One Stage, No Gender

Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together. ~ Anais Nin

I was at Strange Matter in January 2010 before they even had their liquor license, for cryin' out loud.

Fact is, I've seen all kinds of movies there, despite it being a music venue, a lot of them the kind that I couldn't have seen anywhere else.

That first night, it was for "All Tomorrow's Parties," about the music festival curated by other musicians. That was followed by the bike messenger documentary "Pedal" in March that year, then in April, the documentaries "American Hardcore" about that whole scene and "Festival Express" about musicians on tour via train across Canada in 1970.

I not only enjoyed every single movie I saw there, I learned something from each, too.

But it wasn't all music and bikes, because I laughed along to "Raising Arizona" (not for the first time) and that holiday classic, "Santa Conquers the Martians." And it was there that I saw the James Bond parody, "Our Man Flint," for the first time. Add in John Waters' "Polyester" and David Lynch's "Blue Velvet" and "Wild at Heart" and you get some idea of the range that S'Matter showed.

I don't want to brag, but I saw the Monkee's magum opus "Head" there, putting up with the non-stop mindless commentary from the peanut gallery at the bar, people whose parents hadn't even met when "Head" was made.

But of course, it was mostly about the bands I saw there and there were some stellar ones.

I saw Real Estate on a humid, sweltering night, leaving with my dress as wet as my hair.

Some bands I enjoyed seeing there so much that I saw them again the next time they came back through, like Strand of Oaks, Wild Nothing, Speedy Ortiz. Sometimes once isn't enough.

Music fan that I am, I saw some bands simply because I had a free night and knew of the band, like the Man Man show in 2014.

Other times, it was a fellow music lover's recommendation, online or in person, that got me there, like with Kane Strang, Pylon Reenactment Society, Taco Cat and David Bazan of Pedro the Lion.

I went for local boy-made-good Matt White, but also because he was playing with the Rosebuds' Howard Ivans and I'm a big Rosebuds fan. When I needed a neo-'80s fix, I went to see Cold Cave and Drab Majesty and wallowed in the reverb. For pure indie pop, I couldn't resist the Love Language, NOLA's Generationals and dancing to Beach Fossils before everyone knew who they were.

For an early show by Kurt Vile, I stood on the back of a banquette in a room so hot and sticky that I feared I might pass out (I didn't). Once, for an Italian fix, I went to see Sultans, a group of passionate Italians thrilled to be touring the U.S. and meeting American girls.

Over the years, I went to some of their annual shows, like the yearly Food Fights where groups of restaurant staffers formed a band for a night and competed against each other to win the audience's approval. A couple of Halloweens, I attended the Night of the Living Dead bands show, an extravaganza of cover bands of bands with at least one deceased member.

And don't get me started on all the local bands I've seen there over the years because there have been too many to recount.

I've been to many a sold out show where my foresight in snagging a ticket ensured I got in while I knew many people who didn't, but I've also been to shows where I was one of 20 people the band was playing to and I felt like Richmond was representing poorly.

In almost every case, I walked to S'Matter, but on the one occasion I didn't (I had uncharacteristically driven there because my hired mouth and I had come from the West End), I came out at 1:45 a.m. to find my car had been towed. Luckily, I also ran into a musician friend who lives in J-Ward and we walked home together, not because walking alone was an issue - I'd done it scores of times - but because I needed someone to listen to me beat myself up about my stupidity.

And now the news has come that Strange Matter is closing, so they're doing a series of farewell shows. There was no way I wasn't going to one to say goodbye to a place that has been a constant in my musical and film life since the day it opened.

Walking in, the doorman hugged the couple in front of me because tonight was their fourth night coming in for a farewell show. I paid my money, got a wristband and saved my hugs for friends.

Almost at once, I got a hug from the woman I'd met at this very venue, back during what she called Janet-palooza, when she was celebrating her fortieth birthday by going to a show every night for a month.

Seeing her there tonight brought things full circle.

