Moon River

I saw the whole of the moon.

Surely that was what delivered such a mind-blowing show tonight.

It was going to be just a Monday night in the 'hood - a walk to the pizza door at Tarrant's for several slices eaten in a booth listening to employee chatter from behind the unseen counter before a show.

Whoa, what? 
And that's all that I got.
What's that address again? 
And it's fully erect!
Dude, wait.
True story.

Halfway to Gallery 5, I heard Canary Oh Canary's distinctive drumming, telling me the show had begun.

Inside, a small crowd was watching them do their usual intense set and I spotted several familiar faces.

Next came Horsehead with their straight ahead rock and roll enlivened by the dapperly-dressed Kevin on guitar, keyboard and slide.

"I just got word back from the bouncer that it's okay to come to the front," the lead singer implored. "You won't be thrown out for coming closer."

The crowd was tenative at best about getting too close.

During the break before Ken Stringfellow came out, a woman came over to grab her coat from a chair near me and I smiled at her.

"People are so friendly in Virginia!" she exclaimed, clearly surprised."I could live here!"

A Floridian, she's up here on business training and had decided to get out and hear live music.

Right there, she got major points. What a good visitor.

She was impressed at the age range of the show attendees and shared that she'd already eaten at Comfort and Tarrant's.

I suggested Bistro 27 for tomorrow since it's also within the orbit of her hotel.

Someone's got to steer the tourists right.

Before Ken Stringfellow started, a friend came over and expressed surprise that it was clearly going to be solo show.

He'd expected at least a small band but it was looking like Ken with guitar and keyboard.

Fine by me.

We agreed that it was an exciting prospect.

When he took the stage, it was to tell us how stuffed he was. "I ate at Comfort and I know what that's short for - uncomfortably full. It was so good."

He promptly grabbed his guitar and harmonica, walked down the stage's steps and began singing amongst us little people.

Reality is subject to cancellation.

Because the crowd was embarrassingly small (come on, people, do the Posies or Big Star mean nothing to you?), it was like being at a house party with Ken in the center.

Ken Stringfellow in the center.

Very cool.

The guy's got a stellar voice, standout songwriting skills and a genuine charisma and obvious delight in performing, making us a most fortunate audience.

At one point, my friend Gregg, a drummer, leaned over and remarked on what a terrifically intimate thing we were experiencing.

"This is the best show I've been to in years. I'm glad you're here too or no one would believe me when I told them about this," he whispered.

True story, to quote the Beavis and Butthead troupe behind the Tarrant's counter.

After singing a few songs while wandering among us, he returned to the stage to play keyboards for a few more.

Maybe he anticipated being lonely up there on stage by himself, so when he invited us to join him onstage, I was one of the dozen who did.

Sure, some people stayed on the floor where they could see him head on, but not me.

For all I know, no musician may ever again invite me to join him so this wasn't an opportunity I could pass up.

Best of all, he kept swiveling around to look at us and smile like he was plumb tickled to have the company.

Eventually we all migrated back down to the floor and Ken took up his guitar again.

He also said he'd plucked a feather from the Richmond bird and invited local songbird Julie Karr to join him for a few songs.

Julie's husky voice matched or harmonized with Ken's for four songs, including Neil Young's achingly beautiful "Birds."

Singing inches from each other while Ken played guitar and Julie kept time with her hands, it gave me chills and, judging from those around me, they felt the same.

Once they finished, he did an exquisite version of "Moon River," taking it in directions Henry Mancini could never have imagined but would have found beautiful.

When he headed back up on stage, he motioned us to follow and many of us did.

There, he enlisted assistance from the singer of Horsehead to sing Big Star's "Thirteen," surely one of the most beautiful songs about the teen angst years ever written and suddenly an audience member jumped onstage to sing along.

Would you be an outlaw for my love?

Pretty soon, half the audience joined in so he followed that with the Posie's "Solar Sister" and even more people knew every word.

