Just Like Heaven with Chandeliers

It's not about the bands, it's about the momentous occasion.

Richmond now has a mid-sized venue, something it's been sorely lacking, and tonight was opening night.

When a friend inquired if I was going to the new Broadberry tonight, I asked the same of him. Nope. "I am, among other things, registering my disapproval of them being so goddamn predictable in their booking," he wrote.

Here's the thing, my friend. What matters about the Broadberry is not what bands play the night they open their doors.

What matters is all the bands that can now play Richmond because we have a venue the right size to attract their audience and fill so they don't skip over Richmond and go to Charlottesville.

So quit yer bitching.

After feeding my hired mouth, that's where I went, happily finding loads of familiar music lovers there.

The music writer offered me some of her candied bacon and observed, "All our people are here.". The theater lover complained that he hadn't seen me since Hardywood back in January. Then there was the bass player saying, "My goal is to get Karen to grin." Plus the dimpled drummer, the multi-instrument playing physicist, the lovely hospitality manager. All my people.

And to a person, they all said they were there to celebrate that we have a new venue.

The former Nu nightclub means that the new Broadberry retains far more glitz than your average venue. Four massive chandeliers hang along one wall and the lighting system over the stage is worthy of a drag queen's catwalk.

There were tables and chairs, already filed with seated people, all along the length of the extensive bar with a pit up front for those who wanted to stand to see, hear and dance to the music.

And, perhaps most impressively, there were people of all ages there, a far broader age range than a Camel or Strange Matter show. A really good sign.

While talking to Goldrush's handsome bass player, bandleader Prabir came by, set lists in hand. When I tried to look at them, Mr. Bass insisted that the songs be a surprise.

'There are no surprises in a Goldrush set," Prabir corrected him, a statement I can agree with, having first seen them back in 2009.

The band took the stage and after the first number, "The Exit Song,"Prabir proclaimed, "That's the first song ever played at the Broadberry." As a girl near me noted, the sound was good.

"Anyone bummed about missing the lunar eclipse Monday?" science geek Prabir asked of the noisy room. "We 're going to play a song that says f*ck the clouds!" and played "Pale Blue Dots."

After playing "Roll One," he finished by entreating the audience, "Roll one more, folks. Let's legalize that shit. Let's also legalize critical thinking."

Let's. It's statements like that that and that he uses phrases like "your kith and your kin" in his lyrics that make him a Richmond treasure.

When their set finished, a musician friend walked by and we talked about his upcoming outdoor music series starting up again in a few weeks.

I went to a bunch of them last summer in Scuffletown park and this summer he's expanding the series to all kinds of things, not just music. Ah, the pleasures of outdoor performance.

Prabir wandered by after that, complaining that there weren't enough girls at the show. I pointed out a few within easy reach.

"That one has Daddy issues, that one has three exes, that one can't even pronounce my name," he said, eliminating them all. I suggested he eliminate anyone who didn't understand the phrase "kith and kin" but he told me not to be hasty.

A friend I rarely get to see was sitting at the bar and called me over, surprising me by telling me how much he liked my writing. "I love reading you because you make me feel like I'm there," he said. "All the details you include, the way you talk about what you saw and heard makes it so real." I could have kissed him.

Instead I thanked him and told him I was going back up closer to the stage. "Of course you are," he said grinning.

Black Girls took the stage next, a far more assured band than when I first saw them at Sprout in February 2011.

Just back from a tour of the southeast, with tonight's show being the final night of the tour, the singer asked, "Hey, Richmond, we've been on tour. What's new? Nothing? Cool!" and then launched into a tight set no doubt honed by this recent set of dates.

Two guitarists, bassist, drummer, keyboards and singer, they were all sweating by the third song. Their influences are interesting, shot through with '60s soul, Steely Dan, '70s rock and somehow making it all sound dirty. Snuff rock, they call it.

"Time to get a little looser," the singer called out, hoisting his plastic cup of red wine. "If we don't start now, the night will be over before you know it." Dancing in place began in earnest at this point.

The crowd was thick by now, at least up near the stage where I was and a very short friend and I were continuously being bumped into and stepped on.

A guy with a gorgeous red beard and piercing blue eyes came by me twice, the second time looking me right in the eye and saying, "I just came by to step on your toes again."

Do what you have to do, my friend.

Finally after a string of upbeat songs that had some people all but pogo-ing, the band slowed it down, bringing in a trombone and trumpet for a song I'd have slow danced to if I'd had a date.

