Take Door #2, Son

Sometimes you just need to take a break and catch up with friends.

That meant brunch at Helen's with the girlfriend I'd run into at several shows in the past two weeks, but hadn't sat down to dish with in eons. We'd both had too much life going on of late not to make time to debrief the other.

We timed it just right, sliding into one of the two window tables just as the early crowd was paying their checks. I'd forgotten about the charming flowered oil cloths that lend such kistch charm to the tables at the classic Richmond spot.

Because it had been far too long, we took turns eating and talking, so I got to hear about her life while diving into a well-constructed BLT with avocado on crusty sourdough toast while she listened intently to me while inhaling huevos rancheros.

In that typical Richmond-is-so-small way, when she began telling me about a guy who'd caught her eye but is looking at moving to the Big Easy, I knew who she was talking about before she even mentioned his name. When I shared details about my recent second trip to the beach, she already knew about the group house I'd gone to and with whom.

Small world.

We have no true secrets in Richmond, just the most delicate tendrils connecting us all whether we know it or not.

When we parted ways after giving each other love life advice, it was to do weekend girly-type things: go shopping for bras and flowerpots.

My evening's plans had been decided a few days ago when FotoBoy reached out to me.

I'm dateless Saturday I just found out and am wondering if you wanna do something with me?

Coincidentally, I was also dateless tonight, so I immediately suggested sharing some laughs at the Comedy Coalition, which got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from him. My idea was to meet here and walk the 6 blocks there even if it was still 97 degrees outside and he knew me well enough to agree.

En route, we passed a dozen or so people milling about and taking photos at the Maggie Walker statue and he marveled at the sheer amount of merchandise on the sidewalk in front of Circle Thrift. How do they get away with that?

Although we were greeted by a major blast of cold air inside the comedy theater, the air soon rose to a comfortable but not especially cold level once humans started filing in and soon we were joined by a third, a buddy of his, also dateless and looking for some Saturday night fun.

Turns out he'd found out 2 hours too late about "Stop Making Sense" playing the Byrd the other night and was mildly envious I'd been there, at least until he heard about the interview with Jonathan Demme and David Byrne that proceeded it and then he was hugely jealous.

I, in turn, was mildly envious he'd seen the film originally at the Biograph in 1984 when he was in 10th grade. I only became hugely jealous when he shared that he'd seen Demme and Werner Herzog interviewed in NYC and actually spoke to Herzog on the street before the event.

We put our petty jealousies aside when the show began.

Host Ryan reminded the crowd that what we were about to see would never be repeated and exhorted us to, "Breathe it in! Live in the moment!" before our evening of long-form improv began.

Ambassadors were up first and their verbal starting point was "old pants." That somehow took us to a closed Old Navy store ("I thought I had some idea of what capitalism would be like when it collapsed, but no!"), remorse about Circuit City closing and memories about the highs and lows of Orange Julius (there's a throwback).

The team was fairly young, so their comedy included references to pretentious young people, technology ("I'm swiping left and he\s still here!" about an intruder) and fluids.

Their climax involved kicking down a door, cocking a shotgun and yelling, "Biscuit!" but you had to be there to see how they got there.

Second team Da Vinci got started with a cue of "bike tires" and a couple of witches wanting to switch from brooms to bikes to save their magic.

Naturally, the witches weren't very nice. "Do you burn children?" they were asked. No, why, they wanted to know? "I have a nephew I don't like."

They made us laugh with comedy that referenced "Game of Thrones," accusations of infidelity, "Survivor" and boob sweat. There was also a cigarette-smoking bad father who needed to learn to hate less.

Big Bosses, the final team, was made up of the long-standing coalition members, the people who've been doing this since before they had a brick and mortar place to do it and were nomads.

These are the people who make it look so easy.

Their cue came from a guy in the front row after they asked the audience what our favorite soundtrack album was and the guy shouted out "Titanic." He was then mercilessly razzed about whether he knew anything else on the soundtrack besides "My Heart Will Go On" and he didn't seem to.

Naturally, their improv began on the bow of the Titanic, with passengers explaining how they got their tickets (murder, theft, death) and how they planned to find the American dream and segued into a bit about a Russian and American sub in the Arctic Ocean, each being manned by a guy who'd eaten too much chocolate and needed to poop.

