The Camera Loves You

Maybe it's just me, but the day after a 10-hour party, an early evening is in order.

That it was also bittersweet, musical and full of friends was icing on the cake.

After a solo dinner at 821 Cafe eating black beans nachos and listening to thrash, I landed at Balliceaux in time to nab a front row seat for the screening of the new documentary, "Goodbye Garbers."

My expectation was that I'd see lots of familiar faces, which I did, including more than a few who also showed up in the film, making for lively conversations about punk glasses, post-punk, the seedy Safeway on Grace Street and the value of cover bands in the overall musical scheme of things.

Just promise me there'll never be a Dexy's Midnight Runners cover band, please.

And, oh, did we digress. What is up with millennials who, when asked what music they're listening to currently, always seem to respond in the distant past (shoegaze? Pink Floyd? Stones? what the hell?) instead of with bands who are their contemporaries?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Introducing the documentary was musician and first-time filmmaker Allison Apperson, who'd backed into the project when musician friend Kelly Queener suggested they make a video about the closing of the Garbers building in the Bottom, the premiere practice space for scores of local bands over several decades.

Allison was the logical choice since she not only had editing experience, but had even named her band after the renowned practice space. Only problem was, Kelly had said "video" and Allison heard "documentary" and the latter was what we were about to see.

For me, what was cool about the film was seeing footage of bands playing in the practice spaces subdivided into the 65,000 square foot Garbers Garage Door Company building. Kelly had begun as a painter there and only later picked up a guitar as an alternate means of creative self-expression.

A woman named Colleen actually lived there, making art and expressing gratitude to owner Carl Otto for allowing her residency (as well as props to anyone born in 1957 like she was).

Carl appeared onscreen several times, explaining how he'd inherited the space from his father-in-law and saw no reason not to rent out the unused parts of the building to musicians, calling it "the best security system" to have people coming and going from the building night and day.

Because of course bands are not going to practice much during the staid 9-5 worker bee time frame.

While I knew that Garber's was a practice space, before tonight, I'd had no idea of just how many bands had made music there.

The first had been Fat Elvis starting in 1986 - the year I came to Richmond - plus a long-time residency by salsa kings Bio Ritmo and lots more, including White Laces, Manzara, the Ar-Kaics, Diamond Center, Hot Dolphin and Snowy Owls.

All bands I'd seen more than once. Even the documentary's musical talking heads were people I knew. Several said the same thing, that you could hear the evolution of other bands' albums there. That musicians fed off the energy of each other. How terrific the sound was in the building.

Best of all, Carl referred to his young tenants as making an enjoyable noise, at least right up until the end of June when he closed the building in anticipation of selling it. To be fair, the man is going on 80.

Everyone I talked to afterwards was gobsmacked at what a fabulous job Allison had done on the film, which in no way came across as a first effort. Clearly, the Garbers building attracted people of multiple talents.

Even better, her sense of humor resulted in a caption labeling guitarist, DJ and all-around music geek Paul Ivey as "angry musician," a joke he didn't even notice during tonight's screening, while some of us howled.

Perhaps his new Brian Wilson tour t-shirt had him in a blissfully zen state where he didn't notice such silliness.

After the screening, Kelly's band, Peace Beast, took the stage to deliver the kind of live music that used to percolate at the Garbers building. Their brand of dreamy psych pop with two female vocalists was the ideal way to feel the magic of the Garbers scene that is no more.

From here on out, it'll just be the stuff of legend, although the documentary probably ought to be required viewing for up and coming young Richmond musicians looking for inspiration.

Even the so-called angry ones.

Dig It, No Mark

You can feel it in the air: something's coming.

The crazy breezes, the hide and seek humidity, the sudden cool, the encyclopedia of clouds in the sky, all of it seems to be the opening act for whatever (notice the caps) Weather Event is hitting us this weekend.

I'm the first to say - after qualifications, of course (no one wishes for bad things to happen to good people) - bring it on. We can't stop it, so may as well accept it. Embrace it even.

Walking down Cary Street after stopping in Chop Suey Books, I know I reveled in the warmth and stormy promise of the last of the daylight air. I'd set my sights on Amour's happy hour to feed and entertain me.

A guy at the bar was already working his way through the happy hour small plates, with the intention of doing the prix fixe meal afterwards. I admired his ambition (and stomach), but he explained it had been a couple months since he'd been in and he intended to make up for it.

The owner asked how many were joining me (zero) and made sure I knew that Wednesdays were date nights. Does it have to be a real date, I inquired?

"We're not following you to check on what you do after the meal," he assured me. Later, when another table said they intended to swap plates and they hoped that was acceptable on date night, he informed them, "Who you swap with is not my business now or later."

Like I said, I was dateless, but I did order the three specials: duck rillettes, almond pesto shitake mushroom caps with crumbled bacon and black and blue gougieres, each served with a small pour of the ideal pairing because, let's face it, that's what Amour does incredibly well.

Waiting for my food I got the bar sitter's story which included his career as an ER nurse and 20 years in West Point, leading to an admission that he's spent the past five years trying to regain his sense of smell after two decades inhaling the putrid outpourings of the paper mills on the waterfront.

I wished him luck before he went on to educate me about the three rivers there. Turns out the Mataponi is fresh water and the Pamunkey and York brackish and this is why he, his family and others in the area fought for 15 years against a reservoir to serve Newport News.

"You take out ten million gallons of fresh water and who's to say that river stays fresh water?" he asked rhetorically. The most I could offer was my Pamunkey viewing from a distance story and he approved of the long view

The rillettes got me started, the gougieres dazzled with black olives and bleu cheese and as I all but licked the plate under the shitake caps, a server (the one who'd described the post- bike race city as currently under a "blissed- out chill) gave me the nod, saying, "Told you you'd dig it."

Dig I had, all three, especially so well paired.

We were joined by an EMT and before I could get much more from her, she and the nurse were doing a comparison of who could do what in their respective job, what drugs have to be dripped and why she would never consider working all weekend nights like he happily does.

She shared that drinking heightens her senses, so kitty litter really offends her after a couple glasses of wine. Even her skin is more sensitive when drinking. Well then, I began, sounds like it should be the ideal time to...

"Oh, I do," she said authoritatively, not even letting me finish. Some bars just reliably provide colorful conversation.

By the time I left there (and them discussing intubation), it was to go to Balliceaux for music.

Walking up to the door, I heard my name called and there was the one guitarist friend I'd expected to see tonight, having a smoke with a staffer. My first question was when the show might start since he was talking to the door guy, who, if he was outside, probably meant no time soon.

The all-girl opening band Myrrias, from Philly, had hit traffic so the show would begin shortly. Asking about their sound, my friend cut off the door guy's description, reassuring me that I would like them. After years of talking music, he's someone who knows my sound and theirs, he said, was it.

I stayed long enough to discuss the recent Kepone  ("They were good in the '90s, broke up and got back and didn't embarrass themselves. Those guys can really play, unlike a lot of these younger bands," door man pronounced) show I'd recently missed

Inside, I got half  the length of the dining room before hearing my name called again, this time two music-loving couples I know. Like me, they're loving this beachy breezy blowing we're getting and fondly recalled a past hurricane that involved mushrooms and a prolonged storm-watching session on the porch.

We all have our hurricane rituals. Talk of tropical storm party planning are already ubiquitous on Facebook.

After paying the same door guy I'd already talked to, he asked if I wanted my hand stamped. What was this? He  always draws something on each paying guest's hand.

Since when do I have a choice, I ask? He knows me, he says, so he doesn't need to mark me any more.

Wait, since when? He's known me for years, I remind him. "Since now. Since this moment. It's a new era." I enter the back room unmarked for the first time.

There, I heard about an upcoming show by a cover band and not just any cover band but one that does nothing but Tom Waits and the Smiths. They're called Tom Smith, if you can believe that. I can only anticipate what a hoot that'll be.