You thought you could defeat her
You're lucky you could meet her

There was even shoulder holding and swaying while the crowd sang onstage.

Time was running out but the crowd was having none of him ending his set, so he caved, saying, "I only pull this out for special occasions...and when I don't see a jail."

It only took a couple of notes to recognize the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" and the singalong was now complete.

Gregg had been right. "Without you blogging about it, it's like it never happened," a friend had chided me after missing his show last night.

So here's my proof that the Ken Stringfellow-in-the-round show happened.

And if I can be in a converted firehouse on the night of a full moon listening to a man's voice I have swooned to since 1993 sing, "I'm crossing you in style someday," you can bet I've got a mile-wide smile on my face.

Who couldn't live here?

One Way Streets and 3-Cornered Parks

It was an evening of samplers.

Arriving at the VMFA, the two security guards both welcomed me in. "How are you?" one inquired.

So cold, I said. It's freezing out there. But I just passed another girl in tights, so we're both crazy.

"Thank you!" the other guard said.

Gratitude is appreciated given the sacrifice in this weather.

I kicked off the weekend at Amuse where I arrived just as the window shades were being raised.

The hostess said they'd had a steady line all day, no doubt Johnny-come-latelies to the Chihuly exhibit, which closes next weekend.

When a stool emptied, the hostess led me over, mentioning that it was right next to the absinthe drip.

I took that as a sign from the green fairy and ordered one despite the sun not yet being down.

No need to judge.

The bartender, always witty and never more so than when she smiled and informed me that she was expecting to be handed her ass on a platter tonight after the afternoon they'd had, was nonetheless efficient, personable and genial.

She got me a dish of mussels and Surry ham in no time at all while all around me, the tables filled up as if by magic.

When I was down to nothing but broth, she kindly inquired if I needed more bread, but I was worried about the time.

Hearing that I had eight minutes to spare, I took more bread for the broth and still made it downstairs in time for the poetry reading.

Laura Minning, perhaps nervous, read her poetry like it was all one piece, barely taking a breath between the last word of a poem and saying, "The name of my next poem is..."

One of her poems had been commissioned by a man for his wife on the occasion of their 20th anniversary.

There's a gift that'd be hard to top.

Anna Claire Hodge's poetry was passionate and focused on what sounded like life experience.

"I only have two mugs in my house," she told us. "One is Tupac Shakur and one is the royal wedding of William and his bride. I feel like that sums everything up."

It did, indeed.

After that, the growing audience was encouraged to take a break and grab some vino at Best Cafe.

"I can tell that there are some people here who could use some wine for the poetry," our hostess Shann said.

The break was followed by the poet I'd come to see, Cynthia Grier Lotze, a friend and teacher.

She began with a poem about "a friend who keeps bees," a man I also know, that referenced "one way streets and three-cornered parks," both familiar to this city resident.

Favorite line: "The step down from the porch into night."

She read several pieces from a book-length poem she's been working on for five years ("I'm going to finish it," she promised) about two people named Peter and Stella.

In "Prayers," we heard about Peter "carrying his silent heart."

A devastating mental image.

"Another Accident" was described as "where I leave Stella, so if you have any ideas what to do with her, I'm all ears."

Just as she read the line, "The scientist, whose notes are precise," I spotted the scientist in the crowd.

Unfortunately, he was too far away to inquire of him if he had any chocolate with him. He almost always does.

I had to smile at the line, "As if life is one big Presbyterian potluck," part of "First Rabbit."

One poem she described as having "the whole cast of characters in my life in it," but it was the evocative language that stuck with me.

How will we winter over in this small apartment?

There are thick books to be read.

It concluded with, "So sit. Let us watch fall come in."

I don't even especially like fall and I was ready to sit.

Last up was Tarfia Faizullah, who opened with a poem dedicated and about her dead grandmother.

She told of going to an Episcopalian private school and how that Anglican experience had caused her to write poetry to exorcise the memories.

