind us, so it was plenty uptown for me.
Even from so far away, I spotted my favorite bass clarinet player, looking handsome and ready to play.
Likewise, the lanky bass player with whom I love to chat was holding up his large instrument (and no, that's not a metaphor although I feel sure he'd say it was).
The program began with Monteverdi's "Toccata and Ritornelli" from an opera, "Orfeo" he'd written in 1607.
Yea, that didn't mean anything to me, either.
Wait, wasn't that the year the colonists were landing in Jamestown?
The short piece was notable mainly for how the orchestra had to simulate the sounds of instruments no longer in use.
Fast forward 200 years for Beethoven's "Symphony No. 5," or as it was called in the '70s, "A fifth of Beethoven."
From the first distinctive four notes, da da da DA, I could only think of one thing.
Just how many cartoons have used this piece of music.
When the orchestra finished the four-movement piece, the audience rose to its feet for a standing ovation.
After intermission came the reason I was at CenterStage today: Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring."
This month is the centennial of the first performance of the composer's tradition-smashing work.
My only complaint was that the program, in describing it, referred to "the shear noise of new music."
Two of our group are serious language geeks, and that egregious error left us shaking our heads in disgust.
Perhaps I should volunteer my proofreading skills to the symphony.
But that aside, hearing "The Rite of Spring" performed live was a magical experience.
Just before it began, one of my companions began adjusting stuff on the floor, saying, "I need to clear the decks for toe-tapping."
Let's just say before long my toes, my legs and everything else was pulsating along with the pagan rhythms.
Conductor Steven Smith called the revolutionary piece of music a "sonic extravaganza," trying to prepare us for what we were about to hear.
And that was the music written for a ballet about a pagan rite, namely old men sitting around watching a young girl dance herself to death.
As you can imagine, that didn't go over terribly well in 1913.
Today, however, it was a tour de force beginning with a bassoon and moving through, according to Smith, revolutionary rhythmic patterns that sounded both tribal and primitive, evocations with which we're far more comfortable today than they were 100 years ago.
So instead of throwing catcalls and insults at the musicians, today's audience sat there raptly and when the piece ended, gave a prolonged standing ovation, topping even the one we'd given Beethoven's fifth.
Why riot when it's so much more satisfying to indulge your primal side?
This Much Delight
So I finally got to be a VIP.
After countless trips to the National, the only time I'd ever sat down was at the very first show, Lou Reed.
Every show since, and there have been many, I have stood on the main floor, pretty much always right in front of the sound booth.
Arriving for the Joy Formidable show tonight, I was at the window picking up my ticket when I heard my name called from the left.
My evening's companion had scored VIP passes, so regular tickets were unnecessary.
As I soon learned, that mean a private bar, a separate bathroom and tables and chairs or a padded banquette to sit on.
We made a stop at the bar where I got Cazadores and noticed an open window.
It seemed unlikely to me that the clubby bar with deep, leather couches and a screen showing what was being set up onstage, would have a window open to Broad Street.
Naturally, I wasted no time leaning out it to look down on the cityscape, despite my friend seeing it as no big deal.
Drinks in hand, we walked down the hall, showed our VIP wristbands and took seats on the banquette, right smack in the middle.
First up was Fort Lean, a quintet of endless exuberance and guitars from NYC.
They were breaking no new ground, but the sound was energetically infectious and there was no reason not to enjoy a young band who had me bopping in place from the first jangly song.
Friend described them as a "vivacious My Morning Jacket," while I heard more power pop than anything else.
The unexpected part was how we ended up playing "name that tune," finding all kinds of already-written songs in each of theirs.
The Go-Gos' "We Got the Beat," Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" and even Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran" all made appearances with new lyrics and a few new licks to dress them up.
Not that anyone in the band had been alive when those songs came out.
It was after their brief set that I learned the true pleasures of being a VIP - an empty bar at which to get a refill and use a spacious bathroom.
We watched the set up of the next band, IO Echo, from one of the leather sofas in the bar before returning just in time for them to begin their set on a stage modified with Asian accents.
Two rice paper screens stood on either side, with a large open fan on the floor between them.
All at once, strobe lights went off and the androgynous-looking, kimono-clad lead singer, Joanna, all but exploded on stage.
She was a long, tall drink of water in a t-shirt, jeans and boots under a pale pink kimono who spent a lot of their set pogo-ing as she sang.
On either side of her, tall, black-clad men played their instruments set dramatically against the backlit screens, with guitarist Leopold swinging his long, black hair dramatically with every power chord.
It was goth rock theatricality of the highest order.
On the way in, I'd run into a guy I always see at shows and he'd given me a head-up about IO Echo, citing their Japanese embellishments and saying he thought they had a "Cocteau Twins meets My Bloody Valentine" sound.
I'd call it bombast, pure and simple.
Singer Joanna wavered between sounding like Florence (as in, & the Machine) and vintage Grace Slick, but her twirling dance style was pure Stevie Nicks, without any of the femininity.
They were a band with high entertainment value, whether intentionally or not, we couldn't decide.
By now we knew the drill, returning to the bar area and slouching on the couch to watch the set-up for the Joy Formidable.
We'd both seen the Joy a little over two years ago at the Black Cat, so we both knew exactly what to expect.
Of course, it wasn't that simple.
When we left the bar, we took seats at a front-row table so we could have an even better view of the band and the crowd.
Lead singer Ritzy (real name: Rhiannon, I kid you not), a tiny, blond slip of a Welsh woman, came out looking like she'd had a TV makeover.
Instead of the spiky-haired platinum blond in jeans and leather we'd seen in 2011, tonight she had a sleek bob of the warmest blond color, a cute little black dress, a big silver collar necklace and black tights.
It didn't look very rock and roll, more like just cute.
She still had her massive pedal board from which she made big sounds on her guitar, although the absolute center of this band is the bass player, Rhydian, from whom all songs emanate.
Drummer Matthew got big points for having a gong behind his drum set, the better to make big noise.
By the third song, a black and white video screen had come on behind them, further evidence of how much more polished their act had become in two years.
Add in that now it's not just the three of them making music like it had been at the Black Cat, but a lot of sounds pre-recorded coming from off stage.
Ditto the songs off their new album, "Wolf's Law," which show a lot more range than its predecessors, although I never had any complaint with their original sound.
Nor did the crowd and when the tore into "Whirring," everyone went crazy for the massive sound of it.
This much delight
Fills columns to new heights
All these things about me you never can tell
Colors in prime
Paint a picture so bright
All these things about me you never can tell
You make me sleep so badly, invisible friend
But when they got to a song where Rhydian was playing an acoustic guitar instead of his effects-laden bass, my friend and I looked at each other like another band had dropped down on stage instead of the one we'd come to see.
Ritzy said it was the last night of a tour they'd been on since January and soon after scuttled off the stage and into the crowd, moving along the front row, a tiny slip of a blond lost between the stage and rabid fans.
All of a sudden, being a VIP wasn't doing me much good.
My friend and I agreed that the best part of seeing tonight's show was the fact that we'd seen the band the last time.
No one keeps an edge indefinitely and as good as the band sounded tonight, the show that'll stick in my memory is the one that's been firmly planted there since March 2011.
It was a little like seeing a favorite classic black and white movie colorized.
I can't see he says what he means
I can't say what he means when he says
That I'll pretend, I'll pretty pretend
When all I want to see is the end of this
Or maybe I just wasn't meant to be a VIP.
After countless trips to the National, the only time I'd ever sat down was at the very first show, Lou Reed.
Every show since, and there have been many, I have stood on the main floor, pretty much always right in front of the sound booth.
Arriving for the Joy Formidable show tonight, I was at the window picking up my ticket when I heard my name called from the left.
My evening's companion had scored VIP passes, so regular tickets were unnecessary.
As I soon learned, that mean a private bar, a separate bathroom and tables and chairs or a padded banquette to sit on.
We made a stop at the bar where I got Cazadores and noticed an open window.
It seemed unlikely to me that the clubby bar with deep, leather couches and a screen showing what was being set up onstage, would have a window open to Broad Street.
Naturally, I wasted no time leaning out it to look down on the cityscape, despite my friend seeing it as no big deal.
Drinks in hand, we walked down the hall, showed our VIP wristbands and took seats on the banquette, right smack in the middle.
First up was Fort Lean, a quintet of endless exuberance and guitars from NYC.
They were breaking no new ground, but the sound was energetically infectious and there was no reason not to enjoy a young band who had me bopping in place from the first jangly song.
Friend described them as a "vivacious My Morning Jacket," while I heard more power pop than anything else.
The unexpected part was how we ended up playing "name that tune," finding all kinds of already-written songs in each of theirs.
The Go-Gos' "We Got the Beat," Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" and even Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran" all made appearances with new lyrics and a few new licks to dress them up.
Not that anyone in the band had been alive when those songs came out.
It was after their brief set that I learned the true pleasures of being a VIP - an empty bar at which to get a refill and use a spacious bathroom.
We watched the set up of the next band, IO Echo, from one of the leather sofas in the bar before returning just in time for them to begin their set on a stage modified with Asian accents.
Two rice paper screens stood on either side, with a large open fan on the floor between them.
All at once, strobe lights went off and the androgynous-looking, kimono-clad lead singer, Joanna, all but exploded on stage.
She was a long, tall drink of water in a t-shirt, jeans and boots under a pale pink kimono who spent a lot of their set pogo-ing as she sang.
On either side of her, tall, black-clad men played their instruments set dramatically against the backlit screens, with guitarist Leopold swinging his long, black hair dramatically with every power chord.
It was goth rock theatricality of the highest order.
On the way in, I'd run into a guy I always see at shows and he'd given me a head-up about IO Echo, citing their Japanese embellishments and saying he thought they had a "Cocteau Twins meets My Bloody Valentine" sound.
I'd call it bombast, pure and simple.
Singer Joanna wavered between sounding like Florence (as in, & the Machine) and vintage Grace Slick, but her twirling dance style was pure Stevie Nicks, without any of the femininity.
They were a band with high entertainment value, whether intentionally or not, we couldn't decide.
By now we knew the drill, returning to the bar area and slouching on the couch to watch the set-up for the Joy Formidable.
We'd both seen the Joy a little over two years ago at the Black Cat, so we both knew exactly what to expect.
Of course, it wasn't that simple.
When we left the bar, we took seats at a front-row table so we could have an even better view of the band and the crowd.
Lead singer Ritzy (real name: Rhiannon, I kid you not), a tiny, blond slip of a Welsh woman, came out looking like she'd had a TV makeover.
Instead of the spiky-haired platinum blond in jeans and leather we'd seen in 2011, tonight she had a sleek bob of the warmest blond color, a cute little black dress, a big silver collar necklace and black tights.
It didn't look very rock and roll, more like just cute.
She still had her massive pedal board from which she made big sounds on her guitar, although the absolute center of this band is the bass player, Rhydian, from whom all songs emanate.
Drummer Matthew got big points for having a gong behind his drum set, the better to make big noise.
By the third song, a black and white video screen had come on behind them, further evidence of how much more polished their act had become in two years.
Add in that now it's not just the three of them making music like it had been at the Black Cat, but a lot of sounds pre-recorded coming from off stage.
