Maybe Next Year, Baby

Some nights it's good to be called "baby."

It was pouring down rain, I wanted some hot food and the first place that came to mind was Mama J's, four blocks away.

Walking in, I found a WRIR DJ and his son waiting for a table, but when I told the hostess all I needed was a bar stool, she responded, "Right this way, honey."

My DJ friend made fun of me for getting the rock star treatment, but it's all in where you're willing to sit. Pulling out the stool, she gestured, "Especially for you, baby."

With a Motown soundtrack (Supremes, Commodores,Isaac Hayes) blaring over the noise of a full restaurant, the bartender greeted me with, "How you doin' baby?"

Quite well, thank you.

She wanted me to know that I had five minutes until happy hour ended and the guy standing next to me looked at me and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm having a double Jack Daniels."

A single Patron was plenty when what I really wanted was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw and a corn muffin.

I was right by the corner where people come in to grab their to-go orders, so I met the first-timer in picking up food for his wife who worked nearby.

When I asked if he was taking her a piece of cake, he said no, he hadn't ordered any, unaware of the magic of Mama's cakes.

Next time, son, and she'll be yours for life. The woman next to me agreed loudly.

She was picking up and she ruefully shared that she'd just been in on Sunday and was already back.

No shame in being a regular, I told her, but had she gotten the same thing?

"I always get the catfish, but tonight I got the trout," she said, looking pretty pleased with herself.

Not long after my plate arrived, a group of four came in for their to-go order and stopped short when they saw my food.

"I'm gonna come back as a chicken in my next life," one girl claimed.

"I'm gonna eat you if you look like that," her friend said, pointing at my chicken.

Waiting for their order, they caught sight of the cake case and were smitten with the pink and yellow one, asking the bartender what it was.

"Strawberry lemon," she said matter of factly.

"Give. Me. That," on of the guys instructed her, grinning ear to ear.

"Are you gonna get that?" the girl asked incredulously.

"I'm gonna lay in it," he said and asked for a second slice. They left with their order plus four pieces of cake.

Before long, I had to get going ("Sure, baby") to my next stop, Studio 23, freeing up a prime stool for one of the many people lined up by the door.

Richmond's finest print collective was playing host to Music Video Meltdown, part of their monthly film and video series.

Waiting for it to start, I checked out Studio 23's new exhibit, "Sweaty Armpits and Swimming Pools," a summer-themed 'zine show.

The little 'zines ranged from beautifully illustrated books to actual stories with pictures and had post-modern names like "Why Can't the Internet Work Everywhere?" (a title that could only have been thought up by a millennial), "Maybe Next Year" and "Deep End."

Tonight's event had begun with a call for music videos, but the response had been insufficient for an entire evening's programming, so the host had supplemented with videos selected by an informal poll of his friends.

The Spring film and video series had raised enough money to buy a new projector and Bose speakers, and we were the first to experience the new equipment tonight, meaning naturally there were immediate technical difficulties.

They kicked things off with Michael Jackson's "Beat It," a good reminder of MJ pre-cleft chin and final pointy nose, but then went unfortunately to Nicki Minaj, someone whose video I never needed to see.

The submitted videos were cool to see, although it soon became clear that today's young music video-makers are completely fixated on special effects, violence, constantly changing camera angles and blood.

But not all. One was a light show set to Radiohead's "Spinning Plates" and another had a young, red-headed guy singing a song in an empty white room.

One of my favorites began with a guy talking mock-seriously about the infinite cosmos and then shooting a cassette tape out into space and segued into him singing and playing a poppy song with another guy, which they ultimately recorded on (what else?) a cassette tape.

There was a video shot of an evening at Gallery 5, fire twirlers outside, art-hungry crowd inside and I recognized two friends in it. Hell, I was probably there that night.

But for every submission, there was a price to pay, whether M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls" or  a bad white rapper drinking a 40 with his homies, shouting, "Hold up, it's a dance party," at the break.

I had to sit through the Foo Fighters' cheesy, over-wrought video for "There Goes My Hero," but got payback when I saw Cold Cave's synth-laden "God Made the World."

It all evens out in the end.

The last time I spent an evening watching videos was in Italy last October and then they were all McCartney and Lennon videos from the '80s, a far cry from tonight's program.