One of the funniest bits concerned two passengers on a first date, one who was obsessed with his dead grandparents to the point of taking her to the cemetery to talk to the man who'd buried them.

After amusing herself playing Candy Crush while he chats up the gravedigger, she gets tired of waiting for him to finish questioning the man about them.

"Hey!  You can live in the past or come with me and at least get a hand job!" she calls out, bored and impatient.

I thought I had some idea how my Saturday night would end, but no. Hand jobs aside, I think we can all agree there's no point in living in the past.

And biscuits? Well, they'are always a good idea.

Something That You'll Never Comprehend

For a change, I really earned my night out.

The day began by seeing the VistaVision classic,"White Christmas," at Movieland with a favorite couple, one of whom was seeing it for the first time.

I don't even know how it's possible that anyone hasn't seen this holiday chestnut, but it was a distinct pleasure to listen as he cracked up to Danny Kaye's antics and Bing's corny humor.

Fittingly, that was followed by procurement of the Christmas tree, especially novel this year because it was actually snowing for the brief time it took to choose the tree.

So very Charlie Brown Christmas-like.

Once the tree was decorated, I had writing to finish to make deadline before I could even think about heading out.

By the time my day was behind me, it was 8:30 and I couldn't get going fast enough to Helen's for a show.

I'd half expected a small crowd because of the weather and instead found the place mobbed.

Luckily, a table near the end of the bar was free and I sat down next to a couple who warned me to leave my coat on because we were so near the door which kept opening for new arrivals.

I was luckier than they were because there was a large radiator behind my back, a boon for a cold-blooded type like me.

A musician friend spotted me and came over to sit down and catch up since he was just back from a month in India and we hadn't seen each other for ages before that.

Buster Keaton, blah, blah, love life update, blah, blah, travel plans.

We took a few minutes to admire the magnificence that is Helen's Christmas decorations, from the lit-up plastic nativity scene to the small, silver pom-pom Christmas trees to the reindeer in assorted positions.

The evening's entertainment began with Haints in the Holler, a bluegrass quartet who began by wishing us happy holidays, merry Christmas and feliz navidad.

"I feel that's offensive" a smart-assed guy called out from the bar.

"We aim to offend," the drummer cleverly retorted.

With fiddle, guitar, drums, bass and sometimes banjo, mandolin and washboard, they took us on a bluegrass odyssey, admitting that they weren't "super-good" at between-song chatter.

The highlight was a song called "Dead in Kentucky" about the singer's wish to be returned to Virginia if found dead anywhere else.

Best line was, "Nothing beats drinking in Richmond" and it got a lot of cheers when they sang it.

Following them was a band that many in the crowd had come to see, Dear Ghosts.

I hadn't heard the name, but I had seen half of the band, Lucy Dacus, perform at a Ghost Light afterparty a while back and remembered her stellar voice.

With her in this band was Adam Watkins and while it took a few minutes to get into their sound, I soon found myself terribly impressed with their sad songs.

Both had beautiful voices that blended together to tug at your heartstrings, sort of a lo-fi She and Him minus the chirpy side of that sound.

Adam sang, played guitar and occasional drum while Lucy sang and played some ukulele.

From the first few notes of "I Would Die For You," I knew we were in for a treat because it was one of the songs I'd heard Lucy do and knew how impressively she'd owned it.

It was even more impressive with Adam, slowed down to a languorous pace and truly the essence of a great cover as they made it wholly their own.

Afterwards, Lucy announced, "That wasn't our song, that was Prince," and I turned to my friend and asked if it was really possible that anyone in the room hadn't known that.

"Maybe," he said reluctantly. That's just tragic.

When they ended their set, the DJ across the table from me said that he, too, had taken a moment to figure them out and then really liked their sound.

All I can say is I can't wait to hear more of them soon.

During the set-up for the traveling band, another musician friend came by and we got into a discussion of the history of psychedelic music and mind-expanding psychedelia practices in general.

Recommending a documentary and a book, the man clearly knew his psychedelia.