Ditto the songs off their new album, "Wolf's Law," which show a lot more range than its predecessors, although I never had any complaint with their original sound.
Nor did the crowd and when the tore into "Whirring," everyone went crazy for the massive sound of it.
This much delight
Fills columns to new heights
All these things about me you never can tell
Colors in prime
Paint a picture so bright
All these things about me you never can tell
You make me sleep so badly, invisible friend
But when they got to a song where Rhydian was playing an acoustic guitar instead of his effects-laden bass, my friend and I looked at each other like another band had dropped down on stage instead of the one we'd come to see.
Ritzy said it was the last night of a tour they'd been on since January and soon after scuttled off the stage and into the crowd, moving along the front row, a tiny slip of a blond lost between the stage and rabid fans.
All of a sudden, being a VIP wasn't doing me much good.
My friend and I agreed that the best part of seeing tonight's show was the fact that we'd seen the band the last time.
No one keeps an edge indefinitely and as good as the band sounded tonight, the show that'll stick in my memory is the one that's been firmly planted there since March 2011.
It was a little like seeing a favorite classic black and white movie colorized.
I can't see he says what he means
I can't say what he means when he says
That I'll pretend, I'll pretty pretend
When all I want to see is the end of this
Or maybe I just wasn't meant to be a VIP.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Lobster Convention
I can only be so bad when I'm going to see my Mom in the morning.
So when Holmes invited me to join him and his beloved for a dinner party on the deck, I enthusiastically say yes.
After all, on an 88-degree day, there can be no better place than on someone's deck when they're grilling out.
When I arrive, things are already lively with a Languedoc to drink and various kitchen chores to participate in.
More than willing to earn my keep, I am soon skewering shrimp, making rice pilaf, steaming lobster tails and melting butter.
I am nothing, if not adaptable.
We debate whether to eat inside or out, the 75-degree weather calling us to eat al fresco, but the mosquitoes challenging the one with the sweet meat among us.
Eventually, we settled for a three-wick citronella candle and a view of the pale blue sky.
Holmes' special sauce for the shrimp is made while we set the table, fluff the rice and make foil packets for the vegetables and tomatoes with Parmesan.
We are like a well-oiled machine, except without the oil.
The result is great hilarity, with multiple bottles of wine being opened and consumed, and endless courses of food prepared and put out on the deck tables.
His beloved is as big an art geek as I am, so we take a tangent about Tom Wesselamann and the art of the '60s.
Holmes tolerates our tangent before bringing us back to the matter at hand: food and wine.
He gives us a lecture on the benefits of charcoal over a gas grill while the beloved and I steal light and creamy La Marca Prosecco from the refrigerator and begin the bubbly portion of the evening.
The food is fabulous and Holmes keeps reminding us what a steal of a deal it all was.
He says the lobster tails were dirt cheap, the crab legs were being "given away," the wine was $6 a bottle and before long we are convinced that he has spent almost no money entertaining us tonight.
But given the black outlines against the blue sky, we decide it's not about the cost, but about the company.
When Holmes starts up the music, it's Ian Matthews and Fairport Convention and neither his beloved nor I have any familiarity with either.
That said, Matthews' voice is stellar, his songwriting compelling and the music so well done that I can't believe I've never heard of this person or group.
Holmes tells us how important Fairport Convention were, practically the most significant English folk rock band.
This is a big part of the appeal of Holmes' dinner parties, because I always hear good music and inevitably lean more about music than I knew when I arrived.
And that's after eating huge amounts of good food and indulging in multiple terrific wines along the way.
And while we didn't get far enough to make the bananas foster as we'd intended, the congenial conversation, abundance of eats and non-stop wine eventually give way to me taking my leave before the clock strikes twelve.
And that's a good thing.
Mom doesn't need to see me wilted after a typical night with Holmes and Co.
Better she think I spent the evening preparing for my luncheon with her.
You can fool your Mom some of the time, but you can't fool your Mom all of the time.
I'll settle for tomorrow and call it a draw.
So when Holmes invited me to join him and his beloved for a dinner party on the deck, I enthusiastically say yes.
After all, on an 88-degree day, there can be no better place than on someone's deck when they're grilling out.
When I arrive, things are already lively with a Languedoc to drink and various kitchen chores to participate in.
More than willing to earn my keep, I am soon skewering shrimp, making rice pilaf, steaming lobster tails and melting butter.
I am nothing, if not adaptable.
We debate whether to eat inside or out, the 75-degree weather calling us to eat al fresco, but the mosquitoes challenging the one with the sweet meat among us.
Eventually, we settled for a three-wick citronella candle and a view of the pale blue sky.
Holmes' special sauce for the shrimp is made while we set the table, fluff the rice and make foil packets for the vegetables and tomatoes with Parmesan.
We are like a well-oiled machine, except without the oil.
The result is great hilarity, with multiple bottles of wine being opened and consumed, and endless courses of food prepared and put out on the deck tables.
His beloved is as big an art geek as I am, so we take a tangent about Tom Wesselamann and the art of the '60s.
Holmes tolerates our tangent before bringing us back to the matter at hand: food and wine.
He gives us a lecture on the benefits of charcoal over a gas grill while the beloved and I steal light and creamy La Marca Prosecco from the refrigerator and begin the bubbly portion of the evening.
The food is fabulous and Holmes keeps reminding us what a steal of a deal it all was.
He says the lobster tails were dirt cheap, the crab legs were being "given away," the wine was $6 a bottle and before long we are convinced that he has spent almost no money entertaining us tonight.
But given the black outlines against the blue sky, we decide it's not about the cost, but about the company.
When Holmes starts up the music, it's Ian Matthews and Fairport Convention and neither his beloved nor I have any familiarity with either.
That said, Matthews' voice is stellar, his songwriting compelling and the music so well done that I can't believe I've never heard of this person or group.
Holmes tells us how important Fairport Convention were, practically the most significant English folk rock band.
This is a big part of the appeal of Holmes' dinner parties, because I always hear good music and inevitably lean more about music than I knew when I arrived.
And that's after eating huge amounts of good food and indulging in multiple terrific wines along the way.
And while we didn't get far enough to make the bananas foster as we'd intended, the congenial conversation, abundance of eats and non-stop wine eventually give way to me taking my leave before the clock strikes twelve.
And that's a good thing.
Mom doesn't need to see me wilted after a typical night with Holmes and Co.
Better she think I spent the evening preparing for my luncheon with her.
You can fool your Mom some of the time, but you can't fool your Mom all of the time.
I'll settle for tomorrow and call it a draw.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Metaphysics of Promise
It's a long way from a nude to a drum pad.
Step one was Bistro 27 where a 45-top (no, really) of middle-aged fraternity bothers were slowly taking over the restaurant.
All the women wanted chardonnay and all the men wore khakis.
'Nuff said.
I amused myself at the bar with Vinho Verde, the lamb kebab over chickpeas, walnuts, red peppers and eggplant and the new Virginia Living magazine.
Their best of issue was laughable.
Example: Best hair salon for women: Bombshell Brazilian Wax and Skincare.
Seriously?
Most challenging golf course? This was a magazine made for the fraternity set.
But enough of them.
Step two was the VMFA for Dr. David McCarthy's lecture, "Toward an American Nude" about the Tom Wesselmann pop art show.
I found a prime seat, front row, back section (where I can stretch my legs) and almost immediately saw James, my fellow nerd.
He and I only exist to each other at lectures, talks and the occasional show.
Today, we talked about missing Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia and how eager we are for the Richmond Symphony's performances this weekend.
Bring on "The Rite of Spring," we agreed.
Nerd talk.
I'd barely sat back down when a favorite couple appeared and took the seats next to me.
All at once, she pulled a small white box with a "For the Love of Chocolate" sticker on it out and handed it to me. "For you," she grinned.
It was a box of absinthe cordials, a thing I hadn't even known existed.
She said she hadn't either but the moment she saw them, she knew they had to go to me.
It was a lovely gesture and proved that she knows something about me that my mother doesn't.
Dr. McCarthy began by instructing us to shout if his voice began to drop and fade away, something he also advises his students to do.
His voice didn't fade and what was coming out of his mouth was a well-considered look at Wesselmann's place in history and art.
He suggested that the nude allowed Wesselmann, whom he called "a profound art historian who wore his debts on his sleeve," to get out from under the yoke of abstract expressionism by referring back to classical French painting.
Taken in the context of the post-war boom, McCarthy saw the nude series as hopeful examples of the great bounty available in this country during that time.
His exact term was the "metaphysics of promise," a reference to the quest for the good life, and abundance.
Domestic hedonism, that's what Wesselmann portrayed.
During the Q & A, he was asked why an artist who was considered a major force at the time is so little known now.
McCarthy had a whole slew of reasons, but what it came down to was this: Think of Wesselmann like a female artist of the time.
No matter how talented, it was just harder to get noticed.
My friend the candy-giver and I looked at each other and it made perfect sense.
Looked at in that way, Wesselmann's unjust plight was no worse than our entire sex's at the time.
We could relate. [Knowing nods at each other]
Step three was upstairs at Best Cafe for the Jack Winn-tet.
You'd think that would mean five musicians, not four, but as Jack explained, "Count me twice."
His group played classic jazz like "Take the A Train" to a rapt bunch of classic jazz fans.
I found a fellow music lover and got a cheese plate and headed out to the deck while the band was on break.
Chihuly's red reeds were lit and the lily pads in bloom, making for a picaresque tableau.
It was a soft, warm night and lots of people were in the sculpture garden and on the deck.
Nearby, I watched two young women artists talk to an older woman who seemed to be a gallery owner, or at least a curator, asking her for advice on how to get shown.
The older woman offered advice and encouragement.
One of the young artists laid her cards on the table. "I could really use this show now," she said emphatically. "I could use something good to happen to me."
Kind of makes your heart hurt, doesn't it?
Step four required driving to Balliceaux for music and unexpected tequila tasting.
The first band was First Creature, a lo-fi '90s-sounding group with a girl singer and lots of guitar lines that worked for me.
They got off to a slow start but built with every song until I was seriously enjoying their simple psychedelia.
Meanwhile, two girls in black dresses and impossibly high heels were working the room, offering shots of Malibu Red, an unfortunate mixture of Malibu rum and tequila.
One sniff and I went back to my Cazadores.
On their next pass-through, it was Malibu spiced rum/tequila, which smelled an awful lot like pumpkin pie.
Back to my Cazadores.
After a long set-up of card tables, a red suitcase with knobs inside and a drum pad, Mutwawa took the stage.
In costume.
Percussionist Jason had on what looked like a chain mail headpiece and knob twirler Gary wore a hooded red robe.
It took them exactly two songs to get so hot they shed their costumes.
Their music had been labeled live electronic spaced out tribal dance rhythms, about which my companion of a certain age observed, "Yea, we used to call that techno when we were doing it back in the '90s."
It was true, I had to admit to him, the music would have been far better suited to a dim warehouse at 4 a.m. on a Saturday night.
But absent that, where better to be on a warm Thursday night than listening to blips set to beats while women in black pawned off bad tequila products on an unsuspecting audience?