That kind of an experience can scar a person for life. She's lucky she was able to be inspired by it.

I hated to be read to and run, but I really needed to get to the WRIR party for the rest of us as soon as I could.

Because, you see, WRIR's birthday party is a sampler of all kinds of my favorite RVA activities.

I'd already missed the Listening Room and David Shultz doing a solo set (that included a John Prine cover) I later heard was stellar.

Soon after, I got permission from a Foundry member not to have it counted against me that I'd missed it.

Michael Murphy was spinning records when I got there and his well-chosen picks were tempting people to dance by the buffet table.

Wolf//Goat had just started their set, so I went in and watched (once again) as kids who have never seen violas and banjos in a ramshackle folk project were sucked in and start dancing wildly.

It's really something to see.

Since I'd just seen them play a few weeks ago, I changed rooms for tonight's installment of Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, which featured musicians.

I try never to miss a Secretly Y'All.

Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats shared how modern country music had devolved to nothing more than nostalgia and cliche.

That said, he also sang an original song he claimed was one of the very few songs he wrote based on feelings and not just thinking it up.

The lovely Julie Karr, looking fetching in a flowered sweater, was next and shared the saga of being tested to see if she could donate a kidney to her brother.

After days of testing and inconvenience, she was found unsuitable but a song was born out of it.

Written in three parts, it was essentially three conversations, one with her family, one with herself and one with her brother.

Her heartfelt voice totally sold what was already a strong song.

Before I even knew who the next musician was, a guy came over and asked if he could stand next to me and film the next band

"They only got one song, but it's worth it," he promised.

Emmanuel told of a guy who tried to pick a fight with him, not because he had a beef with him, but because that's what he went around doing and his friends would film the fight and put it on YouTube.

Can I just say what an unpleasant reminder it was to hear that such people exist?

But the resulting song came out of it, so there's the bright side.

Storytelling over, I moved back into the main room to mingle.

One sure thing about the WRIR party is that everybody comes out of the woodwork for it.

Even people who don't go out much show up for this benefit.

So besides the usual suspects, I saw a long-ago Floyd Avenue neighbor, a former editor, a member of the Foundry, lots of musicians and more deejays than you could shake a stick at.

Canary, Oh Canary played a strong set but seemed small on a stage so big.

I remember seeing them on Sprout's tiny stage what seems like ages ago and now they were commanding this big room.

Reverb and obtuse lyrics will do it every time.

They even played a song they'd written especially for tonight.

After their set, I got down to the business end of the party, meaning I went for birthday cake and got there just as the chocolate cake was being cut.

Everyone was reveling in the cakes not having black icing this year since in the past it's been a tad disconcerting to party with people with black teeth.

I reveled so much I had two pieces.

Judge away.

Next came Richmond Comedy Coalition riffing on Richmond Famous, another of my mainstays.

Tonight's "famous" guinea pigs were WRIR deejays Shannon Cleary and Mike Rutz.

Shannon told of band practice for a band called 27 based on rock stars who'd died at 27.

Recalling the band practicing for the Monster Mashquerade party at the Garber building, his main memory was Paul Ivy yelling, "Goddammit!" all the time.

He revealed for the fist time that the way the band knew to begin playing was when Lindsey struck a certain pose.

Let's just say it was fertile material for the comedians to work with.

Mike told of planning the party for the rest of us for seven years, including 2010 when it began snowing at noon on the day of the party.

After anguishing about whether to cancel, his decision was made when Heks Orkest's singer managed to fly down from NYC in time for the show.

Mike figured if he'd made it down, Richmond could manage a little white powder.

As it turned out, the snow turned to rain at 7:00 and stayed that way until midnight.

I remember because I was one of the ones who braved the soggy weather to come to that party.

The comedy troupe made the most of Mike's story, starting by dealing with the burden of carrying around a seven-year old child.

Back into the main room for Samson Trinh and the Upper East Side Big Band, whom I hadn't seen since summer 2011.