They couldn't leave us there, though, so there were two more upbeat danceable songs, including one where one of the guitarists got down into the crowd ("If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"), getting everyone all aflutter.

During the second break, a blogger I'd met a while back joined me, leading to some satisfying music talk about the evolution of soul music, the sheer amount of information available on the liner notes of older albums and the pleasures of flipping through record bins, even if, like me, you don't have a turntable.

Describing his record buying habit as "being so far down the hole, he can't see daylight." he was excited about finding an original Supremes album recently. Needless to say, he was bowled over when I mentioned still having all my old Supremes albums.

Soon after, No BS assembled onstage, minus Reggie Pace who's out of town and whose smiling face and enormous energy were missed and David Hood who was apparently quite sick tonight. Of tonight's bands, this is the one I've been following the longest - since 2007.

Drummer Lance Koehler took charge, instructing the crowd, "We need that rumpus to be shaking!" and taking off with enough brass to ensure that that happened in short order.

One girl, perched on table, danced with every part of her body while sitting down. Most of us just danced in place as Bryan Hooten took the mic and rapped the next song.

"This is like heaven," Lance yelled. "We have chandeliers, we have beer! Here's to the Broadberry!"

It's a toast worth making. We've entered a new stage of Richmond's music scene and it's exciting to think of what's to come.

Tonight wasn't about predictability, it was about celebrating all the bands who will play there in the future.

You can be sure I'll be there with all my kith, getting my toes stepped on and enjoying every moment.

Out with the Most Beautiful Girl from Pennsylvania

Only a true friend takes pictures of you sucking bones.

Her husband was going camping so we were free to debauch any way we saw fit, so we began at Lemaire.

Somehow, despite decades in this city, she'd never been.

And not only never been, but never heard about the live alligators that used to live there.

Over Michael Shaps Wineworks Cabernet Franc, we talked about Calvin Trillin, abstract expressionists and NYC in the fifties.

Moving on to Acacia, we bellied up to the bar and ordered two glasses of Tocco Prosecco to celebrate our girls' night out.

Then we began to eat in earnest.

There were golden figs with bleu cheese and local honey. Honestly, at this time of year, I could eat figs every day of the week.

Next up was flounder ceviche Peruvian style over avocado puree, a creamy combination punctuated with chili oil for heat.

Risking a swollen tongue, we went on to house-made burrata with local peaches (my allergy), basil, olive oil and aged balsamic.

The creamy burrata was like butter with the ripe peaches.

With so much fortification, we took on weightier topics like former boyfriends, the respect of the community and the beauty of a truly southern name.

Moving on, we got Belle Glos "Meiomi" Pinot Noir, a food-friendly wine that was bound to loosen our tongues.

For dinner, we shared pan-roasted Polyface chicken breast with smoked Gouda polenta, local green beans and a country mustard sauce.

The rustic dish satisfied on all levels - the crispy seasoned skin, the freshness of the bright green beans and the beautifully creamy polenta.

And somehow, when I got busy getting the last of the meat off the bones, out came her phone to document it.

"You're so oblivious to technology, it's easy," she laughed.

By then we'd analyzed who was superficial, who was overly outspoken and who was oblivious.

I got major bonus points from her when I told her my latest realization.

"You wouldn't have said that a year ago," she marveled.

And who knows what I'll say in another year?

It's amazing how much two friends can accomplish with a little time and a little more wine.

Our bartender was unobtrusive until my friend inquired abut a whiskey, at which point he explained away his whiskey expertise by saying that he was Irish Catholic.

I countered by telling him I was the same and yet had no whiskey knowledge whatsoever.

"She drinks tequila," my friend piped up, causing a slight raise in his eyebrow.

Don't judge, I say.

Choosing to partake of neither whiskey nor tequila, we decided to move on for dessert.

It was a no-brainer to end up at Garnett's because we knew we'd have a fine selection of sweets from which to choose.

Hers was a peanut butter pie and mine was the black and white cake with both chocolate and white icing.

It was a decadent ending to our marathon meal.

We finished, as we always do, with conversation in the car before I dropped her off.

I'm sure it says something that we'd been together five plus hours and were still talking right up until she got out of my car.

What it says is we don't get together often enough, but maybe her husband will go camping more frequently when he sees how relaxed and happy she is after a girls' night out.

I could have gone home, I could have ended it right there, but naturally I didn't.

Instead, I went to Balliceaux to hear a Brooklyn band, Madam Macadam, billed as "angry rock and roll with an emphasis on fun."