This is the domestic hedonism our forefathers made possible for us, damn it.
Step one was Bistro 27 where a 45-top (no, really) of middle-aged fraternity bothers were slowly taking over the restaurant.
All the women wanted chardonnay and all the men wore khakis.
'Nuff said.
I amused myself at the bar with Vinho Verde, the lamb kebab over chickpeas, walnuts, red peppers and eggplant and the new Virginia Living magazine.
Their best of issue was laughable.
Example: Best hair salon for women: Bombshell Brazilian Wax and Skincare.
Seriously?
Most challenging golf course? This was a magazine made for the fraternity set.
But enough of them.
Step two was the VMFA for Dr. David McCarthy's lecture, "Toward an American Nude" about the Tom Wesselmann pop art show.
I found a prime seat, front row, back section (where I can stretch my legs) and almost immediately saw James, my fellow nerd.
He and I only exist to each other at lectures, talks and the occasional show.
Today, we talked about missing Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia and how eager we are for the Richmond Symphony's performances this weekend.
Bring on "The Rite of Spring," we agreed.
Nerd talk.
I'd barely sat back down when a favorite couple appeared and took the seats next to me.
All at once, she pulled a small white box with a "For the Love of Chocolate" sticker on it out and handed it to me. "For you," she grinned.
It was a box of absinthe cordials, a thing I hadn't even known existed.
She said she hadn't either but the moment she saw them, she knew they had to go to me.
It was a lovely gesture and proved that she knows something about me that my mother doesn't.
Dr. McCarthy began by instructing us to shout if his voice began to drop and fade away, something he also advises his students to do.
His voice didn't fade and what was coming out of his mouth was a well-considered look at Wesselmann's place in history and art.
He suggested that the nude allowed Wesselmann, whom he called "a profound art historian who wore his debts on his sleeve," to get out from under the yoke of abstract expressionism by referring back to classical French painting.
Taken in the context of the post-war boom, McCarthy saw the nude series as hopeful examples of the great bounty available in this country during that time.
His exact term was the "metaphysics of promise," a reference to the quest for the good life, and abundance.
Domestic hedonism, that's what Wesselmann portrayed.
During the Q & A, he was asked why an artist who was considered a major force at the time is so little known now.
McCarthy had a whole slew of reasons, but what it came down to was this: Think of Wesselmann like a female artist of the time.
No matter how talented, it was just harder to get noticed.
My friend the candy-giver and I looked at each other and it made perfect sense.
Looked at in that way, Wesselmann's unjust plight was no worse than our entire sex's at the time.
We could relate. [Knowing nods at each other]
Step three was upstairs at Best Cafe for the Jack Winn-tet.
You'd think that would mean five musicians, not four, but as Jack explained, "Count me twice."
His group played classic jazz like "Take the A Train" to a rapt bunch of classic jazz fans.
I found a fellow music lover and got a cheese plate and headed out to the deck while the band was on break.
Chihuly's red reeds were lit and the lily pads in bloom, making for a picaresque tableau.
It was a soft, warm night and lots of people were in the sculpture garden and on the deck.
Nearby, I watched two young women artists talk to an older woman who seemed to be a gallery owner, or at least a curator, asking her for advice on how to get shown.
The older woman offered advice and encouragement.
One of the young artists laid her cards on the table. "I could really use this show now," she said emphatically. "I could use something good to happen to me."
Kind of makes your heart hurt, doesn't it?
Step four required driving to Balliceaux for music and unexpected tequila tasting.
The first band was First Creature, a lo-fi '90s-sounding group with a girl singer and lots of guitar lines that worked for me.
They got off to a slow start but built with every song until I was seriously enjoying their simple psychedelia.
Meanwhile, two girls in black dresses and impossibly high heels were working the room, offering shots of Malibu Red, an unfortunate mixture of Malibu rum and tequila.
One sniff and I went back to my Cazadores.
On their next pass-through, it was Malibu spiced rum/tequila, which smelled an awful lot like pumpkin pie.
Back to my Cazadores.
After a long set-up of card tables, a red suitcase with knobs inside and a drum pad, Mutwawa took the stage.
In costume.
Percussionist Jason had on what looked like a chain mail headpiece and knob twirler Gary wore a hooded red robe.
It took them exactly two songs to get so hot they shed their costumes.
Their music had been labeled live electronic spaced out tribal dance rhythms, about which my companion of a certain age observed, "Yea, we used to call that techno when we were doing it back in the '90s."
It was true, I had to admit to him, the music would have been far better suited to a dim warehouse at 4 a.m. on a Saturday night.
But absent that, where better to be on a warm Thursday night than listening to blips set to beats while women in black pawned off bad tequila products on an unsuspecting audience?
This is the domestic hedonism our forefathers made possible for us, damn it.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Three Strikes
I'm not what you'd call the sports type.
No hand/eye coordination, no need to be part of a team, no real interest in watching games. So the last place you might expect I'd go on a dreary Wednesday night would be to see a baseball game.
But there I was at the Diamond with a baseball lover, someone who thinks baseball is a beautiful sport, unfolding languorously and organically in a way that football and basketball do not.
Whatever.
So we get our tickets and I have to question the price. $7, really, for a nosebleed general admission seat? Seems a little steep considering all the empty seats, but what do I know?
On the plus side, I see that the Squirrels are playing the Bowie Baysox, significant only because my best friend from college was living in Bowie when I first met her and I haven't thought about Bowie in decades.
But the best is yet to come. Inside, I find an almost fair-like world.
A high school band is at the top of the steps, playing their hearts out. Giant costumed mascots are looming over small children. It's "Wet Wednesday," so beers are $2 until 7:00 and people are buying them in bulk. It's also nurses' night, but the only person I see in scrubs is the guy with the microphone on the field shouting about $2 beers.
Beer vendors are hawking their wares from a strap-on case as you walk by them.
Down the concourse, I find carnival game set-ups with bored looking guys waiting for someone to play. The "picnic area" has been overtaken by khaki-clad men and women and the table cards read "Genworth Financial," so we keep on walking. The Dipping Dots girl is making cow eyes at her pimply boyfriend.
Where is the great American past time?
We head up to our seats, only to see that it's raining steadily by now. As we stand there looking out at the covered infield, a red-vested usher approaches us with a look of resignation.
"Yep, I think they're gonna call this game tonight," he says like he knows. This is news to us, we tell him. "Yea, well, they prolly won't announce it till 9:00."
9:00?? A game that was supposed to start at 6:35 is in limbo until 9:00? Surely he's wrong.
We find a dry spot on the concrete steps leading upstairs and look out over the Boulevard and eating a really bad hot Italian sausage with mushy peppers and onions on it.
From my vantage point, the rain is imperceptible, but there's a big overhang so it's really just that it's yards away. The baseball lover goes for a walk, tired of step sitting.
A guy with his hands full of nachos passes me to go upstairs, asking, "So, what's your forecast?" Feeling in the know because of what the usher had said, I tell him I think they'll call it.
"Nah," he says immediately dismissing my prognostication. "I think they'll start it up in about half an hour."
Well, that would be good news, so I sit back down, watching the trashy blond with the rhinestone-studded pockets on her jeans flip her hair while her man alternately looks on adoringly and checks his phone.
As the light fades, the concrete steps feel colder and harder, so I get up and walk the concourse, eventually running into the baseball lover. "Wanna go?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
On our way out, a perky guy in an umbrella hat reminds us that we can come back and exchange our tickets for any future game.
As if. I mean, go, team.
Where can a person get a drink around here?
No hand/eye coordination, no need to be part of a team, no real interest in watching games. So the last place you might expect I'd go on a dreary Wednesday night would be to see a baseball game.
But there I was at the Diamond with a baseball lover, someone who thinks baseball is a beautiful sport, unfolding languorously and organically in a way that football and basketball do not.
Whatever.
So we get our tickets and I have to question the price. $7, really, for a nosebleed general admission seat? Seems a little steep considering all the empty seats, but what do I know?
On the plus side, I see that the Squirrels are playing the Bowie Baysox, significant only because my best friend from college was living in Bowie when I first met her and I haven't thought about Bowie in decades.
But the best is yet to come. Inside, I find an almost fair-like world.
A high school band is at the top of the steps, playing their hearts out. Giant costumed mascots are looming over small children. It's "Wet Wednesday," so beers are $2 until 7:00 and people are buying them in bulk. It's also nurses' night, but the only person I see in scrubs is the guy with the microphone on the field shouting about $2 beers.
Beer vendors are hawking their wares from a strap-on case as you walk by them.
Down the concourse, I find carnival game set-ups with bored looking guys waiting for someone to play. The "picnic area" has been overtaken by khaki-clad men and women and the table cards read "Genworth Financial," so we keep on walking. The Dipping Dots girl is making cow eyes at her pimply boyfriend.
Where is the great American past time?
We head up to our seats, only to see that it's raining steadily by now. As we stand there looking out at the covered infield, a red-vested usher approaches us with a look of resignation.
"Yep, I think they're gonna call this game tonight," he says like he knows. This is news to us, we tell him. "Yea, well, they prolly won't announce it till 9:00."
9:00?? A game that was supposed to start at 6:35 is in limbo until 9:00? Surely he's wrong.
We find a dry spot on the concrete steps leading upstairs and look out over the Boulevard and eating a really bad hot Italian sausage with mushy peppers and onions on it.
From my vantage point, the rain is imperceptible, but there's a big overhang so it's really just that it's yards away. The baseball lover goes for a walk, tired of step sitting.
A guy with his hands full of nachos passes me to go upstairs, asking, "So, what's your forecast?" Feeling in the know because of what the usher had said, I tell him I think they'll call it.
"Nah," he says immediately dismissing my prognostication. "I think they'll start it up in about half an hour."
Well, that would be good news, so I sit back down, watching the trashy blond with the rhinestone-studded pockets on her jeans flip her hair while her man alternately looks on adoringly and checks his phone.
As the light fades, the concrete steps feel colder and harder, so I get up and walk the concourse, eventually running into the baseball lover. "Wanna go?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
On our way out, a perky guy in an umbrella hat reminds us that we can come back and exchange our tickets for any future game.
As if. I mean, go, team.
Where can a person get a drink around here?
Tonight I Have to Leave It
Swedish pop and German Leonardos are apparently not everyone's cup of tea.
That would explain why despite inviting no less than three different people to join me on an excursion to D.C. today, I got no takers.
It mattered not.
I'd bought my ticket for the Shout Out Louds back in mid-February and had been eagerly anticipating the show ever since.
It turned out to be a less than ideal day for traveling, with rain on and off the whole way up 95.
Even so, I managed to make it to the National Gallery of Art's east building in time to catch the last hour they were open and see the show of the year.
"Albrecht Durer: Master Drawings, Watercolors and Prints from the Albertina" represents the largest exhibition of Durer's drawings and watercolors ever exhibited in the U.S.
Despite the eleventh hour visit, plenty of other tourists were right there with me, eager to see the magnificent images on the blue-gray walls before the museum closed today.
The notes for the show referred to Durer as the "German Leonardo," a nod to his role as the master of the northern Renaissance and his visits to Italy to study the artistic developments happening there.
