Tonight there was good news and bad news.
The bad news came courtesy of the Paul Mellon lecture given by Dr. Gloria Groom at VMFA, "Manet: Fashion and Fetish."
Much of her talk was fascinating, about the key role the latest fashion played in Manet's work, even when it was absent like in the then-shocking "Dejeuner Sur L'herbe" where the men at the picnic wear suits and the women are naked.
Then there was his "Woman of 1866," a portrait of modern life with a woman dressed only in nightclothes but pictured with the oddest things.
A parrot. A man's monocle. A giant litter box. What the hell?
Manet used fashion as a pretext for experimentation, Groom claimed, so it wasn't about the weird stuff, it was about seeing a woman who'd been painted in her nightgown.
Ditto when he painted a woman in a corset with a man looking at her. a highly questionable scene.
So where's the problem with all this?
Manet believed in artifice, calling women in their natural state "monsters" because of the absence of make-up, hair dressing and clothing.
Apparently we aren't fit to look upon in our natural state.
Groom even admitted she agreed with this, but then, given her stylish clothes and make-up, I guess it wasn't surprising.
It did bring up a memory for me, though. Years ago, a boyfriend had looked at my face after our first sleepover and commented on how pale I was.
It was the first time he'd seen me without make-up and I guess the difference was apparently pretty dull.
Now I understand that he and Manet were in the same camp.
So there's a takeaway I certainly didn't expect from an art history lecture.
From there, my art-loving friend and I went to dinner at Bistro 27, aka my neighborhood joint, where we broke bad and sat at a table.
Music was absent, many of the tables around us were full and we had lots to catch up on.
We both started with tonight's soup, a creamy sausage and potato that was obscenely creamy but luckily the bubbles in my Prosecco helped cut the richness a bit.
While she told me about the wild ride she's been on the past week (I can't keep up with her dating schedule), we moved on to a beautifully medium-rare rack of lamb and ruby red trout with crawfish etouffe, both outstanding and both too big to finish.
While we gabbed about art and men, the dining room began to dwindle until the chef must have gotten bored because he came over to chat with us.
As usual, he began by accusing me of "cheating on him," which is how he refers to me eating at other restaurants, despite the fact that it's my job.
He didn't want to intrude on our girl talk, but by that time we were ready for the last course, so we insisted he stay.
With our chocolate hazelnut torte, we had Graham's LBV 2008 Porto because Chef Carlos recommended it as young and figgy (descriptors that could have been used for me at one point) and if you can't trust a man speaking Portuguese about Port, well, who can you trust?
Finally too full to even sit there and gab any more, we parted company and I went to Balliceaux for music.
New York band Matuto, playing something they call Brazilian redneck music (I probably should have brought the Brazilian chef) was into their first song when I arrived.
With an accordion player, a guitar player, bass player, drummer and percussionist, their sound was part Brazilian folk, part bluegrass, part roots music and part swamp jams, especially when the killer accordion player got going.
I immediately saw a shy musician friend near the bar and teased her about being out on a work night, but we agreed the band was too good to miss.
Before long I ran into my former neighbor, the councilman, the jazz critic from last night and lots of musicians who knew enough not to miss a band the U.S. State department has dubbed American music ambassadors and sent touring all over the world.
By the end of the second song, people were dancing like crazy in front of the stage, including a group of four women who had clearly come solely for that purpose.
I took my place just behind them, a more discrete place to shake my stuff.
That's when the band gave us the good news. "The more you dance, the better we play!"
Well that was a win-win situation and from then on we only made them play magniificently.
At one point, the percussionist was coaxing unbelievable sounds out of his tambourine and a woman in front of me turned around accusingly and asked, "Did you see that?"
I had, but I still didn't understand what I'd seen despite being amazed at what I was hearing, so I went back to shaking it.
Meanwhile, there was the tall Italian guy who kept grabbing different women to dance with, the guy in white shoes and red and white polka-dot tie who alternated taking pictures and dancing and the guy who danced so frenetically you had to watch out for his flailing limbs.
Not that there's anything wrong with any of that because everyone was having a blast.
The percussionist did a solo where we saw him work his tambourines like drums, eliciting sounds with wet fingers and subtle shaking and causing people to gather around him to get a closer look.
The accordion player, he of the mischievous eyes, also did a solo, his sweat-soaked shirt getting even wetter as he tore up the accordion and the crowd went crazy.
"Can we finish up with a big, synergistic moment with the people of Richmond and Matuto?" the singer/guitarist asked.
We all gathered together so he could snap a few pictures of us all, no doubt to add to their globe-trotting scrapbook.
They did a drawing for a free CD and the guy who won, the frenetic, flailing one, asked if he could dance onstage for the next song.
As if Matuto would deny someone their right to dance.
That said, he almost took off the bass player's head at one point, but at least he was having fun.
Midway through the last song, the guitarist yelled, "When you dance, I get a knot in my belly."
It's an evocative phrase, isn't it?
As a woman, I may be a monster in my natural state but if I can, chances are I'm going to do what it takes to cause a knot in a man's belly.
Sometimes it's dancing and sometimes, well, that depends on the man.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Sweet, Sweet Neighborhood
Facebook saved me after I slept late.
There it was, reminding me that there was a lecture I wanted to go to today. One that started in half an hour.
Throwing back my breakfast, I realized there was no time for my walk beforehand. Oh, well.
When I got to the Virginia Historical Society, I was about to take my seat when I heard my name called.
It was the new stay-at-home Dad who'd brought Peabody Crustbottom, his baby, to the lecture rather than miss it.
So I wasn't the only one eager to hear about "The Carillon: The Story of a Richmond Community."
I left him to the care and feeding of Peabody and took my seat next to an older woman who began chatting me up.
When I asked where she lived, she responded, "Between the two saints, St. Christopher's and St. Michael's."
Leaning in conspiratorially, she said, "When I moved there, my friend said at least you're between two Episcopalians! Well, one of them is, I told her." And she laughed at her own irreverent humor.
Elizabeth O'Leary, former curator of American art at the VMFA and a resident of the Carillon neighborhood, spent the next hour talking about the fish-shaped area that began as a colonial frontier, became farmland during the antebellum period and eventually became a streetcar neighborhood before becoming an exemplary integrated one.
She showed the eagle-topped arches that face the Carillon at the entrance to the neighborhood and I realized I'd never seen them.
It was right about then that I decided that after the talk, I'd be taking my walk in this neighborhood she was explaining.
One thing I hadn't known was that the early conception for the neighborhood was much like that of Windsor Farms, to be an upscale, fashionable neighborhood and there were several houses like that built by the 1930s.
She talked a little about the Carillon itself, the monument to the WWI soldiers with 66 bronze bells and a war museum on the ground floor.
There was a fabulous picture of the opening of it in 1932, with dignitaries in chairs and the cadets of VMI and VA Tech marching from the State Capital to the Carillon for the ceremony.
One thing I hadn't known was that originally there was supposed to be a reflecting pool in front of it, hence the lowered grassy lawn which, she said, fills up with water during hurricanes, sort of a natural reflecting pool.
Then the Great Depression hit and mansion-building in the neighborhood came to a screeching halt, eventually replaced with post-WWII housing - 250 brick houses, many of them Cape Cods - for all those returning troops.
But teh reality was that the neighborhood, like the nearby park, was whites-only until the first black family moved in in 1967.
By 1968, it was 40% black and the Carillon civic association was created to, among other things, encourage further integration.
Their slogan was, "Since we're neighbors, let's be friends" and they worked tirelessly to get real estate agents to show houses for sale to blacks and whites and change the segregated way house sales were listed in the classified ads.
An early Carillon neighborhood booklet described the place as "Where people care, not just for their yards, but for others."
Governor Holton called the neighborhood "a model for racial integration," and considering it was the days of segregated Richmond, it's pretty impressive how neighbors banded together to affect positive change.
By the time she finished her talk, I couldn't wait to get over there and see this model neighborhood.
It was illuminating, especially considering I've been in Richmond since the '80s, as I walked the streets over there, seeing both grand and simple houses.
Not all blocks had sidewalks and even some that did had those very narrow ones that don't exactly encourage strolling, but the very mature trees had left cascades of soft, bright yellow leaves to plow through, a distinct autumn pleasure.
And I did see the diversity.
At one beautiful, big stone house, a woman was walking three maids to their car, thanking them for their hard work.
Behind a rancher no bigger than a single-wide trailer, I saw a clothes line and a truck up on cinder blocks.
Many streets dead-ended, ensuring a minimum of random traffic.
O'Leary had mentioned how the streetcars came down South Belmont to this neighborhood and I hadn't been able to visualize it, but coming across it on my walk, I was able to link it up to N. Belmont in my head finally.
It was every bit as charming as O'Leary had made it sound and, as one neighbor getting out of his car said to me, "Perfect day for a walk, isn't it?"
And the perfect place for it today, too.
I finished up with a couple of laps around Fountain lake as, no doubt, scores of Carillon residents have for years.
The lake was full of geese and ducks enjoying the sunny day, dunking themselves and being photographed by a visitor.
I passed one guy sitting on a bench with a small, silver transistor radio tied to the handlebars and turned on.
Honestly, I didn't know people even used those little transistor radios anymore.
Even better was an old black guy on a bench playing his guitar with a music stand set up in front of him as he played and sang.
It was the sheet music for Elvis' "Sweet, Sweet Spirit" and I stopped to listen on both my loops around, applauding after the second time.
He smiled and tipped his head at me, never missing a beat of the song.
For all I know, he's exactly the kind of friendly person who lives in the Carillon neighborhood.
There it was, reminding me that there was a lecture I wanted to go to today. One that started in half an hour.
Throwing back my breakfast, I realized there was no time for my walk beforehand. Oh, well.
When I got to the Virginia Historical Society, I was about to take my seat when I heard my name called.
It was the new stay-at-home Dad who'd brought Peabody Crustbottom, his baby, to the lecture rather than miss it.
So I wasn't the only one eager to hear about "The Carillon: The Story of a Richmond Community."
I left him to the care and feeding of Peabody and took my seat next to an older woman who began chatting me up.
When I asked where she lived, she responded, "Between the two saints, St. Christopher's and St. Michael's."
Leaning in conspiratorially, she said, "When I moved there, my friend said at least you're between two Episcopalians! Well, one of them is, I told her." And she laughed at her own irreverent humor.
Elizabeth O'Leary, former curator of American art at the VMFA and a resident of the Carillon neighborhood, spent the next hour talking about the fish-shaped area that began as a colonial frontier, became farmland during the antebellum period and eventually became a streetcar neighborhood before becoming an exemplary integrated one.
She showed the eagle-topped arches that face the Carillon at the entrance to the neighborhood and I realized I'd never seen them.
It was right about then that I decided that after the talk, I'd be taking my walk in this neighborhood she was explaining.
One thing I hadn't known was that the early conception for the neighborhood was much like that of Windsor Farms, to be an upscale, fashionable neighborhood and there were several houses like that built by the 1930s.
She talked a little about the Carillon itself, the monument to the WWI soldiers with 66 bronze bells and a war museum on the ground floor.
There was a fabulous picture of the opening of it in 1932, with dignitaries in chairs and the cadets of VMI and VA Tech marching from the State Capital to the Carillon for the ceremony.
One thing I hadn't known was that originally there was supposed to be a reflecting pool in front of it, hence the lowered grassy lawn which, she said, fills up with water during hurricanes, sort of a natural reflecting pool.
Then the Great Depression hit and mansion-building in the neighborhood came to a screeching halt, eventually replaced with post-WWII housing - 250 brick houses, many of them Cape Cods - for all those returning troops.
But teh reality was that the neighborhood, like the nearby park, was whites-only until the first black family moved in in 1967.
By 1968, it was 40% black and the Carillon civic association was created to, among other things, encourage further integration.
Their slogan was, "Since we're neighbors, let's be friends" and they worked tirelessly to get real estate agents to show houses for sale to blacks and whites and change the segregated way house sales were listed in the classified ads.
An early Carillon neighborhood booklet described the place as "Where people care, not just for their yards, but for others."
Governor Holton called the neighborhood "a model for racial integration," and considering it was the days of segregated Richmond, it's pretty impressive how neighbors banded together to affect positive change.
By the time she finished her talk, I couldn't wait to get over there and see this model neighborhood.
It was illuminating, especially considering I've been in Richmond since the '80s, as I walked the streets over there, seeing both grand and simple houses.
Not all blocks had sidewalks and even some that did had those very narrow ones that don't exactly encourage strolling, but the very mature trees had left cascades of soft, bright yellow leaves to plow through, a distinct autumn pleasure.
And I did see the diversity.
At one beautiful, big stone house, a woman was walking three maids to their car, thanking them for their hard work.
Behind a rancher no bigger than a single-wide trailer, I saw a clothes line and a truck up on cinder blocks.
Many streets dead-ended, ensuring a minimum of random traffic.
O'Leary had mentioned how the streetcars came down South Belmont to this neighborhood and I hadn't been able to visualize it, but coming across it on my walk, I was able to link it up to N. Belmont in my head finally.
It was every bit as charming as O'Leary had made it sound and, as one neighbor getting out of his car said to me, "Perfect day for a walk, isn't it?"
And the perfect place for it today, too.
I finished up with a couple of laps around Fountain lake as, no doubt, scores of Carillon residents have for years.
The lake was full of geese and ducks enjoying the sunny day, dunking themselves and being photographed by a visitor.
I passed one guy sitting on a bench with a small, silver transistor radio tied to the handlebars and turned on.
Honestly, I didn't know people even used those little transistor radios anymore.
Even better was an old black guy on a bench playing his guitar with a music stand set up in front of him as he played and sang.
It was the sheet music for Elvis' "Sweet, Sweet Spirit" and I stopped to listen on both my loops around, applauding after the second time.
He smiled and tipped his head at me, never missing a beat of the song.
For all I know, he's exactly the kind of friendly person who lives in the Carillon neighborhood.
Saucy Plays and Love Trains
The last time I saw a high school play I was probably in high school.
And while I don't recall the specific play, I feel absolutely certain it was nowhere near as good as the one I saw tonight.
Maggie Walker Governor's School was doing a preview tonight of "Twelfth Night (Or What You Will)" and I couldn't think of a single reason to pass up free Shakespeare.
I was completely unprepared for what a fabulous theater the school had but not entirely surprised at the fine set dressing.
Clearly talent abounds at this school.
A big, fat, yellow moon hung over the back of the stage with a charming flower-covered swing in front.
These clothes are good enough to drink in and so be these boots, too.
There's a certain kind of amusement that comes from hearing a line like that come out of the mouth of a teenager.
The young cast had clearly been well-rehearsed by director Billy Christopher Maupin and came across sure of their dialog and confident in their movements.
His casting was also cleverly-executed, with a guy playing Maria and a girl playing the beleagured Malvolio, he of the grim smile and yellow cross-gartered stockings, which in this production were black fishnets over yellow tights.
Shall we set about some revels?
There's a line the essence of which rang plenty true coming out of a high-schooler's mouth.
A scene where Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek begin dancing together got big laughs when Toby's hands migrated south to Andrew's butt. You know, like at a high school dance.
I heard you were saucy at my gates.
That's the kind of line that makes me want to work saucy into conversation and not in relation to food, either.
Fact is, I've seen "Twelfth Night" as much as I've seen any Shakespeare play performed, but I never get tired of seeing it interpreted well, as it was tonight.
This was a cast who understood the words they were saying and not just parroting language. Music was incorporated into the play at the beginning, middle and end demonstrating some talented musicality on the part of the cast.
Love sought is good but given unsought is better.
If they haven't yet had the life experience to understand that one, they will.
In the meantime, they're putting on a decidedly excellent production that'll make you forget they still get big X's on their hands at shows.
Once the play was over and I left the high school, where better to go than a dance?
Balliceaux was hosting Mexican band, Sabrosa Sabrosura, playing their cumbia/funk/reggae dance music for our Wednesday night pleasure.
When I got there, I found a friend at the front bar and since the band was running late, sat down with him to chat for a bit.
He'd already heard about the band's delay due to driving up from New Orleans today, but had had been told they were expected within the hour.
We moved to the back room to await their arrival and there I found the jazz critic and settled in to chat with him.
He had great stories, like one about seeing Pat Metheny at a Broad Street venue with only ten other people, including a very young Bruce Hornsby.
The best one happened at a family reunion last year in New Jersey where a young female family member from California who goes to school in New York told him how much she loved Reggie Pace.
That's one far-reaching trombone.
Finally the band - a guitar player, a key-tar player and a slip of a woman playing the cheese grater-looking guira- arrived some time after 11 and set up quickly.
As a bonus, Richmond's own Giustino Riccio was playing congas for them, resplendent in a red shirt and enormous bell-bottom jeans, an ensemble he'd changed into in the basement of Kuba Kuba after his shift tonight.
"Sorry we're so late!" the singer/guira player said. "We're on Mexican time! Get ready because this is dancing music!"
The second they began playing, no one in the good-sized crowd (which was full of jazz musicians) who'd waited around cared how long they'd waited.
But then, before they even got to the end of the first song, something blew on the sound system and there was a break while it was fixed.
Boy, these guys were having a hard time of it tonight.
They began jamming without amplification and soon the guitar player was peeling off his shirt.
"Looks like strip cumbia," the critic joked as we waited.
Soon the guira-playing girl started talking to audience members about papayas, which seemed odd until the critic leaned down and observed, "I think they're talking about genitalia."