Next was the trumpet player who was playing in one of tonight's bands, then the Chucks-wearing friend who used to complain that going out required too much work. Even he had apparently realized that sometimes you just have to make the effort. The writer who lived in my apartment before I did was there and we talked about all the great films he'd screened as part of RVA Movie Club, many of which I'd been there for. Later I got a greeting from the music teacher and the volunteer coordinator.

All the cool kids were out tonight.

When I spoke to the DJ whom I'd seen at the Byrd for "La Dolce Vita," then at the Hof for the debut of Trey Pollard's "Antiphones" album and again tonight, it was by complimenting him on his range.

Technically, I suppose he could say the same of me.

DJing between band sets was the owner of my local record store where I had first heard tonight's headliner, the Ar-kaics, back in 2013. My, how time flies. As always, he looked happy to be spinning 45s for the crowd in between enjoying the show.

Also on the bill were Weird Tears, who when they hailed from Philly considered S'Matter one of their favorite venues, the nine-piece Piranha-Rama (three horns, two back-up singers), Christi with their pastiche of girl group and hardcore and, finally, the garage band sounding Ar-kaics.

Appropriately sadcore song title considering the reason for tonight's show? Weird Tears' second song, "I Don't Deserve to Be Happy Tonight."

Before their set, I'd chatted with the lead singer of Piranha-Rama, giving her props for her cute red coat with a fake fur collar. She admitted she'd found it at For the Love of Jesus Thrift on southside and had debated long and hard about spending $14 on the coat before sucking it up and forking over the money.

Years later, she realizes it was a brilliant purchase.

Besides, what could I say, standing there in a thrift store wool dress, military-style  jacket and pleather-collared sweater, none of which cost more than $4?

It's an additional shame that S'Matter is closing since they'd updated the bathrooms to be unisex with a sign on the former men's room reading, "This bathroom has one stall and no gender." It also had no line, unlike the one that read, "This bathroom has two stalls and no gender," so guess which one I used?

You got it, the one with the two urinals.

In what I can only consider the most fitting tribute to S'Matter, we were barely into the second band's set when I realized how ungodly warm it was in there and began shedding layers. Janet had already removed her jacket and taken it outside to stow away under her scooter seat. All around me, guys were doffing their knit skull caps and wiping sweat off their heads.

Being a regular at S'Matter teaches you quickly that their temperature regulatory system is non-existent and it will be hot and miserable in there once the bands start playing, whether it is August or December. The only difference is that it's not humid inside during the winter months.

Still, that's part of its charm. You don't go to a venue like S'Matter expecting all the comforts of home, you go to hear music played from a stage a few feet from your face. And maybe to dance, which I began doing from the first song Weird Tears played.

But it wasn't all gloom and doom tonight because just today, a couple of local musicians started a Go Fund Me page to try to raise enough money to take over the venue. My writer friend said that they'd already raised $4K this afternoon, with a goal of $150K, in hopes they can keep it from falling into the hands of VCU and further gentrifying that block.

Godspeed, guys, I hope you pull it off.

Because, after all, that building has been a music venue since before I came to Richmond in 1986. I know I went to it when it was the Nancy Raygun, but even before then, it was Twisters and Back Door, I've been told.

What's a city without a small, gritty venue like Strange Matter? Especially one I can walk to. Too soon? Too selfish? The way I see it, music fans deserve to be happy on any given night.

Most importantly, Richmond needs a place where our separate body parts can melt together.

Or maybe that's just me.

Always With Intention

Despite the door guy ribbing me, I'd have gone to Gallery 5 even if they didn't have air-conditioning.

That they do was merely further incentive to leave my 95-degree apartment and go see a show I already wanted to see, coincidentally, one with women represented in all  three bands.

Like my history, I prefer my music with breasts.

Not so the two guys on either side of me. One had been bored so he'd randomly picked a show, apparently a habit of his. "I like to choose shows with no intention." He looked at nothing but his phone until the band moved toward the stage, always returning to it when they stopped.

Pass.

Behind Door #2 was a guy who'd been a musician on the side for years and had  come because he wanted to hear music and had liked Wildhoney's - the Baltimore headliner - sound with, according to him, direct-sounding ties to bands such as Cocteau Twins and the Sundays.

So right there, he got points. Scads more came when he admitted he doesn't watch TV.

