Bad is in the Eye of the Beholder

Park once and party twice? Check. Bluegrass music? Check. A senseless Dada comedy? Check.

Weeks ago, I'd gotten tickets for Dog Stuff's production at Firehouse Theater of "Wrong Chopped," which was billed as theater of the absurd based on a TV show - "Chopped" - that I'd never seen.

So naturally my curiosity was piqued. Sure, I avoid TV but not theater based on TV.

But then musician Alison Self came to town and was joining the Hot Seats for Beers and Banjos at the Camel and while I neither drink the former nor play the latter, neither was a requirement. Instead, I added in a musical component to the evening.

It didn't hurt that the Camel and the Firehouse are on the same block.

Yea, yea, I had just seen Alison perform the night before at Gallery 5, but this was her singing and playing as part of Sweet Fern, her duo with Josh Bearman, who also leads bluegrass pickers the Hot Seats. As a bonus, my former J-Ward neighbors showed up and joined the party, sharing their summer music festival plans and laughs.

Sweet Fern, for the record, holds a special place in my heart because they're the duo I'd chosen to open the Listening Room set the night I curated the event. Got all that? They're reliably entertaining, with both having talent to spare, meaning they coasted through songs by Conway Twitty, Johnny Cash and their bedrock, the Carter Family.

Let's just say there were songs about cheatin' hearts, jail and a tornado that killed thirteen children in a schoolhouse. You know, everyday life, albeit with Alison's comedic comments thrown in for good measure.

They closed with a classic I'd heard them do years ago, "When I Come Home the Other Night," a duet between a drunk husband and his unfaithful wife. Josh sang the man's part, questioning the things he saw - another man's horse in the stable, someone else's coat on the rack  and, most hilarious of all, a head on the pillow next to her - while Alison sang that it was just a cabbage.

Well, I've roamed the whole world over
A thousand times or more
But a mustache on a cabbage head
I never seen before

Leaning into the mic after they finished the song, Alison joked, "Don't you know that's how you check to see if a cabbage is ripe, by its mustache?"

After their set, the Hot Seats took the stage with two fiddle players for a change and a whole lot of fast-moving, hard-pickin' songs guaranteed to get toes tapping. I know because I was mid-tap when the clock struck 7:15 and it was time to head next door to see a twisted spoof on a cooking show.

"Wrong Chopped" was most definitely Fringe Fest-worthy, what with the playwright playing keyboard in his underwear and shoes throughout, a contestant who used bones for hands to make a dish using bones (don't ask), popcorn and rice pilaf flying everywhere and a host who liked to regularly kiss the bald head of one of the judges.

Plot? Not so much. Laughs? Erratic, age-dependent and, at times, unavoidable (like when one actor tells the audience, "This is a bad play!"). References? James Bond, Hamlet, Avengers. Weird? You have no idea. Hearing my name said by the host as an acknowledgement that I was there? What the...?

As for the appearance of a teddy bear mid-show, I don't know what to tell you.

But the cast's enthusiasm and the utter lack of a linear narrative definitely made for a unique theater experience unlike any this theater-goer had ever had.

Consider me fully fringed. And couldn't we all use a little more of that in our mundane lives?

When the play ended and everyone headed back to the sane world, the couple in front of me pushed open the Firehouse's front door only to reveal what may as well have been a monsoon: driving rain, sweeping wind, puddles already over the curb and ferocious thunder and lightening.

"Is this part of the play?" the woman mused, only half kidding.

You know, I wouldn't have put it past this bunch of theater mavericks. After all, some of them were part of the group who staged the most uproarious and, for a change, politically correct "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" known to man. I know I fell in love with it, even seeing it twice.

Bless their beautiful hides. Someone's gotta be our theatrical future.

In Dog We Trust

It's never too late to figure out how you want to live your life.

I have friends who just this week shed their worker bee existences to explore minimalism - health, deep relationships and giving back - travel and seek out unique experiences.

Today on his first non-corporate Monday, I have no idea what she did, but he tried pickleball ("like playing tennis except on a smaller court and in slow motion"), with the result that he "beat up on a bunch of 60-some year olds." I guess this beats the office grind.

Today, on my 430th non-corporate Monday, I walked the pipeline, which is not uncommon for me, but the river was so high and furious that I couldn't even get to the pipeline walkway from the edge of Brown's Island, so I took the canal walk to the other end, walked it to the part where the James was higher than the pipeline, turned around and came back.

Granted, unlike my friend, it didn't earn me the hashtag #rogerfedererofpickleball, but to each of us our own way of starting the work week.

With such lofty goals announced to the world, I'll be curious to see how they choose to spend their time once the novelty wears off.

Will they be like me and devote their free time to the pursuit of culture, companionship and fun? Will they go to shows at the Camel on a Monday night and stay for all four bands?

Would they marvel at the beauty of Ben Shepherd's songs and chuckle when he has to use a cheat sheet taped to a microphone stand for the lyrics to a new song? Take as much delight in South Carolina band Those Lavender Whales' comparisons of their riverwalk and ours (theirs has a chicken factory, so ours won out)? Get their '90s on with the female-fronted, whiskey-sipping Hey Baby?

I can only hope they'd stay until Doll Baby played because seeing someone as low-key and soft-spoken as lead singer Julie take that fabulous voice of hers and turn it into angst and energy really needs to be experienced.

But then don't most things?

Today, on their 8th anniversary of dating, a favorite couple who also happen to be musicians, got married. It's not like they didn't already live together and own a house together, but they wanted the traditional trappings of marriage. Their excitement about their change in status was adorable.

I'd be the first to admit that sometimes it takes a while to decide how you want to live your life. Although I have no desire to beat up on 60-somethings, I'm wide open to travel and unique experiences.

Among other things.

Geezers Gonna Geez

You try to save a dollar and some music friends just aren't up to the challenge.

First he said yes (when I told him there would be multiple female-fronted bands and reminded him that he likes guitars, he responded, "And females!") and then he backed down an hour later. No pressure here, though.

For all I know, it was that I was inviting him to a Sadie Hawkins Dance at the Camel, which wasn't actually a dance but did feature four young bands and since he's a musician himself, seemed like the kind of thing he'd dig. Which he did, until he didn't.

And because he's the ever-droll person he is, he announced his change of heart to the world on Facebook.

I wanted to go to the Rock Show, but I'm gonna stay in and make French toast. As many of you may be aware, I am elderly.

I find this especially hilarious not just because I am older but because I don't find the making of French toast and then going to a show mutually exclusive. As it turned out, paying the extra dollar penalty for not being part of a couple was more than worth it for the four young bands that tore up the stage tonight.

Onomatopooeia was one guy singing earnestly over electronica, making for pop songs that verged on chillwave and while he was a great opening for the show, I'm not gonna lie, I was there for the girl bands.

Call me a sexist who paid full price.

Next came the Talkies and they'd been highly recommended to me by a music nerd who'd featured them on his podcast repeatedly, not tough to understand after watching them for half a minute.

The lead singer wore a silvery blue knit dress with a dark blue bow centered above her bangs while the bass player - she had "yes" and "no" stickers just above her strings - had on a yellow print granny dress (look it up, kids), complete with ruffle at the bottom, an adorable choice to set off her dreads and tattoos.

And the other two members of the band? Nerd-cute guys with glasses in plaid shirts, a good look for a band that melds shoegaze and neo-grunge.

Apologizing for the possibility that her voice might crack - "I've had the flu all week. It sucks!" - the singer managed to nail everything she sang, from "Trashcan Doritos" to "Goosebumps Goodbye" (soon, I hope) while managing to look pouty and smart at the same time.

The Cyrenaics only boasted one woman and she was tiny, but her voice was twice her size and backing her up was a straight ahead '70s-sounding rock band (the drummer got points for wearing a scarf, tie, vest and jacket, removing the latter to actually drum) that allowed her talent to be the focal point of every song.

That big voice was enough to get the people in front of the stage bending rhythmically at the waist as a means of grooving, although I have no idea why that was their chosen means of expression.

Then out of the blue I was joined by the old friend I'd seen last night for the first time in two years, toting a camera. She sashayed in wearing a long white dress, fake fur white leopard jacket and plopped down next to me. I don't know which of us was more surprised, although it may have been her since she was actually expecting a dance.

I knew better.

She was just in time to hear the band say they were going to do Etta James' "I'd Rather Go Blind," a song with which she was familiar but I wasn't (go figure). "That's a hard song, hard on the voice," my friend informs me. "Beyonce couldn't do it." This singer could and the crowd ate it up, even if they had no idea who Etta James was.

During the break, my friend observed, "There are too many dreads for my taste here," and then brought me up to date on where she'd been since I used to see her on a regular basis.

Amsterdam, where she'd fallen for a French rugby player (and former culinary student) who'd taken her back to his apartment to make breakfast, only to find his so-called girlfriend there and in hysterics. St. Tropez where she'd met a cute basketball player from Monte Carlo, who told her it was over-rated, with empty casinos and tourists.

"To get sex on a regular basis in America, you have to be in a relationship," she tells me. "Not in Europe!" Clearly, she'd tested this hypothesis enough to have achieved quantifiable results.

She'd come to see the Smirks because she knew the singer but it wasn't long before she announced that they were pretty good, too. What's not to like about a garage punk trio with a female bass player singing, a female guitarist and a tattooed drummer with no shirt?

"Did he really need to play with his shirt off?" my friend asked rhetorically. No, but how else could he show off his huge chest piece (no, that's not a metaphor)?

Seconds after my friend's food was dropped off mid-set, the singer said, "I think somebody got fries because suddenly it smells so good in here." The offender never stopped chowing down long enough to acknowledge she was the culprit.

