Cage Match

Some of us live in urban bohemia and some of us grew up in suburban bohemia.

The latter would be Slash Coleman, who came to the Library of Virginia tonight for a reading (actually a retelling) from his new book, "The Bohemian Love Diaries."

Three years ago, I spent Valentine's night with Slash and a bunch of other singles at Crossroads Art, listening to him and a few guests share stories about how the course of true love never does run smooth, a fact of which I was well aware at that time.

Tonight's reading drew a lively crowd, several of whom told me they were intrigued by the book's title.

After chatting with a woman about industrial farming and (no kidding) circumcision during the wine and cheese reception, Slash took center stage in a full beard and ripped jeans to bring us up to date on his life.

And while usually his stories have a humorous side, this one involved him getting a collapsed lung that eventually required surgery to re-inflate and causing him to cancel the rest of his book tour speaking engagements,

Well, except for this one because, here's the thing: Slash grew up in Chester, a word he humorously pronounced all evening long the way the locals do.

Showing us the book cover, we saw a picture of Slash when he was about eight, back when his artist father used to load up the family for monthly trips to Alaska to find an artists' colony.

Except they rarely got any farther than Fredericksburg.

Tonight's talk was about being raised by an eccentric family and his failed love relationships as a result of coming out of all that eccentricity.

He showed us an Italian version of the book with the title changed to "Love with a High Fever," a title he didn't think was any better than his.

I don't know about that.

Sharing the story of his parents' meeting at the tea room at Miller & Rhoads, we heard that Dad, a sculptor, had been a sign painter for M & R and Mom was French and a student at RPI. Along the way, he threw in that Grandpa danced at the Moulin Rouge and Grandma was a watercolor painter.

On his parents' first date, he showed up in a stolen car with a case of Manischewitz wine and a plan to win her heart. Instead he drank it all and passed out and she walked home alone to her dorm.

Disastrous as it sounds, he invited her to Passover for their second date, but they ended up eloping before the second date.

Slash recalled an early interest in sports that was of no consequence to his artistic parents. The closest to sporty they got was when his Dad organized a softball game between the Freaks, a bunch of sculptors, and the Pigs, a team of Richmond police officers.

Begging his mother to let him play baseball, she responded that he would be paralyzed and said no, but he eventually found an old glove in his Dad's studio and signed up for the team himself.

Sharing tales of gymnastics, wrestling and being brought home to his mother after sports injuries, he waxed poetic about Coach Walt, a man who wore Brut by Faberge and had a white person Afro.

It's a pretty vivid visual.

He recalled fondly the period when his father sold roadkill sculptures to support the family. It gets pretty odd here because while the head was from one animal and the legs from another, the body was always made of bread.

Yup, you read right.

So one of his pieces might have the head of a turtle, the legs of a lizard and a pumpernickel body. And when pieces didn't sell after a while, they  were retired to the backyard as ornamentation, at least until the bread rotted or was eaten.

I'd say that's pretty bohemian.

In any case, the book is being shopped around as a TV series and who knows, a series could show up on TV about a boy from Chester who came from a family of six Leo women and eight artists.

During the Q & A, Slash said he prefers to read non-fiction because, "I'm interested in how people put their truths together."

Exactly the way I feel about non-fiction and no doubt part of the reason that people read my blog every day.

Or maybe they're eager to read about my love with a high fever exploits, who knows?

Truth telling aside, next on my plate was the annual musicircus at UR, the one hour beautiful cacophony of musicians playing whatever they choose.

Don't ask me, composer John Cage thought it up and I just participate every year.

The musicircus got a late start because the eighth blackbird show ran over, so it was almost 9 when the sirens went off and everyone began playing.

Wandering down hallways, up and down staircases, into practice and classrooms, the milling crowd had myriad options for what kind of music with which to begin.

Since so many people were gathered on the first floor, my fellow Cage lover and I sprinted upstairs in an attempt to beat the masses.

Brian Jones, an organizer of the annual event, had assembled a percussion ensemble that included jazz drummer extraordinaire Scott Clark on tambourine.