They were in full swing when I arrived but it wasn't long until they moved into their Abbey Road project, doing big band takes on the seminal album.

From a down and dirty "Oh! Darling," that had No BS's Reggie Pace standing in front of me with his hands to the ceiling grooving hard, they took it up a notch.

"This is the part of the show where we blow your mind," Samson said and he should know given the knockout red suit and black vest he was wearing.

He's the most energetic conductor a big band has ever seen, dancing and highstepping non-stop as he led his band, several of whom I recognized from the RVA big band.

A funked-up version of "Back in the USSR" had half the room dancing or, if you were like me and near the front, bopping hard in place.

There's a song I've danced to more times than I care to count.

That segued into "Dear Prudence" before a rousing number that had many in the crowd doing "jazz hands" as the female singer testified the song to a close.

Hallelujah.

During the mingle period, a friend went looking for cake only to find none cut. I found a server and asked and she rushed off for a knife.

"I just needed to get a clean knife, honey," she assured me.

I wasn't the one who needed cake, that was my friends, both too timid to ask for the cake they wanted.

"Karen always knows how to make things happen, " one said as the other nodded.

Yea, I ask.

Back to the other room for the Colloquial Orchestra, also known as Dave Watkins and whomever he chooses to play with on any given night.

Tonight there were a record eleven musicians onstage and the sound was enormous.

Let's see, there were three drummers, two violinists, a keyboard player, a guitar player, Dave on his electric dulcitar, a sax, a trumpet, a jack-of-all-trades (PJ)  and Nelly Kate on vocals and knobs.

At one point, five of them were crouched and turning knobs to get effects out of their instruments.

I saw drummer Brandon (Snowy Owls) playing a maraca with his right hand, using it to hit the cymbal and holding his beer in his left.

Not long after, Jimmy (White Laces) took his beer from the windowsill and enjoyed a long drink while letting the other drummers have a moment.

PJ played a giant plastic harmonica through a megaphone, that is, when he wasn't hitting a metal bowl.

Midway through the epic improvised piece they were creating, drummer Nathaniel picked up one of his drums, carried it to the front of the stage and began banging with a frenzy.

PJ wasted not a moment taking over his remaining drums, so now we had four drummers.

Nelly sat on the floor, out of the way, but making her distinctive sounds into the mic to add to the overall mix.

Usually Dave blows into his dulcitar and tonight he was joined by Joon blowing into his violin.

As many times as I've seen the Colloquial Orchestra, tonight's huge cast made for a particularly grand performance, both in intensity and sheer variety of sound.

Last up was Dead Fame and by the time I got in there, the crowd was way into them.

Balloons were everywhere, being batted about and all at once, there were two Dead Fame beach balls being thrown into the mix.

We have a band in Richmond with beach balls. Who knew?

"Does it have to be so f*cking bright in this room?" the lead singer asked before things got a bit dimmer.

The bouncing balloons and balls got old when both me and my girlfriend got beaned by them from behind, but that problem was partially solved when one of them landed in the crystal chandelier high above our heads.

Meanwhile, the band played on, all black-clad and '80s intensity as the party wound down.

When I went to find my coat in the coat check room, it appeared that a bomb had gone off, but I eventually located my scarf and coat, both absolutely necessary for the walk home.

As I walked, quickly, very quickly, it was with the satisfaction that I'd packed a month's worth of Richmond happenings into one short seven-hour period.

For anyone looking to sample the kinds of stuff I do day in and day out, tonight was a nice cross-section of it all: storytelling, DJs, Listening Room, bands, comedy, poetry.

Tonight Karen didn't have to make it happen. It was all there for the taking.

Living the Life, er, Dream

Best kind of day to hang around and goof off: a rainy day like today.

In fact, I could have happily stayed home after my walk, but of course I didn't.

No, I went back to see "Spring Awakening" for the second time. And once again, I saw it from a stage seat.

And the best reason to see it a mere three weeks after I last saw it?

I mean, besides the five dollar ticket?

