Life on a Chain

With a nod to Pete Yorn, I give you my Sunday.

First it was laughter for the morning after.

M*A*S*H* was playing at Movieland and I'd been looking forward to seeing it all week. Apparently I was in the minority (so what else is new?), though, because there were only five other people there.

I don't get it. A screenplay by Ring Lardner, Jr., the low-key, smart humor delivery of Donald Sutherland and the over-the-top hilarity of mustachioed Elliott Gould in a film about trying to maintain the American way of life in Korea three miles from the front? And all filtered through the prism of 1970?

What's not to love?

I walked to and from the theater, taking in all the tents being readied for the hoopla at Redskins Park along the way and passing my Newtowne guys selling steamed crabs on the sidewalk.

Not today, gentleman, I've got plans.

Next up was day I (almost) forgot at Steady Sounds. Napping may have been involved.

A big crowd was gathering for the afternoon of DJs, music, book readings and everything but the kitchen sink, probably.

I found a few friends - the cute couple, the DJ, the state worker - but as one of them noted, "This looks like an older crowd." I assumed he meant people like me but he denied it.

Reading first was author Amanda Petrusich (who looked eerily like Laura Dern) reading from her just-released book, "Do Not Sell at Any Price" about the cult of old record buyers and sellers and the amazingness of Hillsborough Flea market in N.C., where my friend had already thrifted.

Then Chris King played old 78 records from 1926-28, part of his world-renowned collection and recent compilation, but scratchy enough to make my cute friend cringe and a musician friend reach for earplugs for her tinnitus.

Still, these are not records you will hear just anywhere and I admit I appreciate that.

I'd have stayed longer, but I needed a shower.

Nightcrawling

There was a Wildaire Cellars wine dinner at Camden's, so I was in Manchester by 6:30, ready to meet the winemaker, Matthew Driscoll, and see how the pairings held up.

Verdict: Wildaire Viognier with local corn chowder topped with lump crab meat kicked butt and took names.

But, hey, we're talking about Willamette Valley, so props also go to Wildaire Pinot Noir Reserve, paired with house hickory smoked chicken and shitake fricassee and deservedly eliciting oohs and ahs, both for aroma and taste.

And is there ever a time that local mixed melons with fried capers, Portuguese olive oil and micro-basil isn't sensational with Trevari Blanc de Blanc? Not likely.

I had a group of four at the bar with whom to discuss eye surgery, multiple marriages and art postcards sent to my house, so I was not lacking for company.

My recent thrift store purchase dress garnered me a comment because a friend had mistaken the trim on it for a new tattoo, something that seemed highly unlikely for me.

I was seated next to a woman who shared that she'd read all three volumes of "Shades of Gray" and that the story of the characters far exceeded the sex talk. Sorry, don't believe that.

Stronger women than me succumbed to chocolate pate, but I held fast, knowing I had one last place to crawl before it was over.

At Steady Sounds earlier, a friend had asked if I was coming to Live at Ipanema tonight.

As one of the the organizers, he'd been concerned that I hadn't been to the last two (I'd been out of town). "No, I'm serious," he said, "Allen and I discussed that if we couldn't get you to come out for it, maybe we should stop doing it." Oh, the pressure!

That said, My Sister, My Daughter was already playing when I arrived and slid into the stool my cute friend had saved for me.

I am devoted to Nelly Kate, the singer/songwriter who is half of the band with Brent Delventhal from Warren Hixson and after so long with Nelly absent from the scene, reveled in hearing her play and sing with Brent.

It was a full house for Live at Ips tonight so my presence was hardly necessary, but there were many talkers, many people who paid more attention to their friends than the music, always a shame, in my opinion.

When Hypercolor finally got started after a protracted set-up period, we were rewarded with the dulcet tones of the female lead singer playing guitar (and not your typical lead since she was even doing some finger-picking), plus lush-sounding guitars (including 12-string and one of the guys from Avers) and Chrissie, the bassist (and flautist) from Fear of Music, who together with the drummer kept everyone from wandering off into psychedelic, reverb wonderland.

They were fabulous and while it was hot as a July night, one of the most enjoyable Live at Ipanemas I've been to in a while.

Given all the unfamiliar faces, it was a bit of a strange condition, but also an ideal way to wind down my life on a chain.

Another fine day, another Sunday. There's a reference no one will remember.

Cuttin' a Loop

When the weather gods are forecasting another round of city-stopping snow, you hit the road.

And when you're fortunate enough to have a 75 degree day, you spend as much of it outside as possible.

The drive was like we were going to the Outer Banks, meaning 460, a route that all but requires a stop at Adams Country store.

A bucket of salted fish still in water sat in front of a palette of country hams. Over in the case were dandoodles, the small cloth bags of mixed pig parts for seasoning greens and soup.

But when you're out cruising on a warm day, you don't need pig parts festering in the warmth of the car.

So we picked up a bag of Adams peanuts, a couple of glass bottles of RC Cola and took them to the counter, chatting with the owner about the bodacious weather.

"You folks just cuttin' a loop today?" Mr. Adams inquired. He'd have been doing the same if not stuck behind the counter, I just know it.

Further down 460, we stopped in Ivor for a stroll on the other side of the railroad tracks. I looked past the "Keep your eyes on Jesus" sign on the door into Mabel's Hair Palace, painted Pepto Bismol pink and looking like time had stopped in 1955.

Passing the Masonic Lodge, my eye was caught not by Jesus, but by the sign touting, "Annual sausage sale coming soon." If it's a good area for pig, it ought to be a good one for sausage.

Sitting in a dirt driveway, a truck's license plate proclaimed "HTC RDNK." And damn proud of it.

Then it was on to true pig town, Smithfield, for lunch. After touring around streets lined with enormous and quaint gingerbread-trimmed Victorian houses, we made our way to Smithfield Station for lunch on the deck overlooking the marina and marshes.

Boats bobbed in the water, most of them labeled by owners from Smithfield or nearby Rescue.

Once our puppy-like server Dante managed to open the bottle of Honig Sauvignon Blanc, we enjoyed it with crab soup and seafood salads to the sound of boat masts clanging together with the sun on our backs.

With a few hours of daylight remaining, we drove on to Newport News' Huntington Park to join others who couldn't resist spending an unexpectedly warm day by the water.

We strolled the park's little beach by the pier and bridge, watching as the fair weather clouds began to give way to the clouds of doom that will bring snow tomorrow.

Buzz kill.

By the time we got back to Richmond, the sun was long gone and it was time to eat again, so we set our sights on Belmont Food Shop, which we found mostly full, not surprising given the tiny space and the fact that so few restaurants are open on Sunday.

With '20s and '30s music playing too softly, we began with a substitute Rose (the one on the list having sold out) and a trio of amuse bouches: a gougeres, one perfect bite of smoked blue fish dip and a thimble-sized ramekin of celery root soup.

Next came braised rabbit with gnocchi and truffle, setting the tone for a meal of obscene richness. Although technically a salad, my duck confit over frisse with leeks was more about the fatty duck than the greens beneath.

That is not a complaint.

The decadence of my oxtail with spaetzle and carrots was matched only by my companion's melt-in-your-mouth lamb two ways. Our server had told us that Chef Mike had just broken down the lamb the day before.

Now we were in a food coma, but determined to hang on so we could go hear live music later. So we sat there sipping wine until I mustered the wherewithal to order dessert.

Cause nothing helps settle a full stomach like more food.

My first choice was butterscotch custard - a throwback to childhood and, besides, you never see it on dessert menus - but it had been 86'd moments before.

Our server was certain I'd had the silk pie many times, but I hadn't, so I went with the round of dark chocolate pate over caramel in a chocolate cookie crumb crust.

Call me a chocolate purist, but the caramel made it just a tad too sweet for me, not that I didn't manage to finish 80% of it with a glass of Lambrusco Rose.

The things I do for chocolate.

Dragging our stuffed selves to Ipanema to see the Dimmer Twins as part of Live at Ipanema, we got the last two bar stools and ordered Fenuaghty Vineyard Edmunds St. John Syrah.

Tonight's crowd was small, maybe due to the Oscars, but I was still greeted by the poetry-lover, the shoegazer and the band photographer, even if his cute wife was home live blogging.

Playing tonight were the Dimmer Twins, two members of the band Horsehead ("the pretty ones," they've been known to call themselves), and these guys are pros, setting up and starting on time, a rarity for Live at Ipanema.

It had been a couple of years since I'd heard them play, but I immediately recognized "Hard Hand to Hold" with its metaphors about the challenges of a relationship.

Simply put, it's American rock and roll, the lyrics straight forward and plain spoken, like in "It's a Whiskey Night."

There's no place I'd rather stumble home to
Than a bed that's made for me and you

When they asked if there were any requests, wisecracking audience members shouted out suggestions of "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Afternoon Delight."

They played neither, lead singer John saying, "Sometimes you don't know how much a song sounds like someone else's until you record it."

Closing with a song on which John played an electric mandolin with four strings (don't ask me, I had it explained to me twice and I still don't get it), he warned us that they hadn't played it out and they might mess it up.

If they did, I couldn't tell and if I had noticed, it wouldn't have mattered.

After a sunny road trip and a day spent outside, a fabulous meal and lots of good conversation, I was thrilled to be able to wrap up my day with some live music instead of in front of a TV.

There's no place better to stumble back to 
Than a basement with men singing to you

If that makes me Oscar the Grouch, so be it. Personally, I think it just makes for a mighty fine loop.

Gypsies, Tramps and Cheese

Ipanema said it first. "You know what this Superbowl needs? More tambourine."

