Some people I know have a "dressing drink" but I'm of the opinion that the "dressing soundtrack" is even more essential...and occasionally educational, too.
Tonight's began with hearing the Carpenters do a husky-voiced cover of "Masquerade," a song I'd always associated with George Benson, at least up until I read those Leon Russell obituaries last week and discovered it's his song, which only means now I need to hear his version.
And so the tangents began...
Listening to Karen Carpenter had me recalling a Chrissie Hynde interview from the 90s(?) where she was saying how much she idolized Karen's breath control and singing ability and tried to imitate it, a musical homage that made sense to me the moment I read it.
And sensibly is how you make your pre-theater dinner plans to ensure making an 8:00 curtain.
I never tire of taking first-timers to My Noodle and watching the look of delight on their faces when they experience the semi-privacy of the multi-level tiki booths. That they can also dish up a green curry to he who swears that he's never had a decent green curry in this town speaks volumes.
The schizophrenic soundtrack - Benny Goodman to the XX - won points with the music obsessive, while the fake fireplace just looked silly, but there's no question, I made another convert.
Of course, some would call me an idiot for turning so many people on to my fave neighborhood Chinese joint, but to share is divine, no?
My date was surprised to hear that Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's production of "Ceremonies in Dark Old Men" was happening at Pine Camp because his only memory of it was 20 years ago and all he recalled were sports fields.
And now? Galleries, classrooms, an auditorium. Just goes to show some people don't get out quite often enough.
We got there early enough to have a good blather first, although we didn't get to the really juicy subjects until three minutes before curtain, leaving an unknown ending for the listener when a key anecdote had to be curtailed abruptly.
Cards on the table, please.
Given the small Thursday crowd, we had our pick of seats for the Pulitzer Prize-nominated 1969 play, a classic from the Harlem Renaissance according to the program. Set in 1958, it reminded me of "A Raisin in the Sun" with the same sort of characters and issues of striving and surviving.
That's how you won her. Kept her laughing.
It was all about a black family after the mother (who supports all of them) dies, telling the story of what happens once the sole employed family member, the daughter, tells her unemployed father and two brothers they have to find work or move out of the house where she pays the rent.
You can't just go around killing people and getting away with it. Who does he think he is, white?
Watching the tragicomedy unfold, I couldn't help but wonder how I'd never even heard of this important play before. Just as perplexing was seeing talent onstage that I'd never seen before, despite being a regular theater goer.
It was impossible to take your eyes off of Foree Shalom as deeply damaged and ultimate bad guy Blue Haven (in blue suits, naturally), while Toney Q. Cobb ( know, best name ever, right?) effortlessly inhabited the lazy father content to play checkers and relive his glory days on Vaudeville instead of attracting customers to his empty barber shop.
Ain't nothing meaner than an American-born cracker.
Watching a play like this, I couldn't help but be grateful to Heritage Ensemble for satisfyingly producing a classic piece of black theater that deserves to be seen by audiences of all colors still dealing with the same racial issues 47 years later.
Who the hell ever told every black woman she was some kind of goddam savior?
For that matter, who the hell doesn't have an "undressing soundtrack" when possible? "And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out" winds up being Yo la Tengo's extended goodnight. Fitting.
Friday, November 18, 2016
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Well in the Present
No doubt about it, we're in the home stretch for November.
Walking by the front of Kroger yesterday - it's 63 degrees, sunny and I'm wearing shorts, mind you - I see employees untying Christmas trees. When I make a comment about it being a tad early, the manager-looking one cracks, "Yea, they're Thanksgiving trees!"
Hardee-har-har.
Tonight I drive out to theboondocks Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen for the On the Air Radio Players' "Turkeys on the Radio" live radio show.
Walking in, the receptionist looks at my outfit and says, "You look like you're from the '80s. I like it!" As I pass by, she calls out, "Rock on!" which is always my intent anyway.
The audience was scattered all throughout the November Theatre (yes, there are November Theatres in every nook and cranny of this town), but I was surprised that as many times as I've been there for these radio shows over the years, this was the first time I'd ever seen someone I know there.
Unfortunately, it was also the first time anyone was foolish enough to bring a toddler who squawked throughout or that someone forgot to turn their cell phone off, meaning the live recording now includes an anachronistic ring tone midway through (something the director usually warns against but he was a first-timer and forgot).
As is only right, both tonight's radio plays had Thanksgiving themes.
1950's "Our Miss Brooks: Thanksgiving Turkey" was about how Miss Brooks tried to plot to get her favorite single man to invite her to turkey dinner (even if she had to pay the $1.50 for her own meal), a dilemma that involved buying a live turkey to save money and then catching it once it got loose in the house.
Favorite line: "Live well in the present. The future ain't never done nothin' for nobody!"
1942's "The Great Gildersleeve: Thanksgiving" was obviously a wartime story with references to gas applications, food shortages and the Ration Board. In it, ten-year old Leroy worried about looking like a sissy in his Pilgrim costume for the school production of "The Courtship of Miles Standish" and cracked a Longfellow joke.
They sure don't make 10-year olds like they used to.
Along the way, the cast did singing commercials for Colgate, Luster Cream shampoo and Parkay margarine, touting it as "a nourishing energy food with Vitamin A, wholesome and economical." They left out the awful tasting part, but in wartime, I guess you take what you can get.
Maybe most interesting to me were the frequent references to having ham for Thanksgiving instead of turkey, a tradition I've never even heard of. Ham for Christmas or Easter, both ham and turkey for those holidays, but just ham on Thanksgiving? Not in my lifetime.
I've long been a fan of OTARP's shows for the glimpse they offer into a time I didn't know - as well as for watching the machinations of a radio play - not to mention the appealing corniness of the commercials. Although tonight's cast had more than their share of muffed lines and lost places in the script, it was still more than worth the price of admission.
But after an hour in the county, I was ready to return to the city for another November tradition: the Cru Beaujolais tasting followed by the post-midnight unveiling of the Beaujolais Nouveau at Amour.
Except, unlike my friend Holmes, I'm not much of a fan of the young, fruity wine, so it was enough to join the regulars at the bar, enjoy a warming bowl of French onion soup and marvel at my first white Beaujolais, Domaine des Nugues Blanc, a lovely acidic wine with a distinct honey taste.
"This would be wonderful with lobster," one of the regulars commented. "Perfect for New Year's Eve. Except we'll probably be here." The owner smiled. I wouldn't be at all surprised to see lobster with this wine on his menu come December 31st.
A woman came in to, as she put it, "drink her dessert" while her son finished up a game of Dungeons and Dragons nearby, so of course we invited her to join our conversation. A New Jersey transplant, she was already madly in love with Richmond after only two years.
When she left to collect her son, it was with regret about leaving our lively political discussion, but she also assured us she'd be back next Wednesday, should we want to further it.
As the hour got later, but still pre-midnight, the many bottles of Cru Beaujolais clustered at the end of the bar were opened as more people arrived looking for their November fix.
After pouring wine in several glasses, the owner stood by the bar, holding the neck of the bottle, whether guarding it or ready to pour more, I can't say for sure.
A female guest looked at his stance and joked, "I work out and I could just grab that bottle from you and run!"
"Grab a wine bottle? Not from a Frenchman!" he responded. Acknowledging the French lock on wine, she didn't bother trying. Meanwhile, I discussed piano moving with an expert - a man who'd moved his three pianos six times - amazed at how many ways there are to move such large objects.
For the first time in years, I didn't stay for the uncorking of the Nouveau (it was a short night last night), instead abdicating my bar stool to a later arrival once I heard there were a dozen reservations on the books for midnight, which was minutes away.
And so November rocks on.
Walking by the front of Kroger yesterday - it's 63 degrees, sunny and I'm wearing shorts, mind you - I see employees untying Christmas trees. When I make a comment about it being a tad early, the manager-looking one cracks, "Yea, they're Thanksgiving trees!"
Hardee-har-har.
Tonight I drive out to the
Walking in, the receptionist looks at my outfit and says, "You look like you're from the '80s. I like it!" As I pass by, she calls out, "Rock on!" which is always my intent anyway.
The audience was scattered all throughout the November Theatre (yes, there are November Theatres in every nook and cranny of this town), but I was surprised that as many times as I've been there for these radio shows over the years, this was the first time I'd ever seen someone I know there.
Unfortunately, it was also the first time anyone was foolish enough to bring a toddler who squawked throughout or that someone forgot to turn their cell phone off, meaning the live recording now includes an anachronistic ring tone midway through (something the director usually warns against but he was a first-timer and forgot).
As is only right, both tonight's radio plays had Thanksgiving themes.
1950's "Our Miss Brooks: Thanksgiving Turkey" was about how Miss Brooks tried to plot to get her favorite single man to invite her to turkey dinner (even if she had to pay the $1.50 for her own meal), a dilemma that involved buying a live turkey to save money and then catching it once it got loose in the house.
Favorite line: "Live well in the present. The future ain't never done nothin' for nobody!"
1942's "The Great Gildersleeve: Thanksgiving" was obviously a wartime story with references to gas applications, food shortages and the Ration Board. In it, ten-year old Leroy worried about looking like a sissy in his Pilgrim costume for the school production of "The Courtship of Miles Standish" and cracked a Longfellow joke.
They sure don't make 10-year olds like they used to.
Along the way, the cast did singing commercials for Colgate, Luster Cream shampoo and Parkay margarine, touting it as "a nourishing energy food with Vitamin A, wholesome and economical." They left out the awful tasting part, but in wartime, I guess you take what you can get.
Maybe most interesting to me were the frequent references to having ham for Thanksgiving instead of turkey, a tradition I've never even heard of. Ham for Christmas or Easter, both ham and turkey for those holidays, but just ham on Thanksgiving? Not in my lifetime.
I've long been a fan of OTARP's shows for the glimpse they offer into a time I didn't know - as well as for watching the machinations of a radio play - not to mention the appealing corniness of the commercials. Although tonight's cast had more than their share of muffed lines and lost places in the script, it was still more than worth the price of admission.
But after an hour in the county, I was ready to return to the city for another November tradition: the Cru Beaujolais tasting followed by the post-midnight unveiling of the Beaujolais Nouveau at Amour.
Except, unlike my friend Holmes, I'm not much of a fan of the young, fruity wine, so it was enough to join the regulars at the bar, enjoy a warming bowl of French onion soup and marvel at my first white Beaujolais, Domaine des Nugues Blanc, a lovely acidic wine with a distinct honey taste.
"This would be wonderful with lobster," one of the regulars commented. "Perfect for New Year's Eve. Except we'll probably be here." The owner smiled. I wouldn't be at all surprised to see lobster with this wine on his menu come December 31st.
A woman came in to, as she put it, "drink her dessert" while her son finished up a game of Dungeons and Dragons nearby, so of course we invited her to join our conversation. A New Jersey transplant, she was already madly in love with Richmond after only two years.
When she left to collect her son, it was with regret about leaving our lively political discussion, but she also assured us she'd be back next Wednesday, should we want to further it.
As the hour got later, but still pre-midnight, the many bottles of Cru Beaujolais clustered at the end of the bar were opened as more people arrived looking for their November fix.
After pouring wine in several glasses, the owner stood by the bar, holding the neck of the bottle, whether guarding it or ready to pour more, I can't say for sure.
A female guest looked at his stance and joked, "I work out and I could just grab that bottle from you and run!"
"Grab a wine bottle? Not from a Frenchman!" he responded. Acknowledging the French lock on wine, she didn't bother trying. Meanwhile, I discussed piano moving with an expert - a man who'd moved his three pianos six times - amazed at how many ways there are to move such large objects.
For the first time in years, I didn't stay for the uncorking of the Nouveau (it was a short night last night), instead abdicating my bar stool to a later arrival once I heard there were a dozen reservations on the books for midnight, which was minutes away.
And so November rocks on.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
I Feel the Earth Move
Do not be alarmed if you find yourself struggling to fall asleep tonight, for there could be a perfectly scientific reason for your insomnia. ~ The Telegraph
Although I've never had insomnia, the Supermoon did a royal number on me.
Oh, I went to bed last night at a perfectly reasonable time - midnight - but that moon had no intention of letting me ignore it. I fell asleep immediately, slept for exactly 45 minutes and woke up like someone was calling my name.
According to astrologers, a Supermoon is simply an intensified new moon or full moon - a time to focus on new beginnings.
~ The Telegraph
As I lay there awake for the next three plus hours, it gradually occurred to me that the moon was cutting me no slack. When better to mull over the state of everything - my life, the new world order, the possibilities of the future - than wide awake at 4 a.m.?
Some even see them as omens of impending disaster, or a warning of something momentous coming. ~ The Telegraph
Once I accepted that I wasn't the least bit sleepy and, clearly, I wasn't going to fall back to sleep easily, I gave in to it. I briefly considered turning on the light and returning to my book - Jacqueline Susann's 1966 bestseller, "Valley of the Dolls" where characters with insomnia dealt with it by downing green or yellow "dolls" - but decided that wasn't the point of the Supermoon.
Any full moon - never mind a Supermoon as big as this - has long been seen as having the ability to trigger emotional reactions and extreme behavior. ~ The Telegraph
Today's lingering effects of the Supermoon colored everything that happened to me, from an unexpected purchase to a gallant offer from a stranger to being called fascinating by a person who credited our meeting to that very moon. Extreme, indeed.
But when a Supermoon is involved, these new starts can take on an even more dramatic turn. ~ The Telegraph
Looking at a photograph of the Supermoon rising on Hatteras only confirmed that it was calling my name. Who needs sleep with a moon like that sprinkling its magic over me?
Although I've never had insomnia, the Supermoon did a royal number on me.
Oh, I went to bed last night at a perfectly reasonable time - midnight - but that moon had no intention of letting me ignore it. I fell asleep immediately, slept for exactly 45 minutes and woke up like someone was calling my name.
According to astrologers, a Supermoon is simply an intensified new moon or full moon - a time to focus on new beginnings.
~ The Telegraph
As I lay there awake for the next three plus hours, it gradually occurred to me that the moon was cutting me no slack. When better to mull over the state of everything - my life, the new world order, the possibilities of the future - than wide awake at 4 a.m.?
Some even see them as omens of impending disaster, or a warning of something momentous coming. ~ The Telegraph
Once I accepted that I wasn't the least bit sleepy and, clearly, I wasn't going to fall back to sleep easily, I gave in to it. I briefly considered turning on the light and returning to my book - Jacqueline Susann's 1966 bestseller, "Valley of the Dolls" where characters with insomnia dealt with it by downing green or yellow "dolls" - but decided that wasn't the point of the Supermoon.
Any full moon - never mind a Supermoon as big as this - has long been seen as having the ability to trigger emotional reactions and extreme behavior. ~ The Telegraph
Today's lingering effects of the Supermoon colored everything that happened to me, from an unexpected purchase to a gallant offer from a stranger to being called fascinating by a person who credited our meeting to that very moon. Extreme, indeed.
But when a Supermoon is involved, these new starts can take on an even more dramatic turn. ~ The Telegraph
Looking at a photograph of the Supermoon rising on Hatteras only confirmed that it was calling my name. Who needs sleep with a moon like that sprinkling its magic over me?
Monday, November 14, 2016
Don't Laugh, It Could Happen
And in further post-election news, Film Roasters came through like a champ.
Given that it was Monday and still pouring down rain, I could've stayed in. Except why would I do that when I could walk half a mile, snag a sandwich, see a John Carpenter film and listen to Film Roasters mock it mercilessly?
Apparently not everyone was willing to trudge through all-day puddles for the same, meaning I had little competition for bar stools when I got to Strange Matter in time to overhear the bartender ask the one guy at the bar how he was.
"As well as can be expected for this week," he sighed, signaling his willingness to engage in political talk once I'd ordered my BLAT on wheat with slaw. Turns out he went to school in Arlington with Mike Pence's kids, although he assured me they were pretty normal people.
From there, we took off on a 20-minute analysis of the campaign and election, with a new arrival joining the fray when she sat down. All three of us looked up when the smell of burning began singeing our nose hairs, only to learn from the bartender that she'd just turned on the venue's heat for the fist time this Fall.
"Just burning off the Summer dust," one of the owners said nonchalantly and I couldn't complain since I'd finally broken down and turned mine on today, too. There's definitely a smell to first time use.
I managed to finish my sandwich moments before the screening of John Carpenter's "They Live" got started. As is usually the case with these events, I'd not only never seen the movie, but I hadn't even heard of it.
Still, I have a musician friend who worships at the altar of John Carpenter, as much for his quirky films as for the fact that he writes his own music for them, so I felt sure I could count on a good time and a fine A/V experience.
The pre-show trivia question was about Roddy Piper's real name (Roderick), which was my first clue that the wrestler was in the film, much less that he'd acted in a legit movie back in '88.
Just another gaping hole in my cultural literacy filled tonight.
Film Roasters had chosen the perfect post-election movie because this one was all about dismantling the sleeping middle class, except with an epic 5 1/2 minute alley fight scene I closed my eyes for most of.
So far as I could tell, the film followed a drifter who finds out that humans are being controlled by wearing special sunglasses that not only reveal which people are aliens and which still human, but also give them messages to obey (prompting cracks about Shepard Fairey), spend, consume and, worst of all, marry and procreate when they have them on.
On the way to figuring this out, Roddy takes a job working construction ("Look, they're building a Trump hotel!"), which requires being shirtless like the other guys, causing the Film Roasters guys to comment, "Hey, this is a construction site, not a Playgirl shoot," a particularly apt remark given the film's era.
That was far from the only Trump commentary the guys made ("Meanwhile, on Trump TV...") or even political snark because when we see "They live, we sleep" written on a wall, one guy quips, "That was Hillary's campaign slogan".
Wrestling jokes also abounded (when a guy starts playing the harmonica, Film Roasters joked, "Come and listen to my story 'bout a guy named Hulk Hogan") because they could.
As our hero searches through boxes for the transformative sunglasses, "We'll find that plot around here somewhere!" and when the vaguely familiar face of an extra appeared onscreen, "Hey, is that the kid from "Dawson's Creek?"
Don't ask me. What's "Dawson's Creek?"
As funny and apt as the two Film Roasters guy were, nothing could top John Carpenter's original dialog when our hero stated his mission.
"I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass and I'm all out of bubblegum," Roddy says, shotgun and pistol in hand.
As I already knew from past Film Roasters events, these guys have very limited tolerance for the pacing of pre-21st century movies, whining, "They do everything in this movie too slow!" and any time a character had more than two sentences to say, they'd respond with a yawn and, "Is there a part two to this story?"
When the film referenced the "human power elite," they translated it to, "Republicans!" like it was a dirty word. Wait...
"They Live" ended with Roddy's partner being killed by the pretty girl, so he kills her and shoots out the broadcasting dish that's been brainwashing the masses only moments before the aliens hovering in a helicopter shoot him.
