Keeping You in Light

Timing is everything.

When Mac and I set out to walk this morning at 10 a.m., we were almost immediately passed by both a speeding cop and a speeding fire vehicle, but even that didn't prepare us to find several blocks of Franklin and Main closed to traffic as we walked down Second Street toward the river.

Now we know that's because at 10:05, police encountered a man in a kilt carrying a knife in one hand and an ax in the other at Third and Main Streets, tried to de-escalate the situation and wound up killing the man.

Honestly, I'm glad we were blissfully unaware of being a block from a situation, though I still feel we were a bit too close for comfort.

When we met up for dinner tonight at 8 1/2, the restaurant was as calm and serene as it had been harried and overcrowded last Tuesday.

Just when you make sure to allow extra time, it turns out you don't need it.

Not having to wait for my obscenely good turkey hero only meant that we could score a good bench and have a leisurely picnic in Scuffletown park before the music began. Mac showed off her mad picnicking skills by not only bringing cloth napkins but also a fat slice of chocolate espresso cake and two forks for sharing.

Originator of the music in the park series and tonight's featured performer Patrick arrived to unload his equipment with Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" blaring in his car and setting the evening's tone. Before long, a woman came over and asked if she could place her chair next to our bench without obstructing our view.

We welcomed the company and just before things got started, her husband showed up to join her.

The dance party king (and the man who'd once described me as "part of the fabric of Richmond") played host tonight, announcing, "Welcome to this Fall night in July," a nod to temperatures in the low '70s, before introducing Patrick and his band: violin, cello and drums.

At that moment, the woman turned to us and announced proudly, "That's our son!" and the man whispered, "He gets his talent from his parents."

Ah, that explained the young woman I'd overheard saying to them, "I heard your house was the one for jamming!" Good parents don't mind a little ruckus when their kid's got talent.

"Happy Tuesday. Finally, the weather broke!" Patrick said by way of greeting an ever-growing crowd that ignored the "Stay off the grass" signs and sprawled out on, yes, the lawn, as well as on bricks, on tables and benches. The crowds seem to grow every week.

Tonight's delightful weather was the ideal backdrop for the exquisite sounds of violin and cello played in the great outdoors to the thrum of cicada harmonies and brushes on drums.

Patrick's songs had the singer\songwriter qualities of dreamy lost '70s gems.

When he announced he was going to play a really old song, it got his parents buzzing, so I asked if they were trying to guess which song he might play. "Trying to guess the era," his Dad laughed.

Saying he was about to play some songs from the EP he put out a couple of years ago, Patrick admitted that he didn't get to play them much anymore. Why? "They're not as loud as I feel like I wanna be now."

Definitely not loud but most assuredly well-crafted and beautifully sung (and played), Before long, his parents were wondering which of his angst-y songs was next, while I was curious if he'd ever sung anything but.

"He always played angst-y songs, maybe a little less these days, but he only sang happy songs when he was little," his Mom explained as the band began what could almost surely be called a somewhat happy song.

She turned to me, palms up in surprise and grinning when she heard how relatively upbeat - "In the long run, you're going to have to help yourself" - it sounded with the strings winding their way through the rustling tree branches.

When Patrick announced that the band would do one more, someone called out, "Two!" and his devoted Mom yelled, "Three!" but he dashed their hopes, saying, "Not gonna happen" and instead inquired of the crowd who knew Suzanne Vega.

All the hands of a certain age went up and he rhapsodized about her music being the stuff of his childhood before taking on Vega's "Night Vision."

When the darkness takes you
With her hand across your face
Don't give in too quickly
Find the things she's erased

Find the line, find the shape
through the grain
Find the outline
Things will tell you their name

Some sets run long at Scuffletown, others, like tonight's, aren't nearly long enough given how wonderful the music sounds.

The consolation was that when the show broke up, the post-show mingling began and it soon became obvious that lots of people are pairing up these days.

I finally got to meet the dance king's new Queens-via-Texas squeeze, a charming woman who'd spent two hours in the river with him today and was already taken with Richmond's quirky charms.

