There's this thing called the Seattle Head Nod. Or so I've heard it called. Go to a live rock show, and people don't dance. They nod. Heads bobbing in time to the music. Heck, that means you're into it. Everyone else is standing stock still, beer in hand, or hanging out in the back, catching up with friends.
Because, you know, you don't want to get too carried away. Except That Guy in front, dancing like a maniac, a lone hip shaker in a crowd that barely sways to the beat. But who wants to be That Guy?
Secretly: everyone wants to be That Guy. Well, maybe not everyone, but come on, he's having fun. And last night, at the Sunset Tavern, there were a lot of folks who decided to let their hair down and just have fun.
It was the album release party for the Tripwires, and no doubt the fact that these guys have been around for, oh, a couple decades, playing in bands ranging from the Screaming Trees to the Model Rockets, played a part in the festive atmosphere. The small crowd seemed filled with many who knew the band, and connections were tight between the Tripwires and their opening acts, Small Change and Llama. During the first two sets, Liz and I were happily head bobbing to the music, but when the Tripwires came on stage, everyone let loose.
People shimmied and swayed, twisted and turned. Up on stage, the band members sweated it out in sports coats, jumping and grinning and playing to the crowd. As people squeezed by to get to the restroom, I more than once felt someone's hands lightly at my waist - not in an obtrusive way, mind you. These were just people passing through, and rather than elbow their way by or try to skirt around us with as little contact as possible, they weren't afraid of a little touching out of consideration. It was, well, friendly. And like little kids dancing out of sheer youthful joy, we just felt happy to be there.
After all, there's no shame in being that lone dancer when you have a whole crowd backing you up. And dancing to the Tripwires beats doing the Seattle Head Nod any day of the week.
Showing posts with label Liz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Liz. Show all posts
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Music at the Mural
Seattle Center's Mural Amphitheater is misnamed - behind the stage, you'll find a large mosaic, not a mural. But, as my friend and I agreed, "Mosaic Amphitheater" sounds kind of pretentious. Mural Amphitheater somehow doesn't, which is fitting for a stage that has hosted the likes of Mudhoney and other Seattle bands over the years. Once upon a time these free summer concerts were called the "Pain in the Grass" shows. Now, as local radio station KEXP is trying to revive them, they're simply called "Concerts at the Mural".
It's a great setting for an outdoor show. A grassy lawn slopes down towards the stage, behind which the Space Needle towers, offering the chance to watch the elevators glide up and down its spine like golden beetles. That is, if you can take your eyes off the people - an outdoor concert is prime people watching territory, ranging from kids chasing after soap bubbles to the guy in the blue shirt who never sits down or stops hammering his fist to the music, even during the slow songs. Most of the crowd sits nowadays, which I initially find pleasant, but after a few hours, you do feel kind of a pain in your, well, you know.
Last night Johnny and the Moon, the Moondoggies, and the Fruit Bats took to the stage. Liz took a liking to Johnny and the Moon, and everyone seemed to get just a little more into the Fruit Bats (you can tell when a few more heads pick up that slight nod to the beat, and when a small crowd actually gathers in front of the stage - a very small crowd in this case, but still). As the evening grew to a close and the sun began to set, the Fruit Bats played the best known of their old songs, "When You Love Somebody", with many in the audience happily humming along. Happy to listen to the music, happy for the sunshine, and happy that the weekend was just beginning.
It's a great setting for an outdoor show. A grassy lawn slopes down towards the stage, behind which the Space Needle towers, offering the chance to watch the elevators glide up and down its spine like golden beetles. That is, if you can take your eyes off the people - an outdoor concert is prime people watching territory, ranging from kids chasing after soap bubbles to the guy in the blue shirt who never sits down or stops hammering his fist to the music, even during the slow songs. Most of the crowd sits nowadays, which I initially find pleasant, but after a few hours, you do feel kind of a pain in your, well, you know.
