Here We Go Loop-de-Loo

They're baaaack!

Three of the female variety stood in front of me at Steady Sounds.

My favorite had long, curly red hair tied up in a black scrunchee, a black and white striped t-shirt over black shorts and low-top white Converse, but she won my heart with her violet cloth bag which was a copy of the original cover of Virginia Wolf's "A Room of One's Own" worn earnestly and un-ironically.

Three, or maybe it was four, of various sexes, all talking over top of each other like in a Robert Altman movie, spilled out of a house on Marshall Street as I walked home from the record store.

I heard one laughing voice asking, "Did you have fun today?" while another squealed, "Where are we going now?" and a third exclaimed, "I had so much fun today!"

Pure, unadulterated exuberance.

Three of the male persuasion of varying heights and one female with a skateboard awaited on the corner of Clay and Harrison.

Clearly new to city life, they were so hesitant as to be paralyzed about crossing the street, despite the red light that kept me from moving until they did, so I waved them across, garnering grins and thank yous. Their mothers would be so proud.

You guessed it, Richmond is suddenly lousy with incoming gringos freshmen and you can barely swing a dead cat without hitting one so inevitably when I leave my apartment, there they are.

As opposed to my three-block walk, Philly quintet Honey Radar said it took seven hours to get to Steady Sounds, which seemed to be a surprise to them but is really just common sense to anyone who knows I-95 on a Friday (especially during the summer).

Walking in, the first friends I saw there were the living room show hosts, still recovering from the high of Wednesday evening's show and the requisite celebrating that followed. On the other hand, they were there.

The band's catchy sound was short, jangly (hello, three guitarists), lo-fi and, at least one friend heard Guided By Voices influences as we listened to older stuff and songs from their new album. Most songs didn't so much end as fall away, as if their attention was already on to something else.

Midway through their set, the store owner slid a couple of beers across his counter in the direction of the long-haired guitarist (as opposed to the other two with wholesome short hair) who, without taking his right hand off the guitar used his left to give his benefactor a thumbs up, open the beer one-handed and take a swig before returning to the song.

That's talent, folks.

Even so, the in-store performance at Steady Sounds was merely the appetizer for the show at Hardywood that became my next stop.

I found the photographer minus his cute wife at a picnic table outside, chowing down while inside, the crowd was summer-small, meaning I scored a table and chair with no effort at all.

Kenneka Cook had just begun playing when I arrived and while I'd forgotten her name, immediately I recalled first seeing her al fresco at the Valentine's music in the garden series. Using her rich voice, she layers it with beat boxing until there's a full-bodied soul song with harmonies coming out of one woman.

"This is one I wrote the words to but not the music," she teased. "You'll recognize it." The theme to "Mission Impossible" turned out to be not only familiar but also a fine music bed for her songwriting.

Extroverts are always happy when the break between music is full of company.

I was soon joined by a dapper friend and comedian, fiendishly attired in sunglasses, a seersucker jacket with a pin on the lapel and a harmonica in the pocket. Occasionally he'd withdraw a black handkerchief and dab dramatically at his forehead and neck like a true Southern gentleman despite his Indian heritage.

He wasted no time trying to make me laugh, explaining how refers to Hillary Clinton. "I call her Hi C, but I know that's not a good name because no one likes Hi-C," he deadpanned.

When I responded, "Well, they like it better than Tang," his eyes grew wide and he laughed because he though its was so hilarious.

Hilarious to the point that he later told the story to another friend, with attribution, of course (despite me telling him he could use it), assuring me, "I don't steal jokes, well, except for that once and that was from a magazine article."

We all understand situational rationalization, don't we?

A musician friend came over to say hello and ask how my summer is going, to which I said it's been fabulous.

Her surprised look was followed by admitting that she tends to focus on the lame parts rather than the great bits when asked about her summer. Wednesday I'd been asked the exact same question and had responded the same way, only to have that friend lament, "Maybe mine has been fabulous and I just don't say it."

Why the hell not?

When Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" began playing, my body took over but I also told Mr. Dapper that I was the only one in the room who not only knew the song title, but the artist.

Not content to believe me, he pulled out his phone and moved toward the speaker to Soundhound it, but I insisted on telling him what it was before he could tell me what his device said.

 Just then I spotted a nearby woman dancing just as hard as I was to it.

Naturally, she was soon added to my circle, saying she'd forgotten Patrice's name despite dancing to it like it was 1982 again.

Originally a native Richmonder, she'd spent 20 years living in Miami Beach and when I asked what lured her back, she put it succinctly. "I'd gotten too old for clubs, I was too young for Century Village, so I came back because Richmond got hip while I was gone."

On that topic, the photographer and I discoursed long and hard after he told me about a couple of record compilations his record label is putting together along with photographs, show flyers and video archives that trace the arc of the rise of RVA's scene the past seven years.

Well, butter me up and call me a biscuit because there's a project I intend to get behind 100%.

A big reason I'd come tonight was to hear Nelly Kate do her looping magic with voice, keyboard and knobs, which she did despite technical difficulties that would have beaten a lesser artist.

The haunting songs, though produced similarly to Kenneka's, sounded like they were from another universe, but her set was too short considering the gap between shows now that she's living out of town for a while.

She called Dave Watkins up to join her for one song before ceding the stage to him and his dulcitar looping magic. Guitar geeks and guys in general made up the front row, all agog at Dave's mastery with his handmade instrument.

Once he was finished, I got a sweaty hug and a chance to chat with him about summer, which must be close to over because there are three parties on my block tonight which is a sure indication that they're back.

But ask me how my evening went and I'll tell you it was fabulous. Because it was.

Evening as a Work of Art

For better or for worse, I have a tendency to romanticize.

So I can be completely carried away by something as simple as watching what is most likely the last moonflower of 2015 opening on my porch last night. I feel somehow wistful and anticipatory about having to wait another eight months to see one of those big, white blossoms unfurl itself right in front of my eyes.

And smells! It's rare I pass a blooming gardenia or rose bush without stopping to inhale its perfume, which manages to evoke a sense of gentleman callers on soft, summer nights, even though that's obviously never been my experience.

So naturally I am sucked in by an event called "Richmond As a Work of Art," a panel discussion at the Depot on Broad Street, about the city.

Because I absolutely do see this city as a work of art.

Since I'd never been upstairs at the Depot, I was clueless that the exact spot where I was sitting was the point at which the Ashland train would board and unload passengers on the loading platforms on either side. Nor was I aware of the existence of a viaduct that extended from that platform out the back and over Carver to Brook Road.

Truth be told, I find the notion of a train traveling over a neighborhood kind of romantic. You see my problem?

It took a good quarter of an hour for the moderator to get the ball rolling, so I used the time to catch up with an old friend who'd come in just behind me. Finally, we started.

"I'd like to achieve a Republican debate format without the..." the moderator said, trailing off. "Republicans?" my friend joked.

"The hair," Ms. Moderator finished and began the slide show. Explaining that Richmond was built on a grid, she made a case for it being a superior grid to Philadelphia's because ours isn't built around a central point. And then there's the matter of adapting a grid to Richmond's unique terrain.

I give her credit, she'd assembled a terrific panel: Bill Martin of the Valentine, mural artist Ed Trask, architecture critic Ed Slipek, architect Burt Pinnock of Baskerville and, perhaps most surprisingly, Dimitra Tsachrelia, an associate of the NYC firm that's designing the Institute for Contemporary Art a few blocks away.

After Ed Trask made a plea for bringing the viaduct back, Bill harshed his mellow by insisting that we not romanticize the building we were in. The front doors to this very building, he told us, had once been labeled "Whites" and "Coloreds," hardly a romantic memory.

Dimitra, whose honeyed Greek-accented voice had everyone leaning in to hear her pearls of architectural wisdom, had done her homework, learning that on the site of the ICA once stood a train station. She made an analogy about the new building welcoming arrivals just as the old one had.

From Burt, we heard about the renovations of the old armory into the Black History Museum, a project just a few blocks from my house. He also spoke passionately about developing a memorial at the Lumpkin's jail site, preferably a raised pavilion (100 year flood plain and all) that allows sight lines to the ongoing archaeological dig.

Mostly, they all discussed the aspirational nature of building for the future, even when you're building to memorialize people and events of the past and what a lengthy process that's traditionally been. Bill pointed out that it's always the elite few who decide what buildings will look like, not a consensus of citizens.

News to me: the main library is a building wrapped around the original building, a feat praised by the moderator, and one of which I'd been completely unaware. Not that long ago, a friend had lamented the loss of the beautiful Art Deco library when the new one was built in the '70s, and now I wonder if she knows that her beloved library lives on inside those dated-looking walls.

Kind of romantic, right, that older library just inside a newer facade? Or hearing about the city's buildings while sitting on a former train platform, looking out enormous windows where a viaduct once soared over houses?

Okay, maybe it's just me.

Black Iris was hosting Play/Things, a performance by Leslie Rogers and Nelly Kate, pulling from the gallery installation based on their cross country trip this summer, which I'd seen a few weeks ago.

The only problem? The invitation asked that we "joyously abandon romantic notions of journey and catharsis." What? Give up my notions?

Instead, we were asked to revel in the unearthing and production of art, life and mischief, aka performance art, with Nelly doing music for Leslie.

Words can't adequately convey the ruminations on the 9,000-mile journey the two women took, but let's just say it involved apologies - for potholes, for butt holes, for Santa and Santana - from behind an American flag with six silver stars, commentary about older men ogling the two of them showering outside in St. Augustine and the saga of a farmer and closet quilter, a man who took credit for many quilting practices even though he hadn't really conceived of them.