Perched on an upholstered chair with two girls on couches for an audience was harmonica player Andrew Ali, whom I've seen play with Allison Self and lately, Josh Small. Tonight he was flying solo, singing and blowing his best blues.

Improv troupe the Johnsons (from Richmond Comedy Coalition) had wedged themselves into a hallway and were hilariously making up stuff with every word that came out of their mouths.

For sheer effect, it was tough to beat Kill Vonnegut, a punk quintet playing under black lights to a rapt audience.

For something completely different, the Family Band looked impossibly young and clean cut, with not a whisker of facial hair in the bunch, belting out Fountains of Wayne's "Stacey's Mom." I think they were all about 8 when it came out.

Tucked into a small room was Monk's Playground, where I recognized Larri Branch on piano, Brian Cruse on upright bass and the female sax player from RVA Big Band. As to which Monk song they were playing, I couldn't tell you.

I spotted David Roberts, whom I recognized from Classical Incarnations, playing piano alone in a room but couldn't hear him over the din, so I stepped in.

Turning, he invited me to look at his score, where I saw the title "Vexations" and the composer, Eric Satie, and an instruction at the top to play the theme 840 times.

David said that Cage had once done it and it had taken him 18 hours. Since the musicircus only lasts one hour, that wasn't happening tonight, but I was curious if repeating the same page of music was vexing him yet.

"A little, yes," he admitted with a smile, but I gave him the award for most Cage-appropriate music choice.

Coming down a stairwell, we happened on a sitar and a moment later the young woman who played it arrived, sitting on the floor to play. It was easily the handsomest instrument of the evening.

And purchased online, of course.

Tucked into a classroom with staffs drawn on the white board were guitarists Scott Burton and Matt White with another musician between them turning knobs and adjusting the effects of their playing to an ambient guitar wall of sound.

Alistair Calhoun took home the prize for smallest guitar, using reverb effects and finger picking to entice me to linger and listen.

DJ Carlito spun world music heavy on the middle east and even getting people to start dancing in the hallway. Pianist David Eslek was playing Lennon's "Imagine."

Downstairs we found the Josh Bearman group, a lot of whom seemed to be the Hot Seats, playing their spot-on old time and bluegrass music.

The gamelan orchestra had a Balinese shadow puppet play on film playing over their instruments, an ideal accompaniment to the lyrical music.

Near the door, Dave Watkins grabbed people's attention coming and going with his electric dulcitar and endless looping to create the sound of a quartet or even quintet.

Because he's Dave, he kept playing long after other musicians had stopped (or even left), treating the lingerers to a sonic finale that blew minds. But then, he's Dave Watkins, so he always delivers the grandiose.

Every year I say it because every year it's true.

Richmond is incredibly fortunate that we have a musicircus put on every year, with dozens of musicians both new to their craft and long-standing, playing their hearts out for free for one hour.

I saw so many people I know taking it all in. There were musicians playing and musicians as guests. Students experiencing it for the first time. Even a few little children in headphones.

Heads full and ears happy, the musicircus beats even Barnum & Bailey for sheer delight in the experience. Plus, no animals are harmed in the making of the musicircus.

That's how I'm putting today's truth together, ladies and germs. Make of it what you will.

Should you have any questions, you can find me in New Bohemia...or thereabouts. Possibly with a high fever.

Triangles, Like Songs and Minor Keys

There was lots of music calling to me tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interloper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I'm not complaining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The music was much the same.

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

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

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

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

Even seat-stealers couldn't resist.

Bittersweet and Solo

Familiar faces, different places.

To start, it was like a mini-artwalk, with Candela Gallery having an opening and artist's talk on this damp Friday evening.

The show, "Bittersweet on Bostwick Lane" featured work by photographer Susan Worsham, a name I didn't recognize, but a face I did.

I'd met her years ago at Zeus Gallery Cafe and we'd talked about photography; later, I'd seen her at photography shows and always enjoyed her positivity.

But until I saw her smiling face tonight, I hadn't made the connection.

The show comes from Susan's life experiences which include the deaths of her parents and her brother's suicide.

Interestingly enough, the works highlight beauty as much as decay and death.

And not all are photographs.

