Shannon's Steppin' Stone

The music just kept on coming.

Today's seven-hour musical extravaganza, WRIR and the Commonwealth of Notions present Volume 3 (part 3), was conveniently (for me) located at Gallery 5, meaning I could stroll over at 4.

I'd been instructed not to be a minute later by the show's first performer, Dave Watkins.

Unlike the park show where I'd recently seen him, tonight he had his full array of instruments, layering dulcitar, drums, keyboards and percussion to craft "songs."

With many new faces in the crowd, I just leaned back and watched their awed faces as they tried to wrap their mind around the textured sounds Dave was creating.

It was during his second song that the members of Dumb Waiter, an instrumental math rock/improvisational quartet (with sax!), joined Dave and that's when the epic factor went off the charts.

Seriously, these are musicians to watch and Dave complemented them magnificently.

The good news is I heard they've already scheduled an upcoming show together.

The only one I knew was Nathaniel, who used to be in Lobo Marino and who was in his element on drums here.

Speaking of, next, we all trooped upstairs for Lobo Marino, playing in the same room where they'd recorded their album a while back.

I'm proud to say that you can hear my laugh on that album.

Lobo Marino has been on tour a lot lately, so it was great to have Laney and Jameson back in RVA to play for long-time (and new) fans.

They did material from all their albums old and new, including inviting the audience to follow along with the hand gestures on "Animal Hands," the ecstatic "Celebrate," and the evocative "Stay with Me."

Calling up Nathaniel to join them onstage for the first time in over a year, Laney said they'd do the only song they sing in Spanish, one that they hadn't done in ages because it was "dependent on Nathaniel."

It's true; his trumpet and mandolin on that song make it even more beautiful and it was a real treat to hear it again after so long.

Back downstairs we went for Herro Sugar, a band whose singer wore their collective heart on his t-shirt, which said Wilco.

They began by sound-checking their mics, with each member stating that his mic should be the loudest because he was the most important member of the band.

I do like it when musicians have a sense of humor.

Their tightly written, indie pop songs were short blasts of energy and hooks and the crowd bopped right along with them.

Way, Shape or Form followed, sans one of their guitarists, who was away, but with a worthy replacement.

Their sound is more polished, with jazz and pop elements, demonstrating the range of the show's bands and yet the overlap of fans who enjoyed them just as much.

After their set, I bade my music buddy farewell for a bit, as I headed home to eat and get a little work done before returning.

When I got back, Warren Hixson was just starting and Friend and I picked up where we'd left off, with water in hand and attention to the band.

I'd seen them back in April, so it was no surprise that their catchy psychedelic surf rock was easy enough to enjoy from the first notes.

But I had to laugh when I overheard a guy say to a girl, "They're so new and different, I find them interesting."

Clearly his musical history knowledge was surface deep as the band's influences were all over the music, but I didn't correct him.

I did repeat his quote to some musicians who laughed at his naivete, but that's another story.

After their set, I mingled for a bit, only to have someone come up and exclaim, "You left and I couldn't find you! I was so upset I threw up!"

You have to love the high drama of friends after they've been drinking at a show since 4:00.

Even if they mean it.

Tonight's piece de resistance was Baby Help Me Forget's reunion show a year and a half after they'd played their last at the 2012 WRIR birthday party.

I wouldn't have missed their set for anything.

Personally, I think singer Jamie is the best showman in town, whether singing, dancing, gesturing or flinging his hair.

Until you've seen him bound onstage or leap off it, you can't imagine how he abuses his body in the service of rock and roll.

He leaped onstage in a jacket, vest and shirt and I knew right away that he'd be losing layers as the set progressed.

Unlike at past shows, sadly, we never got down to bare chest.

The band kicked into high-energy mode from the first song and the remaining crowd danced and cheered them along.

At one point, Jamie dedicate a song to the event's organizer, Shannon and it was a doozy.

"(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone" whipped the band and the audience into a '60s pop frenzy, with people doing everything from the pony to pogoing.

From there, you'd have thought they couldn't possibly take things any higher, but they did.

They sure did.

Jamie came down off the stage and placed what looked like a candle on the floor in front of the stage.

Returning to the stage, the band began another kick-ass song just as the "candle" showed itself to be fireworks of some kind, sending up a stream of colored sparks and plumes that lasted almost as long as the song.