But where he blew the lid off his score was in having been at the Malian quartet's Balliceaux show last week when I was, leading to a chat about how much the scene has changed since he arrived in 1996 from Rochester.

A kindred soul indeed, even if he does live in Forest Hill.

To him I showed off my new knowledge - in Virginia, you must have an ID if you're in any place serving alcohol - which I'd gleaned courtesy of the door guy, who'd also given me the line that if I removed my ID bracelet before the show ended, it would explode.

Please wait until you're outside, he's jokingly pleaded.

Twee trio Big Baby was up first and I immediately fell for their male and female vocals/harmonies combined with two guitars (channeling the Sundays and the Cure) and energetic drumming, although they're still working on their between-song banter, a skill set that takes time.

Announcing they were going to play "Dumb Guys," several women in the audience cheered and hooted.

"Christi is next and they're amazing," singer Ali announced, sounding for all the world like a fan girl. After a look from her band mate, she amended that. "After that is Wildhoney. They're amazing, too." It didn't resonate quite the same.

I knew she was right at least about the former because I've seen Christi's seamless pastiche of girl group sound and hardcore before watching them set up onstage tonight.

Whatever tonight's challenges were as the set progressed, vocalist/bassist/fanny pack-wearer Maggie had a philosophy:  "We're just going to do our best," whether it was skipping a song, experiencing feedback or not being able to hear themselves in the monitors.

Announcing that they were going to play a really new song, she turned to vocalist/guitarist Emily and asked, "What's it called?" Climate Change, she told her.

"Okay, we're going to do our best!" she enthused, and they did, not that I've ever seen them not impress.

Forest and I resumed our conversation during the break, with me thanking him for putting in ear plugs at the start of Christi's set. Despite always having a pair or three in my bag, I almost always forget to put them in, except when the person I'm talking to does so.

Maybe I need more good role models.

Turns out that because he's a musician, he had a special pair made that really fit his ears and don't eliminate all the high end like the cheap ones do. We discovered a mutual acknowledgement of hearing loss due to years of show-going but agreed with a handshake that we wouldn't take it back.

Such are the pleasures of meeting fellow music-lovers at shows.

After sound checking, Wildhoney's singer Lauren, wearing her hair in an Audrey Hepburn up-do, a little black dress, gold brooch and combat-like boots, peered into the lights asking the sound guy, "Are we good?''

I think we were about to find that out, weren't we?

Atmospheric female vocals, check; swirling guitars, check; dream pop songs, check. It was my very favorite kind of sound - music from a cave - full of hooks, completely dance-y and made even better by an appropriately groovy light show.

Hello, Sunday night. Yes, they are good.

The fill-in bass player - also wearing a killer LBD with a criss-cross strap feature that replaced jewelry in front - was introduced and praised for having learned all the bass parts in a short time.

Because I liked their music so much, I found the set far too short, but the brevity may also have been tied to what Lauren said toward the end. "Thanks  Big Baby, Christi and Gallery 5 and for that delicious beer that got me drunk with just one."

Some evenings are full of surprises like that. Life will teach you to make the most of what you get handed.

Do It for the Girls

Our little scene is all grown up. Anybody got a tissue?

At least that's how I felt after waiting out the hardest of the rain to walk over to Gallery 5 in flip-flops and a drip-dry dress under an umbrella accidentally "borrowed" from an Air BnB in Portland, passing a photographer friend who called out, "Enjoy the show!" as we passed in the murky wetness of Madison Street.

To my surprise, I was greeted by a clutch of people at the door and an experienced doorman carefully managing a line, allowing one in for every one who came out. There was a time when a downpour would have kept Richmond from making any effort to bother going out at all.

Not so anymore, hipsters. Tonight's First Friday gallery opening was for Jennifer Kennedy's Girls Rock! benefit show with four of the artists' favorite bands and subjects (with at least one woman in each, coincidence or no?) performing while upstairs, people leaned in for a good look at all the familiar musical faces Jennifer had captured over the past few years.

Perhaps most noticeable about the pieces was how varied the state of completion was, some partially sketched out and others fully colored in and realized. The secret is that she only draws during the band's set, so if they stop playing, she puts her pencils down.

