Entertainment On The Cheap - Entertainment You Never Forget

  

When Connie and I first moved to Vienna we had a favorite restaurant we liked to go to. It was a warm place, with cheap food, and always filled with families and lots of kids. In the corner was a piano and people would get up and sing whenever the mood struck them. I think it was actually called The Family Restaurant, but it's long gone. We never go to the expensive over-blown steak houses or any of those restaurants near malls which are now mostly owned by some faceless food conglomerate. They always seem so tacky and uninspired and now there's usually a micro brewery connected to them that pumps out fruit-flavored beers for the upwardly mobile set. I guess I've really gotten old and out of touch. I miss the big plates of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, the broasted chicken. I miss the green salads that actually looked like a salad. I miss seeing old people have a good time on a precious night out in a place that's cozy and welcoming, and they're being waited on by Jake, Millie, or Agnes, who live right around the corner and have been serving the same customers since the 60's.
     On a hot tip I went to Anthony's Restaurant in Falls Church, Virginia to hear some music. I had been there before, so nothing new to that. What was new was the crowd that had come out to hear Andrew Acosta in the back room. That there is a back room is a tip-off to rediscovery. It's a party room of sorts, and a spill-over area for Anthony's regular customers. Anthony's is a Falls Church institution and a throw-back to those days I'm talking about. The Anthony's-style restaurants are fast fading from the scene and being replaced by restaurants that try to change their theme every time a new owner takes control. You'll get the same menu of food at Anthony's that you ordered 20 years ago.
     In the back room I saw some friends from CABOMA (the Capitol Area Bluegrass and Old Time Music Association.) There were 'Howdies' all around and couples, oldsters, and lots of kids drifted in and out and everyone enjoyed the simple fare. When's the last time you had a real Meatball Sub smothered in grease and cheese and it didn't come out of a bag at Subway? I couldn't finish it. I didn't want the music to stop either. The crowd stayed for Andrew Acosta and his two friends who entertained the neighborhood local crowd. Old time country and western in flavor with lots of ancient bluegrass chestnuts, Acosta took his time, didn't seem to work off any kind of play list. If you wanted to hear something just shout it. We're in no hurry to go find our cars as you would in a mall parking lot or have to worry about the eternal traffic back-up on 66. It's that kind of atmosphere - almost luxurious in today's frenetic Washington, D.C. Suburbia. Acosta played the TennesseeWaltz, and yep, a couple in the back got up and started waltzing. Why not? Who cares?
     The next time you think about your entertainment dollar, think about spending it on your local Mom-and-Pop operation and local musicians like Andrew Acosta. Good entertainment like this still exists in out-of-the-way places. You have to get out of your chair and away from the TV set to go look for them.

Andrew Acosta and Friends play most Thursday evenings at Anthony's Restaurant in Falls Church, Va. Check with the management for available nights.

Danny Paisley and Southern Grass - 24 February 2013

 Danny Paisley and Southern Grass on 24 February. They'll be back at Jumbo Jimmy's on Sunday, 3 March, 2013.

     Simple, direct, and always fabulously entertaining in a story-telling kind of way. These are my thoughts on this chilly February afternoon as I'm watching Danny Paisley and Southern Grass work their magic on the nearly full-house at Jumbo Jimmy's Crab House in Port Deposit, Maryland. Danny Paisley is fast becoming one of Maryland's State Treasures. If he's not now, he should be recognized as such. Every State recognizes those artists and musicians who epitomize what is best about the place they grew up in and right here in Virginia we have such a great program that recognizes our own home-grown musicians. I didn't do any fact-checking for Maryland, but I'm sure such a State recognition exists. This style of music, Danny's style of music, is right up there with the best in bluegrass and mountain music. I like to take it one step further and proclaim it for what it is - real, honest-to-God, Maryland-style music about the tough life, trying to make it in an unkind world, smoky beer joints, and jilted lovers. Not everybody likes this stuff, but good lord does it sell records, so there must be a huge audience out there that thinks like I do.
      Today's country/western music attempts to do what Danny and so many of his Maryland and Virginia compatriots in the bluegrass arena do,  but very quickly a wall goes up between the two styles of music. Anybody worth their worn out collection of Jimmy Martin CD's will tell you that modern-day country/western music owes its existence to the old-time mountain music. The original purity of the music has been lost to the almighty dollar and advanced recording technology. Anybody can fudge a recording, tweek it, twist it enough to twist out a few more dollars. The fascination remains for me to search out the purists, the practitioners who are still plunking their Martins for a pittance at the local beer joints, and are little known except to most of the local patrons, being written up in prestigious music tabloids and being studied by people who study this stuff. After years of paying his dues and following in the famous Paisley footsteps, Danny is finally making a name and a reputation for himself in the bluegrass industry. An industry that by the way has yet to find an economic foothold up against Pop, Rock, and Country/Western music.
     People like Danny do it for the love of the music, the entertainment value delivered to the listeners, and on this chilly afternoon in Maryland, to keep all the dancers happy and keep them hootin' and hollerin.' You can tell by the smile on his face he's having fun doing what he does, and once again he's the bar-keep's dream package. The Oscars are on tonight and there's no mention of it - not a word - the neighbors have come to listen to some of the best traditional bluegrass music in the region, drink a beer and eat some fish, trade bluegrass gossip. It's all a trial balloon for the coming spring and summer bluegrass festivals and to sell a few more of the latest CD, "Road Into Town" (which is excellent, by the way.) He couldn't do what he does without a solid team behind him and Danny's collected a top-notch ensemble: Mark Delaney on Banjo, Doug Meek on Fiddle, Eric Troutman on Bass and tenor vocals, and son Ryan Paisley on Mandolin. It's a bunch of young guys, but very polished and demanding in their perfected pieces of the action. Watch Eric Troutman. He's an an accomplished vocalist and his duet singing with Danny looks so easy. That's the trick; it's not.