After the song "La Papaya y el Despapaye," sung in Spanish we had no more of a clue until she announced, "Since we all come from papayas..."
Genitalia it was.
The band was totally interactive with the crowd, maybe just glad to be out of the car, perhaps grateful that we'd stuck around for them, and challenged us, the guitar player saying, "The Mexicans say if you can't dance, you can't make love right."
Guira girl promptly got off the stage and started a conga line, which the guitar player called a "love train" and which snaked around the room for the rest of the song.
The critic finally looked at me and stood up, saying, "I'm gonna go home and play my own cheese grater."
I have no reason to assume that was a euphemism or related to genitalia.
He missed out on more high-energy dance music.
Saying that they'd driven for more than ten hours and been caught by the police, the band announced a ten-minute break.
Unfortunately because of the late start, many people had to leave at the break, but if they'd stuck around they might have been as surprised as I was that the band actually took a ten-minute break.
Clearly they were not on jazz time where 10 always means at least 30.
Another guy who'd been dancing a lot took over conga duties after the break, leaving Giustino to dance in front of the stage, first alone and then with a girl who asked him.
When the song ended and he went to retrieve his drink, there was some sort of collision and it shattered on the floor.
"You can drink my blood, but don't spill my tequila," the lovely guira player called out.
So now we better understood Mexican priorities.
Giustino returned to the congas where he was less likely to spill something and more likely to wow the crowd with his sure-handed playing.
The guira girl kept leaving the stage to pull people up to dance, or maybe she was trying to ascertain who knew how to make love right.
I felt pretty confident there. That's the part that made it way better than a high school dance.
And while I don't recall the specific play, I feel absolutely certain it was nowhere near as good as the one I saw tonight.
Maggie Walker Governor's School was doing a preview tonight of "Twelfth Night (Or What You Will)" and I couldn't think of a single reason to pass up free Shakespeare.
I was completely unprepared for what a fabulous theater the school had but not entirely surprised at the fine set dressing.
Clearly talent abounds at this school.
A big, fat, yellow moon hung over the back of the stage with a charming flower-covered swing in front.
These clothes are good enough to drink in and so be these boots, too.
There's a certain kind of amusement that comes from hearing a line like that come out of the mouth of a teenager.
The young cast had clearly been well-rehearsed by director Billy Christopher Maupin and came across sure of their dialog and confident in their movements.
His casting was also cleverly-executed, with a guy playing Maria and a girl playing the beleagured Malvolio, he of the grim smile and yellow cross-gartered stockings, which in this production were black fishnets over yellow tights.
Shall we set about some revels?
There's a line the essence of which rang plenty true coming out of a high-schooler's mouth.
A scene where Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek begin dancing together got big laughs when Toby's hands migrated south to Andrew's butt. You know, like at a high school dance.
I heard you were saucy at my gates.
That's the kind of line that makes me want to work saucy into conversation and not in relation to food, either.
Fact is, I've seen "Twelfth Night" as much as I've seen any Shakespeare play performed, but I never get tired of seeing it interpreted well, as it was tonight.
This was a cast who understood the words they were saying and not just parroting language. Music was incorporated into the play at the beginning, middle and end demonstrating some talented musicality on the part of the cast.
Love sought is good but given unsought is better.
If they haven't yet had the life experience to understand that one, they will.
In the meantime, they're putting on a decidedly excellent production that'll make you forget they still get big X's on their hands at shows.
Once the play was over and I left the high school, where better to go than a dance?
Balliceaux was hosting Mexican band, Sabrosa Sabrosura, playing their cumbia/funk/reggae dance music for our Wednesday night pleasure.
When I got there, I found a friend at the front bar and since the band was running late, sat down with him to chat for a bit.
He'd already heard about the band's delay due to driving up from New Orleans today, but had had been told they were expected within the hour.
We moved to the back room to await their arrival and there I found the jazz critic and settled in to chat with him.
He had great stories, like one about seeing Pat Metheny at a Broad Street venue with only ten other people, including a very young Bruce Hornsby.
The best one happened at a family reunion last year in New Jersey where a young female family member from California who goes to school in New York told him how much she loved Reggie Pace.
That's one far-reaching trombone.
Finally the band - a guitar player, a key-tar player and a slip of a woman playing the cheese grater-looking guira- arrived some time after 11 and set up quickly.
As a bonus, Richmond's own Giustino Riccio was playing congas for them, resplendent in a red shirt and enormous bell-bottom jeans, an ensemble he'd changed into in the basement of Kuba Kuba after his shift tonight.
"Sorry we're so late!" the singer/guira player said. "We're on Mexican time! Get ready because this is dancing music!"
The second they began playing, no one in the good-sized crowd (which was full of jazz musicians) who'd waited around cared how long they'd waited.
But then, before they even got to the end of the first song, something blew on the sound system and there was a break while it was fixed.
Boy, these guys were having a hard time of it tonight.
They began jamming without amplification and soon the guitar player was peeling off his shirt.
"Looks like strip cumbia," the critic joked as we waited.
Soon the guira-playing girl started talking to audience members about papayas, which seemed odd until the critic leaned down and observed, "I think they're talking about genitalia."
After the song "La Papaya y el Despapaye," sung in Spanish we had no more of a clue until she announced, "Since we all come from papayas..."
Genitalia it was.
The band was totally interactive with the crowd, maybe just glad to be out of the car, perhaps grateful that we'd stuck around for them, and challenged us, the guitar player saying, "The Mexicans say if you can't dance, you can't make love right."
Guira girl promptly got off the stage and started a conga line, which the guitar player called a "love train" and which snaked around the room for the rest of the song.
The critic finally looked at me and stood up, saying, "I'm gonna go home and play my own cheese grater."
I have no reason to assume that was a euphemism or related to genitalia.
He missed out on more high-energy dance music.
Saying that they'd driven for more than ten hours and been caught by the police, the band announced a ten-minute break.
Unfortunately because of the late start, many people had to leave at the break, but if they'd stuck around they might have been as surprised as I was that the band actually took a ten-minute break.
Clearly they were not on jazz time where 10 always means at least 30.
Another guy who'd been dancing a lot took over conga duties after the break, leaving Giustino to dance in front of the stage, first alone and then with a girl who asked him.
When the song ended and he went to retrieve his drink, there was some sort of collision and it shattered on the floor.
"You can drink my blood, but don't spill my tequila," the lovely guira player called out.
So now we better understood Mexican priorities.
Giustino returned to the congas where he was less likely to spill something and more likely to wow the crowd with his sure-handed playing.
The guira girl kept leaving the stage to pull people up to dance, or maybe she was trying to ascertain who knew how to make love right.
I felt pretty confident there. That's the part that made it way better than a high school dance.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Sunny with Empty Bottles
It's the best possible thing to come home to after my walk: a lunch invitation.
Could I be at Rappahannock at noon? Yes, I could.
The only problem was that I was punctual and he was not.
At almost 12:20, the hostess walks over and tells me my friend has called and will be late. No shit, Sherlock.
She assures me he will arrive by 12:30 and says he insists I go ahead and start with a glass of wine.
Don't worry, I intend to, I tell her.
"He said you'd say that," she says, grinning.
Waiter! Bring me a glass of 2012 Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose and be quick about it. I'm tired of eavesdropping with no alcohol accompaniment.
Actually, it's quite pleasant sitting at a window table, enjoying the early afternoon sun but after a certain point, a girl wants something to drink.
And, just for the record, I would never wait for a date so long. For a friend, yes; for a date, sorry, no.
The music is not to my taste with such overplayed gems as "Under My Thumb," "Help," "White Room" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?"
Who'll stop the cliched classic rock, I wonder, although I never tire of hearing Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."
A half an hour later, my friend is still nowhere to be seen and the server approaches me with humor. "So before your friend comes, can I put an empty bottle of wine on the table?"
Sure, but he's not going to be surprised, I tell him.
When I inquire about the time, my server says it's getting on 1:00. "If I were you, I'd be ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon," he advises.
Instead, I order a dozen Old Salte oysters with shallot vinaigrette, finishing about the time the hostess returns to tell me my friend is on his way.
Yea, right.
Meanwhile, I overhear a couple pronounce Tredegar as "tread-are-gar" and know I need to intervene.
They turn out to be tourists from Wisconsin, on a month-long drive through the southeast to celebrate his recent retirement.
I inquire as to their plans after an oyster-based lunch.
They run possibilities past me - the Museum of the Confederacy, the State Capital, Tredegar Iron Works- and I give them tips on visiting them all.
But the 64 thousand dollar questions remains, where are they planning to eat dinner?
Unsure, they say. Where are you staying, I ask? The Jefferson.
It's a no-brainer. You guys need to go to Bistro 27, I tell them and why.
My tardy friend arrives just as I am singing Chef Carlos' praises and they thank me for my help.
Friend and I immediately jump into celebration mode (he has recently bought a business) and order Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose, fine-bubbled with a nice, long finish, and ideal for toasting his future.
Post-toast I am forced to go outside to move my car which is about to exceed its two-hour parking limit.
Friend wants me to choose the wine for lunch and I opt for Jean Paul Brun Chardonnay which results in him raving about my choice, no small feat given his fussiness about wine.
"This is an amazing wine," he gushes and I agree, pleased with the creamy, rich taste and satisfying mineral finish.
Finally, it's time to order lunch and I choose the country ham and Carr valley smoked cheddar sandwich with thousand island dressing and bread and butter pickles and a side salad with apples and cheddar.
I am busy chowing down on it when the Wisconsin couple approaches to thank me profusely for my travel and restaurant advice.
They have looked up 27's website and are already looking forward to sampling the menu.
Of course I appreciate their gratitude, but honestly I am more than happy representing Richmond and tell them that.
After they leave, we order the buckwheat crepe and chocolate dessert, requesting vanilla ice cream on the side to accompany our last glass of wine.
By now, the sun is behind the Times Dispatch building across the street and I have been in this restaurant for almost four hours.
I have been regaled with details of my friend's new business and enjoyed a satisfying meal and some stellar wines.
Much longer, and I'd have needed another dozen oysters. And way better music.
Could I be at Rappahannock at noon? Yes, I could.
The only problem was that I was punctual and he was not.
At almost 12:20, the hostess walks over and tells me my friend has called and will be late. No shit, Sherlock.
She assures me he will arrive by 12:30 and says he insists I go ahead and start with a glass of wine.
Don't worry, I intend to, I tell her.
"He said you'd say that," she says, grinning.
Waiter! Bring me a glass of 2012 Commanderie de Peyrassol Rose and be quick about it. I'm tired of eavesdropping with no alcohol accompaniment.
Actually, it's quite pleasant sitting at a window table, enjoying the early afternoon sun but after a certain point, a girl wants something to drink.
And, just for the record, I would never wait for a date so long. For a friend, yes; for a date, sorry, no.
The music is not to my taste with such overplayed gems as "Under My Thumb," "Help," "White Room" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?"
Who'll stop the cliched classic rock, I wonder, although I never tire of hearing Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone."
A half an hour later, my friend is still nowhere to be seen and the server approaches me with humor. "So before your friend comes, can I put an empty bottle of wine on the table?"
Sure, but he's not going to be surprised, I tell him.
When I inquire about the time, my server says it's getting on 1:00. "If I were you, I'd be ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon," he advises.
Instead, I order a dozen Old Salte oysters with shallot vinaigrette, finishing about the time the hostess returns to tell me my friend is on his way.
Yea, right.
Meanwhile, I overhear a couple pronounce Tredegar as "tread-are-gar" and know I need to intervene.
They turn out to be tourists from Wisconsin, on a month-long drive through the southeast to celebrate his recent retirement.
I inquire as to their plans after an oyster-based lunch.
They run possibilities past me - the Museum of the Confederacy, the State Capital, Tredegar Iron Works- and I give them tips on visiting them all.
But the 64 thousand dollar questions remains, where are they planning to eat dinner?
Unsure, they say. Where are you staying, I ask? The Jefferson.
It's a no-brainer. You guys need to go to Bistro 27, I tell them and why.
My tardy friend arrives just as I am singing Chef Carlos' praises and they thank me for my help.
Friend and I immediately jump into celebration mode (he has recently bought a business) and order Domaine Rolet Cremant de Jura Rose, fine-bubbled with a nice, long finish, and ideal for toasting his future.
Post-toast I am forced to go outside to move my car which is about to exceed its two-hour parking limit.
Friend wants me to choose the wine for lunch and I opt for Jean Paul Brun Chardonnay which results in him raving about my choice, no small feat given his fussiness about wine.
"This is an amazing wine," he gushes and I agree, pleased with the creamy, rich taste and satisfying mineral finish.
Finally, it's time to order lunch and I choose the country ham and Carr valley smoked cheddar sandwich with thousand island dressing and bread and butter pickles and a side salad with apples and cheddar.
I am busy chowing down on it when the Wisconsin couple approaches to thank me profusely for my travel and restaurant advice.
They have looked up 27's website and are already looking forward to sampling the menu.
Of course I appreciate their gratitude, but honestly I am more than happy representing Richmond and tell them that.
After they leave, we order the buckwheat crepe and chocolate dessert, requesting vanilla ice cream on the side to accompany our last glass of wine.
By now, the sun is behind the Times Dispatch building across the street and I have been in this restaurant for almost four hours.
I have been regaled with details of my friend's new business and enjoyed a satisfying meal and some stellar wines.
Much longer, and I'd have needed another dozen oysters. And way better music.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Warm Me Up
I am not happy about this sudden shift to freezing cold weather.
Sure, I knew I wasn't going to be able to continue wearing shorts on my walk indefinitely, but did we have to jump from shorts on Saturday to a fleece today?
Heck, I finally had to turn on the heat today for the first time since March. Not good.
So I have to admit that when I was considering my options for tonight, I decided on a movie and that was it. I was willing to go outside briefly for the sake of some culture, but then I wanted to come back home, crawl into bed and read.
Could I be any more boring or a bigger weather wimp?
At least the movie was worth seeing: "Kuroneko," a 1968 Japanese horror film that was the final screening for this fall's VCU Cinematheque series.
By way of introduction, the film professor told us it was a movie that blended naturalism and surrealism to achieve its effects.
Then he remembered he was talking to a theater that was 90% film students and cautioned, "It's a horror film beautifully shot in black and white. But it's from 1968, so there's no gushing blood. It's more psychological horror."
I could hear the 20-year olds around me groaning in disappointment.
Prof said there's be no Q & A period tonight because of the possibility of snow, more evidence of weather hampering fun.
What none of the audience anticipated was that the opening scene would be of a band of samurais raping and killing two women, and torching their house as they left. A black cat licks their bloody faces.
Heavy stuff.
The story, set in the 15th century, centered on how these two women, the mother and wife of a samurai, come back as ghosts who lure samurai back to their abode, get them drunk on sake and then, cat-like, rip their throats out.
A little like "Arsenic and Old Lace" except instead of tossing the bodies in the basement, they toss them in the bamboo grove where villagers scavenge their pockets.
Unfortunately, scenes of drinking and sex caused tittering amongst the underage set, making me doubt the professor's admonition that if they're going to be filmmakers one day, they need to know more than just independent American films.
Don't they also have to, oh, I don't know, be able to understand drinking and sex in the context of the plot without acting like children?
It truly was a lushly-shot film with odd angles of light, ghosts who could somersault in the air and horses who made loud clopping sounds even when they were walking on dirt and leaves.
Obviously, this was not the naturalistic part of the movie.
Plot-wise, the problem arose when the samurai who approaches is her son/her husband so neither wants to kill him.
The tragedy is that the wife makes a deal with the underworld to make love with her husband for seven days but then she must go directly to hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200.
Of course, this devastates him but there's no bringing her back.
Mom then becomes the problem because as part of her deal to come back to life, she was under obligation to kill every samurai, even her baby boy.
He cuts off her arm, she comes back to retrieve it and flies through the roof while he lays dying with snow falling on him.
There it was again, cold weather...ruining people's lives since the 15th century.
Sure, I knew I wasn't going to be able to continue wearing shorts on my walk indefinitely, but did we have to jump from shorts on Saturday to a fleece today?
Heck, I finally had to turn on the heat today for the first time since March. Not good.
So I have to admit that when I was considering my options for tonight, I decided on a movie and that was it. I was willing to go outside briefly for the sake of some culture, but then I wanted to come back home, crawl into bed and read.
Could I be any more boring or a bigger weather wimp?
At least the movie was worth seeing: "Kuroneko," a 1968 Japanese horror film that was the final screening for this fall's VCU Cinematheque series.
By way of introduction, the film professor told us it was a movie that blended naturalism and surrealism to achieve its effects.
Then he remembered he was talking to a theater that was 90% film students and cautioned, "It's a horror film beautifully shot in black and white. But it's from 1968, so there's no gushing blood. It's more psychological horror."
I could hear the 20-year olds around me groaning in disappointment.
Prof said there's be no Q & A period tonight because of the possibility of snow, more evidence of weather hampering fun.
What none of the audience anticipated was that the opening scene would be of a band of samurais raping and killing two women, and torching their house as they left. A black cat licks their bloody faces.
Heavy stuff.
The story, set in the 15th century, centered on how these two women, the mother and wife of a samurai, come back as ghosts who lure samurai back to their abode, get them drunk on sake and then, cat-like, rip their throats out.
A little like "Arsenic and Old Lace" except instead of tossing the bodies in the basement, they toss them in the bamboo grove where villagers scavenge their pockets.