And you know what our hero does as a final gesture? He gives the aliens the finger, that's what, because he knows he's destroyed their means of communication and now humans can see the aliens in their midst without the evil sunglasses.
Success and final satisfaction!
You'd think that would be enough for Carpenter, but, oh, no, there's one more scene, this one with a naked girl having sex cowgirl-style with...an alien, whom she can now see for who he actually is. Film over.
"That's really how it ends!" one of the Film Roasters guys said in amazement.
As the small crowd gathered up their stuff to leave and tonight's metal/punk/crust band began bringing in their instruments for the later show, the other Film Roaster called out merrily.
"Happy post-election, everyone!" Funny, not funny.
Given that it was Monday and still pouring down rain, I could've stayed in. Except why would I do that when I could walk half a mile, snag a sandwich, see a John Carpenter film and listen to Film Roasters mock it mercilessly?
Apparently not everyone was willing to trudge through all-day puddles for the same, meaning I had little competition for bar stools when I got to Strange Matter in time to overhear the bartender ask the one guy at the bar how he was.
"As well as can be expected for this week," he sighed, signaling his willingness to engage in political talk once I'd ordered my BLAT on wheat with slaw. Turns out he went to school in Arlington with Mike Pence's kids, although he assured me they were pretty normal people.
From there, we took off on a 20-minute analysis of the campaign and election, with a new arrival joining the fray when she sat down. All three of us looked up when the smell of burning began singeing our nose hairs, only to learn from the bartender that she'd just turned on the venue's heat for the fist time this Fall.
"Just burning off the Summer dust," one of the owners said nonchalantly and I couldn't complain since I'd finally broken down and turned mine on today, too. There's definitely a smell to first time use.
I managed to finish my sandwich moments before the screening of John Carpenter's "They Live" got started. As is usually the case with these events, I'd not only never seen the movie, but I hadn't even heard of it.
Still, I have a musician friend who worships at the altar of John Carpenter, as much for his quirky films as for the fact that he writes his own music for them, so I felt sure I could count on a good time and a fine A/V experience.
The pre-show trivia question was about Roddy Piper's real name (Roderick), which was my first clue that the wrestler was in the film, much less that he'd acted in a legit movie back in '88.
Just another gaping hole in my cultural literacy filled tonight.
Film Roasters had chosen the perfect post-election movie because this one was all about dismantling the sleeping middle class, except with an epic 5 1/2 minute alley fight scene I closed my eyes for most of.
So far as I could tell, the film followed a drifter who finds out that humans are being controlled by wearing special sunglasses that not only reveal which people are aliens and which still human, but also give them messages to obey (prompting cracks about Shepard Fairey), spend, consume and, worst of all, marry and procreate when they have them on.
On the way to figuring this out, Roddy takes a job working construction ("Look, they're building a Trump hotel!"), which requires being shirtless like the other guys, causing the Film Roasters guys to comment, "Hey, this is a construction site, not a Playgirl shoot," a particularly apt remark given the film's era.
That was far from the only Trump commentary the guys made ("Meanwhile, on Trump TV...") or even political snark because when we see "They live, we sleep" written on a wall, one guy quips, "That was Hillary's campaign slogan".
Wrestling jokes also abounded (when a guy starts playing the harmonica, Film Roasters joked, "Come and listen to my story 'bout a guy named Hulk Hogan") because they could.
As our hero searches through boxes for the transformative sunglasses, "We'll find that plot around here somewhere!" and when the vaguely familiar face of an extra appeared onscreen, "Hey, is that the kid from "Dawson's Creek?"
Don't ask me. What's "Dawson's Creek?"
As funny and apt as the two Film Roasters guy were, nothing could top John Carpenter's original dialog when our hero stated his mission.
"I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass and I'm all out of bubblegum," Roddy says, shotgun and pistol in hand.
As I already knew from past Film Roasters events, these guys have very limited tolerance for the pacing of pre-21st century movies, whining, "They do everything in this movie too slow!" and any time a character had more than two sentences to say, they'd respond with a yawn and, "Is there a part two to this story?"
When the film referenced the "human power elite," they translated it to, "Republicans!" like it was a dirty word. Wait...
"They Live" ended with Roddy's partner being killed by the pretty girl, so he kills her and shoots out the broadcasting dish that's been brainwashing the masses only moments before the aliens hovering in a helicopter shoot him.
And you know what our hero does as a final gesture? He gives the aliens the finger, that's what, because he knows he's destroyed their means of communication and now humans can see the aliens in their midst without the evil sunglasses.
Success and final satisfaction!
You'd think that would be enough for Carpenter, but, oh, no, there's one more scene, this one with a naked girl having sex cowgirl-style with...an alien, whom she can now see for who he actually is. Film over.
"That's really how it ends!" one of the Film Roasters guys said in amazement.
As the small crowd gathered up their stuff to leave and tonight's metal/punk/crust band began bringing in their instruments for the later show, the other Film Roaster called out merrily.
"Happy post-election, everyone!" Funny, not funny.
Life Baked in a Beautiful Pie
Good vibrations must be emanating from the Supermoon.
To help beat the post-election funk some of us are experiencing, No BS Brass Band had scheduled an early show at Plan 9 Records. I made sure to arrive early enough to look for a CD I wanted and before most of the crowd wedged itself into the store.
"Hi, y'all," trombonist Reggie Pace said after the first rousing number. "We want the world to be a great place and this is how we do it."
The crowd steadily grew both inside and along the sidewalk outside as the band played through their set - Aha's "Take On Me" and the requisite "RVA All Day" - and people danced in place.
In between grooving, I wound up sharing my clementine with the toddler being held by her mother next to me. Once she saw what I had, she'd hold out a fat little hand so I could deposit a segment into it (and once in the pocket of her smock, much to her delight) until my fruit was no more.
Her Mom thanked me profusely, but if you can't share your citrus with a babe-in-arms, you're not really trying to make the world a great place, now are you?
The exuberant show ended with Reggie and a lot of us holding up peace signs in the air and hugging each other. Outside on the sidewalk, I paused to talk to friends, hearing the same refrain repeatedly: "I needed that. We needed that."
I was far from the only one at Plan 9 who was then headed down the block to the Byrd to see Jim Jarmusch's new documentary about Iggy Pop and the Stooges, "Gimme Danger" at its sole Richmond screening.
As I'd anticipated, there were scads of friends in the near-capacity crowd and, by some miracle, a favorite couple ended up right next to me shortly before Mike of the James River Film Society spoke.
He said that they'd been trying to get Jarmusch to speak at the James River Film Festival for years, first sending him Virginia peanuts and another year, Virginia bourbon. always with an invitation to come. So far he's only sent thank you postcards, but hope springs eternal.
"No luck yet, but we'll keep working on it," he shared.
I'm a sucker for a good documentary (much less one screened in Surround Sound with a roomful of music lovers) and tonight's delivered with fun facts, rare performance footage and lots of Iggy aka Jim talking about his memories of the past 50 years.
Fact: he was originally inspired by Clarabelle on "Howdy Doody" and Soupy Sales because both characters did anything they wanted to do and that appealed to him.
After starting his musical life as a drummer, he got tired of looking at butts and took over front man duties. When the band added a sax player, he told him he wanted him to sound like Maceo Parker on acid.
I learned we share a similarity when he mentioned his attraction to people who "are in their adulthood who haven't lost their childhood." The kind of person who invented the stage dive when they were opening for Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention ("The best band, in my opinion, we'd opened for at that point").
He spoke about their "big brother band," MC5 and how he remembers when they were just a cover band. There was a show poster with the Stooges and Bob Seeger on the same bill, a seemingly unlikely pairing except for their shared hometown.
What was truly amazing to see was the evolution of his stage performance, which is to say that somehow, he's still performing the acrobatic and contortionist moves he was at 20, still bare-chested (although not bleeding) and nimble as few 70-year olds could even imagine being.
Mostly, the fascinating documentary made a case for Iggy's statement to Dinah Shore on her '70s talk show when she asked about his main accomplishment.
"I helped wipe out the '60s," he said without irony and Jarmusch's film assembled all the vintage footage and interviews to prove it.
Leaving the Byrd, I couldn't help but thank the organizer who'd made sure this film came to Richmond, making for a stellar way to cap off this tumultuous week.
Things were even higher pitched when I arrived at intermission at the Firehouse Theater for the Glapcocks (hilarious anti-awards the theatrical community hands itself) and was greeted by the recent winner of the "most animalistic" award, her glowing green trophy in hand.
More crazy awards followed and after "Most Ghost," co-host Matt (along with leggy co-host Maggie) acknowledged, "We really should sell tickets to the night we come up with all these crazy categories. It's an open bar event." That much was easy to believe and would undoubtedly be well worth the price of admission.
Once awards had been given out, we moved on to a theater kid's favorite event: the theater mannequin challenge. The entire room was instructed to form tableaux with others so that a 360-degree video could be shot of all of us frozen into a mid-action pose.
Don't ask me why. I'm not and never was a theater kid.
"This side of the room looks kind of dead," Annie, the videographer announced, pointing at my side of the room, so, with no shame at all, I turned around and engaged the guy behind me.
I'm here to tell you it was challenging for this non-actor to stare into someone's eyes for the minute-plus it takes to shoot a roomful of people and finally get to me.
The rest of the evening was devoted to singing, at least in the style of the Ghostlight After Parties of old, when actors get up and sing a favorite show tune to a pianist sight-reading the music.
Turns out Ian, whose eyes I'd stared into, had a fabulous voice, while co-host Matt proclaimed another Matt "dreamy" (and simulated oral sex with his microphone to demonstrate just how dreamy) while he sang "I'd Rather Be Sailing."
Kelsey accompanied herself on ukulele to "She Used to Be Mine" from "Waitress, the Musical," crushing the room with her talent.
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone but she used to be mine
A few people attempted a group version of "One Day More," but there were a lot of forgotten lyrics and tepid singing (except for the impressive Ian behind me, who asked rhetorically, "How does no one know these words?") when our host Matt walked back in, saying, "What happened? I leave for five minutes!"
For the traditional singalong finale, we tried Toto's "Africa," but that didn't go so well (and why should millennials know a 40-year old pop song word for word?), so the evening closed out with the always reliable "Season of Love" instead.
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In 525,600 minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
Gorgeous voices knew every nuance of this tune and they were singing in the aisle before it ended with a sustained note. There was no way not to feel the love at the Glapcocks tonight.
As far as this whole Sunday night went, I needed that. We needed that.
To help beat the post-election funk some of us are experiencing, No BS Brass Band had scheduled an early show at Plan 9 Records. I made sure to arrive early enough to look for a CD I wanted and before most of the crowd wedged itself into the store.
"Hi, y'all," trombonist Reggie Pace said after the first rousing number. "We want the world to be a great place and this is how we do it."
The crowd steadily grew both inside and along the sidewalk outside as the band played through their set - Aha's "Take On Me" and the requisite "RVA All Day" - and people danced in place.
In between grooving, I wound up sharing my clementine with the toddler being held by her mother next to me. Once she saw what I had, she'd hold out a fat little hand so I could deposit a segment into it (and once in the pocket of her smock, much to her delight) until my fruit was no more.
Her Mom thanked me profusely, but if you can't share your citrus with a babe-in-arms, you're not really trying to make the world a great place, now are you?
The exuberant show ended with Reggie and a lot of us holding up peace signs in the air and hugging each other. Outside on the sidewalk, I paused to talk to friends, hearing the same refrain repeatedly: "I needed that. We needed that."
I was far from the only one at Plan 9 who was then headed down the block to the Byrd to see Jim Jarmusch's new documentary about Iggy Pop and the Stooges, "Gimme Danger" at its sole Richmond screening.
As I'd anticipated, there were scads of friends in the near-capacity crowd and, by some miracle, a favorite couple ended up right next to me shortly before Mike of the James River Film Society spoke.
He said that they'd been trying to get Jarmusch to speak at the James River Film Festival for years, first sending him Virginia peanuts and another year, Virginia bourbon. always with an invitation to come. So far he's only sent thank you postcards, but hope springs eternal.
"No luck yet, but we'll keep working on it," he shared.
I'm a sucker for a good documentary (much less one screened in Surround Sound with a roomful of music lovers) and tonight's delivered with fun facts, rare performance footage and lots of Iggy aka Jim talking about his memories of the past 50 years.
Fact: he was originally inspired by Clarabelle on "Howdy Doody" and Soupy Sales because both characters did anything they wanted to do and that appealed to him.
After starting his musical life as a drummer, he got tired of looking at butts and took over front man duties. When the band added a sax player, he told him he wanted him to sound like Maceo Parker on acid.
I learned we share a similarity when he mentioned his attraction to people who "are in their adulthood who haven't lost their childhood." The kind of person who invented the stage dive when they were opening for Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention ("The best band, in my opinion, we'd opened for at that point").
He spoke about their "big brother band," MC5 and how he remembers when they were just a cover band. There was a show poster with the Stooges and Bob Seeger on the same bill, a seemingly unlikely pairing except for their shared hometown.
What was truly amazing to see was the evolution of his stage performance, which is to say that somehow, he's still performing the acrobatic and contortionist moves he was at 20, still bare-chested (although not bleeding) and nimble as few 70-year olds could even imagine being.
Mostly, the fascinating documentary made a case for Iggy's statement to Dinah Shore on her '70s talk show when she asked about his main accomplishment.
"I helped wipe out the '60s," he said without irony and Jarmusch's film assembled all the vintage footage and interviews to prove it.
Leaving the Byrd, I couldn't help but thank the organizer who'd made sure this film came to Richmond, making for a stellar way to cap off this tumultuous week.
Things were even higher pitched when I arrived at intermission at the Firehouse Theater for the Glapcocks (hilarious anti-awards the theatrical community hands itself) and was greeted by the recent winner of the "most animalistic" award, her glowing green trophy in hand.
More crazy awards followed and after "Most Ghost," co-host Matt (along with leggy co-host Maggie) acknowledged, "We really should sell tickets to the night we come up with all these crazy categories. It's an open bar event." That much was easy to believe and would undoubtedly be well worth the price of admission.
Once awards had been given out, we moved on to a theater kid's favorite event: the theater mannequin challenge. The entire room was instructed to form tableaux with others so that a 360-degree video could be shot of all of us frozen into a mid-action pose.
Don't ask me why. I'm not and never was a theater kid.
"This side of the room looks kind of dead," Annie, the videographer announced, pointing at my side of the room, so, with no shame at all, I turned around and engaged the guy behind me.
I'm here to tell you it was challenging for this non-actor to stare into someone's eyes for the minute-plus it takes to shoot a roomful of people and finally get to me.
The rest of the evening was devoted to singing, at least in the style of the Ghostlight After Parties of old, when actors get up and sing a favorite show tune to a pianist sight-reading the music.
Turns out Ian, whose eyes I'd stared into, had a fabulous voice, while co-host Matt proclaimed another Matt "dreamy" (and simulated oral sex with his microphone to demonstrate just how dreamy) while he sang "I'd Rather Be Sailing."
Kelsey accompanied herself on ukulele to "She Used to Be Mine" from "Waitress, the Musical," crushing the room with her talent.
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone but she used to be mine
A few people attempted a group version of "One Day More," but there were a lot of forgotten lyrics and tepid singing (except for the impressive Ian behind me, who asked rhetorically, "How does no one know these words?") when our host Matt walked back in, saying, "What happened? I leave for five minutes!"
For the traditional singalong finale, we tried Toto's "Africa," but that didn't go so well (and why should millennials know a 40-year old pop song word for word?), so the evening closed out with the always reliable "Season of Love" instead.
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In 525,600 minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
Gorgeous voices knew every nuance of this tune and they were singing in the aisle before it ended with a sustained note. There was no way not to feel the love at the Glapcocks tonight.
As far as this whole Sunday night went, I needed that. We needed that.
Sunday, November 13, 2016
I Wanna Be On Your Mind
The man in the preacher hat summed up my evening. "Lydia Loveless is up next. I love getting to say that. What a Saturday night!"
It was indeed a Saturday night I won't soon forget.
Back during the halcyon days of summer, I'd bought a $12 ticket to see Lydia at the Southern in Charlottesville and tonight a favorite couple came by to scoop me up and ferry me there.
Our first stop was Public Fish & Oyster, where we encountered a full house and no availability until 9:30 unless we were willing to sit on the patio.
I had only one question and the answer was yes, they had heaters out there, so we joined a growing group of poor planners like ourselves to eat dinner outside on the coldest evening in months.
Cozying up to a heater and with a borrowed blanket from the restaurant that shared the patio (honestly, we thought the blankets were Public's), we managed quite nicely, thank you.
Food-wise, we were in high cotton. From the blackboard offerings of East coast oysters, we had the two saltiest bivalves: PEI's Canada Cups and Rhode Island's Beaver Tails, the former the briniest and thus my fave.
When our affable server Cameron warned us that there were only two orders left of tonight's special, I immediately reserved one because how often does a person get offered wolf fish cheeks with remoulade, vinegary cucumber slices, jalapeno hush puppies and corn on the cob, all on the same plate?
Just to be sure, I also got fried brussels sprouts with a stellar apple slaw (even though brussels had a superfluous apostrophe on the menu and menu mistakes like that grate on this reader's eye), tasted a damn fine clam chowder and politely declined rockfish because I was full (room was found for chocolate torte, but that's a different story).
Over dinner, my hatted friend shared that she'd heard from long-time friends - a couple in Madison County also en route to tonight's show - who'd started today by making a fire, laying in bed and listening to Lydia's new album on vinyl.
If there could be a finer start to a day...well, I'm listening.
By the time we rolled out, the patio was completely full and the temperature had dropped ten degrees. November, you can be unpleasant.
But the Southern was as warm and toasty as the name suggests and we arrived early enough that the doors hadn't yet opened, so when they did, we bolted to claim spaces on the raised seating that surrounds the poles in the room.
It's not my first Southern rodeo by any stretch and I know those structures make fine places to stand once things get crowded.
The musician in our group immediately commented on the '70s-era drum kit onstage (the bass drum had a picture of Paul Lynde on it), the abundance of guitars (Fenders, Gibsons and a Silvertone) and had an epiphany when he spotted the Fender amps ("That's why the guitar tones sound so good on the record!").
We were amazed that the show wasn't sold out or even close to it, although it was at least diverse with everything from UVA students to plenty of Baby Boomers and skewing heavily male. Our collective opinion was that it would've sold out in Richmond.
Opener Aaron Lee Tasjan came out looking like a 21st century Hazel Moates - or at least that was our take after seeing "Wise Blood" last night - in a cream-colored "preacher's hat" over long, straight hair, a dried blood-colored jacket, a black shirt buttoned all the way up and tight pants, accompanied by Brian from Waco, a superb guitar player.