Last night Johnny and the Moon, the Moondoggies, and the Fruit Bats took to the stage. Liz took a liking to Johnny and the Moon, and everyone seemed to get just a little more into the Fruit Bats (you can tell when a few more heads pick up that slight nod to the beat, and when a small crowd actually gathers in front of the stage - a very small crowd in this case, but still). As the evening grew to a close and the sun began to set, the Fruit Bats played the best known of their old songs, "When You Love Somebody", with many in the audience happily humming along. Happy to listen to the music, happy for the sunshine, and happy that the weekend was just beginning.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Joule of Wallingford
There is a tiny restaurant in Wallingford that goes by the name of Joule. On winter Sundays, they dispense with their everyday menu and offer up a theme dinner for the bargain price of $20 per person. Add to this the fact that they also offer house wine for only $4 a glass and, well, this is a deal that's hard to beat in this city.
But what's really hard to beat is the story of how Michael, Liz, and I finally made it to our dinner reservation there last night.
It started out simply enough. Michael and I motored our way down Lake City Way, heading onto Roosevelt on our way to Liz's place.
"Aren't you going to turn here?" Michael asked innocently when I drove past the Roosevelt Safeway.
"No, Liz told me this morning her house is on 70th, I'll turn there." I had, in fact, dropped Liz off at her place before, but it had been awhile, it had been after dark, and I'd never bothered to remember which street it was on anyway. Momentarily I pulled up across from a house on 70th. Michael hesitated.
"This isn't right," he told me.
"Well, this is what she told me. Come on, get out of the car, and go see if she's there." Honestly, it didn't look right to me either, but I was positive Liz had said 70th... that morning after church, with the fellowship hall full of the clamor of post-service chat.... and I was talking with that new guy... he was standing between us... OK, OK, this sounded bad, but I had repeated it back to her, and had gotten confirmation in the affirmative; this had to be right.
Michael was still unconvinced. We were running late by now, and I impatiently urged him to get into the car while I checked. I lightly ran up the steps of the craftsman on the corner and peeked through the window, only to find a living room that looked very much like an actual living room, complete with mission style furnishings and lovely artwork. In short, it looked nothing like the rental house where Liz lived with seven guys would actually look. I ran across the street, trying to get my bearings. All the houses looked like perfect mini-craftsmens, the kind where middle-class urban families settle when they decide to have children, or at least a family dog. Something was wrong.
It was then that I realized something was more than wrong, something was downright sinister. Michael, and the car, were gone.
OK, Ruth Ann, don't panic. Think, think.
My first thought was to run down the street screaming, "Liz!" I even tried that once or twice, then realized I should be thankful that everyone was probably watching the Superbowl and therefore unable to hear me make a fool of myself. Then, it came to me. 70th Street sounds an awful lot like 75th street, when you think about it... could it be?
I spun on a dime and started running uphill towards 75th. I didn't even pause when I passed the man lugging his Christmas tree as he trudged up the sidewalk; this whole experience was turning surreal. Who takes out their Christmas tree in February? And why carry it for five blocks? I had no time to ask such questions, however; I was almost there.
Liz, however, was not there at all. Three of the guys, all wearing hoodies, answered the door about a minute after I rang. "Someone was coming to give her a ride," one of them offered.
"Yes," I responded, "That would be be me."
Dejectedly, I stood on the sidewalk in my shirtsleeves, warm from my recent run. Surely, I thought, Michael must have realized where Liz was and come to pick her up, and surely he would come back to find me - although, having been left stranded once already at 70th, I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic.
Then, just as I was pondering whether to wait or head back down the hill, our little Vibe pulled up to the traffic light. Michael and Liz were both inside. We made it to our reservation (thankfully John, the other member of our party, had had the good sense to arrive on time), and sat down to a lovely meal. Hot duck noodle soup, ginger roasted carrots, and chicken rolled and stuffed with sticky rice, gingko nuts, and dates were just some of the delightful dishes included in our prix-fixe meal.