Unfortunately, scenes of drinking and sex caused tittering amongst the underage set, making me doubt the professor's admonition that if they're going to be filmmakers one day, they need to know more than just independent American films.
Don't they also have to, oh, I don't know, be able to understand drinking and sex in the context of the plot without acting like children?
It truly was a lushly-shot film with odd angles of light, ghosts who could somersault in the air and horses who made loud clopping sounds even when they were walking on dirt and leaves.
Obviously, this was not the naturalistic part of the movie.
Plot-wise, the problem arose when the samurai who approaches is her son/her husband so neither wants to kill him.
The tragedy is that the wife makes a deal with the underworld to make love with her husband for seven days but then she must go directly to hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200.
Of course, this devastates him but there's no bringing her back.
Mom then becomes the problem because as part of her deal to come back to life, she was under obligation to kill every samurai, even her baby boy.
He cuts off her arm, she comes back to retrieve it and flies through the roof while he lays dying with snow falling on him.
There it was again, cold weather...ruining people's lives since the 15th century.
Calling All Friends
When it rains, it pours.
Weeks ago, a girlfriend had asked me to join her for the Ideas in Food dinner at Heritage.
Five courses and the chance to sit around, eat and drink for hours like we used to before her life turned upside down? Count me in.
Then I got home today to a phone message from a friend in Boston, saying he'd be in Richmond tonight and wanting to hang out.
A talented guy who befriended me three years while in town on business and has been known to e-mail from all over the world saying he's just read my blog or experienced something funny he wants to share with me? Yes, please.
Oh, if only I'd gotten a good night's sleep last night, but, alas, my body's infrequent caffeine intake and a mega-Coke a few hours before bedtime had left me unable to get to sleep until dawn.
It's nights like this you push through on pure adrenaline.
Heritage was just starting to fill up when we arrived to claim our corner booth and begin catching up on the good stuff.
With glasses of a Barbera blend and our Gemini motor mouths set on non-stop, we dove right into the juiciest stories we had as an array of food runners brought us course after course.
The Lexington-bred beef heart tartare was suggested to be finger food, so we wrapped it in rice crepes and talked about people with negative energy.
Ramen with pepperoni, octopus and wakame noodles tasted like pizza, making our Barbera the perfect pairing as I heard about her outing to Charlottesville.
A provolone tuille with caraway seeds covered brussels sprouts, thousand island dressing and a broth that brought the pastrami flavor home while I shared my recent winery visits and an unexpected Michael Shaps intersection.
Ginger and tamarind-crusted lamb shoulder sat atop yellow mustard gnocchi and lamb heart ragu, a deeply rich and earthy sauce that had my friend requesting that I not tell her what things were.
The final sweet course was chocolate layer cake with coconut cream cheese, dulce de leche and walnut brittle ice cream (my least favorite part of the dish), and one last opportunity to give advice to each other.
We had so much to talk about that even after our second glass of wine we weren't ready to leave but with people standing waiting for a table, it seemed rude to linger.
But even leaving was protracted as I chatted up Chef Lee about the crowd, talked J-Ward with my neighborhood record store owner, said hello to a guy I see at shows everywhere and heard about an irate restaurant owner who accused me of being an artist.
If he thought that was an insult, he was sadly mistaken.
Leaving with my autographed copy of "Maximum Flavor: Recipes That Will Change the Way You Cook" (unlikely since I cook as rarely as possible), Friend and I made plans for our next get-together away from the madding crowds and said good-night.
Quick, on to Lemaire to meet my Bostonian with the broad accent (one he thinks he doesn't have but does).
You'd think after not having seen someone for three years that there'd be some readjustment, but we just sort of picked up where we'd left off.
He's in town on business, but his business is an interesting one because he fabricates signs and exhibition pieces for museums, which quite naturally led to art talk.
It doesn't hurt that he's also a painter, so we were soon discussing the Turner exhibition we'd both seen at the National Gallery a few years ago.
While I only have memories of that exhibit, he took it to the next level, naming some of his hand-brewed beers after some of Turner's paintings, so "Death on a Pale Horse" becomes "Death on a Pale Ale."
He's clever that way. When he's not brewing beer, he's making his own potato vodka and showed me photographs of his home still.
I've always had a soft spot for guys who can make things and fix things.
Over a glass of 2011 Klee Pinot Noir, we caught up on each other's lives, meaning I heard about the younger women he's seeing and he heard about my recent dating escapades.
When we left there, it was to grab a burger for him at Pie before crossing the street to Balliceaux.
There were three girls at Pie's bar and while they were busy doing shots of tequila and drinking Blue Hawaiis, apparently they were eavesdropping, too.
Finally, the one on the end admitted as much and wanted to ask us a question.
"Are you two on your first date?" No, we explained, we were friends getting reacquainted after three years. Why had she thought that?
"You totally seem like friends who are finally starting to date each other," she said assuredly. Nope, try again.
Perhaps our dynamic was unique enough as to be inscrutable. In any case, we had places to be.
Given the years since we'd last seen each other, he didn't want to sit in the back room for fear the RVA Big Band would drown out our conversation, so we became the only occupants of the front bar, where Bobby K. was barkeeping.
It worked out well because we could talk about mezcal, Free Run Wine Merchants and chefs who can't pair wine because they don't drink it.
With the music coming from the back at a perfect volume to continue our chat, he told me about his trip to Copenhagen, the van Gogh exhibit he'd seen and the crooked tower that caused its builder to kill himself when he couldn't right it.
With, I might add, photographs to illustrate it all. So satisfying.
We watched as several members of the big band came up to the bar to get mind erasers during intermission. I didn't know this layered shot, but my friend did, leading to a comparison with Bobby about layered versus mixed.
Frankly, I wouldn't think you'd want your mind erased when playing music with sixteen other musicians, but what do I know?
While sipping my Espolon, local bass legend Matt Gold walked by and stopped to rehash the magnificent Richmond Symphony/Kate Lindsey show the other night.
After introducing the two, he moved on to the back and my friend showed me pictures of the hand-crafted bass he recently made, pictures he should probably have pulled out when Matt was there since he'd have a far greater appreciation for such a thing than I possibly could.
Someone who can make a bass, now that's an artist.
We finally decided to call it quits because he has an early-morning meeting, but it was a little bittersweet because for all we know, it'll be another three years before we meet up again.
Driving him back to his hotel, he said, "Don't take this wrong, but I admire your brain."
What else can a person do but grin like an idiot with a compliment like that, even from a non-date?
Dead tired or not, sometimes it's great to get poured on.
Weeks ago, a girlfriend had asked me to join her for the Ideas in Food dinner at Heritage.
Five courses and the chance to sit around, eat and drink for hours like we used to before her life turned upside down? Count me in.
Then I got home today to a phone message from a friend in Boston, saying he'd be in Richmond tonight and wanting to hang out.
A talented guy who befriended me three years while in town on business and has been known to e-mail from all over the world saying he's just read my blog or experienced something funny he wants to share with me? Yes, please.
Oh, if only I'd gotten a good night's sleep last night, but, alas, my body's infrequent caffeine intake and a mega-Coke a few hours before bedtime had left me unable to get to sleep until dawn.
It's nights like this you push through on pure adrenaline.
Heritage was just starting to fill up when we arrived to claim our corner booth and begin catching up on the good stuff.
With glasses of a Barbera blend and our Gemini motor mouths set on non-stop, we dove right into the juiciest stories we had as an array of food runners brought us course after course.
The Lexington-bred beef heart tartare was suggested to be finger food, so we wrapped it in rice crepes and talked about people with negative energy.
Ramen with pepperoni, octopus and wakame noodles tasted like pizza, making our Barbera the perfect pairing as I heard about her outing to Charlottesville.
A provolone tuille with caraway seeds covered brussels sprouts, thousand island dressing and a broth that brought the pastrami flavor home while I shared my recent winery visits and an unexpected Michael Shaps intersection.
Ginger and tamarind-crusted lamb shoulder sat atop yellow mustard gnocchi and lamb heart ragu, a deeply rich and earthy sauce that had my friend requesting that I not tell her what things were.
The final sweet course was chocolate layer cake with coconut cream cheese, dulce de leche and walnut brittle ice cream (my least favorite part of the dish), and one last opportunity to give advice to each other.
We had so much to talk about that even after our second glass of wine we weren't ready to leave but with people standing waiting for a table, it seemed rude to linger.
But even leaving was protracted as I chatted up Chef Lee about the crowd, talked J-Ward with my neighborhood record store owner, said hello to a guy I see at shows everywhere and heard about an irate restaurant owner who accused me of being an artist.
If he thought that was an insult, he was sadly mistaken.
Leaving with my autographed copy of "Maximum Flavor: Recipes That Will Change the Way You Cook" (unlikely since I cook as rarely as possible), Friend and I made plans for our next get-together away from the madding crowds and said good-night.
Quick, on to Lemaire to meet my Bostonian with the broad accent (one he thinks he doesn't have but does).
You'd think after not having seen someone for three years that there'd be some readjustment, but we just sort of picked up where we'd left off.
He's in town on business, but his business is an interesting one because he fabricates signs and exhibition pieces for museums, which quite naturally led to art talk.
It doesn't hurt that he's also a painter, so we were soon discussing the Turner exhibition we'd both seen at the National Gallery a few years ago.
While I only have memories of that exhibit, he took it to the next level, naming some of his hand-brewed beers after some of Turner's paintings, so "Death on a Pale Horse" becomes "Death on a Pale Ale."
He's clever that way. When he's not brewing beer, he's making his own potato vodka and showed me photographs of his home still.
I've always had a soft spot for guys who can make things and fix things.
Over a glass of 2011 Klee Pinot Noir, we caught up on each other's lives, meaning I heard about the younger women he's seeing and he heard about my recent dating escapades.
When we left there, it was to grab a burger for him at Pie before crossing the street to Balliceaux.
There were three girls at Pie's bar and while they were busy doing shots of tequila and drinking Blue Hawaiis, apparently they were eavesdropping, too.
Finally, the one on the end admitted as much and wanted to ask us a question.
"Are you two on your first date?" No, we explained, we were friends getting reacquainted after three years. Why had she thought that?
"You totally seem like friends who are finally starting to date each other," she said assuredly. Nope, try again.
Perhaps our dynamic was unique enough as to be inscrutable. In any case, we had places to be.
Given the years since we'd last seen each other, he didn't want to sit in the back room for fear the RVA Big Band would drown out our conversation, so we became the only occupants of the front bar, where Bobby K. was barkeeping.
It worked out well because we could talk about mezcal, Free Run Wine Merchants and chefs who can't pair wine because they don't drink it.
With the music coming from the back at a perfect volume to continue our chat, he told me about his trip to Copenhagen, the van Gogh exhibit he'd seen and the crooked tower that caused its builder to kill himself when he couldn't right it.
With, I might add, photographs to illustrate it all. So satisfying.
We watched as several members of the big band came up to the bar to get mind erasers during intermission. I didn't know this layered shot, but my friend did, leading to a comparison with Bobby about layered versus mixed.
Frankly, I wouldn't think you'd want your mind erased when playing music with sixteen other musicians, but what do I know?
While sipping my Espolon, local bass legend Matt Gold walked by and stopped to rehash the magnificent Richmond Symphony/Kate Lindsey show the other night.
After introducing the two, he moved on to the back and my friend showed me pictures of the hand-crafted bass he recently made, pictures he should probably have pulled out when Matt was there since he'd have a far greater appreciation for such a thing than I possibly could.
Someone who can make a bass, now that's an artist.
We finally decided to call it quits because he has an early-morning meeting, but it was a little bittersweet because for all we know, it'll be another three years before we meet up again.
Driving him back to his hotel, he said, "Don't take this wrong, but I admire your brain."
What else can a person do but grin like an idiot with a compliment like that, even from a non-date?
Dead tired or not, sometimes it's great to get poured on.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Pour, Pour Me
I got two invitations to spend my Sunday touring and sipping.
There was an invitation for a brewery tour from a stranger and an invitation for a winery and cidery tour from a non-stranger.
Well, as a non-beer drinker, that was a no-brainer.
We set out in late morning with a free-form goal of stopping where ever and whenever.
Because neither of us had heard of it, our first stop was Weston Farm Vineyard and Winery.
The owner used to be a building contractor, the wife coddled her angry bulldog while we tasted and the wines were, well, exactly what you'd expect.
'Nuff said.
Stop two was the grandiose Castle Hill Cider, a place that screamed big money and had a spacious tasting room.
After tasting through their five ciders, we cleared out when a large group of Boomers arrived to do the same.
Before beating feet for the back forty, though, we got a bottle of Celestial Merret, a warm Albermarle Baking Company baguette, a hunk of Caromont Farm chevre and my choice, Red Row, a raw cow's milk farmhouse cheese.
A sunny table overlooking the pond and hills was just the place to sip the fine-bubbled cider and watch the geese sunning themselves under the brilliant blue sky.
We decided the only thing that could have made it a better way to embrace the lazy was if there'd been music.
Once the bottle was empty, we pushed on, eager for more adventures.
After a winding road back into the trees, we arrived at Virginia Wineworks to taste winemaker Michael Shaps' wines.
Unlike the gift shop atmosphere of Weston or the gala event vibe at Castle Hill, this felt like a true tasting room, complete with barrels of wine stacked high and fruit flies buzzing around.
Here we also found a couple from D.C. and, as a native, I couldn't help but ask where they lived.
Near Union Station and New York Avenue, the trendy young man told me.
Oh, NOMA you mean?
He couldn't have been more surprised, not only that I knew his neighborhood but what it was called, making us fast friends.
When our taster was pouring the Michael Shaps Petit Verdot, he leaned over, smiling, and asked, "Are angels singing as they pour that for you?"
Oh, my yes, it was a lovely wine and his hyperbole only made it better.
With the time change, the sun was looking low in the sky by the time we left with a few bottles, but we had to pass First Colony Winery to get back to the road, so neither of us could think of a reason not to stop.
They had musicians playing on the patio, so the only people we found in the tasting room were the D.C. couple we'd just met.
Hell, if they were going to stalk us, then I was free to start grilling them and what better topic than music?
When he told me his favorite band was Dave Matthews, I had that same moment I always have when a twenty-something says a band like that.
Don't you care about the new music your generation is making?
Apparently not and he about lost it when I pooh-poohed Dave and said I'd seen him far too many Thursday nights at the Flood Zone back in '92 and '93 for five bucks to still care, much less be following him in the 21st century.
What he didn't seem to grasp was that he could be catching some terrific up and coming band (especially because he lives in a bigger city) right now for $5, one that'll be huge in twenty years.
But in between doing our First Colony tasting, I gave him another shot, asking for another favorite band.
The Rolling Stones, he gushed.
Shoot me now, the future is lost.
Giving him more crap about being a fan boy for the geriatric set, he laughed at himself and looked at me, asking, "Hey, how old are you?"
Old enough to have been taught by my mother that you never ask a woman her age or her weight.
Our tasting finished with the Shanando, a sweet blend of Vidal Blanc, Petit Manseng and Traminette, and providing my geek moment for the day.
Shanando was the original spelling of Shenandoah back in the 18th century, notable only because just the night before, I'd heard mezzo-soprano Kate Lindsey sing a goose bump-inducing version of "Shenandoah" at CenterStage.
What are the chances?
The owner was kind enough to offer us a stroll around the grounds after our tasting, providing an unexpected architectural treat.
Driving in, we'd noticed that the roof of the center building was being replaced.
What he told us was that it was being redone with a traditional thatch roof, the kind I associate with Britain, not Charlottesville, my curiosity was piqued.
He showed us the bundles of rushes and explained the process, a fascinating look into an age-old technique being practiced by a U.S. company since the early '90s.
It's going to be magnificent when they finish, although I only wish I could watch a bit of the process as it was happening.
This art nerd would consider it a practically perfect afternoon: a couple of chairs, a bottle of wine and a view of a thatched roof going up.
As it was, it was enough of lovely surprise to spend the last bit of daylight tramping around the winery grounds.
A brewery tour? Pshaw!
Not when there are hills for sipping cider, angels singing as wine is poured and lessons in roofing to be had.
Best of all, with a non-stranger.
There was an invitation for a brewery tour from a stranger and an invitation for a winery and cidery tour from a non-stranger.
Well, as a non-beer drinker, that was a no-brainer.
We set out in late morning with a free-form goal of stopping where ever and whenever.
Because neither of us had heard of it, our first stop was Weston Farm Vineyard and Winery.
The owner used to be a building contractor, the wife coddled her angry bulldog while we tasted and the wines were, well, exactly what you'd expect.
'Nuff said.
Stop two was the grandiose Castle Hill Cider, a place that screamed big money and had a spacious tasting room.
After tasting through their five ciders, we cleared out when a large group of Boomers arrived to do the same.
Before beating feet for the back forty, though, we got a bottle of Celestial Merret, a warm Albermarle Baking Company baguette, a hunk of Caromont Farm chevre and my choice, Red Row, a raw cow's milk farmhouse cheese.
A sunny table overlooking the pond and hills was just the place to sip the fine-bubbled cider and watch the geese sunning themselves under the brilliant blue sky.
We decided the only thing that could have made it a better way to embrace the lazy was if there'd been music.
Once the bottle was empty, we pushed on, eager for more adventures.
After a winding road back into the trees, we arrived at Virginia Wineworks to taste winemaker Michael Shaps' wines.
Unlike the gift shop atmosphere of Weston or the gala event vibe at Castle Hill, this felt like a true tasting room, complete with barrels of wine stacked high and fruit flies buzzing around.