Besides, the melodic thrash they were putting out had inflamed the crowd to the point that they were slam-dancing, occasionally falling to the floor and being carried on the backs of others. The women from the Talkies were right in there slamming, flu germs and all.

Although tonight's crowd was small - one of the excuses my musician friend had used was that it was cold "AF" - it made for an intimate setting to see these up and coming young bands who'll almost certainly be playing to much fuller audiences before long. It's always a treat to see talent near the beginning.

You may be slightly older, but you are also a healthier specimen.

Pure conjecture on his part, although as many of you may be aware, I'm not much of a fan of French toast.

Almost Blinded Myself with Lime Juice

Tori Amos once claimed to be the queen of the nerds, but I'd argue that point, having been nerdy before she even knew what a piano was.

And I'm not talking your run-of-the-mill nerdiness here.

I'm not even talking about getting excited hearing about an event like the American Civil War Museum's history happy hour - slogan: drinks are on you, history is on us" - focused on "Winslow Homer's Civil War: How a Northern Artist Portrayed the South."

No, indeed, I'm talking about digging through your bookshelves so that you can bring along a book, "Winslow Homer's Watercolors" to share and discuss when your nerdy companion picks you up for dinner first.

And then over dinner, looking at the colored plates in the book and discussing watercolor technique and Homer's post-war travels to Bermuda, Key West and the Bahamas, such a long way from the battlefield work he'd done sketching war life for the pictorial newspapers back in New York.

It was like the pep squad getting us all riled up before the big game. By the time we finished dinner and went to the Camel for history happy hour, we were so ready for Winslow we could hardly stand it. Art historian Karen Sherry ("This is the first time I've ever given a talk in a bar") finished us off with a well thought out talk, lots of images and some insightful conclusions.

Homer was a worthy subject because he ignored the traditional depictions of the heroic aspects of war and zeroed in on the everyday life of rank and file soldiers. "The Last Goose at Yorktown" shows two uniformed soldiers on their knees in the grass, desperately trying to nab dinner. Pitiful, but not pretty.

But he also showed the impact on the home front and the changes war brought to women's roles."The Empty Sleeve at Newport" showed a woman driving a carriage because her male companion no longer has a left arm as a result of the war.

His wicked wit was apparent in almost every piece we saw, whether questioning stereotypes or contemplating which aspects of conflict are morally right, as in "The Sharpshooter" showing a Union solider perched high in a tree, rifle cocked and ready to shoot.

But as Sherry pointed out, the vantage point was high, as if that of a Confederate sharpshooter about to take aim, an unusual angle for Homer's Union-sympathetic eye.

More typical because he could show that blacks were better off with northern troops was "The Bright Side" showing, yes, the sunny side of a tent but also three black paid laborers on the Union side taking it easy in the sunshine. Ditto "Pay Day in the Army of the Potomac," where a black soldier is the first in line to collect his pay from a paymaster who looks like Lincoln's twin. No symbolism there.

By the time we got to the final image, "Prisoners from the Front," we're looking at a summary of the war's cast of characters. On the right (get it?) is the immaculately dressed, young but stalwart New England general who's taking possession of three Confederate soldiers.

Facing him with audacity, flowing red locks and his uniform mostly unbuttoned is a Virginia cavalry officer who would have set Scarlett O'Hara's heart a-flutter, accompanied by an old soldier clearly unable to accept the new world order and, bringing up the rear, a big, dumb galoot of a foot soldier, the kind who requires someone smarter to tell him what to do.

There it was, a wickedly witty cross-section of the lost cause captured in oil. Go, Winslow.

But you don't capture that sort of thing without seeing a lot of battle, dysentery and camp life along the way. Small wonder the man had been all but unrecognizable to his friends upon returning from being embedded with the army.

Even smaller wonder that after the war he began setting out for warmer climes and tropical locales to capture a kinder, gentler world. Our history happy hour proved he'd earned the right to spend his post-war career capturing a sloop in Bermuda, a river in Florida or a palm tree in Nassau.

Even a card-carrying nerd could enjoy those places, assuming there were drinks and history involved. Audacious southern types optional.

Am I in Tune?

It finally hit me: surely I didn't become this way. I must have always been.

While at my parents' house last week, Mom asked my evening's plans. I told her I was going to the Symphony, then to a festival kick-off party and then to a comedy show. She looked aghast. "All in one night?"

Only then did it occur to me to ask her about who I am. Namely, did I always have to move?

My question produced an immediate smile. "Yes, you did. You came out that way. I think it's why you never liked TV." This is the opposite of her and  explains why she's always suggesting we sit down and "gather our forces" when I'm ready to keep going.

So it would seem that I don't just go out every night because I need company and conversation or because I'm in search of culture. I move because it's programmed into my DNA to move, to do things, to always be on the go.

Like yesterday. My walk took me across the T Pot bridge, along the floodwall, back via the pipeline and up through downtown, and everywhere I went, I was surprised at how few people were outside.

Not to mention that the ones who were out were "Sunday walkers," a group I have little tolerance for when I get behind them. One especially slow walking husband accused me of sneaking up on him, although a toddler could have done the same given the glacier pace at which he moved.

Back at home, I threw down lunch, glanced at the paper and walked to the Bijou for a thoroughly entertaining movie, arriving home with less than an hour to get ready to go out.

We decided to get a jumpstart on Black Restaurant Week by heading to Sweet Tea's in the Bottom for dinner. I hadn't been in since they'd relocated from their original (and far smaller) location, though I knew the space well. It was where I'd seen my first (okay, only) tofu-eating contest, notable because one contestant had thrown up tofu into her hand and eaten it in order to avoid being disqualified.

But I digress.

Beginning with Sweet Tea's tea du jour - mango lemonade - I ate through chicken and waffles, a crabcake sandwich, collards and cabbage while listening to a travelogue from my companion's recent foray to the ends of the earth.

Not sure I can get behind beaches covered in black rocks, but to each his own.

By the time we'd finished eating, drinking and discussing whether the standards for the Pulitzer Prize in literature have been noticeably dumbed down (hint: yes), Sweet Tea's staff had begun putting chairs on top of tables in hopes of leaving soon.

Okay, okay, we get it.

Then it was on to the Camel for a show that began with the always-stellar and unqeustionably literate Ben Shepherd, a man who never met a story that couldn't be shaped into a song and these days, songs with much commentary in them.

Next up was Mike Dunn and his band, a group who'd clearly taken a page from the Bo Deans' masterfully-written book on roots rock and followed it into the 21st century.

Headlining was Alex Dezen, who made sure we knew that he'd been with the Damnwells for years but that was over. Finis. He only sounded mildly bitter, but he also wasn't above playing Damnwells' songs, so he may still have been sorting through some mixed emotions.

And aren't we all?

Midway through his set, Alex told the crowd to ruminate on questions ("No song requests!") while he tuned his guitar. Amid a question about French fries and steak sauce and an admission that one of the back-up singers was his main squeeze, one tall guy raised his hand and asked Alex squarely, "Do you think Trump is a Fascist?"

Fair enough.

Alex hemmed and hawed, eventually concluding that 45 is many unpleasant -isms and -ists, but that Alex just didn't know enough about fascism to make the call. You have to appreciate a man who admits to not knowing.

The show wound down at a reasonable enough hour to contemplate a nightcap and while Saison Market was just battening down the hatches, Saison (bless their hearts) had two hours and change left on the meter. We arrived just as the bar turned over entirely, saw it through a slow period and watched it begin to fill back up.

All without moving much at all. Except for the hour, Mom would have been proud.

Moment of Truth

You know how it feels when you lose somebody you cared about deeply, someone you thought was the one?

Yea, well, Billy Christopher Maupin knows that feeling, too, only he's got a far better singing voice than you do and he's a whiz at mining soundtracks for musical gems to tell the highs and lows of trying to navigate the world once you've been smitten.

So quit yer whining.

The Camel was the setting for his cabaret, "This Fish Needs a Bicycle," an evening of history ("I was a virgin until I was 19"), self-reflection (resolving to be okay with being single) and observation ("I'm always hitting on straight guys"), accompanied by Tristan on guitar and Joshua on keyboards, punctuated by show tunes and obscure character-driven songs.

Occasionally a random dancer appeared to great effect, like when long-legged Emily began shimmying to "Sister Kate" right up the aisles between the tables to the stage.

As long as they were songs about missin' a feller, lovin' a man or muddlin' through heartache, he was all over it while nattily clad in a red blazer, black shirt and cuffed pants.

Barefoot, naturally.

From Oklahoma's "I Can't Say No" to a torch song such as "The Man I Love" to "Down With Love," with a Cher imitation (not just voice, but hair flipping as well) smack dab in the middle of a killer medley, it was pretty easy to see where  this boy had channeled his feelings after his last big romance had ended.

Acknowledging his constant companion, stage fright, he promised to do one more song before the break, during which we were instructed to get a drink, order some dessert and avail ourselves of the bathroom, which he also planned to do.

Just as he was about to hop off the stage, he realized his error, sheepishly saying, "Oh, yea, the song."

Of course he'd told us about the romance that had spawned the evening earlier, because that's what lovesick people do after they call the whole thing off.

But their heart will go on, and in this case that meant the trio returned after a break (BC in a different blazer) only to start, stop and restart a song before realizing that their juju was off. "Okay, I'm just gonna go out and come in again," he said and once he did, all was well in the world of sung emotions.

BC brought up acoustic guitarist Psalm Swarr because at his request, she'd written a song about his breakup, telling him if he didn't want it, she'd sing it herself. Between Tristan's slide guitar and his harmonizing with Psalm and Emily, the heartbreaking song was rendered achingly.

There were songs about why people fall in love (can you say hormones? how about convenience?), future chances and endless optimism.