Meanwhile, Jamie sang, ending up writhing on the floor, as is his long-standing tradition at shows.

It was the most epic ending to the show that could have been imagined, short of burning down Gallery 5.

And we wouldn't want that anyway.

Strolling home under a nearly-full moon, I had to think what a fantastic day in the neighborhood it is when I can support my local independent radio station by watching local talent strut their stuff all day and night.

Plus fireworks.

My only regret is making someone throw up for missing me.

Baby Help Me Remember It All

I am one of the rest of us and quite proud of it.

So when WRIR throws itself and the rest of us a birthday party, I go.

No, not always; I've been to five and this was their seventh.

I go because it's a great way to support Richmond's independent radio station.

Ten dollars is a small price to pay for multiple rooms of diverse music, storytelling, comedy and burlesque.

I go because practically everyone I know goes to it. And some I didn't know until tonight.

You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a DJ. Music lovers of every ilk are there.

A woman walks up and says, "Hi, Karen" and says something about being "Anonymous" on my blog.

She guessed who I was by my (40 Euro) tights and tells me she reads it to get ideas of what to do.

I admit it; I love the compliment.

The pretty people come (Michael and Matt) and say wildly flattering things to me in the first five minutes I'm there.

The homebodies come in their adorable vintage shoes.

The prickly one comes not only smiling but looking dapper.

The long-time music buddy comes with tales of a predictably madcap show I missed.

I go because they serve birthday cake and it's chocolate with white icing, a favorite of mine.

It will surprise no one who knows me but I am one of the first people to get a piece.

I grab a corner (more icing!) with no black decoration since we all learned last year that it turns your teeth black in a most unattractive manner.

I go to hear music any way it's presented. And, I'll be honest, without earplugs.

I hear a drum circle from three feet away and I feel like the drum rhythms have me rooted in place unable to move away, despite the volume, until the drums stop.

Sweet Fern, aka Allison Self and Josh Bearman, play un-amplified in the main hallway next to the food table.

Only the small circle of us who surround them from two feet away are able to hear their Carter Family and Johnny Cash covers over the din of the crowd.

Allison finished with what she called a dirty song, Lucille Bogen's "Shave Em Dry,"  throwing out the f-bomb and sex references to the rapt group surrounding her.

I loved watching people hear her do it for the first time.

I go to hear Baby Help Me Forget's last show, knowing lead singer and showman extraordinaire Jamie will end up shirtless and on the floor.

It's emotional because it's the end for the band. "It's been a good run," Jamie says. It has.

Their set the last night Sprout was open will go down in the annals of great Richmond shows.

I go to see the awesome light show Dave Watkins puts on behind the bands. The groovy factor is high.

I go to hear White Laces demonstrate for the second time in two weeks why their continuing musical evolution is an amazing thing to behold.

Just when your body starts moving and you expect to get locked in a groove, the tempo changes up and you know you are  being challenged.

And you like it a lot.

As if all that weren't enough, I am told I was thanked. And I see the proof.

Why wouldn't I pull out the cute tights for a party that good?

So Long, Farewell

Once you've touched the lead singer's sweaty chest, it's hard to go back in the hot room.

Tonight was the going away party for Sprout, the restaurant/venue that went out of business yesterday.

For their last hurrah, they invited something like fourteen bands to perform beginning at 5:00. And in true RVA fashion, the first band didn't start till after 6:00.

Not that it mattered.

The late start gave us early arrivals time to mingle and remember the many shows we'd seen at Sprout.

A good part of the restaurant's CD collection was available for the taking.

Band photographer PJ Sykes pulled a half dozen out of the pile and handed them to me. "You need these," he said. I believed him.

When the music finally started, the small crowd all moved into the back room to hear Miss Bliss (apparently a TV reference, so I didn't get it).

The duo of guitarist/singer Allison Apperson and drummer Noell Alexander played psychedelic surf pop with, wait for it, kazoo solos.

They closed with a cover of the Drifters' "Up on the Roof," dedicating it to Spout and the Fourth of July.

During the break, I wandered out and ran into Coffee Guy and helped owner Laurie remove tea lights from punch cups.

Shannon Cleary played next with violinist Joon Kim backing him up on violin, making for a fuller sound than usual.

Shannon covered an Itchy Hearts song as well as doing a particularly lovely "On the Way Home" by the late Nathan Joyce.