At one point, Leslie went behind a quilt she'd made in a workshop at a Nebraska museum and stripped off her clothes, replacing them with a body stocking complete with penis, a cop jacket and hat and making remarks about police policy ("Did you get your feelings hurt? Shoot. Did they get up again? Shoot." Scary, all of it.).

The piece ended with that character laying down on the map of the U.S. and pulling the American flag up over her. She laid there so long the audience wasn't sure whether to clap or not. Was the performance over? We'll never know because Black Iris started the applause and then people got up to leave.

What can you do after having your mind stimulated with musings on consumerism, feminism and nationalism but seek out food, wine and conversation? Some things call out to be shared.

The first thing I found on arriving in Carytown was a 12-piece brass band playing in front of Mongrel to an enthusiastic crowd. The band members looked young but their sound was fully formed and before long, people were dancing and applauding on the sidewalk.

I found what I was looking for at Curry Craft where I also stumbled into a favorite couple I'd not seen in months. Guilt was induced, hugs were offered and we were soon making plans for lunch and soft openings.

Sipping a Rose made from the mencia grape, I dug into pondicherry escargots, a fantastic hybrid of French and Indian featuring escargots made irresistible with pondi spices and tamarind peanut ketchup, sopping up the ketchup with garlic naan smeared with goat cheese.

It was fusion of the very best kind, enjoyed to a pulsing Bollywood beat and with friends and chef to talk to. I lost them early to the ravages of their last night's 3 a.m. bedtime (amateurs!) but made friends with a Russian (made all the more surprising because the girlfriend who'd just left was from Ukraine) and a girl who invited me to join her for a drink at Portrait House (her boyfriend having gone home tipsy to spoon with the dog).

Fortunately, they left me an excellent conversationalist with whom I could sip Rose, discuss offal and timid diners and finish out my night laughing.

I'm not romanticizing it, but I certainly enjoyed every minute of it.

Fortunate Daughter

Never let it be said that I can't take advantage of a last minute offer.

So when I saw at 7:45 that a friend had posted  a couple hours earlier that he had some passes to see "White Rabbit Red Rabbit" at the Basement, I immediately messaged him to see if one was left. It was.

I'm more than a little proud to say that I put myself together, got over there and was in my seat by 7:59. No joke.

All I knew about the one-person play was that it lasted an hour and used a different actor for each performance. Once there, I learned that Keri Wormald had see it at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and decided that Richmond needed to stage it.

During the course of the play, we learned that the playwright, Nassim Soleimanpour, is an Iranian conscientious objector who refuses to do Iran's mandatory military service, so he's not allowed a passport and can't leave the country.

The play, his first written in English, is his way of getting his voice heard and having a presence in places he can't go. It's done with no set, no costumes, no director, no rehearsals. Just one brave person and an audience.

Our actor tonight was burlesque queen Deanna Danger in black and white striped pants, a long, red ponytail hanging almost to her waist. She opened the sealed envelope, began reading the script to us and immediately instructed us to count off by number. I was 24, one off my favorite number, 23.

Our numbers turned out to be the means by which the script could call someone else onstage to assist Deanna in telling the story (no, my number was not called). When she called number 5 up, she instructed her to pour one of the vials of poison on the table into one of two glasses.

So we were off to a most interesting start.

Over the course of the next hour, Deanna called others up, pretended to be a cheetah imitating an ostrich (she did a mean ostrich) and had us close our eyes so she could rearrange the glasses if she so chose. She also read out Nassim's e-mail address so that we could contact him if we so chose. "I promise to answer if I'm alive," he promised in the script.

It was a very cool construct; he'd written a play to future audiences, knowing he'd never see them or his play performed. Yet, his script was the reason people were gathered doing things he'd dreamed up, even taking notes and photographs in the process. "I make people do something," he wrote. That he did.

Near the end, Deanna read his 17 ways to commit suicide, adding that the 18th way was life, also an inevitable way to ensure death. "Luck is the key to flippancy," had to be his most brilliant line. So true.

Of course the play ends with the actor drinking one of the glasses and the audience has to presume? hope? that either it's the un-poisoned glass or that the poison wasn't real. It's all about the limits of obedience.

It was also one of the most compelling nights of theater I'd seen because of how it unfolded, completely in the voice of the man who wasn't there but had much to question. Keri Wormald had been right - Richmond did need to experience this.

With my evening's surprise over, I continued with my regularly scheduled evening, a show at Black Iris. The timing was perfect. Moments after I arrived, Nelly Kate took the stage, a groovy light show playing behind her and the rapt attention of the crowd in front of her.

If you haven't seen her, she's a master of looping, layering sound and voice to build up densely textured songs. Tonight she was doing a bunch of new material because she's about to leave on a summer tour. Not that we were her guinea pigs, but more like her devoted fans (and there were plenty of musicians in that group) eager to hear new music in her distinctive voice.

Each song built on itself until a blind man would've assumed there was more than one person onstage. Later, when I complimented the new stuff, she said that every night for months she'd written what she wanted to hear until she had all these gorgeous songs.

After her set, I said hello to the band photographer, the bridge builder, the Richmanian Rambler, the gallerist and the queen of booking bands. Later I ran into the poet who surprised me by saying she's gotten all domesticated and is buying a house in Goochland. Better her than me.

It took no time for California duo Them Are Us Too to set up and begin kicking ass and taking numbers.

Synth based with an incredible female vocalist (think Kate Bush or, yes, Elizabeth Fraser) who must have been listening to Cocteau Twins in utero (and played drums when necessary) and a guitarist (with both hair and a guitar sound deeply indebted to the Cure's Robert Smith) just as key, providing the reverb-laden counterpoint required to achieve the perfection of dreamy goth-pop.

I was in love with their sound midway through the first song. A friend came over and asked if I was having fun. Wordlessly nodding in response, he said, "They're amazing, aren't they? And she's singing through strep throat."

You'd never have known it as they created dreamscape after soundscape, her multiple octave vocals soaring through the shoegaze guitar of her partner, all of us in the room willing victims drowning in washes of sound.

I heard someone say they were both 21 and if that's true, they've been listening to all the '80s music I loved since they were in diapers, only to reinterpret it in a way that's reverential without being cluttered with other influences. They clearly know what they like and happily for me tonight, it's exactly the same stuff I loved the first time around.

Only problem? Their set was over way too quickly (or did it just seem that way?) when I could have easily listened to them go on for another hour.

Somehow I'd managed to take in a thought-provoking Iranian play and catch a show that would have been a sellout in a bigger city, all within the brief space of three hours.

Luck is the key to that kind of evening. I had it in spades tonight.

Couldn't Ask for Better

I don't even know how I could pick my favorite moment of the evening.

It might be when I walked into Lunch for the Shoryuken Ramen pop-up at 5:03 (three minutes after they opened) and took a seat at the end of the counter.

The lovely Asian-looking woman behind the counter looked at me and said, "Your hair looks great! Who does it?" When I said it was me, she asked if I was a hairdresser. Ha! I explained that I've been cutting it myself for a year and a half and just learned how to blow dry in 2014. Still, she raved.

To someone who was raised by a mother who preached that "if your hair doesn't look good, it doesn't matter about the rest of how you look because that's all people will remember," this was heady stuff. I thanked her repeatedly.

Then I ordered a bowl of tonight's special, wontononmen, opting for shio (salty) over shoyu (soy sauce) in the fragrant chicken-based broth with scallions, bok choy, noodles and wontons of pork and shrimp. After a liberal sprinkling of Nanami Togarashi, I inhaled every bit, saving the plumpest wonton for my last bite.

While it was my first visit to the pop-up in residence at Lunch until the end of February, I heard several people mention they'd been there before, including two people who'd gone last night. The place, admittedly tiny, was completely full by 5:30 and I could see why the friend who used to live in China had said the small size made it feel like a true noodle bar.

All except the music maybe - that was vintage Cars, Bowie and Police - but as far as I was concerned, it was the ideal thing for noodle-slurping.

One of the servers showed off her new high-waisted jeans to another server and I admired them, too, telling her they looked like a favorite pair of mine circa 1984. "Ooh, I love the '80s," she squealed.

As I'd hoped, I was sated and out of there by 5:45, en route to the Valentine for the first of their 2015 Community Conversations series, this year at the newly renovated museum itself instead of all over town like last year's.

This year's theme is changing neighborhoods and tonight's topic was Highland Park. I arrived just before things got started and spotted the Man About Town, who swept over to say hello.

"Your hair looks fabulous!" he told me. "Very 21st century!" What was going on with my hair tonight?  A girl could get used to all these compliments.

The session began with the little handheld devices used for polling to determine the demographic of the audience. First question? "What do you think of the Cowboys beating the Lions?"

Like 63% of the audience, I clicked "E" for "Really, you're starting a community conversation with a question about football?" I could have just as easily clicked "I hate the Cowboys," but I hate to miss a chance at humor.

After determining that the crowd was overwhelmingly white and that most of us had never lived in Highland Park, we broke into small groups for discussion of our HP memories.

Of the six people in my group (including city councilwoman Ellen Robertson), half had no experience with the neighborhood and that group included me. What I did have was a story my Dad had told me about his youth in HP, so I shared that.

