Of Dogs and Men

This ain't a scene, it's a lifestyle.

Actually, it's getting to be enough of a scene that a music lover has multiple options on a Tuesday night.

I took bees and fish over Shakespearean tragedy and loud estrogen, but that was just me.

Well, me and the friends who said they'd seen enough really loud shows lately to want something more ear-friendly tonight.

Actually, I started at the bar at Bistro 27 where a group immediately took me in, saying, "Welcome to the party."

When they departed for a table, I stayed put for Meiomi Pinot Noir and a satisfying dish of vegetables, cannellini beans and duck confit.

You can never go wrong with duck poached in its own fat.

Or with a dessert plate that featured chocolate hazelnut torte and chocolate mousse.

But you can go wrong with a nearby bar sitter with deplorable manners.

Unfortunately, my dearly departed party was replaced with a girl on a cell phone.

And by that I mean from the second she walked in she was talking on her phone.

She talked on it through wine, carpaccio and cheesecake. She talked on it while ordering.

And eating.

Didn't our mothers teach us that that was rude?

In fact, she talked so non-stop that she never took off her jacket, scarf or hat. She ate with her right hand and held her phone with the left.

Unfortunately, it made it easier to leave because I was tired of hearing her incessant chatter.

The fact that I had a great show to go to didn't hurt, either.

Sponge HQ, on the top floor of the Anderson Gallery, was playing host to a double bill of the Low Branches and Brown Bird.

And one of the benefits of going to Sponge is the beehive. Another is the burbling fish tank, the lights of which dimmed only once the music started.

You just can't get that kind of ambiance at most venues.

Mingling before the show, I asked a musician friend where his lovely wife was.

She was home with their dog, a rescue he said had lost her skittishness with the magic formula , according to him, of "love and parameters."

Like what men need, I asked. Grinning, he agreed.

The Low Branches started the show with their achingly beautiful songs, four of which were new to even us long-time fans.

After the first song, lead singer Christina apologized, "The first song is always rough, then it gets better. It's not getting better yet, though."

Truth be told, it was mesmerizing everyone in the room with lyrics of love and longing.

The spell was broken only when Christina decided to do a song not on the set list, throwing off guitarist Matt who was still going with the plan.

"I'm usually the one who screws up," Christina laughed.

On my way to the bathroom during the short break, a guy looked at me and inquired, "Were you in Charlottesville recently?"

Why, yes, I was at the Other Lives show, I told him.

"I thought I saw you there!" he said before we discussed what an excellent show that had been.

I have no idea who he was or how he recognized me.

Break over, Rhode Island's Brown Bird took command of the room.

It wasn't my first time seeing them, although the last iteration had been as a trio and tonight they were a duo.

The friends sitting next to me hadn't seen them before, but knowing their taste, I was certain they'd love Brown Birds' genre-bending sound.

Part folk, part gypsy music, part bluegrass, part blues, the music benefits from two strong vocalists and more instruments than any two people should be able to play.

Upright bass, guitar, violin, cello, drum, percussion and banjo. The only thing I could think of that was missing was dobro which they'd had when they were a trio.

Leader Dave, who could apparently do at least three or four things at any point in any song, wore a most handsome black beard that got noticed in a room city full of great beards.

After a couple of songs, he commented, "The percussion is rally loud in this room. I wish I could turn it down."

His band mate, MorganEve, looked at him wryly and said, "So do I."

But that percussion was central to their sound, at times as key to their eastern European-influenced sound as the string instruments.

Tonight was the first night of a three-month tour and before one song, Dave apologized, saying they'd only played this song out once or twice before and never with a violin.

I'd wager that not a person in the room would have known that had we not been told.

When their set ended, people made a beeline for their merch table, always a gratifying thing to see. I'd done the same after the first time I saw them.

A small group was going to Cous Cous afterwards, so I agreed to go along even though I usually limit my presence there to worthy shows.