To sit on the opposite side of the stage from last time and notice things I hadn't when I was experiencing the story for the first time.

Like how when the boys in the cast are onstage singing "The Bitch of Living" I could see some of the girls in the cast just offstage dancing with abandon.

From my new vantage point, I could see the band, too, like when the guitarist switched from an electric to an acoustic guitar in full view of me.

Or when I could see the music director, her back to the band and facing the cast onstage, keeping tempo enthusiastically during "Totally F**ked."

But probably the best reason for sitting on the left side of the stage was the up close and personal view of the hilarious masturbation scene.

I'll tell you what, it's moments like that that make lifelong theater fans.

By the time the matinee let out, we were overdue to eat so we headed to Lunch.

It was an ideal time: after the lunch crowd and before the dinner crowd.

Even better, their happy hour runs every day of the week, so our Martin Codax Albarino was a mere $3.50 a glass.

Hello hay and honeysuckle on the cheap.

The River City Smokehouse and the Fay (house made chicken salad on multi-grain) preceded the very berry pound cake with mixed berries and whipped cream.

Best part of the meal: the pulled pork with coleslaw on a bun.

Our soundtrack was pure '60s Motown ("Baby Love," "Ain't No Woman") and while it was suggested I dance, I didn't.

I did, however, compliment our server on her beautiful breasts and she thanked me, saying, "That means so much more coming from a woman instead of a man. Like a woman telling you how good your make-up looks."

Actually her make-up looked great, too, but I didn't want to push my luck.

The best reason to finish up at Gallery 5 for the Commonwealth of Notions show was to benefit WRIR and Gallery 5.

WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had assembled a stellar cast of bands for our philanthropic dollar.

Best reason to get to a show on time: so you don't miss anything you'd love to have heard.

I missed Snowy Owls' set and they not only played a new song but covered a White Laces song.

Damn, I could have smacked myself for missing out on those.

Best substitute for what I missed: catching the end of White Laces' incredibly tight set from the ticket desk.

Best surround sound set: Colloquial Orchestra's dynamic smorgasbord of eight musicians placed around the room and following the lead of the amazingly talented Dave Watkins on electric dulcitar.

The 27-minute improvised piece featured some of my favorite people, including Adam of Marionette, Matt of Snowy Owls and PJ, a guy who changes from mild-mannered photographer to a beast of a guitar god when he has an instrument in his hand.

Also of note was Brandon, who entered the fray late in the game, setting up a drum and taking over percussion duties impressively a bit after the set had begun.

Best act to overcome technical difficulties: Swordplay.

Isaac's rapping over vinyl is always a testament to his lyrical skills, but tonight he had so much snap, crackle and pop that he finally gave up using the mic and just sang a capella.

Later he told me that he felt like the sound problems were smacking him in the face, fighting him even.

To his credit, he fought back and won.

Best instinctive crowd direction: when the Low Branches' Christina opened her mouth to sing, what sounded like a half dozen people immediately shushed the crowd.

And they stayed quiet for the most part, even (or especially) when she covered the Boss.

For that matter, her comment, "We're the Low Branches and we're living the life. Er, dream. This is why we don't do stage talk," had the crowd, and even fellow bandmate Matt, cracking up.

Best multi-tasking by one musician in three bands: Matt, who played in Snowy Owls, Colloquial Orchestra and The Low Branches.

I don't know how my favorite fuzz-master even had time to do a shot of whiskey.

Best way to get a crowd dancing: having Bermuda Triangles play on the floor in front of the stage.

Their tribal drumming and wailing sax sound immediately got everyone moving and eventually there was full-on dancing going on as people lost their inhibitions and let the music take them away.

Best seamless transition: during Bermuda Triangles' last song, the final band, Canary, oh, Canary, took the stage.

Drummer Mark jumped into the drumming fray, playing along with  the Triangles  while CoC's guitarist and bass player held their instruments but stayed silent.

