Baby Help Me Remember It All

I am one of the rest of us and quite proud of it.

So when WRIR throws itself and the rest of us a birthday party, I go.

No, not always; I've been to five and this was their seventh.

I go because it's a great way to support Richmond's independent radio station.

Ten dollars is a small price to pay for multiple rooms of diverse music, storytelling, comedy and burlesque.

I go because practically everyone I know goes to it. And some I didn't know until tonight.

You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a DJ. Music lovers of every ilk are there.

A woman walks up and says, "Hi, Karen" and says something about being "Anonymous" on my blog.

She guessed who I was by my (40 Euro) tights and tells me she reads it to get ideas of what to do.

I admit it; I love the compliment.

The pretty people come (Michael and Matt) and say wildly flattering things to me in the first five minutes I'm there.

The homebodies come in their adorable vintage shoes.

The prickly one comes not only smiling but looking dapper.

The long-time music buddy comes with tales of a predictably madcap show I missed.

I go because they serve birthday cake and it's chocolate with white icing, a favorite of mine.

It will surprise no one who knows me but I am one of the first people to get a piece.

I grab a corner (more icing!) with no black decoration since we all learned last year that it turns your teeth black in a most unattractive manner.

I go to hear music any way it's presented. And, I'll be honest, without earplugs.

I hear a drum circle from three feet away and I feel like the drum rhythms have me rooted in place unable to move away, despite the volume, until the drums stop.

Sweet Fern, aka Allison Self and Josh Bearman, play un-amplified in the main hallway next to the food table.

Only the small circle of us who surround them from two feet away are able to hear their Carter Family and Johnny Cash covers over the din of the crowd.

Allison finished with what she called a dirty song, Lucille Bogen's "Shave Em Dry,"  throwing out the f-bomb and sex references to the rapt group surrounding her.

I loved watching people hear her do it for the first time.

I go to hear Baby Help Me Forget's last show, knowing lead singer and showman extraordinaire Jamie will end up shirtless and on the floor.

It's emotional because it's the end for the band. "It's been a good run," Jamie says. It has.

Their set the last night Sprout was open will go down in the annals of great Richmond shows.

I go to see the awesome light show Dave Watkins puts on behind the bands. The groovy factor is high.

I go to hear White Laces demonstrate for the second time in two weeks why their continuing musical evolution is an amazing thing to behold.

Just when your body starts moving and you expect to get locked in a groove, the tempo changes up and you know you are  being challenged.

And you like it a lot.

As if all that weren't enough, I am told I was thanked. And I see the proof.

Why wouldn't I pull out the cute tights for a party that good?