As luck would have it, the Richmanian Ramblers were playing there tonight, thus giving some of us somewhere to go that didn't involve a screen but promised a tambourine.

The band had doubled in size since I'd first seen them, now up to eight musicians, with singer Antonia looking devastatingly beautiful in a black dress with red belt, red earrings and red scarf on her head.

The miracle of it was that all eight of them were somehow able to fit in that tiny front space to which bands are relegated for the monthly Live at Ipanema show.

Perhaps it was the absence of amps.

And while I have seen the Ramblers many times, I've also discovered some really interesting bands for the first time through this stellar series.

It was a small but mighty crowd (with a few jerseys worn) who came out for Romanian folk music set to multiple accordions, upright bass, clarinet, drum/tambourine, guitar and two violins.

Frankly, after a weekend spent in my own company, I'd come not just for the music but for some conversation with whomever I found.

I empathized with the sax player whose car had been towed last night not long after I saw him driving down Broad Street at 12:30 a.m. and chatted with the musical couple who'd just come from performing at a folk mass to a small, Superbowl-ravaged congregation.

It was while I was eating a slice of red velvet cake, or at least all the parts directly attached to the icing, that the band decided to introduce themselves, noting that they'd chosen "ramblers" as part of their name because, according to bassist Nate, "It was the cheesiest name we could have picked.'

Beginning with a wedding song, they moved on to a Croatian song about having dinner with your sweetheart, although not a particularly fancy one given the meal: potatoes, brown bread and scallion.

Nate said that they'd added Croatian and Serbian songs to their repertoire to make things harder on himself and Antonia when they sang.

Well done, sir. 'Cause singing Romanian wasn't hard enough.

We heard a song about how wine tastes better when you drink with attractive people and bad when drinking with ugly ones, necessitating Antonia saying, "My wine tastes good!"

Drinking must be a common theme in eastern Europe, because we then heard, "Little Bottle" with Nate shouting "ha ha!" periodically and a Serbian dancing song where the singer's partners have a different name with every verse.

"I wouldn't be cool with that," Antonia stated for the record.

There was a song about crossing the river, not on the ferry, but on your girlfriend's back ("Which is kind of awesome," she enthused) and one she described as kind of like that song, "I'd Do Anything for Love But I Won't Do That," except in Romanian.

The beauty of the additional musicians was a much fuller sound and more voices for the choruses and inevitable sha-shas and ha-has that seem to run through gypsy music, no matter what the language.

I'd have to say my favorite element was the clarinet, a slithering, sinuous woodwind that wound its way through the other instruments to give the songs a distinctive gypsy sound.

And don't even get me started on the tambourine, the saving grace on Superbowl Sunday.

With only five songs left, Nate explained, "All of these songs have been danced to at some point in the song's history, so you might as well get started on that now."

Sad to say, no dancing commenced.

A song about a young and old man arguing that death was the only cure for life was enlivened by the discovery that the cure for life comes in a bottle. "Let's drink to that!" Nate said and glasses were raised throughout the bar.

After a dirty counting song and the title song of their album, "World, Sister, World" about the cruelness of the world ("Not coolness," Antonia clarified) they ended with a dancing song that still failed to get the crowd dancing.

But it did get them hollering for one more song and the Richmanian Ramblers obliged with a song about a dowry, which may be a romantic topic in Romania because the guy near me put his arm around his girlfriend and cooed, "What about our dowry?"

A smart man would have had her up and dancing five songs ago. Or perhaps that's what they were going to do when they left.

The rest of us happily made do with tambourine instead of pigskin.

Not only was I cool with that, I say let's drink to that. Spoken like a true gypsy.

What More Can I Do?

My evening took flight unexpectedly when the phone rang.

It was a dear friend who'd just moved back to Richmond yesterday from halfway across the country.

About to head to Saison, he'd called because I live so close and he figured I might be able to join him, despite the fact that we already knew we'll see each other at a party tomorrow night.

Why not? My work was finished for the day and I had time before the show tonight, so I took a spin through the shower and headed down Marshall Street to meet him.

I expect there will be a lot of us meeting up in my future because he's moving into Jackson Ward this week, a fact that delights me no end.

There he was waiting at the bar with his cousin, also a Ward resident, looking just as happy and handsome as ever, if a bit tired.

But there was good reason for that; he'd worked a 15-hour day training his replacement at work, gotten up the next day and packed up all his belongings and started driving across the country.

I told him it was a good thing he's young and strong, but he just laughed and said all he needed was to face-plant for while and he'd be fine.

In honor of seeing each other, we decided to have a tequila flight, made even better by the bartender regaling us with tales of his excursions to Mexico to taste tequila and mezcal and even visit some distilleries.

The flight was educational (I'd only had one of the tequilas before) and delicious: tequila Ocho blanco, Partida reposado and Chinaco anejo.

My friend had recommended the Ocho because it was the first tequila to bear a vintage signifying the year and location of the agave harvest, which led to a discussion of how after wine, agave is the spirit most reflective of terroir.

Factoids aside, it didn't hurt that it was an earthy blanco, the purest expression of agave.

I'd had the Partida before, recalling that it was aged in oak Jack Daniels' barrels, resulting in a nice sweetness and easy drinking quality to it.

The bartender raved about the Chinaco anejo for its tropical and pepper notes, but it was the chocolate on the nose that made it taste so decadent to me.

It's a treat to have a good tequila menu in the neighborhood.

We got off on the topic of Christmas shopping when the bartender said he still had his to do. I'd talked to a male friend this afternoon who was also planning to do all his shopping tomorrow.

I pointed out that it's a sure bet that it'll be mostly men in the stores for the next two days and the bartender agreed, saying in addition to shopping for eight nieces and nephews, he needed to get "some girlfriend things."

Don't screw that up, I warned him. "Huh, yea!" he responded, clearly aware of what was at stake.

Peace on earth, that's what. At least for him.

After my friend left to get some rest time in, I got myself to Live at Ipanema for some last minute pre-holiday music because heavens knows when the next time I'll get any will be.

I'm fine with decking the halls and all, right up until it starts cutting into my music and then, not so much.

Tonight's show was billed as the Milkstains' first-ever Christmas miracle party time and if you've seen the Milkstains play (and I have but only twice), you know that guarantees a good time.

The crowd was small when I got there but I spotted a few familiar faces - a drummer who'd moved to Austin and was back for Christmas, the cute husband of a girlfriend who was home in bed, the violinist I'd seen play the other night- and took a stool at the end of the bar.

Before long, a sous chef friend came in with his out-of-town posse and I met a few new people, one of whom sat down next to me and wound up providing company for the rest of the evening.

He was an interesting guy, like me a native Washingtonian but currently living in Manhattan, and before long we were talking music, quality of life and how being an outcast in high school prepares you for life.

Both bands scheduled to play tonight didn't show up till late, so there was plenty of time for socializing, especially since practically everyone seems to have the week off, meaning no curfews for a change.

My new friend suggested I join him in a drink, so an Espolon was ordered and we found ringside seats for the action.

He was curious about why everyone in Richmond seems so happy and likes it here so much and naturally, I have plenty to say on that subject, so we became fast friends.

At long last Diamond Hairbrush, a drums and bass duo, got set up, overdressed on this unseasonably warm night with the drummer in a shirt and tie and the bassist in a hoodie with a cap on.

On a 64-degree night in a low-slung room, they became hot and sweaty really quickly.

They played hard and fast, even with a song with a mild-mannered title like "Oreo," and at one point the drummer asked what song was next on the set list.

"The weird one," the bassist replied.

"They're all weird," the drummer responded, counting off anyway.

Their set was as short as their songs and during the break, a lot more people arrived - the DJ who'd given me a fabulous tape and promised me another this week, the art teacher come to see her boyfriend at work, the music critic claiming she was late because she's old (What does that make me? I asked. "F*cking amazing!" she claimed) and probably lots of Milkstains fans.

Once the band got set up, bass player Gabe disappeared meaning the set couldn't start, so I used the time to head to the bathroom.

Imagine my surprise as I walked toward the back and saw Gabe coming from the kitchen wearing a red glitter Santa hat over his long, dark hair and decked out in a green felt Christmas tree costume adorned with ornaments and working colored lights, sleeveless so that it showed off his multitude of tattoos.

Grabbing and kissing me en route, he said, "It's Christmas, baby!" and kept on for the front. It was showtime.

The Milkstains are high-energy surf rock, great fun to watch and with this being a holiday show, determined to make it festive.

The drummer wore a black Santa cap and the guitarist dropped his red one over his pedals, grinding it under his shoe.

Between garage rock and psychedelia gems, they threw out presents to the crowd - Milkstains cassette tapes and t-shirts- and even did a solid cover of "Blue Christmas."

A few songs in and my new friend from NYC turned and asked me why no one was dancing.

My guess was that the restaurant is small and the crowd had grown quite large, but the truth is, there's rarely dancing at Live at Ipanema. It's just not that kind of show or venue.

Naturally, that theory was soon upended when they decided to close with "All I Want for Christmas is You."

Gabe proclaimed it a singalong and three girls wasted no time in jumping on the mic, but basically, the room exploded as everyone began dancing madly to the boisterous Christmas staple.

The New Yorker was twerking against me, the music critic and I were bumping hips and all of a sudden, it was a very loud Christmas dance party.

And quite possibly, the most raucously enjoyable close to a Live at Ipanema I've been to and I've been to a lot of them.

Who knew "All I Want for Christmas" was such a crowd-pleaser?

But I shouldn't be surprised. It's Christmas, baby.

Triangles, Like Songs and Minor Keys

There was lots of music calling to me tonight.