Group discussion of architecture, history, trees and cost of living followed, with someone even nerdier than me suggesting a book she might enjoy for reference.

The scientist, whom I hadn't seen in at least a year, arrived after a Boy Scout meeting and surprised us all by announcing he now has a girlfriend and that he's "following her all over town."

Mac assured him that we love when guys do that.

As the blues harmonica player was being introduced to me, I reminded him that we'd met nearly a decade ago and he blushed to have forgotten me. I reminded him that while I've seen him play plenty, there would be no reason for him to recall one more face in the crowd. Still, he apologized unnecessarily.

As I was walking out, I ran into the traveling tailor and artist who's moving to New Orleans on Monday. In an effort to lighten his moving load, he's been selling off his paintings - at a rate of at least one per day, to his amazement - including a large piece sold to Black Sheep, coincidentally his favorite restaurant.

Talking about the move, he admitted that he hopes the time is right to do it, the consolation being that he can always come back if it doesn't suit him.

"But I've got to find out," he said earnestly about pulling up stakes.

If the timing's right, you'll know, I reassured him. And if not, heaven knows Richmond welcomes back all who leave.

As the great Fleetwood Mac oracle reminded us earlier tonight, it's not only right that you should play the way you feel, but that you listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness.

Sometimes it's the best motivator when you've just got to find out. And timing truly is everything.

Stepping Out

It was a low-key night to stay in the neighborhood and see old friends.

Deciding to start at Bistro 27 because I hadn't yet heard Chef Carlos' tales of his recent trip to Paris, I was regaled with details about a dish of pig stomach wrapped in prosciutto and deep-fried.

Be still, my heart.

While he told me of drinking endless Cahors while there (well, he is Brazilian so Malbec's practically in his blood), I went with a Pinot Noir.

I was surprised (although apparently not as surprised as the Parisians) to hear that they'd had snow while he was there.

While hearing his recounting of exquisite sculpture, the tiniest of French bistros and a side trip to Dusseldorf, my companion and I moved on to eating.

There was halibut bobo, a take-off on his mother's recipe for shrimp bobo, delivering succulent, perfectly-cooked halibut in the distinctive sauce of yucca root puree, coconut milk and palm oil, a dish with a decided African influence.

I reveled in the oil and garlic-cooked broccolini, along with bacon-wrapped scallops and lentils (easily my favorite lentils in town) and a taste or two of pappardelle bolognese ("Close your eyes and pretend you're in Italy," the fork's owner instructed me).

Finishing with a one-two punch of panna cotta and chocolate mousse, all of a sudden it was show time.

And not only a show for music's sake, but a benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery, so a very worthy cause.

Fortunately, the show was only two blocks away at Gallery 5, where we walked in to find Patrick Bates playing his second song.

I'd seen the quintet not long ago at the Listening Room and really gotten into their sound, but tonight there were so many talkers in the room that I was glad I already knew what they sounded like.

And I wasn't the only one, since two other people also commented to me that it was a shame people didn't shut up so they could hear the nuances of the music.

Later even drummer Kevin said he was reluctant to use the brushes he'd used last time for fear they wouldn't be heard.

One thing I like about this band (besides Patrick's songs, the bass player's sense of humor and Kevin's drumming), is that the other two people have enough talent between them to play accordion, keyboards, cello and sax.

Now that's versatility.

I ran into a few friends (two drummers, a man-about-town, several former Mermaid Skeletons and a gallerist wearing the grooviest '70s tunic ever) between sets and then the sextet the Clair Morgans took the stage.

I'd listened online to get a feel for their sound and from the first song heard the same energetic indie music live that the MP3s had promised.

Patrick Bates was also in this band playing guitar, bongos and something that looked like a xylophone.

We got a dose of humor when a song began before Clair stopped it, looking sheepish.

"The show was going great until Clair put his capo on the wrong fret," Clair deadpanned, making the capo correction and finishing the song as it was meant to sound.

Damn fine.

One of my favorite moments came when one of the guitarists pulled out a drum as Patrick pulled out his bongos, meaning along with drummer Michael, fully half the band was beating on something.