The band featured members of Lake Street Dive, another band I'd previously heard at Balliceaux.

As soon as I saw them, I recognized one guy's distinctive pale blue guitar. Funny the things that stick in your head.

I got a warm greeting from Chris, who books the shows, saying, "Always my favorite person to see."

A friend came over, saying, "Long time, no see" only to admit that he'd been in the Bahamas for 75 days (75!) for a photo shoot for the tourism board there.

Nice work if you can get it.

He did say that he'd been depressed ever since he got back, trying to make the adjustment to real life.

Meanwhile, there was music. "Thank you for coming," the lead singer said. "Who are you people?"

We were the ones who wanted to see an up and coming band and not just Black Girls.

I found a relatively safe spot near the side wall where I could see and not get knocked into too much.

These guys rocked in a Chuck Berry meets New York Dolls kind of way and eventually a friend walked by, saying, "These guys are good."

Not only good, but determined.

They'd made the eight plus hour drive down for the show, sitting in Washington traffic for two and a half hours to get here.

And yet they thanked us for being there.

Favorite song: "The Most Beautiful Girl in Pennsylvania," coincidentally, the home state of the friend I'd just dropped off.

Their set was short, maybe 35 minutes and my photographer friend was taking bets on how late Black Girls would begin (answer: just before midnight).

I saw a favorite bartender singing along to their songs and the crowd began to shimmy as Black Girls got rolling with their "snuff rock," ostensibly celebrating the guitarist's birthday.

But with Black Girls, it's always any excuse for a party.

By the time I left, I'd had a full eight hours of fun.

Walking to my car, a couple in running attire jogged by.

Who exercises at this hour when they could be listening to angry rock and roll with an emphasis on fun?

Clearly nobody I know.

Tales from Urban Bohemia

Chapter 1: In which there is a reprieve

With news that Ettamae's was closing, my J-Ward buddy and I went to lunch with heavy hearts.

Our server greeted us by saying, "You know it's our last day?" I called dibs on the last shrimp BLT and we ate on the balcony where it was muggy, hazy and bittersweet.

By the time we were paying, it was announced that they'd be open through Mother's Day brunch.

It makes me sad that a favorite neighborhood spot isn't being supported. "Sorry about Ettamae's. You did the most to keep it going!" a friend writes.

And here I thought their house-made corned beef and fruit tarts were enough. Hang on, Ettamae's. We need your kind.

Chapter 2: In which thoughts turn to Girl Scout campouts

Holmes and his main squeeze wanted escorts for the First Fridays artwalk so I rounded up a fourth and we began with Michel Chiarlo Barbera d'Asti here before heading to Corporate Museum and Frame to see Holmes' friend's show.

"River Road" by John Henley encompassed all kinds of river views, some familiar and some not. The Belle Isle quarry was instantly recognizable (although not to all, sadly) but Huguenot Woods not so much.

A photograph of Dutch Gap reminded me of the last places I went kayaking and rowing.

I run into a handsome theater critic friend who gulps mid-conversation, saying, "My date just walked out the door!" before doing the same.

Ghostprint Gallery's show by Juan Perdiguero, "Perros Indalo," was captivating for the classically-posed, almost portrait-like drawings over photographs of dogs.

The Spanish artist was in the building, telling of how he photographed the stray dogs that wandered into his studio space and superimposed them over photographs of indigenous vegetation

At one of the G40 pop-up galleries, I couldn't help but notice "Saturday Night Soldiers," an image of people happily lost on a dance floor.

A girl came up behind me to look at it, turning to her companion and asking, "Do you have an extra $900 on you?" He did not.

In a basement (my first under Broad Street) at another G40 pop-up, I saw a Lichtenstein-like mixed media piece with the prophetic "The world is mine. Now what?" sentiment as its message.

My question exactly.

Dinner was at a back booth at the Belvidere with Vinho Verde, smoked salmon and beef tenderloin.

Pat Benetar ruled the women's bathroom and in the restaurant, it was Rolling Stones. Holmes claimed it was the best rice he'd had in Richmond.

Final stop of the evening was at Bistro 27 for cocktails, although mine consisted only of Cazadores with a large slow-melting cube.

The treat was $1 dessert, made by mixologist Bobby Kruger. Huge homemade marshmallows on sticks were rolled in dark chocolate and then graham cracker crumbs.

Nothing like it before tequila. Music was appropriately indie and non-restaurant like (hello, XX and Empire of the Sun) and conversation ensued over Death in the Afternoon and gin/dark rum Negronis.

