Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, August 17, 1993 TAG: 9308170158
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Kathleen Wilson
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
At twilight, at tables under the stars, supporters of the Northwest Child Development Center gathered to enjoy the second annual Evening of Elegance at the home of Dr. and Mrs. John H. White in Hardy.
Peter Lewis, 15, didn't even mind that he had to wear a tuxedo. Peter's mother, Harriet Lewis, is the executive director of the nonprofit organization dedicated to building an appropriate learning program for low- and moderate-income families.
There couldn't have been a more enchanting group of people to spend a Saturday night with. And there was no more elegant lady than Eunice Poindexter to chair this affair.
On the patio Sadye White and Joyce Walker were doing the Madison. At one point, they added something they called the Wilt Chamberlain, where they sorta turned and did a hook shot.
Back when he used to come home from the service, Robinson told me, he'd bypass home and head straight for the old American Legion Hall on Williamson Road.
"The whites had to stay up on the balcony - they wouldn't let us mix," he recalled. "But they'd sneak down and dance with us."
Joyce couldn't quite pin down when the Madison was all the rage.
"But I can tell you it was back in the day," she said, dancing under a bright full moon. "Back in the day, hon." nn
Dave Parr and Max Robertson are about the two best guys a girl could hope to meet in Scooch's, the self-proclaimed rock 'n' roll bistro on Williamson Road.
I was there to judge the battle of the bands semi-final bout between Desmond Steele and Grind.
Dave and Max, who say they're usually fixtures at the yuppie watering hole Corned Beef & Co., were out looking for something new to do on a Saturday night.
"Our next song is called `Trouble,' " boomed Grind's lead singer Billy Tresky, a guy who is every mother's nightmare onstage, but offstage, an absolute doll. "It's about . . . "
"It's about a chick."
"What else?" Dave muttered beside me.
When they liked the music, Dave and Max made this loud WOOOOOO sound of approval.
"See?" Max explained. "If we did that in Corned Beef, everybody'd look at you." nn
V magazine editor Jim Cubby cracked me up the night we judged together.
As Warden thrashed their heads in a metal frenzy, Jim decided they did the best hair.
"No, make that synchronized hair," added Jim.
"This next song is about racism," explained the lead singer from Claude Zirkle, a band described as doing a "Judas Priest/Black Sabbath sorta thing."
"It matters about as much to me what color a man's skin is as whether or not he has a wart on his butt."
Jim leaned over.
"Why didn't he just say `it doesn't matter to me what the color of the wart on a man's butt is?"
For the record, the Mosaics came out the winners of Scooch's weeklong music fest. That was OK with me. They're probably my very favorite local band.
(And I'm not the only one, judging from the line of 30 or so people waiting in line to get in to see the band when they performed at Ward's Rock Cafe in downtown Roanoke last Saturday.)
But the best band who didn't win?
Well, Grind.
That is, if you ask me.
Why is it nobody ever told me you can find utopia at the Pine Tavern in Floyd?
The drive there is beautiful. They serve Guinness stout on tap. And the garlic bread is decadent.
If you're lucky enough to have great company and turn up there when the McKenzies are playing, it's about as near perfect an evening out on the town - no, make that out of the town - as you'll ever hope to have.
The McKenzies - Woody and Marcia McKenzie and Carl and Sabrina Kirby - play the fiddle, banjo, bass fiddle, hammer dulcimer, piano, harmonica and just about anything else you can wrangle a tune out of.
It was the first time I ever noticed how evocative mountain music is of old Irish folk songs.
The lyrics are a particular treat.
Woody, a teacher by day, does what has to be the only chemistry/love song ever written about sodium and chloride.
His token physics tune: "Albert Einstein wrote a new equation every day, on Mondays he wrote three. Albert, dance around. Albert, be profound. Albert, let your hair hang down . . . "
by CNB