Things got a little emotional when he talked about getting really good at "hiding from life," but he also shared his attack plan: (F*ck that!" with enthusiasm), simultaneously citing Auntie Mame's advice abut life being a banquet while letting drop that Mame was one of his dream roles.

It never hurts to let people know what you want, said every kvetching mother ever.

When he came back for an encore, he asked the sell-out crowd, "One more?" and someone yelled out, "Ten more!" just before someone else laughing instructed, "Calm down there!"

Reaching in for a prime nugget with which to close the well-sung show, he pulled out Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Something Good" from "Sound of Music" and performed it like his life depended upon it.

Or at least his heart. The good news, he'd already sung, is that love is going around, heck, it's practically in the air.

Best to keep your resistance low.

Better Still, Change It to Karen

I went from zero to cocky in the space of a doctor's appointment.

Since it had been a few years since I'd had blood work done, I was in for that and a prescription refill, but my doctor had come to praise: my blood pressure, my activity level, my weight, my water intake and especially my sleep sufficiency. Profusely.

So much so that he asked if he could use me as an example to other patients - of course, using only my first name and age, he assured me - of good habits paying off despite advancing age.

Use away, doc, but people will hate to hear it.

Just so you know, here's what a mature woman with good habits does when a nurse tells her she's lost five pounds and a doctor asks to make an example of her: immediately seeks out a way to celebrate with food. Duh.

Conveniently, the Jackdaw pop-up was setting up residence at Millie's tonight (its first outing since abandoning the brief go as Antler & Fin) and while Facebook nattered about whether to make reservations or not, I did the smart thing and just showed up shortly after they opened, claiming the least popular bar stool at Millie's (at least during summer).

Sitting diagonally across from the stove of an open kitchen while air conditioning runs is only a sacrifice for those accustomed to A/C.

Fact: my perch stove-side was not only cooler but less humid than my apartment.

After hearing my reply about what order I'd like my food to arrive (any), the server not only accepted me but complimented my dress for its summery turquoise color, then shared that it had been a no-brainer to work tonight's pop-up so she could taste one of everything.

I was not quite that ambitious.

An observation of mine led us off on a discussion about changing server/bartender roles since cell phones have become the new normal.

"When I see everyone at a table has taken out their cell phone, it's either because the food just arrived and they all need to take pictures or they're done eating and I can collect plates," she explains.

No slacker this one, she cited studies about the changes in restaurant ordering habits and how it now takes 17 minutes longer once people sit down to get food because of customer delays in ordering due to cell phone priority.

I know it's useless to rail, but will we ever, as a people, climb out of this uncivilized hole we've dug ourselves into since the advent of devices?

Starting with golden crispy eggrolls, er, lumpia of camerones al pastor with a sweet and sour sauce, I moved on to Border Springs tea-soaked lamb ribs with spicy potato salad (guy at bar: "best potato salad I ever had") and pickled peaches (I limited myself to two slices so my tongue wouldn't swell), but it was the nutty, salty soy, texture-rich fried farro with vegetables that hit the most pleasure points for me.

The couple nearby told me to help myself to a taste of anything they ordered that I didn't, but the sad truth was that I couldn't even finish all I'd ordered, not that I didn't break habit and get it boxed up to go.

Plain and simple, it'll be fine leftovers like any good Chinese food is.

Stop number two had been on my to-do list for some time now.

Given the often relative paucity of Monday night happenings, I'd been intending to get over to the Camel for Motown Mondays (Spinning all your favorite Motown classics, covers, close relatives and remixes) to see how Mad Skillz and DJ Lonnie B interpreted Motown to a 2016 crowd, as it turned out, with a 40-year age range.

Well, they did it by playing Barry White's "You're the First, My Last, My Everything" for a couple celebrating an anniversary, a white couple who got up and danced every note of the song (without completely embarrassing white people everywhere), matching each other step for step as they've undoubtedly been doing since disco-dating in the '70s.

The couple didn't request it, but the DJ followed that with "Let's Get It On," a selection that got cheers.

A young trio formed in front of the stage to watch the DJ spin and scratch, but they also danced in place and filmed not the dancers but the DJ.

One of the group looked like nothing so much as a character on an '80s sitcom (at least, a non-TV watcher's notion of an '80s sitcom character) with a fabulous high fade and big nerdy-looking glasses.

I listened through snippets of classic songs like "Ain't That Peculiar?" and "Eve of Destruction," impressed with both the music and the crowd it had attracted, both less typical than the usual Camel fare.

Yea, I could do this again.

Proximity made my next stop effortless. A few doors down, Firehouse Fringe was hosting Cabaret: A Night of Contemporary Musical Theater sung by some of the younger members of the Richmond theater community.

My interest was doubly piqued, partly for the exposure to newer music from plays I hadn't yet seen or heard and partly because I'd been so impressed with the young theater collective who'd recently staged "Seven Brides" there and blown my socks off with their youthful exuberance and creativity, that I was curious how much more of that energy and talent was out there.

It wasn't hard to get a glimpse of the musicals that have captured young millennial drama kids' hearts - "Waitress," "Edges," recent Tony winner "Funhome" - but just as engaging were their choices of some "older" material from "The Full Monty" (complete with pelvic thrusts and hip swiveling), the Disney-sounding "Finding Neverland" and perhaps most surprisingly, "Pippin," a veritable dinosaur to these kids

Songs choices were clearly based on youthful angst issues, meaning lots of tunes about first-time experiences, loving yourself before you can love others, the drawn-out pain of heartbreak, yada yada.

Charlemagne was even touched on, but probably my favorite was "Changing My Major to Joan" from "Funhome."

I'm changing my major to sex with Joan
With a minor in kissing Joan
Foreign studies to Joan's inner thighs
A seminar on Joan's ass in her Levis

Besides exposure to new material, there was lots of talent, too, including several people I recognized from Firehouse's current production of Green Day's "American Idiot," like Denver and Kelsey, but all of them satisfying their musical comedy jones by emoting madly through each of their songs.

"I love how comedy is making its way back into musical theater instead of just songs as patter," is how one actor put it.

I love how I can have no plans at 4:00 - Holmes turned me down after a "rough" weekend out of fear for his own weaknesses - yet manage to find a one-day only menu and two very different kinds of music by 5.

Now that's why I should be an example to other patients.

Sound and Vision

This town never lets me down.

Given the holiday/vacation haze of the past few weeks, it felt like forever since I'd done anything so normal and neighborhood-like as going to an art opening, which was my motivation for walking the five blocks to check out the one at Candela Gallery.

It would be too limiting to call Andreas Rentch's work photography, although obviously it is or a photography gallery like Candela wouldn't be showing it. But more correctly, it's part performance art, part drawing, part painting part photography and all pretty much intriguing.

A huge show - 57 pieces in all, almost all of them containing him - that covers years of Rentch's career, I moved through it a full three times just to take it all in.

Along the way I met a woman who was sure I looked familiar, only to discover that I'd interviewed her on the phone (but never met her). Once we took our seats for the artist's talk, I met the woman who'd introduced Candela's owner to the artist, setting in motion what I was seeing tonight..

Other than that, the only familiar face was the guy who shows up at every opening for free food and drink and I didn't even bother acknowledging him.

It was a crowd of photography devotees who showed up for the talk, evidenced by Rentch saying, "I assume some people here still know what slide film is. My students do not." Yikes. We need to understand the past to shape the future, kids.

Showing us one of the photographs from his "Sun Series," he explained that the result of the one-hour exposure was pure chance and that he'd had no clue how it might have turned out. Happy accidents, he said, characterized his work.

In a career-long attempt to explore what photography is - in its purest definition, it's working with light - Rentch did a series using hand-applied black and white photo chemicals on X-ray film, creating dazzling large-scale works of his overlapping form that looked nothing like any photo you've ever seen.

"I'm trying to expand the notion of photography," he said. "I want to push the boundaries of photography." After seeing his work, I'd have to say he's succeeded, but don't take my word for it 'till you've seen them for yourself.

I followed that with a show at the Camel because I couldn't pass up a chance to hear a David Bowie cover band, another hybrid, this one of performance art and music. It began with me overhearing two guys discussing the first time they ever wore makeup ("I've been dressing in drag since middle school") because Bowie.

Let's be clear, here, I wasn't a Bowie obsessive since the earliest days (amazingly, the late '60s). It was only when I started dating a guy in 1992 (we listened to a lot of "Black Tie White Noise") who thought the music pyramid peaked at Bowie that I gave serious attention to his oeuvre.

And, Martin, you were right. I should have been more than a casual Bowie listener sooner. So tonight was an opportunity to take in a career-spanning earful.

The unexpected bonus was the opener, Face Ship, who immediately aligned themselves with Captain Beefheart (not that I think for minute anyone in the audience besides me and the guy in the red vest got the reference) when the lead singer announced, "I think Captain Beefheart and David Bowie could've been friends. Thank you for eating your breakfast."

Theirs was a glorious and melodic freak folk sound and I'd be willing to bet they'd all been music students given their youth and the serious chops they demonstrated on their tunage, which was interspersed with non sequiturs such as, "What do you mean you're not drunk? I thought we were friends!" shouted at the audience.

Even better: "Captain Crunch and the cereal killers couldn't make it." Our loss surely.

Damn, they were funny. And talented.

Honestly, they deserved a better audience than a bunch of eager Bowie zealots like the bartender, who when a guy asked for his check during the break, looked at him incredulously and demanded, "You're not staying for Bowie?" as if the real thing was about to play.

I'd already secured a fine spot on the banquette because for the first time, there were no tables at the Camel, meaning more room for people to stand, but given how vertically-challenged I am, I wanted the assist of a bench given the rapidly growing crowd.

Five musicians took the stage but the blond, pale blue suit-clad lead singer of Life On Mars took his time getting up there, earning some screaming from the crowd when he did.