He'd been a teenager, it was after baseball practice and he and a friend had gone to sit on a knoll in HP and drink beers while watching the windows of a nearby house. It was a favorite perch because the woman in the house was known to undress with the lights on. This night she did and so did the man in the room with her.

It was after they got into bed and started getting it on that Dad saw another man - apparently the husband -enter the bedroom, start yelling and shoot the man in bed. When I'd asked Dad what he'd done after that, he said he and his friend had finished their beers and gone home to bed.

When I finished the story (one Dad has told me a dozen times over the years), everyone in my group was agog. "You win!" two of them said and everyone nodded enthusiastically, even the councilwoman. It wasn't even my memory, just an old chestnut I'd been hearing since childhood about my father's Richmond childhood.

Once the small group sessions broke up, facilitator Matt asked if anyone had a story to share and everyone in my group pointed to me. After telling it again to the entire room, a man in the back said, "Was that the 2600 block of Third Avenue?"

Holy cow, small world. The man turned out to be a long-time HP resident who shared tales of a bucolic period in HP's history when people kept chickens and rabbits in their back yard ("We watched people wring their necks. Those were good years.") and streetcars (7 cents a ride) gave way to buses (8 cents per ride) and everyone had to scrape up another penny to ride.

A man who'd moved to HP in the late '60s and raised his family there told of an old-timer in the neighborhood who'd come by when he was painting his house. His advice was never to paint the whole house at once since it would only need repainting. Better to paint two sides this time and two sides in a few years. "To this day, I still do it that way," the man concluded.

Can I just say how much I enjoy these community conversations for stories just such as those?

The Hat got up and filled our heads with fun factoids about HP, how architecturally intact it still was because the highway didn't cut through it (unlike my beloved Jackson Ward). Brian from H.O.M.E. said his would be the most boring part of the program and explained that between 2007 and 2010, HP had the highest foreclosure rate in the city (103 out of 852 houses). Not boring.

From the councilwoman and a representative from the Better Housing Coalition, we learned that the same things that attracted people to HP 100 years ago (proximity to downtown, a feeling of being removed from the bustle of city) still hold true. The problem is that 21st century families no longer need or can afford five-bedroom houses with 5,000 square feet.

Like cheesy suburban developments being built in the counties now, HP had all been built relatively quickly, between 1890 and 1920. The neighborhood has the highest concentration of Queen Anne and Victorian houses in the area.

I was getting worried we were going to run out of time for my favorite part of these conversations, the show and tell that Valentine director Bill Martin does using old photos from the collection to talk about the neighborhood, but he slid it in right at the end.

It was amazing to see Victorian families standing in front of these large houses with no close neighbors and a streetcar running down the middle of the street.

When the evening ended, the man who'd guessed the location of my father's story approached me and said, "I'm pretty sure I know your Dad. What's his name?" I told him. "Where'd he live?" I had no idea. We walked out together, confirming my father's age and discovering that they'd both gone to the old John Marshall High School.

I can not wait to tell my father about this man I met because I blabbed about his story. I expect he'll be as tickled as I was.

Still high from that encounter, I headed directly to Black Iris for an evening of music and film which had just begun as I walked in.

As soon as I opened the door, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Nelly Kate's exquisite voice and quickly found a place among the packed crowd.

It was so good to hear her singing after her "year of saying no" when she cut way back on performing. She had new material and the crowd ate it up, not to mention Dave Watkins' ever more sophisticated light projections behind her to add to the total audio/visual experience.

I would never talk while Nelly was singing, but I was thrilled to find that the audience was not only silent but intent on the performance. It's safe to say that anyone who'd never heard her before was rendered speechless, so perhaps that was it.

When she finished, people rushed to the bar and I took the opportunity to socialize with all kinds of friends - the theater couple, the band photographer, the WRIR DJ, the cute couple band mates and, yes, once again the Man About Town.

I spotted four people like me who'd come from the Valentine. Even the actor formerly known as Hedwig was there, providing me with the too-infrequent pleasure of his witty company as we caught up after months.

The guy I always see at shows was there ("Hello, young lady") and detailed his recent ten-day stay in New Orleans for me. He'd stayed in the Marigny, had access to a bike (logging 20 miles in one day) and seen 30 bands in 10 days. Then he'd come home and slept for two weeks.

Coincidentally, another friend also whispered about his recent trip to NOLA when Todd Chandler's film, "Carnival Conquest" began. Beginning with imagery of a Carnival cruise ship in an industrial canal, smaller boats eventually overtook the behemoth while Todd played accompanying music.

Another short film, "Bovina," began with clouds, followed by a night sky, fireworks and ended with a huge bonfire while "Shore Birds" showed just that.

"Salvage Title" showed a giant piece of machinery scooping up cars and buses in a junkyard, sort of a post-industrial Japanese horror creature consuming its victims.

What was cool about all his films (besides how beautifully shot they were) was that he kept the recorded sounds from the filming - the boom of the fireworks, the crash of the surf, the growl of the machinery- but layered appropriate live music over it.

During the break after his films, more friends showed up, including the dance party enthusiast who'd also been to the ramen pop-up tonight but only after they'd sold out of the incredible wontononmen I'd had. They'd still had the vegetarian version, but, like me, he didn't want that.

Even a first-timer like me knew enough to bee there minutes after opening and he's a veteran of several visits, so he should have known better.

Mirah and her guitar were the evening's headliner (Todd accompanied her) and it was soon apparent that she had plenty of die-hard fans in the audience. Not all that surprising since I'd read that she's been making music since the late '90s.

Her voice, an airy soprano that worked the microphone with nuance and longing, could have probably sung the phone book and sounded wonderful, but she was doing a lot of material from her 2014 album, "Changing Light" instead.

Favorite lyric: "You are a season I will not find again."

If the audience had been respectful for the first two acts, they were worshipful for Mirah, calling out song titles and singing the la-la refrain when she asked them to. "You're being very quiet. I couldn't ask for better," she said, flattering us.

Sometimes she took requests and once she responded, "I am playing some old songs. Maybe not all the ones some of you wish I'd play..." Her voice had such a  pure sweetness and finger-picking both her guitars, she created little worlds with every song.

Offering up a consolation prize, as she called, she said she was going to do a cover, one she'd recently done at a house show where no one recognized it. "It made us feel like the cool kids, " she beamed as Todd readied the keyboard.

We're never done killing time
Can I kill it with you
Until the veins run red and blue?

Their version of Lorde's "400 Lux" was absolutely killer, Mirah's supple voice being answered with Todd's responses of "And I like you" and the telling "You buy me orange juice."

When so few people knew what it was, she was delighted. "That makes us the coolest 40-year olds ever!"

Not sure I can choose the coolest part of a very cool evening. Maybe the rest of my group was right. I do win.

Pack a Musical Bag and Go

Set aside an hour and a half and I can guarantee you an utterly unique and completely brilliant adventure that'll be part urban scavenger hunt, part site-specific musical experience and in all likelihood, move you in the process.

Black Iris on Broad Street is the host for "Low Frequency Travel Agency," the source for this splendid undertaking, whereby you schedule an appointment to pick up a suitcase and map.

The map directs you on a journey through the city and the suitcase holds the speaker and a map; you push a button for the location and hear an original composition by the incomparable Nelly Kate specifically written for that place.

Included in the suitcase is a journal for you to record your impressions- musical, nature, urbanscape or whatever you want- of each experience if you so choose.

I was amazed that a woman with an old, green suitcase with music pouring out of it didn't merit more attention, but that's the beauty of this undertaking: it's really about you, the music created for these places and how it all moves you, passersby be damned.

Instructed to tuck into the entrance of a hanger, I was presented with a view of Richmond I'd never seen before, yet barely a mile from my house.

Taking a listen at a place on the river I'd never been to, I was greeted by a stray cat and a sign informing me it's illegal to keep herring because of an unexplained drop in their numbers in the mid-Atlantic.

Sitting on a bench smack in the middle of three streets, I saw not another soul and felt worlds away from humanity.

When instructed to pick a tunnel, I ignored the ones with water rushing through and the dry ones for the only one that had a bit of both.

And every piece of music Nelly had written for the locations made for a transcendent moment when experienced in situ, sometimes mirroring the feel of the place and other times reminding you of its history or future.

I came back from my urban trek feeling like I had seen the city in a whole new way.

The nearest thing I've ever experienced was Doug Aitken's "Song 1" projected on the Hirshorn, with images of people singing, driving, working and playing cards set to the classic song "I Only Have Eyes for You" and sung by everyone from Beck and Devendra Banhart to James Murphy and John Legend.

And as magnificent as that had been, this tops that because it's all about Richmond. A local space, a local musician and six choice Richmond spots with their own musical soundtrack.

You only have until December 20th to check out a suitcase and it's as easy as e-mailing Black Iris (benjamin@blackiris.tv) and telling them the day and time you want yours. Free, of course.

I promise it'll be the best thing you'll do all week and probably all month. Bravo, Black Iris and Nelly Kate.

During my urban escapade, I happened to park beside a car with a bumper sticker that said it all.

Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.

Music in a suitcase can be heard in Richmond and it's there, waiting for you to experience.

Do it. It'll be an unforgettable trip, I promise.

I Hear You're Looking for Someone to Love

"Is that porn?" was the question of the night.

Yes, it was, showing on a brick wall midway down Jefferson Street for all the world to see.

So it was that the First Fridays artwalk took a turn into the bare-breasted tonight.

I rounded up a willing girlfriend and we set out for some gallery hopping, beginning at Quirk.