Seems I need an annual music video dose.

Afterwards, I headed to the Well for a couple of notoriously loud bands.

Like any show there, they weren't even close to starting at 11:15, so I mingled among the PBR-swilling masses.

I got to discuss the terrific Shuggie Otis show with a friend who'd also gone, ran into not one but both of the friends I'd seen in the Gallery 5 video, talked to the guy who's curating an upcoming Listening Room and somehow managed to find a friend who'd never seen the Diamond Center at the Well before.

Considering I've probably seen the band at least a half dozen times there, I was surprised, but warned him that they've been known to come on as late as 12:15.

Nashville's Ttotals played first, all reverb and '90s-sounding and playing to a packed room.

I've seen them before and their exuberant energy is worth experiencing.

During the break after their set, I got into a chat with a scientist who informed me that all human life is descended from six humans.

There's not a lot I can do with that information, my friend.

He also pointed out what he considered to be a fascinating scientific fact: It's 60 degrees and people were wearing jackets and knit caps.

His point was that in six months it'll also be 60 degrees and people will have on shorts and flip-flops.

He's wise beyond his years and hipster haircut.

Another friend and guitarist asked if I'd held the newest restaurant baby (of course) and told me he'd heard from a reliable source that tonight's Diamond Center set was going to be very Phish-like.

Meandering jams sounded like just the ticket at this point.

Around 12:30, the Diamond Center took the floor, breaking their own record, and began their slow, psychedelic groove, made even groovier by Dave Watson's light projections overhead.

After a drawn-out first song, they reverted to some newish material and eventually a brand-new one.

"That's a song that'll be on our new CD," leader Kyle joked, "which should come out in about fifteen years."

I guess parenthood has slowed them down, too.

As many times as I've seen the Diamond Center, they never fail to impress as I was reminded when a friend walked up and assuredly said, "They're going to end up being the biggest band to ever come out of Richmond."

Entirely possible. That's why I'm willing to go see them start playing at 12:30 on a Thursday night.

My ears may be ringing, but baby, it was worth it.

Life Emits a Symphony

It may have been the ultimate compliment.

"I admire you for being true to who you are and living your life the way you want to. Lots of people talk about it, but not many actually live it."

So that was me being true to myself by going to a mid-afternoon poetry reading by Grant Cogswell.

The audience was especially small and, as one attendee noted, "Not many people go to poetry readings...even though poetry is meant to be read aloud."

Which was exactly why I was there.

Grant's perfectly cadenced voice made listening to poems from his new collection, "The Dream of the Cold War" (which he called "a long series of secret measures where no one had an original thought") a real pleasure.

"Time moves too fast for a thing to represent itself," he read from Luna Park.

His Seattle roots showed in Pacific Bell with "We're freer in places where clouds move like paper boats in a  bay."

His humor shone when he explained that he'd he submitted a poem to the group Poets Against the Iraq War ("I wanted to call it Anti-war Poem but that would be like putting a label on an apple that said 'food") as well as his empathetic side (""And the dead are expressed in mathematics.")

And my favorite line?

Sunset emits a symphony.

Who wouldn't want to have a poet read that line to them?

Don't look at me.

I stayed true to myself by visiting my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, for their monthly "Summer Sounds Steady" show.

It's the second in the series  but this time the crowds were bigger because of the Saturday artwalk going on.

The first band, Little Smoke, was a self-described lo-fi, bedroom pop quartet who looked too young to sound as good as they did.

Energetic drumming, two guitarists trading leads and songs like "Makeout Anthem" meant we were having  as much fun listening as they appeared to be having playing.

Nashville's Ttotals were a garage duo with enough reverb and '90s-sounding energy to be the perfect balance to the sunny youth of the first band.

I laughed out loud when the drummer announced, "This one's new so it might be terrible. We'll have a panel discussion afterwards to decide."

No panel and not even close to awful.

After much consideration, I'm not sure my friend's compliment included my devotion to food, but if not, it should have.

This is the last week I had to meet him for dinner before he moves to Colorado.

We met at the bar at Aziza's to talk about everything: tequila menus, Stellenbosch, manual labor and meat glue.

Doing so required Man Sauvignon Blanc because we're like-minded in our devotion to South African wine

The first thing we decided was to eat so that we'd ensure hardening our arteries before the night was over.