By the second song, "Rebel, Rebel," the lead guitarist (as opposed to the rhythm guitarist who was wearing a red feather boa at the time) had broken a string. It was a good indicator of just how solid the band was.

The singer patiently explained to the crowd that they weren't going to be able to do every Bowie song tonight - time constraints and all - but the most important thing was that the new Bowie album comes out tomorrow and we should all go out and buy it. "And it's his birthday!"

Let me be the first to say that I don't know of a better looking 69-year old on the planet.

"We're gonna go all the way back to 1983," the singer said to squeals. "Anyone here born in 1983?" More squeals. I assume his groaning response, "Jeez!" meant he was amazed at the crowd's youth.

Turns out one of the hands was born today in '83, and to that person he dedicated "Let's Dance," a song I heard daily for three months back in '83 when my downstairs neighbor in Dupont Circle got the album and played that song non-stop every day for hours when he got home from work.

It was after they did "China Girl" that someone in the audience called out a request for "Labyrinth," which, again, I'm not sure many people got.

What they did get was "The Man Who Sold the World," although judging by the mass singalong, I wouldn't be surprised if it was Nirvana's unplugged version that brought them to the song. "Fame" got the crowd dancing like crazy. There was a costume change and wig before the band did "Ziggy Stardust." You get teh idea: total immersion.

Standing on my banquette perch dancing and spotting a few familiar faces - the old rocker, the Cover to Cover guitarist, the washboard pro, the hairdresser to the stars - made one thing perfectly clear.

It was all great fun.

I'm happy
Hope you're happy, too
I've loved
All I've needed: love
Sordid details following...

We Thought They'd Never End

Apparently Black Friday puts people in mind of me, resulting in two hard-to-pass-up offers tossed my way today.

One was going to the Altria to see "Ragtime" and the other was going to the Coliseum to see Cirque de Soleil's "Toruk." Naturally, I went to the Camel to see Avers and Rikki Shay.

But only after meeting my most artistic friend at the extremely crowded VMFA to see the recently opened McGlothlin Collection, followed by an Eternal Spring champagne cocktail at Amuse, because what could be lovelier than blood orange liqueur and pomegranate over bubbles?

The collection is awe-inspiring in the truest sense of the phrase, a collection of gorgeous American art spanning 1830

Modernity oozes off the canvas throughout, but especially stirringly in “Yachting the Mediterranean,” a large 1896 piece by Julius Leblanc Stewart (whom I'd never even heard of) showing Americans – wasp-waisted Victorian women and dandified men - aboard a yacht churning through water that seems about to spill out on the viewer.

From Winslow Homer (oh, those watercolors!) to George Bellows (Bud's favorite painter) to Childe Hassam ("Westminster Bridge" was absolutely breathtaking), we walked from painting to painting exclaiming over the McGlothlin's choices. We couldn't even imagine what it must have been like for them to actually live with these works in their home.

"A Gust of Wind (Judith Gautier)" by John Singer Sargent, echoing a Monet painting of a similar subject (the object of the painter's desire), was so splendidly executed that you had to wonder how neither of us had ever laid eyes on so much as a print of it before.

We left there bursting with excitement over what we'd just experienced. Just goes to show what happens when filthy rich people (with either great taste or excellent guidance) are generous enough to collect and donate art to the masses. The McGlothlins are my new art heroes.

Next came music and noshing at the Camel.

When my massive plate of black bean nachos arrived, the charming guy next to me insisted on offering me his bar stool, saying, "You can't attack that while you're standing!" I could have if I'd had no choice.

Once enjoying my new sitting status, we got to talking and of course I asked them the usual, about their first concerts. Now, we're talking about a couple of what looked like mid-20-somethings and their first shows were Hootie and the Blowfish in 2002 (I merely looked at him with pity) and Black Crowes in 1997 (so obviously he was older than he looked).

Hootie guy must have seen the pity in my eyes because he tried to compensate by sharing that his second show had been Aerosmith. When I mentioned that I'd seen them in 1979, his face fell. "Wow, you saw them before the drugs, before Joe Perry and Steven Tyler started..." and punched his fists together.

Son, there was no such time.

They were excited about seeing bands in as intimate a space as the Camel, so I couldn't resist mentioning a few I'd seen there, just to tease them. J. Roddy Walston and the Business, Young the Giant and Frank Turner impressed them hugely while they'd never even heard of Future Islands.

He and his buddy were up from Williamsburg ("Where nothing ever happens after 10"), both getting their masters degrees in business at William & Mary. Why on earth, I asked?

"Dollaz, dollaz, dollaz," one said. "A degree in English gets you minimum wage." Ditto a degree in art history, but at least you get to keep your soul.

Moving to the other room for music, it took forever for Rikki Shay - the new incarnation of what was the Black Girls or perhaps just a name change to address their white guys reality- to soundcheck, get their drink (or whatever) on and finally take the stage for their first show.

The name may be new, but the sound was the same eminently danceable hybrid of rock and funk it always was, with the occasional introduction saying, "Y'all might have heard this one before."

A really big crowd had formed for them but were rewarded with a particularly short set. "This is our last song. We wrote it today. For you!"  A guy near the front began hollering in excitement and the singer called out, "What's your name?" When he answered "Jessie," the singer said, "We wrote this for you, Jessie!" and the big lug went nuts.

In other words, it's still a Black Girls crowd.

Siting near me was a middle-aged couple who appeared to be on a date. They were so nearby that I couldn't help but notice their interactions as they moved through the evening.

Things seemed to be going well and he kept buying them more high alcohol Hardywood beers and by the third one, she was starting to warm up to him, snuggling against him and smiling often.

Then he must have said something drastically wrong, because it was like cold water had been thrown on her. She moved away, she wouldn't meet his eyes, the smile was gone. No telling what had happened, but it didn't stop him from continuing to buy them beers.

They were on their fifth each during Rikki Shay's set, standing on the banquette and attempting to dance when his beer just slid out of his hand like it was greased. It fell under their table, shattering and splashing beer all over my feet, but they never noticed.

Fortunately for him, though, it made her laugh, she offered him a sip of hers and everything was fine again. Fine enough that he began rubbing any body part of hers he could reach.

So fine that he went and got them their sixth beers. I'm not here to judge how much they drank, but when she returned from the bathroom, she leaned a bit too hard on the table to help her mount the banquette and return to her Prince Charming.

All of a sudden, their beers and several people's cocktails went sliding toward the banquette as the table slanted alarmingly and all of us around the table reacted, grabbing for the sliding beverages.

Not the lovebirds. They started cracking up like it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. I see real potential in this relationship.

Finally Avers took the stage. "We're going to play a whole bunch of new shit if that's okay. We're Avers by the way."

The crowd may have been a bit smaller for them than Rikki Shay, but I feel pretty sure everyone in the room knew who they were looking at. Seems to me when Rolling Stone critic David Fricke told the band they were the best thing he'd heard all week at SXSW, people started paying attention to them.

No doubt he was responding to their dense sound. One of the highlights of the break before their set - besides Romeo and Juliet next to me - was watching each of the musicians lug their massive pedal boards to the stage. We're talking some fantastic effects and reverb in the service of a pastiche of psychedelic, shoegaze, rock and pop.

In fact, one of the bonuses of ordering tickets for tonight's show in advance instead of buying at the door means that we get their new EP delivered to our inbox tomorrow. Seems they've been working on a new album and the EP is the songs that didn't have the same feel as the others. "But we still really liked 'em!"

For this listener, one of my favorite things about them is that they have multiple vocalists and they trade bass, guitar and keyboards like kids used to trade baseball cards. The tambourine always seems to be up for grabs.

With the possibility of four guitars for any given song, it's a constant guitar fest with meaty interludes where everyone gets to show off, the way they also do with the many false stops and precision restarts that characterize their songs.

Listening to songs such as "Love" and "Evil" tonight reminded me again how these guys (and girl) never disappoint sound-wise. Now, if you don't have a taste for an overly-dramatic front man flipping his hair, that's another story.

But not one I'll tell tonight. I left the daters groping, the audience applauding and hollering and bugged out after Avers' set, well satisfied with a stellar night of music.

Someday, I'll be be able to wow another graduate student who offers me his bar stool by sharing that I saw Avers in a tiny bar where the band barely all fit onstage.

Those were the days, my friend.

Journey's End

You can't overstate the pleasures of a well-executed Monday during Restaurant Week.

Goodness knows, it's not that I'm antisocial, but why would I put myself into that madness when I don't have to? With a little judicious planning, I can be in all the uncrowded places over the course of one evening and never even have to deal with all that.

Like Sabai, where the the music was pure funk, the vino verde was well-priced and only four tables were occupied, one with a trombonist and his yoga partner for life. It was a far cry from the madness of summer the last few times I was there.

Or like Dinamo. where only a few tables supported customers and the rest sat awaiting an influx of the hungry. The surprise was on me when I felt a tap on my shoulder and all of a sudden, it was 2004 again. Standing next to me was a woman who worked for me as an editor in another lifetime.

When I inquired if she still lived in Woodlake, she grinned and responded, "No, we moved to Brandermill. Less traffic." I wanted to laugh but I wasn't sure if she meant it. On the other hand, she's doing the social work she'd always wanted to, and that's admirable.

My date had shown up with stories of small town shady dealings and on-demand loans, but they took a back seat to Dinamo's iconic white pizza, a beet and fennel salad I could eat almost every day, plus taglietelle with Gogonzola, pancetta and radicchio, all eaten while admiring the miniature menorah on the shelf behind the bar.

During the two hours we took to chow down and discuss life, customers straggled in - the stylish older couple, the six-top with the woman whose voice could carry through a brick wall, and the overly loud Middle eastern man, whose foreign language patter was interrupted with the words "roast chicken."