I started at the Listening Room where the poet was handing out programs and lamenting her cold, a remnant of a debauched long weekend with another poet.

I didn't need to tell her we reap what we sow.

Dropping off the cookies I'd volunteered to bring, a discussion ensued about the six that had fallen off the cookie sheet onto my kitchen floor.

A musician insisted I should have brought them anyway while another guy told a story of a slice of pizza landing cheese down on carpet and asking whether or not that was fair game.

My grandmother always said if you were hungry enough you'd eat anything, I shared, and one girl said, "Even if it has a hair in it?" I left them to it.

It was time to stake my territory but, lo and behold, somebody large was in my seat.

Interloper.

The funny part was that three different people came up to me before the show started asking what in the hell that woman was doing in my seat.

Dunno, but she was too big for me to take on, so I took the nearest available and made do.

Emcee Chris started after 8:00, as usual ("I got a text and an arm tug telling me I was late"), saying, "I'm pleased to introduce a really neat collaboration. Who says neat? A really cool collaboration, JJ Burton."

The trio included two long-time favorites of mine, guitarist Scott Burton, whose ponytail is now halfway down his back, and trombonist/knobs/percussionist Reggie Pace, he of Bon Iver fame, along with drummer/keyboard player Devonne Harris.

Scott said the project began when he was writing his usual cinematic guitar pieces to which DJ Jneiro Jarel (hence the JJ part) added beats and that collaboration had morphed into this three-piece we were seeing.

It was their first time playing out, not that you could tell given what stellar musicians these guys are (at one point Reggie was playing trombone with one hand and twisting knobs with the other) and after their first prolonged piece, Scott looked up, smiling and nodding at the other two as if to acknowledge how well it had gone.

Sitting in the audience listening to the elaborate soundscapes they were creating, we already knew that.

Sound came from drumsticks on cymbals, triangles and Scott's flying fingers for a truly impressive new sound from some old favorites.

After the break we got Josh Small and Bonnie Staley, both Listening Room alums, with Laura singing back-up for a set of country-tinged songs.

They began with one of Josh's, "Grace Inez" about his 80-year old grandmother followed by a 1938 song, "Hello, Stranger," a song Bonnie had always loved before discovering Josh did too.

Their three voices melded beautifully, talent on top of talent.

Josh's "Tallest Tree" he described by saying, "Most of my songs are self-absorbed and depressing and this one is no different. It's not a love song but it's surely a like song."

Well, if you can't find love, I guess like will have to do.

More covers followed - Gillian Welch's "Red Clay Halo" and Loretta Lynn's "Honky Tonk Girl," which Bonnie described as, "A good song about being sad and young."

"The next song is an original," Josh said, "But don't worry, it's wildly derivative. It's called "Family Farm," but that's disingenuous because we never had a farm. I grew up in Falls Church, Virginia."

The James Taylor-inspired song may have been about an imagined life, but was a solid winner for the voices singing it.

They closed with what Josh called "my rap-iest" song but Bonnie corrected him to, "Your most R & B-est, maybe," a better assessment of a song that blended country and soul.

As Listening Rooms go, the program was easily one of the most diverse ever, making it a music-lover's dream, even if they couldn't sit in their own seat.

But I'm not complaining.

After the Listening Room ended, a bunch of us hurried over to Grace Street for a special edition of Live at Ipanema.

It was kind of a big deal because playing was Nashville guitarist William Tyler, so people kept on coming.

A friend and I ordered pumpkin spice cake to celebrate the season and found bar stools with a straight shot view of the playing area.

Dave Watkins got the crowd warmed up with his dulcitar playing (which Tyler later called "inspiring") and yet again, I watched as first timers went from casually listening to wondering how Dave was making so much sound, a couple eventually coming around to stand in front of him and watch him work his looping magic.

By the time Tyler picked up his 12-string guitar and started playing, Ipanema was mobbed, probably even unsafely so.

People were everywhere, kneeling, sitting and standing to watch him play his instrumental guitar music.

He started by saying that a girl had come up to him before the show and said, "I love the books you're reading," a reference to his song titles which reflect just that.

It turns out that since there are no lyrics, Tyler likes to explain every song, where it came from, how it was written, to set the scene before playing.

So with his idea of "light reading," we heard "Cadillac Desert" about water policy in the West, "Poets and Saints" which he called a "cathedral psychedelic song for a non-existent religion" and once he switched to six-string, "We Can't Go Home Again," which he'd begun writing in Nashville and finished in Dublin after visiting his girlfriend's parents unannounced.

It was funny, when he started playing, the guitarists in the room just stood there slack-jawed, but soon they all moved and congregated directly in front of Tyler where they had an unobstructed view to watch this wizard of the strings.

"Geography of Nowhere" was born out of a 20-hour train ride where the same Turkish folk song played endlessly, "full of minor key melody," he explained.

When he got home, he tried to replicate elements of the song as best he could, making for an evocative piece.

After that, Tyler instructed us, "Everyone needs to sit down," and those who could, did, including himself.

Seated, he played "Missionary Ridge," but only after explaining that the name is that of a mountain range near a Civil War battlefield, one that continued, he said, to have a sense of being haunted.

The music was much the same.

After his set, people flocked to the back to buy his records and rave about the solo guitar they'd just heard.

Up front, people lingered and I chatted for a while with a girlfriend I hadn't seen in weeks before getting up to leave.

"Thanks for coming, Karen," one of the organizers called to me.

What idiot wouldn't take advantage of such excellent free music on a random Tuesday night?

Even seat-stealers couldn't resist.

I am Listening, I am All Ears

What a difference a day makes, or 24 little hours of music all over the map.

Yesterday at 5:30, it was funksters Morris Day and the Time at the 2 Street Festival and today at 5:30, it was garage band Jacuzzi Boys at Steady Sounds.

Both were mere blocks away, making them irresistibly convenient ways to start my evenings.

Today, 30 or so of us gathered at my neighborhood record store to hear the Florida group bang through a half dozen songs as a prelude to tonight's show at Strange Matter.

One attendee spent the entire show with his fingers in his ears, but most people just rocked in place to the most basic of songs on a sunny late October afternoon.

Walking home, I could hear music still coming from the 2 Street Festival a few blocks down, so I took today's Washington Post out to my balcony to enjoy to the final strains of music on Clay Street.

Once it got fully dark, I came inside and made the simplest of suppers - an omelet from eggs I'd gathered at a farm recently - before getting ready to go out for more music and dessert.

Tonight was Live at Ipanema with Psalmships and Valdosta, singer/songwriter David Shultz's new project.

I found the front door to the restaurant propped open and a cute friend already warming up her bar stool when I arrived.

That was my cue to begin contemplating the dessert choices, eventually choosing blueberry pie a la mode.

About then, another friend came in and joined me, posing today's Southern Foodways Alliance topic for discussion: cake or pie?

"Team cobbler!" cute friend piped up cleverly before I could say a word.

After careful consideration, I stated for the record that if I could only have one or the other for the rest of my life, I'd have to pick cake.

I then proceeded to share my pie with the cute one until the show started.

Psalmships is Joshua from Philly and I'd seen him before at the Listening Room and at Sponge HQ.

What I recalled was his distinctive four-string guitar playing and raw, emotive voice and, like the prior times, his band had not made the trip with him.

What was annoying tonight was a gaggle of people at the end of the bar talking and laughing throughout his set, insulting the man's efforts to be heard.

Friend and I considered shushing them and settled for sending them withering looks which they were too busy talking to notice.

Excuse me, children, but this performance is being recorded and no one will want to hear your hyena laughs on the recording.

After a set of keening songs, Josh joked, "This will be my last song. I hope I brought you guys up."

He hadn't but that isn't really what Psalmships is about, rather it's that life can be cruel and you deal with it and move on.

After the break during which a lot more people arrived, David Shultz's new project settled into the tiny performing space.

Photographer PJ was kind enough to adjust one of the stage lights so it wasn't blinding me and we were ready to start.

Valdosta, the trio of David on guitar and vocals, Michael on bass and Willis on drums, was notable for how very un-Richmond-like they looked.

Despite how ingrained the three of them are in the RVA music scene, there was nary a beard to be seen.

It was clear from the first song that this new configuration has spent considerable time practicing together.

David's vocals, always a pleasure to hear, were easy and natural and it took him only until he sang "Bug Spray" to remove his glasses and set them aside.

This was about sound, not seeing.

"This is an old song called "The Room," David said. "It's from my very first album I ever made, back when I used to be David Shultz."

Ah, I remember those days.

I've long been a fan of Willis' stellar drumming and percussion skills and he and Michael provided strong support for David's song stories.

It was amazing how tight they sounded given that this was their first show out.

"The best thing that could happen when you have a new band is that all these people show up to hear it," David said. "Thank you."

Truly, the thanks should have been directed at the band and at the Live at Ipanema crew who keep delivering superb musical evenings to us.

In fact, I predict that as this project grows and if they add in more people, those of us lucky enough to have heard them tonight as a trio will always have the best of memories of what a special moment it was hearing them on an unseasonably warm Fall night.

You know, after hearing a band last night and another this afternoon, some people would have blown off yet another show tonight.

I can understand that, but they would have missed hearing the start of something extraordinary.

And blueberry pie.

Exit Waves, Enter Music

I miss the sound of the ocean, but at least there was music.

After endless post-vacation chores (laundry and bills and plants, oh, my!), I took my first indoor shower in a week (missing the sky overhead as I wash already) to remove the last layer of sunscreen, sweat and sand from my person.

After wearing a bathing suit all day, every day for a week, I settled on the loosest dress I could find and made my way to Live at Ipanema.