The show began with "Self Portrait at Thirteen," an astonishing piece of drawing for one so young and moved through much later works.
The watercolors were a revelation, like "A Great Piece of Turf," a nature study in greens that constantly had a gaggle of admirers around it.
There were many anatomical studies he'd done, part of a quest to figure out the dimensions and proportions of the human body.
I got a real sense of his mastery looking at two prints he'd done based on earlier works by Andre Mategna.
Although they were labeled "after Mategna," Durer's were so much more refined and delicate as to have only a passing acquaintance with Mantegna's.
At 5:00, the bells began ringing to notify visitors that they wanted us out and I reluctantly left the German master behind.
Planning to park once and party twice, my next stop was U Street for happy hour and dinner.
Exactly three years ago, a friend and I had come up to Washington for another Shout Out Louds show and that time we'd gone to Marvin for a splendid meal.
Tonight I'd set my sites on Brixton, the less-than-a-year-old English pub from the same guys as Marvin, one of who is half of Thievery Corporation.
At least I knew the music would be good.
And it was.
After a walk up and down U Street to stretch my legs after the arduous, rainy drive, I found the corner door and entered the appropriately dark, wooden atmosphere of Brixton.
The music was full-on dance and funk, with some remixes of Boz Scagg's "Lowdown" and Hall & Oates' "I Can't Go for That" thrown in for good measure.
My bartender was a friendly guy in madras shorts (I later found out he went to Georgetown, so that explains it) who introduced himself and shook my hand when he asked my name.
He asked what brought me in and I told him I'd driven through intermittent rainstorms all the way up from Richmond just to see music.
Chuckling, he said, "I live six blocks from here and I walked through three separate rain storms just to get to work."
The happy hour white wine was a Quinto de Aveleda Vinho Verde, a no-brainer for me.
Looking at the happy hour menu, I figured why go to a British pub and not get fish and chips, so that was a given.
"That's the only thing that's been on the menu since we opened last July, " Eric said as a recommendation.
For good measure, I also ordered a Thai chicken salad of pulled chicken, ginger, shredded cabbage and carrots, soy and chili sauce.
The roasted peanuts were missing in action, but, oh well.
Bar stools continued to fill up as I ate and drank, causing Eric to come over and tell me that over half the bar was also going to the show with me.
When he inquired if I needed anything, I told him some conversation would be about all I needed and twenty minutes later, I'd had one of the best music discussions I've had in a while with a stranger.
He'd just been to a Hot Chip show with lots of dancing. When he heard I was going to see Tame Impala next month, he told me about seeing them last year.
He's stoked to see Dirty Projectors and was blown away when I told him I'd seen them four years ago next month.
He told me about the Sweetgreen Festival he's going to, full of under the radar bands.
When I told him I was excited to hear Haerts (who were opening tonight for Shout Out Louds), he was beyond thrilled; they're one of the bands he was most looking forward to at Sweetgreen.
I finished out my meal with more Vinho Verde and chipotle chocolate cake, evidently making it look good enough that the couple next to me asked for "whatever she's having."
And I wasn't even making orgasm noises.
Walking into the 9:30 Club, I saw that the stage had been pushed out, meaning the show hadn't sold out.
While it seems inconceivable to me in a town as big as D.C., it was a refreshing change not to be packed in like sardines.
Parking myself in front of the sound booth as usual, I struck up a conversation with the girl next to me, who couldn't have been taller than 4'10".
We commiserated about not being able to see at shows, but she said her trump card was her camera, because she was there to shoot for a local music blog and had a press pass.
Brilliant.
She was also excited to hear Haerts, saying, "I love them. I've only heard the one song where she sounds like Stevie Nicks, but it's amazing!"
And they were.
The New York quintet combined 80s-influenced music (lots of synth and guitar) with her distinctive voice that had that lost little girl quality the photographer had fallen for.
"This is the first night of our tour and it seems like a good place to start," lead singer Nini said in her black trapeze top and bare midriff.
Despite having only heard three songs before tonight, I was completely enraptured with everything I heard during their 45-minute set.
I'll definitely need that CD soon.
In front of me during the break, two Swedes were beside themselves at the prospect of seeing Shout Out Louds for the first time.
It was my second time, but I was just as excited and when the lights went down and the backdrop was lit to reveal a spacey Shout Out Louds banner, it was game on.
"Welcome to the preview of our U.S. tour," singer Adam yelled.
So we were going to be the guinea pigs. I was happy with that, knowing it would probably be a loose show.
Of course they began with stuff off the new CD, including "Walking in Your Footsteps," the song that assured me I was going to like the new CD as much as the first three.
They started on "Fall Harder" when Adam stopped, looked at the bass player and asked, "Am I playing this in the wrong key?"
He was and they began a second time. Another pleasure of being the first night audience.
And if you're gonna break, just let it break
I'll pick up the pieces and mistakes
After "Normandie," Adam reminisced about their first show at the 9:30, back in 2005, opening for Futurebirds.
"So this was our first stop on our first U.S. tour ever. We didn't know shit about touring then."
A lot has changed for the band, including that regular drummer Carl was at home "making babies" and they had a new drummer tonight who looked impossibly young and incredibly happy to be there.
The already-dancing crowd went crazy with the first strains of "Impossible" and Adam saying, "This one might ring a bell."
After telling us to buy the new CD ("It's a good album"), we were rewarded with "a really old one," from 2003, "The Comeback."
After they did the exquisite "Blue Ice" off the new album, Adam explained, "That's our slow dance in Sweden. We call it polska."
It was one of the few times the floor wasn't having a full-on boppy dance party all night.
I only wish I could have been slow dancing to it.
They returned to upbeat and driving with "Hard Rain" and Adam did his guitar part standing on the drums, making for a fine return to form for the band.
Or maybe it was just a way to get back into the touring groove.
They said they'd toured the Air and Space Museum today, no doubt influencing the backdrop with its suggestion of planets and stars.
Damn. So while I was at the National Gallery, I could have been a few buildings away at Air and Space and run into these guys.
Double damn.
The encore was killer and ended with the magnificent "Tonight I Have to Leave It," which tonight meant leave the stage.
Adam stepped off and into the waiting arms of fans, then was deposited on the ground to sing a few lines while people like me rushed up to watch him sing up close.
Don't come up to me and say that you like it
It's better if you say you hate it, that's the truth exactly
When we go out dancing, I don't want to be bothered
Just want to be bothered by real love
He got back up on stage to finish the song and say goodnight before we were turned out into the misty streets of the capital.
Too bad no one chose to join me tonight or they'd have seen me walking on air down V Street.
Today was so my cup of tea, that's the truth exactly.
That would explain why despite inviting no less than three different people to join me on an excursion to D.C. today, I got no takers.
It mattered not.
I'd bought my ticket for the Shout Out Louds back in mid-February and had been eagerly anticipating the show ever since.
It turned out to be a less than ideal day for traveling, with rain on and off the whole way up 95.
Even so, I managed to make it to the National Gallery of Art's east building in time to catch the last hour they were open and see the show of the year.
"Albrecht Durer: Master Drawings, Watercolors and Prints from the Albertina" represents the largest exhibition of Durer's drawings and watercolors ever exhibited in the U.S.
Despite the eleventh hour visit, plenty of other tourists were right there with me, eager to see the magnificent images on the blue-gray walls before the museum closed today.
The notes for the show referred to Durer as the "German Leonardo," a nod to his role as the master of the northern Renaissance and his visits to Italy to study the artistic developments happening there.
The show began with "Self Portrait at Thirteen," an astonishing piece of drawing for one so young and moved through much later works.
The watercolors were a revelation, like "A Great Piece of Turf," a nature study in greens that constantly had a gaggle of admirers around it.
There were many anatomical studies he'd done, part of a quest to figure out the dimensions and proportions of the human body.
I got a real sense of his mastery looking at two prints he'd done based on earlier works by Andre Mategna.
Although they were labeled "after Mategna," Durer's were so much more refined and delicate as to have only a passing acquaintance with Mantegna's.
At 5:00, the bells began ringing to notify visitors that they wanted us out and I reluctantly left the German master behind.
Planning to park once and party twice, my next stop was U Street for happy hour and dinner.
Exactly three years ago, a friend and I had come up to Washington for another Shout Out Louds show and that time we'd gone to Marvin for a splendid meal.
Tonight I'd set my sites on Brixton, the less-than-a-year-old English pub from the same guys as Marvin, one of who is half of Thievery Corporation.
At least I knew the music would be good.
And it was.
After a walk up and down U Street to stretch my legs after the arduous, rainy drive, I found the corner door and entered the appropriately dark, wooden atmosphere of Brixton.
The music was full-on dance and funk, with some remixes of Boz Scagg's "Lowdown" and Hall & Oates' "I Can't Go for That" thrown in for good measure.
My bartender was a friendly guy in madras shorts (I later found out he went to Georgetown, so that explains it) who introduced himself and shook my hand when he asked my name.
He asked what brought me in and I told him I'd driven through intermittent rainstorms all the way up from Richmond just to see music.
Chuckling, he said, "I live six blocks from here and I walked through three separate rain storms just to get to work."
The happy hour white wine was a Quinto de Aveleda Vinho Verde, a no-brainer for me.
Looking at the happy hour menu, I figured why go to a British pub and not get fish and chips, so that was a given.
"That's the only thing that's been on the menu since we opened last July, " Eric said as a recommendation.
For good measure, I also ordered a Thai chicken salad of pulled chicken, ginger, shredded cabbage and carrots, soy and chili sauce.
The roasted peanuts were missing in action, but, oh well.
Bar stools continued to fill up as I ate and drank, causing Eric to come over and tell me that over half the bar was also going to the show with me.
When he inquired if I needed anything, I told him some conversation would be about all I needed and twenty minutes later, I'd had one of the best music discussions I've had in a while with a stranger.
He'd just been to a Hot Chip show with lots of dancing. When he heard I was going to see Tame Impala next month, he told me about seeing them last year.
He's stoked to see Dirty Projectors and was blown away when I told him I'd seen them four years ago next month.
He told me about the Sweetgreen Festival he's going to, full of under the radar bands.
When I told him I was excited to hear Haerts (who were opening tonight for Shout Out Louds), he was beyond thrilled; they're one of the bands he was most looking forward to at Sweetgreen.
I finished out my meal with more Vinho Verde and chipotle chocolate cake, evidently making it look good enough that the couple next to me asked for "whatever she's having."
And I wasn't even making orgasm noises.
Walking into the 9:30 Club, I saw that the stage had been pushed out, meaning the show hadn't sold out.
While it seems inconceivable to me in a town as big as D.C., it was a refreshing change not to be packed in like sardines.
Parking myself in front of the sound booth as usual, I struck up a conversation with the girl next to me, who couldn't have been taller than 4'10".
We commiserated about not being able to see at shows, but she said her trump card was her camera, because she was there to shoot for a local music blog and had a press pass.
Brilliant.
She was also excited to hear Haerts, saying, "I love them. I've only heard the one song where she sounds like Stevie Nicks, but it's amazing!"
And they were.
The New York quintet combined 80s-influenced music (lots of synth and guitar) with her distinctive voice that had that lost little girl quality the photographer had fallen for.