They give you loose gravel and call it rock steady
Explaining that in Omaha, someone had given him a napkin full of acid, he said he'd gone home, taken it and written four folk rock songs, including one called "Little Movies," which didn't have a particularly folk-like bent, but was a solid song anyway. Ditto "Memphis Rain"
One of these days I'm gonna lose my mind
Can't wait to see what that helps me find
His songs were smart and literate (how often do you hear a reference to poet laureate Phillip Levine?) and sometimes just plain clever, like "Twelve Bar Blues" about 12 different bars, comparing their strengths and weaknesses.
When an annoying woman right up front began trying to get his attention, he told her, "Don't start with me. It's been a long week and I smell terrible and you don't want what I got."
Always believe a man in a preacher hat.
Aaron and Brian closed out by rocking hard to "Success" before Aaron rhapsodized about how fortunate we were to be spending Saturday night with Lydia Loveless.
Duly noted.
The stage was reset for the headliners, PBRs were placed at each station and the band came out. Lydia's look said it all: a coonskin hat, a red plaid sweater, fur-lined boots and silvery blue eye shadow and her first words - "Illustrious intro here. Hello!" - said the rest.
"It's hard to feel rock and roll in a sweater, so I opted not to wear pants, just tights because I live in a van." I'm guessing that despite that, she didn't smell as terrible as Aaron claimed he did, but I have no proof of that.
Besides, odor issues aside, her leather guitar strap with her name burned into it was totally badass. And the woman has a voice that rivals Neko Case's for purity, nuance and my willingness to listen to absolutely anything she's singing.
After beginning with the provocative "European," they moved on to the bruised emotions of "To Love Somebody" as the smell of weed permeated the air, making us wonder how that even happens in a public place.
With "Real," she mined the authenticity of her past and the honesty of that hardest of goals - successful relationships - and by that point, there were enough tall people in front of us that it was time to stand on our seats. From that perch, we had a terrific view of Lydia and the four musicians with her, all of whom looked markedly older.
The bassist was a hair flipper, constantly whipping his long, curly hair to and fro and the guitarist on the right was a major showboater with his low-slung guitar and trucker's hat, constantly seeking the spotlight, while the drummer just did his job and other guitarist wowed on 12 string and pedal steel.
"Enough of the rock and roll shenanigans. It gets a little out of control," Lydia announced, stating the obvious. "Let's just play some nice peaceful songs." That's how we got to hear the more low key "Midwestern Guys."
The band exited so we could experience just Lydia and her guitar and, in many ways, it was the truest and most captivating way to hear songs such as "Out on Love" and "Verlaine Shot Rimbaud." Apparently being home-schooled makes you capable of such literary lyric-writing.
When she did "More Like Them," my thoughts naturally went to the couple whose day had started with a roaring fire and vinyl. In Lydia's words, why can't I be more like them?
She wasn't a big talker between songs, but late in the set, she shared that two months in a van with four guys and too much testosterone was wearing on her, along with "electing a misogynist this week so there's a black cloud around us all..." and then some idiot yelled out a song request and she finished by saying, "...and people telling you what song to sing in the middle of a sentence."
The band returned and she sarcastically said they were going to do "the hit single from our smash record," to which the less annoying guitarist asked, "Which one?"
"The one that bought your house, your second house," she said, launching into the melancholy "Longer," in which her voice may or may not sound like vintage Shelby Lynne (a reference only Baby Boomers will get), bending almost to the point of breaking before soaring again.
The brief encore was just Lydia and her guitar and our dream evening bubble popped.
I scrambled onstage and snagged the set list as a souvenir. All three of us walked out of there enthralled with what we'd just heard, amazed at what $12 had bought us and sorry that Lydia hadn't gotten the full house she deserved.
We, on the other hand, got the best Saturday night imaginable. Amen, preacher man.
It was indeed a Saturday night I won't soon forget.
Back during the halcyon days of summer, I'd bought a $12 ticket to see Lydia at the Southern in Charlottesville and tonight a favorite couple came by to scoop me up and ferry me there.
Our first stop was Public Fish & Oyster, where we encountered a full house and no availability until 9:30 unless we were willing to sit on the patio.
I had only one question and the answer was yes, they had heaters out there, so we joined a growing group of poor planners like ourselves to eat dinner outside on the coldest evening in months.
Cozying up to a heater and with a borrowed blanket from the restaurant that shared the patio (honestly, we thought the blankets were Public's), we managed quite nicely, thank you.
Food-wise, we were in high cotton. From the blackboard offerings of East coast oysters, we had the two saltiest bivalves: PEI's Canada Cups and Rhode Island's Beaver Tails, the former the briniest and thus my fave.
When our affable server Cameron warned us that there were only two orders left of tonight's special, I immediately reserved one because how often does a person get offered wolf fish cheeks with remoulade, vinegary cucumber slices, jalapeno hush puppies and corn on the cob, all on the same plate?
Just to be sure, I also got fried brussels sprouts with a stellar apple slaw (even though brussels had a superfluous apostrophe on the menu and menu mistakes like that grate on this reader's eye), tasted a damn fine clam chowder and politely declined rockfish because I was full (room was found for chocolate torte, but that's a different story).
Over dinner, my hatted friend shared that she'd heard from long-time friends - a couple in Madison County also en route to tonight's show - who'd started today by making a fire, laying in bed and listening to Lydia's new album on vinyl.
If there could be a finer start to a day...well, I'm listening.
By the time we rolled out, the patio was completely full and the temperature had dropped ten degrees. November, you can be unpleasant.
But the Southern was as warm and toasty as the name suggests and we arrived early enough that the doors hadn't yet opened, so when they did, we bolted to claim spaces on the raised seating that surrounds the poles in the room.
It's not my first Southern rodeo by any stretch and I know those structures make fine places to stand once things get crowded.
The musician in our group immediately commented on the '70s-era drum kit onstage (the bass drum had a picture of Paul Lynde on it), the abundance of guitars (Fenders, Gibsons and a Silvertone) and had an epiphany when he spotted the Fender amps ("That's why the guitar tones sound so good on the record!").
We were amazed that the show wasn't sold out or even close to it, although it was at least diverse with everything from UVA students to plenty of Baby Boomers and skewing heavily male. Our collective opinion was that it would've sold out in Richmond.
Opener Aaron Lee Tasjan came out looking like a 21st century Hazel Moates - or at least that was our take after seeing "Wise Blood" last night - in a cream-colored "preacher's hat" over long, straight hair, a dried blood-colored jacket, a black shirt buttoned all the way up and tight pants, accompanied by Brian from Waco, a superb guitar player.
They give you loose gravel and call it rock steady
Explaining that in Omaha, someone had given him a napkin full of acid, he said he'd gone home, taken it and written four folk rock songs, including one called "Little Movies," which didn't have a particularly folk-like bent, but was a solid song anyway. Ditto "Memphis Rain"
One of these days I'm gonna lose my mind
Can't wait to see what that helps me find
His songs were smart and literate (how often do you hear a reference to poet laureate Phillip Levine?) and sometimes just plain clever, like "Twelve Bar Blues" about 12 different bars, comparing their strengths and weaknesses.
When an annoying woman right up front began trying to get his attention, he told her, "Don't start with me. It's been a long week and I smell terrible and you don't want what I got."
Always believe a man in a preacher hat.
Aaron and Brian closed out by rocking hard to "Success" before Aaron rhapsodized about how fortunate we were to be spending Saturday night with Lydia Loveless.
Duly noted.
The stage was reset for the headliners, PBRs were placed at each station and the band came out. Lydia's look said it all: a coonskin hat, a red plaid sweater, fur-lined boots and silvery blue eye shadow and her first words - "Illustrious intro here. Hello!" - said the rest.
"It's hard to feel rock and roll in a sweater, so I opted not to wear pants, just tights because I live in a van." I'm guessing that despite that, she didn't smell as terrible as Aaron claimed he did, but I have no proof of that.
Besides, odor issues aside, her leather guitar strap with her name burned into it was totally badass. And the woman has a voice that rivals Neko Case's for purity, nuance and my willingness to listen to absolutely anything she's singing.
After beginning with the provocative "European," they moved on to the bruised emotions of "To Love Somebody" as the smell of weed permeated the air, making us wonder how that even happens in a public place.
With "Real," she mined the authenticity of her past and the honesty of that hardest of goals - successful relationships - and by that point, there were enough tall people in front of us that it was time to stand on our seats. From that perch, we had a terrific view of Lydia and the four musicians with her, all of whom looked markedly older.
The bassist was a hair flipper, constantly whipping his long, curly hair to and fro and the guitarist on the right was a major showboater with his low-slung guitar and trucker's hat, constantly seeking the spotlight, while the drummer just did his job and other guitarist wowed on 12 string and pedal steel.
"Enough of the rock and roll shenanigans. It gets a little out of control," Lydia announced, stating the obvious. "Let's just play some nice peaceful songs." That's how we got to hear the more low key "Midwestern Guys."
The band exited so we could experience just Lydia and her guitar and, in many ways, it was the truest and most captivating way to hear songs such as "Out on Love" and "Verlaine Shot Rimbaud." Apparently being home-schooled makes you capable of such literary lyric-writing.
When she did "More Like Them," my thoughts naturally went to the couple whose day had started with a roaring fire and vinyl. In Lydia's words, why can't I be more like them?
She wasn't a big talker between songs, but late in the set, she shared that two months in a van with four guys and too much testosterone was wearing on her, along with "electing a misogynist this week so there's a black cloud around us all..." and then some idiot yelled out a song request and she finished by saying, "...and people telling you what song to sing in the middle of a sentence."
The band returned and she sarcastically said they were going to do "the hit single from our smash record," to which the less annoying guitarist asked, "Which one?"
"The one that bought your house, your second house," she said, launching into the melancholy "Longer," in which her voice may or may not sound like vintage Shelby Lynne (a reference only Baby Boomers will get), bending almost to the point of breaking before soaring again.
The brief encore was just Lydia and her guitar and our dream evening bubble popped.
I scrambled onstage and snagged the set list as a souvenir. All three of us walked out of there enthralled with what we'd just heard, amazed at what $12 had bought us and sorry that Lydia hadn't gotten the full house she deserved.
We, on the other hand, got the best Saturday night imaginable. Amen, preacher man.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
A Woman Following the Moon
My evening mirrored the week, both absurd and with a reminder that what is good abides.
After taking care of my hired mouth with dinner, Mac and I battled I-95 Friday evening traffic and VCU basketball traffic jams to get to the Bijou to see John Huston's "Wise Blood."
As one of the Bijou's co-founders said when I admitted I'd never seen the film, "This is a movie for people like you," meaning people who are still trying to fill in gaps in their film viewing history and people willing to wait for a chance to see them on the big screen.
And, yes, I'd read the story, both in college and again 10 years ago, and here was this film geek telling me that the film lived up to the source material. I was there to discover that for myself.
Ditto for the guy in the row behind us from Raleigh, in town for tomorrow's marathon, who'd googled things to do in Richmond tonight and shown up to join us locals for a couple of hours of southern Gothic through a late '70s filter, courtesy of a directorial master like Huston.
Talk about your killer off-kilter movies.
And oh-so politically incorrect. The "n-word" was used as liberally as salt at my parents' dinner table, in a way that seemed shocking for 1979. Quaintly dated, too, like when the Hazel Moates character kept telling people, "I'm obliged" as a way of saying thank you.
Flannery O'Conner's dialog sounded as southern and descriptive as her books. I mean, when's the last time you heard someone's hair described as "so thin it looked like ham gravy trickling down her skull"?
First off, you've got to know what ham gravy is and looks like to even get a laugh out of that. Coincidentally, Mac and I had just been discussing sausage gravy on the way to dinner (and how Anthony Bourdain's recipe for it is an affront to southerners everywhere). But I digress.
Ned Beatty's lavender leisure suit was bad enough, but when you add in the red and pink floral tie, red and white striped shirt, white Stetson and white shoes, it was like the costume designer threw up on him and called it a day.
Add in the requisite '70s details - S & H Green Stamp stores, women in public in pink sponge curlers and a kid wearing a knit cap with the words, "Can you dig it?" - to the fully-formed and totally bizarre characters and I felt more like I was watching an early long-lost David Lynch or Tarantino movie, full of odd moments and even weirder people saying totally unexpected things.
Which is all a roundabout way of saying that James was absolutely correct and that it was most definitely a movie for people like me. And Mac...and the guy from Raleigh. No one shows up for a film like "Wise Blood" accidentally.
Once we left there, we made the inevitable trek westward ho to become part of the mass of humanity in Scott's Addition with all the usual Friday night brewery crowds piled on top of this year's InLight extravaganza.
I've only missed one year of the annual event (best excuse ever: I was in Italy for two weeks) because the combination of artistic endeavor combined with the inevitability of stumbling over (hey, with no street lights on, it was dark) scores of familiar faces make InLight feel like a big community shindig and who doesn't need one of those this week?
Along the way, we met up with Bruno awaiting us on a corner and Foto Boy - camera, lens and tripod in hand, whom Mac summoned via the magic of texting after I provided her his phone number - in the middle of a darkened street.
The good news is how much more spread out the installations were than they've been in some past years and the bad news was the north wind which seemed to sweep down the streets unabated, knocking over signage and destroying elements (one installation began with 54 balloons for the 54 corners in Scott's Addition and by the time we saw it, there were seven left - balloons, not corners, that is).
As in the past few years of InLight, I felt there were a few too many straight-forward projections for my taste (as was a particularly video game-like piece).
Far more interesting to me were installations such as Bob Kaputo's "Cold and Overcast Day 2016," a sepia-toned rectangular light box with images inside projected out and the sound of kinetic energy emanating from it. The artist likened the sound to that of brain synapses, a notion that made sense watching it.
Looking at Leigh Suggs' phosphorescent map of Richmond, Bruno said he better understood Church Hill by seeing it laid out without street names.
As I stood there admiring it and trying to locate my street and neighborhood, from behind me I heard Foto Boy knowingly saying, "Karen loves her maps." She sure does, as he's learned from nearly 8 years of friendship.
I stopped in my tracks when I spotted Rob Carter's "Sun City," Mac's favorite, the black and white images of a Spanish city changing over time, a visual feat accomplished with time lapse images of architecture, history and possibility. So much more than just a projection.
Art on Wheels DIY take on Lite Brite (soda bottles full of colored water you could arrange in a grid to form images) seemed to most delight the generation that grew up on the game, but all of us found it to be an exceptionally clever idea.
Walking through the garage of a lofts building, we encountered a series of framed "clouds" captured in glass, visible on both sides and Foto Boy wasted no time in positioning me, telling me where to look and shooting away. I appreciate that he makes me look good and he appreciates that I give him photo credit if I post his work. Win-win.
"Somebody's got some powerful projectors," a musician friend jokingly observed as we paused to look up at a magnificent tableaux in the sky: the nearly full moon on one side of the glowing red WTVR tower and a huge crescent of cirro-cumulus clouds on the other.
I'm obliged for a Friday evening with such lovely distractions after a week that has worn on even the most optimistic of us.
After taking care of my hired mouth with dinner, Mac and I battled I-95 Friday evening traffic and VCU basketball traffic jams to get to the Bijou to see John Huston's "Wise Blood."
As one of the Bijou's co-founders said when I admitted I'd never seen the film, "This is a movie for people like you," meaning people who are still trying to fill in gaps in their film viewing history and people willing to wait for a chance to see them on the big screen.
And, yes, I'd read the story, both in college and again 10 years ago, and here was this film geek telling me that the film lived up to the source material. I was there to discover that for myself.
Ditto for the guy in the row behind us from Raleigh, in town for tomorrow's marathon, who'd googled things to do in Richmond tonight and shown up to join us locals for a couple of hours of southern Gothic through a late '70s filter, courtesy of a directorial master like Huston.
Talk about your killer off-kilter movies.
And oh-so politically incorrect. The "n-word" was used as liberally as salt at my parents' dinner table, in a way that seemed shocking for 1979. Quaintly dated, too, like when the Hazel Moates character kept telling people, "I'm obliged" as a way of saying thank you.
Flannery O'Conner's dialog sounded as southern and descriptive as her books. I mean, when's the last time you heard someone's hair described as "so thin it looked like ham gravy trickling down her skull"?
First off, you've got to know what ham gravy is and looks like to even get a laugh out of that. Coincidentally, Mac and I had just been discussing sausage gravy on the way to dinner (and how Anthony Bourdain's recipe for it is an affront to southerners everywhere). But I digress.
Ned Beatty's lavender leisure suit was bad enough, but when you add in the red and pink floral tie, red and white striped shirt, white Stetson and white shoes, it was like the costume designer threw up on him and called it a day.
Add in the requisite '70s details - S & H Green Stamp stores, women in public in pink sponge curlers and a kid wearing a knit cap with the words, "Can you dig it?" - to the fully-formed and totally bizarre characters and I felt more like I was watching an early long-lost David Lynch or Tarantino movie, full of odd moments and even weirder people saying totally unexpected things.
Which is all a roundabout way of saying that James was absolutely correct and that it was most definitely a movie for people like me. And Mac...and the guy from Raleigh. No one shows up for a film like "Wise Blood" accidentally.
Once we left there, we made the inevitable trek westward ho to become part of the mass of humanity in Scott's Addition with all the usual Friday night brewery crowds piled on top of this year's InLight extravaganza.
I've only missed one year of the annual event (best excuse ever: I was in Italy for two weeks) because the combination of artistic endeavor combined with the inevitability of stumbling over (hey, with no street lights on, it was dark) scores of familiar faces make InLight feel like a big community shindig and who doesn't need one of those this week?
Along the way, we met up with Bruno awaiting us on a corner and Foto Boy - camera, lens and tripod in hand, whom Mac summoned via the magic of texting after I provided her his phone number - in the middle of a darkened street.
The good news is how much more spread out the installations were than they've been in some past years and the bad news was the north wind which seemed to sweep down the streets unabated, knocking over signage and destroying elements (one installation began with 54 balloons for the 54 corners in Scott's Addition and by the time we saw it, there were seven left - balloons, not corners, that is).
As in the past few years of InLight, I felt there were a few too many straight-forward projections for my taste (as was a particularly video game-like piece).
Far more interesting to me were installations such as Bob Kaputo's "Cold and Overcast Day 2016," a sepia-toned rectangular light box with images inside projected out and the sound of kinetic energy emanating from it. The artist likened the sound to that of brain synapses, a notion that made sense watching it.
Looking at Leigh Suggs' phosphorescent map of Richmond, Bruno said he better understood Church Hill by seeing it laid out without street names.
As I stood there admiring it and trying to locate my street and neighborhood, from behind me I heard Foto Boy knowingly saying, "Karen loves her maps." She sure does, as he's learned from nearly 8 years of friendship.