I realized I'd been out of the loop when I heard live music as I approached Ips.

Since it was barely 9:45 and the music doesn't usually start until 10:30ish, I sensed I'd missed the memo about an early start time.

The crowd was already out the door.

Squeezing in behind the violinist who organizes Classical Incarnations, all I could see where the backs of people taller than me.

I heard a few songs by Night Idea, part math rock sounding, part progressive jazz sounding and then an announcement.

"Because we're recording this tonight and there was a glitch, the band is going to do the first and second song over again."

How very convenient for those of us late to the party as well as those who needed a smoke break.

After they repeated and absent the smokers, I made my way into the room to find friends.

After a week out of town, it was good to see the cute photographer, the filmmaker (tired of editing after an all-day session), a couple of musicians from a favorite band, the newly-appointed digital content director (I'm sure my reference sealed that deal), my favorite thrifter/cultural observer out late on a school night and the talented woman who taught me to drink (and brought me a documentary to watch).

It was a fine homecoming.

While the room had been mobbed during Night Idea, it was slightly less so for Floodwall, although they clearly had some rabid fans of their own.

Present for both sets was a woman with a large, pleather purse, clearly under the influence of god-knows-what but surely more than just alcohol, but eager to sing along to the band and sway uncontrollably as people nearby alternately looked aghast or giggled in amusement.

Floodwall had an interesting sound, although as one girlfriend noted, "I'd like them better if I were hearing them someplace besides around this crowd."

It was true; many of the people in attendance may have been friends or fans of the band, but that didn't stop them from bro-hugging, talking and flipping hair throughout their set.

Another friend complained that "the music doesn't go anywhere," but changed his tune late in their set when an urgent, more post-rock soundscape accompanied the interesting and emotive vocals.

The night's biggest laugh came courtesy of the bartender who, after the first few notes of a song, leaned in and said, "I thought they were going to do an Offspring cover and that would have been amazing."

When their effects-laden set ended, a friend looked at me and said, "Welcome to 1991. Now that was some shoegaze. I need to make a video for these guys."

Have at it, man. Hopefully you won't have to explain what shoegaze is to them.

I lived through it the first time, so I certainly know, despite having been carded at the door on the way in.

Damn, I guess hearing the ocean non-stop for a week works wonders on the complexion.

And the attitude.

Nights Go By

It was just as humid inside as out.

At least when I arrived, Ipanema was a tad sticky given the recent spate of thunderstorms, with a puddle near the front door that required jumping for entry.

It was just to keep out the un-worthy.

Inside, I took a prime bar stool for Live at Ipanema and watched as so many familiar faces rolled in.

The scientist, the poet, the beekeeper, the new mother. People kept coming in and so many of them I knew.

Everyone was in attendance because playing tonight was Jonathan Vassar who'd been tied up for a good long while, what with his new son and all.

But tonight the wee one was at home and he was all about the drinking and cigarette songs.

Starting with "Jefferson," a song he said he wrote when he was 20,  it was an evening of his mournful voice and downbeat songs.

In other words, Jonathan Vassar perfection.

After the first song, he told us he was now 33, but had been "sirred" the other day, clearly a traumatic moment for him.

"I had on a skeleton t-shirt and jeans and this guy said 'sir' to me," he complained. His guess was that he had a "new dad" look that gave him away.

It happens to the best of us.

After doing several songs originally written in 2003, he told us about his hazardous day cleaning house.

Apparently it led to a burnt finger and a cut lip. "Everyday life is dangerous," he explained oh-so seriously.

He did several songs co-written with Grant Hunnicutt, like the evocative "Bay Bridge," about how even steel-clad structures can be moved.

"I'll tune because I'm a hot person to  begin with," he said comically before realizing how that sounded.

At one point, he acknowledged his beaming wife, Antonia, saying, "Sitting over there is my lovely wife and next to her is Karen, who recently had a birthday, which she's probably still celebrating."

Affirmative nod from me.

"Happy birthday," he said before asking if there were any questions or comments.

Antonia had one.

"Is your set list written on a baby photo?"

Actually, it was written on a piece of paper sitting next to a photo of his son, he explained.

"Pass it around!" someone called and he smilingly obliged.

It was that kind of show, despite the drinking and cigarette songs.

"Days Go By" followed, with the memorable lyric, "That was the day I called you mine. Have you noticed how the days go by?"

Have I ever.

I wasn't sure what he meant when he said, "This is my Anousheh-dependent song. I wasn't going to play it unless she came," but when I saw Anousheh crying midway through, I understood.

He closed with the crowd favorite, "Catch Me if You Can," saying, "These were songs I wrote. I hope you like them."

We liked them so much we called for another, with the bartender calling the loudest, and he graciously sang one.

A warm basement on a wet summer night listening to an hour of sad songs sung beautifully.

Thank you, sir.

Parallel Chills

It was that little amp that looked so out of place at Live at Ipanema tonight.

Not the amp, per se, but who the amp was for.

Dating back to the first time I saw White Laces in the courtyard at First Fridays in May 2010, I have been a fan.

And after three years of seeing them play practically everywhere around town, I can say with certainty that I have never seen them play with an amp so small.

But then, Ipamena is a small, low-ceilinged room with little space for the sound to spread out in, so it was brilliant.

When I arrived, I was surprised to see a friend, a first-timer at Live at Ips, already in place, holding the first cigarette I've ever seen him with.

Another friend had posted earlier that he'd be there enjoying tequila and I found him two in, which seemed like a good time to tell him about the largest tequila menu in town at a place I'd recently visited.

His best line was, "I usually go with Reposado. If I start heading toward Anejo, I just go with bourbon."

Another friend, whom I'd seen earlier today when I was in front of the Byrd, gave me the lowdown on his brunch at Portrait House.

Meanwhile, my cake date was waiting for me in the back, eager for our monthly dessert and dish time.

It was her first time seeing White Laces, so the small amp didn't strike her as oddly as it did me.

Maybe that was because she was distracted by her hummingbird cake, while I scarfed my chocolate cardinal cake (red velvet cake with chocolate icing).

We finished licking our forks just as the music began.

Leader Landis acknowledged the size of his apparatus immediately, saying, "We're White Laces and if this is too loud for you, we'll just have to stop."

The band had attracted a good crowd and even won over some people who'd come in to eat and ended up lingering to hear the music.

They sounded incredibly tight, which they always do, but the feel of their set was much looser tonight and a friend and I acknowledged that Live at Ipanema is one of our favorite series for that very reason.

We got to hear some of their new stuff, some so new that Landis introduced it as, "This song is so new it doesn't have a title yet. But it's our new jam."

As a long-time fan, I was also thrilled to hear some old jams, like "Honeywood."

Naturally, Landis had to be self-deprecating about playing older stuff, saying, "This is an old one. We said a while ago we'd never play this shit again and here we are."

After nailing it, he admitted, "That was way better than I thought it would be," while it was just as terrific as I'd known it would be.

A friend had just rolled a cigarette and was heading outside to feed his addiction when the band started "Hands in Mexico" and he wisely thought better of leaving.

You could tell the band, or at least Landis, was more relaxed than usual by his stage banter, which included not one, not two, but three song intros of, "We have two more songs."

Each time, they did indeed have two more songs, and Landis promised, "Just a couple more and we'll release you back to your drinking."

With them sounding practically perfect, the big wooden beams of the room  absorbing the sound and warming it up, it had to be one of my all-time favorite White Laces shows and that's saying something.

During one of their old songs ("We stopped playing this one live because it was too goth-y"), the sound vibrations managed to move a wine glass off the rack and on to the floor.

What could be more appropriately goth-like than breaking glass mid-song?

Sitting on my stool with only occasional views of the band, I couldn't help but feel the kind of chills you get when the music is sounding so good, so sure that you know it's a show people will remember for some time to come.

I'll just say it was one of my all-time favorite Live at Ips and I've been to all but one.

When they did get to their true last song, Landis closed with a joke, saying, "One more then we'll take a smoke break and come back and do all Taylor Swift covers with Jimmy on his ukulele."

And, yes, there were even a few people who cheered at the thought.

That said, if they'd come back after smoking and played anything else, I'd have stayed happily on my stool to let their well-executed dreamy psychedelia wash over me until closing time.

I don't need a big amp to be impressed.

Raw and Wry, Rags to Riches

Once upon a time, it was a good night if there was one interesting happening on any given evening.

No more.

Plenty of nights I end up having to choose from several very appealing options.

Like last Tuesday night, I had my pick of a lauded dance documentary, the Oberon Quartet or the Listening Room.

And there was no way to do more than one.

Tonight I had the same dilemma: Ghost Light Afterparty or Live at Ipanema.

I never miss either (well, unless I'm in another country).

So off I went to Ipanema to meet a friend for dessert (banana coconut cake), see friends and hear Dead Professional.

That would be one half of the Cinnamon Band and the purveyor of wry and raw pop songs and elemental rock and roll riffs using a cheapo guitar and rudimentary drum loops.

Just the thing on a Sunday night.

Using two mics for different effects, he delivered wry, raw and elemental to a rapt crowd.

Rapt, that is, except for the table closest to Dead Pro, who proceeded to try to talk louder than the man with the cheapo guitar and the drum loops.

Le sigh.

Explaining that it was only his second show, he said, "So I'll be back" and launched into "Bad Memory."

At one point, he started a song, singing, "Don't be cruel," before stopping and saying, "Let's come back to that one."

It was a nice segue into an unexpected cover of T Rex's "Main Man."

Then it was back to cruelty and the unfinished song, with the evocative lyric, "Don't keep on twisting the knife if you're not gonna cut me loose."