The reason for tonight's show was Florida band Teach Me Equals, a duo with enormous dramatic stage presence who were sonically compelling and went on to play their new record for us.

He played cello like a madman, all but destroying his first bow in five songs by shredding, when he wasn't playing it like a guitar, beating on it or blowing into the hollow.

She was appealingly fast on guitar when she wasn't tearing it up on violin, playing it like a ukulele, drumming on it or singing/blowing into it.

I'd seen Dave Watkins do all those things to his dulcitar, but never seen them done to a violin or cello.

My friend and I were constantly craning our heads to see how they were making their sounds.

Songs, not so much, but edgy, experimental soundscapes, absolutely.

I gladly threw money into the donation jar to help keep these guys in gas money while on this tour.

The show finished up with Lobo Marino, just back from a month in India, and off to who knows where next month.

It's always a pleasure to hear what new influences they've picked up on their travels, which occupy what seems to be 90% of their time.

Since they didn't go on until 11:30, Laney began by making a toast to all the people who had to get up early and got to work tomorrow.

Fortunately, I'm not one of them.

Their set began with Laney walking through the restaurant playing her song flute and carrying burning incense while Jameson beat on his drum.

They truly are RVA's own world music duo.

Laney explained that her harmonium was new, having been acquired during their month in India, "So me and the harmonium are still getting to know each other."

Promising several spiritual songs, the did an intense version of "O Come, All Ye faithful" which morphed seamlessly into an Indian chant.

After their classic crowd-pleaser, "Celebrate" they did another mash-up, this one beginning with a dirge-like "O Holy Night."

Next to Jameson, one of the plastic wise men flickered on and off throughout as if in time or perhaps as a commentary on their unconventional arrangements.

The musician next to me turned and commented on how their sincerity was as much a part of their performance as their musicianship.

"This is such a genuine experience," he said. "It almost gives me the vapors."

Quick, the smelling salts. You don't want to miss even a moment of a musical evening like this.

I'm into Something Good

It's not every Sunday night you get a living, breathing satellite of love.

Or a harp. Or vibes. Or a hot toddy-drinking chanteuse.

Tonight's show at Helen's followed a very late last night, outdoor brunch with an unlikely quintet and no chance to catch up on sleep before going out again.

You'd have thought the extra hour would have helped but it only gave me more time to be busy.

Things were just getting set up when I arrived to find a friend in his Halloween costume which included a gold sequined top and satellite panels for his arms.

I found it funny that he'd gone into Forever 21 looking for a shiny shirt and when they had none, a salesgirl had offered him one of her own if he'd come to her car to get it.

In a timely effort to memorialize Lou Reed, completing his Halloween costume was important enough to him to take clothing from a stranger.

Hence the satellite of love who greeted me.

First up was Fredericksburg's Nature Boy Explorer, a trio of guitar player, harpist and an accordion player in shorts despite the weather, all of whom sang.

Their songs covered quite the range - having a baby ("I didn't actually have a baby, but I helped make one"), formaldehyde and the Buena Vista concrete jesuses (jesi?) which can be seen, we were told, on Route 29 south

Favorite lyric: I just wanna say you have totally opened up my eyes.

During the interminable break while Philly's School Dance set up, a friend and I discussed the need for roving nacho servers once it get toward midnight (which felt like 1 a.m. tonight) and with another about going to other countries to dance with foreign men to assuage heartbreak.

School Dance was a duo; he played modified vibes (practically a xylophone, I was told) and drums while she played flower-bedecked keyboards and wore a crown of flowers.

As if that wasn't groovy enough, she began by telling us we needed to do the hand symbols along with the first song she was singing.

Immediately, a friend at the table announced, "I'm not doing those gestures," but she looked right at our table, so we were soon making hearts with our hand and sunshine gestures with our fingers.

After explaining that they had a sponsor and were required to sing that little ditty, they moved on to some electronic dream pop, heavy on interesting percussion.

I know I was moving in my seat and before long a couple got up from the bar and began dancing in the aisles. Another guy danced outside on the sidewalk while looking in through the window as the band played. It was hypnotically rhythmic.

When they finished, she thanked us because it was the first night of a very long tour and we'd been an attentive audience.