Danny Paisley and Southern Grass will be back at Jumbo Jimmy's on March 3rd, 4:00 pm to 8:00. Jumbo Jimmy's is located in Port Deposit, Maryland within easy reach of Baltimore and Washington, D.C. Jumbo Jimmy's specializes in promoting good, local bluegrass music.

High Octane is On a Roll

 Doug Ross, Marv Ashby, Beardie Bassman, and Robby Benzing at Barns of Rose Hill, Berryville.

9 February 2013: Barns of Rose Hill, Berryville, Virginia

     It's billed as a CD Release Party for High Octane's latest effort Morgan County, and it really has turned into a party. There's barbeque from the Berryville Grill being served up in the Art Gallery and a drink stand in another gallery serving up moonshine concoctions. I passed on that since I'm a teetotaler, but the reports coming in say the moonshine was pretty good. Marvin Ashby is making a lot of jokes about it onstage. A nice crowd is showing up on a really cold evening and Marv and Beardie are making everybody feel at home in this beautiful playing space out in the middle of the Shenandoah Valley. Robby Benzing (Banjo) is being his usual reserved self. Just once I'd like to get a smile from him as I work the room and take a lot of pictures. Well, he's awfully young, and after all, he's one of the hottest young banjo-pickers in this neck of Appalachia. There's a lot of great talent in this valley extending up into the West Virginia Panhandle. Robby may not smile a lot because he's all business when you put a five-string in his hands. I've been told he's just as slick on a guitar, too.
     They don't call themselves "High Octane" for nothing. Marvin Ashby is making a name for himself with his hard-driving guitar style, while "Beardie Bassman" (Doug Moats) pushes both Marv and Robby with a driving, flogging, style of rhythm on stand-up bass. Vocals are supplied by Ashby and Moats. "Beardie" is particularly gifted with a wide assortment of old Jimmy Martin favorites (OK, you just made me a fan, Beardie,). I love to hear these guys play together. If there is anything not quite up to snuff, it's the vocals. It's sometimes very difficult to understand the words and phrasing, even when I know the songs they're playing. Maybe it's just me and my being crippled with an English Degree. I can be a snob about such matters as diction. But the playing? Well, these guys are full-throttle dynamite. And it wouldn't be fair if I didn't mention that High Octane is straight-on, real, By-God mountain music played in the right style to placate any egg-head musicologist or folklorist who might be reading this or making a study of such matters. You don't need to study these guys, just watch the audience reaction. This is potent stuff right out of the mountains and lost a long time ago on the radio waves.
     On this evening they were joined by an old friend, Douglas Ross on mandolin. Doug Ross plays regularly with Dry Mill Road (Winchester, Va.) and both groups have shared stages together throughout the Panhandle, Maryland, and Virginia. Doug Ross was having a lot of fun trying to keep up with High Octane, and often, this music is about pushing the limits. Beardie ceded one of his favorite numbers to Doug, ("Freeborn Man") and that's a class-act sign of professionalism. It's about fun and showmanship. High Octane and the crowd got into the celebration. Instead of "Morgan County West Virginia" they should have named the CD "Morgan County West Virginia - Authentic"