It was an understandably short set, but I'm counting on him being back.

The bonus was a short set meant that there was still time to get to the GLAP, where tonight's theme was "rags to riches."

I don't know where they come up with this stuff.

Walking in at intermission to find a lobby full of people eating pizza, I ran into Princess Di for the second time today, along with neighbors who hadn't been able to get hold of me to invite me to their Mardi Gras party.

They insisted that next year I just show up on the Saturday before Fat Tuesday, with or without an invitation.

You don't have to tell me twice.

I asked about what I'd missed, only to be told that it was a chill, coffeehouse-style evening for a change.

Perhaps it fit the set at Richmond Triangle Players tonight, one with stained glass windows and a massive wooden door.

Once the second half started, host Maggie began by saying, "Keeping the theme loose, I'm going to do an Elvis song. At least I think Elvis was the first one to sing it."

Let the record show she proceeded to do a killer version of "Can't Help Falling" with Scott accompanying her on guitar while Audra held her phone so he could read the music.

Starlet Knight took the stage, saying she'd had way too much bourbon (someone in the back yelled, "No such thing!").

Mid-song, she paused and said, "This is where the key change would be but I'm not going to do it."

That garnered major applause.

Matthew got up to impress us with Barry Manilow's "Weekend in New England" with Ben, sporting a mohawk, dramatically playing the keyboard for him.

"He's such a drama queen," Matt joked when he finished.

In a roomful of drama queens, who would even notice, much less care?

Aaron and Matt sang a song after announcing that it would mean a whole lot more to them than us.

At GLAP you just let people do what they need to do.

Carla and Matt did "Somewhere Out There" from "An American Tail," that classic piece of cinematography.

I was reassured to know that the cheese factor was as high as usual.

Matt stopped the room cold with his rendition of "Waiting for Life to Begin," saying that song had gotten him through some not so merry moments and even some sad orgasms.

Sara sang a song from Les Miz, but the best part was when she finished and shared that, "I spat on myself in the middle of the dramatic moment."

One reason I like to sit in the first or second row is because I like to see people spit when they perform. True story.

Ben of the Mohawk gave us a Tammy Wynette song, "Till I Can Make It on My Own," segueing nicely into Dolly Parton's "9 to 5" and causing a mass singalong.

Honestly, I had no idea so many people knew the words to that chestnut.

When it came time for raffle prizes, a friend won tickets to "Riding the Bull" and luckily for me, he and his lovely wife already had tickets for it, so they graciously handed them off to me.

See, you meet the nicest people at the GLAP.

Gray was called up to sing and Maggie praised her costume, saying, "Gray got entrance applause just walking in tonight."

It may have been the curlers made of cans in her hair, it may have been the smeared lipstick and blackened tooth or maybe even the ruffled white panties she flashed for us.

All at once, Starlet Knight volunteered to give the farewell song and even promised to do the requisite key change this time.

Boy, the time goes so quickly when you come in halfway through the festivities.

But I'd also made it to both can't-miss events, so the win was mine.

Who's got time to wait for life to begin?

An Advice for You

Just to be clear, I did my Superbowl duty.

I made a batch of chili today. With corn muffins, even.

That bit of athletic patriotism done, I did what any red-blooded nerd would do for the first half of game day.

I went to see a Brazilian movie.

It was part of UR's international film series, which I hadn't been to in almost a year, so I knew I'd be in the company of other gym class dropouts.

In fact, my fellow Brazilian cinephile bet me there'd be less than ten people at the screening.

I knew better and guessed 35.

For the record, there were 39 including us.

The film, Riscado (which means craft), was about an actress who works for an event company impersonating celebrities while trying to further her acting career.

Marilyn Monroe, Carmen Miranda, Betty Paige. She did them all.

And not because she particularly looked like them, even in costume, but her acting skills sold them.

The film had a decided European sensibility, something I loved, from the opening shots of the actress smoking on her balcony while Brazilian music played and she stared directly into the camera to intermittent, random artsy shots.

And by that, I mean slo-mo non sequiter shots of hands in a sink or a woman in a pool set to music.

My only complaint with the film was the half-assed subtitles with glaring mistakes in them for anyone with even a slipshod command of the English language.

"Live it on the floor" instead of "leave."

Damn became dam. Seems showed up as seams.

But sometimes the subtitles' fractured translations were quite charming, as in, "An advice for you. Enjoy it a lot."

The movie had some highly comic moments, but at its heart it was a drama about a woman staying true to her passion, acting, despite lectures from landladies, not enough money and a fear her time was running out to make it.

Clearly certain problems transcend cultures.

We left UR essentially for VCU, our second half happening being Live at Ipanema.

Walking up Grace Street, we noticed the signboard in front of Strange Matter read, "Yes, we'll be showing the sports ball game."

They sounded about as into it as I was.

Happily, Ipanema has no televisions for watching sports ball.

What they did have was dessert, so we scored some fine WPA Bakery banana/coconut cake and Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for The Black Brothers to get set up.

Before long, I could smell the incense burning.

With no announcement, much less fanfare, the quartet (guitar, drums, bass, trumpet) began playing their pastiche of indie/jazz/blues/rock as people continued to come in the door.

It was my third time seeing them, so while I know what to expect, I am still pleasantly surprised when the horn kicks in or the drumming gets especially jazzy.

Singer and guitarist Justin's voice was on point right from the first song with the lyric, "This time I'm getting it right."

The four-piece was squished into the front alcove and at times Justin's guitar neck threatened to knock into Lucas' horn mic and eventually it caught a cord of it.

When he introduced the next song as being called "Warsaw," I immediately wondered which Warsaw he might mean, at least right up until he sang, "This is a prison song."

Oh, that Warsaw.

Franklin Massey and his acoustic guitar joined the band in the already-cramped front for one song, making for an even denser sound.

Their last song was about escaping to West Virginia and from the first guitar notes, it sounded to me like a driving song, as in a windows-rolled-down kind of driving song.

Which, on a cold February night, seems like something very pleasurable to imagine.

So I took the Brazilian's advice and enjoyed it a lot.

Be Still, My Oscillating Heart

If you're going to take someone on a first date and impress them, tonight was the time to do it.

It was the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema and Way, Shape or Form was playing.

The name meant nothing to me but Allen, the guy who chooses the bands and records the show, has an unerring ear for choosing the best local music to showcase.

So my companion and I made sure to arrive in time to grab a prime seat and munch on some focaccia and sip Dolcetta d'Alba while the band set up.

My carefully-laid plan was for naught, though, when all at once an influx of people, no doubt fans and friends of the band, showed up en masse and my view was lost.

On the bright side, a girlfriend showed up unexpectedly, so her company helped compensate for the tallest man on earth deciding to stand directly in front of me.

It was about 30 seconds in when the music-lover I'd brought with me turned, grinned and acknowledged, "This is right up your alley. This is Karen music."

And, boy, was it ever.

Ipanema is a small space and the band was a four-piece with drums.

While the drummer definitely qualified as a hard-hitter and he'd covered his drums to soften the sound, it was the interesting time signatures that got my attention.

"The drummer is holding it down," my friend said.

I admit I'm a sucker for electronica and the band's poppy songs used it brilliantly to move the songs forward.

The jazzy guitars did the same, never too loud or intrusive, but always winding their way into my ear.

There was so much going on that I felt like I was listening to math rock filtered through a pop punk aesthetic (and I say pop punk rather than just pop due to their ages) and the result was speaking to my inner music geek directly.

I was pretty much in heaven, but as I soon noticed, so were the people on either side of me.

Some songs had lyrics, some didn't, but the rapt crowd was as engaged with one as the other.

As I listened to leader Troy's confessional-sounding vocals, I marveled at how I hadn't yet heard of these guys.

I am, after all, out hearing live music three or four nights a week.

Let's just say I've already put their vinyl release show into my calendar (or, as my fellow Gemini called it, my "prehistoric Blackberry."), very much looking forward to hearing a longer set next time.

Tonight's ended way too soon and Troy said, "It's really packed in here. Thanks! We have t-shirts for sale, long sleeves for the cool times."

Except that the room was anything but cool because of the mass of humanity who had crowded in to hear these guys.

Mingling afterwards, I was curious as to what Troy had been listening to and wasn't the least surprised to hear that we'd both been to Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.

Even later still, I ran into a favorite friend coming in, only to learn he'd been on a date there the whole time.

He'd brought his date for dinner and music, and she, being a relative newcomer to Richmond's scene, had marveled at what a great show it had been, wondering how often stuff like this happened.

"Pretty much all the time, if you know where to go," my bearded friend had assured her.

All I can say is if a guy took me on a first date to an intimate show at Ipanema featuring a local band as talented/catchy/listenable as Way, Shape or Form, I'd ask him for a second date.

And that's saying something.

Walk This Way

Today was like a day in Italy.

The weather was beautiful and I spent the day walking everywhere.

The only thing missing was the overly-forward men leering and saying inappropriate things.

Ah, Italian men.

First there was the hilly walk to the Bottom in search of lunch, a challenge after 2:00 we discovered.

Eventually we found settled in at Globehopper for sandwiches in the sunny room surrounded by people on laptops.

The walk back up the hill was far shadier, but still temperate enough to convince me I wanted an evening of the same.

Playing tourist, we stopped to admire the public art along Main Street, notable mainly for how inoffensive and uninteresting it was.

Really, in the city with the number one sculpture school in the country we can't find better large scale  sculpture?

After cleaning up and a change into evening attire, it was soon time to set out for Balliceaux and Classical Incarnations with members of the Richmond Symphony playing in small chamber group iterations.

The music began with a duo who morphed into a trio.