Taking the stage quickly, Ben Shepherd placed his bottle of Beaujolais to the side, strapped on his guitar and jumped right in.

Ben's a strong songwriter; for the first song, my friend jumped up announcing, "I have to give my full attention to this song. It's so well done, written from two points of view."

He's got a strong, clear voice, too, and his pulls on the Beaujolais bottle didn't seem to affect that.

An audience member called out for "Silver Dog" and he closed with it.

The set up for the next band was going to take a few minutes, so everyone moved into the main dining room where Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats did an acoustic set.

I was smart enough to return to the back room and stake out my territory for Snowy Owls' set next.

Feel free to call me a Snowy Owls groupie; I love their reverb-soaked sound, distinctive bass lines and Matt's nu-gaze vocals.

I planted myself on the back of one of the benches so I was higher than everyone in the room despite being in the back.

It's a rare treat for someone 5'5" to look down at a crowd, so I savored it, letting the sound of music from a cave wash over me.

A definite highlight besides the music was hearing a musician friend acknowledge that Snowy Owls rocked way more than he remembered.

He'd been under the impression that since leader Matt is also in the folky Low Branches that Snowy Owls was similar. Now he knows better.

Just as I knew better than to leave my perch when the next band up was Baby Help Me Forget. The crowd began to migrate from the outside and other room and I held fast atop the bench.

No matter how many times I see these guys, I'm always eager to see them again.

The band is high energy and lead singer (and Sprout co-owner) Jamie is the best showman in town.

He joined the band tonight by jumping down from atop the pallet wall that separates the kitchen to the floor in front of the stage.

Laurie sat atop the wall moving and grooving, silhouetted from behind.

Dressed in tight white pants, a patterned shirt, chain belt and velveteen blazer, Jamie looked every inch the part as he danced, gyrated, dropped to his knees and generally tore it up.

The blazer came off after the first few songs.

His non-stop movements, jumping from the stage to the floor, singing on his knees and dancing amongst the crowd whipped up everyone in the room to a frenzy.

Jamie tried to say a few words about the occasion, but summed it up with, "F**king Sprout! That's all I'm going to say!" It was enough.

The shirt came off after a few more songs, tossed into the audience.

Everyone was moving non-stop and the room heated up quickly. But the energy was amazing.

When the band finished, the crowd applauded and demanded more. Despite cords already wound and instruments half put away, the band obliged.

No one tonight, no how, no way, was going to top what we had just experienced. I said as much to the girl sitting next to me.

The mass of humanity that was the audience began to exit the room then, looking for air to breathe although out in front was a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Chatting as I waited to get outside, Jamie came by, his shirt now back on. He greeted me and I teased him by asking if I could touch his sweat.

I asked for the sake of giving him a hard time about his exuberant performance, but he just grinned and said, "Gross!" as I touched him.

Standing outside talking to people, I heard the list of bands for the rest of the evening. Four more (three of which I've seen) followed by four noise bands.

The band that was about to start was an hour and a half behind schedule with seven more after them.

And I'd given up my prime real estate in the back room by coming outside.

Nothing was going to exceed the emotional peak I'd just witnessed. I wasn't going to touch anyone else's sweaty chest tonight.

Sprout, you will be missed.

Heart of Darkness

"I hope you have a very dark Black Valentine's Day!"
~Peter (smiling, but practically a stranger)

Thanks to Cous Cous for their sixth annual Black Valentine's show, performing everyone's favorite songs of love gone bad. You know, on those rare occasions that it goes bad.

I got there around 10, ordered several V-Day Don Julios over the course of the evening, enjoyed the company of a few good friends, all musicians, and heard some inspired performances. What more could a single hope for on Valentine's night (hold that thought)?

Well, according to the end-of-evening announcement, "Hope you fond someone to go home with." I wasn't quite that lucky, but maybe I was too into the music. It's been known to happen with me.

Josh Small played first and unfortunately, the crowd acted as if he were mute, talking loudly throughout his set. Too bad, because the guy is really talented. Introducing his first song, he said, "This is a love song. It's an angry song." Well, sometimes love is angry, from what I've been told.

The Diamond Center played next, but not their usual reverb-drenched set. Instead, the crowd was treated to a selection of songs by the Zombies, including classics like "She's Not There" and "Tell Her No."