I'm fascinated by how certain words are said in English, no matter the language being spoken (see: X-ray, refrigerator, Technicolor).

But, all in all, it was the least crowded I'd ever seen Dinamo and it was delightful to enjoy a meal without the madding crowds closing in around me. Restaurant Week, you were not missed.

The meal ended richly with a Nutella and hazelnut cookie to accompany a dish of caramel sea salt gelato (imagine butter pecan without the nuts) whilst discussing appealing destinations for winter vacations. Argentina? Belize? Somewhere else in the Caribbean?

I'm absolutely agog to think that Christmas is barely two months away and 2016 looms right behind it. May I be the first to say that 2015 passed in the blink of an eye.

Walking towards the door to leave, a friend spotted me and, without hesitation, asked where the music was tonight. As if I'm in charge of knowing what's playing where. Okay, I did know and we were on our way to hear some.

When I told him it was sibling country music, so I wasn't sure if he'd like it, his response was, "I'm from North Carolina. I grew up listening to country." Given his honey-coated southern drawl I bet he did.

The final uncrowded stop of the night was the Camel, a place I hadn't been in ages, despite its proximity to home.

We managed to make it there in time to hear BTW - also known as Ben Willson - singing and playing keys. He's been a long time favorite of mine and his closing cover of "Hallelujah" was gorgeous with its breathy vocals and weighted lyrics.

Meanwhile, my date thought he recognized Ben and he did - I'd taken him to see We Know, Plato! one of Ben's early band projects, years ago. Ain't it funny how time slips away?

Up second was singer/guitarist Jon Brown (and his body) playing the earnest songs he's known for in Horsehead.

I gave him major points when he shamed a couple of loud talkers during his set. "Can you just stop talking?' he asked rhetorically. They didn't. The shame was that one of the talkers was someone he knew. Some people are just raised by wolves, that's the only explanation for their bad behavior.

Tonight's headliner was The Cains from Alabama, a quintet of two blond sisters and a brother in a trucker hat, plus a crack guitarist and rock steady drummer.

No, I'm not usually much into country music, but I'm the first to admit I'm a sucker for sibling harmonizing.

They were only a few songs in when lead singer Taylor commented about the frog in her throat and apologized for not being able to make the notes in a song. She put lead vocal duties on her brother Logan, while they also adjusted the set list to include more covers and avoid the high notes of their new record, "The Cains."

From "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" to "Landslide," they managed to harmonize well enough to distract us from the relatively few new songs they were doing, "Smoke on the Hill" being an exception. The ubiquitous "Shut Up and Dance with Me" got a half dozen energetic women on the dance floor because, well, shut up and dance with me.

When Taylor mentioned that they were just back from a tour of the UK, "Which was great, but we're happy to be back here in America," sister Madison raised a fist overhead in solidarity. I bet two blond sisters singing country - their first album was produced in Muscle Shoals, their second in Nashville - were mighty popular across the pond.

Despite regular apologies for the cracks in Taylor's voice and the altered set list, they really sounded quite good once they got going, a fact borne out by listening to their music now that I'm home.

I know because one of the benefits of going to an uncrowded show is that the band members come around to talk to everyone in the crowd afterwards and give out their CDs. Both of them.

An uncrowded show and party favors. Hallelujah.

Rocket Replacement

Sometimes the best dates are couple dates, especially music-loving couples.

Once we'd established that we were all going to the same show, and a particularly good one on a Monday night, the only thing left to decide was where to eat beforehand. My suggestion -agreed to immediately -was 821 Cafe.

They were already same side-sitting in a front booth when I walked in, but they'd left me the side with a view of Cary Street, meaning a non-stop parade of students and assorted Oregon Hill regulars. Crazy Nate rode by on his bike twice, either grimacing or smiling, I wasn't sure which.

When it came time to order, my girlfriend got her standard PB & B while I asked for my usual half order of black bean nachos, which apparently sounded so appetizing that her husband ordered the same. Our server made it clear that the kitchen would be much happier if we just split a full order. Easy enough.

While we ate, conversation centered around how the kind of parties you go to in your 20s lose their appeal with time and meeting the right mate. Case in point, their Halloween plans involve other couples and board games, very different from the costumed debauchery they once practiced on All Hallows Eve.

Noticing how dark it was getting and how early it was, we lamented the shortening days. I said that at this point, all I want is to get to winter solstice so the days can start lengthening again. "That's exactly how I feel!" my friend agreed. This country is too far removed from an agrarian society to bother with the nonsense of changing the clocks anymore.

By then it was time for a change of venue.

We met up again at the Camel for a four band bill with Laura Stevenson and the Cans headlining. My girlfriend had put Laura's album as one of her favorites on her end of 2013 list and from what I'd listened to, with good cause.

The show kicked off with Tracy of Positive No thanking us for coming out on a Monday night. "Since the rocket didn't happen due to a stray sailboat, you get bands to listen to instead!" Honestly, I'd take music over rockets most nights.

As many times as I've seen Positive No play, tonight was significant because it was drummer Willis' last show with the band. And while the crowd was still fairly small when they played (it was an unusually early show for the Camel), most of the faces were familiar to the band.

That's probably why practically every song was dedicated to someone in the crowd like Tess, Sadie, Melissa and Ryan.

Tracy also took a moment to warn the other musicians in the room about the soft spot on the stage, likening it to the soft spot on a baby's head and recalling that she once went through a stage floor. "Okay, it was a pallet in the basement, but still..."

Really, it's not hard to imagine her going through a flimsy pallet given the energetic pogoing she does while singing lead. It's all part of a vibrant stage presence.

"I can't believe it's our last song," she said, high-fiving Willis and looking a little sad. For my part, I know his energetic drumming will be sorely missed.

Next came Eli Whitney and the Sound Machine, touring behind their new album "Reasons to Leave," which they characterized as "full of happy songs."

The trio was young, high energy and brief with songs clocking in at about three minutes tops. They even took the glammy Killers' song "Mr. Brightside" and made it hard, fast and fun.

They also looked like they were having a ball up there, the guitarists and bassist trading off lead vocals, both of them hopping around and playing off each other. "Really, we're from Long Island but we moved to Brooklyn. But not to be cool," they claimed.

When their set ended, my girlfriend summed it up perfectly. "It makes me so happy that there are still bands like that so full of energy." She was right, of course. It was young man music of the highest order.

During the break, I heard about my couple date's Aunt Nancy, a colorful-sounding woman who's had four husbands (seems she was big on Christian Mingles for a while), is a terrible but prolific painter and excels at making jello salads.

Fortunately for me, they not only had pictures of her bad art but pictures of Aunt Nancy and pictures of Aunt Nancy's self-portraits, making for a lot of laughter during the break.

Then came Helen Chambers in a green plaid shirt and black skirt, who began by telling us she'd come quite a long way to play guitar and sing "Little Demons." Only after the first song did she explain that she was English, as if we hadn't noticed the accent and lilting warble characteristic of British songbirds.

Written when she was exceedingly hungover, "Kiss the Floorboards" was about a resolution to give up alcohol, one she'd clearly abandoned given the drink at her feet. "But I really meant it when I wrote it!" she said. I thought British singers were required by law to drink.

We noticed that a cluster of guys had formed right in front of the stage, no doubt drawn by her incredible voice, friendly demeanor and short skirt.

She sounded very happy to be touring the U.S., mentioning that she'd had her first root beer today ("It tasted a little medicinal") before singing "Little Blackbirds" with Laura Stevenson coming up to add sublime harmonies on the song.

Sharing that she'd played for her uncle "Veronica Pearl," a song about her grandparents' house being bombed during WW II, she said he'd cried so hard when he heard it that his false teeth had come out. If she were a country singer, I'd say there's a song in that, too.

The crowd grew noticeably larger just before Laura Stevenson and the Cans began playing, as well it should have given the talent on stage. Along with Laura's voice and guitar were a guitarist, bassist, accordionist/keyboard player and even a female drummer, always a treat to see.

From the first notes, their sound was an interesting amalgamation of genres, part folky, a little pop and definitely rock and roll with a crack band to execute. And a whole lot of sad songs, such as the compelling "Runner," a song that thrilled my girlfriend.

Hearing a story on the radio in the band's van today about a woman being tested for Hodgkin's disease after two relatives had it, Laura said she cried at the woman's dilemma of waiting for a diagnosis. "It's kind of like this song, "The Healthy One," except mine's about AIDS." It was sad and beautiful.

It didn't take long to see why my girlfriend had fallen in love with Laura's voice, which while sweet and clear was also powerful and melancholy, particularly on love songs and sad songs, of which there were plenty.

Glancing at the drummer, she observed, "I just realized we're wearing the same outfit," she said of their brown t-shirts and jeans. "You look good!" I found it intriguing to hear so much humor from her between songs since the music leaned toward emotions laid bare.

Songs like the heartbreaking "The Move," for which the band left the stage so it was just her and her guitar. Or "Nervous Wrecks," which she sang with Helen doing harmonizing payback.

The band returned for one last happy song, rocking out as Laura's vocals soared over the heads of the adoring crowd.

What do you do when your couple date finishes with such a stellar band? You thank and hug your girlfriend for all she's worth and tell her to pass it on to her husband.

But you don't get kissed. Some things just aren't meant to happen on couple dates.

Clap My Hands

Who wouldn't want her Sunday to begin with an affair to remember?

It would be a juicier blog post if I'd been the one having the affair, but it was Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant in the 1957 (back when money was called lettuce and women called tomatoes) romance classic of that name.

Buying my ticket at Movieland, I could guess which people in line ahead of me were headed to the same flick: all the women.

I saw only one man in the entire theater and he was old and coughed through all the romantic scenes.