Next up was a guy on upright bass with a looping pedal, so I saw the equivalent of Dave Watkins done classically.

Very cool.

Next came a guy on guitar doing a Steve Reich composition with 16 guitar parts. As he explained it, it had been written in the 1980s and to do it all himself, he'd had to record all 16 tracks individually.

Tonight, he'd recorded all but one, saying, "Now I'm doing it with a laptop."

The New Age sounding piece was a dense layering of guitars.

We went on to hear a duo do a piece they said demonstrated Prokofiev's beautiful harmonies and did it ever.

Then came a favorite, a Brahms horn trio for piano, violin and French horn.

The horn player called it, "The quintessential chamber music for horn players."

I knew two of the three.

 Russell Wilson, the Symphony's pianist tore it up, even turning up the volume on his keyboard early on.

Treesa Gold's blond hair was flying as she got into her part and the horn player looked blissed out.

After intermission, they did a Brahms sonata that came about after another violinist and Russell had been jamming (i.e., sight-reading at a practice) on it last week.

It was a mashup of lullaby and lively.

Singer Lisa did two songs ("In English!") to Russell's accompaniment while the guy next to me noted, "This is chick music."

There were so many things I could have said, but why ruin a lovely Italian day?

My hands-down favorite piece was by Hayden and affectionately called "The Rider" for its galloping rhythms on two violins, viola and cello.

 A demented waltz by Shostakovitch was a killer finish as I looked around to see a roomful of  classical nerds smiling broadly at this madcap ending.

From classical music, we set out again, this time for Live at Ipanema and dessert.

Double chocolate cake and Franco Serra Dolcetta d'Alba took care of the last course of the day as the band set up.

Ocean vs. Daughter was playing so while we still had keyboards, it was quite a change from what we'd just heard.

More Tori Amos, less long hair music.

And definitely more D.I.Y., with photographer P.J. Sykes saving the day by finding a piece of cinder block for the cellist to prop his instrument against.

There were friends to talk to- musicians, a teacher out too late, and restaurant types - all out looking for music to end their weekend.

Lead singer Flanna began solo but soon we got the benefit of Kevin's drums (and background vocals) and the cello.

Her material done alone was of the confessional girl sort, but it was the louder songs that won over the crowd.

Or maybe that was just me.

They did a song they'd never played out before ("We'll see what happens") and nailed it.

And then it was over and time to head out into the still decidedly un-December like weather.

In other words, it was a lovely walk home.

Unlike in Italy, though, we passed no gelaterias or pastry shops open late along the way.

Still, a midnight walk is always to be appreciated, whether here or in the land of the leer.

Feeling the Night

My mistake was a Greek tragedy.

Let me just point out that I keep track of a lot of events and happenings and rarely do I screw up.

But I do.

Like today when I got the time wrong on a play I wanted to see.

TheaterLab, the upstart theater workshop company that had so impressed me with "Trojans" a few months ago, was doing "The Antigone Project: A Devised Adaptation" at Gallery 5.

And this idiot walked in at intermission instead of, well, the start.

So, instead of the full story of state vs. individual, I got the most heartbreaking parts. The second act.

I saw Creon (guest artist Stephen Ryan doing a phenomenal job) realize the error of his ways but not before Antigone and her beloved kill themselves.

But at least I got the second act and at least I got the talkback.

Talking about the play and its tight three-week -production period artistic director Deejay Gray said, "I love where this piece has gotten over the past three days."

Besides a short production period, they'd lost their first scheduled performance to Sandy's bad weather.

"A third of our run didn't happen," lamented Maggie Roop, who played Antigone with grace and strength. "I'd love to have one more time with this."

I second that.

I say that the missed performance needs to happen so that those of us who screwed up can see all of this "devised" adaptation with its references to fame, families and bad behavior.

It was particularly interesting to see theater performed in G5 because it's not a traditional theater space.

The audience truly became part of the show because we were so close.

Even Maggie concurred. "The artsy fartsy actor part of me thought it was very cool to have such a limited space. The intimacy with the audience helped me get into the role."

I'm always happy to help an actor get into their role.

For my evening's pleasure, we walked over to my favorite basement restaurant in the cold night air for the recently-restarted "Live at Ipanema."

The series had been one of my faves for the entire time it ran and I'd missed it when it stopped.

Happily, it's now started up again.

I arrived in time to chat up friends, have a brownie a la mode and be given a hard time about a past romance by a favorite friend.

Good times all around.

Chris Ryan was tonight's performer and, I won't lie, it took a while for him and bass player Brian Cruse, he of Marionette and other bands, to get set up.

It was 10:30-ish when they began.

But once they did and Ryan began his first song, "Hard Road," the room went completely silent.

I've been to every Live at Ips except the first and I can tell you that is not usually the case.

But there was something very compelling about his voice and songwriting.

A friend who'd heard him online had described it pre-show as "part Randy Newman, part Springsteen" but my companion at the bar nailed it with a comparison to Ray LaMontagne.

After the first song, Ryan acknowledged it. "It's nice to have an attentive audience."

We got only more attentive with his outstanding cover of Neil Young's "Harvest Moon," with its lyrics of longing and love.

But there's a full moon rising
Let's go dancin' in the light
We know where the music's playin'
Let's go out and feel the night

Ryan said how nervous he is performing, although he said he was less so with Brian up there with him.

And Brian's fine, rhythmic help added a lot to the songs, so that sounded like a win-win to me.

His self-penned "Table for Two" had a haunting quality and then he switched from guitar to keyboards for a few songs before returning to guitar with "Day by Day."

Before "Lost in this Moment," was over, I also hard shades of Van Morison.

He warned us that it would be his last song and that he wanted to do some Curtis Mayfield because, "I really like Curtis Mayfield because he always kept it real."

They launched into an instrumental version of "People Get Ready," as fine a choice and as well-executed a last song as the devoted audience could have hoped for.

Live at Ipanema got an awesome kick-off tonight with a very talented local whom many of us were hearing for the first time.

In fact, it had been an exceptional day all around, what with Greek tragedy followed by a voice that commanded silence.

All's well that ends well.

Attitude Adjustment

Walk away from the computer. That's what I had to tell myself after hours of working without moving, to the point where my shoulders were knotted and my brain no longer firing on all cylinders. Time to step away from my desk.

I stepped all the way to Grace Street for Live at Ipanema and to hear Mark Brown of Louisiana Territory. I arrived as things were being set up, allowing enough time to get some Vino Verde and a piece of delicately moist coconut cake. Thus fortified, I was ready for the music I so desperately needed.

Despite knowing several of the guys in Louisiana Territory, I have never seen them perform together. Tonight I was getting Mark on acoustic guitar and Tyler on electric, making for stripped-down versions of some of the band's material.

And material worth hearing it was. "I'll Just Go on Anyway" was both a song title and the title of  book Mark's grandfather had written; the song was about a discussion between his father and grandfather.

They covered Ryan Adams' "16 Days" admirably. Mark mentioned being introduced to David Bazan's music last year and listening obsessively to it ever since, so they covered one of his as well.

The crowd was smaller than usual for a Live at Ipamena event, but, let's face it, it was a crazily busy weekend in RVA and undoubtedly a lot of people  were done with going out by 10:30 on Sunday night. I was not among them.

I was fortunate to find several friends in place when I got there. The ballet composer heard me wax poetic about his music (and deservedly so), the biologist described an avant garde German film he was hoping I could identify (I couldn't) and the friend who was just back from playing MacRock recommended a Philly band he'd heard that he's sure I'll like (just listened; I do).

Once the music began, there were times when the crowd chatter became overly loud. Finally Mark introduced the ideal song for that crowd. "This is for those times when you're up here playing and no one's listening. I don't want to be that guy and guilt anyone or anything," he said disingenuously. As a result, a few people were a little quieter for a few minutes before resuming chatter as usual.

From Mark's stage banter, I learned that some songs are created by guitarists sitting in their underwear in their bedrooms (confirmed, albeit reluctantly, by two nearby guitarists). That's a new musical visual for me and one I won't soon forget.

I'm a big fan of Tyler's guitar playing and I found it interesting to watch as he modified his playing to accommodate the simpler arrangements being played tonight. After the show, he mentioned how very different it was to be playing the songs as they had originally begun. Getting back to basics, so to speak, and we were the lucky audience who got to hear that return to simpler sounds.

After the post-show mingling, I got my check and a guy nudged me to ask bartender Brandon what they didn't take (referring to plastic). "American Express...and attitude," he deadpanned.

Good thing I'd left my attitude back at my computer with my fried brain. Wait, what attitude?

The Power of Moving Pictures, Pie and Piano

The beauty of the quarterly James River Filmmakers Forum is the variety of unexpected scenarios you'll get to see in the local shorts screened. Tuck your cocktails under your seats and fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen. It's going to be a colorful ride.

Let's see, tonight at Balliceaux that included a tea party on Church Hill with the devil, a Muslim woman working on her Ph.D while suffering through bad matchmaking attempts and a couple of local restaurant owners emerging naked from the river covered in fake blood. It's hard to overstate the pleasures of that kind of entertainment.

Five filmmakers were showing tonight and their work ranged across the spectrum. Daniel Lowe's time lapse films in high def were pure eye candy, the treetops looking almost nervous in their movements and the racing stars resembling a planetarium show.

Or as he put it, "There's not much to think about with my work. It's just meant to be pretty." From behind me, man-about-town Harry Kollatz piped up, "Kind of like me." True that, Harry.

Christine Stoddard's "Tea Party with Death" had a female death figure holding a very proper tea party with miniature cups and saucers, but be on your best behavior; use improper etiquette and you're dead.