Walking home, a  magnificent moon foreshadows Saturday's super moon.

What else can a person do but play Pet Shop Boys and imagine domino dancing?

Chapter 3: In which we are not wristband-worthy

With RVA Beerfest at Gallery 5 and barely three blocks from my front door, the afternoon was all about bands and beer-slicked floors.

Paying our admission, we were asked for IDs. We'd not brought ours since we weren't drinking beer. We were allowed in without benefit of an identifying bracelet.

Who comes to Beerfest not to drink?

The New Belgians were playing their brand of funk/soul/jazz with Marcus Tenney doing triple duty on sax, tambourine and vocals.

Black Girls followed and the crowd increased exponentially, although not in that dance-y way they respond at Balliceaux.

Party in full swing, Beerfest immediately changed their end time from 6:00 to 7:00. I saw my favorite Beer Betty who marveled at seeing me in summer attire.

Fact is, in this kind of humidity and stickiness, everyone who possibly can settles for shorts and a tank top.

Even dress-wearers...when prodded.

I saw bags of Frozen Water being delivered to the kegs and people getting endless samples of beer.

One guy sampled and recommended it to his friend who demurred. "Aw, come on, try it," he cajoled. "Oh, wait, is that beer pressure?"

Groan. Some people's jokes remind me of corny uncle humor.

Chapter 4: In which there is no celebration of Cinqo de Mayo

Walking from 13th Street to Bistro Bobette, I pause at the door of La Grotta. Seeing it's raining, a well-maintained looking woman starts out and stops, turning to her group.

"Oh, it's raining. Our fireworks will be canceled."

I'm pretty much positive I will never utter those words in my life.

Inside the restaurant, I find one stool and an amiable bar crowd. I kiss the bartender's cheeks and later he introduces me to a guy apropos of nothing.

Turns out the guy had inquired about the source of the bartender's lip prints and I was being introduced as Exhibit A.

Meanwhile, the bar crowd yields a variety of people with whom I can chat.

There's a Brit currently building a house in the south of France.

There's a familiar dachshund owner raving about a Sichuan restaurant near Staples Mill.

There's a French gendarme ("It's like your C.I.D.") who has jurisdiction in any French territory in the world.

I eat off the bar specials menu, particularly enjoying hearts of artichoke over micro-greens.

The creamy texture of the hearts in ailoi makes for a rich indulgence. Swordfish bites with onion and tomato benefit from a dipping sauce.

The gendarme moves over and joins me, using his accented English to make small talk, or as small as you can get when discussing Spinoza or Alain.

After explaining where he has authority, I conclude that I can break the law in Bobette and he will be unable to do anything about it.

He says should that happen, he will advise me of my error and allow me to make my own mistakes.

I have ordered Kaffir lime ice cream based on the chef's recommendation and when it arrives, I offer the gendarme a bite.

"Francis says this is wonderful," I offer.
"Have you been to France?" he inquires.
"No," I admit.
"Then how can you say it's wonderful?" he asks.
"I said Francis says it's wonderful," I correct, pointing at the ice cream.
He grabs my face and kisses my cheek.
"You are honest. For that you get a kiss," he explains.

He orders a bottle of Moutard Pere et Fils Rose, presumably for its pink fruitiness but also because he is recently returned to this country after time in the Middle East.

I am happy to have a glass and talk about our favorite authors.

I run into a girlfriend who is stressed and make a joke that transforms her.

"That's the biggest smile I've had in weeks," she says. "Thank you for that."

Just doing my job.

Chapter 5: In which I do not see the whole of the moon

Leaving the restaurant, there is a sax player filling the air and the sidewalks of the Slip are bustling with people.

The temperature is just about perfect and the humidity is still curling my straight bangs.

A mile and I'm home where I linger outside hoping that the super moon will be visible, but alas.

I'll have to hope for something super tomorrow instead.

Chapter 6 should do just fine.

Crashing and Burning

No matter how you start out, if you end up dancing, it's a good night.

For the record, I began with a worthy opponent and a bottle of Gabrielle Rause Vin Gris, which, because it's made from 100 % pinot noir, is the ultimate sipping wine for a warm day like today.

Yes, it was a perfect day for white pinot noir.

So we sipped and discussed philosophical matters while admiring the skill required for an Italian winemaker working with Virginia grapes.

Gabrielle, I am your obedient servant. Especially where your Vin Gris is concerned.

Acacia was our ultimate destination, and by our, I mean any number of successive dinner companions.