One called "Watercolor" is a collection of antique veterinary slides, with samples of things like rabbit tongue, eye of pig and human testicle included.

Others relate to her family's former neighbor Margaret, a former biology teacher, who was an integral part of her childhood.

Margaret's presence is felt throughout the exhibition, in her microscope and handmade bread doily, in a  large-scale photograph of her under Susan's mother's favorite camellia tree and in a piece of bread she baked which Susan let go moldy before photographing.

Even better, Susan recorded Margaret reminiscing and an hour-long recording of her memories and stories plays in Candela as you look at the photographs.

It's tempting to just sit down and listen to the wisdom of this wizened woman.

My vote for most disturbing photograph goes to "Snakes on My Childhood Bed," where a snake lounges next to a picture of Susan's mother on her wedding day.

It became even more meaningful when, during Susan's talk, she said that as a child, her mother had always assured her, "There's never going to be any snakes in your room."

Her mother couldn't have foreseen that a multiple-snake owner would eventually own the house or that Susan and her boyfriend would one day knock on that door and ask to see her childhood home.

On the other hand, clearly it provided inspiration for the artist.

Susan was an engaging speaker, sharing all kinds of stories about the idyllic beauty of her childhood on the UR campus and the sadness that came out of that lovely start in life.

Bittersweet it was.

Music followed with the RVA Solo show at For Instance Gallery, a place I'd never been.

But the faces I knew well.

A winding stair took me to the cozy gallery with art hung everywhere on the walls and three long windows fronting Cary Street downtown.

As things got set up, one of the musicians turned off the lights, leaving only a few colored bulbs from a lamp on and asked of the crowd which they preferred, dark or light.

I was the first to vote for dim, justifying the red, blue and yellow lamp lights as "groovy" and so the show went on sans overhead lighting.

It pays to be a big mouth sometimes.

Organizer Scott Clark soon stood up, announcing, "We're dedicated to starting shows on times and seven minutes late isn't too bad."

What followed was a succession of some of Richmond's best and brightest jazz musicians.

First trombonist Bryan Hooten played and since I'd never heard solo trombone, I was surprised to hear his sharp intakes of breath between blows.

He played an untitled piece, said, "Solo trombone is hard work,"took a big gulp of water and did an improvised number.

He then proceeded to empty his instrument.

"It's just condensed water," he grinned. "Contrary to popular belief, it's not spit, it's really just condensed water."

I believe him because I want to.

As he was playing a cello sonata he'd transcribed by his favorite composer, Gyorgy Ligeti, I couldn't help but admire the night view from the windows.

In each, a tree was foreground to a building across the street, all silhouetted against the misty gray sky as Bryan's trombone made beautiful noise.

Cameron Ralston and his bass were up second and he began with what is usually an exercise to warm up, but what he referred to as "D Plus."

His bow arced and jumped around creating noises I couldn't begin to see him make, but then I'm a musical idiot.

Finishing, he admitted, "That opens up all kinds of creative doors."

How could it not?

Next he did an original piece he'd written while on tour (with our own Matthew White) when he'd heard about the Connecticut shootings.

"I imagined it for piano and bass originally, but seeing as how I'm the only one up here, I'll do it myself."

It was an achingly beautiful piece and after finishing, he changed gears, saying, "Let's do something fun. This is an Ornette Coleman tune called "The Sphinx."

And it was fun, as evidenced by his twitching leg and even his right hand, which became a blur as he tore through the piece.

Drummer Scott Clark took center stage next, saying that he and Cameron had been talking for years about doing a solo show and it had taken this long to make it happen.

That it was finally happening was a fact for which every music-lover in the room was eternally grateful, I'm sure.

Scott mentioned that he'd been reading "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and writing off of the book and that it had become more meaningful as he'd toured parts of the country recently that the book had touched on.

"Seeing those places was profound. I don't know whether that will come through in my playing the drums, but just enjoy."

It did come through and I can't say how except that the improvised piece had a rhythmic urgency that played out in his handling of the brushes, mallets and bells.

Toward the end, he began reading a poem he had written about the Native American experience and it was truly a magical moment to hear him drumming and sharing his words simultaneously.