The nudes emerging from the river, "Harbinger," were the work of Harrison Moenich, who commented, "It's really hard to find people willing to come out of the water naked in cold weather." He considered the piece to be a horror movie stripped down to its most basic level.

"Menna," by Ashley Zahorian addressed the duality of a typical young American woman with traditional Muslim beliefs. Typical, that is, if you're getting your Ph.D in electrical engineering and your aunts are shoving one loser Muslim man after another at you.

Made from Super 8 home movies, "Expecting to Fly" was Ethan Bullard's experimental sci-fi film about a military unit trying to locate heaven. After the space race, there was apparently a faith race. Who knew?

The footage was from the 60s and shot in Alaska, which subbed for Pluto, and Virginia. The unit had a Deadly Garbage Accelerator that threw garbage onto the dark side of the moon. One dedicated man stayed behind to search for heaven and ended up back on earth. High drama indeed.

The humor of the simply-told story was matched only by the very cool vintage 8 mm footage Bullard used. I love the look of Super 8 films and the soundtrack, which included two songs by Explosions in the Sky, echoed the vastness of the landscape with enormous soundscapes.

During the panel discussion with the filmmakers afterwards, the audience got the chance to find out the how and why of the films. It's such a great way to get inside the creative heads of those compelled to make movies, assuming that that's a place you want to peer in to.

It was raining lightly when I left Balliceaux for Ipanema and the monthly installment of Live at Ipanema, making it a cozy night for live music.

I arrived to find friends at the bar, so I joined them for a piece of blueberry pie a la mode; one of my friends had the apple blueberry, sparking a discussion of how badly RVA needs a dedicated pie shop. Pies are the new cupcakes, mark my words.

Playing tonight was Anousheh Khalili, she of the beautiful voice and talented piano fingers. Her set went from new to old, she forewarned us, with a stopover in the '80s for a Phil Collins cover she particularly loves, "In the Air Tonight." Oh, yes, she did.

She did some songs from her rare tour EP, including the touching "Suitcase." She was then joined onstage by her husband, musician Will Loyal of Homemade Knives, of which she is also a member, on background vocals.

Her final addition was Jonathan Vassar, also of Homemade Knives, on accordion and guitar (once he borrowed a pick, that is, having misplaced his own) and adding to the richness of Anousheh's already-beautiful sound.

She said she's been listening to a lot of R & B like CeLo Green (and anyone he works with) lately, mostly for structure but also for its pop sensibilities. Combine that with her voice and piano playing and it's a killer combination.

As is an evening of outstanding local film followed by soaring local music in a hushed room.

You may now unfasten your seatbelts. And, please, have some pie.

Wishing for Music and Sausage

Here's my restaurant wish for Richmond: more places near Center Stage where people can park once and party twice.

I had a couple date to go to the symphony and we made a reservation for 9 North Fourth beforehand. Perfect plan, right? Well, it was until they called and said they'd be closed tonight for "mechanical problems." Rats.

That left us with exactly one choice, Capital Ale House, which was fine because they're beer fans and all three of us are fans of food in casings. Done and done, as my friend Scott is fond of saying.

And while the two of them stuck to the menu, he with kielbasa and pierogies and she with knockwurst and bratwurst, I was special of the day all the way.

There was no resisting the pork belly sausage banh mi with pickled carrots, onions, cilantro, spicy aioli and fries. Or if there was, I didn't know how to do it. And might I mention that the star of the dish was courtesy of Sausagecraft? Enough said.

Oh, was it good. A baguette barely contained the sausage (which our server described as "pork belly in skin"), cut into fat slices.

The fatty richness of the sausage married beautifully with the crunch of the pickled toppings and heat of the sauce; it was banh mi heaven (Kevin, eat your heart out). I was so glad I'd suggested Cap Ale as Plan B.

After an enormous and shared piece of chocolate cake a la mode, we moseyed up to Center Stage for some Weber, Schuman and Brahms.

Guest conducting tonight was Victor Yampolsky, impressive with his mane of white hair and dapper in his tails. I remarked to my friend that he had a certain Leonard Bernstein-quality, only to later read in the program that he worked under Bernstein.

I especially loved his dramatic bowing style, which involved throwing his head back before dipping forward into a bow. Perhaps it was to better showcase that shock of thick hair.

After intermission came the highlight of the evening, the guest artist Awadagin Pratt, originally from Pittsburgh.

He took the stage in black shirt and pants and I think I'm safe in saying that it was undoubtedly the first time a man with mid-back-length dreadlocks had sat down at the grand piano with the RSO. And who better to play Brahms' Concerto No. 1 in D Minor for Piano, Opus 15?

I loved the way he wiped the sweat from his face between movements, undoubtedly caused by his enthusiastic playing style which often brought him up off his stool. I was also taken by the way his left foot kept time so hard that it could be heard in between piano notes.

Brahms was followed by Live at Ipanema, switched from its usual Sunday slot because of the Superbowl. That turned out to be an error in judgment for all of us.

Playing was French-born Blasco, a talented singer-songwriter, but a man with a quiet sound unable to compete with the raucous Saturday night crowd.

He began his set by saying, "This is going to be quiet, so if you're going to keep talking, you'll have to whisper. But everything sounds more important when you whisper." The problem was people talked over him saying that.

Accompanied only by his auto harp and crystal-clear whistling, he put on a beautiful performance for the few of us actually listening.

The others tried shouting and making disparaging remarks ("He sounds like Rufus Wainwright and that's a good thing. But not tonight and not here," one idiot said) before eventually leaving.

One very drunk guy said he wanted to leave for the Village. "You either want a milkshake or a nineteen-year old," his friend smirked. "Actually, both," he slurred. Gross. By about half an hour into Blasco's set, most of the truly obnoxious and drunk crowd had left.

Only then did it start to feel like the cozy and intimate affair Live at Ipanema usually is for music lovers who regularly attend.

Better late than never, those of us who stayed till the end agreed. All of us felt fortunate to have heard a rare evening of song accompanied by auto harp playing and whistling.

My last stop was Sprout for their show, which I knew would continue right up until closing.

I arrived in time to hear Charlie Glen of the Trillions play keys and sing his hooky pop songs to an enthusiastic crowd. He finished with the crowd favorite "Bad Potato," attributed to his geeky father and played standing up.

Paul Ivy vs. the Board of Education unexpectedly took the stage next, although they had been slated as the headliner. From the first note, the crowd was into them.

These guys had a garage rock sound (although I'm sure Paul will correct me on that if I mislabeled) led by Paul's excellent guitar playing.

Their set began with a kick-ass version of "Both Sides Now," hardly your typical garage rock band song choice. I was impressed, even as I wondered how many in the crowd knew the song's origins.

The show ended with singer-songwriter Ben Shepherd singing his cryptic and heartfelt lyrics. A heckler marred the vibe in the room, not once, but twice before mercifully disappearing. Ben, a local favorite, ended his set with a song he said had no music: a poem.

After a night like tonight, unlike with the restaurant issue, I can't say I have any music wishes for Richmond.

Just keep it coming.

Party, Pie and Pathos

No doubt about it, restaurant owners sure know how to throw a party, even when it's not at their restaurant. Or maybe especially when it's not at their restaurant.

Best of all, the party was right in the neighborhood, affording me an opportunity to see the inside of their 1846 J-Ward house. And while my house is old (1876), it couldn't compare to this stately three-story house with servants' rooms and separate staircase in the back.

The party was a great mix of people from the neighborhood, the restaurant and their work, so I saw plenty of familiar faces and met lots of new ones. A Fan restaurant owner recognized me from his restaurant, he said, and my days walking in the Museum District and that's been over four years now.

The food spread was notable for its abundance and the fact that it had not been prepared by the restaurant staff. Instead, our hostess had spent the day slaving in the kitchen, wowing her staff with the results and the fact that they didn't have to do anything.

Knowing I am a red wine lover, the hostess offered to open a bottle of Unco Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile, saying that she wanted to offer it to someone who would savor it. I was more than happy to be that volunteer and was rewarded with a beautiful, full-bodied wine.

The house was full of local art and I did a full tour in order to see who they had collected since I do the same; we overlapped only on Adam Juresko.

There was a pool table in one of the front parlors, so there was always a game in progress, not that I can play anything that requires hand/eye coordination, but it was fun to watch as people got loopier and less concerned abut where their cues were going.

After a couple of most enjoyable hours taking to new people and eating myself silly, I had to leave to make a dinner double date (my role being that of unnecessary extra).

When I got to Ipanema, I told bartender Brandon that I was there for fifth wheel duty and he said, "They're waiting for you in the back." At least everyone's clear on my role here.

Because I had already eaten so much at the party, my dinner consisted of blueberry pie a la mode while they ate entrees. My mother would not have approved.

It was my first time seeing all the photos I had taken at the Thanksgiving party using someone else's camera and I have to agree with those I photographed that I did a damn fine job of capturing that party. I'm just not sure how I ended up in any of the pictures.

We were an odd group; four of the five of us are bloggers and another four of the five on Twitter, necessarily making for conversation about some of the other players in those fields. I just can't keep my thoughts to 140 characters.

Since we had a teacher in our midst, I brought up the Virginia textbook debacle to hear his opinion on it and share mine. I'm fascinated about how stuff like that happens.

We talked about the Live at Ipanema series, but they stayed put when I went to claim a bar stool so I could have a good view of the Itchy Hearts when they started playing. Best of all, once there I found several friends in the vicinity and ready to provide company until the music began.

A musician friend had given me a mix tape file for Christmas and his first question after I thanked him for it was whether or not I had rearranged the order of the songs (I hadn't). He's the only person I know of besides myself who actually rearranges CDs to achieve the perfect order and I guess he'd been worried I might.