Here we also found a couple from D.C. and, as a native, I couldn't help but ask where they lived.
Near Union Station and New York Avenue, the trendy young man told me.
Oh, NOMA you mean?
He couldn't have been more surprised, not only that I knew his neighborhood but what it was called, making us fast friends.
When our taster was pouring the Michael Shaps Petit Verdot, he leaned over, smiling, and asked, "Are angels singing as they pour that for you?"
Oh, my yes, it was a lovely wine and his hyperbole only made it better.
With the time change, the sun was looking low in the sky by the time we left with a few bottles, but we had to pass First Colony Winery to get back to the road, so neither of us could think of a reason not to stop.
They had musicians playing on the patio, so the only people we found in the tasting room were the D.C. couple we'd just met.
Hell, if they were going to stalk us, then I was free to start grilling them and what better topic than music?
When he told me his favorite band was Dave Matthews, I had that same moment I always have when a twenty-something says a band like that.
Don't you care about the new music your generation is making?
Apparently not and he about lost it when I pooh-poohed Dave and said I'd seen him far too many Thursday nights at the Flood Zone back in '92 and '93 for five bucks to still care, much less be following him in the 21st century.
What he didn't seem to grasp was that he could be catching some terrific up and coming band (especially because he lives in a bigger city) right now for $5, one that'll be huge in twenty years.
But in between doing our First Colony tasting, I gave him another shot, asking for another favorite band.
The Rolling Stones, he gushed.
Shoot me now, the future is lost.
Giving him more crap about being a fan boy for the geriatric set, he laughed at himself and looked at me, asking, "Hey, how old are you?"
Old enough to have been taught by my mother that you never ask a woman her age or her weight.
Our tasting finished with the Shanando, a sweet blend of Vidal Blanc, Petit Manseng and Traminette, and providing my geek moment for the day.
Shanando was the original spelling of Shenandoah back in the 18th century, notable only because just the night before, I'd heard mezzo-soprano Kate Lindsey sing a goose bump-inducing version of "Shenandoah" at CenterStage.
What are the chances?
The owner was kind enough to offer us a stroll around the grounds after our tasting, providing an unexpected architectural treat.
Driving in, we'd noticed that the roof of the center building was being replaced.
What he told us was that it was being redone with a traditional thatch roof, the kind I associate with Britain, not Charlottesville, my curiosity was piqued.
He showed us the bundles of rushes and explained the process, a fascinating look into an age-old technique being practiced by a U.S. company since the early '90s.
It's going to be magnificent when they finish, although I only wish I could watch a bit of the process as it was happening.
This art nerd would consider it a practically perfect afternoon: a couple of chairs, a bottle of wine and a view of a thatched roof going up.
As it was, it was enough of lovely surprise to spend the last bit of daylight tramping around the winery grounds.
A brewery tour? Pshaw!
Not when there are hills for sipping cider, angels singing as wine is poured and lessons in roofing to be had.
Best of all, with a non-stranger.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
An Auvergne Kind of Evening
So now I know I can sub out for a 92-year old woman.
Holmes and Beloved had an extra ticket for the symphony because his Mom had plans and couldn't use it.
Enter moi, who, when asked if she wanted to be taken to the symphony, responded with a resounding yes.
The invitation came with pick-up service and I even got to choose the pre-theater dinner location: Aziza's.
Most of the tables were taken or reserved, but we preferred sitting at the bar anyway, reservations be damned.
Holmes chose a South African sauvignon blanc and we started with a cheese plate of buttery and grassy-tasting Point Reyes Toma and Fourme d'Ambert, a creamy bleu from Auvergne.
Here's where I get nerdy. Auvergne was a recurring theme tonight, although I didn't know it at this point.
The cheeses came with the loveliest toasted fruit and nut bread, a welcome change to the ubiquitous baguette slices.
Because my couple date had never had gnudi, we got the ricotta and spinach version in a decadent sage butter so they could experience pasta-less ravioli.
Overhead, the music was fine with songs by Al Green and Gladys Knight and the Pips audible when the dining room wasn't too lively.
To compensate for the absent pasta, we also had some of the real thing, garganelli with broccoli rabe and hot Italian sausage in a garlic white wine sauce, a dish that led to a discussion of the wonders of really good Italian sausage.
A guy who'd been eating by himself came over while we were eating it and said he'd heard us say we were going to the symphony.
He wanted to tell us he'd been recently and been overwhelmed by Verdi's breathtaking crescendos, describing his rapture to strangers. Then he remembered himself and wished us a good evening.
For our last savory course we got octopus (from Spain, according to the menu) with sauteed red Russian kale, chickpeas, mixed peppers and walnuts, an appetizer so generously-sized it could have been an entree for one.
And the R & B played on.
We were quickly running out of time to have dessert and get to CenterStage, but what's the point in going to Aziza's and not getting cream puffs?
Our fate was sealed with two puffs split three ways as we pondered cream puffs versus eclairs and ate every crumb of both.
Holmes even took a swipe of some leftover cream on Beloved's plate before it was whisked away.
Don't judge until you, too, have been faced with these fat beauties even after you've had enough food to last you the weekend and still can't resist.
And then it was back up the hill to hear a local celebrity sing her heart out.
Former Chesterfield County resident Kate Lindsey, now a rising mezzo-soprano who sings with the Metropolitan Opera and Los Angeles opera, was in the house.
Booya and all that.
The only sour note was that our seats were directly in front of three overly-perfumed women with Paula Deen-like southern accents (Deltaville managed to be four syllables: del-ta-vee-ul) and an incessant need to talk.
After hearing the prelude to "Carmen," Kate came out in a stunning copper-colored evening gown and began the process of reminding Richmonders how proud they were that she'd come from their midst.
"Well, Kate, welcome home!" conductor Steven Smith greeted her.
"Hey, y'all," she called out to the adoring crowd. When he asked her for memories, she recalled family trips into the city for shows and eating.
"We used to come downtown and eat at the Robin Inn. Is it still there?" she asked to much delight.
She went on to do a major shout-out to symphony librarian (also bass player for Goldrush and the symphony) Matt Gold, citing his hard work in tracking down all the music for tonight's program.
"You have to search and search for all this stuff," she said. "And there's 15 different versions of each one. Thank you, Matt, for making it happen."
Looking over at Matt behind his bass, his handsome face was grinning even wider than usual.
She also graciously thanked all her music and drama teachers dating back to elementary school and, of course, her parents, sitting somewhere down front.
Her first piece was selections from Canteloube's "Chants d'Auvergne," an unexpected thread from our cheese plate earlier.
Make fun of me all you want, but how often do you suppose I'm served a cheese and folk music selections from the same part of central France in one evening?
And, yes, I'm aware of what it says about me that I even noticed such a thing.
Kate was a bit stiff for the first couple of songs, arms hanging at her side like slabs of meat on a hook, but by the third song, she began slipping into character and her demonstrative hand gestures added a great deal to her interpretation of the songs.
She left for the Debussy that ended the first half and after intermission, Kate came out to stay, naturally in another knockout of a dress.
Doing arias from a variety of composers, she played Cinderella, Ophelia and a duchess who far preferred the array of men in the military to the one man who'd been chosen for her to marry. She played that role to the hilt, vamping and flirting with the imaginary men.
But she got her biggest reaction when she came out with a bottle of champagne and a glass for Offenbach's "Ah, quel diner" from "La Perichole," playing it for all kinds of laughs.
Ah, what a dinner I just ate!
And what an extraordinary wine!
I drank so much, so very much
I believe that now
I'm a little tipsy. But hush!
Should not we say, shh!
Of course, she was singing it in French, complete with hiccups, stagger and more pouring and drinking and the audience ate it up.
When the song ended, she meandered off stage with the champagne glass waving high over her head.
The performance closed with a Spanish-influenced Ravel piece that did not involved the lovely Kate.
It seemed an unlikely way to end a show with our favorite local opera singer.
So out she came and held up a finger to indicate she had a surprise.
Launching into "Shenandoah," the loudest mouth behind us announced, "Oh, god, now I'm going to cry!" but fortunately that was the last we heard of her.
Kate's rendition of the American folk song was sublime, the added meaning of a song about leaving Virginia making it all the more poignant.
I don't know Kate Lindsey from Adam, but hearing her sing that song so beautifully, so achingly, was truly a high point in music-going for me.
A transcendent moment courtesy of our very own Richmond symphony and a local girl.
Thanks, Mrs. Holmes' Mom. I owe you big time.
What a dinner! What an evening! And I'm not even tipsy.
Holmes and Beloved had an extra ticket for the symphony because his Mom had plans and couldn't use it.
Enter moi, who, when asked if she wanted to be taken to the symphony, responded with a resounding yes.
The invitation came with pick-up service and I even got to choose the pre-theater dinner location: Aziza's.
Most of the tables were taken or reserved, but we preferred sitting at the bar anyway, reservations be damned.
Holmes chose a South African sauvignon blanc and we started with a cheese plate of buttery and grassy-tasting Point Reyes Toma and Fourme d'Ambert, a creamy bleu from Auvergne.
Here's where I get nerdy. Auvergne was a recurring theme tonight, although I didn't know it at this point.
The cheeses came with the loveliest toasted fruit and nut bread, a welcome change to the ubiquitous baguette slices.
Because my couple date had never had gnudi, we got the ricotta and spinach version in a decadent sage butter so they could experience pasta-less ravioli.
Overhead, the music was fine with songs by Al Green and Gladys Knight and the Pips audible when the dining room wasn't too lively.
To compensate for the absent pasta, we also had some of the real thing, garganelli with broccoli rabe and hot Italian sausage in a garlic white wine sauce, a dish that led to a discussion of the wonders of really good Italian sausage.
A guy who'd been eating by himself came over while we were eating it and said he'd heard us say we were going to the symphony.
He wanted to tell us he'd been recently and been overwhelmed by Verdi's breathtaking crescendos, describing his rapture to strangers. Then he remembered himself and wished us a good evening.
For our last savory course we got octopus (from Spain, according to the menu) with sauteed red Russian kale, chickpeas, mixed peppers and walnuts, an appetizer so generously-sized it could have been an entree for one.
And the R & B played on.
We were quickly running out of time to have dessert and get to CenterStage, but what's the point in going to Aziza's and not getting cream puffs?
Our fate was sealed with two puffs split three ways as we pondered cream puffs versus eclairs and ate every crumb of both.
Holmes even took a swipe of some leftover cream on Beloved's plate before it was whisked away.
Don't judge until you, too, have been faced with these fat beauties even after you've had enough food to last you the weekend and still can't resist.
And then it was back up the hill to hear a local celebrity sing her heart out.
Former Chesterfield County resident Kate Lindsey, now a rising mezzo-soprano who sings with the Metropolitan Opera and Los Angeles opera, was in the house.
Booya and all that.
The only sour note was that our seats were directly in front of three overly-perfumed women with Paula Deen-like southern accents (Deltaville managed to be four syllables: del-ta-vee-ul) and an incessant need to talk.
After hearing the prelude to "Carmen," Kate came out in a stunning copper-colored evening gown and began the process of reminding Richmonders how proud they were that she'd come from their midst.
"Well, Kate, welcome home!" conductor Steven Smith greeted her.
"Hey, y'all," she called out to the adoring crowd. When he asked her for memories, she recalled family trips into the city for shows and eating.
"We used to come downtown and eat at the Robin Inn. Is it still there?" she asked to much delight.
She went on to do a major shout-out to symphony librarian (also bass player for Goldrush and the symphony) Matt Gold, citing his hard work in tracking down all the music for tonight's program.
"You have to search and search for all this stuff," she said. "And there's 15 different versions of each one. Thank you, Matt, for making it happen."
Looking over at Matt behind his bass, his handsome face was grinning even wider than usual.
She also graciously thanked all her music and drama teachers dating back to elementary school and, of course, her parents, sitting somewhere down front.
Her first piece was selections from Canteloube's "Chants d'Auvergne," an unexpected thread from our cheese plate earlier.
Make fun of me all you want, but how often do you suppose I'm served a cheese and folk music selections from the same part of central France in one evening?
And, yes, I'm aware of what it says about me that I even noticed such a thing.
Kate was a bit stiff for the first couple of songs, arms hanging at her side like slabs of meat on a hook, but by the third song, she began slipping into character and her demonstrative hand gestures added a great deal to her interpretation of the songs.
She left for the Debussy that ended the first half and after intermission, Kate came out to stay, naturally in another knockout of a dress.
Doing arias from a variety of composers, she played Cinderella, Ophelia and a duchess who far preferred the array of men in the military to the one man who'd been chosen for her to marry. She played that role to the hilt, vamping and flirting with the imaginary men.
But she got her biggest reaction when she came out with a bottle of champagne and a glass for Offenbach's "Ah, quel diner" from "La Perichole," playing it for all kinds of laughs.
Ah, what a dinner I just ate!
And what an extraordinary wine!
I drank so much, so very much
I believe that now
I'm a little tipsy. But hush!
Should not we say, shh!
Of course, she was singing it in French, complete with hiccups, stagger and more pouring and drinking and the audience ate it up.
When the song ended, she meandered off stage with the champagne glass waving high over her head.
The performance closed with a Spanish-influenced Ravel piece that did not involved the lovely Kate.
It seemed an unlikely way to end a show with our favorite local opera singer.
So out she came and held up a finger to indicate she had a surprise.
Launching into "Shenandoah," the loudest mouth behind us announced, "Oh, god, now I'm going to cry!" but fortunately that was the last we heard of her.
Kate's rendition of the American folk song was sublime, the added meaning of a song about leaving Virginia making it all the more poignant.
I don't know Kate Lindsey from Adam, but hearing her sing that song so beautifully, so achingly, was truly a high point in music-going for me.
A transcendent moment courtesy of our very own Richmond symphony and a local girl.
Thanks, Mrs. Holmes' Mom. I owe you big time.
What a dinner! What an evening! And I'm not even tipsy.
All Lit Up
Location, location, location.
Tonight's InLight had what might have been the best location for this yearly evening of light-based art installations yet - the canal walk.
Yes, it was all-of-a-sudden cold and yes, crossing 14th Street was a bear, but the beauty of artists working off of water and bridges and the flood wall more than made up for it.
Hands down favorite: Ross Fish's "A Breath of Fresh Air," which required people to touch others (you know, strangers) and touch the metal cone in the center and one of the six pools of water to make music.
As someone noted, "That music is the soundtrack of the evening."
I stopped to meet Ross and introduce myself and he said he was thrilled beyond words with the outcome of his installation.
Translation: his master plan was working with strangers touching strangers and music the result, truly a wondrous experience.
There was so much to see: Amie Oliver's "Ladders" strung across the flood wall, the old school projections of Sonne, Ashley and Cohn telling stories of blue herons and Shockoe Bottom, the bridge's roof covered in ever-shifting light.
Call me a discophile, but I loved the lighted dance pavilion where people danced from behind and their images transmitted to the sparkly screen in front.
Best use of the site went to the Water Nymphs' Circus where images of dancers appeared on the canal, but only if you were on the south side.
The watery images of dancers were a thing of beauty (although a girl walked by and screamed, "I thought it was a dead body in the water!"), positively mesmerizing as they morphed in the water.
Despite the late hour, there were scads of people out and about and I'm willing to bet many of them were on the canal walk for the first time.
Thanks, 1708 Gallery. Your annual gift to the city was, as usual, the most illuminating night in November.
Tonight's InLight had what might have been the best location for this yearly evening of light-based art installations yet - the canal walk.
Yes, it was all-of-a-sudden cold and yes, crossing 14th Street was a bear, but the beauty of artists working off of water and bridges and the flood wall more than made up for it.
Hands down favorite: Ross Fish's "A Breath of Fresh Air," which required people to touch others (you know, strangers) and touch the metal cone in the center and one of the six pools of water to make music.
As someone noted, "That music is the soundtrack of the evening."
I stopped to meet Ross and introduce myself and he said he was thrilled beyond words with the outcome of his installation.
Translation: his master plan was working with strangers touching strangers and music the result, truly a wondrous experience.
There was so much to see: Amie Oliver's "Ladders" strung across the flood wall, the old school projections of Sonne, Ashley and Cohn telling stories of blue herons and Shockoe Bottom, the bridge's roof covered in ever-shifting light.
Call me a discophile, but I loved the lighted dance pavilion where people danced from behind and their images transmitted to the sparkly screen in front.
Best use of the site went to the Water Nymphs' Circus where images of dancers appeared on the canal, but only if you were on the south side.
The watery images of dancers were a thing of beauty (although a girl walked by and screamed, "I thought it was a dead body in the water!"), positively mesmerizing as they morphed in the water.
Despite the late hour, there were scads of people out and about and I'm willing to bet many of them were on the canal walk for the first time.
Thanks, 1708 Gallery. Your annual gift to the city was, as usual, the most illuminating night in November.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Love Wrought These Miracles
I have an ongoing theme this week.
Get lost going to a play in the hinterlands and then sit back and watch love unfold.
A small price to pay for such pleasures.
Instead of south like last night, tonight a friend and I headed west, an even more challenging direction for its homogeneity, both in architecture and street-naming conventions.
After multiple wrong turns and dead ends, at long last we arrived at Steward School's theater for Richmond Shakespeare/Henley Street's must-see production of "The Taming of the Shrew."