I stopped in my tracks when I spotted Rob Carter's "Sun City," Mac's favorite, the black and white images of a Spanish city changing over time, a visual feat accomplished with time lapse images of architecture, history and possibility. So much more than just a projection.
Art on Wheels DIY take on Lite Brite (soda bottles full of colored water you could arrange in a grid to form images) seemed to most delight the generation that grew up on the game, but all of us found it to be an exceptionally clever idea.
Walking through the garage of a lofts building, we encountered a series of framed "clouds" captured in glass, visible on both sides and Foto Boy wasted no time in positioning me, telling me where to look and shooting away. I appreciate that he makes me look good and he appreciates that I give him photo credit if I post his work. Win-win.
"Somebody's got some powerful projectors," a musician friend jokingly observed as we paused to look up at a magnificent tableaux in the sky: the nearly full moon on one side of the glowing red WTVR tower and a huge crescent of cirro-cumulus clouds on the other.
I'm obliged for a Friday evening with such lovely distractions after a week that has worn on even the most optimistic of us.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Venting, the New Normal
Star log: Day two of bizarre new world order.
Nothing could have made me happier than Mac messaging me shortly after I woke up asking if I wanted company on my walk today. I sure did and I knew just the route I wanted to take: over the Lee bridge.
I needed an uplift, literally and figuratively, and walking over the Belle Isle-spanning bridge provides just that. There's something about being that high over the river - distinctively deep blue today - and looking down on the treetops, shed rooves and railroad tracks that provides a bit of necessary perspective.
The river still shimmers in the sunlight, the loaded coal trains continue to chug eastward and from up there, nothing reflects the seismic shift in our lives. We spent well over five miles railing against an outcome we hadn't even considered, sharing with each other the tidbits we'd read and seen to compare notes.
"Thanks for letting me vent!" she said, hand on my shoulder in appreciation, after we finished vilifying all the stupid white people who'd swept this badly-coiffed reality star into our lives for the foreseeable future.
Her only regret was that I hadn't told her to bring money so we could stop at Sweet Fix and soothe our bruised hearts and minds with sugar.
My pleasure principle was exercised tonight at In Your Ear Studio for an evening involving two of my best uses for time: music and conversation. I'd have been there sooner but I'd mistakenly gone to Sound of Music (and not even the current location, but the former one on Broad Street) instead.
Fortunately for me, I have no problem asking strangers for assistance.
When I asked the two guys in the nearby Afrikanna shop for help, they both had ties to the musical community and pointed me in the direction of Shockoe Bottom instead. I didn't bother pointing out that I'd actually been there before, so I really should've known better.
Walking up to the studio, I was joined by a bartender friend and political junkie who immediately asked if I was ready to discuss the election. In a meaningful in-depth way, you mean? Not sure that I am.
The moment we were inside, we were directed to the studio doors that blocked us from where Yeni Nostalji had just begun their set of '60s Turkish covers and original songs. Lead singer Christina looked like a sultry '60s songstress in a tight black dress with the shoulders cut out and her long dark hair swept to the side, the better to cascade down one shoulder.
After the songs, she'd explain the Turkish lyrics and one involved a warning about how if you loved a woman, she was like a rose and if you love roses, you have to put up with the thorns.
"Amen!" one of her bandmates observed, although I won't say whether it was Vlad (he of the superb guitar faces) or Rey (stylishly '60s attired and a master on maracas) who recognized the wisdom of the translation.
For all I know, all the men in the room did.
Their set was only five songs long, but it was especially cool for me because as many times as I've seen this band, tonight I got to watch a lot of other people who hadn't seen them before and were blown away.
In fact, afterward, during the conversation and mingling part of the evening, I talked to the sound guy who laid it out. "I record all these shows, but it's always amazing when a band is this good and this easy and I just get to watch and appreciate."
The two of us spent a good amount of our social time talking about music, finding your life's passion and how it's the people in your life that matter, not dwelling on the potential horror of what may go wrong in the years to come until 2020.
The Man About Town introduced me to a young writer from VCU and we three did some medium-deep ruminating on what might change for women over the next four years.
Unlike me, she's never known a world where she didn't have certain protections as well as services available to her and I sensed that because of that, she wasn't nearly as worried about loss as I was.
I also met a copywriter, a whole different beast than what I am, but a person with an appreciation for words, written contact and a new fan of Yeni Nostlaji. Like me, he'd been happy to hear Christina say they were working on a new record of all-original music (and just as charmed when she said they were on "social media," purposely using finger quotes)
As I was walking out, it occurred to me how really lucky I am that I'd been invited to hear this gorgeous music in this acoustically-perfect room on this still-shaky night. Only a few familiar faces, but so much positive energy being given off.
My final stop was at Lucy's for dinner witha duo of Democrats a man and his sister-in-law a chef and an editor two steak eaters already embroiled in discussion of what has just happened to our country.
W agreed that surely one upside to all this turmoil will be a return to political activism on a wider level and more grass roots organization to address issues within our system.
Hoping to order something fast, I chose mussels in a broth of smoked paprika butter, garlic and white wine, but it was the one-two salt bomb of capers and crispy fried shallots on top followed by chocolate mousse with fresh whipped cream that gave me faith in sunny tomorrows to come.
If there's a silver lining to having to deal with this nasty business, it's that I've adjusted to several very difficult things in my life, often alone, and at least this time, I'm in it with my friends and community.
Is it too soon to start singing "We Shall Overcome?"
Nothing could have made me happier than Mac messaging me shortly after I woke up asking if I wanted company on my walk today. I sure did and I knew just the route I wanted to take: over the Lee bridge.
I needed an uplift, literally and figuratively, and walking over the Belle Isle-spanning bridge provides just that. There's something about being that high over the river - distinctively deep blue today - and looking down on the treetops, shed rooves and railroad tracks that provides a bit of necessary perspective.
The river still shimmers in the sunlight, the loaded coal trains continue to chug eastward and from up there, nothing reflects the seismic shift in our lives. We spent well over five miles railing against an outcome we hadn't even considered, sharing with each other the tidbits we'd read and seen to compare notes.
"Thanks for letting me vent!" she said, hand on my shoulder in appreciation, after we finished vilifying all the stupid white people who'd swept this badly-coiffed reality star into our lives for the foreseeable future.
Her only regret was that I hadn't told her to bring money so we could stop at Sweet Fix and soothe our bruised hearts and minds with sugar.
My pleasure principle was exercised tonight at In Your Ear Studio for an evening involving two of my best uses for time: music and conversation. I'd have been there sooner but I'd mistakenly gone to Sound of Music (and not even the current location, but the former one on Broad Street) instead.
Fortunately for me, I have no problem asking strangers for assistance.
When I asked the two guys in the nearby Afrikanna shop for help, they both had ties to the musical community and pointed me in the direction of Shockoe Bottom instead. I didn't bother pointing out that I'd actually been there before, so I really should've known better.
Walking up to the studio, I was joined by a bartender friend and political junkie who immediately asked if I was ready to discuss the election. In a meaningful in-depth way, you mean? Not sure that I am.
The moment we were inside, we were directed to the studio doors that blocked us from where Yeni Nostalji had just begun their set of '60s Turkish covers and original songs. Lead singer Christina looked like a sultry '60s songstress in a tight black dress with the shoulders cut out and her long dark hair swept to the side, the better to cascade down one shoulder.
After the songs, she'd explain the Turkish lyrics and one involved a warning about how if you loved a woman, she was like a rose and if you love roses, you have to put up with the thorns.
"Amen!" one of her bandmates observed, although I won't say whether it was Vlad (he of the superb guitar faces) or Rey (stylishly '60s attired and a master on maracas) who recognized the wisdom of the translation.
For all I know, all the men in the room did.
Their set was only five songs long, but it was especially cool for me because as many times as I've seen this band, tonight I got to watch a lot of other people who hadn't seen them before and were blown away.
In fact, afterward, during the conversation and mingling part of the evening, I talked to the sound guy who laid it out. "I record all these shows, but it's always amazing when a band is this good and this easy and I just get to watch and appreciate."
The two of us spent a good amount of our social time talking about music, finding your life's passion and how it's the people in your life that matter, not dwelling on the potential horror of what may go wrong in the years to come until 2020.
The Man About Town introduced me to a young writer from VCU and we three did some medium-deep ruminating on what might change for women over the next four years.
Unlike me, she's never known a world where she didn't have certain protections as well as services available to her and I sensed that because of that, she wasn't nearly as worried about loss as I was.
I also met a copywriter, a whole different beast than what I am, but a person with an appreciation for words, written contact and a new fan of Yeni Nostlaji. Like me, he'd been happy to hear Christina say they were working on a new record of all-original music (and just as charmed when she said they were on "social media," purposely using finger quotes)
As I was walking out, it occurred to me how really lucky I am that I'd been invited to hear this gorgeous music in this acoustically-perfect room on this still-shaky night. Only a few familiar faces, but so much positive energy being given off.
My final stop was at Lucy's for dinner with
W agreed that surely one upside to all this turmoil will be a return to political activism on a wider level and more grass roots organization to address issues within our system.
Hoping to order something fast, I chose mussels in a broth of smoked paprika butter, garlic and white wine, but it was the one-two salt bomb of capers and crispy fried shallots on top followed by chocolate mousse with fresh whipped cream that gave me faith in sunny tomorrows to come.
If there's a silver lining to having to deal with this nasty business, it's that I've adjusted to several very difficult things in my life, often alone, and at least this time, I'm in it with my friends and community.
Is it too soon to start singing "We Shall Overcome?"
Broken in a Complex Kind of a Way
The election of Donald Trump can be traced directly back to one thing: bad parenting.
If this election proves nothing else, it's that fully half the country lost sight of the absolute necessity for role-modeling for current and successive generations, or how else could they have willingly gotten behind a candidate who bullies and demeans women, gropes them and mocks the disabled, seeks out revenge and belittles those who disagree with him?
After much consideration, I have to assume that they must have been raised by wolves rather than by mindful parents aware of how their actions - public, private and political - would be read by young minds as an endorsement of an abominable man.
In these times of diminishing attention spans, fear of missing out and complete self-absorption, our new reality is that few have the desire or energy to worry about how their actions as a parent will resonate in the decades to come with the children who witnessed them.
Let's face it, the major challenge of being a parent is that it's a 24/7 role for a minimum of 18 years. Apparently we're no longer a culture that makes that kind of commitment to anything, even future generations.
Because it's 18 years of always crossing the street at the corner with the traffic light so that kids learn that it's not acceptable to break the rules simply because no one's looking. It's 18 years of not using foul language in front of children lest they think it's an acceptable form of expression. Eighteen years of always considering how what you do and say will mark the people you're raising.
Bottom line? Parenting is inconvenient and requires an inordinate amount of selflessness and who's got that to spare anymore?
That this has become the norm is the true crime here.
I can not believe that any parent who voted for Trump took into consideration the damaging message they were sending to their children by choosing this man, by treating him as worthy to run, much less lead or represent this country to the rest of the world.
We've shown future generations that a sociopath with no more credentials than a string of failed businesses, half a dozen bankruptcies and a reality show is good enough.
The bar has been lowered so far that it becomes inevitable that future candidates will also climb out of some primordial ooze with an entitled attitude and misogynist bent while no one bats an eye.
I thought yesterday was difficult because of the tension and worry of election day, but in retrospect, yesterday was a walk in Byrd Park compared to the reality of today's headlines. No one I know seems to have a handle on how to process it.
From my best friend in Texas who I'm trying to lure to Richmond...
WTF!!! How did this happen??? The morons who elected this egomaniacal ass wipe just did a grave disservice to our country and the world. It may be Canada instead of VA.
From my Mom, who's voted Democratic in every election since Adlai Stevenson...
I am past worried. I am stunned, appalled and every negative thing you can think of. Can you imagine him at state dinner or a meeting of world leaders where he can't just lay down the law as he did as a CEO? And what is going to happen to his supporters when he can't deliver the pie in the sky things he promised? Utter chaos.
From a smart musician friend looking for answers...
What a morning. Oh, I should probably check out your blog for enlightenment. Oh, nothing new yet. Understandable.
From Coalition Comedy Thetaer...
Free shows all this weekend. It's the very, very least we could do. We woke up to a bizarre reality this morning. We're offering the people of RVA a consolation; a much-needed distraction from the weird times we're trudging through. Let's take a break this weekend and just laugh, OK?
Given the state of the day, I felt grateful to already have plans to laugh with like-minded friends - three good people bound to be as dazed about this outcome as I felt - first for a killer dinner at L'Opossum (the foie gras! the oysters in absinthe fog! the hot black bottom!) and then with an inscrutable film noir, "The Big Sleep," ("She's a real sad tomato") at the Byrd.
In fact, all day long, I kept reassuring myself that friends and community will help us all get through whatever lies ahead. Part of the favorite couple who'd picked me up said he'd experienced much the same feeling of reassurance earlier.
There are denial, grieving and acceptance phases to navigate still, sure, but like sailors tossed overboard, all we can do is cling to something, even if it's just others who also grasp how deep the water is.
After being joined by our easy-going fourth, the mood lightened once we'd finished the post-mortem on the election results and the dinner plates were cleared. Or perhaps that was just the delirium of four desserts, more wine and a need to laugh so we didn't cry.
The Bogart and Bacall film also provided chuckles with the kind of witty, rapid-fire dialog that smart characters in '40-era films had while wearing pin-striped suits and satin dressing gowns.
Vivian: You go too far, Marlowe.
Marlowe: Those are harsh words to throw at a man, especially when he's walking out of your bedroom.
Two of us had never seen the movie before and the other two knew it well. The classic film managed to provide a fine distraction and even a dash of relevance.
Vivian: I don't like your manners
Marlowe: And I'm not crazy about yours. I didn't ask to see you. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. I don't like them myself. They are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings.
In a related note, I don't like what happened on election day. I didn't ask for this. I don't mind if you don't like my reaction. I don't know how to feel any other way. Things may get pretty bad.
And I know with complete certainty that we will grieve over this bizarre reality for many a long winter evening to come.
I am eternally grateful for fellow sad tomato friends who help me forget that for a while.
If this election proves nothing else, it's that fully half the country lost sight of the absolute necessity for role-modeling for current and successive generations, or how else could they have willingly gotten behind a candidate who bullies and demeans women, gropes them and mocks the disabled, seeks out revenge and belittles those who disagree with him?
After much consideration, I have to assume that they must have been raised by wolves rather than by mindful parents aware of how their actions - public, private and political - would be read by young minds as an endorsement of an abominable man.
In these times of diminishing attention spans, fear of missing out and complete self-absorption, our new reality is that few have the desire or energy to worry about how their actions as a parent will resonate in the decades to come with the children who witnessed them.
Let's face it, the major challenge of being a parent is that it's a 24/7 role for a minimum of 18 years. Apparently we're no longer a culture that makes that kind of commitment to anything, even future generations.
Because it's 18 years of always crossing the street at the corner with the traffic light so that kids learn that it's not acceptable to break the rules simply because no one's looking. It's 18 years of not using foul language in front of children lest they think it's an acceptable form of expression. Eighteen years of always considering how what you do and say will mark the people you're raising.
Bottom line? Parenting is inconvenient and requires an inordinate amount of selflessness and who's got that to spare anymore?
That this has become the norm is the true crime here.
I can not believe that any parent who voted for Trump took into consideration the damaging message they were sending to their children by choosing this man, by treating him as worthy to run, much less lead or represent this country to the rest of the world.
We've shown future generations that a sociopath with no more credentials than a string of failed businesses, half a dozen bankruptcies and a reality show is good enough.
The bar has been lowered so far that it becomes inevitable that future candidates will also climb out of some primordial ooze with an entitled attitude and misogynist bent while no one bats an eye.
I thought yesterday was difficult because of the tension and worry of election day, but in retrospect, yesterday was a walk in Byrd Park compared to the reality of today's headlines. No one I know seems to have a handle on how to process it.
From my best friend in Texas who I'm trying to lure to Richmond...
WTF!!! How did this happen??? The morons who elected this egomaniacal ass wipe just did a grave disservice to our country and the world. It may be Canada instead of VA.
From my Mom, who's voted Democratic in every election since Adlai Stevenson...
I am past worried. I am stunned, appalled and every negative thing you can think of. Can you imagine him at state dinner or a meeting of world leaders where he can't just lay down the law as he did as a CEO? And what is going to happen to his supporters when he can't deliver the pie in the sky things he promised? Utter chaos.
From a smart musician friend looking for answers...
What a morning. Oh, I should probably check out your blog for enlightenment. Oh, nothing new yet. Understandable.
From Coalition Comedy Thetaer...
Free shows all this weekend. It's the very, very least we could do. We woke up to a bizarre reality this morning. We're offering the people of RVA a consolation; a much-needed distraction from the weird times we're trudging through. Let's take a break this weekend and just laugh, OK?
Given the state of the day, I felt grateful to already have plans to laugh with like-minded friends - three good people bound to be as dazed about this outcome as I felt - first for a killer dinner at L'Opossum (the foie gras! the oysters in absinthe fog! the hot black bottom!) and then with an inscrutable film noir, "The Big Sleep," ("She's a real sad tomato") at the Byrd.
In fact, all day long, I kept reassuring myself that friends and community will help us all get through whatever lies ahead. Part of the favorite couple who'd picked me up said he'd experienced much the same feeling of reassurance earlier.
There are denial, grieving and acceptance phases to navigate still, sure, but like sailors tossed overboard, all we can do is cling to something, even if it's just others who also grasp how deep the water is.
After being joined by our easy-going fourth, the mood lightened once we'd finished the post-mortem on the election results and the dinner plates were cleared. Or perhaps that was just the delirium of four desserts, more wine and a need to laugh so we didn't cry.
The Bogart and Bacall film also provided chuckles with the kind of witty, rapid-fire dialog that smart characters in '40-era films had while wearing pin-striped suits and satin dressing gowns.
Vivian: You go too far, Marlowe.
Marlowe: Those are harsh words to throw at a man, especially when he's walking out of your bedroom.
Two of us had never seen the movie before and the other two knew it well. The classic film managed to provide a fine distraction and even a dash of relevance.
Vivian: I don't like your manners
Marlowe: And I'm not crazy about yours. I didn't ask to see you. I don't mind if you don't like my manners. I don't like them myself. They are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings.
In a related note, I don't like what happened on election day. I didn't ask for this. I don't mind if you don't like my reaction. I don't know how to feel any other way. Things may get pretty bad.
And I know with complete certainty that we will grieve over this bizarre reality for many a long winter evening to come.
I am eternally grateful for fellow sad tomato friends who help me forget that for a while.
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Women Bring All Voters Into the World
Unlike most people, I know the exact moment I first considered that a woman could be president.