Myrrias was a trio tonight of bass, keys and drums, but only because their guitarist had had a family emergency. Even with one less vocal and no guitar, their sound was, as my friend had assured me, right up my alley.

Dreamy, multiple vocalists, vocal effects and, most importantly, that music from a cave sound I adore. I'd love to hear them as a quartet.

Midway through their set, the bass player announces, "I'm really hoping to try the food here It looks really good. I hope the kitchen is still open when we finish." Alas, no, a shame because the food's good, as my friends up front had mentioned, not eaten here myself a couple days ago.

During the break between bands, four guys sat down at the table next to me, unexpectedly providing all kinds of entertainment. One guy told a story of asking s girl to dinner, only to have her cancel at the last minute.

Her reason? She'd found out he drove a 1988 Ford Explorer and told him she didn't want to sound shallow, but it wouldn't work out because they wanted different things out of life.

"What did she think she discovered about me by what I drive?" he asked, a fair question, and a thoughtful one for his tender youth. "I have a job and I love my old car. So what?"

Be glad you found out before you wasted a dime on her, my friend. Girls like that are a dime a dozen and still overpriced.

I gave him credit, though, because when White Laces took the stage ("Thanks for braving the hurricane," leader Landis humorously greeted us, causing the kid next to me to say, "There's not any hurricane"), he went up and stood front and center, leaving his buddies to a back table and their phones.

At one point, he came back to the table, but all three (including no hurricane guy) had their eyes glued to their phones while the band was playing and though he tried to mock them by crouching down to take a picture of them, not a one noticed.

He gave up and went back up front. Meanwhile, I'd positioned myself for near-perfect sound and since White Laces never disappoints, I was like a pig in slop.

Playing songs from their first album all the way to songs from their upcoming album, they did their usual flawless execution, guitars ringing, drums everywhere and keys winding in and out of every song.

I hadn't known, but tonight's their last show until March, with a new album in January, making me doubly glad I'd wandered out on this beautiful night to hear them.

I don't want to sound shallow, but feed me like one of your French girls and rock me like a hurricane.

Sometimes that's exactly what a girl needs out of life.

No Looking Forward, No Turning Back

The sign nailed it: "If you're not at Texas Beach, you should be here."

It doesn't matter where the sign actually sat (in front of a consignment boutique), it was the left-behind-Labor-Day syndrome it expressed. In other words, if you didn't have somewhere near the water to be, you might as well find some amusement in the city.

I did.

Pasture was doing a county fair night and while technically I've never actually been to a county fair, I figured how hard could it be?

They'd done it up right, too, with green and white striped flags hanging behind the bar, votive candles inside popcorn bags and a ring toss on the end of the bar. A box with strings (what was that popular carnival game called?) netted me a plastic ring and miniature camera (push the shutter and see a blue rhino or pink elephant!), my evening's souvenirs.

Only the music - ABC's "The Look of Love," INXS' "Listen Like Thieves" - belied the theme, although there were undoubtedly county fairs in the '80s, too. Or did I forget and we put them on hiatus during the Reagan years? Just say no to county fairs?

Naturally there were food and drink specials such as a cotton candy cocktail (champagne and St. Germain with, yup, pink cotton candy atop it) and a pork parfait (pulled pig layered with mashed potatoes, grated cheddar and a barbecue sauce topping), both of which I ordered.

Go hard or go home, I always say. I'll work on unclogging those arteries tomorrow.

Further down the bar were a couple I knew and I heard her asking about the parfait. Since I was halfway through mine, I shared my opinion - it was obscenely good - only to have her tell me she doesn't like mashed potatoes.

Sound of record scratching.

I never heard of anyone who didn't like mashed potatoes. Seems it was Halloween night '82 or '83 and her mother told her she couldn't go trick or treating until she ate her mashed potatoes, which she hated. One bite in, she started gagging and her (weak-willed) mother released her to the neighborhood streets.

All these decades later, she'll only eat smashed potatoes with recognizable lumps of potato in them. What? Like I said, I never heard of anyone who didn't like mashed potatoes before.

Her husband owns a record store in the neighborhood, so of course we got on the topic of the impending bike race and what it might/might not do for the city. I was glad to hear that they'll not only stay open, but later than usual and with the ability to sell beer and wine.

That's how we show thousands of visitors what a cool town we are, not by closing or truncating hours.

I left them - him to his second jalapeno corn dog and her to her hot toddy sno-cone, both part of the county fair specials - and a good-sized crowd of Labor Day left-heres to go to Hardywood for music. A last minute show had been announced and I try not to miss an opportunity to see White Laces.

My night got off to a good start there when upon walking in, a man walked up to me and said, "That's a very fine dress, miss." After thanking him, he told me yellow was his favorite color.

Complimentary men are my favorite kind.

Hardywood was completely civilized tonight with a much smaller than usual crowd (doubtless all the cool kids were at the river or beach) and White Laces was setting up when I arrived. I found a place near the back, enjoying the breeze through the open doors and directly in front of the stage for the best sound.

I heard my name, only to see a favorite shoegaze guitarist I hadn't talked to in ages, so long that I'd had no idea he'd cut off his shoulder length hair. We chatted about music and he told me about the recent show he'd seen featuring '90s alternative bands Hum and Failure, raving about how well the '90s bands' music had held up.

Then we noticed that White Laces was leaving the stage, not a good sign considering it was time for them to start playing. Why, we wondered? Because a man had gotten permission to sing a song to his wife for her 40th birthday and all of us in the room were captive to him and 20 friends singing it aloud.

We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder
We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better
We belong, we belong, we belong together

Awwwwww...nothing says "I love you, honey" like Pat Benetar.

That mess over, White Laces took the stage and finally got to play their well-crafted music for the small crowd, including  a new song, "Maybe Not," from the upcoming record.

I'm an unabashed fan of lead singer Landis' guitar playing and voice, but it's the overall sound of a driving rhythm section, keyboards and Landis that speaks to their strengths as a band.

They were only a few songs in when I saw another friend headed my way after a busy day doing wine tastings at the market where she works. Seems she'd recently bid on a piece of art at an auction at the brewery and was in to pick up her Ed Trask piece, a worthy addition to anyone's wall. I admitted to a little envy.

By the time the band got to "Strangulation Blues" and an announcement that it was last call, I felt a twinge of regret that their set was so short. I could have happily listened to these guys for another hour, the breeze tickling my back as it moved my hair from behind.

You know, considering my lack of invitations, I felt pretty fortunate to wind up with fair food and a last minute show. I'm not denying, I'm embracing (for worse or for better) my lack of Labor Day plans.

I'm not at any beach, so I should be here. What's next?

Three for Three

Triple booked tonight and it was worth every bit of the to and fro-ing.

First was the cocktail party at a friend's house.

The occasion? Her Mom is visiting from Mexico in anticipation of the two of them flying to Bermuda, where she lived for 11 years, next week.

Nice trip if you can get it.

Actually, I've been to Bermuda and had a fabulous time, but that doesn't stop me from envying my friend her upcoming time there.

Her Mom was delightful and droll, never more so than when she observed her two-year old granddaughter in a tutu and a cropped Ramones t-shirt and deadpanned, "I bet she's never even heard the Ramones."

She shared a news-making story from her days as a curator, raved about her 14-year old seat mate on the plane ride and was wearing fabulous jewelry she made herself.

An interesting mom altogether.

After far too much Rose, cheese and figs and deviled eggs, I said my goodbyes to make stop number two, joining two girlfriends at Balliceaux.

Tonight was their first time experiencing Hand to Hand Haiku and by the time I got there, they'd already nabbed a front row table and had beers in front of them.

It was an unusually small crowd tonight but there were still plenty of combatants to follow host Raven Mack's opening monologue about the 1300 sonnets he's writing.