Avers' set had just begun when I finally made it inside, but something was off. Finishing a song, Alexandra (who resembles no one so much as a millennial version of Sheryl Crow in white jeans) explained, "If you've seen us before, you know Charlie is missing. He's in North Carolina at his sister's wedding where he's probably rocking out. Because Charlie is always rocking out somewhere."

Truer words were never spoken.

As good as the band's polished music-from-a-cave sound played tonight, Charlie's energetic presence, enthusiasm for playing and those outstanding chops were missed. Not to mention that glorious mop of hair, which even fellow guitarist Adrian's shoulder-length hair flipping, intentional and as frequent as breathing or blinking, could not offset, much as he might try.

There was a lot of it when he sang lead on "Girls with Headaches," which winds down with glorious three-part harmonies to further add to Avers' charms.

Set over, I head upstairs to ogle the art, immediately sucked in by the game of trying to identify the artists depicted without resorting to the key before choosing my favorite and supporting Girls Rock! by buying myself a piece of art that completely captured the energy of my friend and favorite instrument-maker, Dave.

As I was completing the paperwork, a couple approached, eager to buy their own drawing, only to learn it had been purchased but not yet marked sold. When it appeared they were going to give up on the idea, I insisted they find a second choice. In true Murphy's Law fashion, that, too, had been sold and not marked.

I sent them out again, entreating them to support the cause and find something they wanted, my second contribution to the Girls Rock! cause this evening.

It was upstairs that I also ran into the soon-to-deliver classical musician couple, with the magnificently-maned Mr. pointing at his wife's rounded belly saying, "Look at what I did!" with obvious pride. My chat with her involved the vagaries of laying out plans (say, for a healthy pregnancy) only to have life rudely intervene.

When I heard the first notes of Christi, I headed down and stationed myself on the landing of the staircase for a fine view of the band rocking out in the best pop punk marries girl group way and even covering Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" complete with '90s guitars and two front women in jean shorts, not that the youngsters in the room recognized the song until halfway through.

From my bird's eye vantage point, I saw the sound guy dash to the bathroom  and moments later the lead singer called out, "Can we keep playing?' The crowd cheered their approval and the sound guy, presumably, sighed in relief behind a closed door, oblivious to anything other than delayed relief.

They closed with "Get You Offa My Mind," because what woman hasn't had that annoying problem? Our foremothers could have saved us a lot of trouble by throwing themselves in front of buffaloes and ending the species when they had the chance. But alas.

Then who comes down the stairs grinning happily but the art-seeking couple who had finally decided on one of the many drawings of Gull? Turns out she'd been intent on buying a piece from a show where she'd attended and seen Jen drawing.

That hadn't occurred to me as motivation in choosing, although it was a happy accident because I had been at the WRIR fundraiser at Strange Matter in March 2014 when Jennifer had sketched the piece I'd bought.

After their set, I mingled. The post-punk wife had bought her husband's image and the dulcitar player's sister had bought one of him.

The PK (preacher's kid for those of us not raised in the Bible Belt) and I enjoyed a lively discussion of why I don't and he does engage people about their religious beliefs ("I love going down that hole with so-called believers," he said) and why he's convinced that the planet's salvation involves convincing the large Christian population to embrace environmentalism.

Think about how many people that would be if he could get them on board, even just the American Christians. Only a PK would even want to try.

There were other friends - the DJ from last night's show, the subject of my new art purchase, the organizer of the event with whom I discussed feminism briefly ("I said, 'Dad, you have three daughters, you're a feminist," she tells me), the earth mother, loopy after two 8.5% beers she got for performing, which I'd missed waiting out the raining cats and dogs portion of tonight's weather.

Lady God had the closing spot on the bill and the friend who claims to be an introvert but always chats through every show informed me, "The crowd's going to like them, They're good." What's not to like about a garage rock/pop band heavy on the bass?

They kicked off their set with "Rattlesnake" before bassist Chrissie asked sweetly of the sound guy, "Can I please get a sprinkle of guitar and a half teaspoon of bass more in my monitor?" The results of the tweaks were quite tasty as the band finished out the night with as big a crowd as Lobo Marino had had three hours earlier.