After Triangles' last note, they were thanked and Canary, oh, Canary began their set.

Theirs are some of my favorite bass lines.

Later in their set, guitarist Micheal announced, "Mark has broken his snare. Any drummer out there have a spare he can borrow?"

Not surprisingly, the show went on given the number of instruments in the room.

It was exceeded only by the number of musicians in the room.

Which made Gallery 5 the best possible place to spend my Saturday night.

And, just for the record, the light rain falling when I left made for the best possible walk home.

Rebuilding the Bionic Woman

Never make plans because they are always subject to change. But set goals anyway.

I began at Amuse because it was a favorite bartender's last night and far be it for me not to worship at his bar one last time.

The vibe was low key when I arrived and escalated to full-on busy before it was all over.

Even better, a dedicated admirer joined me before long, making for an even better way to enjoy my evening.

We started with the Boxwood Rose despite the plethora of happy hour choices. As if that weren't surprise enough, there was a new prix fixe menu.

Amuse, you've gotten so hip lately.

We couldn't resist the regular menu, though, choosing  the country style duck pate with quince whole grain mustard, pistachios and toasted crostini.

At the bartender's recommendation, we let it sit for a while to warm up, releasing the flavors.

Just as compelling were the house-cured sardines and roasted piquillo peppers with arugula, olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

It was just short of an Italian's wet dream.

Last, but certainly not least, was the grilled polenta with a saute of local mushrooms and creamy sherry with chives.

Meanwhile, we had been greeted by WRIR folk, the bartender's parents ("Didn't we meet in an alley?") and a couple who clarified that they were not engaged.

Because it was the bartender's last night. It seemed only appropriate that he make my last absinthe drip at Amuse.

Okay, maybe not my last, but the last he  prepared for me.

A nearby bar sitter marveled at the process, never having seen it before.

You have to love absinthe virgins.

Because of the later light and the magnificent view, we lingered over absinthe while admiring the fading March light over the sculpture garden.

By then I'd missed the Black Maria Film Fest I'd intended to make.

Eventually, we marshaled our forces and went to see "Visions of France: Three Postwar Photographers," a beguiling show of people kissing, cafe scenes and assorted denizens of Paris' streets.

We were taken with Doisneau's "Kiss by the Hotel de Ville" mainly because of the girl's arm.

Yes, he is holding her shoulder and kissing her hard, but it is the surrender in her right arm that captivated us.

Clearly, she was completely helpless once he started kissing her.

Now, that's street art.

Stopping on the second floor landing, we paused to admire the host of couples tangoing on the lower level.

Every third Friday, they do Tango after Work and watching these couples dance was a beautiful entertainment.

I am probably far too uncoordinated to attempt tangoing, but I couldn't help but admire the beauty of the joined bodies.

And I've got the wardrobe; all the women wore skirts or dresses.

We all need something to aspire to.

Next up, I went to Strange Matter for music because how else do you follow absinthe, street kissing and tango?

In this case, with leg compliments from a girl, libido questions from a guy, a man in the ladies' room and three excellent sets.

Marionette started on time, a rarity at Strange Matter, and played an incredibly tight set of new music.

It's fantastic when old fans get rewarded with new material.

During one song the drummer's girlfriend came up to me and said, "This song sounds like sex, doesn't it?"

When I mentioned her comment to the guitarist later, he said, "I thought it sounded more like victory...or maybe that's the same."

Ocean versus Daughter was next, and while I'd seen them once before, I hadn't known the full back story then.

Hearing her sing "You hurt me. I hate you. I hope you die in a fire" takes on a whole new meaning when I learn that the guy she wrote it about is in the room.

While I liked her voice and keyboards, even better was when she had two members of Marionette backing her up.

During a trip to the bathroom, I came out of my stall to find the singer cornered near the sink by a guy who wanted her to listen to his band.

But really, following her into the ladies' room to make his pitch?

I can't decide if that's very rock and roll or just skeevy.