Nelly Kate had the shop show, with a collection of small, framed drawings on one wall and an exquisite large-format painting/collage piece on the other.

I don't want to brag, but I already own a Nelly Kate piece.

My friend wanted to see the "Sparkle Plenty 8" show in the back and full of artsy jewelry the likes of which I'll never wear.

From there we went to Candela Gallery to see Linda Connor's photography show featuring photographs taken in such far-flung locations as Cambodia, India, Tibet and Egypt and capturing sacred and religious imagery as well as natural features like rocky landscapes.

I'd interviewed Connor earlier today and an hour into our talk, she'd looked at me and asked, "Are you an artist?"

When I asked her why she'd asked, she'd given me a wonderful compliment. "Because you get it." Hell, I admit it, I let her generous words go straight to my head.

Kind words aside, my friend agreed with me that her black and white photographs are a must-see.

Next up was Gallery 5 for Screens 'n Suds, a poster exhibit, one of my favorite kinds of works on paper.

Walking up Jefferson, my eye was immediately caught by the bouncing breasts high above my head on the side of a building.

My friend kept walking, but I kept looking, fascinated with some serious '70s sex action on the bricks.

Truth be told, I have seen very little porn in my life so I was curious.

Already playing when we got to Gallery 5 were Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, so after looking at posters, we took in the rest of their set.

A musician friend came up to say hello and gestured to the crowd around us. "I love seeing their faces as they experience this band for the first time."

Seriously, they were rapt, no surprise given Junglebeat's lush sound and killer harmonies.
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With a heads-up from the same friend not to miss the next band, a duo from Lynchburg, we set out to see some art during the breakdown and set-up period.

We got as far as the porn again before running into rocker Prabir.

General chit-chat ensued between the three of us while I watched the soft-core action of "The Pig Keeper's Daughter" over his shoulder.

After Prabir got over the shock of me not having a cell phone, something he should have known since we've known each other for five years now, I turned the topic to ways he could help my friend.

Back in 2009 when I was nursing a broken heart, Prabir had laid out a step-by-step plan for getting over my heartache, here.

Now that my friend was in that same sad position, I wanted him to advise her and once again, he suggested list-making, drinking and sex with strangers.

Since I hadn't tried out his plan, all I could do was nod and urge her to give it a shot. While I watched porn on the wall.

There may have been a suggestion about smoking weed and listening to Jefferson Airplane, but don't quote me on that.

Before she'd grasped the scope of what lies ahead for her, I heard music starting at Gallery 5, so our little trio made tracks for it.

As people walked around us, inevitably they turned back and asked, "Is that porn?" as if we were the experts, or maybe responsible for it.

Whether pleased or perplexed, they were smiling as they inquired.

Walking in to hear the Late Virginia Summers, I knew immediately that this was my sound.

Part shoegaze and all post-rock, they were creating the kind of textured soundscapes that needed no lyrics and qualify for what a musician friend describes as "night music."

Nathan was an amazing drummer, high energy, hitting hard and constantly doing five things at once. Joe's guitar playing was incredibly fast with hints of post-punk goodness.

After a couple of their songs, Nathan said, "This next one may or may not be a Matthew Sweet song."

By that, he meant it was an original song built around a riff from "Girlfriend," as recognizable a guitar line as any from the '90s. 

Pure heaven.

They closed with a kick-ass song with a title that got the attention of all three of us: "Please Stop Loving Me."

Actually, the full title was "(I'm Not All of Those Things) Please Stop Loving Me."

Friend thought it was a hell of  statement to tell someone to stop loving you. Prabir thought that telling someone don't stop loving me is even more of a nervy statement.

Personally, I prefer not to give instructions and hope to hear what I want to hear.

Afterwards, Nathan played tease, saying, "We only know one more song and we're not going to play it so you'll have us back."

We should only be so lucky to have them back for more mind-blowing post-rock.

By then my friend had to get going so I walked her back to my house where she'd parked and said goodnight so I could return to G5 for the crowd-pleasing, ever-energetic and grunge-y Hoax Hunters followed by Glass Twin, the band risen from the ashes of one of my long-time favorites, Marionette.

Technically, shows are supposed to end at G5 by midnight, but due to Glass Twin's sound problems causing a late start, they played on past the stroke of twelve, neighbors be damned.

They played so long that by the time I left, the porn wall had gone dark. Now I'll never know what happened to the pig keeper's daughter.

Although I have a sneaking suspicion it's a lot like #8 on Prabir's master list.

Saturday, So What?

Sometimes all I want is a simple Saturday night.

No high culture, no trendy foodstuffs, no company required.

Chalk it up to yet another of my eccentricities, but I just don't see the last day of the week as the highlight.

So instead of trying to think of what fabulous things I might enjoy tonight, I considered how to have a low-key evening alone.

Step one: dinner at Garnett's.

After claiming a counter stool, I went to the window and rifled through the newspaper box, extracting all the New York Times arts sections.

Back at the counter, I ordered a grilled Gouda with tomato and bacon, the pig-sporting cousin of my favorite sandwich at Ipanema.

Sans company, I was able to read and eat without conversational responsibility.

I read a review of "Lovelace," since I'd just seen the preview at Bowtie two days ago.

I read a piece called "Marriage is Yard Work" about a San Diego couple who have spent four years turning the backyard of the house they rent into an outdoor room, building most of the furniture themselves.

And then a couple sat down at the counter, having just come from the Sound City festival down at Tredegar.

Okay, so I hadn't gone out for conversation, but when it drops in my lap, what's a poor girl to do?

So I inquired. They liked that it wasn't particularly crowded. They were there early enough that the beer-pouring staff didn't yet know to pour half-full cups, so they got two full beers before someone caught on.

They thought the James Badfellows used too many cuss words (her term) for 2:00 in the afternoon. They wondered if El Vez really had an accent. They enjoyed Leagues.

And they didn't stay for the Breeders.

I knew everything I needed to and I could continue with my reading.

After finishing my deliciously gooey sandwich, I returned the newspaper to the box, thanked my server and headed home.

Step two: Warren Hixson.

Keeping it simple, I then walked three blocks to Black Iris Gallery for music.

It's the space that used to be Sound of Music and although I'd been to shows when it was SoM, I'd never gone beyond the front room.

Tonight the girl who took my money told me to head to the back "because there's beer there," and while I don't drink beer, I was curious about the unknown parts.

It was nothing like what I expected.

The room with the bar had beautiful wood wainscoting all the way around and it made me think of those walls where you touch a hidden button and the wall opens and allows you into a secret passage.

A mounted deer head over the bar, which in some ways resembled a rec room set-up.

Tall, narrow staircases continued up a few flights and this is apparently where the recording studios were.

So now I knew.

People continued to arrive, get beer and mingle until finally it was decided that we'd reached critical mass and the show could begin.

Frequenters of music shows knowingly refer to this as "Richmond time."

Nelly Kate, one of the organizers, made the point that Richmond needs to start shows when they say they will or else it's not fair to punctual arrivees.

My friend Dave Watkins often makes the same point.

So they didn't start on time, but it wasn't all that long before Warren Hixson took the stage in the front room.

As they began to play, I heard an annoying sound behind me and turned to find someone's iPod plugged into a small speaker and still playing.

Unnecessary, I deemed, and pulled the plug as if I were in charge.

It's so easy to take control sometimes.

Every time I see these guys (and girl, since Nelly's in the band), I hear how their sound has evolved even further.

Take one part garage rock, add in some almost grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards and before you know it, it's a pastiche with no discernible genre beyond their own.

Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, they start sounding groovier, a tad psychedelic and I am sucked in again.

And it wasn't just me; everyone I could see was dancing in place or bopping along to the sonic delights.

During one extended jam, a girl near me broke free of the crowd, went to the back of the room and began doing the hippie dance, catching non-existent butterflies with her eyes closed.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Maybe she was just looking to steer clear of company.

Sometimes that's a perfect Saturday night.

A Little Wisp of a Scherzo

You start slow and you build on a hot Wednesday evening.

Unlike last week, this week's happy hour at the Anderson Gallery required no brain power.

No talent for interpreting art and music, no ability to read into paintings of historical context.

Just the break I needed to really spend some time looking at the new exhibit, Jacob Lawrence's "The Harriet Tubman Series," and take the time to read all of Lawrence's captions written for the 31 pieces.

As if the paintings weren't painfully and exquisitely evocative of Tubman's life, the text he wrote was every bit as strong.

I took my time reading them and when I walked out of the gallery, there was a friend already sitting with beer in hand.

Like me, he wanted a good seat for GeNDeRS, the duo of singer Nelly Kate and video artist Michele Seippel.

As we sat chatting about his upcoming vacation (a much deserved three weeks), more friends came in and we noticed an unusually high percentage of babies present.

Or as one music-loving friend observed, "I feel naked without a baby!"

The performance began when Nelly emerged from the back room singing a capella and walking toward the front.

Michele's live animation was right there with her, showing on the wall she was approaching.

Once up front, Nelly began recording herself and looping, playing a keyboard and twisting knobs to layer sound at the same time Michele was layering video.

A few babies got restless, one kid licked a Popsicle while mesmerized by the video imagery and the rest of the room was rapt.

Nelly Kate, wowing people with her little girl voice and dense sound since 2011, at least in Richmond.

The addition of Michele's visuals made it even more trance-like than usual.

I thought it made for a very cool happy hour.

Sustenance was next courtesy of Mama J's right here in my 'hood and I arrived just minutes before the place filled up as if on cue.