He was kind enough to read us two of them.

Then it was on to round one between Ryan, who characterized his haiku writing as stupid and John, who called his straight bullshit.

I've seen Ryan compete before so I already knew the constant in his haikus is the use of the word "dude."

Dude, this neighborhood
suffers from a serious lack
of Blue Oyster Cult

Like that. Except John won. Like Raven, he's got a terrific voice and an interesting look, so he's one of my favorites to watch compete, even when he doesn't win the match.

Round two brought Paul who referred to his haikus as "Appalachian filth" and the defending champion Amy, who called hers "written a few minutes ago."

I have to say, the room about lost it when Paul read this one.

New Volvo driving
old white ladies with butt plugs,
pucker lips, hate me

Later, he told me he was writing about the women he sees at Ellwood Thompson who always make a point to scowl at him.

Amy was no slacker either.

Home girl burnt her lip
on the joint's hot spot.
Blunt force trauma.

As one of my friends put it, "I didn't expect haikus to be so funny."

Oh, but they can be.

There's always a death match that pits host Raven against a worthy challenger and tonight's was Rebecca, who read a haiku called "Skin."

Our greatest asset
gives us the ability
to touch and be felt

Just as good and all too relevant for my friend was one of Raven's.

By day, mild mannered
state administrator.
By night, depressed.

Eventually, Rebecca ran out of haikus so they went to free-styling, making up haikus on the spot for the judges (of whom I happened to be one), a mighty impressive thing to witness.

Raven won again, taking the pink game cock (yep, you read that right) trophy back home with him for the umpteenth time, but the man can write haiku about masturbating with peppermint soap and how tingly it feels, so he truly is the master.

Usually the death match is the end of the evening, but tonight John and Amy returned to fight it out until John ran out of haikus and conceded.

Luckily, he's talented and tenacious, so he frequently comes back.

After the match ended, we sat and chatted for a while, planning our next date and trying to convince one of our friends to go see "Boyhood," a film two of us had loved.

Somehow, we got on the subject of people who don't pay attention to music and how foreign and unpleasant a world that would be for us.

We sat there preaching to the choir before breaking camp so one could go home to bed, one to have another beer and wait for her boyfriend and me to go to a show.

Now there's a surprise.

As if a great bill on a Wednesday night wasn't lucky enough, I found a parking space directly in front of Strange Matter.

Inside, I found a clutch of WRIR folks, a music writer and a drummer, but all in all, far fewer people than I'd anticipated.

Playing first were hometown heroes White Laces, although playing as a trio tonight instead of a quartet, and doing lots of songs off their upcoming October release, "Trance."

Did I miss the keyboards? Yes, but that's not to say that their smart, guitar-driven sound wasn't fully satisfying to hear, as always.

From the lead single, "Skate of Die" to the album's final cut, "Strangulation Blues," their set was yet another reminder of how far this band has come since I first saw them at the courtyard during the artwalk four years ago.

Watching them, it feels like a big deal to have witnessed their steady ascent to where they are now.

During the break, I talked with a friend about the challenges of freelancing, glad to hear that her frustrations mirror mine and it's not just me.

Then the room began to fill with smoke as Sisu's smoke machine kicked into overdrive.

They also had video showing behind them and two perfect sets of bangs, courtesy of Sandy and Jules of the Dum Dum Girls.

It's Sandy's band and the music is psychedelic, full-bodied and dark with plenty of reverb.

Loud, too, but not as loud as it would have been if the drummer hadn't put his red plaid flannel shirt over his drum before playing it.

Being visual creatures, lots of guys seemed to be taking pictures of the lovely Sandy shredding her guitar.

At one point, I looked over at the door and all I could see was a solid haze of smoke and no door at all.

After their set ended, I talked to a friend about why more VCU kids weren't at the show and with the drummer of the Shangri-Lords about the stellar set of theirs I'd seen at the pool party the other night.

Turns out he and the bass player have been girl group fans for years and finally got to let their inner girls out via this band.

As the crowd began to filter back in, San Diego band Crocodiles took the stage and began an audio assault laden with echo, one of my favorite sounds.

It was music from a cave, full of guitar distortion tamed into something wonderfully energetic and danceable.

A drunk girl in front of me wrangled a guy to dance with her, producing hysterical results as they managed to dance off beat for the next five songs, stumbling into each other and everyone around them without ever moving in relation to the music being played.

But at least they were dancing, as was most of the room to Crocodiles' catchy, noisy psych-rock with the kind of guitar work that calls to mind all those post-punk bands of the mid-aughts that I loved.

Just another Wednesday in River City.

While some might lament the serious lack of Blue Oyster Cult, I'm calling it a damn fine evening.

Upstream and Downstream

It helps to be photogenic.

The James River, easily the most photographed part of our fair city, was the topic of this month's community conversation at F.W. Sullivan's Canal Bar & Grill, a place I had to Googlemap to figure out how to get there.

It's not like it's far from home - 1.8 miles - but I was honestly not sure where along the canal it might be.

Once there, overlooking the Canal and in the shadow of a nearby high rise, I found a smaller than usual group assembled for the discussion of riverfront development.

Might have been because tonight's session had been rescheduled from a snow day last week or maybe others were as unsure where it was as I'd been.

F.W.'s had put out snackage, so I helped myself to hot wings and hummus and found a seat next to a fellow J-Ward resident.

We began, as is the habit, with people's first memories of the area. Mine was the opening of the pedestrian bridge to Belle Isle back in the early '90s.

The Valentine's Bill Marin said his favorite memory of the river was instead of church, he made a regular Sunday 9 a.m. trek from Church Hill down to the water, employing different routes and seldom seeing anybody en route.

Facilitator Matthew summed up his story, saying, "Who needs Jesus when you have the James? Or you can probably have both."

After a few people shared their early memories, we moved on to photographs from the Valentine's superb collection, always my favorite part of these evenings.

There was an 1852 shot of Mayo Bridge and the Flour mills, back when Richmond was one of the largest flour milling cities on the planet.

We saw a prior iteration of the Mayo bridge and I learned that the current one is slated for replacement by VDOT. I agreed wholeheartedly with Bill's comment that we need to keep the old one even after the new one is built.

My hands down favorite was a sepia toned photograph of a boating party on the banks of the James, as engaging as Renoir's painted version.

An 1869 shot of the Virginia Boat Club sported teams of crew gliding along the river.

"One of the biggest challenges we have is finding photographs of Manchester," Bill explained. "It's a real research challenge." He also mentioned that we need to rediscover southside because important stories are missing from our city's cultural identity without them.

Closer to home, I saw a shot of the Lombardy Street underpass half underwater from a 1972 flood and the Federal Reserve building under construction and totally surrounded by nothing but surface parking lots.

After people got more food, we convened to talk about what we'd like the riverfront to become in ten years.

Someone suggested that we open the ship lock so boats could travel upriver to the canal, bringing their money and business to the canal area.

The consensus was that people want to see restaurant and retail development along the canal but keep the riverfront as wild and natural as possible.

I admit, I was a tad surprised that there were people in the room who'd never walked the pipeline walkway or heard of Texas Beach.

It became clear people want to get the word out about all the hidden gems of the James without creating a stampede that destroys the naturalness of it all.

A pretty tall order, I'd say.

Already the riverfront trails from Maymont downriver are overused and under-maintained, a condition that's only going to worsen, Bill pointed out.

Our speaker tonight was Richmond Magazine's executive editor, Jack Cooksey, talking about the history and health of the river.

 We heard how plentiful Atlantic sturgeon were when John Smith first landed here, how they single handedly kept the colony fed in the early days and how if we had an American fish, it should be the sturgeon. About boat builder and environmental pioneer Newton Ancarrow, who ended up with a park named after him for his efforts. How the James rated only 53 out of 100 in the last Sate of the James report. All fascinating stuff.