Last up was Canary, oh Canary and while the vocals weren't quite high enough in the mix, they did their usual superb job with reverb and obtuse lyrics.

So while I'd traded off film for music, I can't come close to matching the record of WRIR's Galaxy Girl, who was there tonight. She's now seen fifteen shows this month and it's March 16th.

I bowed at her feet for such awesomeness.

The best I got tonight was having a musician friend tell me he'd been driving through my neighborhood and was admiring some great legs in shorts when he realized it was me.

We're going to call that metaphorical bowing at my legs for semi-awesomeness.

I know it's not much, but it's hard to compete with a record like fifteen out of sixteen.

Truth is, when it comes to some things, I'd be happy with one out of three.

As long as it's the right one.

My Final Offer

I love an offer I can't refuse.

Like when a worthwhile band slips into town on a Monday night.

That was Mates of State. On the  fifth day of their eastern tour which began last Thursday. At the Canal Club.

With far too few people to do the band justice and just the right amount for an appreciative audience.

It was a good show start to finish, with Canary, Oh, Canary leading the charge.

I find lead singer Michael absolutely charismatic and no matter how often I hear them build a song's intesnity or lock into a groove, I am spellbound.

They encored with "Over the Underground,"  a middle finger to that most holy of hipster idols, Lou Reed.

The crowd for them was decent but not what it should have been. Come on, guys, what else is going on at 8:00 on a Monday/holiday?

Sean Bones followed with his guitar, his beats, his keyboard, and his hat with a chin strap.

"I used to have a band," he explained. "But we couldn't figure out a name for them, Sean Bones and the...so they said, 'Screw you. Go out on your own."

And here he was.

His jangly guitar over beats was as sunny as a day at the beach.

Midway through his set, he noticed some newcomers and said, "I'm Sean Bones Cougar Mellencamp if you just arrived. I have a gift shop over there and if you have any private questions, I'll be over there."

While he played his exuberant set, a girl sat against a column near me playing online Scrabble and never once looking up at Sean Bones.

Tragic, really.

By the time Mates of Sate began their set, the crowd had grown considerably, although a musician friend and I discussed how many more people were at the National show when they played there.

The band's loss, no doubt, but tonight's fans' gain.

Mates of State grab me with their fast tempos, high energy and unexpected song structures.

They hit the ground running, sliding in "My Final Offer" early and saving "Palomino" for last.

No MoS song ever goes the way you expect the first time you hear it.

Which is a good thing for some and not so much for others. Me, I just think it's poppy yet different enough.

You know, I don't always need my hooks handed to me on a silver platter.

But my shows? I'll take them any way I can get them.

And on a Monday night after black bean nachos at 821, I'll take what's offered with great delight.

Can't Out-Slow a Snail

Perish the thought, but if I were the sort to make sports analogies, I'd say tonight was a triple play.

It's rare to go only one place for the evening and be served up a reading, live music and film, too; I usually have to move around for that kind of variety.

Ward at Chop Suey is probably the one I should be thanking. As the local distributor of Carson Mell's new book "The Blue Bourbon Orchestra," he'd been entertaining the author this weekend.

He introduced Mell while seated on a chair onstage because that was the author's preferred  position for the reading.

With the three passages he read, we were teased with the epic story of a fading alt-country band and its lead singer.

Even serious subjects had humor to them; the band was "feeling bad about the '90s" (I know some people who would agree with that) and they were described as living dangerously "everything they did, even the soup."

The Q & A afterwards showed the audience for who they really were: readers of Mell's first book "Saguaro" and fans of his short-form animated videos.

Questions were very specific ("Do you do drugs? Do you have a lot of friends who do because you wrote about it so well?") and showed the crowd's affinity for Mell's work.

He cited Townes van Zandt as the music he was listening to while he wrote the book, but acknowledged that his life would have been very different if he and Townes had hung out together.

Not that everyone couldn't use a bad influence at some point.

Literature behind us, we moved on to music.