In yet another unlikely twist, a couple of us celebrated our fine evening of music with Cokes.

Without a music crowd, the place was practically dead, but our little group made the best of it with any number of unlikely conversations.

Nutrition? Check. Living your passion? Check. Soccer branding? Check.Shoegaze gods in sunglasses? Check. Drawn-out birthday celebrations? Check.

But when it came time to go on the hunt for some pie, I bowed out.

I honestly didn't need another pleasure to close the book on tonight's chapter of lifestyles of the poor but passionate.

Besides, the pie will be there for me.

It's just another part of the scene.

Upping the Ante at the Listening Room

What if we took the Listening Room concept to the next level? What if we tried to make Richmond a place that became known for attentive audiences who did not shout or party at top volume during a show? What if I discovered that I wasn't the only person who had this fantasy?

Well, damn if I'm not. During a conversation with band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes at tonight's Listening Room performance, we talked about the recent Spoon show at the National. Like me, he'd been appalled at the rude and unruly crowd. Since then, he said several people had brought up the same subject to him and an idea had begun to foment.

What if a grass-roots movement started to encourage listening rather than talking at places like the National? PJ suggested carrying small cards which would be politely and silently handed to talkers at shows. They'd say something along the lines of "Here in Richmond, we like to hear our shows. Please, no talking during the performance." Then there'd be a website address should the cardholder want to learn more about the movement.

As he pointed out, bands would spread the word that rva was a great listening town. Hell, they spread the word about the backstage facilities and bands have admitted to booking here for that reason alone. Imagine how popular we could become among the earnest musician set. And as someone who's had my fair share of being surrounded by partiers with no interest in listening, I wouldn't hesitate to hand a stranger a card that paraphrased "Shut the fuck up."

But I digress. It was another stellar, in fact, possibly Top Two Ever show at the Listening Room this evening. It was most certainly the biggest crowd so far at the Michaux House and while I was quite comfy (having no blood or circulation) many around me were fanning themselves. The poor musicians, under the lights, looked downright shiny and hot.

First up was Brown Bird from Rhode Island. The last time they played here was five years ago at the now-defunct Nonesuch and they were a duo then. Tonight's trio put on a show to be remembered, rootsy and folky; it's not often you hear a sea chantey as a finale. Or see a guy playing guitar with his hands, drums with both feet and singing lead.

With dobro, guitar, cello, fiddle and drum, they had an unusual sound, far more driving than your typical Americana band. And such a drum: upside down and open on top to allow the addition of bells and whatever, it made for a hard-driving element throughout. The audience reacted with moving heads, feet and shoulders. Favorite lyric, "I haven't quite thrown enough of me away." Brown Bird got the most extended applause of any band I've seen at the Listening Room and I've been to every one.

The headliner was local band Homemade Knives, who hadn't played a show in three years. Lead singer Will told us right up front that he'd prefer to play for us, "ten at a time" and asked that the rest of the audience step out of the room for a bit. No one budged. "I couldn't be more nervous," he admitted.

They're a five-piece (accordion, keys, guitars and cello), who've also been around for a while, but on hiatus after the death of a member. Their harmonies are beautiful and their acoustic folk sound a thing of beauty, and tonight put them back in the spotlight in front of an adoring crowd.

When Jonathan took a minute to change instruments and grab his harmonica, the band prepared to start without him. "Wait for me!" he implored. "I'm just trying to get through this," Will lamented. The did a Tom Waits cover and an "old song done new" from an early EP, Industrial Parks. Favorite lyric, "If you would only run, I could chase you."

Their set was short and ended with Will telling us that "that's all the songs we know." As a musician friend said to me at that point, "I could have listened to another 25 minutes of that." Me, too.

And the beauty of that statement is that we were listening. The only voices were the ones on stage. Maybe it has something to do with the program cards which are on every seat when the audience arrives. "Please, no talking during the performance."

Hmm, sounds like the basis of a grass-roots idea. Count me in.