The story couldn't have been more basic: two engaged people - Nickie and Terry - meet on an ocean liner (where they regularly get telegrams) and fall madly in love.

Oh, to have been alive during the golden, glamour days of ocean liners as the preferred method of trans-Atlantic travel!

Sure she tries to fight Nickie's charm with lines such as, "My mother told me never enter a man's room in months ending in R." But he's irresistible.

Her favorite beverage is pink champagne, making her my personal hero, never more so than when they decide to abandon the nosy people at the bar. She dips a finger in her champagne and dabs it behind her ear as she leaves with Nickie.

It must be effective because they're soon goo-goo eyed about each other.

Moral of the story (as stated by Nickie's French grandmother): There's nothing wrong with Nickie that a good woman couldn't fix.

With that information to fortify me, I left for a date myself, albeit not on the USS Constitution.

My date had chosen a progressive meal beginning with wings on Starlite's patio and Tom Jones' "Delilah" on the speakers (followed by Player and Rush - explain that connection to me).

We chose Secco next, hoping to hit the sweet spot between brunch and the evening crowd and with the exception of a large party who'd brought a child (to a wine bar, really?) who was now sprawled on the floor beside the imbibing adults ignoring her, we succeeded.

Taking a page from Terry's book, we ordered Lucien Crochet Pinot Sancerre Rose, as beautiful to the eye (later, a nearby table had to know what we were drinking) as on the palate.

Pru will be so envious, eager as she's been to sip pink Sancerre.

To accompany such loveliness, we had housemade herb sausage with apricot puree, smoky goat cheese-stuffed squash blossoms and Grayson cheese while the music ranged from Talking Heads to Prince to the Police.

But the topic of the hour was the soundtrack to "Fading Gigolo," a treasure trove of '60s Italian and French jazz which I'd fallen hard for when I'd seen the movie and which the owner had just gotten from Plan 9 Records.

Swoon-worthy romantic music.

Our final grazing spot was Level, a place I'd been several times but one he'd never set foot in, so we noshed on spicy Thai tropical shrimp (points for the mango and asparagus) and an angry drago roll stuffed with tempura shrimp, spicy tuna and sliced papaya.

We were the only table for most of our meal until two other couples arrived to give the staff something to do.

Only then, after five hours of eating and talking were we ready to go to the show that was the primary reason for our date in the first place.

Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah was playing at the Camel, making for a stellar opportunity to see a band that could play a far bigger venue in a small one.

Just so you know, they are the band that made my friend Andrew want to be my friend.

Years ago, we were driving to a video shoot and discussing music and when I mentioned bands I liked, it was Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah that made him sit up and take notice of my musical taste.

To him, they were the band that established my musical bona fides. All these years later, we've been to scads of shows together.

So the band holds a special place in my musical heart.

Colin and Caroline played first and we stood in the back to watch this local duo cover MGMT ("Kids"), Disclosure ("Latch") and do a few original songs.

Anticipating a crush of people soon, I had the brilliant idea to take up residence on the top of the back-most booth where we were out of the fray with room for our bevvies and a sight line over the heads of the crowd.

Short girl score.

CYHSY's lead singer Alec Ounsworth did a solid solo set next and the tragic part was how many people talked loudly through his set, probably oblivious to who was playing, namely the leader of the band they'd paid to see.

After playing "Yankee Go Home," appropriate because he said he was headed back to Philly tonight, he told the noisy room, "These aren't songs the band is going to play," but it didn't seem to shut anyone up.

I know the Camel isn't a listening room, but, sheesh, you'd think people would want to hear the music.

Now, when Alec and CYHSY came out, it was a different story.

From the first notes, the band played the herky-jerky indie dance pop that the fans had come to hear.

In no time, the room was dancing and singing along, totally enthralled with every song the band did.

The first song of theirs anyone remembers, "Is This Love?" got a wildly enthusiastic reaction, as did "In This Home on Ice" and "Gimme Some Salt."

People were doing call and response on "Satan Said Dance" and, yes, dancing just like the devil said to.

Tonight was the final night of a three week tour with no days off and the band sounded as tight as you'd expect after playing for 21 days straight.

Even better, despite it being nine years since that first album, they appeared to be having a lot of fun playing. Bass player Matt especially was fun to watch as he smiled and danced as if he were having a ball.

For that matter, so was I. The only thing missing from my all day affair was putting a little Rose behind my ears.

There's always next time.

Early Morning Singing Song

"You're the best date ever!" my girlfriend said when I dropped her at her car.

It had been a pretty terrific evening, if I do say so myself.

Our first stop was at Metzger Bar & Butchery in Church Hill where, despite the early hour, almost every seat was taken. And this is only their second night in business.

Looking at the heavily Austrian and German wine list, my eye went right to Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt, as did my mouth after being poured a glass of the crisp, pale pink wine. Pru followed suit despite no familiarity with the grape.

She's a trusting one.

Being book nerds, we couldn't help but try to discern the titles of the books stacked on shelves behind the bar - "The Germans," "Berlin" and, best of all, "The Complete Works of Kafka" while another shelf held more utilitarian subjects such as meat and fish.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and it was a former co-worker, actually two of them, asking for cocktail recommendations. I demurred to the bartender but enjoyed a bit of chit-chat with them anyway.

It was warm in Metzger, probably partly because of the crowd but also because its windows face westward and the late afternoon sun was doing its thing.

Eventually, one of the servers closed the window shades, but that still left the glass door radiating its greenhouse effect, so he taped butcher paper (appropriate, huh?) over the door and scrawled "We are open" on the outside of it.

The music was lost to the din, but the bustling staff kept us hydrated while we chose a few things from the kitchen.

Carrot salad, a standout of whole baby carrots, parsnips, frisee and caraway in a parsnip puree was so good Pru observed, "If someone served that to me every day, I would eat it."

True story.

Like the couple next to us, we ordered the smoked trout rillettes (because they'd already run out of head cheese, an amazing and encouraging thing for Richmond) colorfully adorned with pickled onion and parsley.

When I asked why they'd come in, they said it had been to get a chicken. "Now, four drinks later and two appetizers, we're going to get that chicken and get out of here." When I heard how close they live, I told them I foresaw danger with Metzger for them.

When the former co-worker friend went to leave, he stopped by momentarily. "Stay gorgeous, stay articulate and keep writing!" he said by way of farewell.

Always my goal, friend.

I saw several Church Hill residents come in and have to wait for tables, and while we felt their pain, we just ordered more wine and dessert.

First come, first served is a cliche for a reason.

In our defense, we wasted no time gobbling up small pieces of chocolate doppelbock cake (because you know it had to be chocolate) resting on salted caramel (be still, my heart) aside buttermilk ice cream with pretzel crumb for textural contrast scattered around.

Yes, it was as fabulous as it sounds.

As we went to leave, I saw another former co-worker (what is this, RTD old home night?) waiting for a table and stopped to catch up with her. Pru amused herself by chatting with a couple she didn't know after she heard the woman ask for Chardonnay.

By the time I turned to fetch her, the woman was happily sipping a glass of Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt and Pru, who an hour and a half earlier had no knowledge of this wine, was now clucking with satisfaction at having made a fan of this stranger.

Leaving the hungry masses to an able kitchen (and knowing we'll be back soon), we were westbound to the Firehouse Theater to see the tribal love-rock musical, "Hair."

That's right, it's the dawning of the age of Aquarius and Pru and I had been beyond excited to see this play, me especially because I'd never seen even the film.

For that matter, I'd never seen the Firehouse without a raised stage, but tonight it was just assorted rugs on the floor and pieces of fabric in door openings. Very atmospherically groovy.

Director Jase Smith came out, explaining that he hadn't yet been born in 1967 when "Hair" debuted. Luckily, his parents had been hippie types, so he had a frame of reference. "Are you ready to rock?" he roared and we answered affirmatively.

I'll be honest, I'm a big fan of Nick Aliff's and he did a superb job in the role of Berger the free spirit, his big, beautiful voice singing to the rafters and his playful personality - he dances with abandon, something I love to see -pervading the group.

Plus he took off his pants after the first song and it's hard to argue with a man's partial nudity right off the bat.

One thing I would argue with was that some (not all, some were spot on) of the costumes were wrong, just wrong. As in, they looked like the misconception of someone who wasn't around in the '60s re-imagining the '60s, maybe from bad movies or TV. The belts, for example, some of the women wore were just ridiculous looking.

But patched jeans? Absolutely realistic. Referring to it as pot and not weed? Right on. The Afro on one of the black guys? You bet.

But the story of a tribe of kids trying to figure out life, love, the sexual revolution and Vietnam was fascinating for how many cultural buttons the play's writers made sure to push, like the friendly musical competition of "Black Boys" and then "White Boys."

And maybe it's my age, but the songs held up. "Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In," "Hair," "Easy to Be Hard" and my personal favorite, "Good Morning, Starshine," were thoroughly enjoyable to hear reinterpreted in the 21st century.

The play even ended with a be-in, and the cast inviting members of the audience to join them onstage to dance.

Tonight was preview night, so the cast was looking for audience reaction to help them develop the production. My wish (besides attention to those few awful and incorrect costumes) would be for the cast to project better, as many lyrics were lost to anyone beyond the front row.

I'd love to go back in a couple weeks and see how the young cast settles into their characters and the era. You gotta believe that the earth says hello.

When we left the love fest of "Hair," it was only to head down the block to the Camel, where I immediately ran into a favorite songbird for the second time in four days. "Are you here to see the Hi-Steps?" she asked eagerly.

You bet, I am, sweetheart. What could be better after a rock musical about the '60s than some vintage '60s soul music?

There wasn't much time left in their set, but any time listening to the Hi-Steps is well worth it (see: Curtis Mayfield's "Movin' on Up"). Even Pru, a first-timer, had to marvel at their polished sound and soulful male and female vocalists.