"This is the first night of our tour and it seems like a good place to start," lead singer Nini said in her black trapeze top and bare midriff.
Despite having only heard three songs before tonight, I was completely enraptured with everything I heard during their 45-minute set.
I'll definitely need that CD soon.
In front of me during the break, two Swedes were beside themselves at the prospect of seeing Shout Out Louds for the first time.
It was my second time, but I was just as excited and when the lights went down and the backdrop was lit to reveal a spacey Shout Out Louds banner, it was game on.
"Welcome to the preview of our U.S. tour," singer Adam yelled.
So we were going to be the guinea pigs. I was happy with that, knowing it would probably be a loose show.
Of course they began with stuff off the new CD, including "Walking in Your Footsteps," the song that assured me I was going to like the new CD as much as the first three.
They started on "Fall Harder" when Adam stopped, looked at the bass player and asked, "Am I playing this in the wrong key?"
He was and they began a second time. Another pleasure of being the first night audience.
And if you're gonna break, just let it break
I'll pick up the pieces and mistakes
After "Normandie," Adam reminisced about their first show at the 9:30, back in 2005, opening for Futurebirds.
"So this was our first stop on our first U.S. tour ever. We didn't know shit about touring then."
A lot has changed for the band, including that regular drummer Carl was at home "making babies" and they had a new drummer tonight who looked impossibly young and incredibly happy to be there.
The already-dancing crowd went crazy with the first strains of "Impossible" and Adam saying, "This one might ring a bell."
After telling us to buy the new CD ("It's a good album"), we were rewarded with "a really old one," from 2003, "The Comeback."
After they did the exquisite "Blue Ice" off the new album, Adam explained, "That's our slow dance in Sweden. We call it polska."
It was one of the few times the floor wasn't having a full-on boppy dance party all night.
I only wish I could have been slow dancing to it.
They returned to upbeat and driving with "Hard Rain" and Adam did his guitar part standing on the drums, making for a fine return to form for the band.
Or maybe it was just a way to get back into the touring groove.
They said they'd toured the Air and Space Museum today, no doubt influencing the backdrop with its suggestion of planets and stars.
Damn. So while I was at the National Gallery, I could have been a few buildings away at Air and Space and run into these guys.
Double damn.
The encore was killer and ended with the magnificent "Tonight I Have to Leave It," which tonight meant leave the stage.
Adam stepped off and into the waiting arms of fans, then was deposited on the ground to sing a few lines while people like me rushed up to watch him sing up close.
Don't come up to me and say that you like it
It's better if you say you hate it, that's the truth exactly
When we go out dancing, I don't want to be bothered
Just want to be bothered by real love
He got back up on stage to finish the song and say goodnight before we were turned out into the misty streets of the capital.
Too bad no one chose to join me tonight or they'd have seen me walking on air down V Street.
Today was so my cup of tea, that's the truth exactly.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Principessa Valve
Sometimes you just gotta let it out.
Like the other night, a friend was telling me that she'd watched "The Impossible" and cried her eyes out during it.
I questioned why she'd even watched the movie, since I knew after merely seeing its preview, that it would have destroyed me.
Personally, I need movies for a lot of reasons, but that's not one of them.
Her response was that sometimes she liked to have an excuse to let it all out, so to speak, to cry for the sake of crying.
She likened it to a release valve and then I got it.
Tonight was like that for me without the wetness.
I had a lot on my mind and I needed a release for it.
So I called up a girlfriend and asked if we could get together and blather so I could let my valve off.
Naturally we couldn't jump right into that heaviness, so we started in the Devil's Triangle at Ariana's for pizza and wine.
My last trip to Ariana's had been Fall 2009 after Holmes and I had gone to the Historical Society to see the Declaration of Independence.
We'd sat at a corner table and watched a thunderstorm roll in over the rooftops and catch people unprepared.
Tonight we had a gentle rain just beginning.
With a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a Mediterranean salad and a Principessa (sausage, spinach, mushroom) white pizza, we started by focusing more on food and drink than life and woe.
As a devotee of white pizza, I loved how the menu said that if you wanted to switch a white pizza to red, there was a $2 surcharge.
That's right, penalize the red lovers instead of us for a change.
As puddles formed outside, we talked about art in all kinds of ways - a show I'd regretfully missed at the National Gallery, a stolen Renoir that's now been found in the collection of a Maryland woman, an article we'd both seen about visiting Paris to focus solely on food, not art.
But you can only delay the inevitable for so long, so once our meal was over, we headed back to her apartment for valve release.
That required another bottle, this time an Alsatian white, to accompany the abundance of conversation.
Everyone needs a friend who'll listen when you need to rant, someone who'll nod when you ask, "Right?" and support you when you're down.
She was that and more and when she brought me home, I thanked her profusely for being a much-needed ear tonight.
Like the friend who'd sobbed through a sad movie, I felt so much better for having let off a little steam.
And it didn't even take that long, a good thing because all that wine was suddenly making my bed the priority.
When I woke up a few hours later, it was because I heard thunder, meaning my visit to Ariana's had once again conjured up a storm.
Or maybe I wasn't the only one that needed a release tonight.
Like the other night, a friend was telling me that she'd watched "The Impossible" and cried her eyes out during it.
I questioned why she'd even watched the movie, since I knew after merely seeing its preview, that it would have destroyed me.
Personally, I need movies for a lot of reasons, but that's not one of them.
Her response was that sometimes she liked to have an excuse to let it all out, so to speak, to cry for the sake of crying.
She likened it to a release valve and then I got it.
Tonight was like that for me without the wetness.
I had a lot on my mind and I needed a release for it.
So I called up a girlfriend and asked if we could get together and blather so I could let my valve off.
Naturally we couldn't jump right into that heaviness, so we started in the Devil's Triangle at Ariana's for pizza and wine.
My last trip to Ariana's had been Fall 2009 after Holmes and I had gone to the Historical Society to see the Declaration of Independence.
We'd sat at a corner table and watched a thunderstorm roll in over the rooftops and catch people unprepared.
Tonight we had a gentle rain just beginning.
With a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, a Mediterranean salad and a Principessa (sausage, spinach, mushroom) white pizza, we started by focusing more on food and drink than life and woe.
As a devotee of white pizza, I loved how the menu said that if you wanted to switch a white pizza to red, there was a $2 surcharge.
That's right, penalize the red lovers instead of us for a change.
As puddles formed outside, we talked about art in all kinds of ways - a show I'd regretfully missed at the National Gallery, a stolen Renoir that's now been found in the collection of a Maryland woman, an article we'd both seen about visiting Paris to focus solely on food, not art.
But you can only delay the inevitable for so long, so once our meal was over, we headed back to her apartment for valve release.
That required another bottle, this time an Alsatian white, to accompany the abundance of conversation.
Everyone needs a friend who'll listen when you need to rant, someone who'll nod when you ask, "Right?" and support you when you're down.
She was that and more and when she brought me home, I thanked her profusely for being a much-needed ear tonight.
Like the friend who'd sobbed through a sad movie, I felt so much better for having let off a little steam.
And it didn't even take that long, a good thing because all that wine was suddenly making my bed the priority.
When I woke up a few hours later, it was because I heard thunder, meaning my visit to Ariana's had once again conjured up a storm.
Or maybe I wasn't the only one that needed a release tonight.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Parallel Chills
It was that little amp that looked so out of place at Live at Ipanema tonight.
Not the amp, per se, but who the amp was for.
Dating back to the first time I saw White Laces in the courtyard at First Fridays in May 2010, I have been a fan.
And after three years of seeing them play practically everywhere around town, I can say with certainty that I have never seen them play with an amp so small.
But then, Ipamena is a small, low-ceilinged room with little space for the sound to spread out in, so it was brilliant.
When I arrived, I was surprised to see a friend, a first-timer at Live at Ips, already in place, holding the first cigarette I've ever seen him with.
Another friend had posted earlier that he'd be there enjoying tequila and I found him two in, which seemed like a good time to tell him about the largest tequila menu in town at a place I'd recently visited.
His best line was, "I usually go with Reposado. If I start heading toward Anejo, I just go with bourbon."
Another friend, whom I'd seen earlier today when I was in front of the Byrd, gave me the lowdown on his brunch at Portrait House.
Meanwhile, my cake date was waiting for me in the back, eager for our monthly dessert and dish time.
It was her first time seeing White Laces, so the small amp didn't strike her as oddly as it did me.
Maybe that was because she was distracted by her hummingbird cake, while I scarfed my chocolate cardinal cake (red velvet cake with chocolate icing).
We finished licking our forks just as the music began.
Leader Landis acknowledged the size of his apparatus immediately, saying, "We're White Laces and if this is too loud for you, we'll just have to stop."
The band had attracted a good crowd and even won over some people who'd come in to eat and ended up lingering to hear the music.
They sounded incredibly tight, which they always do, but the feel of their set was much looser tonight and a friend and I acknowledged that Live at Ipanema is one of our favorite series for that very reason.
We got to hear some of their new stuff, some so new that Landis introduced it as, "This song is so new it doesn't have a title yet. But it's our new jam."
As a long-time fan, I was also thrilled to hear some old jams, like "Honeywood."
Naturally, Landis had to be self-deprecating about playing older stuff, saying, "This is an old one. We said a while ago we'd never play this shit again and here we are."
After nailing it, he admitted, "That was way better than I thought it would be," while it was just as terrific as I'd known it would be.
A friend had just rolled a cigarette and was heading outside to feed his addiction when the band started "Hands in Mexico" and he wisely thought better of leaving.
You could tell the band, or at least Landis, was more relaxed than usual by his stage banter, which included not one, not two, but three song intros of, "We have two more songs."
Each time, they did indeed have two more songs, and Landis promised, "Just a couple more and we'll release you back to your drinking."
With them sounding practically perfect, the big wooden beams of the room absorbing the sound and warming it up, it had to be one of my all-time favorite White Laces shows and that's saying something.
During one of their old songs ("We stopped playing this one live because it was too goth-y"), the sound vibrations managed to move a wine glass off the rack and on to the floor.
What could be more appropriately goth-like than breaking glass mid-song?
Sitting on my stool with only occasional views of the band, I couldn't help but feel the kind of chills you get when the music is sounding so good, so sure that you know it's a show people will remember for some time to come.
I'll just say it was one of my all-time favorite Live at Ips and I've been to all but one.
When they did get to their true last song, Landis closed with a joke, saying, "One more then we'll take a smoke break and come back and do all Taylor Swift covers with Jimmy on his ukulele."
And, yes, there were even a few people who cheered at the thought.
That said, if they'd come back after smoking and played anything else, I'd have stayed happily on my stool to let their well-executed dreamy psychedelia wash over me until closing time.
I don't need a big amp to be impressed.
Not the amp, per se, but who the amp was for.
Dating back to the first time I saw White Laces in the courtyard at First Fridays in May 2010, I have been a fan.
And after three years of seeing them play practically everywhere around town, I can say with certainty that I have never seen them play with an amp so small.
But then, Ipamena is a small, low-ceilinged room with little space for the sound to spread out in, so it was brilliant.
When I arrived, I was surprised to see a friend, a first-timer at Live at Ips, already in place, holding the first cigarette I've ever seen him with.