It was in 3rd grade and it was during reading group that my teacher, Mrs. Gettle, brought up the subject of a woman as President. To my 8-year old brain, it didn't seem all that far-fetched, so when she told us to go home and ask our mothers what they thought of a woman President, I did.
I walked home from school (the norm then, but now considered "free-range parenting"), set my lunchbox on the counter and got busy on my assignment.
First, however, allow me to set the scene for you. My Mom, like all the mothers I knew back then, stayed at home to raise us and that was back during a time when mothers made their own formula, washed and dried their own baby diapers and cooked from scratch. I also had five sisters.
When I was in 3rd grade, I had a sister in 2nd grade, another in 1st grade, one that was 4, one that was 2 and a newborn baby sister. In retrospect, I'm amazed that Mom even took the time to answer my question, but she did.
It went something like this: "Karen, I can't imagine a woman being President because of all the other stuff she already has to do. She wouldn't have time to run the country!"
Dutifully, I reported her answer to my reading group the next day. The consensus from mothers was mostly negative, but Mrs. Gettle steered the discussion to the possibilities of such a thing in our lifetimes.
Flash forward to 2008 when Hillary and Obama were contenders and I brought up that conversation with my parents, causing my Mom to laugh and shake her head. No surprise she'd answered that way, she told me, given how far down the rabbit hole of old school motherhood she was at that point.
My Dad sat in his chair chuckling.
"Of course a woman could be President," my screaming liberal, politics-obsessed mother chided me. "I was just too busy with you girls to consider such a thing back then. I can't believe you remember that!"
So it was with that memory in mind that my clothes for today's historic election included a white t-shirt (because white was the color of the women suffragettes) that reads, "I Dream..."
At Carver Elementary where I vote, the long, serpentine waiting lines of 2008 and 2012 were replaced with people waiting to vote not in lines but sitting in the school auditorium's pint-sized chairs. On one side of me were three generations of a family, including one woman who'd gone to Carver. All were voting Hillary.
On the other was a young woman who'll graduate from VCU in December, with plans to teach elementary school in the city. I couldn't resist sharing with her how thrilled I was to finally get to vote for a woman for President, a fact which seemed like a far lesser deal to her, undoubtedly because of her age.
I shared how nervous I'd been about voting in my first election, somehow thinking I'd screw it up. She admitted to her own concerns about that and asked for direction on some of the down-ballot candidates. When I got called to the booth, I left her with a mantra: "Girl power!"
On my walk afterward, an older man on Marshall Street asked how I was. I'm great because I got to vote for a woman for President today, I told him and he smiled hugely, raising his fist in the air in the style of black activists. My fist followed.
Closer to home, a friendly repairman headed to his work van said hello, glanced at my shirt and asked, "You dream of what?"
This day. This opportunity to use my vote to elect a woman who not only has the time to run a country but a woman's mind and heart.
Thank you, Mrs. Gettle (wherever you are), for raising the possibility in a little girl's head.
It was in 3rd grade and it was during reading group that my teacher, Mrs. Gettle, brought up the subject of a woman as President. To my 8-year old brain, it didn't seem all that far-fetched, so when she told us to go home and ask our mothers what they thought of a woman President, I did.
I walked home from school (the norm then, but now considered "free-range parenting"), set my lunchbox on the counter and got busy on my assignment.
First, however, allow me to set the scene for you. My Mom, like all the mothers I knew back then, stayed at home to raise us and that was back during a time when mothers made their own formula, washed and dried their own baby diapers and cooked from scratch. I also had five sisters.
When I was in 3rd grade, I had a sister in 2nd grade, another in 1st grade, one that was 4, one that was 2 and a newborn baby sister. In retrospect, I'm amazed that Mom even took the time to answer my question, but she did.
It went something like this: "Karen, I can't imagine a woman being President because of all the other stuff she already has to do. She wouldn't have time to run the country!"
Dutifully, I reported her answer to my reading group the next day. The consensus from mothers was mostly negative, but Mrs. Gettle steered the discussion to the possibilities of such a thing in our lifetimes.
Flash forward to 2008 when Hillary and Obama were contenders and I brought up that conversation with my parents, causing my Mom to laugh and shake her head. No surprise she'd answered that way, she told me, given how far down the rabbit hole of old school motherhood she was at that point.
My Dad sat in his chair chuckling.
"Of course a woman could be President," my screaming liberal, politics-obsessed mother chided me. "I was just too busy with you girls to consider such a thing back then. I can't believe you remember that!"
So it was with that memory in mind that my clothes for today's historic election included a white t-shirt (because white was the color of the women suffragettes) that reads, "I Dream..."
At Carver Elementary where I vote, the long, serpentine waiting lines of 2008 and 2012 were replaced with people waiting to vote not in lines but sitting in the school auditorium's pint-sized chairs. On one side of me were three generations of a family, including one woman who'd gone to Carver. All were voting Hillary.
On the other was a young woman who'll graduate from VCU in December, with plans to teach elementary school in the city. I couldn't resist sharing with her how thrilled I was to finally get to vote for a woman for President, a fact which seemed like a far lesser deal to her, undoubtedly because of her age.
I shared how nervous I'd been about voting in my first election, somehow thinking I'd screw it up. She admitted to her own concerns about that and asked for direction on some of the down-ballot candidates. When I got called to the booth, I left her with a mantra: "Girl power!"
On my walk afterward, an older man on Marshall Street asked how I was. I'm great because I got to vote for a woman for President today, I told him and he smiled hugely, raising his fist in the air in the style of black activists. My fist followed.
Closer to home, a friendly repairman headed to his work van said hello, glanced at my shirt and asked, "You dream of what?"
This day. This opportunity to use my vote to elect a woman who not only has the time to run a country but a woman's mind and heart.
Thank you, Mrs. Gettle (wherever you are), for raising the possibility in a little girl's head.
A Single Sizzling Rivulet
Between today's discovery of the rape of Chapel Island and tomorrow's possible doomsday scenario, it only seemed prudent to plan a low-key evening.
What could be less demanding than a poetry reading and what could be more intriguing than the bookstore owner describing the poet as "William Blake in cowboy boots"?
Yes, please, give me a modern Romantic reading poetry on election eve. It certainly can't hurt.
With a one-time poet in tow, we headed to Fountain Books to settle into wooden church chairs to hear John Alspaugh read and ruminate on the writing life.
Before he got started, he explained why the evening would no longer be the multi-media experience it had been planned to be: the Kentucky musician who was going to play the sax on the street in front of the store while he read was unable to attend.
And while I mourned the loss of poetry set to saxophone, life goes on.
Alspaugh talked about rewriting a published poem and how sometimes it becomes necessary to just say goodbye to a poem and stop belaboring it. "Some poems won't leave me alone," he said about why he kept revising them.
First he explained the bible story of Salome for the benefit of the heathens in the room (not just me), then when he finished reading his poem, "Salome," or at least, tonight's version of it, he offered to autograph the ephemeral version. "I'll mail it to you with a stamp!" he promised with old school panache.
As he noted, there are people who have never mailed a letter to anyone in their lifetime. Talk about tragic.
Explaining that he now uses poems as part of his prose writing, he read the beginning of "Burning Man," with its references to being "entombed by clouds," followed by "Harmonies of an Echo," written while living in LA and alluding to "the lowing of distant trains."
I'll be honest, it's for entombment and lowing that I go to poetry readings in the first place.
Rather than stay and sip wine with the poet and audience members, we cut out after the reading. Since Laura Lee's had decided to make tonight the first Monday night they were open, we decided to show our support of another Monday eatery, always a good thing.
The bearded host greeted me with his usual bear hug, welcomed us in and led us to the last two bar stools while the Police played overhead on the sound system. I call Laura Lee's my kind of restaurant because the music is always set at just the right volume at the bar to have a deliberate presence.
Save me from wimpy volume music, now and forever, oh, primitive radio gods.
The wine was Sicilian (although labeled a product of Italy and you know the Sicilians hate that), the grape - Grillo - new to me and our starter a special of grilled baby octopus.
I followed that with the loveliest melange of crab meat, leeks and country ham with a green tomato relish over a Wade's Mill yellow corn cake, proving yet again that the Virginia trifecta of ham, crab and corn is one for the ages.
By then the music had switched to soul revivalists Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings singing about learning the hard way (join the club, honey) and I'd been greeted by a woman I'd met yesterday at the Bijou for the first time.
It was while I was working on a flourless chocolate cake with white chocolate mint that our genial host brought over wine for us to taste from a customer who'd not only raved about it but brought him a bottle to try: Rockbridge "Jeremiah" Rose.
Friends know I'm a fan of Virginia wine (my "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt from the Roosevelt gets me compliments every time I wear it) and I've enjoyed the Rockbridge Cab Franc, but something about the bright green frog on the bottle gave us all pause.
I wasn't the first to pick out the flavor of Concord grapes (few are faster on the grape draw than the former poet), nor was I the first to wince at the foxy nose or cloying taste, but it was a group effort when it came to mocking the "mighty fine wine" of Jeremiah's namesake bullfrog.
Bet it's popular with the locals in Rockbridge County, though and isn't that what matters?
Well, sure, that and the country as we know it could end tomorrow. For multiple reasons, this optimist has her fingers crossed.
What could be less demanding than a poetry reading and what could be more intriguing than the bookstore owner describing the poet as "William Blake in cowboy boots"?
Yes, please, give me a modern Romantic reading poetry on election eve. It certainly can't hurt.
With a one-time poet in tow, we headed to Fountain Books to settle into wooden church chairs to hear John Alspaugh read and ruminate on the writing life.
Before he got started, he explained why the evening would no longer be the multi-media experience it had been planned to be: the Kentucky musician who was going to play the sax on the street in front of the store while he read was unable to attend.
And while I mourned the loss of poetry set to saxophone, life goes on.
Alspaugh talked about rewriting a published poem and how sometimes it becomes necessary to just say goodbye to a poem and stop belaboring it. "Some poems won't leave me alone," he said about why he kept revising them.
First he explained the bible story of Salome for the benefit of the heathens in the room (not just me), then when he finished reading his poem, "Salome," or at least, tonight's version of it, he offered to autograph the ephemeral version. "I'll mail it to you with a stamp!" he promised with old school panache.
As he noted, there are people who have never mailed a letter to anyone in their lifetime. Talk about tragic.
Explaining that he now uses poems as part of his prose writing, he read the beginning of "Burning Man," with its references to being "entombed by clouds," followed by "Harmonies of an Echo," written while living in LA and alluding to "the lowing of distant trains."
I'll be honest, it's for entombment and lowing that I go to poetry readings in the first place.
Rather than stay and sip wine with the poet and audience members, we cut out after the reading. Since Laura Lee's had decided to make tonight the first Monday night they were open, we decided to show our support of another Monday eatery, always a good thing.
The bearded host greeted me with his usual bear hug, welcomed us in and led us to the last two bar stools while the Police played overhead on the sound system. I call Laura Lee's my kind of restaurant because the music is always set at just the right volume at the bar to have a deliberate presence.
Save me from wimpy volume music, now and forever, oh, primitive radio gods.
The wine was Sicilian (although labeled a product of Italy and you know the Sicilians hate that), the grape - Grillo - new to me and our starter a special of grilled baby octopus.
I followed that with the loveliest melange of crab meat, leeks and country ham with a green tomato relish over a Wade's Mill yellow corn cake, proving yet again that the Virginia trifecta of ham, crab and corn is one for the ages.
By then the music had switched to soul revivalists Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings singing about learning the hard way (join the club, honey) and I'd been greeted by a woman I'd met yesterday at the Bijou for the first time.
It was while I was working on a flourless chocolate cake with white chocolate mint that our genial host brought over wine for us to taste from a customer who'd not only raved about it but brought him a bottle to try: Rockbridge "Jeremiah" Rose.
Friends know I'm a fan of Virginia wine (my "Virginia is for wine lovers" t-shirt from the Roosevelt gets me compliments every time I wear it) and I've enjoyed the Rockbridge Cab Franc, but something about the bright green frog on the bottle gave us all pause.
I wasn't the first to pick out the flavor of Concord grapes (few are faster on the grape draw than the former poet), nor was I the first to wince at the foxy nose or cloying taste, but it was a group effort when it came to mocking the "mighty fine wine" of Jeremiah's namesake bullfrog.
Bet it's popular with the locals in Rockbridge County, though and isn't that what matters?
Well, sure, that and the country as we know it could end tomorrow. For multiple reasons, this optimist has her fingers crossed.
Monday, November 7, 2016
Don't Go Changin'
I'm not that crotchety old person standing on my lawn, shaking my fist at people, but I'm not happy, either.
On today's walk to Chapel Island, one of my favorite nature hangouts, Mac and I were met by large machinery blocking the path to the island's best overlook. Not yet sure what it signified, I posed atop the behemoth so she could snap my picture and we continued along, only to be greeted by a road.
This will only sound illogical to you if you've never been on Chapel Island. You see, the beauty of the place is how wild it's always felt, how completely separate from the goings-on of the city just across the canal.
Trails were narrow and often overgrown. After storms, saplings sometimes straddled pathways. During high summer, the vegetation was so thick you couldn't see the river that surrounded you. Spider webs and the occasional snake were the norm.
Hands down, my favorite part of the island was the overlook on the south side, complete with bench and prime views of Rockett's landing and small boat fisherman trolling the shore line. More than a couple of them even waved when they spotted life on Chapel Island.
Gone, all gone now. A chasm exists on the spot where once there was a place of reflection and vistas.
Oh, we walked around to investigate, amazed that in the relatively short time since our last visit to the island so much land had been moved, so many trees and bushes cut down. Spotting more machinery down the newly minted "road" that followed the river, we set forth in search of more clues.
All we found was more denuded landscape, more big machines and more disappointment that we'd heard nothing about the desecration of one of our favorite natural spaces in the entire city.
And it's not like I don't pay attention to such things - hell, we'd come to the island this morning directly from the Valentine's strategic planning charrette seeking input about the museum's future. I go to mayoral forums and coalition-building meetings at the drop of a hat. I did four weeks of a neighborhood charrette about what could be imagined at a significant corner of Jackson Ward.
You see, I'm that city-loving nerd who's willing to devote some of my spare time to sharing my opinion about almost anything going on in Richmond and Mac is much the same.
Yet here we were, jaws dropped, at one of our top walking destinations, looking at it like it had been subjected to bad plastic surgery since we'd last met.
We followed the road until we found access to the canal walk, but it was an unsettling experience. Sure, the views of the railroad trestles were great under I-95 (the century-old supports almost sculptural in their design) and we got several first-time river vantage points, but we'd left behind an unrecognizable island.
Once home, it didn't take long to find information saying that they're doing a significant expansion of the Shockoe Retention Basin as well as of riverfront access from the island. It's all there in the Richmond Riverfront Plan, along with an amphitheater and a place to launch small boats.
Sorry, my heart's just not into it.
Chapel Island, all I can say is how grateful I am that I had these years of enjoying you in your natural state throughout the seasons, because I can't promise I'll be nearly as attracted to you once you're all tarted up.
Now get off my lawn.
On today's walk to Chapel Island, one of my favorite nature hangouts, Mac and I were met by large machinery blocking the path to the island's best overlook. Not yet sure what it signified, I posed atop the behemoth so she could snap my picture and we continued along, only to be greeted by a road.
This will only sound illogical to you if you've never been on Chapel Island. You see, the beauty of the place is how wild it's always felt, how completely separate from the goings-on of the city just across the canal.
Trails were narrow and often overgrown. After storms, saplings sometimes straddled pathways. During high summer, the vegetation was so thick you couldn't see the river that surrounded you. Spider webs and the occasional snake were the norm.
Hands down, my favorite part of the island was the overlook on the south side, complete with bench and prime views of Rockett's landing and small boat fisherman trolling the shore line. More than a couple of them even waved when they spotted life on Chapel Island.
Gone, all gone now. A chasm exists on the spot where once there was a place of reflection and vistas.
Oh, we walked around to investigate, amazed that in the relatively short time since our last visit to the island so much land had been moved, so many trees and bushes cut down. Spotting more machinery down the newly minted "road" that followed the river, we set forth in search of more clues.
All we found was more denuded landscape, more big machines and more disappointment that we'd heard nothing about the desecration of one of our favorite natural spaces in the entire city.
And it's not like I don't pay attention to such things - hell, we'd come to the island this morning directly from the Valentine's strategic planning charrette seeking input about the museum's future. I go to mayoral forums and coalition-building meetings at the drop of a hat. I did four weeks of a neighborhood charrette about what could be imagined at a significant corner of Jackson Ward.
You see, I'm that city-loving nerd who's willing to devote some of my spare time to sharing my opinion about almost anything going on in Richmond and Mac is much the same.
Yet here we were, jaws dropped, at one of our top walking destinations, looking at it like it had been subjected to bad plastic surgery since we'd last met.
We followed the road until we found access to the canal walk, but it was an unsettling experience. Sure, the views of the railroad trestles were great under I-95 (the century-old supports almost sculptural in their design) and we got several first-time river vantage points, but we'd left behind an unrecognizable island.
Once home, it didn't take long to find information saying that they're doing a significant expansion of the Shockoe Retention Basin as well as of riverfront access from the island. It's all there in the Richmond Riverfront Plan, along with an amphitheater and a place to launch small boats.
Sorry, my heart's just not into it.
Chapel Island, all I can say is how grateful I am that I had these years of enjoying you in your natural state throughout the seasons, because I can't promise I'll be nearly as attracted to you once you're all tarted up.
Now get off my lawn.
In Our Minds and Hearts
Even after three decades here, I'm still discovering new places to plant myself.
At the Bijou, new were some (but not all) of the re-installed theater seats from the Westhampton Theatre, notable because it meant that we no longer have to abuse our asses with those ergonomically-incorrect white plastic chairs to see film of note.
Tonight's trivia question concerned Holly Hunter's role in the movie and we were instructed to signal when we spotted her. Bags of popcorn in hand, the small group at the 5:10 show settled in to the new seats, ready for what was to come.
Mostly, anyway. How anyone can watch that entire knife through the hand on the window sash scene without averting their eyes is beyond me. Just saying, I felt squirming on both sides of me.
The unexpected beauty of seeing a film you last saw 33 years ago when it was in first run is that it could almost be an entirely new-to-you movie this time around.
And I say "almost" because even with little to no memory of seeing "Blood Simple" in 1984, the film stands instantly recognizable as a Coen Brothers movie because everything they're known for now was fully formed and on display in this, their first film.
I had forgotten how perfectly lovely and very of-the-era 27-year old Frances McDormand looked, somewhere between Tony Tenille and Farah Fawcett. No wonder Joel Coen married her almost immediately.