When the band began the slow burn of "Try a Little Tenderness," she didn't even look at me, she just murmured, "Ooh, good song!," smiling all the while.

But they're all good songs and with a three-piece horn section blasting and the bass line thumping, it was a fitting way to end our eventful hot date.

Never let it be said that I don't know how to show a date a good time.

Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves

Estrogen was rampant. There were three female-fronted bands on the bill tonight.

Once the hired mouth and I'd taken care of business, it was on to the Camel for music. I was so thrilled at the prospect of all those women singing that I'd brought presents for each.

A quick trip to For the Love of Chocolate and I'd scored three mounds of ecstasy to present to Christina, Antonia and Laura, all of whom seemed tickled with the surprise.

Just a little reward for having girl parts, ladies.

Waiting for Yeni Nostalji to take the stage, I chatted with friends and a guy I didn't know. When my friend realized he and I hadn't been introduced, she did so, leading to a discussion of how sometimes people are familiar simply because you've seen them at a bunch of shows and not because you've ever met them.

"We need something like speed dating for people who go to shows," she suggested, although she wasn't talking about dating. Speed friending, perhaps?

A favorite couple arrived and joined me, as excited as I was about the impending evening of women.

I mentioned that I'd briefly heard an all-female band playing "Radar Love" yesterday at Broad Appetit and how every middle aged man there had been grinning and singing along.

Judging by the grin on my middle-aged friend's face as I shared this story, I felt safe in assuming if he'd have been doing the same.

"Well, I don't know all the words, but yea," he admitted, going on to say that it was a smart song to cover. Clearly.

But he also brought up an important point, which is that it'll be a great day when so many female-fronted bands isn't seen as a big deal. Neko Case just very publicly made that same point.

Agreed, but we're a long way from that at the moment.

Yeni Nostalji took the stage while it was still broad daylight outside and the lovely Christina was a vision in a red shirt, black skirt, gold belt and fabulous gold earrings made by our friend Sarah.

With Jeff on keys, Evrim on guitar and vocals and Christina on vocals, they spun their Turkish web over the crowd.

"The world is turning, everything is turning, except you back to me," Christina translated before a sad song.

Guitarist Tim Harding joined the group for the smooth, almost samba-sounding "Promise, Darling, Promise" with Christina and Evrim trading lead vocals until they almost broke our hearts with how beautiful the sound was.

Afterwards, Evrim mentioned how happy he was to be part of Richmond's music community and Christina shared that they had a Facebook page.

"Or you could call 1-800-YENI-NOSTALJI," Jeff said to major laughter.

When Christina said that their last song was an invitation to clink glasses and hold someone dear close, Evrim clarified, "It's a tearjerker. We don't have a word in Turkish for tearjerking."

At that point, musicians Nate and Jonathan pulled their chairs together and put their arms around each other, a truly funny moment.

As soon as they finished playing, a gardener friend came over and instructed me to join him and his girlfriend at the bar for some conversation.

He was full of restaurant gossip and piss and vinegar and midway through our chat, a drummer friend came by to say hello.

Both of us were getting a kick out of the bill of foreign-sung music tonight, and he admitted to wanting to start a Jamaican band, which somehow led to him suggesting that I form a band.

When I explained that my role is as an audience member because I have zero musical talent, he insisted that my years of show-going qualified me to be onstage.

I could stand there and let a band play around me, I said and he loved that idea. "That would be so cool!" he insisted.

Even better, he thought I could curate a band, choose all the players I wanted and see what happens. Now there's an idea.

Making it back to my seat just as Miramar - bass, drums, keys and singer with maracas -got started, drummer Rei explained the next song was about how love is as elusive as champagne in a crystal glass that breaks.

"That's us, lifting spirits since 2007," cracked singer Laura saying that all their songs were sad.

A song Rei described as a conversation between a man and his heart set to a tango beat had Laura explaining that the song was super-sexist. And we're surprised about this from Argentina?

Before an original song with music by their very talented and female keyboard player Marlysse, Rei told a story of his mother giving him a poem so touching he teared up and asked whose it was.

Turns out his Mom had been writing poetry for years. "Have we met?" he asked her before using the poem as lyrics for Marlysse's music.

A Greek ex-wife had inspired the song "Maybe I Love You," and Laura quipped, "By the way, Rei's Mom's song is our only happy song we sing. And now it's back to real life."

True perhaps, but sadness sounded exquisitely beautiful, as on "Lost in Love" where Laura (who joked, "More suffering!") sang the first half in Portuguese and Rei the second in Spanish and an audience member called out, "Cool!" and she responded "Cool is right!"

Don't mess with a female-fronted band, son.

After their set, I did some more mingling, hearing about how well a friend's love life is going, enjoying the story of a first-time babysitter feeding potato chips to his charge and congratulating a musician friend on her recently completed Kickstarter campaign.

Last up were the Richmanian Ramblers doing their inspired kind of gypsy music about tolls and ferries, farm animals and drinking goggles.

Singer Antonia had stylishly coordinated her ensemble and hair ribbon with her accordion for a symphony in red, black and white.

A couple of my friends had never heard them before despite bassist Nate being a neighbor so they were blown away by Antonia's voice and the pleasures of clapping to tavern music on many of the songs.

With two violinists, a clarinetist, a percussionist, guitarist, bassist, accordion player and Antonia, it was a big, full sound to entertain the still good-sized crowd that had hung around on a Monday night.

An awful lot of people said something to me about what a terrific bill it was.

Some raved about how it was our own little folk fest with Turkish, Latin and Romanian music played while others marveled at the power of the women at the center of these bands.

And actually, not just at the center singing. Miramar had a fabulous female piano player and the Ramblers had a female violinist and percussionist, bringing their estrogen count to three.

I didn't bring nearly enough chocolates to gift my people.

Already, someone has posted online saying, "What a great night! Thank you all so much! I hope you make this happen again sometime soon."

Maybe if it happened often enough, it wouldn't seem like such a big deal to get so much girl power onstage in one night.

Nah, I'm pretty sure it was every bit as amazing a night of music as everyone in the room listening thought it was.

I'm thinking For the Love of Chocolate needs to sponsor their tour.

Taking Will's advice, I'll just stand on stage and listen.

Put Your Chips Down and Dance

Home by 3, out the door by 4 after a laid back weekend away.

On a day this bodacious, what's a three block walk to hear an Athens, GA band and a Swedish band do a quick in-store performance of tuneful melodies with the front door flung wide open?

"I love how it sounds with these hard wood floors," the lead singer of King of Prussia said, explaining that when they'd first gotten together, they'd rehearsed in an old church with floors like the ones in Steady Sounds.

When they finished, their tour mates, Sweden's Case Conrad, who shared two band members from Barcelona with King of Prussia, took over and gave us a taste of their '80s-influenced sound.

Mid-song, an old guy in an overcoat who'd been wandering down the street, came in, put down the bag of potato chips he'd been munching and began dancing and playing air bass, both quite well, I might add.

The bassist (from Barcelona)  grinned and mirrored the guy's moves.

It might have been at that moment that I decided that I was going to go to the Case Conrad/King of Prussia show at the Camel tonight.

After, of course, I finished with my community duty/

Tonight was the fourth in the Valentine's community conversation series and it was taking place at Mama J's Kitchen, a few blocks away, on the topic of "Transportation on Broad Street."

It was my first time in Mama J's special events space and while today's beautiful weather put a hurting on the attendance numbers, those of us who did show up dove into Mama's famous seafood salad along with a big platter of fried chicken.

Tonight's subject was considerably broader (ha!) than past evenings since it wasn't just about an area, but about addressing an important issue there.

We broke into small groups to discuss our memories of Broad Street (one woman recalled 8 cent rides on the streetcars) before using keypads to determine the demographics of the room (versus the city) along with other details.

When asked what our favorite things about the city were, the choices of history, outdoors, neighborhoods, people, proximity to other cities, Short Pump Town Center and weather varied among people depending on how long they'd lived here, but one thing was crystal clear.

"We like everything except Short Pump and the weather," facilitator Matthew drolly observed after zero people chose either of those answers.

One depressing statistic was that 45% of the people in the room never used any means of transportation other than a car to get somewhere in Richmond.

As in they never walked to a restaurant or store, much less took the bus or biked. On the plus side, at least they were interested enough to attend this conversation.

Next came the Valentine's slide show of vintage photographs from the collection, showing things like when railroad tracks used to run down the middle of Broad Street. I had no idea. Pictures of the horse-drawn streetcars from 1860  and the electric trolleys that began operating in 1888.

One of my favorite images was of the Ashland-Northern Neck streetcar station depot, the one at Laurel and Broad that has been recently renovated by VCU and will host its first art show this week. I passed that building for years on my daily walk and had never seen what it originally looked like.

I learned that the original farmer's market at 6th and Marshall was called Second Market because the one at 17th Street in the Bottom was First Market. And now I get the bank name, too.

Completely over the top was a photograph from Richmond's elaborate 1900 street fair, at which we erected a plaster, steel and wood replica of Paris' Arc de Triomphe at Broad and 10th Street, big enough for the trolleys to go under.

Oh, and by the way, at the other end of Broad was a model of the Eiffel Tower. No joke.

They just don't make street fairs the way they used to.

Our small groups met again to talk about our hopes for Broad and transportation and one guy in our circle works for a group pushing rapid bus transit on Broad from Rockett's Landing to Willow Lawn with dedicated bus lanes and green light capability to keep them moving. It's a start anyway.

Then tonight's speaker, Richmond Magazine's "The Hat" got up and began explaining why he was qualified to talk about the topic.