The first was the best, eager to prove compatibility, but also funny and complimentary.

We chose the Gavi to sustain us and were soon joined by a friend who is soon to depart for points north.

She went with bubbles, while we ordered everything on the small plate menu.

Hush puppies with lobster, scallions and jalapeno relish were first, followed by empanadas of sweetbreads, mushrooms and leeks.

I won't even gush over fried bread, but  the addition of lobster was a whole new level of pleasure for fried bread.

The empanada  if served in a more generous portion could have been a meal with its earthy flavors.

The smoked duck ham had an apple and ginger salad with enough spice to speak to the strongest of plates.

A vegetable terrine done in aspic with smoked tomato sauce was notable since your rarely see it on menus.

The soon-to-be departed ordered the Tocco Prosecco (notable for my beloved friend Mike Tocco...we'll say Miami, Matthew Sweet and leave it at that) and Thai-flavored parsnip soup with roasted mushrooms, peanuts and lime.

It's fascinating watching friends meet for the first time, not sure if the common thread of me will be enough to make them appreciate one another.

Once the musical one departed, the girlfriend and I were joined by a favorite couple who are always looking for a good time,

They immediately ordered more Tocco Prosecco as well as dinner (sauteed scallops for her and  sauteed snapper for him) while I enjoyed a sweet course.

After four small plates, I was ready for something dessert-like and happily got the Black Forest, a chocolate sponge cake with Luxardo cream. Kirsch cherries, cocoa streusel and (most awesome of all) a sour cherry sorbet.

The only thing missing was another dessert hound to share it with me.

I managed all by myself before the female half of my favorite couple insisted we indulge in some Green Chartreuse.

My last green chartreuse was in the summer of 1998 and involved an after Jumpin' in July party in my backyard, temperatures of 97+ and humidity of about the same.

No one who came to that party and imbibed of the chartreuse was ever quite the same.

Mine is not to explain why that was.

Tonight's foray reminded me of the allure of chartreuse. Made of 130 herbal elements, it's one liqueur that continues to age and improve in the bottle.

Because, let's face it, not every one thing improves with age.

But green chartreuse is the exception and  the two of us savored it while discussing the new French street photography exhibit at the VMFA.

When it became clear that we were the last customers in the house, we moved on, them to home and me to Balliceaux.

I hadn't intended to. Really.

I was just minding my own business driving home up Lombardy when I saw the crowd and remembered that Black Girls were playing.

Since I first saw them in the overcrowded back room at Sprout in February 2011, the crowds have just gotten bigger and the band has only gotten tighter.

That said, the music is still the same.

So much so that one of the band admitted last night that, "We've been playing the same six songs for the last six months."

But their groove is so infectious that even as many times as I've seen them, I was one of many dancing before long.

Meanwhile I ran into a favorite mixologist who joined me in the center of the dance floor.

Since I was a late arrival, before I knew it, their set was over and replacing the white boys known as the Black Girls was a DJ playing "Word Up."

Surely Cameo couldn't have anticipated the staying power of that song.

I, however, having been around in 1986, wasn't nearly as caught up in it as some.

Besides, I'd had a most pleasurable nine-hour evening and there's really nothing better to do after dancing than crashing.

Unless you can find someone who wants to start a conversation at that hour.

Surprisingly, it's not as difficult as you might think.

Going Dutch and Sexo

I didn't see a lot of crossover.

Chances are I was the only person at the documentary screening at the Virginia Center for Architecture and at the Guillermo Sexo show at Balliceaux tonight.

I noticed that the crowd was much smaller than usual for the monthly Richmond Modern film series as we mingled at the reception, enjoying beer, wine and apps before the show.

Tonight they were screening "Helia Jongerius: Contemporary Archetypes" about the Dutch designer.

Okay, so I'd never heard of her but I'm sure savvy types have.

She's apparently considered one of the most innovative and creative designers working today.

Her strength seemed to be putting together extreme differences; she combined a contemporary aesthetic with something from the collective memory of the culture.

What I liked most about her whatever (furniture, textiles, household items) was her disdain for perfection.

She considered imperfections to show the work of the artisan's hand.

"I'm not afraid to make failures because failures can be brilliant," she said almost philosophically.

Hmm...

I made a point to arrive at Balliceaux in time to catch Boston indie rockers Guillermo Sexo.

As I expected, they were three guys and girl who delivered reverb, psych-folk and a fair amount of shredding.

I ran into a DJ friend who was as into their set as I was.