I'd already heard Canary Oh Canary and knew I liked them, but I'd have guessed as much after the sound check even if I hadn't.

"Lots of reverb," they instructed the sound guy. "Wet. As wet as you can get it without drowning. Wetter."

That's my kind of music from a cave.

And their reverb-drenched dreamgaze was as satisfying as I remember. Beforehand I'd raved about them to a girl who'd never seen them and afterwards she came over to tell me how right I was.

Music segued into film and Carson Mell was back in the spotlight.

Back in 2003 he'd begun making short films which had given way to making animated films once his friends got too busy to help him.

"I needed something I could do by myself," he explained, as if taking up animation was the most natural thing in the world.

Again there was a lot of humor in the short films and it was clear from the audience reactions that many people knew them well, anticipating certain hysterical moments.

"You can't untell a tale...you can't outslow a snail," read one aging classic rock star's jean pockets.

Offered a chance to do another Q & A about the films afterwards, Mell declined.

"Will you go for wings with us?" a girl called from the audience.

Maybe that was the kind of question he was afraid of.

My last question of the evening came from the guy who had this apartment before I moved in almost three years ago. A writer, he's at practically every literary event I go to.

"How's the apartment?" he asked on my way out.

"You wouldn't recognize it," I told him, without going into specifics. "It's very different now."

"Tell the old girl I said hello," he grinned.

I think I'd rather get on with telling a tale that can't be untold.

Repackaging My Inner Smartass

I wasn't the only one looking for some Monday night action.

The show at Sprout promised skygaze, shoegaze and shoewave, which was as good as a guarantee that I absolutely had to be there.

The surprise was how many other people were, too.

My main reason for going was Now Sleepyhead, a local ambient/shoegaze sounding band of whom I've been a fan for several years now.

The only problem is how rarely they play out.

You don't hear a lot of French horn in indie bands except with them and their combination of mournful lyrics over beautiful music sucks me in every time.

Introducing their last song, Michael said with a grin, "This is probably our happiest song and it's called 'Eternal Damnation."

They're also possibly the only band who claim to have pillowcases along with CDs among their merchandise.

During their set, a loud (drunk? poorly raised? oblivious?) girl right in the front began talking to her friend, getting ever-louder, trying to talk over the sound of an electrified band.

Of course I had no tolerance for her, but as I looked around, I saw steam coming out of several people's ears, so it wasn't just me being offended.

Just as I was about to do my civic/musical duty, a friend stepped up to her and took care of it.

She left in a huff with her girlfriend and later their male friend gave my friend a shove and a look of death.

I'm going to go with poorly raised.

Next up was Sleepy Vikings, a sextet all the way from Tampa ("It's even hot on Christmas in Tampa,") and one of those rare bands, a la Mermaid Skeletons, where everyone is seated.

Their shoegaze sound had moments of pure jangley folk pop, but it was the spacey electric guitar weaving its way through two acoustics that wormed its way into my ear and wouldn't let go.

I'm never one to argue with female vocals, and when a male voice took over, I heard shades of Modest Mouse.

The chill drumming (lots of brushes and mallets) also added a great deal to the overall sound, which benefited from frequent changes in tempo and dynamics.

Okay, so I really, really liked this band.

Humor came through when they mentioned that they had CDs for sale on a back table.

"It's a good time to steal one because no one's guarding them."

Finally we got to the rock portion of the evening, not that I was necessarily ready to let go of shoegaze, with Canary, oh, Canary.

A stripped down trio playing "shoewave" aka dream-gaze pop (think Cocteau Twins), they had some songs with no vocals and others with some dramatic ones (and expressive hand gestures). 


When they locked into a groove, they stayed there.


As I walked out, one of the musicians sitting outside asked if I was leaving. 


Yes, I explained, I was because the show was over.


I was accused of being a smartass, but as I pointed out, if I didn't pull out that card, he might suspect I'd been replaced with a body double.

And if that does happen, I want a much better body. Just FYI.

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.