How High the Roses

My goodness, what a lot of rain!

Not that I allowed it to keep me from the Listening Room, these days a much more infrequent event than it used to be.

Besides walking five miles to school uphill in a blizzard, I also remember when the Listening Room was a regularly scheduled monthly event, as reliable a part of my month as the full moon.

But things change and, as one Listening Room founder recently told me, when the series began in 2009, it was far more needed than it is now with all kinds of series and a much more vibrant music scene than back then.

So when I saw the eleventh hour announcement about this week's event, I looked forward to it, sure I'd see all the regular gang. Except, no, not so much.

Maybe it was the torrents of rain falling, maybe people already had plans by the time they got word of the show, but it was definitely a smaller than usual crowd.

Oh, sure, the scientists was there and told me about his upcoming one month trek down the James with his students. My favorite dulcitar player gave me a hug and we talked ballet. The accordion player and I were talking when someone walked up and asked if we were related. "No, but I wish we were," she said. But then duty called.

Ever since the Foundry crew who puts on the Listening Room became an all male bunch, the food and coffee table has been a bit more of a challenge.

So when the LR's photographer Rob showed up just before starting time with coffee and treats, I volunteered to help him get things set up.

What that meant was that he handed me his pocket knife so that I could cut goodies in half and lay them out for attendees, some of whom were already wondering out loud where the sweets were.

Nate was our MC tonight, observing that if we were wondering where the Civil War-era looking guy was - regular MC Chris- he was away on business so Nate was filling in.

He spoke from the Firehouse's stage which was set with "A Streetcar Named Desire's" set, a couple of shabby rooms and a staircase, reminding me that I'd like to see that play.

The theater also had a display of local streetcar photography, including one labeled as "Streetcar at Broad and Main," something any Richmonder worth her salt knows does not exist since the two streets run parallel.

But the pictures themselves were fascinating to look at.

Red Lewis fit his name, a long, tall drink of water with a guitar and a carrot top and he began with the first song he ever wrote, finishing by telling us it was available in fleshed out form on "a nice CD" with him playing all the instruments.

He did a Hank Williams' cover, "Long Gone Daddy" and one about long distance romances.

"I don't know if anyone else made the same bad decision I did when I was like 19 or 20 and she was 2500 miles away in Calgary," he said about his song, "Absence Makes the Heart Go Yonder."

Red said it was surreal to be playing while people were actively listening since he was used to playing in a bar and being ignored.

"This is a pretty cool song about running into the ghost of Hank," he grinned. "I guess I got a theme going up here." He even sang the parts of the song where Hank was talking to sound like Hank.

Pulling out his banjo, he closed with "This Haunted Love," before ably demonstrating his sense of humor again, saying."If you like that song, it's on that nice CD over there I keep mentioning, along with t-shirts, but I only have three left because they're inexcusably comfortable."

Intermission was a trade-off - new people arrived but some left, too - and then Nate returned to the stage thanking the Firehouse and photographer Rob for always documenting the show. "There will be creepy pictures of you on the Internet," he warned.

...and the Wiremen were up next, the atmospheric duo of New Yorker Lynn Wright on guitar and vocals and Paul Watson on trumpet and backing vocals.

I don't even know how many times I've seen them, not to mention the array of locations (Ghostprint Gallery, Poe's Pub, Balliceaux), but the two create a moody kind of indie jazz that sounds like it's been filtered through both the '60s and European basement clubs.

Lynn, looking dapper as always with a navy and white polka-dotted silk scarf around his throat and capable of a warble of a croon that owes a great deal to Bryan Ferry, sang song after song, including one he said was so hot off the presses ("this afternoon") that he might have to resort to his cheat sheet.

If he did, I didn't notice.

How high the roses
How low the sea

He switched from a jangly, reverb-toned jazz guitar to an acoustic for a piece called "Cuervo" (as in "raven" in Spanish, not tequila), a piece he'd originally written for a dance company as an instrumental but had since added a few lyrics to the haunting melody.

Paul's horn is a big part of the pleasure of ...and the Wiremen, adding to their dusky sound, which really should always be played under the lowest of lights.

Saying they'd close with Alex Chilton's song "written some time back in the '70s", the beautiful strains of Big Star's "Take Care" with Paul blowing his trumpet around the edges of the song as they took us home for the night.

Take care not to hurt yourself
beware of the need for help 
You might need too much
and people are such

Take care, please take care

Some people read idea books
and some people have pretty looks
But if your eyes are wide
and all words aside

Take care, please take care

The Listening Room doesn't happen as often as it used to, but it can still provide the kind of evening where you hear hypnotic music that gives you the thrill only live music played to a hushed room can.

Or maybe it's just been a while and absence does make the heart grow fonder of what I used to get every single month.

Creepy pictures aside.

Now Hear This

Everyone needed my ear today.

First came the message, "We need to talk," which we tried doing, although we really didn't need to.