The bartender recognized me, asked if I wanted the usual (fried chicken) and inquired about my side (collards).

Soon two guys joined me at my end of the bar and the one next to me said hello.

When he was asked for his order, he wanted catfish, but nuggets not a fillet, which aren't on the menu.

And just one fillet, not two.

But as soon as my plate arrived, he called our server over and changed his order to chicken like mine.

It wasn't long before he had regrets, though and, for the second time, changed his order back to catfish nuggets, this time two fillets cut up.

The server checked with the kitchen to see if this was possible and came back to tell the guy that they would cut up one fillet into nuggets but the second one would be whole.

"So you're telling me that's my only choice?" the customer asked, clearly not satisfied.

It was.

Personally, I think the kitchen was putting their foot down, not wanting to be back there making nuggets for this guy.

Or maybe they were tired of doing nuggets after Broad Appetit, although they did win the "To Die For" award for best entree for those very nuggets..

I know because I could see the trophy sitting right there behind the bar.

Fed and full, I wandered down 2 Street to the Speakeasy beside the Hippodrome for Pairs, the second cousin of Classical Revolution.

That's the group that's dedicated to bringing classical music to your local bar, restaurant and coffee shop, worthy aims all.

Last time the pairing had been classical and jazz and tonight's was classical and rock.

Once again, we found coasters sitting on the tables, this month's labeled "Membership Card," with the evening's program on it.

As far as how it came about, it was all about the bass.

Upright bass player Todd of My Darling Fury had mentioned that he had an arrangement of Brahms String Sextet written with a double bass part to replace one of the cellos.

Classical Revolution organizer Ellen ran with that idea, having him perform it with two violins, two violas and a cello and then follow it with a set by My Darling Fury.

Brilliant.

The four-movement Brahms piece had plenty of space in a room with 20' ceilings and the only counterpoint to it was the sound of a cocktail shaker being mixed behind the bar.

When they finished, a woman came over and joined me at my table, beer in hand and eager to chat.

"What movement was your favorite?" she asked after telling me she played cello, but "not on that level."

I hadn't considered it until she asked, but my brain told me it had been the third, the scherzo.

She liked the second, the andante, better for the recurring theme that wound its way through it.

Frankly, I was flattered that anyone would even try to talk music to me given my appalling lack of musical comprehension.

She deferred to me, however, when it came to My Darling Fury, since I'd seen them before and she hadn't.

It took an interminable time for the sound man to get it right for them but once the band started, all was forgiven.

Singer Danny has a fabulous voice, emotive and strong, and whether singing "Friendly Parasite" or about "Take her home to Mama," the songs were melodic and tightly executed.

On one song bass player Todd began beating on the back of his bass, causing a fellow bass player to holler from the bar, "Spank it, son!"

Like I said, it was all about the bass tonight.

Being the language geek that I am, I loved "Spilled Milk," full of American idioms  like "big boys don't cry."

During a slow song, there were suddenly three dancers, one woman and two guys, performing in the space between the stage and the crowd.

It was totally unexpected and a few people near me laughed in amusement, so I guess modern dance wasn't their thing.

"You guys thought you were coming to see a rock show, didn't you?" the guitarist joked afterwards.

They did "The End of the World," saying, "We like to place our love songs in different settings and this one's at the end of it all."

The viola and violin players, complete with music stands, and the dancers returned for the closing song, "Magic Creature," making for a melding of the evening's pairs or perhaps a metaphor for something bigger.

I just know it was really beautiful.

My final stop of the evening was Gallery 5 for, wait for it, more music, although I'd missed the first two bands.

I made it in time for Fort Worth's War Party, who were giving it their rocking all in front of a surprisingly small crowd.

That said, there were so many good shows tonight, it was hard to know where to be.

By the time they finished their set (including a plea for somewhere to sleep and smoke), the headliner, locals Hoax Hunters, were up against the clock.

Frontman and guitarist PJ surprised the hell out of me by taking off his hat (a first), obviously anticipating a hard and fast set.

"We're not going to waste your time. We have eleven minutes, so let's do this!" he yelled before the band careened into four or five songs.

It's not every band who could cover so much material and still be finished before Gallery 5's noise cut-off kicks in.

But then it's not every night I can hear everything from classical to punk with minimalist pop and chamber rock in between, either.

Shoot, I consider this night well spanked.

Wet and Wild

It was a night of unbridled enthusiasm.

I'd spent the week finishing several big assignments, so by the time 5:00 rolled around, I was chomping at the bit to get out and about.

I was barely six blocks from home and I saw a familiar face, Myron, a sculptor I know and whom I'd written about in this week's Style Weekly.

I called to him and we enjoyed a raucous conversation in the parking lot about the article.

He was especially tickled that I'd included his intended wording for his tombstone ("He was a fucking asshole"), saying he'd already heard from an out of town friend, bemused by it.

The night was off to a great start.

Driving down Main Street toward Carytown, it looked like everyone on the street was happy.

Once in Secco, one of the bartenders said as much. "You can practically feel people's energy on a Friday like this," he observed.

Let's just say it was so nice that I decided to turn the page to rose, kicking off the season with Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence rose, a pale salmon charmer with my name all over it.

I'd heard that they had a new menu and took suggestions from my server on what to eat.

He spoke highly of the roasted beets, dill creme fraiche, trout roe and rye crisps, so I said yes.

The guy two stools down was already eating the same dish and we compared raves about the complementary and satisfying flavors.

He went on to recommend the grilled octopus, roasted marbled potatoes, jalapeno and mint, a dish that knocked my socks off with its unexpected heat and toothsome seafood.

As my meal was winding down, I encountered a friend looking for a partner in crime, so I succumbed to her siren song and we enjoyed a springtime walk down to Acacia for a glass and some girltalk.

Both of us must have needed it because one would tell a story (often about our mother or sibling), which would remind the other of a story she needed to tell and then an anecdote from childhood (or worse, our teen years) followed ad nauseum.

While she tried cocktails, I stayed pink with Stolpman Rose, mainly because it was a Sangiovese and Grenache blend and I'm a sucker for both.

Our girl date came to an end when I needed to get to Strange Matter for a show and she needed to go crash after a long day.

Walking into Strange Matter was like walking into a sauna.

The place was packed and Warren Hixson, a local surf rock outfit, had the crowd in their thrall.

Front and center was Nelly Kate, a favorite of mine for her lovely voice and looping abilities, but I hadn't known she was in this band, so a bonus.

I found a friend and a big cup of water to ward off fainting in a room that felt dangerously bereft of air.

But, hey, that's rock and roll, right?

Given the size and sweatiness of the crowd, I wasted no time in finding a place on the wooden  banquette where I could stand and see over the crowd.

I gestured for a sweaty-looking friend to join me and he climbed up, too, maybe eager Io escape the crowd, many of whom had a large X on their hand.

Beach Fossils began their set with a jolt, taking no prisoners and inciting the crowd into a dancing frenzy in no time.

My friend observed that he liked how they combined chillwave and new wave, but the emphasis was more on new than chill.

Bandleader (and formerly the only one in the band) Dustin said tonight was the kick-off of their tour, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one thrilled to be catching them both at a small venue and early on in the tour.

"We haven't slept much, so we might be kind of out of it," he said preemptively.

The insane heat in the room ensured that his guitar never stayed tuned for long, a fact which he kept apologizing for ("Sorry to have to tune in between every song"), though he was no doubt as hot as we were.

"I gotta apologize when I hit a sour note," he grinned. "AKA, the whole set."

If his guitar was occasionally out of tune, his aching and appealing voice more than made up for it.

They did songs from their new album, "Clash the Truth" and their older albums, so everybody was happy.

As they got geared up to fever pitch, the knot of people dancing in the center of the room (where the temperature had to be even hotter than it was against the concrete walls) grew larger with people unable to resist the lo-fi garage pop onslaught of Beach Fossils.

Guitars jangled, the bass was melodic and the drums pounded away so that we couldn't lose the beat.

It was Friday night fun with a capital "F."

Dustin suggested we could expend even more energy, but it was all I could do to maintain my place on the banquette while my clothes became soggier and soggier.

And yet the girl next to me said she'd gone outside and been cold. Cold sounded awfully appealing by then.

"This is our fake last song," Dustin said. "Instead of pretending  this is our last and we're doing an encore, we're just going to do a few more."

That was the license for the audience to start crowd-surfing and before long, Dustin threw himself on top of eager fans.

Within moments, they dropped him, but he managed to scramble back on stage where they did "Daydream," a crowd favorite.

I didn't want the show to end, but I felt like I was melting against the people around me, so when Dustin climbed up on the bass drum to play his guitar, I knew the end was near.

I'd guess that the band's energy had to be near its end too, after an energetic set that left even my hair damp and all I'd done was dance in place.

The only logical thing to do was head out and hope to find some of that cold air I'd been hearing about.

Like my rose earlier, it had been a fine spring kick-off. AKA the whole set.

A Day with the Gentler Sex

Praise be for sunny January afternoons.

The kind that inspire a person to get in the car and drive to the norther neck to eat at Merroir.

Yea, I know Rappahannock is 3/4 of a mile from home, but it's not the same.

And getting there is a whole different thing, too.

Getting gas at the station just before the bridge in West Point (where a friend once did a sudden U-turn, announcing to the three surprised occupants of the car,"I can't drive over that bridge"), I saw  a sign on the fence.