That's one reason I enjoy these community conversations so much: it's part photography exhibit, [art history lesson and part community discussion of what has been and what could be.

Partway through the evening, I felt a bar stool being dragged next to mine and turned to find the dance party lover taking his place next to me.

When the evening ended, I tortured him with details about the fabulous electronica show I saw Tuesday and he got me back by sharing that he's planning a trip to London in June.

And while the meeting ended early, Bill Martin joined us for a wide-ranging chat about the Liberty Trail (and how some people thought it was too long - obviously non-walking types), the best sidewalks to get from the Black History Museum to Franklin Street (that's my neighborhood and there's no easy way given the state of some sidewalks) and some rehashing of the last Monroe Park community conversation (where anarchists met garden club types).

I was excited to hear about the new BridgePark project, a public park that will span the rapids and link downtown to Manchester with space for recreation, arts and social activities. How cool will that be?

Crossing back over the canal, the mighty wind of earlier had lessened a bit as I made my way to my car. It was time for some music.

White Laces, the pitch perfect dream pop band I've been following for years, is about to embark on a national tour opening for the War on Drugs, so tonight was their last show for a while and definitely the last before a whole lot more people discover what I found out nearly four years ago at the courtyard on Adams Street during the artwalk.

You can get lost floating downstream in their hazy sound.

But bands rarely star early at Balliceaux, so I found a seat at the bar and chose a seared pork belly sandwich with Daikon slaw and truffle fries to tide me over until my date arrived.

As music lovers began to drift in, I saw lots I knew - the shoegazer, the DJ couple, tonight's rock star- including the friend who arrived helmet in hand because his car is in the shop.

Asking if I was alone, I said I expected  company soon and inquired about his other half. "We see each other about half the time," he explained. "That's about all she can stand me. Hey, if your date doesn't show up, I'll buy you a drink because that's the kind of guy I am."

Which I suppose makes me a lucky woman to have friends like that.

When I heard New Turks began playing, I hurried to the back room to catch their frenetically loud post punk set carried out on drums and bass, whipping the crowd up with their non-stop audio assault.

Just as they finished, my date walked in and my friend's generous offer was forgotten.

With Espolon in hand, White Laces took the stage with leader Landis introducing the new keyboard player whose first show with the band was tonight.

P.S. They leave on tour tomorrow (the Bowery Ballroom in NYC! the 9:30 Club in DC!).

While the sound wasn't ideal to star (happily it improved throughout the set), they began building atmospheres of sonic grooves that eventually had the crowd totally into it.

It was great hearing a keyboard player back in the band adding another layer to the sound and giving arrangements of songs I've heard many times a fresh life.

Landis was sweating mightily, holding up his beer frequently as if in a toast to what he'd earlier called "a safe room," meaning lots of adoring fans.

The light projections behind the band were courtesy of the one and only Dave Watkins, blending "Repo Man" and "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" for a pixilated visual treat while the soundscapes unfurled.

After a few songs my date acknowledged how much he was liking the later stuff they played. Another first-timer told me he'd loved their sound, unexpected after walking in knowing nothing about the band.

Me, I discovered that sound back when they were more about volume than dynamics and finesse.

Here's hoping every night of their tour ends up being a newly safe room full of recently minted fans.

Let's face it, it helps to be talented.

What, Again?

In the interest of proving that you can never have too much music in one day, I went out to a show tonight, my third today.

The line was long at Strange Matter to get in and Sleepwalkers was already playing when I found my spot next to the master of the light show, Dave.

Tuning in to Sleepwalkers sprawling set, the guy next to me observed, "That song sounded like Squeeze."

Which it had, but as I pointed out, these guys probably had no idea who Squeeze were.

"Difford and Tilbrook, huh?" he joked. Indeed.

But Squeeze was as recent as their sound got, most of it hovering around the '70s with muscular riffs and posturing guitar solos the crowd ate up.

They even slid in a bit of Foghat's "Slow Ride" just because they could.

During the break, the guy next to me asked if I was Karen, remembering me (and my blog) from a summertime Wild Nothing show.

His only complaint with the blog was that I didn't like Penny Lane Pub. And I was at Rosie Connelly's earlier this week, so it's not like I categorically hate British pubs or anything.

"You're my idol," he said. "You're always eating out, you go to so many shows and you don't have a cell phone."

As a lawyer, that third one was probably the kicker and he's got to be the only person in the universe who idolizes me for those things, but I'll take idolatry where I can get it.

White Laces was up next and he'd asked me what I liked about them and not even two songs in, concurred that they were incredibly tight.

"I hear Peter Buck," he said of Landis' guitar work, which I enjoy as much as I do the constant motion of his energetic playing.

We heard songs from the last album and even better, a few from the upcoming one, all with that sound that promises they won't be in Richmond much longer.

During the break I talked to friends - the scientist, the stand-up drummer, the sound guy - and watched the crowd grow for Avers, the band that's been on everyone's lips lately.

They don't want to be called a supergroup, but with members of the Head and the Heart, Mason Brothers, the Trillions, Farm Vegas and Hypercolor, they could be.

With four guitars, bass and drums, there was a lot of dense sound but it was the fact that five of them sang that I liked best.

The lawyer and I agreed that their sound pulled from many places. There was a definite psychedelic thing going on, along with elements of roots rock, folk and alt-country and in many cases, it was the killer drumming that tied a song together magnificently.

I was partial to the way they traded instruments as easily as they traded lead vocals, but then I'm always a sucker for multi-talented types.

At the end of it all, the lawyer gave them an A-.

At the end of my three-show day, I'm thinking I just proved my point.

Anniversary Song

Four years ago, in an alcohol-free church basement, the Listening Room was born.

I know because I was there that night, here, and thrilled to have found a place where music trumped blather.

Tonight was the fourth anniversary Listening Room and the program ably demonstrated how far the series has come.

Curated by Shannon Cleary of WRIR's Commonwealth of Notions show, it featured three local bands, all of whom I've seen before and all of whom impressed me mightily.

Chatting with some fellow long-time regulars before the show, we talked about how the series has evolved, having begun as all acoustic with no drums and no electric instruments.

Tonight was all about the drums and the plugged-in instruments.

Way, Shape or Form had originally appealed to me with their jazzy guitars and unique time signatures, dancing right on that edge of math rock with just enough pop thrown in to be catchy.

Tonight was more of the same but the band sounded even tighter than when I'd seen them last winter.

Singer Troy apologized late into their set, saying, "Of course I picked this week to get sick and have to do a show where everyone is quiet and listening to my voice."

Honestly, his voice sounded fine, plus they did two songs, the first and the last, without vocals, always a pleasure to hear because they veer beautifully close to soaring post-rock soundscapes.

I did the seated mingling thing during the break, turning to talk to friends behind me and waiting for others to come sit in the row with me and catch up.

As a veteran of 42 of the 44 Listening Room shows, I think I've earned the right to play queen bee on occasion.

Next up was Warren Hixson and just before they started, a bearded friend leaned down and asked if anyone in the band was actually named Warren Hixson.

Is there an Echo in the Bunnymen? No, and there's no Warren here either.

Brent, the leader of the band, began by asking if the stage lights could be turned down a bit.

"They're fixed," sound man Dave called down to him. "Just like me," Brent joked (or maybe not).

Their sound is unlike anyone else's in Richmond at the moment, one part garage rock, a little grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards that wove the most interesting sounds plus male and female vocals (including the incomparable Nelly Kate).

A couple songs in and the listener has to acknowledge the sound as a pastiche with no discernible genre other than its own.

Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, those keyboards kick in and they start sounding surf-like and psychedelic and I find myself sucked back in.

Pausing to acknowledge the room, Brent said, "This is cool. We once played a show in an attic with four dudes dancing and unplugging our pedals, so this is very cool."