You can only rehash certain subjects so many times.

Next came, "Do you need a dinner date for tonight?" which I did so we met at Lemaire.

It was Discovery wine night when they practically give away bottles for $15, so he ordered a California chardonnay and I went with an interesting-sounding blend.

M. Chapoutier Cotes du Luberon La Ciboise Blanc, a blend of Grenache Blanc, Vermentino, Ugni Blanc and Roussanne, delivered lemon and pear up front and a nice acidity on the finish and a desire to know more about Ugni Blanc (which turned out to be nothing more than Trebbianio according to a certain someone's smart phone).

Although we started out at the bar, we soon moved to a window banquette, the better to watch the street theater and the entirety of the back room, which was full to capacity.

Deal-makers ignored everybody else, businessmen checked out every PYT who walked in and pairs of women dotted the bar, talking non-stop.

Entertaining as it was, I'd have been happy to sit outside since I've yet to do so, but my dinner date was having none of it.

Seems he's yet another man looking forward to warm weather going away while I'm lamenting its gradual but inevitable exit.

We started with Virginia cheese and charcuterie plates garnished with the sweetest of strawberries as he told me about all the drama going on with his job.

Stories like his make me grateful to be self-employed.

Like me, he's a big fan of eating out so we compared recent restaurant meals and who's been impressing us with which dishes and who seems rather static.

Nothing like a dinner date who wants to discuss food.

I kept it simple for dinner, a hearts of romaine salad with shrimp, more than enough after all that meat and cheese.

That and it left more room for dark chocolate terrine with mint cream and candied cashews, which we sort of shared, although he ate far less of it than I did.

It's a good thing I wasn't born back when women only ate a few bites on dinner dates in order to appear more feminine.

Call me new-fangled, but I count on my dresses to convey femininity, not my appetite.

The banquette was comfy enough that we lingered for hours sipping wine and chatting about our found similarities - living in Dupont Circle, a disdain for nightwear, a lot of dancing in our past- before noticing the time.

I don't have to be up early, but he does, so we wound things down and said goodnight.

There was still plenty of time for me to catch some music, so I drove to Balliceaux to find it.

The Low Branches were just finishing their first song, so I took a seat on the steps (okay, partially on a guy's feet, but he was on his phone so what did he care?) to watch their set.

I love hearing Christina sing Dolly Parton's "Jolene," especially with the fleshed out sound provided by Josh's bass and Blasco's drumming.

The also did a new song, one Matt called beautiful and Christina warned they hadn't played much yet.

Matt was right on this one.

They closed with a haunting song Christina sang in Turkish and it was over too soon.

During the break, I heard about the Fall Line Fest, which I'd missed by being at the beach.

One of the best moments came when I saw a friend, someone I recently learned I now have barely any degrees of separation from, and we just grinned at each other, unsure how to begin the discussion of what we now know.

We managed and it was pretty funny, but both of us are still adjusting.

The music resumed with ...and The Wiremen, a quartet of guitar, drums, violin and trumpet with occasional bass.

With a singer who warbles like Bryan Ferry (and was as often off-mic as on), Paul Watson's soulful trumpet playing (which I've been following for years since a long-ago show at Ghostprint Gallery), interesting drumming (brushes, yes, but the handles also used on the rims of the drums) and a violinist making the most of the instrument's potential (when he wasn't playing the bass and laying down grooves), the atmospheric set kept the crowd engaged in the soundcsapes they were creating.

Which is to say, that I never moved from the staircase where I had a straight shot of these four terrific musicians making music that spanned genres.

Before the last song, the singer said, "That bag is full of CDs and you can take one and pay what you will. That's the end of my sales pitch. Any more and I'm a minister."

No, thank you.

Heathen that I am, that's one thing my ears have absolutely no interest in hearing.

Not Sleeping while the World Goes By

I can begin an evening as artistically as I please, but chances are I'll end up lost and looking.

And that will be a very good thing.

A short walk to Ghostprint Gallery put me in the thick of a group of writers working on a false memory project.

I found my muse in a telegram, a letter and two old photographs.

Now I must create the poetry, the thought or the story to tell the world. Thank you, Chuck Scalin, for the inspiration.

Leaving the group behind, I found a willing partner and made for dinner.

I love Sundays at Secco because the staff is all female, so you get to talk about things like musicians and photographs.

And some people call you "my dear."

I began with a rose described as like drinking a red, all dark pink and calling for food.

The Mazzolino Brut Rose is a favorite from last year and held up in this unseasonable March.

My companion went  with the Saeti Lambrusco Seco which I'd had the other night.

Little did he realize he was getting the last glass of the secret stash.

In a further repeat of the other night, I insisted on the gnocchi in sea urchin butter, just to prove my point about what it conjured up.

He concurred and provided the rationale.

When comparing food to sexual activity, it's best to find a like-minded soul.