Yes, I know there are people who dismiss this play as sexist, male domination over female, blah, blah, but as director Jan Powell pointed out in her notes, it can also be seen as a "deft depiction of how hard it is to make love work in the real world."
Amen, sister.
In a clever staging, it was set in 1930s Hollywood, with ditzy starlets, gangster types and seamed stockings, as a movie cast attempts to shoot TToTS in two hours.
Chalkboards are clapped, lines are forgotten, sets malfunction, and the enormous camera onstage captured it all.
The show began with a film of "coming attractions" showing on the enormous screen behind the stage set to classic newsreel music.
For the feature presentation, of course, it said, "Screenplay by William Shakespeare."
As a bonus, during set changes between scenes, one of the actors would go to the '30s-style microphone and croon a standard.
Blue Moon, I Get a Kick Out of You, Stormy Weather and my personal favorite, The Way You Look Tonight.
Considering it was preview night, the cast was moving seamlessly between movie actors waiting on set and Shakespeare's characters.
I burn, I pine, I perish.
In an interesting bit of casting, Petruchio's servant Grumio was played by a woman, Stacie Reardon Hall, and while such a thing would never have been allowed in Shakespeare's time, it totally worked here.
I'll attend her here and woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Liz Blake White was all fire as Kate, the woman who finally realizes that Petruchio is that rarest of things, a genuine partner, and accepts him on his terms, to the surprise of those who thought her shrewish.
McLean Jesse was her adorable, docile sister, all squeaky voice and delightfully superficial attitude which just made all the men want her more.
For I am rough and woo not like a babe.
When Mark Hackman as Petruchio shows up for their wedding, he is brilliantly and inappropriately dressed in a blue feather boa, pink wings, sunglasses, a wife beater and boots that don't match. With a fake snake wrapped around his arm.
Every girl's dream groom.
During intermission, the couple next to us got up and he returned first but patiently waited in the aisle for her. Climbing back over our legs, he said he'd done that to save us the trouble of being climbed over twice. A very sweet gesture, we said.
"He is sweet. I think I'll keep him," his wife said. I asked how long she'd been keeping him.
43 years, she said. Now that's a man who's been wooing with spirit well.
I'll curb her mad and headstrong humor.
The second act had Petruchio withholding food and sleep to bend Kate to his will and as a woman who thrives on those two things, I can only imagine how well this tactic would work on me.
Kindness in woman, not their beauteous looks, shall win my love.
The part of the story that dealt with the Hollywood actors had its best moments when the leads, a former happy couple now estranged, can barely spit out their lines at each other civilly.
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich.
After clamorous kissing (a fabulous phrase for snogging) during the wedding, my favorite scene involves the three new husbands betting each other who has the most obedient wife.
Call me old school, but I find something very romantic abut how Kate shows her love by responding when her husband calls for her while the other wives put their husbands off.
Husband, let's follow to see the end of this ado
First kiss me, Kate and then we will
What, in the midst of the street?
You know what?
Yes, in the midst of the street or in the midst of a party or a restaurant or in the midst of anywhere he wants to kiss you.
Thereby hangs a tale...and a lesson in love.
It's enough to make you forget you're lost somewhere out in the bowels of the west end.
Get lost going to a play in the hinterlands and then sit back and watch love unfold.
A small price to pay for such pleasures.
Instead of south like last night, tonight a friend and I headed west, an even more challenging direction for its homogeneity, both in architecture and street-naming conventions.
After multiple wrong turns and dead ends, at long last we arrived at Steward School's theater for Richmond Shakespeare/Henley Street's must-see production of "The Taming of the Shrew."
Yes, I know there are people who dismiss this play as sexist, male domination over female, blah, blah, but as director Jan Powell pointed out in her notes, it can also be seen as a "deft depiction of how hard it is to make love work in the real world."
Amen, sister.
In a clever staging, it was set in 1930s Hollywood, with ditzy starlets, gangster types and seamed stockings, as a movie cast attempts to shoot TToTS in two hours.
Chalkboards are clapped, lines are forgotten, sets malfunction, and the enormous camera onstage captured it all.
The show began with a film of "coming attractions" showing on the enormous screen behind the stage set to classic newsreel music.
For the feature presentation, of course, it said, "Screenplay by William Shakespeare."
As a bonus, during set changes between scenes, one of the actors would go to the '30s-style microphone and croon a standard.
Blue Moon, I Get a Kick Out of You, Stormy Weather and my personal favorite, The Way You Look Tonight.
Considering it was preview night, the cast was moving seamlessly between movie actors waiting on set and Shakespeare's characters.
I burn, I pine, I perish.
In an interesting bit of casting, Petruchio's servant Grumio was played by a woman, Stacie Reardon Hall, and while such a thing would never have been allowed in Shakespeare's time, it totally worked here.
I'll attend her here and woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Liz Blake White was all fire as Kate, the woman who finally realizes that Petruchio is that rarest of things, a genuine partner, and accepts him on his terms, to the surprise of those who thought her shrewish.
McLean Jesse was her adorable, docile sister, all squeaky voice and delightfully superficial attitude which just made all the men want her more.
For I am rough and woo not like a babe.
When Mark Hackman as Petruchio shows up for their wedding, he is brilliantly and inappropriately dressed in a blue feather boa, pink wings, sunglasses, a wife beater and boots that don't match. With a fake snake wrapped around his arm.
Every girl's dream groom.
During intermission, the couple next to us got up and he returned first but patiently waited in the aisle for her. Climbing back over our legs, he said he'd done that to save us the trouble of being climbed over twice. A very sweet gesture, we said.
"He is sweet. I think I'll keep him," his wife said. I asked how long she'd been keeping him.
43 years, she said. Now that's a man who's been wooing with spirit well.
I'll curb her mad and headstrong humor.
The second act had Petruchio withholding food and sleep to bend Kate to his will and as a woman who thrives on those two things, I can only imagine how well this tactic would work on me.
Kindness in woman, not their beauteous looks, shall win my love.
The part of the story that dealt with the Hollywood actors had its best moments when the leads, a former happy couple now estranged, can barely spit out their lines at each other civilly.
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich.
After clamorous kissing (a fabulous phrase for snogging) during the wedding, my favorite scene involves the three new husbands betting each other who has the most obedient wife.
Call me old school, but I find something very romantic abut how Kate shows her love by responding when her husband calls for her while the other wives put their husbands off.
Husband, let's follow to see the end of this ado
First kiss me, Kate and then we will
What, in the midst of the street?
You know what?
Yes, in the midst of the street or in the midst of a party or a restaurant or in the midst of anywhere he wants to kiss you.
Thereby hangs a tale...and a lesson in love.
It's enough to make you forget you're lost somewhere out in the bowels of the west end.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
As We Stumble Along
My plans were to go to the Quaker meeting house for music. No, seriously.
But then a review and a play dropped in my lap and my evening took a southward turn.
My friend Moira shared the meal with me before returning to work for a photography assignment while I felt my way through the dark to Swift Creek Mill theater, a place I'd never been.
I'm directionally-challenged in broad daylight, so at night, I'm at a complete loss when looking for someplace new to me.
Let's just say I allowed 45 minutes to get someplace that was 20.5 miles away - and 17 of the miles were highway so I was going 60 miles per hour.
In my defense, I got stopped for a train (coming and going, now what are the chances of that?), had to stop and ask for directions twice (once at a 7-11 where a young guy who'd just bought a 40 ounce leered and asked if he could drive me there) and made it to the theater with five minutes before curtain.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I joined a couple of guys on the elevator up to the theater, listening to them rave that the elevator was the highlight of the renovation.
Explaining that it was my first time there, one of the men extended his hand and introduced himself as the president of the Mill.
I found out during the introduction of the show that the theater's grand re-opening had been just last weekend.
"Make sure that while you're here tonight you pee," the director (I think) told us to great laughter. "You can actually turn around now. And the new elevator is an uplifting ride."
How about that? Brand new to SCM theater and I'd already managed to experience its strengths.
"Act like normal people tonight so the actors can find out where the laughs are so we'll be ready for the paying customers tomorrow night," he added.
All I could do was try.
With that, the dress rehearsal began with a dark stage and a voice intoning, "I hate theater."
The Man in the Chair talking was a key character who narrated the play, set in 1928, deconstructing its story and characters for us throughout the show.
First we were instructed to listen to the overture ("a musical appetizer, a pu pu platter of tunes") and then he explained a few things.
"The Drowsy Chaperone" was his favorite musical and he liked to play the two-record set when he was feeling a non-specific sadness.
So he begins playing the record and the story comes to life in his living room. It's everything a musical-hater hates about musicals. It also won a Tony award and played on Broadway for a year and a half.
The drowsy chaperon of the title was a hilarious character, a seasoned woman who liked to drink despite it being set during Prohibition and the one responsible for ensuring that the bride did not see the groom before the wedding.
When asked if it wasn't a bit early in the day to be drinking, she responds, "I don't understand the question." When asked if she'd ever been married, she says, "No, I drink for pleasure."
Her big showstopper of a number is a rousing anthem about alcoholism.
The groom and best man have a tap dancing scene where they are joined by the narrator, also tapping, and eventually the older butler, who does full on turns and almost steals the scene.
It's been a while since I've seen any tap dancing.
Even more impressive was the scene where the bride ("We spooned briefly, then he proposed") explains that she's willing to give up her show biz career to be married to the man of her dreams.
During the course of the song "Show Off," she sings, "I don't wanna change keys no more, I don't wanna striptease no more," while doing cartwheels, handstands and splits. Oh, yes, and Rockette kicks.
Truly impressive.
Evan Nasteff, as one of two gangsters disguised as pastry chefs, had some of the cleverest wordplay of the evening, not to mention their ability to flip trays of pastries mid-dance step. Then there was their masterful jazz hands as they danced in flowered aprons over plaid knickers.
The bride's Feldzieg Follies producer is determined to stop the wedding so he won't lose his star, so he begins plotting.
"I need someone with loose morals," he muses. "I need, what do you call it? A European!"
Enter Adolpho, played by the always brilliant Matt Shofner, this time in a black pompadour wig with a white streak, a mustache and as full of himself as any Latin lover.
His broad comedy and thick accent had the audience in stitches every time he was on stage.
During intermission, I took my second trip to those fabulous new bathrooms, where I heard several women say they'd seen the play before, including one who saw it on Broadway.
All of them agreed that the play was great entertainment and the notion of a "musical within a comedy" was awfully amusing.
When the show resumed, our narrator asked if we'd enjoyed intermission because he hadn't, didn't like the interruption of reality.
"Whenever a character is in crisis, they sing and dance. That's musical theater!" he said, cheered up that the second act was coming.
Like a good Shakespeare play, eventually all the romantic problems are sorted out and all of a sudden everyone is in love with someone and wanting to marry them.
One of the most hilarious moments comes when the chaperone announces that she and Adolpho are in love. Smiling and putting his hands over her ears, he mouths, "Help me!"
But he doesn't really want help and before long there are four marriages in the offing, with the hostess and her butler singing "Love is Always Lovely in the End," she citing lovers as examples and him reminding her they all ended badly.
"We'll all get married in a clump, like they do in Utah!" they decide.
The nuptials are done on a plane which also flies up (and kind of away), a nice effect, to symbolize happiness and honeymoons in Rio to come. And, musically, the end of non-specific sadness.
Just goes to show you where alcohol and spooning can lead.
But then a review and a play dropped in my lap and my evening took a southward turn.
My friend Moira shared the meal with me before returning to work for a photography assignment while I felt my way through the dark to Swift Creek Mill theater, a place I'd never been.
I'm directionally-challenged in broad daylight, so at night, I'm at a complete loss when looking for someplace new to me.
Let's just say I allowed 45 minutes to get someplace that was 20.5 miles away - and 17 of the miles were highway so I was going 60 miles per hour.
In my defense, I got stopped for a train (coming and going, now what are the chances of that?), had to stop and ask for directions twice (once at a 7-11 where a young guy who'd just bought a 40 ounce leered and asked if he could drive me there) and made it to the theater with five minutes before curtain.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I joined a couple of guys on the elevator up to the theater, listening to them rave that the elevator was the highlight of the renovation.
Explaining that it was my first time there, one of the men extended his hand and introduced himself as the president of the Mill.
I found out during the introduction of the show that the theater's grand re-opening had been just last weekend.
"Make sure that while you're here tonight you pee," the director (I think) told us to great laughter. "You can actually turn around now. And the new elevator is an uplifting ride."
How about that? Brand new to SCM theater and I'd already managed to experience its strengths.
"Act like normal people tonight so the actors can find out where the laughs are so we'll be ready for the paying customers tomorrow night," he added.
All I could do was try.
With that, the dress rehearsal began with a dark stage and a voice intoning, "I hate theater."
The Man in the Chair talking was a key character who narrated the play, set in 1928, deconstructing its story and characters for us throughout the show.
First we were instructed to listen to the overture ("a musical appetizer, a pu pu platter of tunes") and then he explained a few things.
"The Drowsy Chaperone" was his favorite musical and he liked to play the two-record set when he was feeling a non-specific sadness.
So he begins playing the record and the story comes to life in his living room. It's everything a musical-hater hates about musicals. It also won a Tony award and played on Broadway for a year and a half.
The drowsy chaperon of the title was a hilarious character, a seasoned woman who liked to drink despite it being set during Prohibition and the one responsible for ensuring that the bride did not see the groom before the wedding.
When asked if it wasn't a bit early in the day to be drinking, she responds, "I don't understand the question." When asked if she'd ever been married, she says, "No, I drink for pleasure."
Her big showstopper of a number is a rousing anthem about alcoholism.
The groom and best man have a tap dancing scene where they are joined by the narrator, also tapping, and eventually the older butler, who does full on turns and almost steals the scene.
It's been a while since I've seen any tap dancing.
Even more impressive was the scene where the bride ("We spooned briefly, then he proposed") explains that she's willing to give up her show biz career to be married to the man of her dreams.
During the course of the song "Show Off," she sings, "I don't wanna change keys no more, I don't wanna striptease no more," while doing cartwheels, handstands and splits. Oh, yes, and Rockette kicks.
Truly impressive.
Evan Nasteff, as one of two gangsters disguised as pastry chefs, had some of the cleverest wordplay of the evening, not to mention their ability to flip trays of pastries mid-dance step. Then there was their masterful jazz hands as they danced in flowered aprons over plaid knickers.
The bride's Feldzieg Follies producer is determined to stop the wedding so he won't lose his star, so he begins plotting.
"I need someone with loose morals," he muses. "I need, what do you call it? A European!"
Enter Adolpho, played by the always brilliant Matt Shofner, this time in a black pompadour wig with a white streak, a mustache and as full of himself as any Latin lover.
His broad comedy and thick accent had the audience in stitches every time he was on stage.
During intermission, I took my second trip to those fabulous new bathrooms, where I heard several women say they'd seen the play before, including one who saw it on Broadway.
All of them agreed that the play was great entertainment and the notion of a "musical within a comedy" was awfully amusing.
When the show resumed, our narrator asked if we'd enjoyed intermission because he hadn't, didn't like the interruption of reality.
"Whenever a character is in crisis, they sing and dance. That's musical theater!" he said, cheered up that the second act was coming.
Like a good Shakespeare play, eventually all the romantic problems are sorted out and all of a sudden everyone is in love with someone and wanting to marry them.
One of the most hilarious moments comes when the chaperone announces that she and Adolpho are in love. Smiling and putting his hands over her ears, he mouths, "Help me!"
But he doesn't really want help and before long there are four marriages in the offing, with the hostess and her butler singing "Love is Always Lovely in the End," she citing lovers as examples and him reminding her they all ended badly.
"We'll all get married in a clump, like they do in Utah!" they decide.
The nuptials are done on a plane which also flies up (and kind of away), a nice effect, to symbolize happiness and honeymoons in Rio to come. And, musically, the end of non-specific sadness.
Just goes to show you where alcohol and spooning can lead.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Duke's and Duck
Not that Jackson Ward isn't always ultra-cool, but tonight there was a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright in the 'hood.
Oh, you know, it's just how we do around here.
David Lindsay-Abaire, author of "Good People," now playing at Cadence Theater Company, was talking with theater critic David Timberline at the November Theater.
An evening of the Davids and for free, I might add.
I arrived early to get an aisle seat, only to hear a local actress squeal my name. "I knew it was you by the tights!" she said, giving me a hug.
When the critic asked the playwright how he liked Richmond (it was his first visit), he was quick to respond. "It's cold!"
Amen, buddy, I'm freezing in these cute tights over here.
The conversation between the two Davids began with DLA talking about his south Boston working class roots, the same as the characters in "Good People."
When asked how much of the play was autobiographical, he answered, "None of it and all of it!" and admitted it took him years to get up the nerve to write about his hometown.
Explaining that he'd gotten a scholarship to a toney suburban private school when he was in 7th grade, he said he'd found the kids there living in a completely different world, one where they went to the Bahamas or skiing over winter break and he watched TV for two weeks.
That sense of being an alien in a foreign world has been the underpinning of his work ever since. "All my plays are about me, about people finding themselves in an upside down world."
When asked what winning the Pulitzer Prize had done for him, he downplayed it, saying, "It's more about people's perceptions of me. And I get invited to nicer parties. But it adds a little pressure, too."
Because he's also done screenplays ("Shrek"), he was asked which he prefers doing. "Nothing is more satisfying than writing a straight play because it's all about me, alone. With film, it's never about me. And writing a musical is like trying to change a tire while it's rolling downhill."