It's funny, more than one person tonight mentioned how Gallery 5 had been at capacity pretty much since the doors had opened. Several others, including two performers, commented on how Jennifer's show was a perfect example of how interwoven and mutually supportive Richmond's artistic scene has become these days.

Richmond is rocking out somewhere pretty much every night of the week, have you noticed?

Look what we did.

Blow Out the Candles

The thing is, you can't not go.

How can anyone in this town justify not supporting a WRIR fundraiser? Where is there a better deal for the money than eight bands, comedy and assorted DJs for only 15 bucks? Why would I skip a party barely four blocks from home? Who doesn't love multiple kinds of birthday cake?

Walking over to WRIR's 11th annual Party for the Rest of Us, I ran into the photographer/printmaker I'd seen already twice this week. She attributed it to my presence at everything. "We need to make you a shirt that says EG - Everything Girl."

Once at the Renaissance, I was one of the early ones, meaning I could hear the DJ by the buffet and it was still full of food. As a favorite DJ put it, "I realized I'm here in time for the cheese cubes!" Her excitement was palpable.

The party's organizer walked by, enthusing, "Oh, my god, Karen, your tights!" I'd pulled out the Barcelona tights for the occasion, always an attention-getter.

Music began with Half Bascule, the quasi metal improv project of Dave and Nathaniel that always kicks ass. No surprise given Dave's massive pedal board and Nathaniel's exuberant drumming (his flannel shirt came off after the first song), but the two demonstrate remarkable compatibility considering how infrequently they play or rehearse.

From an improvised duo of two, I moved over to the ballroom for Brunswick, a 13-piece complete with jazz training, music stands and the inimitable (and noticeably slimmer) Reggie on percussion. For many, it was their first time seeing the band and they were clearly impressed, asking strangers who they were.

Lucy Dacus and her coat-clad band (sparkly t-shirts were revealed once they got hot enough to doff the coats) were next and seeing as Rolling Stone recently dubbed them a band to watch in 2016, the room filled up quickly.

I'd already run into Lucy in the loo, telling her I recall the first time I saw her play (long before the band stage) at Ghost Light Afterparty, where her acoustic cover of Prince's "I Would Die 4 U" made me weak in the knees. Now she's talking about the band soon making music full-time.

They grow up so fast, don't they?

Checking out the comedy showcase, I head a woman talking about her West Virginia/Muslim roots and somehow turning it into humor ("I moved to Richmond so now I drink craft beer and have cats tattooed on my back") before heading out for birthday cake.

With four kinds of cake, I chose chocolate chocolate, but had to cool my heels with other cake lovers until forks were brought out to eat it with. You want to eat with dignity when you're scarfing cake in front of hundreds of people.

Back in the ballroom, the all-female band Christi won my ears with a combination of girl group and punk influences, although as more than one friend pointed out, the incredibly high ceiling in that room compromised the sound quality ("They sound much better at Strange Matter," Paul told me and he would know) somewhat.

But their energy was terrific, the songs were all three minutes or less and lyrics resonated for those of us with girl parts. Besides, it's just such a treat to see an all female lineup, especially rocking that hard. You go, girls.

Night Idea played to a selection of silent movies behind them and their familiar math rock/proggy sound was well-suited to the black and white classics. "I think Richmond has more prog bands than metal bands these days," the film lover whispered to me.

I think Richmond has more independent radio fans than anything else and I can always count on seeing them at this birthday party.

From the dance party king just back from a shoot in Tidewater to the scooter queen recently back from a trip to Costa Rica to the literate guitarist with whom I discussed Elvis Costello's autobiography and Donald Fagen's charisma to the Australian I'd last met in a borrowed suit to the Gen X birthday boy whose party I have to miss Sunday to the former neighbor dapper in polka dots and boots to the various DJs I've come to know to the smiling friends I only saw in passing, it's a guaranteed get-together of just the kind of people you'd want at your own party, aka the rest of us.

You can count Everything Girl as happily part of that rest.