Another friend had posted earlier that he'd be there enjoying tequila and I found him two in, which seemed like a good time to tell him about the largest tequila menu in town at a place I'd recently visited.
His best line was, "I usually go with Reposado. If I start heading toward Anejo, I just go with bourbon."
Another friend, whom I'd seen earlier today when I was in front of the Byrd, gave me the lowdown on his brunch at Portrait House.
Meanwhile, my cake date was waiting for me in the back, eager for our monthly dessert and dish time.
It was her first time seeing White Laces, so the small amp didn't strike her as oddly as it did me.
Maybe that was because she was distracted by her hummingbird cake, while I scarfed my chocolate cardinal cake (red velvet cake with chocolate icing).
We finished licking our forks just as the music began.
Leader Landis acknowledged the size of his apparatus immediately, saying, "We're White Laces and if this is too loud for you, we'll just have to stop."
The band had attracted a good crowd and even won over some people who'd come in to eat and ended up lingering to hear the music.
They sounded incredibly tight, which they always do, but the feel of their set was much looser tonight and a friend and I acknowledged that Live at Ipanema is one of our favorite series for that very reason.
We got to hear some of their new stuff, some so new that Landis introduced it as, "This song is so new it doesn't have a title yet. But it's our new jam."
As a long-time fan, I was also thrilled to hear some old jams, like "Honeywood."
Naturally, Landis had to be self-deprecating about playing older stuff, saying, "This is an old one. We said a while ago we'd never play this shit again and here we are."
After nailing it, he admitted, "That was way better than I thought it would be," while it was just as terrific as I'd known it would be.
A friend had just rolled a cigarette and was heading outside to feed his addiction when the band started "Hands in Mexico" and he wisely thought better of leaving.
You could tell the band, or at least Landis, was more relaxed than usual by his stage banter, which included not one, not two, but three song intros of, "We have two more songs."
Each time, they did indeed have two more songs, and Landis promised, "Just a couple more and we'll release you back to your drinking."
With them sounding practically perfect, the big wooden beams of the room absorbing the sound and warming it up, it had to be one of my all-time favorite White Laces shows and that's saying something.
During one of their old songs ("We stopped playing this one live because it was too goth-y"), the sound vibrations managed to move a wine glass off the rack and on to the floor.
What could be more appropriately goth-like than breaking glass mid-song?
Sitting on my stool with only occasional views of the band, I couldn't help but feel the kind of chills you get when the music is sounding so good, so sure that you know it's a show people will remember for some time to come.
I'll just say it was one of my all-time favorite Live at Ips and I've been to all but one.
When they did get to their true last song, Landis closed with a joke, saying, "One more then we'll take a smoke break and come back and do all Taylor Swift covers with Jimmy on his ukulele."
And, yes, there were even a few people who cheered at the thought.
That said, if they'd come back after smoking and played anything else, I'd have stayed happily on my stool to let their well-executed dreamy psychedelia wash over me until closing time.
I don't need a big amp to be impressed.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Breakfast Bullitt
It was a day with some age on it.
When I got back from my walk, it was to an invitation to breakfast at Joe's Inn.
As in Joe's Inn, begun in 1952 Joe's Inn.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been in Joe's and while I know the citywide consensus is that it's the place for breakfast, it had probably been more like eight years since I'd started my day at Joe's.
The sidewalk was crowded with large groups of hungry people, meaning that our small group slid right in and got a booth at the back.
It's always easier to get in to Joe's if you don't bring nine of your closest friends or family members.
As in the past, the wait to get into Joe's is always longer than the wait to get food and in a twinkling, I had a pile of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
Over conversation about the similarities of Portland and Richmond, the new classical/jazz series starting next week at Commercial Taphouse and the benefits of Relay Food, I worked that stack down.
When we left, people were still gathered in clumps on the sidewalk awaiting their shot at plentiful, cheap food.
Our city is nothing if not predictable.
Full of pancake and pig, my next stop was the Byrd Theater for a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
They were showing "Bullitt," a 1968 movie I've never seen, so naturally I was meeting up with someone who'd seen it many, many times, albeit never on the big screen.
Out in front of the Byrd, I was surprised to find several vintage Mustangs, the car star of the film, parked on Cary Street.
Apparently the Central Virginia Mustang Club was doing some showing off and helping lure film goers inside.
As I checked out the pristine cars, I heard the three guys sitting in chairs guarding them talking.
The big one with the Southern accent was telling the others, "Yea, I took her out 360 past Pole Green Road and you know where the road dips way down there? Well, I come over that hill at a right good clip and every one of them pine trees musta dropped its pollen that day, 'cause it was like being in a sandstorm. Now, I been in some fierce sandstorms in Saudi Arabia, but this pollen had them beat!"
The discussion devolved into the importance of keeping one's Mustang as clean as possible, no matter how often washing was required.
Luckily my companion arrived before I got sucked into that conversation.
When we went to get popcorn (yes, popcorn after breakfast), I found a favorite musician behind the counter.
She was amazed that I'd never seen "Bullitt," although she, too, had only seen it at home.
I told her I hoped she was coming inside to watch it then.
"Oh, yea, I'm gonna stick my head in," she grinned. "Steve McQueen is a dreamboat."
While a cop drama is not my usual cup of tea, I reveled in the period details of 1968.
Taxi drivers gave hand signals to make turns.
Nurses and stewardesses wore caps.
Every woman, old or young, fat or skinny, wore her skirts above the knees.
Men's sideburns were epic and everywhere.
People locked their car doors with a key and wore lap seat belts if they wore them at all (most didn't).
When people checked in at an airline, the attendant looked at a list to see the passengers' names. A list!
Despite never having seen the movie, even I knew of its seminal car chase scene through the hills of San Francisco.
It wasn't just the beauty of San Fran architecture whizzing by (although it was lovingly shot) or the ridiculously fast speeds they were doing that made it so compelling.
No, it was the way it had been filmed, with the camera angle replicating every up and down motion of the car until I felt my stomach go queasy like it does on a roller coaster.
It wasn't hard to see why the picture had won an Oscar for best editing.
The movie also had a jazz-influenced score that conveyed the tension of the four-day period encompassed in the story, giving it a very hep 1968 feel.
But the two most interesting things I noticed were the absence of bad language ("bullshit" was as risque as it got) and how it wasn't until the final scene that Bullitt fired his gun.
Not that there hadn't been tons of shooting by bad guys throughout, but not our man Bullitt.
And despite his stolid countenance, he even had a romantic moment with his girlfriend. Once.
What will happen to us time, she asks him after viewing a murder victim.
Time starts now, Bullitt says, although what that means, I have no idea.
I guess that's what makes him a dreamboat.
When I got back from my walk, it was to an invitation to breakfast at Joe's Inn.
As in Joe's Inn, begun in 1952 Joe's Inn.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been in Joe's and while I know the citywide consensus is that it's the place for breakfast, it had probably been more like eight years since I'd started my day at Joe's.
The sidewalk was crowded with large groups of hungry people, meaning that our small group slid right in and got a booth at the back.
It's always easier to get in to Joe's if you don't bring nine of your closest friends or family members.
As in the past, the wait to get into Joe's is always longer than the wait to get food and in a twinkling, I had a pile of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
Over conversation about the similarities of Portland and Richmond, the new classical/jazz series starting next week at Commercial Taphouse and the benefits of Relay Food, I worked that stack down.
When we left, people were still gathered in clumps on the sidewalk awaiting their shot at plentiful, cheap food.
Our city is nothing if not predictable.
Full of pancake and pig, my next stop was the Byrd Theater for a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
They were showing "Bullitt," a 1968 movie I've never seen, so naturally I was meeting up with someone who'd seen it many, many times, albeit never on the big screen.
Out in front of the Byrd, I was surprised to find several vintage Mustangs, the car star of the film, parked on Cary Street.
Apparently the Central Virginia Mustang Club was doing some showing off and helping lure film goers inside.
As I checked out the pristine cars, I heard the three guys sitting in chairs guarding them talking.
The big one with the Southern accent was telling the others, "Yea, I took her out 360 past Pole Green Road and you know where the road dips way down there? Well, I come over that hill at a right good clip and every one of them pine trees musta dropped its pollen that day, 'cause it was like being in a sandstorm. Now, I been in some fierce sandstorms in Saudi Arabia, but this pollen had them beat!"
The discussion devolved into the importance of keeping one's Mustang as clean as possible, no matter how often washing was required.
Luckily my companion arrived before I got sucked into that conversation.
When we went to get popcorn (yes, popcorn after breakfast), I found a favorite musician behind the counter.
She was amazed that I'd never seen "Bullitt," although she, too, had only seen it at home.
I told her I hoped she was coming inside to watch it then.
"Oh, yea, I'm gonna stick my head in," she grinned. "Steve McQueen is a dreamboat."
While a cop drama is not my usual cup of tea, I reveled in the period details of 1968.
Taxi drivers gave hand signals to make turns.
Nurses and stewardesses wore caps.
Every woman, old or young, fat or skinny, wore her skirts above the knees.
Men's sideburns were epic and everywhere.
People locked their car doors with a key and wore lap seat belts if they wore them at all (most didn't).
When people checked in at an airline, the attendant looked at a list to see the passengers' names. A list!
Despite never having seen the movie, even I knew of its seminal car chase scene through the hills of San Francisco.
It wasn't just the beauty of San Fran architecture whizzing by (although it was lovingly shot) or the ridiculously fast speeds they were doing that made it so compelling.
No, it was the way it had been filmed, with the camera angle replicating every up and down motion of the car until I felt my stomach go queasy like it does on a roller coaster.
It wasn't hard to see why the picture had won an Oscar for best editing.
The movie also had a jazz-influenced score that conveyed the tension of the four-day period encompassed in the story, giving it a very hep 1968 feel.
But the two most interesting things I noticed were the absence of bad language ("bullshit" was as risque as it got) and how it wasn't until the final scene that Bullitt fired his gun.
Not that there hadn't been tons of shooting by bad guys throughout, but not our man Bullitt.
And despite his stolid countenance, he even had a romantic moment with his girlfriend. Once.
What will happen to us time, she asks him after viewing a murder victim.
Time starts now, Bullitt says, although what that means, I have no idea.
I guess that's what makes him a dreamboat.
Punjabi Tagging
All that was left was food and film.
I'd fed my art and music needs earlier today, leaving Saturday night for a new restaurant and a film abouttagging NYC on a summer day.
Walking into Curry Craft in Carytown, my Saturday night partner-in-crime and I had our choice of a table, a booth or the bar.
Given that they don't yet have their ABC license, the bar looked kind of abandoned so we opted for a booth.
Looking around at the saffron-colored walls, I approved of the spare decoration - a terra cotta relief, some cut-out dark wooden panels- and variety Indian music playing - traditional, dancey.
I was pleased to see that Bonvenue's sleek chandeliers had conveyed with the sale since they worked well withe the decor.
Our waiter was sweet, accommodating and friendly, and when we asked if we could order in stages, he assured us that would be fine.
First off, we asked for the paneer asparagus "Tak a Tak," a savory melange of asparagus, spiced paneer chunks, tangy green mango and garbanzo beans in a zesty glaze.