Hey, if you're lucky enough to have bands come through on a Sunday night, why would you not want to give them a listen?

That's a rhetorical question directed at the guys who kept chatting while they played.

During the break, I chatted with the father of a friend/half of the next duo, Transitones.

He was handsome (a friend said he looked like a classic Irishman with thick white hair and intent eyes) and chatty, so I used possibly my only chance to get some childhood dirt on my friend.

Dad was only too happy to share that, despite two other children, it wasn't until my friend started school that he got to know the school principal.

No surprise there. I'd have guessed he'd been defying authority since he was old enough to try.

Tonight he was on his best behavior, all dressed up in a shirt, tie and slacks, notable because in the four plus years I've known him, I've yet to see him in anything but jeans.

The Transitones took the candlelit stage with Christina from the Low Branches on vocals and Paul from countless bands on guitar to play a well-selected choice of covers from the past 70 years or so.

Given Christina's usual hushed vocals with the Low Branches, it was a pleasure to hear her coming on strong with songs like "I'm into Something Good," "Spanish Harlem" and "Stand By Me."

"We started this duo back in August," Christina explained in between songs, "to get in touch with better days past."

"And better days future," her bandmate piped up appropriately.

Paul had chosen some interesting people to cover - Roxy Music, Dusty Springfield- and his guitar playing was a worthy adversary for Christina's husky lyrics ("I won't let this cold get the best of me," she promised).

Dusty's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" segued beautifully into "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay," with some wisecracking during the whistling solo ("Help us out").

With the orange neon Helen's sign glowing in the background, they finished out their too-brief set with Ray Charles' "You Don't Know Me," sung so emotionally that Christina may as well have been pouring out her personal loneliness and heartbreak to the room.

For I never knew the art of making love
Though my heart aches with love for you
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by
A chance that you might love me, too

The shiny satellite of love told me it was one of his top five songs.

I'd call that better days present, right here tonight, my friend. Only thing that could have made it better was roving nachos.

Drink, Puke, Die

It was the best kind of St. Patrick's Day party at Helen's.

First, the holiday food specials: Guinness beef stew, shepherd's pie and reubens.

When I got there, I found two musician friends slated to perform already at the bar eating.

But being vegetarians, they weren't going to be much help in choosing which meaty special to have.

What they were was nice enough to join me at a table where I decided on beef stew.

The bowl of stellar stew had nice, big chunks of meat, plenty of carrots and potatoes and a hearty gravy full of pepper.

It should have been enough but I followed that with a reuben if only because I was told the corned beef was house-cured.

I don't know if the kitchen staff had any Irish in them, but this was some beautiful corned beef, sauerkraut and Swiss on perfectly grilled rye.

About the time I finished the first half of it, another musician friend came in and I invited him to join us.

I made the introductions and he complimented my sandwich.

Feeling generous full, I offered him a bite.

He reminded me that he's become pretty much a vegetarian...at least until this afternoon.

Seems he'd stopped by a friend's house and had ended up eating pig.

And a lot of it.

As if that wasn't surprising enough, he was eager to eat my beef, too, so I cut him a piece of the sandwich. And another.

I felt like I was contributing to the delinquency of a vegetarian.

Saying he once considered himself a connoisseur of reubens, he proclaimed mine possibly the best he'd ever had.

Aren't you glad you came now, I asked.

"Well, I thought the music would be good," he countered.

And it was.

Leading the charge were my friends, Lobo Marino, who began by addressing me, with Jameson saying, "We're not playing anything you haven't heard, Karen. Nothing new."

I didn't mind.

I'm a big fan of their tribal folk with harmonium and it wasn't long before a guy at the bar was so taken with Laney's harmonium playing that he moved closer to try to figure out the instrument.

Admitting that they hadn't had time to learn any U2 or Cranberries, they launched into their set.

Laney had told me earlier that she'd tried to learn one Irish song that had a lyric about drink, puke, die, but they didn't play that one, either.

And I feel safe in saying that Lobo Marino is the only local band who could have pulled out a papal gem for the occasion.

"This is dedicated to Francis Francis," they said before playing "Pope's Nose," an older song of theirs with great imagery ("Do you know the Pope? He picks at his nose") that I hadn't heard in a while.