"And the drums relive what once was," he intoned beautifully.

At that moment, I felt privileged to be hearing his heartfelt playing and reading with the night sky behind him in this little second-floor gallery with only a handful of people.

Guitarist Scott Burton replaced the first Scott doing new solo material he was debuting.

As many times as I've seen Scott play in various incarnations, it may have also been the first time I'd ever heard him play an acoustic guitar.

We heard "Staircase" and "Interiors" before he said,"I'm going to play "I Believe" by a band called Tears for Fears."

His cover was exquisite and you could almost hear the people in the room holding their breath for every note.

Afterwards, he grinned and said, "Tears for Fears, yea!"

Yea, indeed.

Things got heavier for "Underwater," followed by "Scaffolding" and "The Lizard" and every time he locked into a groove, I noticed both Scott Clark and Cameron bobbing their heads in the front row.

And why not? I believe, right along with Tears for Fears.

I believe that Richmond is a place where talented musicians share their music in intimate galleries on misty winter nights.

Sculptors come. Music teachers come. Frenchmen come. And of course other musicians come.

But so should everyone who needs proof that this town has got it going on.

It may even make you believe.

Blue Moon, You Saw Me

Once in a blue moon, you have to let someone take a picture of you who's never taken one before,

And I'm not talking about Olan Mills.

But also, you have to eat and hear music and if the two can be done concurrently, all the better.

So first up was C'est le Vin because they were offering both.

Arana y Compas, a male/female duo who played a pastiche of flamenco and middle eastern, was starting just as we walked in.

We took a table very near them in order to enjoy their music and avoid as much of the dinner crowd chatter as possible.

"We're Arana y Compas from Charlottesville and we're happy to be here in the air conditioning," the male singer said.

Weren't we all?

Since we seem to be back to the heat of summer, we drank accordingly, meaning white sangria with grapes and Palacio da Vivero Rueda Verdejo/Viula, a Spanish blend.

The duo of Miles and Megan was a talented one with him playing flamenco-style guitar and her alternating between various drums and an acoustic guitar.

The place was so busy it took a while for anyone to take our order, but fortunately we're the kind of people who have nothing but time.

Our parade of food began with baby spinach sauteed with roasted red pepper and garbanzo beans, a dish that somehow made us feel virtuous (spinach!) and indulgent at the same time.

The owner walked by and whispered that she wished she could sit down and enjoy the music being played along with us.

Clearly, she was as impressed as we were.

A Valencia salad came next and it boasted all kinds of good things: lettuces, chunk tuna, tomatoes, corn, asparagus and shaved carrots.

The corn's sweetness made the dish.

Although we'd ordered the small size, it was a generous portion and we were just finishing it as the duo finished their first set.

They came over to say hello and before long asked to join us for their break.

Turns out they've only been playing together for sic months, although it would have been impossible to know that from their sound.

Although he's been playing (and teaching) for years, music was a new past time to Megan, who turned out to have Mexican and Spanish blood in her.

They told us about some regular music worth checking out in C-ville - a larger flamenco group and  a gypsy jazz ensemble - before returning to their "job."

During the second set, they played some Rodrigo y Gabriela, pleasing me no end since I'd seen that duo a few years ago and fallen in love with their acoustic metal sound.

Meanwhile, we scarfed up a plate of roasted tomatoes stuffed with crab and artichokes.

That was followed by cookies and cream, Chef Carly's take on the classic.

An array of her house-made cookies (chocolate with sesame seeds, butter cookie with jam center, vanilla/chocolate pinwheels) came with a dollop of real whipped cream.

It was satisfying that the crowd was eventually won over (or perhaps the talkers had gone) and it became clear that everyone left was paying attention to the band.

As well they should have.

We stayed until the said goodnight, especially happy to hear that the owner wants to bring them back on a monthly basis.

My companion headed off to work while I made my way to Balliceaux to meet a friend for more music.

On the way, I had to dodge the kids heading to the No BS back to school show at the Camel; most of them seemed new to crossing streets.

Playing tonight was Big East, a group made of musicians from several local groups.