Like all good '80s films, we saw men's blazer sleeves pushed up a la Miami Vice, as well as a man's shirt with only one button buttoned and far too much curly chest hair on display. But it was the geezer (M. Emmett Walsh's character) who showed his age by sporting a mustard yellow leisure suit with bell-bottom pants.
So completely un-hip by then.
The surprise was that apparently in '84, we were still tying up moving boxes with brown twine and, honestly, I'd have guessed that habit had long since been replaced with packing tape.
Midway through the film, I heard Holly Hunter's vice on an answering machine and signaled to win the evening's prize - two tickets to a future screening at the Bijou - a nanosecond before another woman in my row realized who it was.
After a mini-film discussion post-screening, I walked home in the dark, despite it barely being past 6:30. Autumn, I hate what you bring.
The newness in tonight's music adventure came not from the venue's name, Sound of Music Studio, because I'd seen bands at SoM on Foushee Street as well as at SoM on Broad Street, but tonight's SoM was on Altamont in the hipper-than-thou Scott's Addition 'hood.
I don't ask why they move, I just follow where the music goes.
When I arrived, I found two women bent over a map, one drawing and explaining Richmond to the other, who just moved here. When I saw she'd marked and labeled Short Pump, I took it upon myself to inform the newcomer that she had no need of venturing so far west.
Pointing to Willow Lawn and eastward, I assured her that all the life she needed could be found there, complete with Target on the far western fringes. What more could a person require?
She thanked me with wonder and gratitude in her eyes, or at least that's what I chose to tell myself.
A big reason I'd come was to hear Bad Magic, the musical project of Julie Karr, a guitarist and singer with a throaty voice and confessional delivery of whom I'd long been a fan but who used to do an acoustic solo act.
She was apologizing for her cold when I got there, saying, "The mic is gonna need a bacterial wash after this. That would be my advice!"
Behind the band, a dated film of roller bladers played, with occasional interview segments in front of a flag-draped fireplace.
Trying to decide what to play next, the band bantered about songs. "What's it called?" Julie asked the others, then turned to the crowd. "We named it in the computer, but not in our minds and hearts."
Turns out the song was called "Three" and had some terrific early Interpol-sounding guitar licks in it.
Between songs, she vented about the film behind her, saying, "I do not want to see a Confederate flag behind me again. Not at all. Can we make sure that happens? I do not want to see any more Confederate flags!" Since I'd already noticed the same thing, I appreciated her addressing it for the entire room.
Bad Magic rocks a lot harder than Julie solo did, making for an engaging set before she announced that Toronto's Greys, not local band Clair Morgan, were up next.
"That's what you do, you make a sandwich with the out of town band inside. Welcome to Richmond, we eat you!" she joked about being the rye bread slice to Greys' filling.
Their lead singer began by warning us that they were going to play a quick set and then start driving home. I only hope he meant after a god night's sleep.
Their sound pulled from decades of punk, primarily '90s, some of it crossing into thrash territory, some straight up pop punk and some indebted to the Pixies' alternating loud/soft dynamic. Violent head banging accompanied others while a light show rather than southern relics and tasteless flags played behind them.
"This is the last night of a really long tour," the singer said and his body language showed that he was feeling it, although the other three musicians seemed to be cranked up to 11, maybe as a sendoff for the tour's last show.
All kinds of audio issues kept Clair Morgan from playing right away, but feedback and dead mic problems were eventually resolved and Clair got right down to business, both musical and political.
"In a couple of days, there's going to be a thing." From nearby, someone shushed him. "No, I'm not going to stop. If you want to keep certain people out of the White House, please vote on Tuesday. If you're for Donald Trump, please vote November ninth!"
It's tough to argue with a man who writes such well-crafted songs about life and family and surrounds himself with solid talent, while a breathtaking car chase from Hitchcock's "Family Plot" plays behind them.
Could it be that the point was to remind us of the danger and treachery that lies ahead on Tuesday?
I think we can all agree, the entire country's going to need a bacterial wash after that.
At the Bijou, new were some (but not all) of the re-installed theater seats from the Westhampton Theatre, notable because it meant that we no longer have to abuse our asses with those ergonomically-incorrect white plastic chairs to see film of note.
Tonight's trivia question concerned Holly Hunter's role in the movie and we were instructed to signal when we spotted her. Bags of popcorn in hand, the small group at the 5:10 show settled in to the new seats, ready for what was to come.
Mostly, anyway. How anyone can watch that entire knife through the hand on the window sash scene without averting their eyes is beyond me. Just saying, I felt squirming on both sides of me.
The unexpected beauty of seeing a film you last saw 33 years ago when it was in first run is that it could almost be an entirely new-to-you movie this time around.
And I say "almost" because even with little to no memory of seeing "Blood Simple" in 1984, the film stands instantly recognizable as a Coen Brothers movie because everything they're known for now was fully formed and on display in this, their first film.
I had forgotten how perfectly lovely and very of-the-era 27-year old Frances McDormand looked, somewhere between Tony Tenille and Farah Fawcett. No wonder Joel Coen married her almost immediately.
Like all good '80s films, we saw men's blazer sleeves pushed up a la Miami Vice, as well as a man's shirt with only one button buttoned and far too much curly chest hair on display. But it was the geezer (M. Emmett Walsh's character) who showed his age by sporting a mustard yellow leisure suit with bell-bottom pants.
So completely un-hip by then.
The surprise was that apparently in '84, we were still tying up moving boxes with brown twine and, honestly, I'd have guessed that habit had long since been replaced with packing tape.
Midway through the film, I heard Holly Hunter's vice on an answering machine and signaled to win the evening's prize - two tickets to a future screening at the Bijou - a nanosecond before another woman in my row realized who it was.
After a mini-film discussion post-screening, I walked home in the dark, despite it barely being past 6:30. Autumn, I hate what you bring.
The newness in tonight's music adventure came not from the venue's name, Sound of Music Studio, because I'd seen bands at SoM on Foushee Street as well as at SoM on Broad Street, but tonight's SoM was on Altamont in the hipper-than-thou Scott's Addition 'hood.
I don't ask why they move, I just follow where the music goes.
When I arrived, I found two women bent over a map, one drawing and explaining Richmond to the other, who just moved here. When I saw she'd marked and labeled Short Pump, I took it upon myself to inform the newcomer that she had no need of venturing so far west.
Pointing to Willow Lawn and eastward, I assured her that all the life she needed could be found there, complete with Target on the far western fringes. What more could a person require?
She thanked me with wonder and gratitude in her eyes, or at least that's what I chose to tell myself.
A big reason I'd come was to hear Bad Magic, the musical project of Julie Karr, a guitarist and singer with a throaty voice and confessional delivery of whom I'd long been a fan but who used to do an acoustic solo act.
She was apologizing for her cold when I got there, saying, "The mic is gonna need a bacterial wash after this. That would be my advice!"
Behind the band, a dated film of roller bladers played, with occasional interview segments in front of a flag-draped fireplace.
Trying to decide what to play next, the band bantered about songs. "What's it called?" Julie asked the others, then turned to the crowd. "We named it in the computer, but not in our minds and hearts."
Turns out the song was called "Three" and had some terrific early Interpol-sounding guitar licks in it.
Between songs, she vented about the film behind her, saying, "I do not want to see a Confederate flag behind me again. Not at all. Can we make sure that happens? I do not want to see any more Confederate flags!" Since I'd already noticed the same thing, I appreciated her addressing it for the entire room.
Bad Magic rocks a lot harder than Julie solo did, making for an engaging set before she announced that Toronto's Greys, not local band Clair Morgan, were up next.
"That's what you do, you make a sandwich with the out of town band inside. Welcome to Richmond, we eat you!" she joked about being the rye bread slice to Greys' filling.
Their lead singer began by warning us that they were going to play a quick set and then start driving home. I only hope he meant after a god night's sleep.
Their sound pulled from decades of punk, primarily '90s, some of it crossing into thrash territory, some straight up pop punk and some indebted to the Pixies' alternating loud/soft dynamic. Violent head banging accompanied others while a light show rather than southern relics and tasteless flags played behind them.
"This is the last night of a really long tour," the singer said and his body language showed that he was feeling it, although the other three musicians seemed to be cranked up to 11, maybe as a sendoff for the tour's last show.
All kinds of audio issues kept Clair Morgan from playing right away, but feedback and dead mic problems were eventually resolved and Clair got right down to business, both musical and political.
"In a couple of days, there's going to be a thing." From nearby, someone shushed him. "No, I'm not going to stop. If you want to keep certain people out of the White House, please vote on Tuesday. If you're for Donald Trump, please vote November ninth!"
It's tough to argue with a man who writes such well-crafted songs about life and family and surrounds himself with solid talent, while a breathtaking car chase from Hitchcock's "Family Plot" plays behind them.
Could it be that the point was to remind us of the danger and treachery that lies ahead on Tuesday?
I think we can all agree, the entire country's going to need a bacterial wash after that.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Throwing Darts in Lovers' Eyes
When it's the last full day of sunlight before the dreaded return of Eastern Standard Time, a girl can't help but make the most of it.
First off was the necessary step of coalition-building for those of us still smarting over losing our prime candidate. Fellow Jon Baliles devotees had organized a public meeting for those of us interested in seeing what the Baliles-approved candidate had to say in an informal setting.
It helped that Jon was there to support Levar Stoney's cause, but the bigger news by far was Levar saying Jon will be part of his team, thus ensuring that a long-time resident with City Council experience will be there to help the relative newcomer best work with the little people.
The people like me.
Because if the next mayor thinks for a moment that this is still a complacent city where we sit back and the mayor calls the shots with no input from us, that mayor is sadly mistaken.
I'm counting on Jon to help Levar make the most of his shot, but in a way that is most beneficial to the city, not anyone's political agenda.
From campaign headquarters, it was barely a hop, skip and a jump for Mac and me to Hardywood for a last-minute Ethiopian show.
Ethiopian keyboard legend Girma Beyene (known for his major role as part of the '60s "swinging addis" era music scene) and D.C.'s Feedel Band were making a stop at an unlikely place (it's far from the first time I've seen Ethiopian music, but it's always been at Balliceaux) for a late afternoon show scented with the overpowering scent of hops and brewing beer.
Could there have been a lovelier way to spend 90 minutes than with the doors wide open listening to their engaging blend of funk, jazz and Ethiopian rhythms?
The septet- the grand old gentleman Beyene, drummer, bassist, sax, trombone, congas/percussion, keyboards - wound a sinuous web of dance music to a crowd heavy on musicians, world music fans and staff from WRIR.
Charismatic doesn't begin to describe Beyene, who joined the others onstage mid-song and completely captured this audience member's heart as he nonchalantly played the keyboard, sang and smiled, all the while making everything look effortless and enjoyable.
About as effortless and enjoyable as it was to dance in place the entire time they played.
This was a man who long ago gave up showboating. After gesturing to introduce the band members, he grins at us and says, "And me, Girma!" as if there was any doubt in the room.
Walking out, I ran into the town pariah and chatted about how typically Balliceaux a band like this was, a bittersweet moment. In the car, Mac and I tried to imagine a better use of our afternoon and came up empty.
Between Mac dropping me off and a friend I hadn't seen in well over a year coming to fetch me, I had an hour, or just long enough to notice I had a moonflower blooming on my balcony.
I guess tomorrow's will be blooming around 4. Le sigh.
Dinner at Acacia was fabulous in all the usual Acacia ways - middle eastern trance music set the vibe, well-crafted drinks from a master at the bar, the chef's wife visiting tables to engage and laugh. When my friend admitted difficulty in choosing his meal, she suggested a new way of looking at eating.
"When I eat here, I always want to try something new, but I can't give up the white anchovies, so I just have them for dessert." As far as I can see, there's no difference in that and a cheese plate for the final course.
As pretty as it was flavorful, a salad of celery root, Granny Smith apple slices, frisee, black garlic and cider mustard vinaigrette was my first course, followed by rockfish collar with Napa cabbage, pickled carrot and daikon in a Thai chili vinaigrette that I all but ate with my fingers.
While he worked down cauliflower soup and seared scallops with gnocchi in Parmesan butter sauce (I'm no pasta fan generally, but the Irish in me sings a different tune when it comes to potato-based gnocchi), we got to talking about albums because he has more than anyone I know and he's about to have to move them so the room can be painted.
Bragging about a recent find (an 8-record set of The Cars), he admitted to coveting the upcoming 13-disc Dylan boxed set with several songs from Dylan's electric band, of which, apparently, my friend has always been inordinately fond.
This no doubt has to do with Dylan's first album being the very first album he ever bought.
We talked long and hard about what the Internet has wrought. "For Europeans, South Americans and Americans, the Internet is the closest to free speech we've ever seen," he suggests, questioning why the more prudish types can't just avoid the nasty bits.
Neither of us could stand the mortification of the editorial in today's Washington Post about our pedophile and exhibitionist mayoral candidate ("So how can it be that the city seems poised to elect a creepy, ethically clueless embarrassment as its mayor?" the editors muse), making us sound like country bumpkin idiots for the possibility.
After a decent interval, we ate some more.
In order to take my perfectly healthy meal of salad and fish and send it directly to jail (do not pass Go, do not collect $200), I had no choice but to finish with chocolate cremeux - that would be dark chocolate and cream mounded into a semi-firm ball and adorned with strawberry fool - that would be chopped strawberries folded into whipped cream - and savor it as my arteries hardened at warp speed by the rapid influx of so much heavy cream.
We didn't so much walk out of Acacia as roll out.
Once he'd dropped me off, it was on to Vagabond for their first anniversary celebration in the Gypsy Room with Bowie tribute band Life on Mars playing.
Arriving in time to nab a prime bar stool, order a libation and eavesdrop on the staff ("Are you coming to my flute recital tomorrow?"), I also got their recap of last night ("He was so drunk he left his bike somewhere, walked all the way to Scott's Addition and back and now has no clue where his bike is. He looked at Google Maps to see where he walked and it was this crazy-ass route!").
Several of them were concerned because the schedule extended no further than tomorrow, but no one seemed to know how to make the appropriate person get it done. When they realized that Dweezil Zappa is playing the National tomorrow night, they began to question the staffing for it.
"If it gets wild, text me and I'll come in," one server said. Almost overhearing, the bartender asked what was up for tomorrow night since he's off and he, too, said he'd then wait for a text from her in case a crowd appeared.
I felt like I was witnessing the set-up for the barking chain of dogs in "101 Dalmatians."
Curious about what bands brought in what audiences, I asked one of the guys. Seems country brings in people who want a full meal first and come back for drinks afterward, while metal brings drinkers who don't eat. EDM attendees don't even show up to drink, I have it from the horse's mouth.
By then, people were sprawled on the couches, the bar was lined with sitters and the standing and a knot of ridiculously tall people had gathered at just the right place to block the view of me and the other short women behind them.
With the exception of singer Will Gorman, all the members of Life on Mars took the stage and began playing until he joined them, clad as the Thin White Duke adjusting his shirt cuffs and launching into "Station to Station."
It was an immensely satisfying moment, all the more so for the only other time I'd seen this band: January 8th of this year. The date was significant then because Bowie's new album was about to come out and Will exhorted us to go buy it.
The reality was that Bowie died January 10th, so the last time I saw Life on Mars, they were a band covering a living musician and tonight they were doing more of a memorial performance. Weird.
But no matter the state of Bowie, the band was incredibly tight-sounding and Gorman exhibited his stellar Bowie dance moves whether singing "Blue Jean," "China Girl" or showing off during extended guitar solos.
Looking around the dimly-lit, low-ceiling Gypsy Room, the singer commented on the red walls, glowing back bar and piano motif, calling it really classy. "We should be a jazz band," he quipped.
The band pared it down to a couple of acoustic guitars for "Starman" and "The Jean Genie," causing the staff near me to get apoplectic about it ("Is this gonna be an acoustic set? That's not gonna play here!") when actually it had been announced online that they'd do an acoustic set.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find the chef, providing an opportunity to congratulate him on his first year at Vagabond. Man, that went quickly.
Many in the crowd were devotees of Bowie and every time a song like "Ashes to Ashes" was announced, one of them would erupt into their own Bowie story of that song - when they first heard it, where they first bought it, the usual uber-fan one upping type nonsense.
The rest of the band returned and "Suffragette City" got dancers on the floor and the sweet scent of burning orange peel in the air as the bartender made a cocktail that required burnt orange.
Next to me, two guys wanted to chat, but when that song ended, the one interrupted, "Make a note, they killed it on that song!"
So far as I could tell, they killed it on all the songs. Clearly, they've played a lot of shows since I last saw them ten months ago when the devastatingly dashing David Bowie was still among us.
Walking out to leave, I got as far as the front door where smokers congregated when I ran into everyone's favorite Civil War historian/nerd and wound up in a three-way conversation with the manager of the restaurant at the center of the shit storm right now, when she just happened to walk up.
Life presents itself, people do thoughtless and stupid things and we all - the entire city - would be wise to use such openings to start better conversations about the big things that matter.
As long as we've got all these long, dark evenings ahead, we may as well put them to good use. Maybe by the time we get our daylight back, this city's house will be in order.
Leave it to Richmond to use the crazy-ass route to get there.
First off was the necessary step of coalition-building for those of us still smarting over losing our prime candidate. Fellow Jon Baliles devotees had organized a public meeting for those of us interested in seeing what the Baliles-approved candidate had to say in an informal setting.
It helped that Jon was there to support Levar Stoney's cause, but the bigger news by far was Levar saying Jon will be part of his team, thus ensuring that a long-time resident with City Council experience will be there to help the relative newcomer best work with the little people.
The people like me.
Because if the next mayor thinks for a moment that this is still a complacent city where we sit back and the mayor calls the shots with no input from us, that mayor is sadly mistaken.
I'm counting on Jon to help Levar make the most of his shot, but in a way that is most beneficial to the city, not anyone's political agenda.
From campaign headquarters, it was barely a hop, skip and a jump for Mac and me to Hardywood for a last-minute Ethiopian show.
Ethiopian keyboard legend Girma Beyene (known for his major role as part of the '60s "swinging addis" era music scene) and D.C.'s Feedel Band were making a stop at an unlikely place (it's far from the first time I've seen Ethiopian music, but it's always been at Balliceaux) for a late afternoon show scented with the overpowering scent of hops and brewing beer.
Could there have been a lovelier way to spend 90 minutes than with the doors wide open listening to their engaging blend of funk, jazz and Ethiopian rhythms?
The septet- the grand old gentleman Beyene, drummer, bassist, sax, trombone, congas/percussion, keyboards - wound a sinuous web of dance music to a crowd heavy on musicians, world music fans and staff from WRIR.
Charismatic doesn't begin to describe Beyene, who joined the others onstage mid-song and completely captured this audience member's heart as he nonchalantly played the keyboard, sang and smiled, all the while making everything look effortless and enjoyable.
About as effortless and enjoyable as it was to dance in place the entire time they played.