Because they didn't have dudes dancing or people talking, they decided to do "Cruel Whims," the last song on their record and one Brent characterized as a "bedroom song, one that's awkward to do in loud situations."

Such are the benefits of hearing a band when they can be heard.

When their set ended, a photographer friend slid into the seat next to me and said, "I wasn't ready for that to be over. They were amazing."

Since he's a big show-goer, too, I was sincerely surprised that he'd never seen them before but agreed with him about their set.

During the second break, I got up and moved around to mingle, ending up talking to some people about how electric the Listening Room had become.

In the old days, breaks between sets were extremely brief; one guy with a guitar walked offstage and another guy with a guitar walked on.

Now it's like a regular show with break down and set up times that approaches 20 minutes, an unheard of amount of time in the old days.

"Yea, in another four years, we'll have entire orchestras playing," one guy observed humorously.

Curator Shannon took the stage again, this time to talk about the local music scene and what a terrific point in time it is for it.

He thanked the people who document the scene, mentioning specific sites and blogs (including this one, she said proudly), at "this moment in Richmond's music history."

Last up was trio White Laces, a band who only has to begin playing to remind me how very much I love their dreampop sound and that it's always been too long since I heard them last.

Tonight they were here to play the songs that will be on their new album, which they start recording in a week.

"Most of these songs have been played out once or never," singer Landon told us before treating us to some absolutely brilliant new hook-filled songs.

Admitting that many of the songs never got past their working titles - "Skate or Die, "Janet," "Keith Sweats"- the audience sat entranced by melodic songs, kick ass drums and guitar hooks that surely must get them laid.

Of "New Jam 2," Landis said, "It still doesn't have a name beyond that. We've been calling it that for five months now, which doesn't bode well for it."

Named properly or not, the song was one more strong example of songwriting and execution.

Drummer Jimmy kept track of the set list, reminding the others what was upcoming and occasionally getting distracted by the joking onstage.

"Every time we start laughing, I forget what the next song is," he explained before a do-over.

"We don't have humor at practice," Landis deadpanned, "So when we do up here, it's weird."

We didn't used to have alcohol or drums at the Listening Room and now we do but it's not weird, it only makes things better.

I'd say that bodes very well for the next four years. But don't take my word for it, check it out for yourself. Just be quiet about it, will you?

Because some things about the Listening Room will never change. Lucky us.

Parallel Chills

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We finished licking our forks just as the music began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pleasures Remain

I wasn't the only one who needed it.

People and music, that is.

I have to assume that's why all those warm bodies were pressed into Balliceaux tonight after a week of enforced holiday/family events.

The surprising part was that the show had already begun when I arrived.

I was assured that Anousheh was only on her second song, but I hate to miss even one song when it's as good as her band's are.

My trip to Italy had precluded me attending her CD release show back in October, so I felt owed.

Because her set had begun, I could only muscle so far before hitting a wall of people and being in the way of moving barbacks.

That lasted through a couple of songs where people came in and stopped right in front of Anousheh singing and had long, loud conversations that blocked the view and sound of her.

Fine, it's a bar, so talk away, but do you have to do it two feet from the singer/keyboardist?

All I'm saying is that it made it very easy to move in front of people like that and enjoy the rest of the set from the front, unobstructed.

"You might know this," Anousheh said late in their set, "if you're old."

I turned to the guitarist next to me and said, "I'll know it."

It took the crowd a bit before they began to recognize Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence," but I was getting it from the start.

As good as she sounded, she looked just as good in little leather shorts, leggings and booties with a drape-y cream shirt swinging as she sang and danced.

What was interesting was watching her low-key husband (and musician) watch her become a pop goddess in front of a roomful of pretty people.

Well, not just pretty because fans like me and others were there, too.


Lots of bangs, lots of earnest looking metrosexuals.

Coats stuffed into the rafters for lack of anyplace else to put them


A favorite drummer tapped me on the shoulder, the photographer walked in with me, the physicist said hello, the French singer looking brooding, the cute couple, he with his winter look on.

The neighborhood musician who usually just nods his head slyly when he sees me, but tonight spoke.

"It's never a shock to see you out, Karen."But it's always a pleasure."

Blah, blah, blah.

During the break, the DJ played songs like Lionel Richie's "All Night Long" and "Oh, Sheila."

Then came White Laces and by then the room had to have been at capacity.

As is my habit, I'd moved to the back banquette for the best view and I heard a guy comment on how big the crowd was.

I'd attributed that to the bands' avid fan bases, meaning less overlap and more distinctive subgroups.

After a sound check where White Laces' singer Landis inquired of the audience if they sounded too loud, too quiet or okay, we did our best Goldilocks and reassured him that it was just right.

"Thanks to Anousheh for playing that Depeche Mode cover," he said. "Way to stoke my ..."

You get the idea.

I'm a fan of the band and, granted, I was way in the back, but I didn't see nearly the rapt attention I have at other White Laces shows.

Not nearly enough applause from the distracted crowd.

After their set, the DJ chilled out with Washed Out and other more current music, getting a mini dance party going while others made beer runs and pit stops.

Wisely, I stayed put to keep my seat and a guy came up and asked if he could sit next to me.

I must have looked like the keeper of the banquette.

Alright, so I deigned to let him.

The Trillions were last and if anyone had any doubt who they were, they had to have been deaf.

Singer Charlie mentioned it several times in a row and between almost every song.

It was as if he sensed that the crowd wasn't paying attention or (horrors!) was a little too inebriated at this point to remember.

Naturally the four tallest men in the room congregated directly in front of me as I tried to see one of the shortest bands in town.

Meanwhile, the band hit us with their poppy rock assault and midway through the set they had a good-sized crowd of people dancing in the center of the room.

I'd already done my grooving during the first couple sets, but some people were just getting started.

People and music, that's all we needed tonight.

You might have known that if you were old.

Seeking Same

I figured I'd see a lot of my people tonight.

After all, if I go to the only restro-lounge in town, aren't I likely to see other enthusiastic eaters and loungers?

2113 had its usual orange, cool vibe presence when we arrived to music pulsing and a lively mostly male crowd.

Sliding in, we rearranged stools to put two together.

Conveniently, they were pouring Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose, meaning low-alcohol, but with far more fruit (not to mention a lovely pink color) than a typical Vinho Verde, along with the usual effervescence.

When I was given free rein to order, I couldn't resist ordering the kinds of dishes my companion didn't used to eat.

Say, pan-fried sweetbreads with sweet carrot and a Grenoblaise sauce, the portion so generous as to be startling or the beets with duck confit with a superb smoked balsamic vinaigrette that made the dish.

Someone's been having a ball with his smoker and the result was stellar.

A guy nearby noticed me and asks if we hadn't met. And it wasn't a line.

We had met at Patrick Henry's over a year ago and talked food and restaurants all evening.

Coincidentally, we did the same tonight.

Bypassing the dessert with tobacco-flavored cotton candy, we got vanilla and olive oil parfait with chocolate crumbles for our last course.

I'm definitely seeing an uptick in 2113's food quality and execution.

Now if only I could see more people coming in for the lounge portion of the equation.

But I couldn't be part of that group tonight because Balliceaux was calling.

Walking in to a mostly full room, I was happy to see a friend and her cute husband in attendance.

She's usually the early-to-bed type, but tonight she'd been to a work function and had a Tall Boy so was enjoying herself immensely now.

Someone noted that the crowd was heavily male and a look around confirmed that.

I believe the technical term is "sausagefest."

There were lots of musicians at the show, so there would have been a serious hardship to the local scene if Balliceaux had gone up in a puff of smoke tonight.

I saw the scientist, who only stayed long enough to say hello and catch up with people.

Every time I turned around to face Dave Watkin's swirling light show, there was a familiar face.

The organizer. The (tardy) photographer.