Since a drummer friend had only a few minutes earlier been telling me about his idea for an all-drum music project, I couldn't resist nudging him and getting a big grin in return.

Headlining was Hens, a quintet I'd recently seen for the first time, and one full of big guitar sounds and big talent.

After a few songs, guitarist/singer Josh Hryciak said they'd been jamming on a new song and would go ahead and play it now.

But before that began, he moved center stage and gave us a pelvic wiggle for the ages before returning to play the song.

The man is a showman par excellence.

"That's a baby song," guitarist/singer David Shultz made sure we knew when the song wound down unceremoniously.

Guitarist/singer Marcus Shrock took over vocals for one song, indirectly reminding the crowd what a super-group these guys are with so much talent from time spent in former bands.

The last song was one big extended soundscape, with all of them looking like they were having a blast making music together.

And what could be better than friends (and employees - Josh worked at Sub Rosa) and fans getting together to make and hear music to support the worthiest of causes, a local business?

Knowing that Sub Roa is one step closer to re-opening, that's what.

Love and Despair, No "the"

It was a good night to get called out.

Sliding into a barstool at Don't Look Back, the hirsute bartender cocked an eyebrow and inquired, "Need a menu?"

Nope, I told him, I need a Frito pie and a Coke.

"Awesome," he responded. "How simple is that?" and, I swear, not more than two minutes later I was eating.

Nearby a server informed another, "I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to earn a living."

Son, you need to figure out how to do both and you'll be much happier.

I heard my name and felt a hand on my back, turning to find two wine geek friends enjoying beers, providing a welcome break from my bag o' beans, cheese and salsa which I'd been inhaling at an unladylike pace.

Both expressed their love of the Frito pie, too, before moving on to more compelling things like traveling to Spain, rose' parties and anniversary restaurants before rejoining their fellow beer drinkers.

My Frito pie scarfed, it was time to head to the Firehouse for the Listening Room.

I was delighted to walk in, drop off some cookies I'd brought and immediately see a handsome keyboard player of whom I have been a fan for something like six years now.

Since I hadn't known he was part of one of tonight's groups, it was an unexpected delight to learn I'd be hearing his mellifluous tones and agile fingers.

Taking a few steps toward my usual seat, I was stopped in my tracks by the drummer onstage doing a soundcheck with a band I didn't recognize.

He waved, I waved and, for the second time already tonight, I had the pleasure of discovering that a musician I admire was part of one of the groups playing.

The night was going very well and it had barely started.

When I arrived at "my" seat, it was to find that a music buddy had reserved it for me, lest some interloper usurp it, as has happened a few times.

First up was Chris Dowhan, a guy I've known for years, although, as I found out, not as well as I thought.

I knew Chris as a talented baker and cook. As an attentive server. As a frequent traveler to Italy who actually knows Italian. As an all-around nice guy.

And while I knew he was musically inclined, it was with a guitar.

When I saw him, I teased him, telling him not to screw up and he said that no one would know if he did.

Huh?

Emcee Chris Payne got things rolling late (a fact I may have alluded to, but only for the sake of first-timers because I wouldn't want them to think that the Listening Room isn't usually a punctual event), explaining that they were shorthanded.

That's a veiled way of saying that organizers Antonia and Jonathan are sorely missed.

He then introduced Chris Dowhan, who moved to the grand piano and announced, "This piece is in five movements and I've been working on it four or five years now."

Well, this was news.

He proceeded to play his composition sensitively and seemingly lost in it.

It didn't seem like he was even aware of the audience.

As he played, I looked around at the rapt crowd and it reminded me of another first at the Listening Room, when Antonia had curated an all-jazz evening.

And if jazz, then why not classical?

When he finished, he leaned down, picked up his beer and moved away to major applause.

I was amazed; how had I not known he had this talent? I had to find out.

During the break, I waited in line to compliment his performance, but what I really wanted was answers.

Turns out his piano playing is a solitary escape for him, something he doesn't mention to friends.

A lot of the piece had been written at night one summer when he'd worked at an Italian winery.

He'd agreed to play it in front of an audience because he'd been invited to play by a musician friend and had figured if not now, when?

I was just glad I'd been there to hear it.