Background vocals were courtesy of the very talented Lindsey Spurrier and Allison Apperson, both impossibly cool in sunglasses. They even slipped in a Cramps cover, much to the delight of certain members of the audience. Their set was later referred to as epic, an apt description.

Baby Help Me Forget was the final act, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with their high-energy set. Front man Jamie Lay is a whirling dervish of dancing, singing, tambourine playing and in general awesome showmanship. You know as soon as he takes his glasses off that he will be jumping off of things (chairs and room dividers tonight). Steer clear.

Although several people wished me a happy Valentine's Day tonight (and today; thank you, Danny), it was a guy I was randomly introduced to tonight, Peter, who provided the unexpected and inexplicable wish for darkness.

All things considered, I had a most delightful black Valentine's Day. Looking forward to a very different sort next year, but no less enjoyable.

Thoughts of romance die hard.

And the Award Goes To...

A Monday evening as full of surprises and delights as this one was deserves to be recognized. And the nominees are:

Best use of pig: A tie between Bistro 27 and Sausagecraft. B27 for their fried pork and Pecorino cheese sausage with a frisee salad and balsamic vinaigrette with french fries. The earthy pig and salty cheese combination did a happy dance in my mouth, convincing me that this had to be a Sausagcraft creation and it was indeed; hence the tie.

The large salad and its tangy dressing assuaged any remorse about eating so much succulent fried sausage and the fries made up for being so virtuous by having a salad. Full satisfaction, zero guilt.

Best cameo in a bar: The random girl who walked in to Bistro 27, ordered a glass of white wine and told the bartender she needed a place to sleep for the night and asked if could she go home with him. He demurred and offered to check nearby hotels for availability, securing one quickly and asking them to send a van to pick up their new guest at once.

When he told her that the van was on its way, she immediately ordered another glass of wine on top of the half glass she still had. The van pulled up a minute later, she literally poured the wine down her throat and wandered out. Glancing over, one of the servers sniffed, "Rough trade."

Best use of a product from the Center of the Universe: Stuffed squid full of baby shrimp and scallops braised in basil tomato sauce over Byrd Mill grits from Ashland. This new dish on 27's menu sings with flavor and texture and could make a calamari lover out of anyone.

Best way to alienate staff at a restaurant: The woman in the hat who snapped her fingers at the chef to get him to run her credit card that very second. His question? "How would she feel if I did that to her?" Fair enough. Is there ever really a time when snapping at someone is appropriate?

Best outfit for a lead singer in a classic rock revival band: A red Halliburton jumpsuit worn by lead singer Carlos of Du Brut, playing at Sprout tonight. The band cited the Who, Guns and Roses and AC/DC as influences. Carlos' hair was pure Slash, thick, dark, curly and below his shoulders.

He used his head to swing his hair for maximum effect while on stage. Note: it was impressive (full disclosure: he gave me their CD on my way out but I'd liked his hair when we'd talked music two hours earlier).

Best musical talent displayed by a restaurant owner: Jamie Lay, co-owner of Sprout and lead singer (and masterful dancer) of the high-energy 60s-influenced band Baby Help Me Forget.

His talent is too big for the stage where his bandmates (drummer, two guitarists and bass player) perform, so he gyrates, drops to his knees and wails from the center of the room as the crowd dances wildly around him. Occasionally, he jumps from the 8" stage to maximum effect. Name another restaurant owner with that kind of talent.

Best band to cover tonight: The Beatles. Du Brut covered "Helter Skelter" and BHMF covered "Birthday" and both renditions got enthusiastic responses from the audience. If you're going to cover, cover from the originators, I guess.

Best way to end a show: Destroying a guitar and writhing on the floor. As BHMF's last song wound down, Jamie was singing and dancing horizontally on the floor with the microphone stand laying beside him in sections.

Meanwhile, one of the guitarists started hitting the neck of his instrument until it snapped and then threw the body on the floor until it shattered. I have no doubt that it was the first time most of the audience had seen a guitar destroyed at the end of a performance and they were ecstatic.

So maybe I personally wasn't in full ecstasy mode, but after such stellar food and interesting entertainment, I wasn't far behind.

Monday. It's not just for boredom anymore.

