What More Can I Do?

My evening took flight unexpectedly when the phone rang.

It was a dear friend who'd just moved back to Richmond yesterday from halfway across the country.

About to head to Saison, he'd called because I live so close and he figured I might be able to join him, despite the fact that we already knew we'll see each other at a party tomorrow night.

Why not? My work was finished for the day and I had time before the show tonight, so I took a spin through the shower and headed down Marshall Street to meet him.

I expect there will be a lot of us meeting up in my future because he's moving into Jackson Ward this week, a fact that delights me no end.

There he was waiting at the bar with his cousin, also a Ward resident, looking just as happy and handsome as ever, if a bit tired.

But there was good reason for that; he'd worked a 15-hour day training his replacement at work, gotten up the next day and packed up all his belongings and started driving across the country.

I told him it was a good thing he's young and strong, but he just laughed and said all he needed was to face-plant for while and he'd be fine.

In honor of seeing each other, we decided to have a tequila flight, made even better by the bartender regaling us with tales of his excursions to Mexico to taste tequila and mezcal and even visit some distilleries.

The flight was educational (I'd only had one of the tequilas before) and delicious: tequila Ocho blanco, Partida reposado and Chinaco anejo.

My friend had recommended the Ocho because it was the first tequila to bear a vintage signifying the year and location of the agave harvest, which led to a discussion of how after wine, agave is the spirit most reflective of terroir.

Factoids aside, it didn't hurt that it was an earthy blanco, the purest expression of agave.

I'd had the Partida before, recalling that it was aged in oak Jack Daniels' barrels, resulting in a nice sweetness and easy drinking quality to it.

The bartender raved about the Chinaco anejo for its tropical and pepper notes, but it was the chocolate on the nose that made it taste so decadent to me.

It's a treat to have a good tequila menu in the neighborhood.

We got off on the topic of Christmas shopping when the bartender said he still had his to do. I'd talked to a male friend this afternoon who was also planning to do all his shopping tomorrow.

I pointed out that it's a sure bet that it'll be mostly men in the stores for the next two days and the bartender agreed, saying in addition to shopping for eight nieces and nephews, he needed to get "some girlfriend things."

Don't screw that up, I warned him. "Huh, yea!" he responded, clearly aware of what was at stake.

Peace on earth, that's what. At least for him.

After my friend left to get some rest time in, I got myself to Live at Ipanema for some last minute pre-holiday music because heavens knows when the next time I'll get any will be.

I'm fine with decking the halls and all, right up until it starts cutting into my music and then, not so much.

Tonight's show was billed as the Milkstains' first-ever Christmas miracle party time and if you've seen the Milkstains play (and I have but only twice), you know that guarantees a good time.

The crowd was small when I got there but I spotted a few familiar faces - a drummer who'd moved to Austin and was back for Christmas, the cute husband of a girlfriend who was home in bed, the violinist I'd seen play the other night- and took a stool at the end of the bar.

Before long, a sous chef friend came in with his out-of-town posse and I met a few new people, one of whom sat down next to me and wound up providing company for the rest of the evening.

He was an interesting guy, like me a native Washingtonian but currently living in Manhattan, and before long we were talking music, quality of life and how being an outcast in high school prepares you for life.

Both bands scheduled to play tonight didn't show up till late, so there was plenty of time for socializing, especially since practically everyone seems to have the week off, meaning no curfews for a change.

My new friend suggested I join him in a drink, so an Espolon was ordered and we found ringside seats for the action.

He was curious about why everyone in Richmond seems so happy and likes it here so much and naturally, I have plenty to say on that subject, so we became fast friends.

At long last Diamond Hairbrush, a drums and bass duo, got set up, overdressed on this unseasonably warm night with the drummer in a shirt and tie and the bassist in a hoodie with a cap on.

On a 64-degree night in a low-slung room, they became hot and sweaty really quickly.

They played hard and fast, even with a song with a mild-mannered title like "Oreo," and at one point the drummer asked what song was next on the set list.

"The weird one," the bassist replied.

"They're all weird," the drummer responded, counting off anyway.

Their set was as short as their songs and during the break, a lot more people arrived - the DJ who'd given me a fabulous tape and promised me another this week, the art teacher come to see her boyfriend at work, the music critic claiming she was late because she's old (What does that make me? I asked. "F*cking amazing!" she claimed) and probably lots of Milkstains fans.

Once the band got set up, bass player Gabe disappeared meaning the set couldn't start, so I used the time to head to the bathroom.

Imagine my surprise as I walked toward the back and saw Gabe coming from the kitchen wearing a red glitter Santa hat over his long, dark hair and decked out in a green felt Christmas tree costume adorned with ornaments and working colored lights, sleeveless so that it showed off his multitude of tattoos.

Grabbing and kissing me en route, he said, "It's Christmas, baby!" and kept on for the front. It was showtime.

The Milkstains are high-energy surf rock, great fun to watch and with this being a holiday show, determined to make it festive.

The drummer wore a black Santa cap and the guitarist dropped his red one over his pedals, grinding it under his shoe.

Between garage rock and psychedelia gems, they threw out presents to the crowd - Milkstains cassette tapes and t-shirts- and even did a solid cover of "Blue Christmas."

A few songs in and my new friend from NYC turned and asked me why no one was dancing.

My guess was that the restaurant is small and the crowd had grown quite large, but the truth is, there's rarely dancing at Live at Ipanema. It's just not that kind of show or venue.

Naturally, that theory was soon upended when they decided to close with "All I Want for Christmas is You."

Gabe proclaimed it a singalong and three girls wasted no time in jumping on the mic, but basically, the room exploded as everyone began dancing madly to the boisterous Christmas staple.

The New Yorker was twerking against me, the music critic and I were bumping hips and all of a sudden, it was a very loud Christmas dance party.

And quite possibly, the most raucously enjoyable close to a Live at Ipanema I've been to and I've been to a lot of them.

Who knew "All I Want for Christmas" was such a crowd-pleaser?

But I shouldn't be surprised. It's Christmas, baby.