Even more flattering, he said he wants me to listen to his own CD when recording is finished to give him my opinion of its order. I consider that request quite an honor and told him so. What do I know, besides what my ear likes?

Tonight the Itchy Hearts was just Andy Cobb because the other two band members couldn't make it. A friend told me that as often as not, Andy is the Itchy Hearts. While it would have been nice to have the full effect, his songs are so heartfelt that everything is conveyed with just his guitar and voice.

He commented on how odd it is that people are willing to come listen to him sing about his emotional anguish, downplaying how satisfying it is to hear a musician express what we non-musical types cannot. Sure, I've got heartbreak, but I can't make it sound nearly as soulful as Andy can.

It was a noisy crowd tonight with lots of high-pitched laughter mid-set, but it was worth it to be back in the little basement restaurant for an evening of folk music and friends, many of whom I hadn't seen since before the holidays.

And every time I was asked how my holidays were, I answered, "Great. Glad they're over."

Mrs. Jones and the Englishman

To paraphrase the Purple One, I'm glad it was Sunday, cause that's my fun day, all the more so for having two of my favorite monthly events fall on the same rainy night.

The Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5 requires me to get there early enough to score seats in the front row, preferably with good friends on either side of me. That was easily enough accomplished, with plenty of time for conversation, too (Rocktopussy is still a hot topic).

Tonight's film was a complete departure for the SMR, which tends to highlight avant garde and artsy silent films (I say this as someone who has attended this event for three years). but this film was nothing like either.

Poor Mrs. Jones was made by the Department of Agriculture in 1926, essentially as propaganda to help sway people from leaving farms. Poor Mrs. Jones is having a tough day on the farm and wants her husband to sell it and move to the city where he can earn a fabulous $2,000 a year (as opposed to the meager $400 a year he makes on the farm).

Instead he suggests she visit her sister in the big city for a much-needed break. The humor came with Mrs. Jones' introduction to the horrors of city life.

Flights of stairs to reach her sister's apartment wind her. Evaporated milk instead of cream in her coffee disgusts her. Prices at the grocery store shock her. And her feet hurt from walking all over the hard city sidewalks.

Bermuda Triangles provided the improvised soundtrack to tonight's unusual movie, no easy job for a film so plot-driven.

They were especially effective in the scenes involving the stresses of the urban world: women fighting over dresses in a shop, people pounding the pavement, the endless line to get into a movie theater. Multiple drummers made for an especially rhythmic accompaniment.

Organizer Jameson always invites audience members who want to geek out over the film to come talk to him afterwards and I was part of the little group that did just that.

A first-timer to the SMR was also among that group as we discussed the heavy-handed treatment city dwellers got in the government's attempt to glorify farm life. The question was, how much was an accurate depiction of life in the 1920s and how much was exaggeration for the sake of making a point?

Not surprisingly, a good part of SMR's crowd then moved over to Grace Street for Live at Ipanema with Kentucky's Englishman, a band I'd seen twice before and was still eager to see again. My seatmates at SMR became my seatmates at Ipanema, except they switched sides so as to confuse me.

We had plenty of time before the show started, so I had a piece of the chocolate Mexican pie with a warming glass of vin rouge. I loved the heat of the spices layered under the chocolate so much that I ended up recommending the pie to another diner considering it (she agreed with my assessment but was smarter and got hers a la mode).

Not long after finishing, it was time to turn around on my stool and enjoy the view from the bar. I had already told my new-to-Ipanema friend about Englishman's evocation of 70s singer/songwriters and he heard what I was talking about, commenting on the purity of the sound (he's a musician of course). He was even so curious as to check out the recording equipment later, praising the warm vocal sound produced.

With just guitar, keyboard and two beautiful voices, the band's lovely folk pop filled the little basement restaurant, capturing the crowd. Favorite lyric: I may thirst with others, but I drink because of you.

During the performance, talk was at a minimum but when a couple walked out mid-song, singer Andrew said, "You didn't like Matt's piano playing?" to their disappearing backs. I laughed, hoping the couple had heard him.

When their set was over, Matt and Andrew moved to the bar to hang out (their words, but really to quaff with the audience) while everyone began moving around to chat about some rather unusual subjects, like childhood cruelty, for instance.

Somehow I was sucked into a discussion with a couple friends about giving Indian rug burns, a practice I had all but forgotten, but was a little appalled to hear about "swirling" (holding a kid upside down so his hair goes in the toilet) and how many kids it takes to manage this maneuver.

I ran into a musician I hadn't seen in months; turns out he'd moved north and that was why. He made my evening by telling me that he still reads my blog regularly to keep up with what's going on here. I couldn't have been more complimented.

Various groups of us also discussed all the music of the past few days, as well as what's upcoming. Despite, or perhaps because of, the holidays, we're in a really great run of shows right now.

If this keeps up, every day will be fun day. Wouldn't that be a lovely thing?

Sprouting Sprigs at a Wine Dinner

There are wine dinners and then there are wine dinners. Tonight's Farmers' Dinner at Sprout featuring Manakintowne Specialty Growers and Virginia wines was outstanding.

Sprout's usually casual, funky ambiance was transformed by china, candles and flowered napkins into a chic little bistro full of foodies and wine enthusiasts. Even owners Jamie and Laurie were looking especially fine tonight. Since they're usually closed on Sundays, the whole thing felt a little like a stealth get-together.

The folks from Manakintowne Growers were there and were introduced. The wine representative outlined the wine to come and what it would be paired with.

She had asked Chef Charlie to speak about his food, but he'd declined saying only, "I know it's good." Having known Charlie for close to five years now, that's about what I would expect him to say.

And it was good, very good. The first course was a salad of mixed greens, including fennel, kale, arugula, cilantro, green tomatoes, red onions, local apples and toasted seeds in a toasted seed dressing. The Barboursville Brut, the ideal start to the meal, held its own with the mouth-watering selection of greens.

Next up was a winter squash ravioli with pumpkin, Twin Oaks tofu and local feta paired with Horton Petit Manseng. I wasn't familiar with the grape, so I got a kick out of learning that this southwestern French wine was used to baptize kings instead of water. How lucky are we that this grape does so well in our Virginia soil?

The wine had beautiful aromas and as much as I liked the first sip, it was after the first bite of the creamy ravioli that it became obvious how well it had been matched to the dish. I couldn't help having more of this rich full-bodied dry white wine. Yum.

The main course was Polyface chicken ballantine, boned and stuffed with sausage, apples and oysters over a turnip puree with chard. The combination of flavors, reminiscent of Thanksgiving, called for something un-wimpy to stand up to it and the Horton Norton succeeded admirably.

After having read Todd Kliman's book about the Norton grape, The Wild Vine, this past summer and tasting various Nortons around the state to supplement my reading, I already knew I was a fan of this grape.

It's known as one of those that people either love or hate (probably more of the latter). My table mate (another solo diner) hadn't had it, but she took one sip and pronounced, "Funky! I love it!" mirroring my feelings about Dr. Norton's discovery. More Norton, please.

Our last course was a rosemary berry chocolate torte served with the Horton Xoco chocolate wine. So that you know, Chef Charlie used to be the pastry chef at Balliceaux and I was devoted to his desserts there.

Many was the time that I'd go in and have wine and dessert and he'd always come out and solicit my opinion about his latest creation. So I knew going in that tonight's dessert would be spectacular.

The little round torte was thickly iced with rosemary and chile-infused ganache. The red coulis on the plate was made from, among other things, beets and purple carrots, conveying a natural sweetness. The whipped cream on top was dense and cocoa dusted. Divine does not begin to describe it.

Each plate came with a sprig of rosemary on it and my table mate pointed and said, "Look, your sprig is blooming." Given my recent change in direction, it seemed an appropriate metaphor. As she noted, no one else's sprig was in flower. I'll take it.

The Xoco worked well with the dessert, although it wasn't to my taste once the torte was history. As our wine rep told us, there is no middle of the road with this wine. I would say it has its place with the right dessert, but it was a bit much for me.

When Charlie came out finally, he suggested we tell our friends about the new wine dinner series at Sprout and I told him that was a bad idea.

If we go blabbing about it, our spots may be snapped up next time and then where will we be? I'm kidding of course, but at $35 all inclusive, this meal is easily the best wine dinner deal in the city. Creative food, great ambiance and an interesting crowd added up to something special on a Sunday night.

As I was leaving, I stopped to talk to owner Jamie about the new stage they've just put in the back room. I'd seen my first show on it Friday night and wanted him to know how much a short person appreciated the raised musicians. He's tall, but he got it.

And since they weren't having music at Sprout tonight, I made my way to Grace Street for the latest installment of Live at Ipanema, featuring the honey-voiced Lydia Ooghe. The usual suspects were there, musicians, DJs, my Folk Fest drummer friend and even my new show buddy put in an appearance.

With no fanfare or introduction, Lydia (and the always-impressive Trey Pollard on pedal steel and Jake Thro on bass and backing vocals) launched into her set and the crowd quieted right down, all except for the overly-loud trio at the end of the bar.

Since these shows are recorded, most people have the courtesy not to compete with the music, but not these three. I saw several people cast dirty looks their way but they were oblivious. Ah, well. I just tuned them out as Lydia no doubt did.

Afterwards, I had a chance to work the room, reliving the Sufjan show with the Richmond Scene and discussing the upcoming week's amazing lineup of shows with a musician friend, a guy who has three shows this week. Bring it on, we agreed.

There are Sunday nights and then there are Sunday nights. This was one of the really good ones.