Cashew-encrusted whipped prosciutto with thin slices of summer melon and honey/olive oil emulsion melted in my mouth.

Pan-seared foie gras with homemade granola and peaches was easily the most unique foie gras re-imagining I'd ever come across.

The chewy oats and fresh peaches gave it almost a breakfast-like feel to set off the richness of the foie gras.

My pig face and pickled mushroom terrine sandwich on sourdough rye bread with turnip creme fraiche arrived on its side, but our server explained that it should have been standing at attention.

Ah, terrine, how do I love thee? Besides, who doesn't love a good pig face sandwich?

As we devoured everything in front of us, my friend told me his theory of successful relationships.

According to him, you either find that special someone young and grow together (see: my parents and his) or you wait until you're fully formed and then find someone who suits that person you've become.

Well, that explains what I've been doing.

His wisdom belies his tender years.

By unspoken mutual agreement, we got a cream puff to share, my friend telling me that his family rule is that whomever cuts the food in half  must allow the other person to choose which piece they want.

I guess we never had that rule in my family since there were six kids.

The evening lasted far later than we anticipated (we both had later plans), probably because the conversation was so enjoyable and we got more wine.

We finally said goodnight but only because we agreed to meet up one last time before he goes.

It would have been easy to have gone home then; it had been a full day and I'd already enjoyed poetry, music and dinner.

But in order to stay true to me, I couldn't resist just a little more music.

So I joined the throngs at the Camel for some Charm City talent.

I walked in to rowdy rock with a hint of '90s alt-rock in the form of Dope Body and their manic lead singer Andrew.

A guitarist friend immediately said, "I can't decide if I love them or hate them," but by the end of the set, he was acknowledging, "That's the best band I've seen in ages."

He said it was partly the interesting guitar work but for me, it was all about the pure energy of rock music, a sense of humor that shone through in their three-minute songs and Andrew spazzing out wildly as he sang.

The crowd, tentative at first, finally gave in and did their best vertical moshing to show their appreciation for the band's effort.

But what I'd really come for was Future Islands, another Baltimore band, but one that turned the room into a dance floor with their smoldering synth-pop.

A lot of that smolder comes from lead singer Sam's voice which roars and croons, depending on the song.

For "Lighthouse," he said, "Last time we were here, we played this song for the first time," and, judging by the crowd's reaction, a lot of them had been at that last show.

Sam was a gregarious performer, sharing tidbits about nearly every song ("This is 'Cotton Flame' about my girlfriend Kate") and sending the already-dancing crowd into a frenzy when he said, "This one's called 'Walking Through That Door.' It's a southern song."

I could point out that considering the band was originally from North Carolina, probably all the songs are southern songs, but that would be nit-picking.

And honestly, I was having way too much fun to nit-pick.

The Camel was essentially a dance party tonight and every song started the frenzy anew.

And I admit I wasn't immune to it. Come on, synths beg for dancing or is that just my '80s roots talking?

One girl trying to make her way past me said as much when she walked by saying, "It's very hot in there" and pointing to a clutch of dancing people.

Sam wasn't immune, either, saying, "I'm the rainmaker yet again. I leave puddles where ever I am."

It was true that he was soaking the stage with his sweat, somewhat of a problem since he almost slipped on it several times.

As they began playing a new song, Sam said, "Check out that fat bass line," which we did right up until the last song when the bass player broke a string.

"You can't play bass with three strings?" he asked, no doubt hoping to finish up the sweaty show and cool off somewhere.

After an appeal for Dope Body's bass, Sam killed time waiting for it to arrive by singing a capella.

The dancing crowd was having none of it and cheered when the bass arrived.

"Okay, so I learned a capella doesn't fly on a Saturday night," Sam laughed before launching into their last song.

It was "Little Dreamer," and he justified it by saying, "This song is about someone I still dream about. Maybe you have someone you dream about."

It was the ideal last song, showing off his crooning skills and allowing the dance party to end on a slow dance.

I held onto my dreams, like they could run from me

And to my departing friend I would say, that's how you stay true to yourself and live your life the way you want to.

For me, that's holding on to poetry, pig's faces and dance music.

You see, it's easier than you think if you really want to.