Enjoying the Subtext

After weeks of schedule incompatibility, a girlfriend and I finally made plans for tonight. Just to be sure, she sent me an e-mail yesterday, "Hey! Do we have a date for tomorrow? A patio somewhere?" I just knew it was my delightful lunch on Ettamae's balcony that had her pining for outdoor conversation.

So I suggested Amuse, knowing that she hadn't been there and that they had an outdoor space. But upon arrival, we were told it was a "serving area," which sounded vaguely unwelcoming and we compromised at the bar where I knew from past experience that bartender Tommie would welcome us with open arms.

Beginning with his enthusiastic greeting (I was flattered that he remembered me) right through his attentive service, we wound up happy to have chosen him over the outdoor seating, despite the beautiful day. Even when he was absolutely slammed with drink orders, he managed to be charming and attentive.

We drank local, she with the Barboursville Cab Franc and me with the White Hall Viognier. With almost a month's worth to catch up on, we almost had too much to talk about.

She shared near-fires, ER visits and guerrilla drawing classes. I had nothing half so exciting, but shared tales of publishers, birthdays, and some of the undeniably interesting comments the blog has gotten lately.

As always the VMFA crowd was as good as entertainment. Tonight they were hosting a lecture on Faberge, a topic of minimal interest to me, but the crowd of lecture-goers proved that I am in the minority.

Bejeweled women and bow-tied men were everywhere and many, many old fashioneds were sent out to tables. I wanted to think that they were all having a good time, but nothing about their collective demeanor indicated that.

When we got peckish, my friend couldn't resist the mussels and Surry ham in a rich garlic broth and although I'd had the dish before, I was happy to pig out (pun intended) and sop until that buttery goodness was gone.

We followed that with the chocolate hazelnut torte with fresh berries and with the copious amounts of wine we enjoyed, were satisfied on every level.

Because this is the one local girlfriend who knows where all the bodies are buried, I had as-yet unshared stories she needed to hear. Likewise, her recent "big talk" with the boyfriend yielded all kinds of conversational fodder. As much as I enjoy my guy friends, I know that they don't want to hear this kind of stuff.

Three and a half hours later, we decided to stroll the museum and get our blood moving again. Although we've both seen the Chuck Close show, we headed directly there. Coincidentally I ran into my friend Andrew (note mention by name, friend) and his main squeeze viewing the show for the first time. Richmond truly is a small town.

On our way out, we stopped by the German Expressionist exhibit, a show I'd seen but she hadn't. You have to love German art; such angst, such thickness of paint, such tortured woodcuts! It was fun interpreting the show together, especially since she's an illustrator/painter and as big an art geek as I am.

After parting on the Boulevard, I headed over to Sprout for music. I guiltily took a four top because it was all that was available but told owner Laura to feel free to seat others at my table if necessary, community-style.

I then ordered a glass of the Horton Stony Blush (why leave the state after all that earlier Virginia wine?) and the stuffed onion with pesto and bacon.

Moments later a girl I'd met at last night's Tortoise show spotted me and joined me at my lonesome table. Next thing I knew, the guys at the next table, only one of whom I knew, were asking me about the Tortoise show and I was trying to explain the very male-ness of it. They understood immediately, nodding as if the shortage of girls and abundance of testosterone were of no surprise to them.

My stuffed onion was as tasty as it was unusual, but right up the alley of an onion and bacon lover like me. My friend got the Parisienne gnocchi and raved about it.

She finished with the raisin bread pudding which she insisted I try because "it tastes like a warm donut." In fact, it did and a warm donut is a tough thing to resist. I may have taken more bites than were offered, but she was generous. Or polite.

Music followed, beginning with owner Jamie's band, Baby Help Me Forget. He was an amazing front man, singing, shimmying, and dropping to his knees; his feet never stopped sliding around the floor James Brown-style. The audience never stopped smiling throughout their entire set.

The Visitations was one guy with a guitar, a computer and pedals, playing a fun set that the crowd loved. And the talented Diamond Center are my favorite local shoegazers.

So I spent the beautiful evening indoors. What of it? There'll be plenty of other nights I can be outside when there's no wine, , food, art, conversation or music calling to me.

I'd go sit on my porch right now and finally enjoy a bit of the cool night air, but I think I'd prefer to reread some of the delightful comments that have been coming my way of late before I go to bed.

Comments as compliments, don't you know. Or at least that's how I choose to read them.