He should know since he wrote "Shrek, the Musical," which Virginia Rep is producing this season.
He got the biggest applause when he said that when he starts writing a play, he thinks about whether his protagonist needs to be male or not and if not, always make her female. "I always write for a woman."
Thank god for men like that.
At the end of the talk, critic David gave author David a Ukrop's bag with Duke's mayonnaise, a Duke's apron and, what else, a Duke's cookbook because nothing says Richmond like our favorite fatty, local condiment.
I kid.
Many in the audience were going next door to see "Good People" after the talk, but since I'd already seen it, I changed neighborhoods to Carytown to meet up with Pru at Amour.
There were no Pulitzer prize winners to be found, just a lot of French-speaking people because apparently it was the night where they all gather to do that.
My first order of business was a glass of Laurent Dauphin Champagne because it's election day and despite being the 281st voter in my precinct this morning, I was still worried that I'd wake up tomorrow morning with my hard-eraned reproductive rights in shambles.
So technically, I was drinking for my girl parts.
Pru arrived and joined me at a bar table for bubbles, all seats at the bar taken by would-be frogs.
She was coming directly from a date, but began with a story about having recently been to Max's on Broad with another date.
I got to hear the gory details of non-existent lighting, multiple incorrect bottles of wine brought and tepid French onion soup as pale as a bev nap instead of nicely browned.
Her story made me hungry so I ordered a bowl of French onion soup with luscious Comte, a complete contrast to the soup she'd choked down.
Listening to all the French being spoken around us led to Pru saying how challenging it would be to hear a Frenchman teaching math, "You know, up there talking about integers and whatnot."
It's a good night when "integers" are part of the punch line.
Next we had flatiron steak gougeres with caramelized onions in Roquefort puff pastry, a dish I've savored before but which Pru had yet to experience.
As I told her, that demonstrates that she's not been out for enough happy hours recently since they've been on Amour's new happy hour menu for a few weeks now.
We followed that with duck macaroni and cheese, an elegant take on classic comfort food whose richness soon had her moaning, "I feel indulged."
Not to point out the obvious, but what woman doesn't want to feel indulged in any way possible?
Once our server saw us pause, he came over to see where we stood. "I've had an elegant sufficiency," Pru proclaimed and the dish was whisked away.
When I told her about running into an ex-date on my date last night, she trumped me by saying she'd once gone into a bar only to find there were five men at the bar whom she'd dated.
Five!
I'd call that an inelegant sufficiency of men...and a bar I'd steer clear of from then on.
Especially now that our girl parts are safe for another four years.
Oh, you know, it's just how we do around here.
David Lindsay-Abaire, author of "Good People," now playing at Cadence Theater Company, was talking with theater critic David Timberline at the November Theater.
An evening of the Davids and for free, I might add.
I arrived early to get an aisle seat, only to hear a local actress squeal my name. "I knew it was you by the tights!" she said, giving me a hug.
When the critic asked the playwright how he liked Richmond (it was his first visit), he was quick to respond. "It's cold!"
Amen, buddy, I'm freezing in these cute tights over here.
The conversation between the two Davids began with DLA talking about his south Boston working class roots, the same as the characters in "Good People."
When asked how much of the play was autobiographical, he answered, "None of it and all of it!" and admitted it took him years to get up the nerve to write about his hometown.
Explaining that he'd gotten a scholarship to a toney suburban private school when he was in 7th grade, he said he'd found the kids there living in a completely different world, one where they went to the Bahamas or skiing over winter break and he watched TV for two weeks.
That sense of being an alien in a foreign world has been the underpinning of his work ever since. "All my plays are about me, about people finding themselves in an upside down world."
When asked what winning the Pulitzer Prize had done for him, he downplayed it, saying, "It's more about people's perceptions of me. And I get invited to nicer parties. But it adds a little pressure, too."
Because he's also done screenplays ("Shrek"), he was asked which he prefers doing. "Nothing is more satisfying than writing a straight play because it's all about me, alone. With film, it's never about me. And writing a musical is like trying to change a tire while it's rolling downhill."
He should know since he wrote "Shrek, the Musical," which Virginia Rep is producing this season.
He got the biggest applause when he said that when he starts writing a play, he thinks about whether his protagonist needs to be male or not and if not, always make her female. "I always write for a woman."
Thank god for men like that.
At the end of the talk, critic David gave author David a Ukrop's bag with Duke's mayonnaise, a Duke's apron and, what else, a Duke's cookbook because nothing says Richmond like our favorite fatty, local condiment.
I kid.
Many in the audience were going next door to see "Good People" after the talk, but since I'd already seen it, I changed neighborhoods to Carytown to meet up with Pru at Amour.
There were no Pulitzer prize winners to be found, just a lot of French-speaking people because apparently it was the night where they all gather to do that.
My first order of business was a glass of Laurent Dauphin Champagne because it's election day and despite being the 281st voter in my precinct this morning, I was still worried that I'd wake up tomorrow morning with my hard-eraned reproductive rights in shambles.
So technically, I was drinking for my girl parts.
Pru arrived and joined me at a bar table for bubbles, all seats at the bar taken by would-be frogs.
She was coming directly from a date, but began with a story about having recently been to Max's on Broad with another date.
I got to hear the gory details of non-existent lighting, multiple incorrect bottles of wine brought and tepid French onion soup as pale as a bev nap instead of nicely browned.
Her story made me hungry so I ordered a bowl of French onion soup with luscious Comte, a complete contrast to the soup she'd choked down.
Listening to all the French being spoken around us led to Pru saying how challenging it would be to hear a Frenchman teaching math, "You know, up there talking about integers and whatnot."
It's a good night when "integers" are part of the punch line.
Next we had flatiron steak gougeres with caramelized onions in Roquefort puff pastry, a dish I've savored before but which Pru had yet to experience.
As I told her, that demonstrates that she's not been out for enough happy hours recently since they've been on Amour's new happy hour menu for a few weeks now.
We followed that with duck macaroni and cheese, an elegant take on classic comfort food whose richness soon had her moaning, "I feel indulged."
Not to point out the obvious, but what woman doesn't want to feel indulged in any way possible?
Once our server saw us pause, he came over to see where we stood. "I've had an elegant sufficiency," Pru proclaimed and the dish was whisked away.
When I told her about running into an ex-date on my date last night, she trumped me by saying she'd once gone into a bar only to find there were five men at the bar whom she'd dated.
Five!
I'd call that an inelegant sufficiency of men...and a bar I'd steer clear of from then on.
Especially now that our girl parts are safe for another four years.
You Got a Face with a View
As dinner dates go, it was the best kind.
We ate and drank for hours, the conversation never waned and for the most part, the accompanying music worked.
We began our eating marathon at Secco where I enjoyed Landron "Atmospheres," a sparkling with a long finish, exactly the qualities I want in a date.
Eating commenced with country pork terrine with sundried tomato, lardo and pistachio or "fancy Spam" as my smart-assed date called it...as we ate every bite.
Next came tuna tartare with an olive tapenade while he told me about "War Horse," which he'd seen the night before.
It's interesting, some people I know who saw it loved the first act and the rest swear the second was better.
Our eating continued unabated with an especially beautifully-composed plate of beets, turnips and radish with pine nut-rosemary brittle and mounds of creme fraiche.
I like to think that even my beet-hating mother would have appreciated this sublime combination of flavors.
Secco was doing a brisk business, with people continuing to come in and fill up bar stools and tables.
Given the size of Richmond, it was inevitable that eventually one of them would be a guy I'd had a couple of dates with.
His friend, unaware, tried to sit down next to my date and me, but was quickly reminded by my former date to give us our space.
It wasn't awkward - we'd only gone out twice - but it gave my current date a chance to razz me about how androgynous and conservative he looked.
You know how dates love that.
It was somewhere around then that in the middle of Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place," a terrifically romantic song and a personal favorite, our server turned it off.
I was not amused. She claimed it was because the kitchen didn't like New Wave and wanted something peppier, but I think she simply did not have an appreciation for what a masterpiece of a love song it is.
I got plenty of time
You got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up, say goodnight
Say goodnight
She switched the music to the David Bowie channel, not a bad choice, but we were soon hearing a not particularly peppy Zombies song, leaving her motives somewhat suspect.
Bubbles gone, we switched to 2007 von Hovel Scharzhofberger Riesling, done in the true German style with sweetness and good acidity.
The guy next to us had seen it on the chalkboard and been curious but not brave enough to order it and seemed happy to see us doing so.
With it, we had succulent pork cheeks with spaghetti squash and pomegranate pork jus, a dish that screamed Fall to me with its seasonal squash and pomegranate.
Meanwhile, a Psychedelic Furs song came on the radio and I saw our server make a move toward the controls, as if she might change the station again.
Fortunately she didn't for I fear owner Julia would have backhanded her for a transgression like that. Are you new here, miss?
Don't mess with the Furs at Secco.
My former date stopped by on his way out, checking with me to see what I'd been reading lately, but mostly, I think, to check out my present date.
Not that it's any of his business, but I felt sure I'd hear from him again soon.
Tonight's date was about as far from androgynous and conservative as they come, and we lingered over glasses of Domaine Faillenc Sainte Marie Corbieres Rose, full bodied and with the brilliant color of cranberry juice, while having date talk.
Of course, date talk varies from man to man, but in this case, the rapport seemed awfully good, so we ranged from D.C. mixed income housing projects to Latino art to wine tastings.
Personally, I think he liked me because I eat a lot, not something I anticipated being my strong suit.
When we finally left Secco after four hours with both of us running into all kinds of people we knew (small town and all), we saw my former date heading into the Daily. 'Nuff said.
After a walk in Carytown, we ended up at Can Can because my date was craving a big piece of red meat.
We found seats at the end of the bar and ordered animal flesh -cheeseburger frites for me and steak frites for him - and Cabernet Franc whilst an employee began scrubbing down the area behind the bar, not a very appealing thing to smell while eating.
Fortunately, good company and a pile of frites the size of my head compensate for a lot.
The less we say about it, the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's okay, I know nothing's wrong
Nothing's wrong
As dates go, last night's was sparkling and had a long finish. Best of all, an invitation for another.
Guess that this must be the place.
Which is exactly what I told Mr. Former Date when he e-mailed me this morning.
We ate and drank for hours, the conversation never waned and for the most part, the accompanying music worked.
We began our eating marathon at Secco where I enjoyed Landron "Atmospheres," a sparkling with a long finish, exactly the qualities I want in a date.
Eating commenced with country pork terrine with sundried tomato, lardo and pistachio or "fancy Spam" as my smart-assed date called it...as we ate every bite.
Next came tuna tartare with an olive tapenade while he told me about "War Horse," which he'd seen the night before.
It's interesting, some people I know who saw it loved the first act and the rest swear the second was better.
Our eating continued unabated with an especially beautifully-composed plate of beets, turnips and radish with pine nut-rosemary brittle and mounds of creme fraiche.
I like to think that even my beet-hating mother would have appreciated this sublime combination of flavors.
Secco was doing a brisk business, with people continuing to come in and fill up bar stools and tables.
Given the size of Richmond, it was inevitable that eventually one of them would be a guy I'd had a couple of dates with.
His friend, unaware, tried to sit down next to my date and me, but was quickly reminded by my former date to give us our space.
It wasn't awkward - we'd only gone out twice - but it gave my current date a chance to razz me about how androgynous and conservative he looked.
You know how dates love that.
It was somewhere around then that in the middle of Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place," a terrifically romantic song and a personal favorite, our server turned it off.
I was not amused. She claimed it was because the kitchen didn't like New Wave and wanted something peppier, but I think she simply did not have an appreciation for what a masterpiece of a love song it is.
I got plenty of time
You got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up, say goodnight
Say goodnight
She switched the music to the David Bowie channel, not a bad choice, but we were soon hearing a not particularly peppy Zombies song, leaving her motives somewhat suspect.
Bubbles gone, we switched to 2007 von Hovel Scharzhofberger Riesling, done in the true German style with sweetness and good acidity.
The guy next to us had seen it on the chalkboard and been curious but not brave enough to order it and seemed happy to see us doing so.
With it, we had succulent pork cheeks with spaghetti squash and pomegranate pork jus, a dish that screamed Fall to me with its seasonal squash and pomegranate.
Meanwhile, a Psychedelic Furs song came on the radio and I saw our server make a move toward the controls, as if she might change the station again.
Fortunately she didn't for I fear owner Julia would have backhanded her for a transgression like that. Are you new here, miss?
Don't mess with the Furs at Secco.
My former date stopped by on his way out, checking with me to see what I'd been reading lately, but mostly, I think, to check out my present date.
Not that it's any of his business, but I felt sure I'd hear from him again soon.
Tonight's date was about as far from androgynous and conservative as they come, and we lingered over glasses of Domaine Faillenc Sainte Marie Corbieres Rose, full bodied and with the brilliant color of cranberry juice, while having date talk.
Of course, date talk varies from man to man, but in this case, the rapport seemed awfully good, so we ranged from D.C. mixed income housing projects to Latino art to wine tastings.
Personally, I think he liked me because I eat a lot, not something I anticipated being my strong suit.
When we finally left Secco after four hours with both of us running into all kinds of people we knew (small town and all), we saw my former date heading into the Daily. 'Nuff said.
After a walk in Carytown, we ended up at Can Can because my date was craving a big piece of red meat.
We found seats at the end of the bar and ordered animal flesh -cheeseburger frites for me and steak frites for him - and Cabernet Franc whilst an employee began scrubbing down the area behind the bar, not a very appealing thing to smell while eating.
Fortunately, good company and a pile of frites the size of my head compensate for a lot.
The less we say about it, the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's okay, I know nothing's wrong
Nothing's wrong
As dates go, last night's was sparkling and had a long finish. Best of all, an invitation for another.
Guess that this must be the place.
Which is exactly what I told Mr. Former Date when he e-mailed me this morning.
Monday, November 4, 2013
I'm into Something Good
It's not every Sunday night you get a living, breathing satellite of love.
Or a harp. Or vibes. Or a hot toddy-drinking chanteuse.
Tonight's show at Helen's followed a very late last night, outdoor brunch with an unlikely quintet and no chance to catch up on sleep before going out again.
You'd have thought the extra hour would have helped but it only gave me more time to be busy.
Things were just getting set up when I arrived to find a friend in his Halloween costume which included a gold sequined top and satellite panels for his arms.
I found it funny that he'd gone into Forever 21 looking for a shiny shirt and when they had none, a salesgirl had offered him one of her own if he'd come to her car to get it.
In a timely effort to memorialize Lou Reed, completing his Halloween costume was important enough to him to take clothing from a stranger.
Hence the satellite of love who greeted me.
First up was Fredericksburg's Nature Boy Explorer, a trio of guitar player, harpist and an accordion player in shorts despite the weather, all of whom sang.
Their songs covered quite the range - having a baby ("I didn't actually have a baby, but I helped make one"), formaldehyde and the Buena Vista concrete jesuses (jesi?) which can be seen, we were told, on Route 29 south
Favorite lyric: I just wanna say you have totally opened up my eyes.
During the interminable break while Philly's School Dance set up, a friend and I discussed the need for roving nacho servers once it get toward midnight (which felt like 1 a.m. tonight) and with another about going to other countries to dance with foreign men to assuage heartbreak.
School Dance was a duo; he played modified vibes (practically a xylophone, I was told) and drums while she played flower-bedecked keyboards and wore a crown of flowers.
As if that wasn't groovy enough, she began by telling us we needed to do the hand symbols along with the first song she was singing.
Immediately, a friend at the table announced, "I'm not doing those gestures," but she looked right at our table, so we were soon making hearts with our hand and sunshine gestures with our fingers.
After explaining that they had a sponsor and were required to sing that little ditty, they moved on to some electronic dream pop, heavy on interesting percussion.
I know I was moving in my seat and before long a couple got up from the bar and began dancing in the aisles. Another guy danced outside on the sidewalk while looking in through the window as the band played. It was hypnotically rhythmic.
When they finished, she thanked us because it was the first night of a very long tour and we'd been an attentive audience.
Hey, if you're lucky enough to have bands come through on a Sunday night, why would you not want to give them a listen?
That's a rhetorical question directed at the guys who kept chatting while they played.
During the break, I chatted with the father of a friend/half of the next duo, Transitones.
He was handsome (a friend said he looked like a classic Irishman with thick white hair and intent eyes) and chatty, so I used possibly my only chance to get some childhood dirt on my friend.
Dad was only too happy to share that, despite two other children, it wasn't until my friend started school that he got to know the school principal.
No surprise there. I'd have guessed he'd been defying authority since he was old enough to try.
Tonight he was on his best behavior, all dressed up in a shirt, tie and slacks, notable because in the four plus years I've known him, I've yet to see him in anything but jeans.
The Transitones took the candlelit stage with Christina from the Low Branches on vocals and Paul from countless bands on guitar to play a well-selected choice of covers from the past 70 years or so.
Given Christina's usual hushed vocals with the Low Branches, it was a pleasure to hear her coming on strong with songs like "I'm into Something Good," "Spanish Harlem" and "Stand By Me."
"We started this duo back in August," Christina explained in between songs, "to get in touch with better days past."
"And better days future," her bandmate piped up appropriately.
Paul had chosen some interesting people to cover - Roxy Music, Dusty Springfield- and his guitar playing was a worthy adversary for Christina's husky lyrics ("I won't let this cold get the best of me," she promised).
Dusty's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" segued beautifully into "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay," with some wisecracking during the whistling solo ("Help us out").