They tried to go even older and play "Animal Hands" but for some reason Jameson had lost his voice, so that song wasn't happening.

The improvised a song instead and then ceded the floor to Williamsburg's Poisoned Dwarf (just as an influx of people came in the door), who'd been billed as a five-piece but were clearly six.

The most amazing part was how they managed to fit six guys and at least nine instruments (unique things like Scottish small pipes, a mini-bagpipe, and Irish flute) in an alcove that usually holds a two-top.

At one point, I feel sure I saw the fiddle player's elbow bonk the drummer's head.

They played Celtic music that had people clapping and toe-tapping by the second driving song.

A guy near me started dancing in his chair and then moving his arms in time until I reminded him that no arm motion is allowed in Irish dancing.

Besides the appealing variety of instruments the band played, they also traded them off to each other, so you never knew who'd be playing what.

At one point, a girl grinned and said to no one in particular, "I love Irish music!" to which her boyfriend responded, "That's because you're drunk."

It was funny, but the truth is when you have a bunch of musicians playing traditional Irish music with as much skilled musicianship as we were hearing, anybody's going to like Irish music.

Especially at a St. Patrick's Day party where no one pukes or dies.

Bowing to the Sunday Monkey God

And Sunday nights just got better.

Dinner had to be quick because the new music series at Helen's was supposed to begin around seven-ish.

That turned out to be an optimistic estimate, but you have to plan for the earliest.

Don't Look Back won by default, despite knowing that the multiple screens would be tuned to the big game, about which I cared not a whit.

And while I'm fond of their nachos, I'd like to respectfully suggest to the kitchen staff that drowning the plate in salsa inevitably leads to seriously soggy, might I even say drowned, chips by the time you're halfway through.

Fortunately, our sweet server noticed the dilemma, offering to bring additional chips with which to capture the beans, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes remaining on waterlogged chips.

The situation was salvaged.

From there, it was on to Helen's for their relatively new Sunday night music series.

The place was still decorated in full-on holiday mode, right down to the plastic light-up wise men and sheep looking down over the open kitchen.

Waiting for the bands to set up, I indulged in mocha mousse with frozen hazelnut custard and hazelnut crumbles.

Mousse, sure, we've all had that, but the frozen hazelnut custard was out of this world, more substantial than whipped cream and not so common as gelato.

It was an unexpected dessert score.

First up was Adam Weatherford, a singer/songwriter who'd been billed as having an "Oh-so beautiful drifting voice and sound that takes you through the forest to the sea."

Hyperbolic as it sounds, it wasn't far off.

In addition to his own beautiful songs, many of which were written in 2007 in Central America, he did some superb covers.

He did one by Virginia native Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, "a cover by my man, Beck," and Gram Parsons' "Return of the Grievous Angel."

Oh, and I remember something you once told me
And I'll be damned if it did not come true
20,000 roads I went down, down, down
And they all led me straight home to you

He also did a song he'd written yesterday, saying, "I'm going to play a new one I never played before. You guys are my crash test dummies."

So new it necessitated him clipping the words to the mic.

After his set, he admitted to messing up a couple lines, but from where I sat, it sounded beautiful.

Burlington, Vermont's Hello Shark, a quartet, played next, taking up all the room in the front alcove and using a vintage amp that fascinated the music geeks in the room.

They'd been billed as, "dreamy indie with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat" and delivered on all that, plus poetic lyrics about things like fireflies, backpacks and Hamlet.

Sample lyric: The sky was a tie dye t-shirt today.

Midway through their set a group of drunk-looking football fans arrived wearing Patriots jerseys and the Vermonters took notice.

"I didn't think there were any pro football fans in the south," the lead singer said. "We're New England fans."

You'd think fans who got that kind of a welcome could have shut up for the band, but they didn't.

Their last song, "The Rolling Stones," was definitely not about how much they liked the aging rockers, but showed a sense of humor.

Globehoppers Lobo Marino finished up the show with their tribal drumming, chanting and room-filling songs.

It was interesting watching the guys in Hello Shark stop in their tracks and focus on the sounds Lobo Marino was making.