The former prickly and now sunny one.

The WRIR DJs. The former co-worker. The beer geek.

The expectant singer adjusting to the limitations of pregnancy. The friend who came with his Zep bandmates.

A drummer who just got back from South Africa so we could dish on that subject together.

I even did some Replacements matchmaking.

Simply put, the place was crawling with my people.

White Laces was doing their record release show and DJ Ohbliv was opening.

I'd heard him before and been impressed with his knob turning and mashups so I was unprepared when I overheard a guy observe to his friends, "He's not very good at changing songs. Doesn't he know transitions?"

Clearly he was not getting the point.

Meanwhile, my cute friend laughed at his ignorance and danced on.

The room was full of energy and packed by the time White Laces started playing.

Oh, sure, some of it was the "pretty people" kind.

You know, those people who stand around shouting and laughing loudly while the band tries to play over them.

But a lot of the energy was also the fan variety where people just wanted to listen to a band that keeps sounding better and better with each performance.

All four members are terrific musicians and with each show I see, they push their dynamic range a bit further.

Unfortunately, by the end of their set, my girlfriend was ready to push some of the pretty people in the face.

Not me.

I wouldn't want to risk knocking them into my people.

Glowing a Golden Haze of Sweat

It's a damn shame when you can't even find your way to a party.

A friend had provided directions, but after multiple trips up and down the street, his house was nowhere to be found.

In my own defense, I don't know southside very well.

So, we abandoned Plan A and moved on to Plan B, which involved barbecue at Alamo.

After ordering a pig and slaw sandwich and a sampler platter (brisket, barbecued chicken, cornbread, cowboy beans and collard greens), we headed up the hill to the park.

There was a lovely breeze blowing, a welcome contrast to the late afternoon sun and heat.

There, from our lofty perch atop Chimborazo, we poured Adega de Pegoes, a Portuguese blend made for barbecue.

It was a meal eaten with sporks and fingers and a couple of dog visitors, no doubt attracted by the mounds of meat.

We took our sticky fingers directly to Strange Matter, where the perennial latecomer greeted me as I got my wristband by making sure I knew he'd arrived first.

Since he's usually the late or later type, I ceded the victory to him. This time.

Super Vacations were already playing and it was barely 8:10 and still light outside.

Such is the nature of an all ages show. Get 'em in early and get 'em out to their parents early.

I'd seen Super Vacations before, so knew what to expect with their psych-surf, albeit a dark and sometimes aggressive sound.

As their energetic set progressed, I began to feel as hot and sweaty as they looked.

And the night was young.

White Laces played next and they continue to sound tighter with every show I hear them.

Their set was essentially a preview of their soon-to-be released album, "Moves," which promises to be a game-changer for them.

Since I first saw them play at Fridays in the Courtyard back in May 2010, I have watched in amazement as they have grown as a band and developed their distinctive sound.

I remember the drummer breaking a drumstick that breezy May night (and bandleader Landis imploring the crowd, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?" No one did) and tonight's set ended with the drummer sending a stick flying out into the crowd.

Afterwards, I grabbed some hot people and headed outside in search of oxygen and a chance to cool my core.

It was hot as hell inside Strange Matter, so you take your breaks where you can.

But I made sure to be back in my spot by the sound booth when Wild Nothing took the stage.

This is a band I was turned on to by a new friend last year.

Listening to his album of bedroom pop, I remember being awed at how one guy had created so much sound all by himself.

And now that he was touring, he'd necessarily had to assemble a band around him to recreate what he'd once done solo.

I wasn't even sure how many musicians it would take to do that.

The answer was five (all very young and earnest looking) and the sound was spot-on.

Jack, who was once all of Wild Nothing, acknowledged the show as like a homecoming, since he went to college at Tech and recorded the CD that won my heart there.

Did I mention it was called "Gemini," also this fan's astrological sign?

In fact, his parents were at the show along with other relatives, he said.

From the first guitar strains that proclaimed "I love the '80s" to the final sweaty song, I was thrilled to be as impressed with the sound live as I had been with the record.

My date, who knew nothing of the band, turned to me four songs in and said, "Well, he's certainly done his Cure homework."

And for those of us who loved the Cure the first time around, it was a real pleasure to hear it being reinterpreted by a younger generation.

Another WRIR DJ made his opinion known by pantomiming "83" to indicate the year of the sound we were hearing.

Frankly, I don't care how derivative a band is when they're delivering catchy choruses, longing dreamgaze and jangly guitars with an unabashed nod to their predecessors.

The crowd seemed to agree with me no matter the age, dancing in place and sometimes even singing along to lyrics no doubt learned in their own bedrooms.

By the final sweaty song (the one with the riff reminiscent of Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart"), Jack looked justifiably well pleased with himself and his band.

"You could start a Slip 'n Slide with my body," he joked.

By that point, every body in the room had that potential because all the oxygen in the room was long gone and sweat was running down everyone's neck, face and any other exposed body parts.

Perhaps my date put it best.

"You should call your post "Sweating to the Oldies," he cracked.

Considering my penchant for twenty somethings interpreting music I liked the first time around, I'd rather call it "When Bedroom Pop Goes Live."

No, no. Check that.

"When Young Man's Music Made Me Hot." That's it.

Living the Life, er, Dream

Best kind of day to hang around and goof off: a rainy day like today.

In fact, I could have happily stayed home after my walk, but of course I didn't.

No, I went back to see "Spring Awakening" for the second time. And once again, I saw it from a stage seat.

And the best reason to see it a mere three weeks after I last saw it?

I mean, besides the five dollar ticket?

To sit on the opposite side of the stage from last time and notice things I hadn't when I was experiencing the story for the first time.

Like how when the boys in the cast are onstage singing "The Bitch of Living" I could see some of the girls in the cast just offstage dancing with abandon.

From my new vantage point, I could see the band, too, like when the guitarist switched from an electric to an acoustic guitar in full view of me.

Or when I could see the music director, her back to the band and facing the cast onstage, keeping tempo enthusiastically during "Totally F**ked."

But probably the best reason for sitting on the left side of the stage was the up close and personal view of the hilarious masturbation scene.

I'll tell you what, it's moments like that that make lifelong theater fans.

By the time the matinee let out, we were overdue to eat so we headed to Lunch.

It was an ideal time: after the lunch crowd and before the dinner crowd.

Even better, their happy hour runs every day of the week, so our Martin Codax Albarino was a mere $3.50 a glass.

Hello hay and honeysuckle on the cheap.

The River City Smokehouse and the Fay (house made chicken salad on multi-grain) preceded the very berry pound cake with mixed berries and whipped cream.

Best part of the meal: the pulled pork with coleslaw on a bun.

Our soundtrack was pure '60s Motown ("Baby Love," "Ain't No Woman") and while it was suggested I dance, I didn't.

I did, however, compliment our server on her beautiful breasts and she thanked me, saying, "That means so much more coming from a woman instead of a man. Like a woman telling you how good your make-up looks."

Actually her make-up looked great, too, but I didn't want to push my luck.

The best reason to finish up at Gallery 5 for the Commonwealth of Notions show was to benefit WRIR and Gallery 5.

WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had assembled a stellar cast of bands for our philanthropic dollar.

Best reason to get to a show on time: so you don't miss anything you'd love to have heard.

I missed Snowy Owls' set and they not only played a new song but covered a White Laces song.

Damn, I could have smacked myself for missing out on those.

Best substitute for what I missed: catching the end of White Laces' incredibly tight set from the ticket desk.

Best surround sound set: Colloquial Orchestra's dynamic smorgasbord of eight musicians placed around the room and following the lead of the amazingly talented Dave Watkins on electric dulcitar.

The 27-minute improvised piece featured some of my favorite people, including Adam of Marionette, Matt of Snowy Owls and PJ, a guy who changes from mild-mannered photographer to a beast of a guitar god when he has an instrument in his hand.