At the end of the evening, we stirred sponnfuls of honey studded with finely shredded quince into hot water to create a soothing tea. The theme for the evening's supper had been "Cure for the Common Cold", and each ingredient was purported to have specific health benefits. I'm not sure if dates really have a "calming effect", but we all felt relaxed as the meal drew to a close.
I look forward to another winter supper at Joule soon, but next time I don't plan on running up any hills to work up an appetite.
But what's really hard to beat is the story of how Michael, Liz, and I finally made it to our dinner reservation there last night.
It started out simply enough. Michael and I motored our way down Lake City Way, heading onto Roosevelt on our way to Liz's place.
"Aren't you going to turn here?" Michael asked innocently when I drove past the Roosevelt Safeway.
"No, Liz told me this morning her house is on 70th, I'll turn there." I had, in fact, dropped Liz off at her place before, but it had been awhile, it had been after dark, and I'd never bothered to remember which street it was on anyway. Momentarily I pulled up across from a house on 70th. Michael hesitated.
"This isn't right," he told me.
"Well, this is what she told me. Come on, get out of the car, and go see if she's there." Honestly, it didn't look right to me either, but I was positive Liz had said 70th... that morning after church, with the fellowship hall full of the clamor of post-service chat.... and I was talking with that new guy... he was standing between us... OK, OK, this sounded bad, but I had repeated it back to her, and had gotten confirmation in the affirmative; this had to be right.
Michael was still unconvinced. We were running late by now, and I impatiently urged him to get into the car while I checked. I lightly ran up the steps of the craftsman on the corner and peeked through the window, only to find a living room that looked very much like an actual living room, complete with mission style furnishings and lovely artwork. In short, it looked nothing like the rental house where Liz lived with seven guys would actually look. I ran across the street, trying to get my bearings. All the houses looked like perfect mini-craftsmens, the kind where middle-class urban families settle when they decide to have children, or at least a family dog. Something was wrong.
It was then that I realized something was more than wrong, something was downright sinister. Michael, and the car, were gone.
OK, Ruth Ann, don't panic. Think, think.
My first thought was to run down the street screaming, "Liz!" I even tried that once or twice, then realized I should be thankful that everyone was probably watching the Superbowl and therefore unable to hear me make a fool of myself. Then, it came to me. 70th Street sounds an awful lot like 75th street, when you think about it... could it be?
I spun on a dime and started running uphill towards 75th. I didn't even pause when I passed the man lugging his Christmas tree as he trudged up the sidewalk; this whole experience was turning surreal. Who takes out their Christmas tree in February? And why carry it for five blocks? I had no time to ask such questions, however; I was almost there.
Liz, however, was not there at all. Three of the guys, all wearing hoodies, answered the door about a minute after I rang. "Someone was coming to give her a ride," one of them offered.
"Yes," I responded, "That would be be me."
Dejectedly, I stood on the sidewalk in my shirtsleeves, warm from my recent run. Surely, I thought, Michael must have realized where Liz was and come to pick her up, and surely he would come back to find me - although, having been left stranded once already at 70th, I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic.
Then, just as I was pondering whether to wait or head back down the hill, our little Vibe pulled up to the traffic light. Michael and Liz were both inside. We made it to our reservation (thankfully John, the other member of our party, had had the good sense to arrive on time), and sat down to a lovely meal. Hot duck noodle soup, ginger roasted carrots, and chicken rolled and stuffed with sticky rice, gingko nuts, and dates were just some of the delightful dishes included in our prix-fixe meal.
At the end of the evening, we stirred sponnfuls of honey studded with finely shredded quince into hot water to create a soothing tea. The theme for the evening's supper had been "Cure for the Common Cold", and each ingredient was purported to have specific health benefits. I'm not sure if dates really have a "calming effect", but we all felt relaxed as the meal drew to a close.
I look forward to another winter supper at Joule soon, but next time I don't plan on running up any hills to work up an appetite.
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