He was a tad more enthusiastic about the lead singer's dress falling off her shoulder during a rambunctious drum part, but other than that, we both found a lot to like about the sound.

The main event tonight was Black Girls (Modest Mouse meets K.C. and the Sunshine Band) whom I've sen lots of times.

It was the lead singer's birthday and he was in high spirits.

"There's a reason you're out at a bar on a Wednesday night and it's not the music!" he shouted, exhorting the crowd to drink.

My Hornitos was in hand, so I was well ahead of him.

And he wasn't entirely correct, either. While I would have guessed that far too few people had been there to see Guillermo Sexo, plenty of people of all ages were there to see Black Girls.

Definitely not all of them (it is Balliceaux) but plenty.

Even so, after the third song the guy next to me leaned over and asked if I knew the name of the band.

When I told him, he asked if I knew the band members. Sorry, no. But clearly some people are still discovering them.

Encouraging the crowd to move to the music, the singer said, "I have a dream that all of Balliceaux will be dancing" and plenty of people obliged.

It doesn't take much effort to dance to music like that of Black Girls (K.C. made a fortune proving that back in the 70s).

As the show wound down, I made my way to the front bar only to run into (surprise) friends, musicians both, but not a couple.

He was trying to convince her that he's crossed the fence and can now date blonds. I didn't even attempt to join that discussion.

When I asked if they'd come for the music which was nearly over, they explained that they were there to drink.

Anything in particular, I asked?

"Alcohol on ice," the more smart-assed of the two responded.

My alcohol on ice long gone, I left them at the bar talking about wife-stealing.

Like I said, not a lot of cross-over.

Which, I guess, makes me the missing link.

I do have some brilliant failures to recommend myself to both crowds.

Sure, I'll Pay for Seven Inches

It's all in how you look at it.

It was a free show at Gallery 5 with four talented bands of wildly varying genres.

Standing on a concrete floor for four and a half hours gets old after the first three.

The bill had been chosen by the Diamond Center, who were celebrating their 7" record release, a steal at five bucks.

There were a host of sound issues for some reason.

When there's no cover charge, more people will buy merchandise, helping to support local music.

Band etiquette 101: never play longer than the headlining band intends to.

Nervous Ticks, a high-energy band that evokes an early '80s post-punk sound, was most compelling on their last song, which was acknowledged as "showing our sensitive side."

The unfulfilled tension of the song was terrific.

Canary, oh, Canary, the only band I hadn't heard before, was a stripped down trio playing dream-gaze pop (think Cocteau Twins) with some dramatic vocals (and hand gestures) in parts.

When they locked into a groove, they didn't let go.

Black Girls had played the Earth Day Festival today but showed no signs of weariness; we'll chalk that up to youth.

As a friend told me, he wanted to go up to them and say, "Great set, guys. Now show me your IDs."

After their set, a restaurant acquaintance said he couldn't describe their sound.

When I offered "KC and the Sunshine Band meets Modest Mouse with some Queen thrown in," his face lit up.

"That's it! I heard all that but I couldn't put it into words." 

Friend, I always have words to spare. Just ask.

The Diamond Center  played a full-on stellar set, complete with confetti thrown onto the audience toward the end.

Lead singer Brandi had on the most amazing silver leggings seen since the '80s.

I only wish Kyle's twelve-string guitar got used for more than three songs.

But I am happy to hear a twelve-string for however long or short someone is willing to play it.

I look at it as a great evening of free music in a city that continues to turn out bands worth hearing.

It can be our new slogan: Keep Richmond musical.

Yea, right.

As if I'm the right person to label this city.

Weak, Engaged and In the Know

I sold out intellectual pursuits for a pink bubbly and sunny views. No, I'm not proud of that, but it's fact. Go right ahead and judge.

With ticket in hand for the "Community of Huguenot Goldsmiths" lecture at VMFA at 6, the plan was to stop by Amuse for a pre-lecture absinthe and then make my way downstairs to the lecture.

But when I took my seat at the empty bar (unheard of, but everyone else was doing their drinking on the terrace in the 82-degree weather), I got sidetracked.

Knowing my fondness for pink, I was immediately informed by two members of the staff about a new addition to the wine list. "Well, I'm here for absinthe and a lecture," I explained unconvincingly.

"But it's sparkling rose and from Champagne," bartender Stephen tempted me. "Would you like to taste it?" Well, who doesn't see where this is going? The Francois Montand Sparkling Brut Rose had me at the first sip. Pale pink, it had loads of flavor and beautiful bubbles.