Wandering around, I ran into some latecomers, including a drummer friend I see at shows where he is always fixated on the band's drummer.

Explaining that he'd missed a very cool piano piece, I assured him that the next band had a drummer he could watch.

But after four hours of drum practice today, he said he wasn't interested in any more drumming.

Kevin won't want to hear that, I told him, referring to the next band's talented drummer, familiar to me from his own band, Marionette.

"Why do you know all the drummers in town?" he asked, smiling.

Duh. They're personable guys, I told him.

And, drummers do it with rhythm, I didn't tell him.

Back in my seat, emcee Chris threw out a thanks to me for bringing cookies, causing the stranger next to me to say, "I didn't have any, but I'm sure they were good."

Isn't it gratifying how a perfect stranger can have such faith in me?

Drummer Kevin was part of Patrick Bates' band, who played next and included cello, sax, acoustic guitar and bass.

Explaining that he hadn't played a proper show in this town in a very long time, the band proceeded to prove that they should.

He dedicated the second song to Chris because, "I know how much he likes a good samba."

I liked it because the bass player played bongos, the cellist played keys and Kevin used brushes instead of sticks.

"About a month and half ago, something happened to me," Patrick said by way of introduction. "Let's see if I can get through this," as the other musicians put down their instruments and let him accompany himself solely on acoustic guitar.

It was a beautiful, if sad-sounding, song.

Lyric: Though I know it was worth the effort, There are no guarantees."

Amen.

For their last song, he said it had a chanting part toward the end and asked that we join in.

"We'll try to get the energy in the room circulating," he explained.

"There are also tabs of acid under your seats," the droll bass player added.

Truth was, there weren't, but many of us joined in on the "come together" part anyway, getting the energy going.

So it was that we started the third set with the energy well-placed.

"Thanks for hanging around," emcee Chris said from the stage. "You guys are my favorites. Don't tell the people who left."

He came clean about tonight's programs, which were suspiciously absent of the usual.

And by usual, I mean, the poster imagery, the times the sets would happen and the upcoming events on the back.

He admitted that they'd just been printed today.

Meanwhile, behind him the leader of the next band to play the smart-assed keyboard player pointed out that he'd put a "the" in front of their name when there wasn't one.

"Take out your programs and scratch off "the" in front of Mason Brothers," Chris instructed. I did.

I'm beginning to think I need to volunteer to help these poor guys out.

Last up was Mason Brothers (no "the") with mandolin, guitar, bass, drums and Ben Willson on keys, the man whose talent and humor I have been impressed by all these years.

Leader James joked about the vibe of the Listening Room being like the last season of "Lost," although Ben differed in opinion.

With no TV, I'd have no idea.

"We're One" was introduced as a "song for everyone" and showed an infectious quality while "Calling Out to You" was more plaintive.

James took a moment to acknowledge the talent that had come before, saying, "Thanks to Chris Dowhan for that piano piece. Listening, I felt love and despair, like my life and now you get bubblegum from Mason Brothers. We are one, we are one."

It was some quality self-deprecation.

After a few songs, Ben called out to Dave in the sound booth, "I'm going to need a little more keys in the monitor. I'm so needy."

That made two of us because up until then, I was straining to hear his keyboard, although fortunately his backing vocals (and joking asides) were coming through beautifully.

James cracked wise, saying, "For future Listening Rooms, I think artists should have to whisper."

At one point, listening to the band's tight and melodic roots rock, it occurred to me how far the Listening Room has come.

This is my 37th  of 39 Listening Rooms and in the beginning, such things as electric instruments, much less drums, were conspicuously absent.

Mason Brothers' last song "Ghost Season," which came from their second album and which James called "very scary," perfectly demonstrated the evolution of the music series.

It was easily one of the most rocking finishes ever at a Listening Room.

Looking around, I could see that people were as into having their faces rocked off as they'd been when Chris had been playing piano or when Patrick Bates' band had been playing a samba.

Maybe it's something for the Listening Room organizers to think about.

When the music's this good, people forget about the late start, uninformative programs and missing baked goods.

And that's without tabs of acid under their seats.