Happy Birthday Hovering

In a way, I went to two birthday parties tonight.

The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.

At least at first.

Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.

As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.

Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.

You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.

Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.

Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.

Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.

We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.

The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.

He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.

After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.

"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.

Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.

The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.

Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.

During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."

Ba-dum bum.

Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.

I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."

We all know there's a difference.

Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.

Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.

The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.

From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.

Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.

Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."

Illusion or not, I did, too.

Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply

Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.

"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."

That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.

Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.

Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.

The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.

After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.

"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."

Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."

"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."

He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."

Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.

Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.

Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.

Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?

It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.