Explaining that he was a native, albeit one whose parents had taken white flight from the city in his toddlerhood, he explained, "So I hired a canoe and a native guide to find my way back across the river," where he's lived ever since.

Harry impressed upon us how Richmond was the first city in the world to have an electric trolley system and how crucial this was in eliminating the overabundance of horse dung on Broad Street.

He left us with his insistence that whatever the next big transportation thing is for the city, it has to be as grand and memorable as the trolleys were.

We can only hope.

After walking home (not bragging, just stating the facts), it was time to return to the Athenian and the Swedes.

When I walked into the Camel, Grass Panther only had a few songs left but enough for me to catch the one man band's excellent guitar shredding and intense vocals.  I had, however, missed hearing his magnum opus, "Skinny Pants Hurt My Nuts," but perhaps I'll get to hear it next time he plays.

Tonight's crowd at the Camel was small, a shame since shows now start not only at a reasonable hour for worker bees (8) but on time (unheard of in Richmond).

I found a couple of music-loving friends, told them what I'd heard at Steady Sounds earlier, and soon after Case Conrad started with "Sugar Factory" and moved into the moody and new "Kill the Lights," they turned to me and started nodding that they liked it.

My inner synth-loving self fell hard for "Copper Thief" and the exuberant "The Years I Spent Punkrocking" about San Francisco, Dylan and Diamond Dave Whitaker.

Honestly, I'd have been happy if they'd played everything off their new album.

King of Prussia came next, playing their version of '90s college rock (Athens, GA, hello?)  with the two musicians from Barcelona helping them flesh out their songs, like on a song described as about "breaking hearts and taking names" and with a sinuous slide guitar to really evoke the gut-wrenching of heartbreak.

They did a country-tinged song ("Wouldn't it be funny if we covered Blake Shelton?" Blake who?) and a sunny, older song they dedicated to the two guys next to me who'd known them back in Athens.

When they finished,  a couple of friends and I talked about '90s music and how far less of it grabbed us than '80s, a function, no doubt of our ages.

Last up were local experimental and shoegazers Canary, oh, Canary, always good for killer guitar riffs and dramatic vocals and tonight, bathed in red lights, their choice of the color spectrum. Don't give them no stinkin' green lights.

Their set was abbreviated to make the curfew but they called DJ Black Liquid (who entreated the crowd to come closer) onstage to help with vocals on "Dirty South" resulting in a lot of grinning and satisfied looks from lead singer Michael.

It may have been short, but Canary, oh Canary represented well for Richmond in front of the likes of Athenians and Swedes.

As for Broad Street and transportation, 1st Street to Lombardy, seven hours out and about. I'm doing what I can here to support the cause in the dirty south.

What's Your Rush?

It was fifty years ago today, so there was that.

But first there was pre-gaming at Secco before facing the hordes of screaming fans.

The Sunday "secret stash" yielded up Durin Pigato, an oddball grape from Liguria, Italy recommended as a winter-worthy white.

True that, which made it almost, but not quite, as satisfying as it had been standing in front of an open fire hearth in the gardens of Colonial Williamsburg earlier this afternoon.

A nibble of almonds with za'atar and sea salt presented two distinct pleasures: biting into the thick, dense nuts and licking my fingers of the oily sheen of spice and salt left behind.

More food followed - fried calamari with squid ink aioli, fromager d'affinois, a double cream soft cow's cheese the consistency of fudge and every bit as obscene, thick-veined Rogue Creamery smokey blue and jamon serrano because what's a little cheese without some meat.

Conversation was courtesy of a nearby couple with all kinds of interesting things to share.

He's a poet on hiatus (I know a few of those) about to open Ardent (!) brewery in Scott's Addition, easily the best name I've seen for a suds-making operation.

But then, word use would be a strength of someone whose graduate degree is in creative writing.

We talked about the challenges of daily blogging, which he used to do, too, and the particular feeling you get when you reread your post the next morning and find yourself wondering how you ever wrote such a poor excuse for a sentence the night before.

I had to laugh when she politely inquired of him what he'd done about planning Valentine's Day, telling him, "that's all on you." He sheepishly admitted he hadn't done much yet but was working toward it.

It's funny how we abdicate the planning of a day of romance to the same sex that waits till Christmas eve to shop for presents.

Fortified as only obscure wine and small plates can, we made our way to the Camel for the three bands celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Beatles' appearance on Ed Sullivan.

When I was in college, the first question people asked you at a party was "Beatles or Stones?" and while I think it's like asking "apples or oranges?" I think that the Beatles are the bedrock of modern music whether I prefer the Stones' music or not. Honestly, at this point in my life, I've heard both too much.

Turns out we'd already missed the Girtles, although a friend said they'd played a very short set. Another friend greeted me, unexpectedly sporting a new mustache. A drummer gave me the hi sign from across the bar.

Fredericksburg's Blue Tips played next and I was surprised to see that their lead singer was the same as for the multi-talented High Steps. Small world.

They began with later Beatles' music and then jumped back to the short, sassy three-chord songs that had the teenyboppers screaming. I'm not ashamed to say I was bopping right along in my bar stool.

During the break, I chatted with organizer Prabir, curious if there had been any coordination to avoid repeating songs tonight and he assured me there had been.

Finally the band billed as "trained monkeys with voting rights" aka Goldrush took the stage and the one song I knew for sure they'd do was "Eleanor Rigby" because that's been in their repertoire for years and they didn't disappoint.

Where they won my heart was doing the inscrutable "Tomorrow Never Knows," an unlikely song off "Revolver," my favorite Beatles album and one that I would have never expected to hear tonight.

But with a catalog the size of the Beatles', I was foolish to have any expectations at all. The same could be said about living an ardent life.

Better to turn off your mind, relax and float downstream.

Ides of March

Yes, I know there was a game going on.

Even the VMFA knew about the game, hence the welcome to the Black and Gold Maria Film/Video Fest.

All those other years I attended, it was just the Black Maria Film/Video Fest.

Clearly film types have a sense of humor.

But even with the addition of gold and the smaller-than-usual audience, it was still a stellar night of screen watching.

The animated film "Feral," five years in the making, was unbelievably gorgeous with a simple gray-scale and tonal palette that told the story of trying to tame a wild thing.

My takeaway was don't attempt it.

"Bug People" was all kinds of funny, with a woman sharing stir-fry and taco recipes using bugs and an exterminator extolling the pleasures of his job.

The only part I had a problem with was when a scientist put some kind of 8" worm-like-looking  millipede on the filmmaker's arm and explained that removing it would sound like Velcro.

Not what I want to hear when a bug is removed from a human.

Most evocative of what we saw tonight was "Time Exposure" about the filmmaker's father's photography hobby.

It used vintage photographs and voice-over to trace his passion for picture-taking.

Most hysterical was "Queen of the Night Aria" which had a mother doll singing in Italian, instructing her doll daughter to kill her husband for her.

The brilliance was that they lyrics were subtitled with lines like, "I am really pissed" and "I was a good stay-at-home mom."

Spending two hours watching film shorts is satisfying in that way that reading a good book of short stories is; you get your satisfaction quickly and if something doesn't thrill you, it's over soon.

Once the festival ended, I headed over to Strange Matter and barely got out of the car before I started running into people I knew.

One had just seen my car at the museum a half hour ago. One said, "Hey, Fig!" And one I was introduced to tonight said, "Come on, you're coming with us."

Do I know you?

Conveniently, one of them also asked  if I was going to the Camel for the show.

Doh. Only then did I realize I'd confused my venues tonight.

I still made it to the Camel in time to find friends and catch Way, Shape or Form, whom I'd discovered at Live at Ipanema where I'd become a fan of their pastiche of electronic, jazz and pop.

As a friend later noted, that's the kind of band that could play the Modlin Center and they'd love the sound.

When they finished, Snowy Owls began setting up but it took a while before they began playing.

As I learned later, they'd delayed because there had been a noise complaint to WRIR upstairs and it seemed prudent not to arouse the caller's ire again so quickly.

That and they were waiting for the cop to leave.

But then they began with the full-on fuzz that makes me their devoted fan and all was right with the world.

"We're playing songs off an EP we put out a while ago," leader Matt said,"Back to front if you're keeping score."

I wasn't, I was just glad to be hearing them play, watching Brandon bopping his head as he wailed on the drums while Allen faced him, working off what he saw more than what he could hear.

"The next song is about love and color theory," Matt said. "They go together so well."

Naturally, the artistic nerds in the crowd nodded in agreement.

They treated us to a brand new song, "Kerfluffle," to end their set and it was terrific to hear something I hadn't before.

Apparently the noise complainer had given up because Snowy Owls was followed in short order by Nick Coward and the Last Battle.

It was their CD release show and it seemed like there were a bazillion people on stage.

A friend told me there were eight so I stood on tiptoe to try to see what they all were playing, when I counted nine.

"Whatever it is, it's a full orchestra up there," he cracked.

Indeed. It was cello player Constance Sisk's last show with the band and they'd added two new members, including Troy from Way, Shape or Form.

Just another stellar example of the incestuous world of Richmond musicians and I mean that in the best possible way.

"Hi, we're Nick Coward and the Last Battle and this is "Thieves," Nick said, kicking off a set of new music.

Well, not all that new.

"This song is called "Rock" and it was on our first EP and our second EP and it's on the album," he said. "But we promise not to record it again."

You know, when a song is that good, it's easy to see how it kept getting put on whatever they were working on.

Judging by the crowd's reaction, I think we were all in agreement that the band's full sound, with sax, cello and keyboards adding heft to the guitars, bass and drums, is awfully compelling.

But just so I don't look like a complete music fanatic, let the record show that I did inquire about the score of the game before leaving.

Fortunately, the team was able to pull out another victory without me having to watch.

Now can I go back to my music? I mean, go team.