As a consolation prize for not having ordered absinthe, I was given a slotted absinthe drip spoon, but told I should continue to visit Amuse for my absinthe fixes. Will do. We'll consider it a trophy rather than for actual use.

I was given a peek at Amuse's summer drink list, full of high end rum and tequila cocktails, all mixed with the flavors of summer.

By the time I thought to inquire about the time, it was 6:05 and I hadn't finished my bubbles, so with a little nudge from Stephen (who reminded me that tickets to the event were free), I changed course and decided to stay for a bit.

And as long as I was going to stay, I decided to eat a little something, not that I was the least bit hungry after a 3:00 Five Guys burger and fries, but why not if I was going to stick around? So I got the grilled asparagus (garlic, Pecorino, olive oil and absolutely delicious) and another glass of pink bubbles.

When the sun had dropped below the buildings and the shades began to raise up to let the early evening light in, one of the servers began singing appropriate music to accompany the incoming light.

When I asked if he did the same when they lowered them, he admitted he did. I've no doubt that a sense of humor helps in the restaurant business.

Determined not to be  a complete cultural slug, I finally paid up and headed to the Grace Street Theater for another installment of the James River Film Festival.  Showing was a restored 35 mm print of "Taxi Driver," all the more significant for this being the 35th anniversary of the film.

And then there's the fact that I'd never seen it (my film failings are well documented because of not watching TV) and since it's considered one of the greatest movies of the 70s, I knew where I needed to be.

The film was introduced by Trent Nicholas, he of VMFA's Film series, and he made a good point. "Seems appropriate to be seeing Taxi Driver's mean streets in the former Lee Theater, a porn theater. You're sitting in a lot of heritage here and not just X-rated heritage."

It was such a terrific way to experience the film for the first time. The virgin print we saw was flawless, clean, color-saturated and looking as sharp as the day it was released.

I didn't realize that Bernard Herrmann, the composer for so many of Hitchcock's films, had scored this movie, either. There were times when I heard enough of a similarity to know it was Herrmann and others when his innovative music was pure 70s. It was the last movie he scored, dying before it was released.

And I don't know who looked younger, Scorcese as a cuckolded husband in the taxi or DeNiro, looking lean of face and body. Boy, the 70s were a long time ago.

Favorite period details? The porno theater concession stand Travis Bickle frequented carried no Coke, only RC cola. And an RC and three candy bars cost $1.85.

At a political rally scene, there were young guys sporting Afros and middle-aged women wearing white gloves, making for a great visual metaphor for the cultural overlap still happening in 1976.

Nicholas' point that movies were meant to be seen on a big screen surrounded by other people for a shared experience was driven home tonight.

I was far from the only audience member who had never seen it and there was much squirming and murmuring during some of the more difficult scenes. It was good to know I wasn't alone in my reactions.

Of course, there was also the girl behind me who laughed at the line "You talking to me?" when it was anything but appropriate for the moment.

Such a heavy, albeit important, film had to be followed with much lighter fare and the Black Girls show at Balliceaux supplied that. Walking down the alley to get there, I heard the fireworks coming from the Diamond's opening night.

The group of white boys, with their pastiche of influences (KC and the Sunshine band, Modest Mouse, 70s funk) and multiple vocalists, get better with each show. Tonight's crowd danced far less than the Sprout crowd where I saw them last (there people were doing the bump), but not because the incentive to do so wasn't there.

I ran into a guy I hadn't seen in years who had just happened in to Ballcieaux tonight to meet a friend. I asked him how he was enjoying the band, since I was there specifically because of the band.

"They're amazing," he said enthusiastically. "So you knew to come and we just lucked into seeing a band this good?"

Well, yes, but I also sold my intellectual plans down the river this evening, so don't give me too much credit. Who knows when I'll get another chance to learn about Huguenot goldmaking?

Not that I have any interest in gold, mind you.

Woody's Inn and Black Girls

It's because of David Lowery that I drank the one and only beer of my life.

Think mid-90s at the Flood Zone, my date was late meeting me at the Cracker show and the only thing they served was beer. But I was going to wait for the band whether he showed or not, so I killed time with a beer, cementing a life-long distaste for it. But I digress.

Tonight I went to Plan 9 to hear that very same David Lowery do an in-store performance to promote his new CD, "The Palace Guards." Before he sang the title song, he explained that it began as a kid's song about superheroes and became something quite sinister.