Or maybe they just don't get to hear a harmonium or see someone drumming on a vase all that often.

"Celebrate" got not only the touring band's attention, but that of the whole room who finally mostly quieted down to listen.

As many times as I've heard them, tonight was the first time I heard their Hindu chant, which Laney introduced by saying, "We're gonna vibe on it" before singing a tribute to the monkey god.

You could practically smell the incense burning.

But then, it always gets groovy when Lobo Marino plays.

By the time they finished, I was reminded how lucky we are that while they're gone a lot, they always come back to share with their friends and fans.

So we'd been through the forest to the sea with lulling vocals and a killer backbeat leading to Laney and Jameson screaming themselves to enlightenment.

You know, just another Sunday night music series in Richmond.

Luckily it didn't take me going down, down, down 20,000 roads to get there.

Avalon Advice

Nothing says happy hour quite like death (you can quote me on that). At least that must have been what the Gallery 5 folks were thinking when they planned tonight's Gallery 5 After 5 event, "Viva La Muerte."

My favorite local flamenco guitarist Frankzig was the musical entertainment (even greeting me at the door, but then I'm a longtime fan), VCU's Andrew Chestnut was speaking on "The Cult of Saint Death," and as a bonus, they were showing a short film, "Death."

Throw in free hors d'oeuvres and who could resist such a deadly start to their Wednesday evening? Tonight's crowd was even bigger than the last two months, so word must be getting around about the lure of drink specials and short, compelling lectures.

More than a few people took the time to check out the mixed-media exhibition upstairs as well as the altar downstairs, which was covered in offerings. Some of us just mingled, made new friends and watched Frankzig's flying fingers.

After Chestnut told us about Latin America's most popular folk saint and the way Catholicism and death worshiping are peacefully co-existing, I had to leave to meet a friend for dinner. I didn't want to miss the film screening, but had no choice but to honor my social obligation.

Naturally I came home to a message from a friend saying, "The movie was great!" He was the same one who gave me a hard time when I said I had to go, saying, "Well you could just call your friend and tell him you're going to be late...oh, wait, you don't have a cell phone." He's so funny.

My dinner partner was the borrowed husband I raved about here, and he was already (and given my tardiness, thankfully) into his heavily bruised martini when I arrived.

He too teased me about my inability to let him know I was running late (clearly I choose my friends for the hard time they give me) and we settled in to catch up for the first time since Labor Day.

Silly us, we thought we could chat over drinks for an hour before ordering. Wrong. When we asked for menus at 8:10, we were told the kitchen had just closed. At 8:10? Seriously?

Never ones to be discouraged, we just walked up to the next block and took stools at Avalon. Jason was more than happy to be of service and you know with Avalon that they're in it for the long haul.

We began with the butter-poached salmon and Gruyere pate with parsnip flatbread. It was a good-sized serving, rich from both the butter and the cheese, and contrasted well with the crisp and flavorful flatbread.

Try as we might, we couldn't make the two come out evenly, so Jason slipped us some extra flatbread so we could finish it down to the last creamy bite. We were getting surprisingly full off of this course (and that excellent crusty focaccia with the mystery spices) so we jumped right into the next one before we could change our minds.

Sweet potato and butternut squash gnocchi with cinnamon sage cream sauce was listed under the vegetable portion of the tapas menu, but let's be honest, this was a plate of dessert.

Between the natural sweetness of the potatoes, the spicy cinnamon and all that cream enveloping everything, what it boiled down to was a whole lot of sweet tooth satisfaction, not that we were complaining.

The gnocchi was light as a feather; it was all that cream that made it so decadent, but we soldiered on because we're troopers about stuff like that. You know, eating.

My friend told me that he no longer has to check in with his wife while we're out because I have been deemed a nice person (read: safe). I told him I'd decided to get over the hump that has been my personal life.

"Thank god!" he said with no sarcasm. "It was getting old." Just like me, apparently. "You're not going to have all these choices forever," he warned ominously.

Clearly I pick my friends to give me a hard time and to be blunt. They're smiling hugely when they say this stuff, but I know they mean every word.

I hear you, guys. I don't know how you've held your tongues for this long.