Dangerous Tree Removal 
693-0998

Clearly this was an enterprise that doesn't mess around removing benign trees.

And don't we all feel safer knowing someone is on top of this risky task?

Crossing the bridge, it occurred to me what a shame it is that the picaresque billowing smoke coming out of factory smokestacks is a bad thing.

Seeing the six smokestacks all putting out cartoon-like puffs of white smoke against the white and gray buildings and bright blue sky was a study in shades of gray and blue, a lovely thing.

When my oyster-loving companion and I rolled up, we found the porch at Merroir draped in plastic and nearly every seat taken.

With back-up sweaters, we took a picnic table out back with a view of the bright blue river with its surface choppy in the afternoon breeze.

But it didn't last long; our server got as far as trying to set the wineglasses on the table when the wind demonstrated why drinking outside was not an option.

A sunny table on the porch provided a stellar view of the marina and a safe surface for the bottle of Thorny Rose and wineglasses.

We'd caught the end of the lunch rush, so the porch got progressively emptier as we ate and drank.

Given the stiff breeze, we started with the lamb and clam stew, a perennial favorite no matter the season.

Honestly, that tomato-based broth thick with bits of ground lamb is a thing of beauty and required extra bread for final sopping.

The eclectic music (The Fray to John Lennon) was much easier to hear inside, but sunglasses were still required.

In the spirit of a sunny afternoon and hopes for warmer days, we did the Wagyu beef and cheddar sliders with bacon jam, meaty little burgers that were going to a lot of tables near us.

About that time, it occurred to us that we'd be lying to ourselves if we didn't get some oysters, so a plate of them soon followed.

The briney liquid in the shells tasted a lot like I imagined the salty wind that had been whipping around the point outside did.

Say what you want about Rappahannock in the heart of Richmond, but it'll never beat the price or relaxed vibe of Merroir.

During a trip to the bathroom, I found my sex's room occupied, so I took advantage of the empty men's room next door.

Walking out afterwards, a short man in boots was lounging against the door frame.

Seeing me emerge, he raised an eyebrow over his mirrored sunglasses, but didn't say a word.

I quickly explained what had happened, hoping to mollify him.

"I'd've done the same," he drawled. "Have a nice afternoon, girl."

Girl?

He and his aging Madonna-lookalike girlfriend circa 1986 (right down to the scrunchy, sunglasses and boots) soon drove off in a little, red Corvette.

It was as satisfying a moment as seeing the dangerous tree sign.

A walk down to the dock is de rigueur after a lunch at Merroir, the better to admire the distinctive winter color palette of a January day on the northern neck.

But eventually, city slickers have to motor back to the city, so as to enjoy cultural activities, or they wither and die.

My chosen culture for the evening was the Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5.

What used to be a monthly event has become a much more occasional one as organizer Jameson has spent more time touring and traveling and less time teaching us neophytes about silent movie history.

Everything I know about silent movies I owe to Jameson and while it's not sizable (my fault, not his) it at least taught me how much I enjoy silent film.

But part of the magic of the SMR is that Jameson chooses a band he thinks will best complement the movie he's showing.

He's very, very good at this, which is really what makes the whole event so special, and tonight was no exception.

Sonic Nectar was hiding behind the movie screen, ready to improvise a score to "Hands: The Life and Love of the Gentler Sex," essentially an interpretive German film about romance using only hands

The hands met, flirted, grabbed and one even rescued the other's suicide attempt.

I thought the band's psychedelic instrumental rock was a fine match for the story of hands in love.

Usually at the SMR, there is one band and one movie, but tonight we got a double feature.

"Hands" ended up being merely the prelude for the main event, "Meshes of the Afternoon," an American avant-garde movie from 1943.

The film was a collaboration between Maya Deren and her husband Alexander Hammid and she starred in it.

While that may sound egotistical, the woman was an exotic beauty with a face you couldn't take your eyes off of, so watching her dream experiences that blended in with her real life was riveting.

Brilliantly, Jameson had chosen a woman to score this female-driven film in the form of Nelly Kate.

As many times as I've seen her perform (and not nearly enough in recent months), I love hearing her work magic with her voice, keyboard and a loop pedal.

Tonight, she used her voice to make all kinds of sounds and since we couldn't see her behind the screen, sometimes it was difficult to know whether she or her keys were responsible for what we were hearing.

Only afterwards did I hear from a photographer who'd been backstage that most of that had been created with her voice.

But having a woman's voice and words over a woman working her way through an interior life was nothing short of mesmerizing.

That was the great part. The less great part was that there won't be another SMR for months, probably not until April.

Leave 'em wanting, Jameson. Well done.

Because the SMR starts early and on time, it ends early, there was time to head to the Camel to see Scolaro, a band I had seen only once and that was a year and a half ago, here.

Not one to rush things, they were tonight doing their second live show.

I couldn't risk missing it since it might be mid-2014 before they bother to play out again.

I could tell as soon as I walked into the Camel that a lot of people must have tomorrow off because it was a fat crowd for a Sunday night.

There are two things you can count on at a Camel show: it won't start on time and all too often the sound is muddy.

Tonight we were two for two.

So much so that I changed locations, hoping for a better mix if I stood dead center in the room.

Sadly, no.

Scolaro, a sextet, has three vocalists and yet it placed a serious strain on my ear to hear the vocals in the mix, especially over the drums.

Not fair.

Josh, the leader and a long-time music buddy, began by saying, "I now it's silly to introduce ourselves 'cause I know most of you, but we're Scolaro."

I recognized several of the songs they played, including "Innervention," from some tracks Josh had sent me a while back.

They did a song so new it's still untitled, although they were referring to it as "Megan's song" because she sang it.

Although there was some question about Megan remembering all the words, we agreed as a group that it wouldn't matter since none of us had ever heard the song before.

It turned out to be one of my favorites tonight, with both women singing.

"Regift" shone brightest, sounding for all the world like well-produced, smooth R&B, a very good thing.

By the time they got to the end of their set, guitarist/vocalist Josh was obviously hot, wiping sweat from his face.

"Who'd like to hear another girl song?" he asked, steering the band toward his sister Megan singing again. "I would."

I would have too, although it would have been even better with the vocals higher in the mix.

But I'm not complaining because I was just happy to come back from the river and have so much fun stuff to do tonight.

I'd overheard a woman at Merroir today tell her friends that the great thing about visiting Richmond was that there was so much going on, that you could walk to bars, restaurants and music any night you go.

Isn't it the truth?

I'm A Believer

How to pick the highlight from a Friday par excellence?

The ink show for which I'd written the preview in Style?  InLight with people I knew doing installations and live music? French pop until the wee hours?

"History Ink: The Tattoo Archive Project" was everything I'd tried to convey in my article about the exhibit and more. One girl's back and arms told her whole story: two ex-boyfriends and three states lived in. Personal history as body decoration.

One guy's back had a ram and a Nittany lion, symbolizing his undergrad work at Penn State and his graduate work at VCU. Academic career as body art.

I was taken by a picture of a tattoo where the artist and the  decorated were the same person. As if that weren't cool enough, the artist/tattooed arrived at the picture when I did. After ascertaining that he was both, I asked him to stand like he was in the picture so I could verify his tattoo. He did. It was him.

Particularly striking was the confederate flag with ants marching over it tattooed on a black guy.

A favorite explanation of why one guy got his tattoo: "I wanted a big, awesome tattoo with a skull." Sometimes it's really that simple.

After eating and mingling at the DJ-fueled reception afterwards (Depeche Mode, Billy Idol), we checked out "Wickham House 200," a show of art inspired by the rooms of the historic Wickham House and executed by VCU students.

Two pieces struck me. "Oh, No We Never Mention Her" by Rachel Cohn was in the drawing room and used a song found in Mrs. Wickham's music book on a record player. The other, "Perpetual Dusk" by Sohail Abdullah was a light installation set in a slave's room.

Because the slave, Robin, left to work before sunrise and returned after sunset, he never saw the changing light in his small slave quarters. Abdullah's installation imagined the light he never saw. It was exquisite.

Plus it was the natural lead-in to the 2012 InLight along Broad Street.

From the very first courtyard and BYOB (bring your own beamers), we were treated to a face on brick and a meandering pattern based on music. At Adams and Broad, we saw a tree up lit with lights going on and off to the beat of music.

A couple walked up to view it, read the artist's statement and walked away muttering, "I don't understand that at all." Here's an idea. Don't try to understand it, just enjoy it.

A bottom-lit tree on a cold evening was a thing of Fall beauty. Rebecca Najdowski's "Infinity Box #2" caught my attention because it had its roots in a science fair project done in grade school. Then, her father had helped and it had consisted of  a shoebox, a mirror and a strand of lights. Tonight, I put my eye on the black box and saw my eye along with a swirling mass of psychedelic lights.

Down my beloved Henry Street I found "Meandering Dynamics," tied up to a tree and consisting of a series of used white buckets forming a sinuous and continuous chain of light. I walked my way through it.

Then how could I not be taken by an installation by two of my favorite musicians?

"Interstitial Transduction" had been brought to life by Dave Watkins and Nelly Kate, two fabulous musicians who can make themselves sound like a half dozen people. Each. Their installation was highly interactive, with a stand of "leaves" with concealed mics, meaning if you tapped them, the visual or sound changed in some way.

I told Nelly that the piece was a great resume builder and she corrected me. "And esteem builder!"

She said that early on before things got crowded, a little girl came through and took advantage of the absence of people to do it her way. She galloped around the structure, methodically tapping each leaf in turn to make her own music.