With the orange neon Helen's sign glowing in the background, they finished out their too-brief set with Ray Charles' "You Don't Know Me," sung so emotionally that Christina may as well have been pouring out her personal loneliness and heartbreak to the room.
For I never knew the art of making love
Though my heart aches with love for you
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by
A chance that you might love me, too
The shiny satellite of love told me it was one of his top five songs.
I'd call that better days present, right here tonight, my friend. Only thing that could have made it better was roving nachos.
Or a harp. Or vibes. Or a hot toddy-drinking chanteuse.
Tonight's show at Helen's followed a very late last night, outdoor brunch with an unlikely quintet and no chance to catch up on sleep before going out again.
You'd have thought the extra hour would have helped but it only gave me more time to be busy.
Things were just getting set up when I arrived to find a friend in his Halloween costume which included a gold sequined top and satellite panels for his arms.
I found it funny that he'd gone into Forever 21 looking for a shiny shirt and when they had none, a salesgirl had offered him one of her own if he'd come to her car to get it.
In a timely effort to memorialize Lou Reed, completing his Halloween costume was important enough to him to take clothing from a stranger.
Hence the satellite of love who greeted me.
First up was Fredericksburg's Nature Boy Explorer, a trio of guitar player, harpist and an accordion player in shorts despite the weather, all of whom sang.
Their songs covered quite the range - having a baby ("I didn't actually have a baby, but I helped make one"), formaldehyde and the Buena Vista concrete jesuses (jesi?) which can be seen, we were told, on Route 29 south
Favorite lyric: I just wanna say you have totally opened up my eyes.
During the interminable break while Philly's School Dance set up, a friend and I discussed the need for roving nacho servers once it get toward midnight (which felt like 1 a.m. tonight) and with another about going to other countries to dance with foreign men to assuage heartbreak.
School Dance was a duo; he played modified vibes (practically a xylophone, I was told) and drums while she played flower-bedecked keyboards and wore a crown of flowers.
As if that wasn't groovy enough, she began by telling us we needed to do the hand symbols along with the first song she was singing.
Immediately, a friend at the table announced, "I'm not doing those gestures," but she looked right at our table, so we were soon making hearts with our hand and sunshine gestures with our fingers.
After explaining that they had a sponsor and were required to sing that little ditty, they moved on to some electronic dream pop, heavy on interesting percussion.
I know I was moving in my seat and before long a couple got up from the bar and began dancing in the aisles. Another guy danced outside on the sidewalk while looking in through the window as the band played. It was hypnotically rhythmic.
When they finished, she thanked us because it was the first night of a very long tour and we'd been an attentive audience.
Hey, if you're lucky enough to have bands come through on a Sunday night, why would you not want to give them a listen?
That's a rhetorical question directed at the guys who kept chatting while they played.
During the break, I chatted with the father of a friend/half of the next duo, Transitones.
He was handsome (a friend said he looked like a classic Irishman with thick white hair and intent eyes) and chatty, so I used possibly my only chance to get some childhood dirt on my friend.
Dad was only too happy to share that, despite two other children, it wasn't until my friend started school that he got to know the school principal.
No surprise there. I'd have guessed he'd been defying authority since he was old enough to try.
Tonight he was on his best behavior, all dressed up in a shirt, tie and slacks, notable because in the four plus years I've known him, I've yet to see him in anything but jeans.
The Transitones took the candlelit stage with Christina from the Low Branches on vocals and Paul from countless bands on guitar to play a well-selected choice of covers from the past 70 years or so.
Given Christina's usual hushed vocals with the Low Branches, it was a pleasure to hear her coming on strong with songs like "I'm into Something Good," "Spanish Harlem" and "Stand By Me."
"We started this duo back in August," Christina explained in between songs, "to get in touch with better days past."
"And better days future," her bandmate piped up appropriately.
Paul had chosen some interesting people to cover - Roxy Music, Dusty Springfield- and his guitar playing was a worthy adversary for Christina's husky lyrics ("I won't let this cold get the best of me," she promised).
Dusty's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" segued beautifully into "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay," with some wisecracking during the whistling solo ("Help us out").
With the orange neon Helen's sign glowing in the background, they finished out their too-brief set with Ray Charles' "You Don't Know Me," sung so emotionally that Christina may as well have been pouring out her personal loneliness and heartbreak to the room.
For I never knew the art of making love
Though my heart aches with love for you
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by
A chance that you might love me, too
The shiny satellite of love told me it was one of his top five songs.
I'd call that better days present, right here tonight, my friend. Only thing that could have made it better was roving nachos.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
A Meat and 3 Sides
The mystery of my very first show was unexpectedly solved at a music documentary.
I'd been eager to see "Muscle Shoals," about the famed recording studio in Alabama where some of the biggest (and most unknown) names went to record.
Jay, owner of Deep Groove records on Robinson Street, introduced the film because he was raised in Muscle Shoals. In fact, the woman who did his family's ironing was Percy Sledge's cousin. Folding newspapers for his paper route one day, he read that the Rolling Stones had been there recording.
Things like that were teases to the world-class recordings happening in the small town, sucking him in.
He also brought up something that had occurred to me: how in the world had a documentary about this place never been made before now?
Seems no one ever had the money to do it right until one of the heirs to a candy fortune drove through town and got interested.
Thank god for that because the result was a breathtaking documentary, both visually and in scope.
Local belief says that the Tennessee river sings a song and that's what makes the music coming out of there so magical, Or "greasy" as Aretha Franklin calls it.
The movie tells the story of Rick Hall, the man who started FAME studio, convinced that he needed to make every recording a hit or he'd be poor and homeless again.
That drive made him a tough taskmaster but, oh, the sound he could pull out of people.
He assembled a group of musicians for his house band, a group that became known as the Swampers and could create music to fit whatever artist walked in.
"All that funky sound was because we didn't know how to play smooth," one of them says self-deprecatingly.
No, all that funk was what they were able to conjure up as a band, making them sound so black that after Paul Simon heard the Staple Singers record, he called down and said he wanted those same black players who'd played on "I'll Take You There."
"That can happen, but those guys are mighty pale," he was told.
One of the best parts of the movie was really old footage of some of these artists singing, like Percy Sledge singing "When A Man Loves a Woman," a clip that gave me goose bumps.
Sledge talks in the movie about how his knees were shaking he was so nervous about recording what went on to become a timeless song.
Most of the early singers that came to Muscle Shoals were black and for some, it was their first time playing music with whites. Hall points out how big a part his studio played in race relations in the south.
A still handsome Wilson Pickett talks about getting off the plane in Alabama and meeting Hall and thinking, "What am I doing with this cracker?" Meanwhile Hall thinks he looks menacing.
They went on to make seminal R & B music together, with Pickett saying how the Swampers were able to get into a groove and work it till they got it.
Part of the big deal of that was that before this time, musicians used written arrangements in recording studios, but not these guys. Instead, they came in, listened to the nut of the song and then began noodling around until someone locked into something and the others followed along.
"Our job was to become their band when they came in," said a Swamper.
I was amazed to learn that prior to coming to Muscle Shoals, her record label had been marketing Aretha as smooth-sounding with lush orchestral arrangements behind her, stuff, as she says, "I couldn't sink my teeth into."
"I Never Loved a Man Like I Love You" was the turning point in her career because of that session.
Several people tried to explain the Swampers' unique sound, which was heavy on bass and drums and represented the first close mic'ing of drums.
Eventually local boy Duane Allman is used as a house musician, even convincing Pickett to cover "Hey Jude" mid-session. All of a sudden, according to his brother Greg, southern rock was born.
Then an unknown band from Jacksonville, Florida showed up wanting to record and the Swampers, now operating out of their own Muscle Shoals studio, knew they were on to something.
After recording tracks with Lynyrd Skynyrd, the record company heard them and was dissatisfied, insisting that "Free Bird" be cut down to three minutes and 45 seconds.
The Swampers refused and the label pulled the band out of there and somehow managed to get them an opening spot on the Who's upcoming arena tour.
That's where I come in.
My very first show was that one - Lynyrd Skynyrd opening for the Who at the Capital Center in Maryland.
I was young, I had never been to a show and I was not prepared for a 20,000-seat venue where it seemed like 15,000 of them were smoking - either cigarettes or joints.
At one point, I laid my head on my first boyfriend's shoulder to close my burning eyes and soon a security guard came over to check with my boyfriend to see if I'd OD'd.
Yea, it was a different time.
So I finally open my eyes and the opening band comes out and no one in the arena knows them. No one.
Lynyrd Synyrd are up there giving it their all, drunk (and probably high) as all get-out, shaking up beers and spraying the crowd with them, but singing their brand of southern rock to the rafters.
And all around us, everyone is asking each other, who the hell are these guys and how did they get on the Who's tour?
No one could figure it out. And now I know.
You may not have your own a-ha moment watching this terrific documentary, but you'll be amazed to see how many major artists chose Muscle Shoals' funky sound for themselves.
Etta James. Paul Simon, Rod Stewart. Traffic, Clarence Carter. The Staple Singers. Bob Seeger. Boz Scaggs. The Rolling Stones.
Wanna hear some great old music? Wanna learn some cultural history? Wanna see some of the most magnificent cinematography of a river ever made?
I don't care if you're a documentary dork like me or not, get thee to Criterion Cinemas.
And it's definitely the only way to understand what Aretha means when she says, "These cats were really greasy."
I'd been eager to see "Muscle Shoals," about the famed recording studio in Alabama where some of the biggest (and most unknown) names went to record.
Jay, owner of Deep Groove records on Robinson Street, introduced the film because he was raised in Muscle Shoals. In fact, the woman who did his family's ironing was Percy Sledge's cousin. Folding newspapers for his paper route one day, he read that the Rolling Stones had been there recording.
Things like that were teases to the world-class recordings happening in the small town, sucking him in.
He also brought up something that had occurred to me: how in the world had a documentary about this place never been made before now?
Seems no one ever had the money to do it right until one of the heirs to a candy fortune drove through town and got interested.
Thank god for that because the result was a breathtaking documentary, both visually and in scope.
Local belief says that the Tennessee river sings a song and that's what makes the music coming out of there so magical, Or "greasy" as Aretha Franklin calls it.
The movie tells the story of Rick Hall, the man who started FAME studio, convinced that he needed to make every recording a hit or he'd be poor and homeless again.
That drive made him a tough taskmaster but, oh, the sound he could pull out of people.
He assembled a group of musicians for his house band, a group that became known as the Swampers and could create music to fit whatever artist walked in.
"All that funky sound was because we didn't know how to play smooth," one of them says self-deprecatingly.
No, all that funk was what they were able to conjure up as a band, making them sound so black that after Paul Simon heard the Staple Singers record, he called down and said he wanted those same black players who'd played on "I'll Take You There."
"That can happen, but those guys are mighty pale," he was told.
One of the best parts of the movie was really old footage of some of these artists singing, like Percy Sledge singing "When A Man Loves a Woman," a clip that gave me goose bumps.
Sledge talks in the movie about how his knees were shaking he was so nervous about recording what went on to become a timeless song.
Most of the early singers that came to Muscle Shoals were black and for some, it was their first time playing music with whites. Hall points out how big a part his studio played in race relations in the south.
A still handsome Wilson Pickett talks about getting off the plane in Alabama and meeting Hall and thinking, "What am I doing with this cracker?" Meanwhile Hall thinks he looks menacing.
They went on to make seminal R & B music together, with Pickett saying how the Swampers were able to get into a groove and work it till they got it.
Part of the big deal of that was that before this time, musicians used written arrangements in recording studios, but not these guys. Instead, they came in, listened to the nut of the song and then began noodling around until someone locked into something and the others followed along.
"Our job was to become their band when they came in," said a Swamper.
I was amazed to learn that prior to coming to Muscle Shoals, her record label had been marketing Aretha as smooth-sounding with lush orchestral arrangements behind her, stuff, as she says, "I couldn't sink my teeth into."
"I Never Loved a Man Like I Love You" was the turning point in her career because of that session.
Several people tried to explain the Swampers' unique sound, which was heavy on bass and drums and represented the first close mic'ing of drums.
Eventually local boy Duane Allman is used as a house musician, even convincing Pickett to cover "Hey Jude" mid-session. All of a sudden, according to his brother Greg, southern rock was born.
Then an unknown band from Jacksonville, Florida showed up wanting to record and the Swampers, now operating out of their own Muscle Shoals studio, knew they were on to something.
After recording tracks with Lynyrd Skynyrd, the record company heard them and was dissatisfied, insisting that "Free Bird" be cut down to three minutes and 45 seconds.
The Swampers refused and the label pulled the band out of there and somehow managed to get them an opening spot on the Who's upcoming arena tour.
That's where I come in.
My very first show was that one - Lynyrd Skynyrd opening for the Who at the Capital Center in Maryland.
I was young, I had never been to a show and I was not prepared for a 20,000-seat venue where it seemed like 15,000 of them were smoking - either cigarettes or joints.
At one point, I laid my head on my first boyfriend's shoulder to close my burning eyes and soon a security guard came over to check with my boyfriend to see if I'd OD'd.
Yea, it was a different time.
So I finally open my eyes and the opening band comes out and no one in the arena knows them. No one.
Lynyrd Synyrd are up there giving it their all, drunk (and probably high) as all get-out, shaking up beers and spraying the crowd with them, but singing their brand of southern rock to the rafters.
And all around us, everyone is asking each other, who the hell are these guys and how did they get on the Who's tour?
No one could figure it out. And now I know.
You may not have your own a-ha moment watching this terrific documentary, but you'll be amazed to see how many major artists chose Muscle Shoals' funky sound for themselves.
Etta James. Paul Simon, Rod Stewart. Traffic, Clarence Carter. The Staple Singers. Bob Seeger. Boz Scaggs. The Rolling Stones.
Wanna hear some great old music? Wanna learn some cultural history? Wanna see some of the most magnificent cinematography of a river ever made?
I don't care if you're a documentary dork like me or not, get thee to Criterion Cinemas.
And it's definitely the only way to understand what Aretha means when she says, "These cats were really greasy."
Saturday, November 2, 2013
I Hear You're Looking for Someone to Love
"Is that porn?" was the question of the night.
Yes, it was, showing on a brick wall midway down Jefferson Street for all the world to see.
So it was that the First Fridays artwalk took a turn into the bare-breasted tonight.
I rounded up a willing girlfriend and we set out for some gallery hopping, beginning at Quirk.
Nelly Kate had the shop show, with a collection of small, framed drawings on one wall and an exquisite large-format painting/collage piece on the other.
I don't want to brag, but I already own a Nelly Kate piece.
My friend wanted to see the "Sparkle Plenty 8" show in the back and full of artsy jewelry the likes of which I'll never wear.
From there we went to Candela Gallery to see Linda Connor's photography show featuring photographs taken in such far-flung locations as Cambodia, India, Tibet and Egypt and capturing sacred and religious imagery as well as natural features like rocky landscapes.
I'd interviewed Connor earlier today and an hour into our talk, she'd looked at me and asked, "Are you an artist?"
When I asked her why she'd asked, she'd given me a wonderful compliment. "Because you get it." Hell, I admit it, I let her generous words go straight to my head.
Kind words aside, my friend agreed with me that her black and white photographs are a must-see.
Next up was Gallery 5 for Screens 'n Suds, a poster exhibit, one of my favorite kinds of works on paper.
Walking up Jefferson, my eye was immediately caught by the bouncing breasts high above my head on the side of a building.
My friend kept walking, but I kept looking, fascinated with some serious '70s sex action on the bricks.
Truth be told, I have seen very little porn in my life so I was curious.
Already playing when we got to Gallery 5 were Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, so after looking at posters, we took in the rest of their set.
A musician friend came up to say hello and gestured to the crowd around us. "I love seeing their faces as they experience this band for the first time."
Seriously, they were rapt, no surprise given Junglebeat's lush sound and killer harmonies.
<
With a heads-up from the same friend not to miss the next band, a duo from Lynchburg, we set out to see some art during the breakdown and set-up period.
We got as far as the porn again before running into rocker Prabir.
General chit-chat ensued between the three of us while I watched the soft-core action of "The Pig Keeper's Daughter" over his shoulder.
After Prabir got over the shock of me not having a cell phone, something he should have known since we've known each other for five years now, I turned the topic to ways he could help my friend.
Back in 2009 when I was nursing a broken heart, Prabir had laid out a step-by-step plan for getting over my heartache, here.
Now that my friend was in that same sad position, I wanted him to advise her and once again, he suggested list-making, drinking and sex with strangers.
Since I hadn't tried out his plan, all I could do was nod and urge her to give it a shot. While I watched porn on the wall.
There may have been a suggestion about smoking weed and listening to Jefferson Airplane, but don't quote me on that.
Before she'd grasped the scope of what lies ahead for her, I heard music starting at Gallery 5, so our little trio made tracks for it.
As people walked around us, inevitably they turned back and asked, "Is that porn?" as if we were the experts, or maybe responsible for it.
Whether pleased or perplexed, they were smiling as they inquired.
Walking in to hear the Late Virginia Summers, I knew immediately that this was my sound.
Part shoegaze and all post-rock, they were creating the kind of textured soundscapes that needed no lyrics and qualify for what a musician friend describes as "night music."
Nathan was an amazing drummer, high energy, hitting hard and constantly doing five things at once. Joe's guitar playing was incredibly fast with hints of post-punk goodness.