A salad of greens, sliced apples, chutney-marinated celery, dates and beet threads (so thin I would have preferred beet ribbons so I could actually taste the beet) provided a plate of appetizing flavors and only a few overly-salty bites.
We'd ordered garlic naan but regular naan showed up and we didn't complain because it was warm and soft and ideal for sopping up what was left on both plates.
A couple came in and sat down behind us but within moments of speaking to their waiter, got up and walked out, the door slamming behind them.
Apparently, they found it unacceptable that there was no booze.
Come on, people, the restaurant just opened and we all know how efficient the ABC is.
Since we were fine without, we went on to Punjabi Taari Gosht, a northern Indian-style leg of lamb curry, a pungent dish with a satisfying depth of flavor and proceeded to eat it down to the last few grains of rice.
To finish our meal, our server brought a shot glass of saunf, roasted and candied fennel seeds, intended to be poured in hour hand in a dime-sized amount and chewed as a digestif.
The sweet licorice-like flavor immediately quelled the heat from the curry and notified our bellies of the end.
We ended up very pleased with our meal.
It'll be interesting to see how extensive their craft cocktail list will be since I've heard they're looking to be both a dining and bar destination.
Bellies properly full, our next stop was the Criterion for "Gimme the Loot," a film about graffiti that won at South by Southwest's film fest.
It was a small movie in many ways - shot for next to nothing, unknown cast, odd subject matter - but big in others - a stellar soundtrack, witty commentary about urban life and strong performances by beginners.
It was really just a day in the life movie of two kids who spent their time tagging, only to be infuriated when someone tags over them.
Their major goal was to tag the Mets' giant apple at Shea Stadium, something that has apparently been a goal of taggers for twenty years.
I know that only because the movie opened with footage of an actual show shot two decades ago where a tagger talked about the holy grail of tagging the apple.
The film unfolded over a day as they try to make things happen, all the while traipsing through various boroughs of NYC, making it a terrific travelogue of the city.
One of the funniest lines came from the white girl to whom our hero is delivering weed.
She tells him his drug-dealing boss used to play golf on Cornell's team (unthinkable when it comes to street cred) and he tells her that the dealer's girlfriend is a hippie.
"She can't be a hippie because they only existed in olden times," the entitled, rich girls announces to him. "Like Victorian courtesans and Mayan princesses."
Maybe I found it funny because just this week, a 20-something friend had referred to himself and his girlfriend as hippies and this is certainly not olden times.
Now that I think about it, she did correct him, saying, "I'm a lazy hippie," so maybe it's only lazy hippies who exist in modern times.
But, wait, we all know there are plenty of old hippies to be found, even now.
They're probably the ones who spend Saturday nights doing dinner and a movie.
And god knows they don't worry about their street cred.
I'd fed my art and music needs earlier today, leaving Saturday night for a new restaurant and a film about
Walking into Curry Craft in Carytown, my Saturday night partner-in-crime and I had our choice of a table, a booth or the bar.
Given that they don't yet have their ABC license, the bar looked kind of abandoned so we opted for a booth.
Looking around at the saffron-colored walls, I approved of the spare decoration - a terra cotta relief, some cut-out dark wooden panels- and variety Indian music playing - traditional, dancey.
I was pleased to see that Bonvenue's sleek chandeliers had conveyed with the sale since they worked well withe the decor.
Our waiter was sweet, accommodating and friendly, and when we asked if we could order in stages, he assured us that would be fine.
First off, we asked for the paneer asparagus "Tak a Tak," a savory melange of asparagus, spiced paneer chunks, tangy green mango and garbanzo beans in a zesty glaze.
A salad of greens, sliced apples, chutney-marinated celery, dates and beet threads (so thin I would have preferred beet ribbons so I could actually taste the beet) provided a plate of appetizing flavors and only a few overly-salty bites.
We'd ordered garlic naan but regular naan showed up and we didn't complain because it was warm and soft and ideal for sopping up what was left on both plates.
A couple came in and sat down behind us but within moments of speaking to their waiter, got up and walked out, the door slamming behind them.
Apparently, they found it unacceptable that there was no booze.
Come on, people, the restaurant just opened and we all know how efficient the ABC is.
Since we were fine without, we went on to Punjabi Taari Gosht, a northern Indian-style leg of lamb curry, a pungent dish with a satisfying depth of flavor and proceeded to eat it down to the last few grains of rice.
To finish our meal, our server brought a shot glass of saunf, roasted and candied fennel seeds, intended to be poured in hour hand in a dime-sized amount and chewed as a digestif.
The sweet licorice-like flavor immediately quelled the heat from the curry and notified our bellies of the end.
We ended up very pleased with our meal.
It'll be interesting to see how extensive their craft cocktail list will be since I've heard they're looking to be both a dining and bar destination.
Bellies properly full, our next stop was the Criterion for "Gimme the Loot," a film about graffiti that won at South by Southwest's film fest.
It was a small movie in many ways - shot for next to nothing, unknown cast, odd subject matter - but big in others - a stellar soundtrack, witty commentary about urban life and strong performances by beginners.
It was really just a day in the life movie of two kids who spent their time tagging, only to be infuriated when someone tags over them.
Their major goal was to tag the Mets' giant apple at Shea Stadium, something that has apparently been a goal of taggers for twenty years.
I know that only because the movie opened with footage of an actual show shot two decades ago where a tagger talked about the holy grail of tagging the apple.
The film unfolded over a day as they try to make things happen, all the while traipsing through various boroughs of NYC, making it a terrific travelogue of the city.
One of the funniest lines came from the white girl to whom our hero is delivering weed.
She tells him his drug-dealing boss used to play golf on Cornell's team (unthinkable when it comes to street cred) and he tells her that the dealer's girlfriend is a hippie.
"She can't be a hippie because they only existed in olden times," the entitled, rich girls announces to him. "Like Victorian courtesans and Mayan princesses."
Maybe I found it funny because just this week, a 20-something friend had referred to himself and his girlfriend as hippies and this is certainly not olden times.
Now that I think about it, she did correct him, saying, "I'm a lazy hippie," so maybe it's only lazy hippies who exist in modern times.
But, wait, we all know there are plenty of old hippies to be found, even now.
They're probably the ones who spend Saturday nights doing dinner and a movie.
And god knows they don't worry about their street cred.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Afternoon Rhythm Continuous
This is the kind of art geek I am.
When I read that VMFA was finally opening their Early 20th Century European galleries today, I immediately wrote it in my calendar as what I was doing today.
So after my walk (where a guy walked by and nonchalantly said, "What's up, Legs?"), I called a friend to see if he wanted a French and German art fix.
An hour and a half later, we were entering what was formerly the temporary gallery near the atrium for all kinds of German and French Modernism.
Visually, it's hard to miss what a reaction German Expressionism was to Impressionism.
Emil Nolde's "South Sea Landscape" was a canvas of yellows, greens and browns, with not a drop of blue to represent the sea.
It was contained in a fabulous hand-carved primitive frame, with creatures looking like they were about to bite the canvas in each corner.
In the pass-through hung four Paul Klee portraits, each so different-looking that they could have been done by different artists.
I was reminded that the Nazis labeled Klee "degenerate," which sent him back to his native Switzerland to work.
Juan Gris' pasted paper work, "Carafe, Glass and Packet of Tobacco" had so many diverse materials that it was labeled as visually and intellectually exciting, a fact with which we concurred since it held us in front of itself for some time.
Vlaminck's "The Storm" was described as done in a"virile and impetuous" style, a description I loved and questioned.
What, I asked of my male friend, made this painting virile?
He pointed to the dark colors and I read the label, which mentioned that "the strokes are heavy and the rhythm continuous."
"And our trees stand up tall, " my friend cracked. gesturing at the massive vertically of the evergreens on the canvas.
Virile humor.
It was more testosterone than I needed, but luckily the next painting was by Emilie Chory and balanced out all that virility beautifully.
"Red Rooftops Near Marnat" was loose brushstrokes, with a green zig-zag suggesting a hedge, a slash of red for rooves and the water a curlicue that we read as water only because of its blue color.
I felt my estrogen balance return to normal.
There was the most un-Picasso-like Picasso, "Still Life," which had almost an advertising quality to it and looked nothing like anything we saw in the big Picasso show.
After our tour of the new gallery, Friend asked if I wanted to go to Best Cafe for coffee and I reminded him that I don't drink coffee, a fact he surely knows after four years of friendship.
But he enticed me with a chocolate muffin and a seat on the deck watching the koi in the reflecting pool to finish out our afternoon.
Once he dropped me off back in the Ward, I walked over to Steady Sounds for a dose of live music.
Charlottesville's Invisible Hand was playing and I'd have known that weren't local just by looking at them.
Our guys have a look that other guys don't.
There was the usual milling about/looking at the bins/socializing part during which I found some old 10" jazz records for my favorite jazz-lover and said hi to the only two people I recognized, Robert and Allison of Tyrannosaurus Awesome.
And then the music commenced.
"We put toilet paper in the jazz section for anyone who wants to stuff their ears up," one guitarist said at the outset.
While they label themselves baroque acid rock with power pop guitar theatrics, I'd simplify that to power punk.
The bass player was squeezed in between the boxes of 45s and the sales counter, with barely enough room to wail.
The singer's curly hair was a mop of wet ringlets by the third song.
"We have a record for sale, it's our new one called Aja after the Steely Dan record and this is a song from that, "Psychic Cat," the singer said.
Just the kind of high-energy chords you'd want to listen to as the late afternoon sun slanted through the front windows of the record store.
They did a song from a rock opera "we were challenged to write" called "Cloud Island" and told to, "Come Back for part two."
The crowd was having a ball bopping along and clearly many of them knew the band, but occasionally someone would walk by, stick their head in t he door and come in to watch for a spell.
The drummer had the best line, "Our records are better than we are funny," which makes sense since they're in the music business, not the comedy biz.
They finished with the title song from the new EP and then exhorted the crowd to, "Buy records!"
Done.
When I read that VMFA was finally opening their Early 20th Century European galleries today, I immediately wrote it in my calendar as what I was doing today.
So after my walk (where a guy walked by and nonchalantly said, "What's up, Legs?"), I called a friend to see if he wanted a French and German art fix.
An hour and a half later, we were entering what was formerly the temporary gallery near the atrium for all kinds of German and French Modernism.
Visually, it's hard to miss what a reaction German Expressionism was to Impressionism.
Emil Nolde's "South Sea Landscape" was a canvas of yellows, greens and browns, with not a drop of blue to represent the sea.
It was contained in a fabulous hand-carved primitive frame, with creatures looking like they were about to bite the canvas in each corner.
In the pass-through hung four Paul Klee portraits, each so different-looking that they could have been done by different artists.
I was reminded that the Nazis labeled Klee "degenerate," which sent him back to his native Switzerland to work.
Juan Gris' pasted paper work, "Carafe, Glass and Packet of Tobacco" had so many diverse materials that it was labeled as visually and intellectually exciting, a fact with which we concurred since it held us in front of itself for some time.
Vlaminck's "The Storm" was described as done in a"virile and impetuous" style, a description I loved and questioned.
