French Horns and Precious Jewels

You'd think few things could impress after such a ridiculously beautiful March day (83 degrees, seriously?), but you'd be mistaken.

Last week I'd suggested to a girlfriend I hadn't seen in months that we meet tonight at Gallery 5 for the England in 1819 show.

"I have no idea who that is but I will go because I want to see you! Also, I need live music, BAD!"

I can't ignore a friend's plea for live music, much less my company, so we planned to meet at 7:30 for some catch up time before the music started.

Walking in, the girl to whom I paid my cover wanted to know who I'd come to see, an unusual question in that in the scores of shows I've seen at G5, I'd never once been asked that.

Explaining that I'd seen Spandrel and Herro Sigar multiple times before, I was here on a mission to see England in 1819 after checking them out online.

Oddly, she seemed completely uninterested in my response.

Inside, I found my cute friend at the bar with a Magic Beaver, a beer she'd ordered sotto voice to avoid saying such a ridiculous beer name aloud.

With no time to waste, we got right down to the business of life, namely how she and her husband try to outdo each other sending dumb pictures back and forth, how desperately this town needs a mid-size venue, the birds she's been attracting to her backyard feeder and the bulbs bursting forth in our gardens.

When I told her my pink hyacinths were already perfuming my handkerchief of a front yard, she told me she'd considered getting a hyacinth tattoo back in December because of the line in T.S. Elliott's The Wasteland, "They called me the hyacinth girl."

I have to adore a friend who considers a tattoo because of poetry. As it turned out, she'd gotten a gramophone instead, an exquisite rendering (Amy Black, natch) which she proceeded to show me by taking down her red jacket sleeve.

Because she's as big a music fanatic as I am, discussion of what we were both currently listening to ensued, with her recommending Lydia Loveless and Angel Olsen. We also agreed that we need to get our tickets for Perfect Pussy sooner rather than later.

By then a smallish crowd had drifted in, although there wasn't a single person either of us knew, a rarity for us at shows.

Spandrel played first, bringing their brand of laid back '70s California rock with male and female vocalists, instrument trading and a mellow vibe. Several of the band's members had out of town family visiting, so there was some filming going on.

My friend and I discussed how if we were in bands (as if), we couldn't imagine wanting our families in attendance at a show, but maybe that's just us. The band certainly didn't seem to mind.

While England in 1819 set up, we watched intently, curious about a band who chooses the name of a Shelley poem for their band.

"They're so hot I want to take them home," my happily married friend observed apropos of nothing.

During their sound check of voices and synth, the bearded one said to the sound guy, "That sounds like a god damn angel up here." That it did.

"Hi, we're England in 1819 and we're from Baton Rouge," the bearded one said by way of introduction before picking up a French horn and causing my friend and I to go into paroxysms of joy at that distinctive sound.

Using keyboards, synth and occasional guitar, bass and that horn, the duo made atmospheric and melodic electronica that was so beautiful my friend and I found ourselves looking at each other in amazement.

Why weren't there more people here?

"Our Own God" had a delicate intensity and the poppy, exuberant "Sirens" went out to Austin, whoever he was. They said tonight's show was the second to last of their tour with tomorrow night's final stop in Atlanta.

Saying they were going to do a slow one, "Tree Cut Down" began with keyboard and French horn, with synth eventually chiming in for what had to be the most sublimely beautiful song of the night and that's saying something.

To me, it sounded like the song you'd hear near the end of a foreign film where two people are making their way toward each other, unaware of the other.

Their set was so good, so different than anything you hear in Richmond, that the two of us were positively beaming, not to mention yelling and clapping madly after each song.

The two musicians traded off instruments throughout, but it was the bearded one, not the lead singer (falsetto, no less) who danced along to almost every song when he wasn't making dramatic hand gestures to further the song's energy.

Hardly surprising given the band's name, most songs had poetic lyrics and a kind of sweeping soundscape that, to me anyway, leaned mightily toward post rock's grandeur.

I don't know which of us loved it more, but I do know we were both bowled over with the beauty, intensity and sheer electronic goodness of what we were hearing.

Their set ended all too soon for us.

Perhaps because the crowd was small, the bearded one, who turned out to be Daniel, came over to us to introduce himself and ask if we ever got to Louisiana (not often enough, clearly), chatting with us about their last time in Richmond at the unlikeliest of places, Emilio's.

We explained that Richmond has almost no electronica scene, unlike D.C. and NYC and he admitted Baton Rouge really didn't, either.

Friend and I only wish we could change that. "I could listen to that kind of music every night of the week," she lamented. Amen, sister. If only we could find it.

Basking in the glow of such an unexpectedly terrific set of music (if we'd been smokers, we'd have needed a post-set cigarette), we awaited the final band of the evening, Herro Sugar.

They had been part of the reason my friend had come, having heard about them but never seen them.

These guys are impossibly young (or perhaps they just look that way) and come across as more sure of themselves as musicians than as adults.

But, I tell you what, their sound is fully formed for ones so young and the sheer amount of energy they put out was invigorating. Channeling influences from the past twenty years, they manage to sound fresh and influenced at the same time.

The bass player, probably the youngest looking but also the most charismatic and personable, was a whirlwind, always doing something in addition to playing, whether executing air kicks, leaning his head into the lead singer's back as they played or mounting the drum kit, and his enjoyment of it all was contagious.

He told the crowd that tonight was their last show for a while as they hunkered down to record an album. "So keep your eyes, er, ears posted," he instructed.

My girlfriend looked at me, clearly doting on him, saying, "He's adorable. He's my precious jewel," the same thing she says about her beloved cat.

"We 're going to play one more and then you can go home to your Wednesdays," he said with a big smile.

As it turned out, the crowd insisted on one more still but due to technical difficulties, there was an unexpected break during that song before they restarted and finished it properly...and proudly.

These guys sure know what they're doing for being so tender of years and it'll be interesting to watch them develop.

Not as  exciting as it would be for the Magic Beaver drinker and I to watch an electronica scene develop in Richmond, but a good thing nonetheless.

For tonight, it was enough to be treated to the music of god damn angels with a favorite female too long absent from my life.

Now, I can assure you, we're ready to start our Wednesdays.