My friend and I got drinks and took seats in the back, anticipating more of a crowd when the music kicked in.

He regaled me with tales of literature-spouting alcoholics and his own more colorful period until the music started and we mounted the back of the banquette for a better view.

Tonight's band is the baby of singer Eddie Prendergast of Amazing Ghost.

Brilliantly, he's assembled a top-notch crew to work with him: guitarist Scott Burton of Glows in the Dark, Bob Miller of Bio Ritmo was playing keyboards instead of his usual trumpet, Nate Griffin anchoring everything with his amazing bass playing and Stewart Holt on drums.

Not sure what to expect out of Big East's genre-bending sound, the two of us heard a little of everything: late sixties pop, '70s post-punk with a pop veneer, eighties synth-driven gems and even some hints of hip-hop.

Prendergast's vocals were not as high in the mix as I would have liked, causing my friend to observe, "You're going to have a tough time quoting any of these lyrics."

Amen, brother.

The best I could do: "That's why you're my lover."

Eventually the crowd gave in to the sound and dancing began in earnest.

Balloons scattered about were sent sailing over the audience and were batted around.

It was interesting hearing Scott Burton play something so different than his usual jazz and while my friend guessed that he was way too talented for this kind of music, his strong guitar leads were a highlight of the band's sound.

And, as a product of the '80s, I couldn't help but love Bob's over-the-top synth playing.

My friend is a bass player, and he raved about Nate's singing and effortless playing of intricate parts which kept everyone's booties in motion.

It's not every day you get to hear two new bands in one evening.

It's not every day you get to dunk cookies in cream while being serenaded by flamenco music.

My guess is stuff like that happens only once in a blue moon.

And there are pictures to prove it.

Tonight I Have To Leave It

Probably the only advantages of being dumped by someone you love madly, but can be difficult to get to know, is that out of the blue, certain people seek you out and want to be your friend.

Such was the case with my pre-March neighbors who said they'd always wanted to socialize with me but didn't care for my partner (although, to be fair, they didn't really know him). I'd run into them recently and yesterday found me at a big party at their house, a place I'd always longed to see from the inside. The building was originally a butcher shop and now it's an art collection in which they make their home.

The house is chock-a-block with the owner's extremely inventive sculptures and extensive collections. No surface and no wall is not full of art and/or history.

There are vintage signs and clocks, historical artifacts like coins and cannon balls and the most amazing poison bottle collection adorning every window. There was a mobile taller than me, original works by underground and comix artists and an insect collection of scarab beetles.

I was given two tours of the place and wanted a third because there was so much to see.

But it was, after all, a party, so I denied myself more art ogling and went back to socializing with a most eclectic crowd: a restaurant owner, several artists and writers and a soon-to-be farmer, among others. The owner has a single cowboy friend he wants me to meet. I had intended to spend an hour at the party and was there for much longer.

Luckily, my friends know how to throw a party right: an obscene amount of alcohol, an enormous and varied food spread so guests could graze constantly without getting trashed and music loud enough to enjoy but not overwhelm conversation. When I finally left, it was with the assurance that we'd meet up again and that I would definitely attend their holiday soiree.

Next up was the Bro-Down at the Camel, to benefit Big Brothers/Big Sisters; in a brilliant musical stroke, the show featured five sets of local musical siblings.

I was treated to the company of Micheal (of Now Sleepyhead and Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) for the first few sets and enjoyed the benefit of his musician's take on the show before he had to go work the sound.

It began with the Burton brothers, Scott of Glows in the Dark whom I've seen many times and Taylor of Cold Toast, whom I've only seen once. Their set was the perfect start to the evening.

Next up were the Scolero sisters and jeez, what beautiful voices those two have. Then came the Hyrciaks (Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and Zach of the Jungle Beat) and that, too, was vocally mesmerizing. The Shultz brothers followed with their always excellent music and then Prabir and Herschel took the stage for covers and banter.

The big finale was All You Need is Love, performed by all the sibling groups.

At that point, I hadn't left enough time for stool sitting and socializing, so I came home like a good girl. I even started this blog post before deciding it could wait until morning.

So good morning.