Also of note was Brandon, who entered the fray late in the game, setting up a drum and taking over percussion duties impressively a bit after the set had begun.

Best act to overcome technical difficulties: Swordplay.

Isaac's rapping over vinyl is always a testament to his lyrical skills, but tonight he had so much snap, crackle and pop that he finally gave up using the mic and just sang a capella.

Later he told me that he felt like the sound problems were smacking him in the face, fighting him even.

To his credit, he fought back and won.

Best instinctive crowd direction: when the Low Branches' Christina opened her mouth to sing, what sounded like a half dozen people immediately shushed the crowd.

And they stayed quiet for the most part, even (or especially) when she covered the Boss.

For that matter, her comment, "We're the Low Branches and we're living the life. Er, dream. This is why we don't do stage talk," had the crowd, and even fellow bandmate Matt, cracking up.

Best multi-tasking by one musician in three bands: Matt, who played in Snowy Owls, Colloquial Orchestra and The Low Branches.

I don't know how my favorite fuzz-master even had time to do a shot of whiskey.

Best way to get a crowd dancing: having Bermuda Triangles play on the floor in front of the stage.

Their tribal drumming and wailing sax sound immediately got everyone moving and eventually there was full-on dancing going on as people lost their inhibitions and let the music take them away.

Best seamless transition: during Bermuda Triangles' last song, the final band, Canary, oh, Canary, took the stage.

Drummer Mark jumped into the drumming fray, playing along with  the Triangles  while CoC's guitarist and bass player held their instruments but stayed silent.

After Triangles' last note, they were thanked and Canary, oh, Canary began their set.

Theirs are some of my favorite bass lines.

Later in their set, guitarist Micheal announced, "Mark has broken his snare. Any drummer out there have a spare he can borrow?"

Not surprisingly, the show went on given the number of instruments in the room.

It was exceeded only by the number of musicians in the room.

Which made Gallery 5 the best possible place to spend my Saturday night.

And, just for the record, the light rain falling when I left made for the best possible walk home.

Baby Help Me Remember It All

I am one of the rest of us and quite proud of it.

So when WRIR throws itself and the rest of us a birthday party, I go.

No, not always; I've been to five and this was their seventh.

I go because it's a great way to support Richmond's independent radio station.

Ten dollars is a small price to pay for multiple rooms of diverse music, storytelling, comedy and burlesque.

I go because practically everyone I know goes to it. And some I didn't know until tonight.

You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a DJ. Music lovers of every ilk are there.

A woman walks up and says, "Hi, Karen" and says something about being "Anonymous" on my blog.

She guessed who I was by my (40 Euro) tights and tells me she reads it to get ideas of what to do.

I admit it; I love the compliment.

The pretty people come (Michael and Matt) and say wildly flattering things to me in the first five minutes I'm there.

The homebodies come in their adorable vintage shoes.

The prickly one comes not only smiling but looking dapper.

The long-time music buddy comes with tales of a predictably madcap show I missed.

I go because they serve birthday cake and it's chocolate with white icing, a favorite of mine.

It will surprise no one who knows me but I am one of the first people to get a piece.

I grab a corner (more icing!) with no black decoration since we all learned last year that it turns your teeth black in a most unattractive manner.

I go to hear music any way it's presented. And, I'll be honest, without earplugs.

I hear a drum circle from three feet away and I feel like the drum rhythms have me rooted in place unable to move away, despite the volume, until the drums stop.

Sweet Fern, aka Allison Self and Josh Bearman, play un-amplified in the main hallway next to the food table.

Only the small circle of us who surround them from two feet away are able to hear their Carter Family and Johnny Cash covers over the din of the crowd.

Allison finished with what she called a dirty song, Lucille Bogen's "Shave Em Dry,"  throwing out the f-bomb and sex references to the rapt group surrounding her.

I loved watching people hear her do it for the first time.

I go to hear Baby Help Me Forget's last show, knowing lead singer and showman extraordinaire Jamie will end up shirtless and on the floor.

It's emotional because it's the end for the band. "It's been a good run," Jamie says. It has.

Their set the last night Sprout was open will go down in the annals of great Richmond shows.

I go to see the awesome light show Dave Watkins puts on behind the bands. The groovy factor is high.

I go to hear White Laces demonstrate for the second time in two weeks why their continuing musical evolution is an amazing thing to behold.

Just when your body starts moving and you expect to get locked in a groove, the tempo changes up and you know you are  being challenged.

And you like it a lot.

As if all that weren't enough, I am told I was thanked. And I see the proof.

Why wouldn't I pull out the cute tights for a party that good?

Smoke Over Blue Moon

It was a mere 56 years of music from start to finish tonight.

Appropriately, we began with the VMFA's sold-out screening of  the documentary, "Elvis '56," followed by a panel discussion.

Yes, sold out. It's become perfectly clear too me that this town is full of Elvis fanatics. Me, I'm just a documentary dork, but this crowd came for The King.

Organizer Trent Nichols got things rolling saying, "Welcome. I think I saw Elvis sitting over there." From behind me I heard some middle-aged woman say exasperatedly, "I wish."

In fact, it was local rocker Wrenn Magnum, magnificent in his black pompadour and period-appropriate duds.

The 1987 film was outstanding, eschewing the usual talking heads that dominate a documentary and instead showing clips from the dozen TV appearances he made in 1956 as well as many of Alfred Wertheimer's photographs taken during that ten-day period when he shot 2500 images of the then-unknown Presley.

I was thrilled with the narration of the film, which was done by Levon Helm in his distinctive Arkansas accent.

The panel included Wertheimer, who noted that after a flurry of interest when he took those pictures, they were basically forgotten until Elvis died in 1977.

Since then, he said, a week doesn't go by that someone doesn't contact him about using a photo or ten. That one gig has become his life's work.

"I'll be on this job when I'm dead," he said without a trace of irony.

As someone who didn't keep up with Elvis' music, I'd have to say the highlight was hearing his cover of "Blue Moon," truly a thing of beauty.

I say that as I sit here typing and listening to it.

From the museum, we left for Cellar Door. That's not the royal we; I was in the company of a DJ since it's National DJ Day and all.

Tomorrow is Squirrel Appreciation Day and I'll try to celebrate that, too, once I figure out how best to do so.

With a bottle of Santa Julia Malbec, a Pumphouse (grilled cheese, spinach and tomato), a bowl of the Rope Swing (Peruvian chicken soup with quinoa, veggies and pasta) and a plate of Romesco (artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers and olive tapenade on crostini), we had plenty to occupy us.

By the time we finished all that, it was time to high tail it to Strange Matter and the best free show bill I've heard in a  long time, including lots of my favorite music from a cave.

Walking in, a guy I know only by the way he introduced himself to me last year ("I'm an old rocker"), came up and said to me, "I knew you'd be here."

Yea, there's a big surprise.

Snowy Owls played their best set yet (no less than four other people said the same thing), getting the show off to a pitch-perfect start.

Super Vacations, a psych-punk quintet I'd been told I'd like, came next with their fast and short songs. I did like them, although not so much the singer's habit of tossing beer cans into the crowd.

White Laces, this time playing as a quartet (I've seen them as a duo and trio, too) and doing lots of new material, expertly played to my taste with loads of reverb and bass.

Old Rocker complained about too much reverb, but I begged to differ. No such thing.

After their set, I ran into Kyle, leader of The Diamond Center on my way to the bathroom.

He gave me a sheepish look and explained that he wouldn't be playing his twelve-string tonight.

I have to assume he was warning me since I have been known to gush every time I hear him play that thing.

"I thought, 'Oh, no, Karen's here and I'm not playing it," he said apologetically. "But I'm playing the Rickenbacker."

For the record, I'd be the last to complain about hearing a Rickenbacker and I told him so.