"It's not the Cartoon Network kind of superheroes, more like the adult swim kind of superheroes," he clarified perfectly.

He was in fine voice and the crowd was made up of what looked to be long-time fans, including several women I heard commenting on how different and/or great he looked. Old groupies die hard, it would seem.

The music continued at Sprout, where band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes was spinning tonight. When I walked in, he was alone in the back room, working the vinyl hard and obviously enjoying himself.

Although I'd come to hear him DJ, I'd also come to eat, so I found a stool at the bar, opened my Moody Blues album menu cover and decided on the house salad and the Sprout free-range beef sliders with cheddar.

Local greens made for an incredibly fresh-tasting salad and the sliders are already legendary for a reason. Free-range beef is so noticeably better tasting that one friend swears that Sprout's sliders qualify as the best burger in town. Savoring mine, I'm inclined to agree.

Next I ordered a glass of Seaview Syrah and was forced to listen to the dessert choices. And while I wasn't the least bit hungry after the salad and sliders, I also wasn't the least inclined to ignore the chocolate truffle cake.

"Mmm, with a glass of red wine that sounds like heaven," my server opined. Don't I know it. Meanwhile, I was loving PJ's record choices, although I recognized very few artists. In a perfect world, I'd have had a set list so I could find out who I was hearing for future musical researching.

But my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so I ended up eating only part of the cake (that would be the parts with the icing attached), causing her to chide me when she took the plate away. "You didn't eat very much of it," she said. "All the good parts," I countered.

Too full to move, naturally that was the moment a friend came over and suggested I join their table and since I'm constitutionally unable to resist the offer of conversation, I moved.

There were four of them, so I got to chat with one about the power of dimples ( a friend of hers was told by a guy, "I want to f*ck your dimples" because they were so impressive) and with another about the rhythms of vacationing at the beach ("And when you want to take a nap, you just lay down and do it," he marveled).

I had to excuse myself around 10:30 (my friend Dave saying, "You always over-commit." Too true that) to check out a show at a venue new to me, Woody's Inn on Cary Street. I knew the place, having driven by it hundreds of times, but it was to be my first time inside.

It was every bit as old-school as I expected it to be. Low ceilings, a bar that looked straight out of a 70s rec-room and patterned carpet everywhere. But the crowd was enthusiastic, the staff welcoming and the music just beginning and that's what really mattered.

Precious Fluids, a duo of very young brothers played first, surprising me by covering the Misfits (and even did a brief snatch of Ratt for a friend in the audience) but also playing original material.

Their self-proclaimed surf song "Aloha" had the fast drumming and surf guitar sound you'd expect from a song with that title. I have to guess that they started writing songs in middle school.

Playing second was the Nervous Ticks, tonight a duo rather than a trio because their tambourine player had been in a moped accident. No jokes, please. They carried on without him, but he was there in spirit, perhaps in the tambourine resting on an upturned metal bucket used by the drummer.

As you might guess by their name, the music was hard and fast, with few songs lasting more than two minutes. A lot of the vocals bordered on scream-o but were still fairly melodic. I'm betting it was the first time they'd played a room with acoustic ceiling tile and carpeting to soften their sound.

From Woody's retro but fun vibe (you should have seen the over-the-knee gold boots on the girl coming in as I left) , it was back to Sprout because I wanted to catch the Black Girls' show, as did an awful lot of other people, all of who were crammed into the restaurant when I returned. Best of all, Dave was still there, so I had excellent conversational and musical company for the evening.

And then there were the Black Girls, a group of white boys (I wouldn't make that up) playing 70s-influenced glammy campy music. The crowd was into it from the first notes, standing on chairs, dancing, swaying and, yes, doing the bump. I know because I saw it with my own eyes.

Dave, the musician, described their music as fun; I found it fun and intensely campy. They pulled from vintage 70s stuff as disparate as Queen and KC & the Sunshine Band, but they also borrowed from current sounds like Scissor Sisters and the indie dance beats of Modest Mouse. The girl with the gold boots would have fit in perfectly for this show.

Can you tell I enjoyed it? Dave was right, it was fun music (good music to be drunk and listening to, he also said), even if everything I heard could be traced back to somebody else (which is exactly what I love about current bands). And you've got to love a lead singer who can do a falsetto.

The last song was about being dumped, with a refrain of "You are going to be so sorry for what you did to me." After singing it a few times, the lead singer shouted to the audience, "Let me hear your singing voices" and Dave belted it out beautifully next to me.

It's great to hang out with talent when you're at a show.