This was a man who long ago gave up showboating. After gesturing to introduce the band members, he grins at us and says, "And me, Girma!" as if there was any doubt in the room.
Walking out, I ran into the town pariah and chatted about how typically Balliceaux a band like this was, a bittersweet moment. In the car, Mac and I tried to imagine a better use of our afternoon and came up empty.
Between Mac dropping me off and a friend I hadn't seen in well over a year coming to fetch me, I had an hour, or just long enough to notice I had a moonflower blooming on my balcony.
I guess tomorrow's will be blooming around 4. Le sigh.
Dinner at Acacia was fabulous in all the usual Acacia ways - middle eastern trance music set the vibe, well-crafted drinks from a master at the bar, the chef's wife visiting tables to engage and laugh. When my friend admitted difficulty in choosing his meal, she suggested a new way of looking at eating.
"When I eat here, I always want to try something new, but I can't give up the white anchovies, so I just have them for dessert." As far as I can see, there's no difference in that and a cheese plate for the final course.
As pretty as it was flavorful, a salad of celery root, Granny Smith apple slices, frisee, black garlic and cider mustard vinaigrette was my first course, followed by rockfish collar with Napa cabbage, pickled carrot and daikon in a Thai chili vinaigrette that I all but ate with my fingers.
While he worked down cauliflower soup and seared scallops with gnocchi in Parmesan butter sauce (I'm no pasta fan generally, but the Irish in me sings a different tune when it comes to potato-based gnocchi), we got to talking about albums because he has more than anyone I know and he's about to have to move them so the room can be painted.
Bragging about a recent find (an 8-record set of The Cars), he admitted to coveting the upcoming 13-disc Dylan boxed set with several songs from Dylan's electric band, of which, apparently, my friend has always been inordinately fond.
This no doubt has to do with Dylan's first album being the very first album he ever bought.
We talked long and hard about what the Internet has wrought. "For Europeans, South Americans and Americans, the Internet is the closest to free speech we've ever seen," he suggests, questioning why the more prudish types can't just avoid the nasty bits.
Neither of us could stand the mortification of the editorial in today's Washington Post about our pedophile and exhibitionist mayoral candidate ("So how can it be that the city seems poised to elect a creepy, ethically clueless embarrassment as its mayor?" the editors muse), making us sound like country bumpkin idiots for the possibility.
After a decent interval, we ate some more.
In order to take my perfectly healthy meal of salad and fish and send it directly to jail (do not pass Go, do not collect $200), I had no choice but to finish with chocolate cremeux - that would be dark chocolate and cream mounded into a semi-firm ball and adorned with strawberry fool - that would be chopped strawberries folded into whipped cream - and savor it as my arteries hardened at warp speed by the rapid influx of so much heavy cream.
We didn't so much walk out of Acacia as roll out.
Once he'd dropped me off, it was on to Vagabond for their first anniversary celebration in the Gypsy Room with Bowie tribute band Life on Mars playing.
Arriving in time to nab a prime bar stool, order a libation and eavesdrop on the staff ("Are you coming to my flute recital tomorrow?"), I also got their recap of last night ("He was so drunk he left his bike somewhere, walked all the way to Scott's Addition and back and now has no clue where his bike is. He looked at Google Maps to see where he walked and it was this crazy-ass route!").
Several of them were concerned because the schedule extended no further than tomorrow, but no one seemed to know how to make the appropriate person get it done. When they realized that Dweezil Zappa is playing the National tomorrow night, they began to question the staffing for it.
"If it gets wild, text me and I'll come in," one server said. Almost overhearing, the bartender asked what was up for tomorrow night since he's off and he, too, said he'd then wait for a text from her in case a crowd appeared.
I felt like I was witnessing the set-up for the barking chain of dogs in "101 Dalmatians."
Curious about what bands brought in what audiences, I asked one of the guys. Seems country brings in people who want a full meal first and come back for drinks afterward, while metal brings drinkers who don't eat. EDM attendees don't even show up to drink, I have it from the horse's mouth.
By then, people were sprawled on the couches, the bar was lined with sitters and the standing and a knot of ridiculously tall people had gathered at just the right place to block the view of me and the other short women behind them.
With the exception of singer Will Gorman, all the members of Life on Mars took the stage and began playing until he joined them, clad as the Thin White Duke adjusting his shirt cuffs and launching into "Station to Station."
It was an immensely satisfying moment, all the more so for the only other time I'd seen this band: January 8th of this year. The date was significant then because Bowie's new album was about to come out and Will exhorted us to go buy it.
The reality was that Bowie died January 10th, so the last time I saw Life on Mars, they were a band covering a living musician and tonight they were doing more of a memorial performance. Weird.
But no matter the state of Bowie, the band was incredibly tight-sounding and Gorman exhibited his stellar Bowie dance moves whether singing "Blue Jean," "China Girl" or showing off during extended guitar solos.
Looking around the dimly-lit, low-ceiling Gypsy Room, the singer commented on the red walls, glowing back bar and piano motif, calling it really classy. "We should be a jazz band," he quipped.
The band pared it down to a couple of acoustic guitars for "Starman" and "The Jean Genie," causing the staff near me to get apoplectic about it ("Is this gonna be an acoustic set? That's not gonna play here!") when actually it had been announced online that they'd do an acoustic set.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find the chef, providing an opportunity to congratulate him on his first year at Vagabond. Man, that went quickly.
Many in the crowd were devotees of Bowie and every time a song like "Ashes to Ashes" was announced, one of them would erupt into their own Bowie story of that song - when they first heard it, where they first bought it, the usual uber-fan one upping type nonsense.
The rest of the band returned and "Suffragette City" got dancers on the floor and the sweet scent of burning orange peel in the air as the bartender made a cocktail that required burnt orange.
Next to me, two guys wanted to chat, but when that song ended, the one interrupted, "Make a note, they killed it on that song!"
So far as I could tell, they killed it on all the songs. Clearly, they've played a lot of shows since I last saw them ten months ago when the devastatingly dashing David Bowie was still among us.
Walking out to leave, I got as far as the front door where smokers congregated when I ran into everyone's favorite Civil War historian/nerd and wound up in a three-way conversation with the manager of the restaurant at the center of the shit storm right now, when she just happened to walk up.
Life presents itself, people do thoughtless and stupid things and we all - the entire city - would be wise to use such openings to start better conversations about the big things that matter.
As long as we've got all these long, dark evenings ahead, we may as well put them to good use. Maybe by the time we get our daylight back, this city's house will be in order.
Leave it to Richmond to use the crazy-ass route to get there.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Time of the Season
Belatedly I learn that Holmes is disinclined to read through numerous paragraphs of my blog posts just to get to the parts where I mention him.
So let's get right to it, shall we? When I announced that it was time for me to leave, my friend Holmes put a red vinyl 45 of the Damned's "Thanks for the Night" on the turntable in farewell. That's a good music friend.
There, unnecessary reading prevented.
My night began at Reynolds Gallery for Sally Bowring's opening of "Weather Report," nearly a dozen wooden panels capturing what Sally observed - green Novembers, soft blue February skies, the pinks of summer - while going about her life over the past year.
To my eye, her glorious use of color makes it clear that the artist is female, observant and experienced.
Back on home turf, I head to Gallery 5 for "Wastedland," a gallery-wide installation by Andrew Shirley that begins with a mostly black tableau that was all about the audio/visual and shrouded in smoke.
Satellite dishes of varying heights, a cassette player, a weather radio, rabbit ear antennas, a megaphone, ladders and pendant lights were all spray painted matte black with occasional orange dribbles.
Behind it and nearly touching the ceiling was a sculpture, part sea creature, part spacecraft with interactive rolling wooden pieces. Spinning several in succession next to a stranger doing the same, we agreed it felt very child-like.
Going up the narrow stairs brought new challenges since each tread was at least 50% covered in crushed aluminum cans attached to the sides. Upstairs, pieces of corrugated boxes became animals on a wall staring out, while nearby was a cardboard shack with a blue tarp roof. Inside a TV showed mindless twaddle and was wallpapered with panhandler signs.
Jesus was a traveler
Passing thru, ALL love helps
Traveler Broke & Hungry
Lost in life, Looking for Direction
I spotted a male figure in overalls with a wolf head and paused ever so briefly to determine if he was real. Nope. Moments later, I had a surreal moment when I saw a man in overalls with a wolf head striding toward his inanimate twin.
But of course it's art.
In the center of the gallery, I spot an activist friend and without thinking, hug him hugely and offer condolences about the shared loss of our mayoral candidate. Behind me is another activist pal just as distraught.
We're all still feeling a bit shell-shocked at the news but with only three days till the election, feel the need to lay out our stands on alternate choices. None of us want a pawn but none of us desire a corporate whore, either.
There is banter about what role Baliles might be given in the new administration. It's crystal clear to us that he must have a significant one - "What we'll need is a Jedi Council of people who really know the city to help advise" the new administration, the PLF maestro concludes - and we three fervently hope Stoney sees the wisdom in this.
It's both depressing to talk about a mayor we wouldn't have chosen and comforting to think that there's enough of a groundswell to keep the focus on Richmond's creative strengths in whatever the next four years bring.
My final stop is, yes, at Holmes' humble abode, where we begin with a classic Mary Angela's dinner - green salad followed by his favorite pie, pepperoni and mushroom - enjoyed in the dining room listening to a recording of music he made with his brother and a friend decades ago.
A beautiful folk song comes on and Holmes blows us out of the water by sharing that the song had been recorded in that very dining room where we now sat, our fingers greasy with pepperoni oil.
"We hung a couple mics from over there," he says, pointing at the back window, "and had the mixer in there," gesturing past the pocket doors to the living room.
I don't know if I'll ever experience such a unique coincidence again in my lifetime or if I can properly convey how cool it felt to be hearing a song recorded where I sat.
After a proper chocolate dessert, we headed downstairs to where the turntable and monster speakers reside and Holmes promptly put on the Byrds.
"When I was in Paris in '65," he begins and we immediately tease him for his nonchalance, but he goes on to tell us how strongly he recalls being a teen with his own hotel room on family vacation hearing "All I Really Wanna Do" coming up a French alley from an unknown source where the 45 was on constant repeat.
Mais oui, that's one way to reach an impressionable young mind.
Good as it was, it was mere window-dressing for tonight's main event, the two-disc, four-side "Time of the Zombies," a 1974 song compilation that led off with "She's Not There" and Holmes' painful memory of attempting to sing that song at karaoke in Nags Head.
Apparently his range left a bit to be desired.
All four sides were fabulous, channeling everyone from the Beatles to Phil Spector to Herman's Hermits. I could have danced in my bar stool all nigh.
Most surprising was the Zombies' stellar cover of Gershwin's "Summertime" from "Porgy and Bess," but I was in love with it all, from "Tell Her No" to "Time of the Season," a song Holmes said came out after the group had already broken up and which we listened to twice.
Along the way we discussed Beloved's first bikini, purchased for a Carnival cruise to the Bahamas in '77 and no doubt part of the reason she enjoyed the company of the ship's purser, Kurt during their time at sea.
Apparently her Mom had spotted Kurt just as the elevators doors were about to close and commented how nice-looking he was and her daughter had taken it from there.
Female spunk was big in '77, for those who weren't there.
The most charming part of the story sounded like a mere post script when she shared it. "He called me a couple of years ago." He what? "Yes, on the downstairs rotary phone."
Consider, if you will, that I know a woman who still has a rotary phone, not to mention the same phone number as 39 years ago and you can perhaps appreciate the rare birds among those known as "Karen's people."
For the record, since Kurt called, she's given up answering the rotary phone. She's not there.
So let's get right to it, shall we? When I announced that it was time for me to leave, my friend Holmes put a red vinyl 45 of the Damned's "Thanks for the Night" on the turntable in farewell. That's a good music friend.
There, unnecessary reading prevented.
My night began at Reynolds Gallery for Sally Bowring's opening of "Weather Report," nearly a dozen wooden panels capturing what Sally observed - green Novembers, soft blue February skies, the pinks of summer - while going about her life over the past year.
To my eye, her glorious use of color makes it clear that the artist is female, observant and experienced.
Back on home turf, I head to Gallery 5 for "Wastedland," a gallery-wide installation by Andrew Shirley that begins with a mostly black tableau that was all about the audio/visual and shrouded in smoke.
Satellite dishes of varying heights, a cassette player, a weather radio, rabbit ear antennas, a megaphone, ladders and pendant lights were all spray painted matte black with occasional orange dribbles.
Behind it and nearly touching the ceiling was a sculpture, part sea creature, part spacecraft with interactive rolling wooden pieces. Spinning several in succession next to a stranger doing the same, we agreed it felt very child-like.
Going up the narrow stairs brought new challenges since each tread was at least 50% covered in crushed aluminum cans attached to the sides. Upstairs, pieces of corrugated boxes became animals on a wall staring out, while nearby was a cardboard shack with a blue tarp roof. Inside a TV showed mindless twaddle and was wallpapered with panhandler signs.
Jesus was a traveler
Passing thru, ALL love helps
Traveler Broke & Hungry
Lost in life, Looking for Direction
I spotted a male figure in overalls with a wolf head and paused ever so briefly to determine if he was real. Nope. Moments later, I had a surreal moment when I saw a man in overalls with a wolf head striding toward his inanimate twin.
But of course it's art.
In the center of the gallery, I spot an activist friend and without thinking, hug him hugely and offer condolences about the shared loss of our mayoral candidate. Behind me is another activist pal just as distraught.
We're all still feeling a bit shell-shocked at the news but with only three days till the election, feel the need to lay out our stands on alternate choices. None of us want a pawn but none of us desire a corporate whore, either.
There is banter about what role Baliles might be given in the new administration. It's crystal clear to us that he must have a significant one - "What we'll need is a Jedi Council of people who really know the city to help advise" the new administration, the PLF maestro concludes - and we three fervently hope Stoney sees the wisdom in this.
It's both depressing to talk about a mayor we wouldn't have chosen and comforting to think that there's enough of a groundswell to keep the focus on Richmond's creative strengths in whatever the next four years bring.
My final stop is, yes, at Holmes' humble abode, where we begin with a classic Mary Angela's dinner - green salad followed by his favorite pie, pepperoni and mushroom - enjoyed in the dining room listening to a recording of music he made with his brother and a friend decades ago.
A beautiful folk song comes on and Holmes blows us out of the water by sharing that the song had been recorded in that very dining room where we now sat, our fingers greasy with pepperoni oil.
"We hung a couple mics from over there," he says, pointing at the back window, "and had the mixer in there," gesturing past the pocket doors to the living room.
I don't know if I'll ever experience such a unique coincidence again in my lifetime or if I can properly convey how cool it felt to be hearing a song recorded where I sat.
After a proper chocolate dessert, we headed downstairs to where the turntable and monster speakers reside and Holmes promptly put on the Byrds.
"When I was in Paris in '65," he begins and we immediately tease him for his nonchalance, but he goes on to tell us how strongly he recalls being a teen with his own hotel room on family vacation hearing "All I Really Wanna Do" coming up a French alley from an unknown source where the 45 was on constant repeat.
Mais oui, that's one way to reach an impressionable young mind.
Good as it was, it was mere window-dressing for tonight's main event, the two-disc, four-side "Time of the Zombies," a 1974 song compilation that led off with "She's Not There" and Holmes' painful memory of attempting to sing that song at karaoke in Nags Head.
Apparently his range left a bit to be desired.
All four sides were fabulous, channeling everyone from the Beatles to Phil Spector to Herman's Hermits. I could have danced in my bar stool all nigh.
Most surprising was the Zombies' stellar cover of Gershwin's "Summertime" from "Porgy and Bess," but I was in love with it all, from "Tell Her No" to "Time of the Season," a song Holmes said came out after the group had already broken up and which we listened to twice.
Along the way we discussed Beloved's first bikini, purchased for a Carnival cruise to the Bahamas in '77 and no doubt part of the reason she enjoyed the company of the ship's purser, Kurt during their time at sea.
Apparently her Mom had spotted Kurt just as the elevators doors were about to close and commented how nice-looking he was and her daughter had taken it from there.
Female spunk was big in '77, for those who weren't there.
The most charming part of the story sounded like a mere post script when she shared it. "He called me a couple of years ago." He what? "Yes, on the downstairs rotary phone."
Consider, if you will, that I know a woman who still has a rotary phone, not to mention the same phone number as 39 years ago and you can perhaps appreciate the rare birds among those known as "Karen's people."
For the record, since Kurt called, she's given up answering the rotary phone. She's not there.
Friday, November 4, 2016
Deep Calling Unto Deep
We must allow time tonight to revisit our discussion of the mayoral race given the withdrawal of the preferred candidate.
It's certainly been a heated topic of conversation all day long - at least for the scores of creative types and artists I know - after having our mellows harshed last night when our best chance at a truly good mayor evaporated when Jon Baliles fell on his sword to help prevent the election going to the pedophile.
Great, just great, now we're left with the slimy corporate sell-out complete with facial hair affectation or the pre-fab (just add water and watch him grow) come-here unable to speak beyond spouting the party line.
Sigh.
But since we already had plans to see a play, there was no reason not to spend some quality conversational time on the state of the mayor's race, among other things, when we met for dinner at Saison Market.
I'd been given my instructions to order for both of us if I arrived first - "based on our previous dining experiences, I know you have good taste" - but I didn't, so ordering temporarily fell by the wayside once I did walk in, self-identifying hibiscus blossom in hand.
The problem is that once you start examining a topographic map with a geologist is that before you know what hit you, you'll be knee-deep in igneous and metamorphic rock formations, so busy talking that by the time you order, there's about 20 minutes remaining to inhale a whole lot of food.
I'm talking pork pozole, warm and spicy; spirited seafood escabeshe of shrimp, fluke, mussels, carrots, radishes and jalapenos with hushpuppies; addictive fried brussels sprouts; and cast iron cornbread for good measure.
Someone's eyes were bigger than our minimal dinner time slot, that's all I'm saying.
In reality, the problem was not so much the short window to eat as it was all the topics that kept burbling up to the surface as we kept focusing on conversation rather than chewing.
All I can say is, good thing the theater was barely a block away. Even so, we were those people picking up tickets at 7:58 and sliding into our seats moments before Cadence Theatre's production of "John" began.
The elaborate set of the downstairs of a fussy and fusty Victorian-looking B & B set the scene for a play about how difficult it is to communicate effectively, much less ever really know someone.
But, as one character put it looking around at the object-filled cutesy rooms, it was also the "tragedy of the bed and breakfast."
Along the way, a blind woman explained why she'd committed herself to an institution ("The thing about being crazy is, it can also all be true"), another raved about "the great Ferlin Husky" as if everyone recognized the name (I did, but that's not the point) and a whiny millennial couple dealt with the unraveling of their relationship.
