Something Comes from Nothing

Perhaps I should be concerned.

It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.

But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.

She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).

Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.

Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.

Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.

As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"

Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.

"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.

How did they even know?

Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.

From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).

It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.

Invite us and it's an instant party.

Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.

The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.

Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).

I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.

Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.

I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.

I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.

It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.

TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.

"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.

As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.

"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"

A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?

No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.

A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me

For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."

I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?

Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.

After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.

I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.

Now that's a professional.

Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.

Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.

And consumed in short order.

It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.

Friends, food, wine, music.

What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.

It's a straight line to the good things.

Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.

Alas for Me

We all know Richmond can be behind the curve on certain things.

But nineteen years for a film by a French directing legend to show here?

All I can say is better late than never.

Pre-movie festivities took place at Rowland where I met a devoted friend for happy hour and debriefing.

With the front door propped wide open, we got the benefit of a beautiful evening without having to inhale the exhaust of Main Street.

Inside, the music blared and we chose our poison off the happy hour five dollar menu.

She did a Cote du Rhone and told me about the recent ball she'd attended, which was apparently over-supplied with giant cupcakes.

I hear it's tough to plan how many cupcakes a formally dressed crowd will eat.

I went with white burgundy (Cuvee Hortense) while talking about talking because she wanted specifics about frequency.

Talking frequency.

How can I not love a friend who wants that kind of information?

Since it was her first time at Rowland, I insisted we get the butterbean cake, but it was by mutual agreement that we ordered the fish sticks.

Chef Virginia was doing flash-fried rockfish strips on a bed of arugula with Cesar dressing and tartar sauce on the side.

If only we could all grow up eating fish sticks like these, there'd be world peace, I feel certain.

Our bartender joined the conversation organically after eavesdropping on my friend telling me about how hard it is to get her husband to take her out to dinner.

"Bring him in and I'll lecture him about not being so tight," he advised her.

I had to ask if he'd been listening in. "Well, sure," he grinned. Translation: "Duh."

No doubt about it, barkeeps earn their money listening to the trivial bar chatter of people like us.

Sadly, our tete-a-tete had to be cut short because I had aspirations to catch the next-to-last screening of the VCU Cinematheque series at the Grace Street Theater.

My, how the school year flies when you're not paying attention.

I took my usual aisle seat only to be joined shortly by a girl I'd met years ago when we kept passing each other on our walks.

"I haven't seen you in five years," she said, sitting down. "What's new with you?"

Honey, you don't have the time to listen to the answer to that question before this movie starts.

Or enough brain space to handle that and French New Wave.

When the film, Jean-Luc Godard's "Helas Pour Moi" (or Alas for Me), was introduced, it was with the surprising fact that the film is not available with English subtitles in this country.

Luckily for the audience, one of VCU's professors had a very rare print which he was sharing with anyone brave enough to swim in Godard's drowning pool of deep and dark issues.

The story is based on the myth about a god taking over the body of a mere mortal so that he can have sex with the man's faithful wife.

We were warned that the film was not for the lazy-minded and even offered some safety lines to hang onto as we watched it, themes that could pull us back in if we got in too deep.

What is romanticism in this day and age? What does it mean to love one person? How important is fidelity?

I was more than happy to splash around in Godard's pools, expressed in so decidedly an un-American way.

Because it did get dense, with bursts of classical music, disembodied voices and words flashing on the screen even as the story loosely unfolded.

All I can say is that I hope the film students in the audience weren't sporting altered states because there's no way they could pass a quiz on this film without full attention.

As it was, most of the crowd just sat there when it ended, trying to absorb what we'd just seen.

I was hardly surprised to hear that the film couldn't find a distributor when it was released in 1994 (the VCU professor actually had a distribution company at the time that released it in this country), back in the dark ages.

So it worked out well for me that it just now got shown here since I was free and looking for a little mental stimulation tonight.

I don't want to take a quiz on it, but I'm willing to fire up a few synapses on such weighty topics as romanticism, love and fidelity as conceived of by the French.

Make no mistake, though, I followed up the mental heavy lifting with a glass of Paarl Heights Pinotage at Bistro 27 afterwards.

Maybe it was the short night Monday, maybe it was the drive to and from the Northern Neck today or maybe it was the hour and a half swimming in Godard's bottomless pool of soul-searching, but I couldn't finish my wine.

Pouring it out, the bartender shook his head, saying, "The Pinotage gods aren't smiling right now."

I'll just have to live with that.

As long as they don't want to take over my merely mortal body.