"It was the purest joy," Nelly told me smiling. "It was better than a month of therapy." We agreed that the beauty of the installation was the way it drew people in so they could experience the light and music however they chose to.

I stopped by the Trillions installation to hear them play, finding a large cadre of earnest yet tragic looking 18-year olds.

"We 're scared to do this song," lead singer Charlie told the crowd. "Should we?" When the crowd roared their approval he responded, "Yes, this is a democracy. The song is called 'Dead Meat.'" Afterwards, the band joked about InLight not being a competition.

"Yes, it is," the bass player corrected. "We really want to win." "Cut and Paste" was an upbeat boppy pop song I loved, the kind the Trillions deliver effortlessly. Meanwhile, light imagery played on the two side buildings and the curved screen behind them.

Favorite line: "You think too much."

We were told by Charlie that playing "You Gotta Be Kidding" would ensure that something onstage would explode, but nothing did. Well, that was a close one.

I could have gone home happy at that point, but why would I when Ipanema had DJ Sarah Gossett playing French pop songs from the '60s and '70s? I ordered some Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto D'Alba and ran into some friends I'd seen at InLight.

They joined me at my front table near the DJ "booth" although the sound wasn't as loud there as I would have liked. Sarah's music  choices were brilliant, especially some of the covers she played.

Nancy Holloway doing, "Je veux prendre la main" was just one of many Beatles covers I heard. I want to hold your hand, too, Nancy. There was Danielle Denin's "Je Lis Dans les Yeux,'' recognizable as "I'm Looking Through You."

Soon backup arrived to augment the sound near the front of the bar. "The talent requested it," I was told. No, I requested louder music, I corrected. A guy nearby backed me up, "I want it up. We're out here to hear the jams."

Amen.

Erich Saint Laurent's "Je devine la Verite" registered immediately as "I'm a Believer" and I danced along as if it were the Monkees. There were so many covers of British  invasion songs and American pop, things like "Turn, Turn, Turn," and My Guy," but sung in French. There was even a Petula Clark song and who knew Pet could sing in French?

"This is my brief foray into the '80s," Sarah said, playing Lio's "Le Banana Split," the record cover  looking (and the music sounding) oh-so '80s. She returned to form with Les Gam's (the apostrophe mistake is their, not mine) and "Judy's Turn to Cry."

"I Only Want to Dance with You" came courtesy of Les Surfs, a group of four guys in matching sweaters and two girls in matching sweaters and red mini skirts. Adorable.

I noticed and Sarah told me, "I love the covers." Swinging mods and lots of bangs, who wouldn't?

Finally I saw a couple dancing to all this great French pop. It just kept coming with Eileen's version of "These Boots are Made for Walking" which was top notch. And who could argue with a French cover of Sonny and Cher's "The Beat Goes On"?

Play that poppy French music, mod girl. It might just be the grooviest First Friday ever.

Wowee Zowee

In his running series of self-admitted "bad ideas," Joon Kim finally put on another cover show.

The last one, a salty tribute to Guided by Voices, had been so many months ago that some of us had given up hope that there'd ever be another one. When it was finally announced as a tribute to Pavement, it became doubly enticing when more than one musician referred to it as sure to be a train wreck.

Just so you know, I'm talking about the musicians who were playing the show saying that.

In typical musician fashion, most left learning Pavement songs until the last week before the show and had minimal practices. Which was fine because the whole evening was great fun and for the Pavement-obsessed (and there was a good-sized contingent of them) as well as plain old music lovers, it was quite a treat to hear.

Nelly Kate and Landis Wine of White Laces got things off to a fine start doing two songs beautifully, each doing lead vocal on one. They admitted that they were breaking the first rule of a Pavement cover show by playing a cover and not a true Pavement song.

As it turned out, they were only the first of several to do so.

Dave Watkins and his dulcitar took up the challenge next, throwing in a cover of "No More Kings" and inviting the audience to make disgruntled crowd noises. Instead, the crowd ate it up.

It was my first time seeing The Milkstains, despite how often they play out and having been told I'd like them. "Alright, we're going to try and do some Pavement songs or at least remember the lyrics," the lead singer said. Doing only two songs, they succeeded admirably and friends were right; I really liked their surf rock sound.

Snowy Owls did five songs so well that there was no doubt that leader Matt was a Pavement fan. They'd also had multiple practices and sounded terrific.

Climbers took forever to get started and did two songs before adding in Willis on drums. Seems he was a last minute addition to the band's line-up tonight, having learned the song in the bathroom just beforehand.

A pro, he made their last song the best of the set.

The crowd loved it when Kyle and Brandi of Diamond Center took the stage because they were in costume. Kyle, in a sparkly two-piece dress and necklace looked particularly fetching drag-like except for his monumental beard and fur hat with flaps. Brandi's pope hat and glitter make up couldn't compete. After some technical difficulties, Kyle sang a couple of songs before making a promise.

"We're playing a show here on Thursday and it won't sound anything like this," he promised. A guy who'd never seen them before asked afterwards if that had been music they'd played. If he only knew them in their usual style, he'd be amazed.

Joon's ever-changing band Adah played last with Joon and his violin in front of the stage and the rest of the band on it. They rocked it hard, about driving the audience crazy with "Cut Your Hair," a song even non-fans might know.

And there were plenty of them there, too. A musician friend asked me if I knew about Pavement when he came in. Well, duh. Let's just say I was around when they formed in '89 and when they disbanded in '99. But his girlfriend, whom he'd brought with him, had never heard of them. Another friend told me he hated Pavement but came to support his friends.

But there was a core group who sang along with every single word to every song, recognizing each one by the first notes. That's the beauty of a well-chosen cover show. Casual fans get to see a bunch of bands play and uber-fans get to hear live versions they might never otherwise hear.

Toward the end, Joon took suggestions for the next event's band to be covered. Someone even yelled out my idea: Yo la Tengo. And since they're known for an enormous repertoire of cover songs, both live and on records, it could be a cover show of covers songs done by YLT and performed by local musicians.

A "hall of mirrors" tribute to Yo la Tengo; can't you just see it? Well if you can, it won't be anytime soon. These things happen on musician time.

With a nod to another favorite, I would suggest waiting with a glacier's patience.

Now Please Return to Your Seats

The way I see it, sometimes you just have to take the light switch into your own hands.

Of course, it may have been the pre-show wine that gave me the courage to do so.

I met a friend for an overdue happy hour at Six Burner, where the featured red was South African, so there was little chance of me resisting it.

The Left Bank was a full-bodied Western Cape blend with lovely soft tannins and an unlikely name.

Like I care what they call it.

Wisely, before we got down to the business of the past five weeks, we ordered sustenance for the storytelling that was to come.

The salmon rilettes with clementine, olives and toasted bread was a creamy ode to salmon, more of a terrine than a true rilette, but beautifully flavored.

The lamb chili came with a layer of creme fraiche, cheddar and chives, but it was the two hushpuppies floating on top that got our immediate attention.

I'm a big fan of chili and this had a pleasing depth of flavor and variety of beans that would have made it a perfect meal on a cold night.

Despite tonight's temperate air, we all but licked the bowl of every bit of lamb.

My friend told me of her pain-in-the-ass boss and her husband's attentiveness while the best I could do was CDs and head scratching.

We channeled our frustrations into a chocolate terrine with dried cherries, pistachio crumble and a clementine syrup that was one of the best desserts I've ever had at Six Burner.

Chocoholics, take note.

We took so long with dessert and the last of the wine that I barely made it to the Listening Room on time.

As it was, the man-about-town was in my seat (a fact my friend noted and said he thought, "Karen's not going to be happy about that") and my usual LR buddy was M.I.A.

The scientist was kind enough to offer me the seat next to him and ply me with dark chocolate throughout the first act.

I took it to be polite.

Nelly Kate walked onto the stage barefoot and began to do to the first-timers what she'd first done to me last June.

That would be knock my socks off.

Sharing that ever since she'd moved to Richmond she'd aspired to play the Listening Room, she began singing in her clear, little girl voice while looping guitar, hand claps, cooing, whatever she wanted.

"My loop station is a nice way for me to travel alone," she explained. It's true; it allows her to layer her dense sound and hypnotize an audience with her overdubs.

The audience reacted like they'd seen something amazing, which they had.

Afterwards, the break allowed the large crowd to mingle as if it were a party. Since this is the last Listening Room for two months, there was a special energy in the air, it seemed.

Even so, after a while it was time to sit down and hear some music and nothing was happening.

That's when I took things into my own hands and walked over to the light switch and started flicking it.

Intermission is over, kids. Sit down.

And they did, surprisingly quickly, and Bonnie Staley (of the Girtles) and Cliff Boyd (of Sport Bar) started their set with two back-up singers, Julie and Maya.

I'd like to read into the record that all three girls in the band had on dresses. Being the dress lover myself, I was impressed.

Their bass-heavy sound was complemented by girl-group vocals that would have been at home in the sixties.

In fact, the song "Samby" was, Bonnie said, part hers and partly the Beach Boys'. Seems her Dad used to sing "Wendy" to her nephew Sam and she assumed it was his song and riffed on that.

They also did a song of Julie's, about which she said, "I'm not going to explain it because I hate when people do that."

The song explained itself beautifully.

During the next break I ran into a guy I'd met at the Camel when he'd come up and introduced himself, telling me he saw me at shows everywhere.