Where the play shone was in the completely believable language between the characters, which sounded natural and unsure like actual conversation, rather than measured and assured like play-writing too often does.
One of the most beautiful moments came when the innkeeper explained that for amusement, she'd memorized the terms for collections of birds, the phrases rolling off her tongue like poetry.
A congress of crows
A troubling of hummingbirds
A colony of gulls
A siege of herons
A mustering of storks
A tiding of magpies
A wisdom of owls
A charm of finches
A cast of falcons
A raft of loons
An exaltation of larks...
Understandably, that last one had been her favorite for the sheer joy it conveyed.
That this Obie Award and Drama Desk Award play ended with anything but a neat, happy ending only solidified its place as a story that hews closer to real life than a convenient tying up of loose ends into a pretty bow ever could.
Because whose life ever really works out that way?
Returning to Saison Market afterward for sherry, Rose and a final dissection of "John" also provided an opportunity to dig deeper on personal histories, Hull Street taquerias and life lessons learned while a warm rain fell steadily outside.
Although "John" had already taught us that you can't ever really know someone, to be human is to try, right?
All in all, an adventure full of exaltation...minus the larks and as charming as the finches.
It's certainly been a heated topic of conversation all day long - at least for the scores of creative types and artists I know - after having our mellows harshed last night when our best chance at a truly good mayor evaporated when Jon Baliles fell on his sword to help prevent the election going to the pedophile.
Great, just great, now we're left with the slimy corporate sell-out complete with facial hair affectation or the pre-fab (just add water and watch him grow) come-here unable to speak beyond spouting the party line.
Sigh.
But since we already had plans to see a play, there was no reason not to spend some quality conversational time on the state of the mayor's race, among other things, when we met for dinner at Saison Market.
I'd been given my instructions to order for both of us if I arrived first - "based on our previous dining experiences, I know you have good taste" - but I didn't, so ordering temporarily fell by the wayside once I did walk in, self-identifying hibiscus blossom in hand.
The problem is that once you start examining a topographic map with a geologist is that before you know what hit you, you'll be knee-deep in igneous and metamorphic rock formations, so busy talking that by the time you order, there's about 20 minutes remaining to inhale a whole lot of food.
I'm talking pork pozole, warm and spicy; spirited seafood escabeshe of shrimp, fluke, mussels, carrots, radishes and jalapenos with hushpuppies; addictive fried brussels sprouts; and cast iron cornbread for good measure.
Someone's eyes were bigger than our minimal dinner time slot, that's all I'm saying.
In reality, the problem was not so much the short window to eat as it was all the topics that kept burbling up to the surface as we kept focusing on conversation rather than chewing.
All I can say is, good thing the theater was barely a block away. Even so, we were those people picking up tickets at 7:58 and sliding into our seats moments before Cadence Theatre's production of "John" began.
The elaborate set of the downstairs of a fussy and fusty Victorian-looking B & B set the scene for a play about how difficult it is to communicate effectively, much less ever really know someone.
But, as one character put it looking around at the object-filled cutesy rooms, it was also the "tragedy of the bed and breakfast."
Along the way, a blind woman explained why she'd committed herself to an institution ("The thing about being crazy is, it can also all be true"), another raved about "the great Ferlin Husky" as if everyone recognized the name (I did, but that's not the point) and a whiny millennial couple dealt with the unraveling of their relationship.
Where the play shone was in the completely believable language between the characters, which sounded natural and unsure like actual conversation, rather than measured and assured like play-writing too often does.
One of the most beautiful moments came when the innkeeper explained that for amusement, she'd memorized the terms for collections of birds, the phrases rolling off her tongue like poetry.
A congress of crows
A troubling of hummingbirds
A colony of gulls
A siege of herons
A mustering of storks
A tiding of magpies
A wisdom of owls
A charm of finches
A cast of falcons
A raft of loons
An exaltation of larks...
Understandably, that last one had been her favorite for the sheer joy it conveyed.
That this Obie Award and Drama Desk Award play ended with anything but a neat, happy ending only solidified its place as a story that hews closer to real life than a convenient tying up of loose ends into a pretty bow ever could.
Because whose life ever really works out that way?
Returning to Saison Market afterward for sherry, Rose and a final dissection of "John" also provided an opportunity to dig deeper on personal histories, Hull Street taquerias and life lessons learned while a warm rain fell steadily outside.
Although "John" had already taught us that you can't ever really know someone, to be human is to try, right?
All in all, an adventure full of exaltation...minus the larks and as charming as the finches.
Thursday, November 3, 2016
Thank Your Lucky Stars
All the usual suspects - dinner, music - and watching cultural history made, too!
An hour drive on a sumptuously sunny and atypically warm November day landed us on the patio at Public Fish & Oyster in Charlottesville under trees shedding leaves on the table, the chairs and the patio.
It was a fine seasonal touch completely out of sync with the wildly warm weather.
At the top of the chalkboard oyster menu was a siren bivalve that combined a long-time favorite place with my preferred level of brininess. The Hatteras Salts were delicious but not nearly as salty as expected, but Public gets no points from me for serving them with two lame options: cocktail sauce and red wine vinegar rather than a proper mignonette or even horseradish.
Where they did score points was with the solid advice on a sign in the ladies' room reading, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together" ~ Elizabeth Taylor.
I immediately re-applied lipstick and returned to the table in time for a delivery of Sinols Rosato, an easy drinking Spanish pink. I was as together as I was going to get.
Dinner of an autumn salad loaded with arugula, pomegranate, apple, fennel, candied nuts and hunks of creamy Mycella Bleu was a winning way to eat Fall, while roasted Mission figs with Caramont Farms chevre, almond and honey was downright decadent. And while the lobster meat was plentiful, the overly dense roll containing that meat on my lobster roll was a questionable choice.
I barely finished my totally predictable flourless chocolate torte dessert when we we changed location to a bar table at Fitzroy, the better to catch the start of the final game of the World Series.
The funny part is, if you were to ask anyone who knows me, friend or family, they'd have likely taken a bet that I would most definitely not be watching a baseball game tonight or any night.
Oh, ye of little faith.
We were only able to watch an hour of it before heading over to the Jefferson Theater at 9:00 for the reason we were in the mountains in the first place: Beach House.
I've got a long history with this dream pop band, having seen them as openers back in 2007 at the Norva (can't recall the headliners, though), having bought a ticket to see them in Charlottesville in May 2012 and then not gone, and then seeing them for the first time as headliners in September 2012.
The floor was getting crowded when I took up my usual post near the sound booth, finding a fan to chat with within spitting distance (of course I didn't verify that ability). Unlike my nine-year history with the band, he'd only discovered them a year and a half ago, necessitating him going back to investigate their full discography.
His conclusion was that "Teen Dream" was their masterpiece, a conclusion long-time fans already agreed upon.
When I asked him about his first show, he said it had been Blink 182 ("I know, old school, right?" says this guy who couldn't have even been a gleam in his Daddy's eye when the band formed in '92) with My Chemical Romance, a band I'd also seen back in 2008 (although technically, I'd gone for the opener, Muse).
Like the previous Beach House shows, there are a few rules. Minimal light on the band, minimal between-song banter. They're here to play and nothing more. Like 2012, they teased us with gems from "Teen Dream" such as "10 Mile Stereo" and "Take Care," although this tour, they're leaving out the more bombastic "Norway." Pity.
They did one song they hadn't played in three years "from the set list you all contributed to," a fact of which I'd been unaware. Had I known I could put in my two cents' worth, you can be assured I would have.
With no opening act and no chit-chatting with the crowd, we were in and out of the Jefferson Theater in an hour and a half and back at the Fitzroy to catch the end of the baseball game in a room that seemed to be evenly split between rabid Chicago and Cleveland fans.
Feeling optimistic, we weren't the only people in the room to order a bottle of bubbly.
When the game ended tied and had to go to extra innings and then a rain delay, we stayed, despite the hour drive still ahead. How do you walk away from watching a team trying to make up for 108 years of failure?
Not to mention that Aroldis Chapman was some kind of cute with that smile of his.
One of the more satisfying aspects about watching the game was knowing that out on the Northern Neck, my octogenarian parents were undoubtedly still up, too, cheering a team none of us usually care about but who certainly seem to have earned their post-midnight moment in the sun.
Presumably without the drink or the lipstick, they'd pulled themselves together admirably. All I'd done was cheer and clap.
Hey, Chicago, what do you say? The Cubs have gone and won today.
An hour drive on a sumptuously sunny and atypically warm November day landed us on the patio at Public Fish & Oyster in Charlottesville under trees shedding leaves on the table, the chairs and the patio.
It was a fine seasonal touch completely out of sync with the wildly warm weather.
At the top of the chalkboard oyster menu was a siren bivalve that combined a long-time favorite place with my preferred level of brininess. The Hatteras Salts were delicious but not nearly as salty as expected, but Public gets no points from me for serving them with two lame options: cocktail sauce and red wine vinegar rather than a proper mignonette or even horseradish.
Where they did score points was with the solid advice on a sign in the ladies' room reading, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together" ~ Elizabeth Taylor.
I immediately re-applied lipstick and returned to the table in time for a delivery of Sinols Rosato, an easy drinking Spanish pink. I was as together as I was going to get.
Dinner of an autumn salad loaded with arugula, pomegranate, apple, fennel, candied nuts and hunks of creamy Mycella Bleu was a winning way to eat Fall, while roasted Mission figs with Caramont Farms chevre, almond and honey was downright decadent. And while the lobster meat was plentiful, the overly dense roll containing that meat on my lobster roll was a questionable choice.
I barely finished my totally predictable flourless chocolate torte dessert when we we changed location to a bar table at Fitzroy, the better to catch the start of the final game of the World Series.
The funny part is, if you were to ask anyone who knows me, friend or family, they'd have likely taken a bet that I would most definitely not be watching a baseball game tonight or any night.
Oh, ye of little faith.
We were only able to watch an hour of it before heading over to the Jefferson Theater at 9:00 for the reason we were in the mountains in the first place: Beach House.
I've got a long history with this dream pop band, having seen them as openers back in 2007 at the Norva (can't recall the headliners, though), having bought a ticket to see them in Charlottesville in May 2012 and then not gone, and then seeing them for the first time as headliners in September 2012.
The floor was getting crowded when I took up my usual post near the sound booth, finding a fan to chat with within spitting distance (of course I didn't verify that ability). Unlike my nine-year history with the band, he'd only discovered them a year and a half ago, necessitating him going back to investigate their full discography.
His conclusion was that "Teen Dream" was their masterpiece, a conclusion long-time fans already agreed upon.
When I asked him about his first show, he said it had been Blink 182 ("I know, old school, right?" says this guy who couldn't have even been a gleam in his Daddy's eye when the band formed in '92) with My Chemical Romance, a band I'd also seen back in 2008 (although technically, I'd gone for the opener, Muse).
Like the previous Beach House shows, there are a few rules. Minimal light on the band, minimal between-song banter. They're here to play and nothing more. Like 2012, they teased us with gems from "Teen Dream" such as "10 Mile Stereo" and "Take Care," although this tour, they're leaving out the more bombastic "Norway." Pity.
They did one song they hadn't played in three years "from the set list you all contributed to," a fact of which I'd been unaware. Had I known I could put in my two cents' worth, you can be assured I would have.
With no opening act and no chit-chatting with the crowd, we were in and out of the Jefferson Theater in an hour and a half and back at the Fitzroy to catch the end of the baseball game in a room that seemed to be evenly split between rabid Chicago and Cleveland fans.
Feeling optimistic, we weren't the only people in the room to order a bottle of bubbly.
When the game ended tied and had to go to extra innings and then a rain delay, we stayed, despite the hour drive still ahead. How do you walk away from watching a team trying to make up for 108 years of failure?
Not to mention that Aroldis Chapman was some kind of cute with that smile of his.
One of the more satisfying aspects about watching the game was knowing that out on the Northern Neck, my octogenarian parents were undoubtedly still up, too, cheering a team none of us usually care about but who certainly seem to have earned their post-midnight moment in the sun.
Presumably without the drink or the lipstick, they'd pulled themselves together admirably. All I'd done was cheer and clap.
Hey, Chicago, what do you say? The Cubs have gone and won today.
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Biscuits for Sale
When trying to market our fair city to visitors and new arrivals, it only makes sense to tailor the message to the intended audience.
And not in an obvious way, say, "Richmond is Rainbow-Friendly!" but in more of a "Virginia is for ALL Lovers" manner that shows a bit of subtlety. Target your audience and speak to them in their language.
So if you were attempting to attract theater-loving types, one sure-fire way to alert them to what a thriving and stellar theater scene awaits them here would be to simply say, "This is a town that produces "Mother Courage and Her Children."
Because, despite Bertolt Brecht's play being considered the greatest play of the 20th century and easily the finest anti-war play ever written, let's get real here: almost no one produces it.
Yet here we are, with the reliably adventurous TheatreLAB (because who else would have done it, a rhetorical thought I noted in chalk on the bathroom wall before the action even began tonight) leading off their season with this epic and thoroughly immersive play.
Going down the rabbit hole of the Thirty Years War began when Mac and I walked in the door and, along with a guy in line behind us, were directed to a nearby soldier (the quarter mistress) issuing "kits" - a folding chair and a list of instructions, including specifications on staying inside the green lines on the floor.
A drill sergeant hammered in directions for what to do when "About face!" "Left face!"or "Right face!" was screamed at us (it involved moving our entire chairs in that direction) throughout the show.
In the name of Style Weekly's Best of Issue, I once dubbed TheatreLAB the "most shape-shifting theater space" and tonight it could have also been labeled "most malleable focal point" for its constant shifts in action.
All that chair turning resulted in the sound of clattering empty bottles knocked over in the dark every time the group moved en masse to see what the Catholics and the Protestants ("Cooks have an intellectual bent, unlike clergy") were doing to each other next.
It was eerie how contemporary the 77-year old play managed to feel.
When one of Mother Courage's sons asked of her, "Mother, may I smack him in the puss?" about a recruitment officer baiting him, some of the younger audience members gasped at the word "puss," as if it were related to where the Republican nominee feels free to grab.
Alright, listen up, kids: the puss is located much higher on the body than that other feline-nicknamed body part. Got that?
When the lights came up at intermission, the buzz was palpable. The man next to us - who'd come from Charlottesville to see the production - the people behind us, everyone was sharing how utterly caught up and enthralled they were with what we'd seen so far.
Like me, few had seen it before.
Appropriating rap, folk and popular music to underpin Brecht's song lyrics, the play's soundtrack couldn't have felt more modern. That the actors were accompanied by piano, guitar and violin only added to the musical punch (and my theory that some people don't get handed just one talent, but many).
Boomie Pedersen was a marvel as Mother Courage, shoring up one child while praising another for being honest, if stupid, constantly focused on making a living off the contents of her cart, a fanciful looking thing that was wheeled from one side of the Basement to the other.
Director Keri Wormald made sure it was tough to like Mother's character but impossible not to be impressed with her ability to keep on keeping on, no matter how many children she lost to the decades of fighting that sustained her and her family.
A potent reminder of the price paid in war, the riveting play delivered a powerful message without beating the audience over the head with it and ended with scrolls being dropped sharing the toll of war in terms of financial cost, sexually transmitted diseases, traumatic stress disorder and more unsettling realities.
Who does that? Who delivers a fabulous performance of an important yet under-produced play and then closes it out by further stunning the audience with facts and figures about the continuing cost of war?
TheatreLAB, duh. No longer an upstart, they have fully arrived.
Can the legions of theater fans be far behind?
And not in an obvious way, say, "Richmond is Rainbow-Friendly!" but in more of a "Virginia is for ALL Lovers" manner that shows a bit of subtlety. Target your audience and speak to them in their language.
So if you were attempting to attract theater-loving types, one sure-fire way to alert them to what a thriving and stellar theater scene awaits them here would be to simply say, "This is a town that produces "Mother Courage and Her Children."
Because, despite Bertolt Brecht's play being considered the greatest play of the 20th century and easily the finest anti-war play ever written, let's get real here: almost no one produces it.
Yet here we are, with the reliably adventurous TheatreLAB (because who else would have done it, a rhetorical thought I noted in chalk on the bathroom wall before the action even began tonight) leading off their season with this epic and thoroughly immersive play.
Going down the rabbit hole of the Thirty Years War began when Mac and I walked in the door and, along with a guy in line behind us, were directed to a nearby soldier (the quarter mistress) issuing "kits" - a folding chair and a list of instructions, including specifications on staying inside the green lines on the floor.
A drill sergeant hammered in directions for what to do when "About face!" "Left face!"or "Right face!" was screamed at us (it involved moving our entire chairs in that direction) throughout the show.
In the name of Style Weekly's Best of Issue, I once dubbed TheatreLAB the "most shape-shifting theater space" and tonight it could have also been labeled "most malleable focal point" for its constant shifts in action.
All that chair turning resulted in the sound of clattering empty bottles knocked over in the dark every time the group moved en masse to see what the Catholics and the Protestants ("Cooks have an intellectual bent, unlike clergy") were doing to each other next.
It was eerie how contemporary the 77-year old play managed to feel.
When one of Mother Courage's sons asked of her, "Mother, may I smack him in the puss?" about a recruitment officer baiting him, some of the younger audience members gasped at the word "puss," as if it were related to where the Republican nominee feels free to grab.
Alright, listen up, kids: the puss is located much higher on the body than that other feline-nicknamed body part. Got that?
When the lights came up at intermission, the buzz was palpable. The man next to us - who'd come from Charlottesville to see the production - the people behind us, everyone was sharing how utterly caught up and enthralled they were with what we'd seen so far.
Like me, few had seen it before.
Appropriating rap, folk and popular music to underpin Brecht's song lyrics, the play's soundtrack couldn't have felt more modern. That the actors were accompanied by piano, guitar and violin only added to the musical punch (and my theory that some people don't get handed just one talent, but many).
Boomie Pedersen was a marvel as Mother Courage, shoring up one child while praising another for being honest, if stupid, constantly focused on making a living off the contents of her cart, a fanciful looking thing that was wheeled from one side of the Basement to the other.
Director Keri Wormald made sure it was tough to like Mother's character but impossible not to be impressed with her ability to keep on keeping on, no matter how many children she lost to the decades of fighting that sustained her and her family.
A potent reminder of the price paid in war, the riveting play delivered a powerful message without beating the audience over the head with it and ended with scrolls being dropped sharing the toll of war in terms of financial cost, sexually transmitted diseases, traumatic stress disorder and more unsettling realities.
Who does that? Who delivers a fabulous performance of an important yet under-produced play and then closes it out by further stunning the audience with facts and figures about the continuing cost of war?
TheatreLAB, duh. No longer an upstart, they have fully arrived.
Can the legions of theater fans be far behind?
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