We went on to the pork rilletes followed by the Savoy cabbage wrapped Alsatian-style sausage with Granny Smith apples and Appezeller.

Who could resist a tiny mason jar of pork with fat on top? Not to mention the tomato chutney that accompanies it.

I chatted up the guy next to me who turned out to be the new chef at Blowtoad's, on a break to eat.

Newly arrived from South Carolina, he explained that he was eating his way up and down Cary Street to "see."

We finished with La Peral, a smooth Spanish bleu cheese that served as our dessert.

From that fabulous meal, we moved on to Balliceaux for music.

Walking up to the bar, the bartender went to leave, mumbling something.

What?

"Going to get some Cazadores for you," Sean explained.

Such service!

Tonight was all about Brooklyn, beginning with the Bee and Flower, who managed to sound heartbreaking yet beautiful at the same time.

With a female lead singer, their dark yet upbeat sound with violin and occasional horn was catchy in that way that sneaks up on you.

At one point. Dana, the lead singer, asked the audience to sing along, saying their part wasn't difficult.

"Just sing 'hey now, hey now," she instructed. "Come on, you never know when we'll be back in Richmond."

The Parisian-born singer Blasco joined them for "Send Me Low," lending a vocal along with trumpeter Paul Watson's blowing and singing.

It was a beautiful thing.

When ...And the Wiremen took the stage, it was with three members of the Bee and the Flower and yet the sound was different.

Leader Lynn Wright has a voice that would do Bryan Ferry proud and there's a slightly more urgent note to their sound.

I'm especially fond of Paul Watson's trumpet, adding in a  melancholy or triumphant note as needed.

I loved the lyric, "Shut the fuck up while I'm trying to sing."

Not that I was, but it was duly noted.

Actually, the crowd tonight (including more than a few industry types) were clearly musically-oriented and not there to use music as a backdrop.

It's great when the pretty people don't show up.

For their last song, they covered Sam Cooke's "Lost and Lookin," taking on a nearly fifty-year old song and doing an exquisite job with it.

I'm lost and a-calling for my baby
Baby, won't you please come home?

If the lights had been just a tad lower, I feel sure half the room would have been making out by the time the song ended.

As it was, we were half-swoony ourselves, what with pink wine and Sam Cooke.

Nothing like a little Brooklyn soul with horn on a Sunday night.

Baby, I was home.

Subterranean Sophistication

"That was an auditory pleasure," said one VCU student to another as we exited the Listening Room tonight. So what else is new, boys? But maybe they were Listening Room virgins and unprepared for the wonders of this must-hear monthly event. Even my friend Andrew almost always comes out for this one.

The crowd shifts regularly, sometimes younger, sometimes more mature, but always growing and made up of dedicated music lovers. For a change, tonight's bill had only two bands instead of three, making for slightly longer sets. Put on your attention spans, kids.

Blasco led the charge, tall and slender in black, and wearing a hat and jacket he soon shed under the heat of the lights. Even better, two of the lights got turned off, making for a much more atmospheric setting.

Blasco explained that he'd be playing both old and new material and that the new stuff would be recognizable because " it will be in French, so that's how you can tell. Because I'm French." He kept lyric sheets in front of him, he said, because they were still fresh. Even when I didn't understand the words, I got the feelings he was conveying.

It was the LR's first multi-lingual performance and set an interesting tone for the evening. With a tad less lighting, we could have been in a subterranean boite rather than a church basement with an emotive singer/songwriter playing guitar and singing songs of frustrated lives and loves. It felt so...Gallic and I mean that in the best possible way.

Favorite lyric: "He makes me want to miss you."

Next up was ...and The Wiremen, a trio tonight with one New Yorker (Lynn Wright) and two Richmonders (Paul Watson and Pippin). I've seen them before in places as disparate as Poe's Pub and Ghostprint Gallery, so I knew we were in for a treat.

Their music has a dark complexity and with Wright's (Bryan Ferry-like) warble, it makes for a haunting sound. Tuning his guitar, Wright said, "I was told to talk to the audience tonight which I don't usually do. I was also told not to act like a New Yorker."

The man does have a certain blase coolness that could be construed as acting like a New Yorker, but his apparent enjoyment in the performance came across as pure Richmond.

Watson's trumpet-playing and backing vocals add so much to the band's sound, as did his occasional air-guitar strumming on his trumpet. It was only preparation apparently for when he actually picked up his guitar, often alternating playing it with the horn.

Pippin (also of the Happy Lucky Combo) provided the creative drumming and percussion that rounded out their sound. I had just seen him play last week at the Musicircus, although in a band with a very different sound.

Favorite lyric: "Hey, I could be your man and stay to face it."

It was an unusually sophisticated evening at the Listening Room tonight and since a show of hands proved that easily half the crowd were first-timers, they may be surprised on their next visit to discover a completely different kind of musical experience.

But there still won't be any talking allowed. That's just how the Listening Room rolls.