Saturday, So What?

Sometimes all I want is a simple Saturday night.

No high culture, no trendy foodstuffs, no company required.

Chalk it up to yet another of my eccentricities, but I just don't see the last day of the week as the highlight.

So instead of trying to think of what fabulous things I might enjoy tonight, I considered how to have a low-key evening alone.

Step one: dinner at Garnett's.

After claiming a counter stool, I went to the window and rifled through the newspaper box, extracting all the New York Times arts sections.

Back at the counter, I ordered a grilled Gouda with tomato and bacon, the pig-sporting cousin of my favorite sandwich at Ipanema.

Sans company, I was able to read and eat without conversational responsibility.

I read a review of "Lovelace," since I'd just seen the preview at Bowtie two days ago.

I read a piece called "Marriage is Yard Work" about a San Diego couple who have spent four years turning the backyard of the house they rent into an outdoor room, building most of the furniture themselves.

And then a couple sat down at the counter, having just come from the Sound City festival down at Tredegar.

Okay, so I hadn't gone out for conversation, but when it drops in my lap, what's a poor girl to do?

So I inquired. They liked that it wasn't particularly crowded. They were there early enough that the beer-pouring staff didn't yet know to pour half-full cups, so they got two full beers before someone caught on.

They thought the James Badfellows used too many cuss words (her term) for 2:00 in the afternoon. They wondered if El Vez really had an accent. They enjoyed Leagues.

And they didn't stay for the Breeders.

I knew everything I needed to and I could continue with my reading.

After finishing my deliciously gooey sandwich, I returned the newspaper to the box, thanked my server and headed home.

Step two: Warren Hixson.

Keeping it simple, I then walked three blocks to Black Iris Gallery for music.

It's the space that used to be Sound of Music and although I'd been to shows when it was SoM, I'd never gone beyond the front room.

Tonight the girl who took my money told me to head to the back "because there's beer there," and while I don't drink beer, I was curious about the unknown parts.

It was nothing like what I expected.

The room with the bar had beautiful wood wainscoting all the way around and it made me think of those walls where you touch a hidden button and the wall opens and allows you into a secret passage.

A mounted deer head over the bar, which in some ways resembled a rec room set-up.

Tall, narrow staircases continued up a few flights and this is apparently where the recording studios were.

So now I knew.

People continued to arrive, get beer and mingle until finally it was decided that we'd reached critical mass and the show could begin.

Frequenters of music shows knowingly refer to this as "Richmond time."

Nelly Kate, one of the organizers, made the point that Richmond needs to start shows when they say they will or else it's not fair to punctual arrivees.

My friend Dave Watkins often makes the same point.

So they didn't start on time, but it wasn't all that long before Warren Hixson took the stage in the front room.

As they began to play, I heard an annoying sound behind me and turned to find someone's iPod plugged into a small speaker and still playing.

Unnecessary, I deemed, and pulled the plug as if I were in charge.

It's so easy to take control sometimes.

Every time I see these guys (and girl, since Nelly's in the band), I hear how their sound has evolved even further.

Take one part garage rock, add in some almost grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards and before you know it, it's a pastiche with no discernible genre beyond their own.

Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, they start sounding groovier, a tad psychedelic and I am sucked in again.

And it wasn't just me; everyone I could see was dancing in place or bopping along to the sonic delights.

During one extended jam, a girl near me broke free of the crowd, went to the back of the room and began doing the hippie dance, catching non-existent butterflies with her eyes closed.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Maybe she was just looking to steer clear of company.

Sometimes that's a perfect Saturday night.