Turntable

I love this place! The minute I walked in the door I didn't wanna leave, they are so friendly! Cool set up inside and out!

I am hesitant to write this because there is something unique and magical about this place. The owners are wonderful caring people providing one I the most relaxed environment for artists and audiences anyone could ever ask for. Their food is delicious (I had an amazing chicken salad with pesto that was so good I practically licked the container clean!) their beer is varied and reasonably priced and the coffee is amazing! So why am I hesitant to endorse? Because this jewel is untarnished... I am worried about too many people coming in! However, I can't be selfish... And Renee assures me that they can accommodate you. So come down... Settle in... Enjoy ... And tell your friends. Or don't! Either way I know I will call this my home away from home :)

On a cool, late-spring night I was ferried away to a remote little place out in Jamestown that was described to me only as "Turntable". Given nothing else on which to base my preconceptions, I did not at all envision the quaint farmhouse-turned-art-gallery-cafe-and-music-venue I ultimately found myself set upon.

From the moment I walked up, I knew something special was happening. Toward the back of the old multi-story farmhouse, idyllic and complete in it's well-kept disarray, stark white paint, trim windows with tight shutters, sharp awnings and strong columns, stretched a small stage, mics and lights and cables and speakers arranged messily but with purpose. Before that stage was a flat green lawn, speckled with little dark shadows from the overhanging trees in the low night, stationed around the perimeter by clever string lights tied up on square wooden poles. Spotted about the edge of the yard were several adirondack chairs, picnic tables, and benches - plenty of seating for the lazy or tired at the rear, and plenty of dance room for the more energetic of us up toward the stage.

A folksy duo, Channing and Quinn, were crooning from the back of the house. Alt-country and indie roots ballads belted out in siren song by the fiery redhead with the pale skin and strong pipes, grounded masterfully by the rhythmic strumming of the shaggy-haired chap at her side. I bobbed my head and gleaned about and let it all kind of sink in. Later, while half-drunk, they pulled out a really searing cover of Heart's Alone that left me wild and spinning.

Inside, Turntable is cordoned off into little galleries. With each room featuring the work of a different local artist. On the evening I visited, one room was dedicated to the work of miss JWebb, the sister of my ladyfriend, with whom I had only on that night become acquainted. The little gallery was ornamented of a tall central room with a long sofa to one wall, an old piano on the wall opposite, and a little ledge separating the entryway to the staircase on the wall adjacent. Fitted eccentrically about the open space along the aged cracked-plaster walls were a fair number of paintings - all cohesively identifiable with their weeping streaks of run paint, carefully blended blurs of complimentary and contrasting colors, and heavy textures of thick layers and slick strains. One in particular, a blue-green abstract seascape of sad sliding tears of aquamarine and seaweed-green struck me in particular.

Beyond that gallery was a little downstairs bar/cafe. A spunky, diminutive dark-skinned, big-smiled barmistresses was giddily chatting up patrons and serving drinks. As she poured me a fat, well-priced IPA from the tap, I browsed the multitude of pastries and scones and muffins and torts basketed along the tall counter. I couldn't resist the urge to take hold of a big ole homemade blueberry muffin and stuff my face. My compatriots opted for the much more savory selection of a pizza bowl - which we heated in the toaster oven on the far wall then burnt-tongue mouth-jawed it down. So good.

Several IPAs in and toward the end of Channing and Quinn's set I found myself back outside, fetching a log from the tall woodpile beyond the gravel drive, and stoking the dwindling bonfire back to flaming heat. The straggling guests scattered and wilted away and soon it was time for us to go too. The string lights went out, the fire died down, and the old farmhouse slank quietly into slumber.

We drove off, crunching gravel echoing beneath our wheels, booze on our breath, muffins in our bellies, and the sweet sounds of the nights music and conversation still lingering but slowly flaking away. Kinda like the cracked paint on the storied walls in this neat old house.