After a couple of their songs, Nathan said, "This next one may or may not be a Matthew Sweet song."
By that, he meant it was an original song built around a riff from "Girlfriend," as recognizable a guitar line as any from the '90s.
Pure heaven.
They closed with a kick-ass song with a title that got the attention of all three of us: "Please Stop Loving Me."
Actually, the full title was "(I'm Not All of Those Things) Please Stop Loving Me."
Friend thought it was a hell of statement to tell someone to stop loving you. Prabir thought that telling someone don't stop loving me is even more of a nervy statement.
Personally, I prefer not to give instructions and hope to hear what I want to hear.
Afterwards, Nathan played tease, saying, "We only know one more song and we're not going to play it so you'll have us back."
We should only be so lucky to have them back for more mind-blowing post-rock.
By then my friend had to get going so I walked her back to my house where she'd parked and said goodnight so I could return to G5 for the crowd-pleasing, ever-energetic and grunge-y Hoax Hunters followed by Glass Twin, the band risen from the ashes of one of my long-time favorites, Marionette.
Technically, shows are supposed to end at G5 by midnight, but due to Glass Twin's sound problems causing a late start, they played on past the stroke of twelve, neighbors be damned.
They played so long that by the time I left, the porn wall had gone dark. Now I'll never know what happened to the pig keeper's daughter.
Although I have a sneaking suspicion it's a lot like #8 on Prabir's master list.
Yes, it was, showing on a brick wall midway down Jefferson Street for all the world to see.
So it was that the First Fridays artwalk took a turn into the bare-breasted tonight.
I rounded up a willing girlfriend and we set out for some gallery hopping, beginning at Quirk.
Nelly Kate had the shop show, with a collection of small, framed drawings on one wall and an exquisite large-format painting/collage piece on the other.
I don't want to brag, but I already own a Nelly Kate piece.
My friend wanted to see the "Sparkle Plenty 8" show in the back and full of artsy jewelry the likes of which I'll never wear.
From there we went to Candela Gallery to see Linda Connor's photography show featuring photographs taken in such far-flung locations as Cambodia, India, Tibet and Egypt and capturing sacred and religious imagery as well as natural features like rocky landscapes.
I'd interviewed Connor earlier today and an hour into our talk, she'd looked at me and asked, "Are you an artist?"
When I asked her why she'd asked, she'd given me a wonderful compliment. "Because you get it." Hell, I admit it, I let her generous words go straight to my head.
Kind words aside, my friend agreed with me that her black and white photographs are a must-see.
Next up was Gallery 5 for Screens 'n Suds, a poster exhibit, one of my favorite kinds of works on paper.
Walking up Jefferson, my eye was immediately caught by the bouncing breasts high above my head on the side of a building.
My friend kept walking, but I kept looking, fascinated with some serious '70s sex action on the bricks.
Truth be told, I have seen very little porn in my life so I was curious.
Already playing when we got to Gallery 5 were Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, so after looking at posters, we took in the rest of their set.
A musician friend came up to say hello and gestured to the crowd around us. "I love seeing their faces as they experience this band for the first time."
Seriously, they were rapt, no surprise given Junglebeat's lush sound and killer harmonies.
<
With a heads-up from the same friend not to miss the next band, a duo from Lynchburg, we set out to see some art during the breakdown and set-up period.
We got as far as the porn again before running into rocker Prabir.
General chit-chat ensued between the three of us while I watched the soft-core action of "The Pig Keeper's Daughter" over his shoulder.
After Prabir got over the shock of me not having a cell phone, something he should have known since we've known each other for five years now, I turned the topic to ways he could help my friend.
Back in 2009 when I was nursing a broken heart, Prabir had laid out a step-by-step plan for getting over my heartache, here.
Now that my friend was in that same sad position, I wanted him to advise her and once again, he suggested list-making, drinking and sex with strangers.
Since I hadn't tried out his plan, all I could do was nod and urge her to give it a shot. While I watched porn on the wall.
There may have been a suggestion about smoking weed and listening to Jefferson Airplane, but don't quote me on that.
Before she'd grasped the scope of what lies ahead for her, I heard music starting at Gallery 5, so our little trio made tracks for it.
As people walked around us, inevitably they turned back and asked, "Is that porn?" as if we were the experts, or maybe responsible for it.
Whether pleased or perplexed, they were smiling as they inquired.
Walking in to hear the Late Virginia Summers, I knew immediately that this was my sound.
Part shoegaze and all post-rock, they were creating the kind of textured soundscapes that needed no lyrics and qualify for what a musician friend describes as "night music."
Nathan was an amazing drummer, high energy, hitting hard and constantly doing five things at once. Joe's guitar playing was incredibly fast with hints of post-punk goodness.
After a couple of their songs, Nathan said, "This next one may or may not be a Matthew Sweet song."
By that, he meant it was an original song built around a riff from "Girlfriend," as recognizable a guitar line as any from the '90s.
Pure heaven.
They closed with a kick-ass song with a title that got the attention of all three of us: "Please Stop Loving Me."
Actually, the full title was "(I'm Not All of Those Things) Please Stop Loving Me."
Friend thought it was a hell of statement to tell someone to stop loving you. Prabir thought that telling someone don't stop loving me is even more of a nervy statement.
Personally, I prefer not to give instructions and hope to hear what I want to hear.
Afterwards, Nathan played tease, saying, "We only know one more song and we're not going to play it so you'll have us back."
We should only be so lucky to have them back for more mind-blowing post-rock.
By then my friend had to get going so I walked her back to my house where she'd parked and said goodnight so I could return to G5 for the crowd-pleasing, ever-energetic and grunge-y Hoax Hunters followed by Glass Twin, the band risen from the ashes of one of my long-time favorites, Marionette.
Technically, shows are supposed to end at G5 by midnight, but due to Glass Twin's sound problems causing a late start, they played on past the stroke of twelve, neighbors be damned.
They played so long that by the time I left, the porn wall had gone dark. Now I'll never know what happened to the pig keeper's daughter.
Although I have a sneaking suspicion it's a lot like #8 on Prabir's master list.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Motor On
Remember when Bryan Park had "homey feeling" tourist campsites?
Yea, me neither.
But I do remember a childhood trip to Maine where we took Route 1 the whole way (my Dad taught us the pleasures of back roads over the interstate young), staying at a roadside motel along the way.
That's what I was reminded of this morning when I went to see "No Vacancy: Remnants of Virginia's Roadside Culture," the new exhibit at the Library of Virginia.
The show focuses on that period of time when Americans broke away from trains and took to the highways and byways once Route 1 was fully paved in 1927.
Hardly surprising, one thing I learned was that it was the United daughters of the Confederacy who lobbied hard to get Route 1 named Jefferson Davis Highway.
From Florida to Maine, let's remember the Confederacy.
Checking out the old photograph of a couple camping in Bryant Park, I was struck by how civilized it all looked.
A table inside the tent held the man's tie (now off while he cooked dinner over an open fire) and a lantern. Outside the tent, another table had a cloth tablecloth, awaiting the evening meal.
Two girls beside me looking at the picture had a different take. "I wouldn't want to camp back in the '20s. Too many bugs!"
Many of the large-format photographs were of old tourist courts, also called motor courts, many of them in Chester, like Moore's Brick Cottages, built in 1929.
The sign out front said breakfast was 25 cents and regular meals 50 cents. Their brochure said each cottage had steam heat at all times in cold weather and was cool in the summer.
Back then, the preferred method of cooling was building the cottages under a grove of shady trees, a lovely way to be cooled.
But once I-95 opened, many businesses, especially motels, along Route 1 began withering, so there were also photographs of decaying motels, grown over with weeds or crumbling with age and disuse.
Display cases held old postcards from motels, each making their facility look like a vacation playground with happy tourists, brilliant blue pools and quaint buildings.
There was even a section on the genesis of "no-tell motels," which I found fascinating.
Seems that back in the '20s, tourist courts were required to collect registration information from guests. The purpose was to deter the kind of bad behavior that made FBI director Hoover call them "camps of crime" for what he presumed went on there.
Stuff like rape, white slavery, disease, murder and bribery.
Funny, when we stayed at a motor court on that long-ago trip, all I remember was cheeseburgers at the motel diner and a carnival across the street to entertain us afterwards.
I may have been awfully young, but it seemed like a slice of heaven just off the road to me.
Fortunately, the white slavers were nowhere to be seen.
Yea, me neither.
But I do remember a childhood trip to Maine where we took Route 1 the whole way (my Dad taught us the pleasures of back roads over the interstate young), staying at a roadside motel along the way.
That's what I was reminded of this morning when I went to see "No Vacancy: Remnants of Virginia's Roadside Culture," the new exhibit at the Library of Virginia.
The show focuses on that period of time when Americans broke away from trains and took to the highways and byways once Route 1 was fully paved in 1927.
Hardly surprising, one thing I learned was that it was the United daughters of the Confederacy who lobbied hard to get Route 1 named Jefferson Davis Highway.
From Florida to Maine, let's remember the Confederacy.
Checking out the old photograph of a couple camping in Bryant Park, I was struck by how civilized it all looked.
A table inside the tent held the man's tie (now off while he cooked dinner over an open fire) and a lantern. Outside the tent, another table had a cloth tablecloth, awaiting the evening meal.
Two girls beside me looking at the picture had a different take. "I wouldn't want to camp back in the '20s. Too many bugs!"
Many of the large-format photographs were of old tourist courts, also called motor courts, many of them in Chester, like Moore's Brick Cottages, built in 1929.
The sign out front said breakfast was 25 cents and regular meals 50 cents. Their brochure said each cottage had steam heat at all times in cold weather and was cool in the summer.
Back then, the preferred method of cooling was building the cottages under a grove of shady trees, a lovely way to be cooled.
But once I-95 opened, many businesses, especially motels, along Route 1 began withering, so there were also photographs of decaying motels, grown over with weeds or crumbling with age and disuse.
Display cases held old postcards from motels, each making their facility look like a vacation playground with happy tourists, brilliant blue pools and quaint buildings.
There was even a section on the genesis of "no-tell motels," which I found fascinating.
Seems that back in the '20s, tourist courts were required to collect registration information from guests. The purpose was to deter the kind of bad behavior that made FBI director Hoover call them "camps of crime" for what he presumed went on there.
Stuff like rape, white slavery, disease, murder and bribery.
Funny, when we stayed at a motor court on that long-ago trip, all I remember was cheeseburgers at the motel diner and a carnival across the street to entertain us afterwards.
I may have been awfully young, but it seemed like a slice of heaven just off the road to me.
Fortunately, the white slavers were nowhere to be seen.
Parading the Sinners
I love a parade when I get to be in it.
Tonight's Halloween parade's theme was a "Funeral march for free love, free speech and free thinking," three frees I wouldn't want to live without.
I've been doing the Halloween parade practically every year since 2008, so I knew to show up in Monroe Park, grab a sign to carry (the enormous puppets are just too heavy for me) and follow No BS Brass band as they march through Oregon Hill.
Speaking of, trombonist Reggie looked amazing with African face painting adorning that smiling face.
This year, I chose a sign that read, "Welcome All Saints and Sinners" and a pair of cardboard wings with skulls and flowers on them and took my place in front of the giant pumpkin heads.
Fortunately for me, I wasn't asked to declare myself a sinner or saint in order to qualify to carry the sign.
Traipsing through Oregon Hill's streets lined with onlookers is always a hoot, with everything from people shouting at us (I repeatedly had people yelling what my sign said to me), others throwing candy (I was tempted to pick up a Tootsie Roll, but refrained) and a certain VCU professor dressed as a bee passing out canned "refreshments" to those she knew (not my beverage).
Because it's O-Hill, you see things like an entire family sitting in the bed of their pickup truck watching the parade, Mom and Dad sending one of the three kids inside when they need another beer.
You see darkened porches where the only sign of life is a glowing cigarette butt clenched in someone's teeth.
Mostly you see people with red party cups in one hand and their phone in front of their faces with the other as they watch the parade through a tiny lens.
Don't get me started.
To their credit, one guy in a blue satin dress skated the entire way and another wore curved, metal stilts that looked a lot like the artificial legs of former Olympian Oscar Pistorius.
For a while, I marched next to a girl in a Scarlet O'Hara-by-way-of-Carol-Burnett dress, complete with curtain rod going through the shoulders of the dress.
Another girl complimented her on how pretty it was and she cheekily replied, "I saw it in the window and just had to have it."
Also walking next to me was the infamous Serena Sparkles, who, like me, was immediately suspicious that they knew the source material.
Bolder than me this time, she leaned in, all glittery lips and platform shoes, and asked, "You do know what that costume's from, right?"
One claimed to (the wearer) and the other was clueless.
Someone's got to right the cultural literacy wrongs surrounding us and who better than a drag queen?
As we moved down the hill, I heard hellos from lots of people I knew- servers, DJs, guitarists, artists, organizers - both in the parade and watching from the street.
Even the man-about-town participated, and while masked, it's always pretty easy to spot "The Hat."
As in past years, it's crazy to be part of something where all eyes are on you and cameras are always going off.
No BS are the heart and soul of the parade's energy, though, and after a while I realized I was stepping in time to their music, as were many of the puppet and sign carriers.
After we finished our march, everyone mingled before disbursing to parties and shows. I was meeting friends at Bistro 27 for a much more low-key end to my evening.
We met at the bar in an almost empty restaurant, meaning it was easy to hear the music and took no time at all for us to get wine and dinner salads while we watched the crowds of costumed people walk by the big glass windows.
It's like our own, private freak show.
"Is that a man or woman?" someone asked about a scantily-clad person stumbling drunkenly across Broad Street.
"With that much back hair, you better hope it's a man!" another cracked.
For no reason, we got off on youthful memories, like the first time your college boyfriend sleeps over in the guest room and you get caught by your strict father sneaking back to your bedroom naked in the morning.
"Good morning, sir," was all the guilty party could manage, which sent the rest of us into hysterics.
No recriminations, no apologies, just a civilized greeting. In other words, pretty saintly behavior for a sinner.
I wouldn't know from saintly. I never got caught.
Tonight's Halloween parade's theme was a "Funeral march for free love, free speech and free thinking," three frees I wouldn't want to live without.
I've been doing the Halloween parade practically every year since 2008, so I knew to show up in Monroe Park, grab a sign to carry (the enormous puppets are just too heavy for me) and follow No BS Brass band as they march through Oregon Hill.
Speaking of, trombonist Reggie looked amazing with African face painting adorning that smiling face.
This year, I chose a sign that read, "Welcome All Saints and Sinners" and a pair of cardboard wings with skulls and flowers on them and took my place in front of the giant pumpkin heads.
Fortunately for me, I wasn't asked to declare myself a sinner or saint in order to qualify to carry the sign.
Traipsing through Oregon Hill's streets lined with onlookers is always a hoot, with everything from people shouting at us (I repeatedly had people yelling what my sign said to me), others throwing candy (I was tempted to pick up a Tootsie Roll, but refrained) and a certain VCU professor dressed as a bee passing out canned "refreshments" to those she knew (not my beverage).
Because it's O-Hill, you see things like an entire family sitting in the bed of their pickup truck watching the parade, Mom and Dad sending one of the three kids inside when they need another beer.
You see darkened porches where the only sign of life is a glowing cigarette butt clenched in someone's teeth.
Mostly you see people with red party cups in one hand and their phone in front of their faces with the other as they watch the parade through a tiny lens.
Don't get me started.
To their credit, one guy in a blue satin dress skated the entire way and another wore curved, metal stilts that looked a lot like the artificial legs of former Olympian Oscar Pistorius.
For a while, I marched next to a girl in a Scarlet O'Hara-by-way-of-Carol-Burnett dress, complete with curtain rod going through the shoulders of the dress.
Another girl complimented her on how pretty it was and she cheekily replied, "I saw it in the window and just had to have it."
Also walking next to me was the infamous Serena Sparkles, who, like me, was immediately suspicious that they knew the source material.
Bolder than me this time, she leaned in, all glittery lips and platform shoes, and asked, "You do know what that costume's from, right?"
One claimed to (the wearer) and the other was clueless.
Someone's got to right the cultural literacy wrongs surrounding us and who better than a drag queen?
As we moved down the hill, I heard hellos from lots of people I knew- servers, DJs, guitarists, artists, organizers - both in the parade and watching from the street.
Even the man-about-town participated, and while masked, it's always pretty easy to spot "The Hat."
As in past years, it's crazy to be part of something where all eyes are on you and cameras are always going off.
No BS are the heart and soul of the parade's energy, though, and after a while I realized I was stepping in time to their music, as were many of the puppet and sign carriers.
After we finished our march, everyone mingled before disbursing to parties and shows. I was meeting friends at Bistro 27 for a much more low-key end to my evening.
We met at the bar in an almost empty restaurant, meaning it was easy to hear the music and took no time at all for us to get wine and dinner salads while we watched the crowds of costumed people walk by the big glass windows.
It's like our own, private freak show.
"Is that a man or woman?" someone asked about a scantily-clad person stumbling drunkenly across Broad Street.
"With that much back hair, you better hope it's a man!" another cracked.
For no reason, we got off on youthful memories, like the first time your college boyfriend sleeps over in the guest room and you get caught by your strict father sneaking back to your bedroom naked in the morning.
"Good morning, sir," was all the guilty party could manage, which sent the rest of us into hysterics.
No recriminations, no apologies, just a civilized greeting. In other words, pretty saintly behavior for a sinner.
I wouldn't know from saintly. I never got caught.
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