What, I asked of my male friend, made this painting virile?
He pointed to the dark colors and I read the label, which mentioned that "the strokes are heavy and the rhythm continuous."
"And our trees stand up tall, " my friend cracked. gesturing at the massive vertically of the evergreens on the canvas.
Virile humor.
It was more testosterone than I needed, but luckily the next painting was by Emilie Chory and balanced out all that virility beautifully.
"Red Rooftops Near Marnat" was loose brushstrokes, with a green zig-zag suggesting a hedge, a slash of red for rooves and the water a curlicue that we read as water only because of its blue color.
I felt my estrogen balance return to normal.
There was the most un-Picasso-like Picasso, "Still Life," which had almost an advertising quality to it and looked nothing like anything we saw in the big Picasso show.
After our tour of the new gallery, Friend asked if I wanted to go to Best Cafe for coffee and I reminded him that I don't drink coffee, a fact he surely knows after four years of friendship.
But he enticed me with a chocolate muffin and a seat on the deck watching the koi in the reflecting pool to finish out our afternoon.
Once he dropped me off back in the Ward, I walked over to Steady Sounds for a dose of live music.
Charlottesville's Invisible Hand was playing and I'd have known that weren't local just by looking at them.
Our guys have a look that other guys don't.
There was the usual milling about/looking at the bins/socializing part during which I found some old 10" jazz records for my favorite jazz-lover and said hi to the only two people I recognized, Robert and Allison of Tyrannosaurus Awesome.
And then the music commenced.
"We put toilet paper in the jazz section for anyone who wants to stuff their ears up," one guitarist said at the outset.
While they label themselves baroque acid rock with power pop guitar theatrics, I'd simplify that to power punk.
The bass player was squeezed in between the boxes of 45s and the sales counter, with barely enough room to wail.
The singer's curly hair was a mop of wet ringlets by the third song.
"We have a record for sale, it's our new one called Aja after the Steely Dan record and this is a song from that, "Psychic Cat," the singer said.
Just the kind of high-energy chords you'd want to listen to as the late afternoon sun slanted through the front windows of the record store.
They did a song from a rock opera "we were challenged to write" called "Cloud Island" and told to, "Come Back for part two."
The crowd was having a ball bopping along and clearly many of them knew the band, but occasionally someone would walk by, stick their head in t he door and come in to watch for a spell.
The drummer had the best line, "Our records are better than we are funny," which makes sense since they're in the music business, not the comedy biz.
They finished with the title song from the new EP and then exhorted the crowd to, "Buy records!"
Done.
Socially Booming
I played the hand that was dealt me.
I called a friend but he had birthday dinner plans with a cousin from Haymarket.
I called another friend who didn't answer.
I gave up on friends and opted for the VMFA and whatever was happening there.
But, just to be safe, on the way to the museum I drove past my friend's house in case she was home.
Even better, she was walking out her door and into the street right in front of my car.
When I inquired where she was going, she said the market.
Get into my car, says I, ever the bossy oldest child. We're going to the museum.
To her credit, she did as told.
Once there, we had the pleasure of hearing New Orleans duo accordionist Matty Metcalfe and drummer Brian Caputo playing their hearts out in the atrium.
Nothing sounds like New Orleans music, that's for sure.
We couldn't linger too long because my friend had had terribly stressful week, so we made our way to Best Cafe and scored a bottle of Las Lilas Vino Verde Rose, continuing my Portuguese streak this week.
The Friday deal of a price didn't hurt either.
Best Cafe was mobbed with a group wearing name tags and a card on one of the tables told us who they were: Social Boomers.
There are so many jokes I could make, but I'll refrain.
We found an unoccupied table, procured a cheese plate (although technically it was in a plastic clam shell box and not on a plate) and positioned ourselves facing the sunset.
The Las Lilas was lovely, intense, floral and fresh, and we got to talking as the bottle's pink contents dropped lower and lower.
When cloud cover suddenly obliterated the sun, the automatic shades on the cafe's windows automatically rolled up in reaction.
Immediately a guy now visible at a table on the deck waved, and we returned his greeting.
Enjoying our cheese selection, all at once the shades began rolling back down when the sun came back out.
I waved good-bye to our new friend and went back to the matter at hand, girl talk.
We eventually invited a couple of women milling about to join us at our table, feeling sorry for them as they carried trays of food in circles with no seating in sight.
A sister's got to help a sister out.
Once the sun had slipped behind the Pauley Center, our Las Lilas was gone and the cheese long consumed, we made our way upstairs to Amuse.
According to the bartender, they'd been mobbed all night and we'd arrived moments after things had emptied out.
When she heard how I'd found my friend in the most happenstance matter, she said, "That's awesome! That's the best reason ever to start an evening."
We were there to correct a gross inadequacy in my friend's museum-going, namely that she'd never drunk from the absinthe drip at Amuse.
As she would say, horrors!
Our attentive barkeep immediately set up two drips while we considered menu options.
Much as I was inclined toward the skate wing, she preferred the mussels, the fried oysters and the asparagus.
The P.E.I. mussels with Surry sausage, garlic, white wine and butter and Pecorino had grilled toast with which to sop up all that lovely broth.
The crispy Rappahannock curry-fried oysters over cucumber mint raita came garnished with pickled veggies.
Asparagus was roasted in oil and garlic with a sprinkling of cheese and was the first thing we devoured.
Because we were the only bar customers, the bartender had time to engage us in conversation about her latest obsession, the British monarchy.
She'd recently seen the film, "W.E." about the Duke of Windsor abdicating the throne for Wallis Simpson and it had ignited in her a passion for the full version of their love story.
When I inquired if she'd seen "The Kings' Speech," she said she had, but only very recently, and because she'd first seen "W.E."
We recommended to her "A Royal Affair," a movie about the Danish monarchy with romance busting out at every turn.
That led to the best discussion of the night.
She admitted that she secretly harbored a hope that a man would meet her and want to draw or paint her ("So "Titanic!"), a fantasy both my friend and I held.
Our little trio concurred that no greater compliment could be imagined than a man so enamored of us that he wanted to capture us artistically, faults and all.
No doubt the absinthe had a hand in our daydreams of being the muse to someone's artistic bent.
By the time we'd finished our supper, the dining room was down to three tables, so we knew the museum had closed and it was time to move on.
Despite a myriad of options for culture, we wound up back at her very French-looking apartment with a bottle of Le Ferme Julien Rose and Pandora set to the Arcade Fire station.
Her two little dogs heard us chattering and began causing a racket, at which point she threw up her hands and said to me, "You rescue a dog from death and they think they own you!"
I almost rolled off the couch laughing.
We passed the rest of the evening talking about research and word use, marriage and youth, milk and dark chocolate, all the while sipping Rose and agreeing with each other about everything.
Had I driven down her block one minute earlier or later, my evening would have unfolded in a very different manner.
Sometimes it's all about the luck of the draw.
I called a friend but he had birthday dinner plans with a cousin from Haymarket.
I called another friend who didn't answer.
I gave up on friends and opted for the VMFA and whatever was happening there.
But, just to be safe, on the way to the museum I drove past my friend's house in case she was home.
Even better, she was walking out her door and into the street right in front of my car.
When I inquired where she was going, she said the market.
Get into my car, says I, ever the bossy oldest child. We're going to the museum.
To her credit, she did as told.
Once there, we had the pleasure of hearing New Orleans duo accordionist Matty Metcalfe and drummer Brian Caputo playing their hearts out in the atrium.
Nothing sounds like New Orleans music, that's for sure.
We couldn't linger too long because my friend had had terribly stressful week, so we made our way to Best Cafe and scored a bottle of Las Lilas Vino Verde Rose, continuing my Portuguese streak this week.
The Friday deal of a price didn't hurt either.
Best Cafe was mobbed with a group wearing name tags and a card on one of the tables told us who they were: Social Boomers.
There are so many jokes I could make, but I'll refrain.
We found an unoccupied table, procured a cheese plate (although technically it was in a plastic clam shell box and not on a plate) and positioned ourselves facing the sunset.
The Las Lilas was lovely, intense, floral and fresh, and we got to talking as the bottle's pink contents dropped lower and lower.
When cloud cover suddenly obliterated the sun, the automatic shades on the cafe's windows automatically rolled up in reaction.
Immediately a guy now visible at a table on the deck waved, and we returned his greeting.
Enjoying our cheese selection, all at once the shades began rolling back down when the sun came back out.
I waved good-bye to our new friend and went back to the matter at hand, girl talk.
We eventually invited a couple of women milling about to join us at our table, feeling sorry for them as they carried trays of food in circles with no seating in sight.
A sister's got to help a sister out.
Once the sun had slipped behind the Pauley Center, our Las Lilas was gone and the cheese long consumed, we made our way upstairs to Amuse.
According to the bartender, they'd been mobbed all night and we'd arrived moments after things had emptied out.
When she heard how I'd found my friend in the most happenstance matter, she said, "That's awesome! That's the best reason ever to start an evening."
We were there to correct a gross inadequacy in my friend's museum-going, namely that she'd never drunk from the absinthe drip at Amuse.
As she would say, horrors!
Our attentive barkeep immediately set up two drips while we considered menu options.
Much as I was inclined toward the skate wing, she preferred the mussels, the fried oysters and the asparagus.
The P.E.I. mussels with Surry sausage, garlic, white wine and butter and Pecorino had grilled toast with which to sop up all that lovely broth.
The crispy Rappahannock curry-fried oysters over cucumber mint raita came garnished with pickled veggies.
Asparagus was roasted in oil and garlic with a sprinkling of cheese and was the first thing we devoured.
Because we were the only bar customers, the bartender had time to engage us in conversation about her latest obsession, the British monarchy.
She'd recently seen the film, "W.E." about the Duke of Windsor abdicating the throne for Wallis Simpson and it had ignited in her a passion for the full version of their love story.
When I inquired if she'd seen "The Kings' Speech," she said she had, but only very recently, and because she'd first seen "W.E."
We recommended to her "A Royal Affair," a movie about the Danish monarchy with romance busting out at every turn.
That led to the best discussion of the night.
She admitted that she secretly harbored a hope that a man would meet her and want to draw or paint her ("So "Titanic!"), a fantasy both my friend and I held.
Our little trio concurred that no greater compliment could be imagined than a man so enamored of us that he wanted to capture us artistically, faults and all.
No doubt the absinthe had a hand in our daydreams of being the muse to someone's artistic bent.
By the time we'd finished our supper, the dining room was down to three tables, so we knew the museum had closed and it was time to move on.
Despite a myriad of options for culture, we wound up back at her very French-looking apartment with a bottle of Le Ferme Julien Rose and Pandora set to the Arcade Fire station.
Her two little dogs heard us chattering and began causing a racket, at which point she threw up her hands and said to me, "You rescue a dog from death and they think they own you!"
I almost rolled off the couch laughing.
We passed the rest of the evening talking about research and word use, marriage and youth, milk and dark chocolate, all the while sipping Rose and agreeing with each other about everything.
Had I driven down her block one minute earlier or later, my evening would have unfolded in a very different manner.
Sometimes it's all about the luck of the draw.
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