Tonight, his first Listening Room, he referred to me as a scenester. I set him straight, welcomed him to the LR and then flicked the lights.

Somebody's got to take charge of misconceptions and intermissions.

James Wallace of Richmond via Nashville played last, acknowledging, "A lot of this equipment I don't know how to use yet so we're just going to work around it."

Their sound of guitar, upright bass, keyboard and James' voice made for a pleasantly poppy take on the singer/songwriter genre with just enough of a vintage sound (and maybe a dash of alt- country) to make it clear how talented this guy is.

But of course everyone who plays the Listening  Room is talented. Okay, there was one exception once, but every one else.

That's why I can't believe there are still people who haven't been.

Come, be a scenester. Just pay attention to the flickering light.

Shapes Like Mine

It begins with considering being a nude model and ends with embracing a sweaty guy.

But we'll call that art and music.

Tonight was Ghostprint Gallery's preview night for "Shapes Not Ours," which opens tomorrow night.

When I got there, a large bearded man sitting in the window cross legged and sipping a beer said to me, "I'd forgotten how civilized these preview nights are."

Yes, aren't they?

Jenna Chew's mixed media works told me that she lives locally. A graphite drawing of Harrison Street Coffee Shop showed faceless customers talking to staff.

A mixed media piece showed booths at Can-Can. But my favorite registered with me before I even saw the title.

The piece depicted three chairs stacked one on top of the other. The moment I saw it, I knew those chairs.

They are the ones that sit outside Garnett's, which was the title of the work.

I hadn't even realized how familiar I was with those random chairs but they were instantly recognizable.

Crystal Cregge's photographs were images of the female body, from the side, from above and from behind.

I was told she uses some sort of light wash to get the painterly effect that gave the photos a gauzy tone.

Word in the gallery was that she has converted her bathroom to a darkroom where she works this magic on her images.

I have to assume she has a second bathroom for more basic functions.

Looking at the photographs, some of which became abstract due to the angle or proximity, I found myself wishing I could be the model for such artistic takes on the female form.

Her photographs were not about perfect female bodies; the figure in "Venus," for example was downright zaftig.

Rather, it was the way the shadows fell, the way the bodies were lit and which curves were accentuated that made the photographs such things of beauty.

Moving on from my reverie imagining myself as the subject of a black and white photo, I continued down Broad Street for an epic event.

Tonight was the Dave Watkins CD Release show and with three other bands playing, it promised a full night of musical delights.

I'd like to say it started on time but this is Richmond  this was at the Camel, so there were sound problems.

Recent transplant Nelly Kate led off and since I'd seen her before, I knew to expect a compelling voice and endless looping.

With only a guitar (and sad-sounding guitar at that, according to my friend), keyboard and her voice, she created layers of sound to produce dense songs from one small girl.

For her last song, she gave the audience a choice of guitar song or clapping song and the latter won out.

She proceeded to clap different rhythms and overlaid them with her song until the entire effect filled the room.

Finishing, she said, "It's so nice to play with other people who loop."

The first time I'd sen her play, I'd called her a "female Dave Watkins" for exactly that reason.

Tonight's touring band was All My Dear Friends, which was really a guy named Mark who said, "I came all the way from Gainesville, Florida to play my violin for you." And his pedals.

Like Nelly, he built up layers by using multiple things, in his case violin, guitar and voice.

He stopped suddenly when he broke a violin string, asking for volunteers from the audience to entertain while he changed strings.

Pointing at a girl in the front row, he said, "How about you? I know you have a ukulele in your bag!" She declined.

But folkies Lobo Marino quickly brought their acoustic presence to the front, first imitating a looped version of  "Animal Hands" and then doing it their way.

"Back to our normally scheduled program," Mark said when they finished.

His soundscapes were both huge and poignant, no doubt due to the violin, which he plucked, bowed and generally did anything he wanted to get sound from it.

His plucking style especially reminded me of Andrew Bird, a sound I like very much.

Lobo Marino began their set with a nod to their predecessor.

"Thanks to Mark. I've never seen anyone go from lovemaking on the violin to hate-f*cking it," Jameson said to much clapped agreement.

The band did a shorter than expected set so as to get to the star of the evening's performance before it got too late and people began leaving (it being a school night and all).

The one new song they did showed a lot of poppiness and rumor has it that their next CD will have more of a poppy feel to it.

The main event was Dave Watkins and his dulcitar and pedals. And on that subject, he said he actually had a pedal called "cave."

That's right, as in "music from a " and a sound I've written volumes about since I'm hugely enamored of it.

Introducing a song "where I sing" (which is not usually the case for Dave), he was about to play "Pangea's Revenge," saying it had cheesy love song lyrics, when he got some audience input.

"Laney said if we got married today, that would be the song that we walked down the aisle to," Jameson shouted to Dave.

"Oh, man, now the pressure's on!" Dave joked.

He played a version of an improvised piece he'd created last weekend that had been compared to Tubular Bells (something he had to Google to get) and then asked for suggestions for a name for the next piece.

We got to hear "Dirt Nap versus the Compost Pile" before Dave did his usual show-closer, "Marshall Street."

It's a stellar piece from the new CD and usually ends with him beating on a drum.

Tonight the three members of  Lobo Marino added drumming and tambourine playing to that big finish.

Afterwards, I couldn't resist giving my very best hug to the talented Mr. W, probably the last thing he wanted (or needed) since he was still sweaty from his set.

From there, I had no choice but to drive my usual route home down Marshall Street, listening all the while to "Marshall Street."

Just another satisfying evening at the intersection of art and music.

From Monk to Minimalism

I can only be the poster child for doing things by myself for so long before I crave friends.

Tonight's odyssey began at the VMFA for their weekly Jazz Cafe, tonight featuring Monk's Playground, a quartet that re-imagines Thelonious Monk's music for an electric guitar-led group.

I hadn't been to the Jazz cafe in months so I was  surprised that it wasn't nearly as mobbed as it had been last winter. More options at this time of year, I suppose.

But I found a seat and settled in to listen to the group's interpretations of Monk with a crowd clearly more familiar with him than I. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the music a lot; I just lacked familiarity with it.

I'd be the first to admit that about all I know of the great composer/pianist is that he's the second most recorded jazz composer and he only wrote seventy-some songs.

As a bonus, the sun was slowly setting behind the Pauley Center (the former Home for Confederate Women), making for a stunning  visual to accompany the seminal music. I didn't get that last winter.

A couple of sets in, I was getting hungry, so I drove the few blocks to Acacia for dinner. The barely populated bar had plenty of room for me and there was a new bartender in place.

After a taste, I chose the J. Mourat "Collection" Rose, an elegantly dry pink wine made from Cabernet Franc, Negrette and Pinot Noir to sip while making my food choices.

I was reminded that Chef Dale had driven to the river to get softshells yesterday, but decided to go more in a tasting direction.

Starting with the tempura-fried squash blossoms with chive mascarpone was a choice as seasonally appropriate and short-lived as softshells.

I love when squash are flowering and begin showing up on menus all over town. The delicate flower is really about the tempura and the mascarpone was decadently rich and flavorful. I came this close to ordering another plate of them.

Instead, I tried the fried wontons over seaweed salad. The crispy wontons were filled to bursting with a flavorful mixture of chicken and cabbage, much enhanced by the seaweed and accompanying honey/soy sauce. I was two for two.

I decided to end on a richer note, choosing the rabbit raviolis with roasted mushrooms in a rabbit jus. Three good-sized hat-looking pillows contained the delicate-tasting shredded rabbit which sang when dipped in the jus.

For dessert I had more Rose while the bartender and I discussed the best brunch spots because it's the only meal he and his girlfriend can eat out together due to their nighttime schedules.

That led to a discussion of cooking eggs, a subject on which he was passionate. For whatever reason, not everyone in the business can do eggs well, much to his disgust (he's a former cook). I have a good friend who says the same thing.

We finally wound up our discussion so that I could go to Sprout for a show where I knew I'd see all kinds of friends and hear some interesting music.

And the friends were there and I even made a new one. A girl introduced herself saying, "Have we not met officially? I feel like I see you everywhere."

That's a line I've heard literally dozens of times, causing others around me to nod in acknowledgement.

One of the bearded ones piped up with, "Karen! She's everywhere you should be!" I appreciate a good smart-assed comment when I hear one.

I couldn't have asked for a better musical start to the night than recent transplant Nelly Kate, a girl capable of a dense sound thanks to her looping abilities.

She sang, she played guitar, she banged on a wooden box, she scratched said box and it all became part of a bigger whole.

Her experimental pop and little girl voice made for an entrancing sound and I was sorry her set was so short. Hopefully now that she's in RVA, we'll see her play out more often.

Broken Fences were from Pittsburgh and their sound was more folky, with two guitars and a male and female voice.

At times, their songs put me in mind of old English folk songs like "Greensleeves" or "Black is the Color." There was no denying that they made pretty music.

Last up was the dynamic duo of Jonathan Vassar and David Shultz of Ophelia (minus bass and drums) and tonight the focus was on David.

He did some of his own material, they did a couple of Ophelia songs and he closed with a Paul Simon cover, as the adoring crowd yelled encouragement.

Good as the music was, one of the unexpected pleasures of the evening was the return of a favorite couple who've been  traveling since February.

They got back early and it was great to see them and talk to them after their absence. As she said, "It's so great not to have to be nice to new people all the time now that we're home."

And isn't that what friends are for, so that you don't have to be nice all the time?

Nobody would believe it if I tried it anyway.