"Someday I'll have a Rickenbacker 12-string and we'll both be happy," he said.

I can't wait.

Until then, I was more than happy with their smoke-laced set of psychedelia, the closest musical thing we have to a non-drug-induced high in Richmond.

It was quite a leap from Elvis' "Blue Moon" and yet a perfectly natural progression.

On today of all days, I'm sure any of the DJs at the show (and there were many) could appreciate the beauty of it.

Loving My Enemy Tonight

"If you're here, that means this is the best thing going on right now," the handsome bass player Matt told me when I arrived at the Camel.

Actually, there were two outstanding things going on at that moment (9:00) but I'd already taken in the first.

InLight had a different feel this year by virtue of being held in a central location rather than a streetscape; it seemed to make for more interaction among the attendees.

The first pieces I saw were lit boxes with cut-outs, including one that resembled a large creature.

Walking away from it, a guy came up behind me and said, "They stole that idea from Disney World. They have the same thing there but bigger. I just went there last month and saw it."

And here I just saw it for a whimsical and creative sea monster rather than stolen intellectual property.

Passing the lantern parade, I stopped in front of the RVA Dance Collective, who were doing a piece that ended with a scream.

"Well, that was interesting," a woman said sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she walked away.

Actually, it was. The sudden movements of the dancers, the still figures, all of it made for a visual treat that she clearly wasn't appreciating.

The interpretations using light were myriad. One showed lines of a Samuel Beckett poem and another just the face of a diva singing.

Since the aria was in Italian, it was all about the emotion in her face, which given her beauty and strength of voice, was considerable.

"Next! You can only look at that for so long," declared the man beside me to his friends leading them away after about five seconds of watching her sing.

It made me a little sad.

There was a lot more video this year, it seemed to me, focusing on things as disparate as "Recollections of Tredegar" to graffiti images from Broad Street and Fulton Hill.

Probably my favorite was a cloth-covered house with different video projections on the walls and roof.

Best of all, after you walked around to see all the various images, you could go inside it.

Standing inside with two guys sitting in the chairs there, I watched the shadows of kids dancing and frolicking outside against a video projection of a raging fire.

Flame images leaped up around their outstretched arms and bouncing forms.

The juxtaposition was fascinating, an unexpected moment that could not have been anticipated but captured the essence of InLight: people interacting with light.

To get to follow such a unique experience with great music was just a lucky break.

No two ways about it, I was excited to be seeing the Rosebuds again.

I'd first seen them back in early 2008 when they opened for British Seapower at the Satellite Ballroom in Charlottesville and again this summer at the National when they opened for Bon Iver.

And as much as I'd enjoyed them those times, seeing them in a small room like the Camel as the headliner was a guaranteed good time.

In yet another world-shaking moment, the show started on time, so many people missed White Laces' acoustic set.

Leader Landis admitted that they weren't used to playing acoustic and were going to make it a short set.

It was too bad because they played well and I would have liked for the crowd to have shut up, the better to hear them.

They did two covers ("This is the second song tonight we didn't write and that's disgusting," Landis said) in the five song-set.

Every time I hear these guys, their sound is slightly different and every time I like it.

Prabir and the Goldrush were up at bat next and I'm happy to report that Matt's bass was high enough in the mix to hear, not always the case, but a pleasure when it happens.

Why have an instrument that big if you can't hear it if you're in the audience?

It took forever to get the sound worked out for the Rosebuds, but the eager crowd waited without complaining.

It was the last night of their tour and they were happy to be playing to a small, enthusiastic crowd who obligingly sang along every time they were asked.

"F**k it, this is a dance song,"  lead singer Ivan said introducing "Get Up, Get Out" and you'd better believe people danced.

For that matter, the crowd went wild for the dancey "Woods" (coincidentally, full of light imagery) especially the two middle aged couples right in front of me.

They were definitely getting down with their bad selves.

My long-time concert buddy Andrew walked up to me, looked down, grinned and shook his head.

This has happened to us a time or two before; we attract the unexpected dancers and then sit back and watch.

I suppose if we had rhythm, we'd be dancing as uninhibitedly as they do.

A musician friend mentioned how poppy the Rosebuds are, unclear as to how they were considered indie when their sound could potentially suit the mainstream.

As if pop and indie are mutually exclusive. But to each his own.

In his defense, he had just come from a Dead Kennedys cover band rehearsal, so the transition may have been a bit tough.

Not so the transition from InLight to the Rosebuds.

Two superlatives in one night. It couldn't have been easier...or more satisfying.

Girl Groups and Gazpacho

I got my music fix early and I got it nearby.

Steady Sounds was hosting a show with locals White Laces and Bake Sale from Memphis. How could I resist a free show three blocks from home?

Waiting for the show to begin, I flipped through albums, looking to see what was over-represented. My conclusion: bad 80s one-hit wonders and Dan Fogelberg.

I'd have thought that since his untimely death a few years ago that he would have been rediscovered by now. Apparently not.

I did, however, happen on a vintage copy of Elvis's first Christmas album ("I'll have a blue, blue,blue Christmas without you..."), eliciting a smile for an album I'd heard of, but never actually laid eyes on.

I was looking forward to seeing White Laces again since the last time had been at the Courtyard on a First Friday. Loud is an inadequate description of that show, and I know from loud.

The screaming guitar and pounding drum reverberated off those hard brick walls, essentially preventing the crowd from appreciating White Laces' sound.

Tonight, as they explained, it was just the two of them (guitar and bass),  so that they purposely wouldn't be too loud for the space.

A performance that I could actually hear yielded an opinion I'd anticipated; I like White Laces' shoegaze sound. Especially like tonight when I could actually appreciate the bass line, hear the vocals.

Lead singer Landis acknowledged, "We're trying to make all our songs sound as much like Galaxie 500 songs as we can." Well done, guys.

Their set was too short, but helped me realize that I need to get out and see them play again.

Up next was Bake Sale from Memphis, a four-piece girl group who were all about some garage rock.

Let's just say that my friend Paul would have approved and he is tough to please. Prickly, even.

They meshed girl group vocals (with two or three at a time sharing vocals) with screaming guitars and pounding drums. THey were hard and fast and cute.  That's not sexism, that's fact.

At one point the guitarist with the pale green guitar (as opposed to the yellow guitar) handed off her guitar to the drummer and they switched places.

Every guy in the room had their laser beams set to the female quartet rocking our faces off.

It's highly irregular to have such a high level of musical satisfaction before 9:00, but the circumstances were unusual. Thanks, Steady Sounds.

Happy with the first few hours of my evening, I was off to the near West End to meet a friend for drinks at the Blue Goat.

She is one of the countless Westhampton neighbors who is positively thrilled with their new hot spot.

As it turned out, a Monday night at 9:15 was light years from last Wednesday's 6:30 visit.

The bar was  mostly full but not every single table was occupied. It was a great opportunity to relax and enjoy the ambiance.

The rose had already exited the menu, so I moved over to the tequila selection, flummoxing my bartender by choosing the Hornitos.

Best of all, I could easily hear the music tonight and it could have been programmed for me.

I heard a couple of favorite Pete Yorn songs, another couple of Everything But the Girl favorites and a terrific Latin-infused cover of "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

Let's just say I was so impressed that I asked for the music's source. Turns out that it was the owner's mix. Tres impressive.

My friend ordered the white gazpacho, a lovely melange of cucumbers and white grapes with a definite heat behind it. She thought it was superb and I agreed. The contrast of heat and cool was addictive.

We drank and talked until the bar was long-closed (officially it's 10 during the week), but didn't feel too bad since a few other people lingered as well. The weekend end time is "until...."

As one of the servers noted, "Once the Continental Lounge opens, this'll be a regular destination bar block."

I think my friend echoed the neighbourhood sentiment.

"About damn time."