The Picture

10 January 2013 - Cai Tac Village, Hau Giang Province, Viet Nam

     Six of us drove down from Saigon today to begin our work with the WEAV organization (Women's Empowerment and Voice). It's hot and very humid for this time of the year. It looks like rain. South of Saigon the landscape changes dramatically to an aquatic world of water palms, coconut palms, and green rice paddies, and the numerous rivers that make up the Mekong River System. Most tourists see only the Mekong. The Hau River ahead of us is much, much larger, and more interesting. I had been on the Hau many times in previous years and for me it was like a homecoming to see its broad expanse again. Continually muddy with silt coming all the way out of Laos and Cambodia, as if carrying away all the hopes and dreams of the local inhabitants and dumping them into the Pacific Ocean. Having been all over the geography of Viet Nam from top to bottom and having studied each section, the Mekong Delta remains one of my favorite locales. It's just very fascinating. Everyone and everything moves by water. The water dictates their lives and feeds the world with its endless variety of tropical fruits and farm products. They say no one ever starves in this region due to the abundance of food hanging from the trees and the seafood trapped in its waterways. Add to this the thousands of canals connecting the production areas and farms to the numerous rivers. Hollywood couldn't have dreamed this place up. No modern computer-generated movie could duplicate the raw beauty of the weird landscape.
     Seven kilometers southeast of Can Tho we headed off the highway and into a village system of canals and narrow roads until the roads ended at the edge of what looked like a jungle. Not really. Every piece of land here is in reality numerous fruit plantations that butt up against each other and they are tended as carefully as anyone's garden plot is cared for. How anyone fought a war here is beyond my belief. Our Navy tried to control it, but failed miserably against the enemy and the elements. Our group of two Americans and four Vietnamese is here now to award 54 college scholarships to promising students from Hau Giang Province, and check in with local women who were awarded micro loans last year. We would be staying at the ancestral home of Ms. Thanh My, one of the board members, and a gracious host for the WEAV Team.
Loi, our van driver pulled off the road at the edge of the jungle and we began the walk to what we soon started calling "The Hacienda" situated deep within the forest of fruit trees, coconut palms, and alongside a narrow canal. It started raining as soon as we left the van. We were laughing. What a way to make an entrance.
     Rooming and bedding arrangements were sorted out after dinner. This would be interesting in the morning with all these women trying to use the one bathroom in the house. Three other women (Thanh My's relatives) already lived there and pampered all of us with constant meals, fruit, and non-stop amounts of tea and coffee. The real work was to begin in the morning at a local school and we had to be on time. I was directed toward a bedroom I would share with Mr. Thai, a quiet sort, but a good man about my age. The first order of business in this neck of the woods is to rig up your mosquito net and find space for your gear, preferably up off the floor so it's not infested with insects.  I slept like a baby amidst frog and gecko noises. The night air  was warm but not unpleasant.
     The house came alive with the first call of the local roosters. A cooking fire was started. I trundled around in the gloom of our room to find my shaving gear. Above my head I spotted some old wedding photos, somewhat faded with time, a calendar from the previous year, and next to my shaving gear on a bureau, an old photo in a silver frame of a young man dressed in a navy uniform. His eyes stared at me. I took time to look at him as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the coming morning. I wondered who's navy he had been in. Such questions can be deeply personal and possibly none of my business in a country with which we had previously fought a war. The business at the local school went well; even better than expected, and the team returned to the "Hacienda" tired, but elated. I filled my brain all that day with a thousand questions about the sailor in the picture. I had to find out who he was and what his connection was to this gracious family who was now hosting me and five other people in their home.
     We were tired that evening, but no matter. Tuyen, the lady who seemed to be the main organizer of our stay, soon had dinner ready and let us relax afterward in hammocks and again and again, produced large servings of freshly picked fruit and pots of tea. It was a wonderful evening. I asked if there was a guitar in the house and one was quickly produced. It was a hand-made beauty from Can Tho and probably cost no more than a hundred dollars. We laughed and joked and discussed the day's business. The guitar helped me slide into the night-sounds, and continuing thoughts of the Sailor in the photo. There are a million stories in (and out) of this country that have never surfaced yet. The war was one thing. The diaspora of the Boat People was another. The Post 1975 period of peace and economic struggle is the Today portion of a continuing history. I've been a witness to it all and have worked with many who've made it a life advocacy to continue to watch it, study it, and write about it. My life has been good to me throughout it all. The military part of me would like me to forget about it, but every once in a while it jumps up to bite me at odd and curious moments, such as the one I was having right now with that photograph. We all went to bed early with the January shortness of the day - and I said a silent goodnight to the eyes staring out at me from the photo.
     I'm an inveterate collector of stories. They feed our memories of people, both good and bad. If they're never written down the truth within them is lost to the ages. Facts get confused with time and exaggeration. If I didn't ask any questions I wasn't about to get any answers about the Sailor. The next morning's breakfast of fried fish and Pho proved to be interesting.
     During a more quiet moment after the meal I broached the subject with our host Thanh My. She was curious as to why I was so interested in knowing who the man was. I told her I too, had been in the military, and had actually served here during the war. All the women seemed surprised to learn this. The open veranda, which served as gathering area and dining area became even more quiet as Thanh My started telling the story of Tran Kim Long, who's widow Hue had graciously opened her home to us for the past several days. I looked at Hue, and the wedding photos in the bedroom suddenly became clearer to me. Kim Long's photo also held a special place on the Family Altar in the center of the home. "What happened to him?" I asked. "Let me show you something," replied Thanh My. She led me reverently out to the rear of the house and down a path covered with fruit trees. Ahead was the Family burial ground, neatly kept and obviously visited often. "Here he is," said Thanh My. "He survived the war and struggled after he came home. He married, had three daughters who still live close by, and then suddenly died when he was 45." It reminded me of so many other stories I'd heard over the years since the end of the war. Kim Long had served on "the Southern Side" but it didn't seem to matter to me in the end. He had his whole life ahead of him after surviving so much, only to die at a young age in a man's life-span. I, a former Sailor paid my tributes to another Sailor. The civilian world has no understanding of the meaning behind the exchange. It's a code of sorts, ingrained in me until I meet my own passing from this piece of dirt. Although I never knew him, I'll not forget him.