Make the Most of Our Time

Once upon a time, when my life was very different and so was the Richmond music scene, a new concept took hold.

It was November 2009 when the Listening Room opened up the basement doors of the Michaux house and welcomed in anyone and everyone willing to shut up and listen while the music played, here.

Back then, it was so refreshing to be able to go to a show where you knew you'd be able to hear every note, every harmony. And the string of twinkle lights would reliably fall from the low basement ceiling every time.

Like death and taxes, some things are certainties.

Tonight marked the end of that remarkable string of shows with the final installment of the Listening Room at the Firehouse Theater.

One thing about tonight was non-negotiable: I was going to sit in my usual seat come hell or high water.

So I arrived early enough to stake my territory and hang out with the LR crew whom I've gotten to know over the years. Emcee Chris saw me and said, "I'd have been devastated if you hadn't come."

As if.

When I finally took my seat I was joined by my favorite Jackson Ward couple, also long-time LR regulars.

A few minutes later, photographer Rob, part of the original crew, came over to bring the three of us glasses of bubbly to celebrate our nearly half a decade allegiance to the Listening Room.

One of the LR rules is that shows start on time but tonight's was a tad tardy with emcee Chris taking the stage to acknowledge as much.

He shared that the very first night of the series, Apropos Roasters brought coffee but forgot to bring a grinder. Now, almost five years later, they have an actual coffee shop. Time marches forward.

Appropriately, tonight's first act was Dogs on Main Street, also known as Mac, a fine singer and musician I first saw at the Listening Room back in February 2011 when he was the first one to inaugurate the move from the Michaux House to the Firehouse.

I've seen him many times since  and he only continues to sound less raw and more poignant, although the one thing that hasn't changed is his stellar self-deprecating sense of humor, in full flower tonight.

After his first heartfelt song, he explained that over the next few songs he was going to take us low and then lower and then back up and even higher. "So don't leave," he warned. "I'm not responsible for what happens if you do."

Anyone who had left (no one did) would have missed his second song ending abruptly when a string on his guitar snapped.

He'd come down from NYC on a Greyhound bus and so hadn't brought his usual second guitar. "I'm crashing and burning," he joked.

Mark of second band Vandaveer stepped out of the shadows and offered him a pack of guitar strings, asking, "What do you need?"

A guitar, Mac said and used Mark's to continue while Mark graciously took Mac's guitar backstage to restring it in the meantime.

Singer songwriter and LR originator Jonathan Vassar was called onstage and brought his wife's maternity accordion to join Mac for a song, an obvious mutual admiration society.

"You know what you get for trying to be different?" Mac asked us rhetorically. "A broken string!"

He chose to skip the song called "Gallows" even after he got his guitar returned and restrung, cracking wise saying, "I have download cards, postcards and an overdue credit card."

My favorite lines was, "I'm just an alley cat yearning for something more than this," at least until he played a new song and I heard him sing, "I guess my sins are at an even keel."

Saying that he was still going to be beating himself up about the broken string when he went to bed, Mac shared that at his release show at the Camel, he'd kicked his own cord out. "So what you saw tonight is pretty regular. Come talk to me after the show if I don't seem too unbearable."

Talented, yes. Hysterical for sure. Unbearable, not even a little. Dogs on Main Street is the epitome of what the Listening Room is about.

Talented musician with excellent songwriting chops and distinctive voice is introduced to music-loving masses and becomes part of local scene.

Tonight's crowd was understandably big and I felt a little sorry for those whose first LR was tonight. Imagine experiencing this and knowing it will be no more.

Once the second act began, the LR crew took the stage for a sort of mass farewell. Jonathan entreated us to keep listening. Antonia explained that there were people here tonight who'd been at that first Firehouse show seeing Mac and asked that those of us who'd been at the very first Michaux House show raise our hands.

We were a small group, but undoubtedly with some of the fondest memories in the room.

As he always does, Chris reminded us that the audience was 50% of the LR's success formula and even said, "Karen's been to more Listening Rooms than I have." The man didn't lie.

Next up was Vandaveer, a band I consider my May band. I first saw them in May 2011 and then again in May 2012, meaning I was overdue for my May Vandaveer fix.

They've been on a living room tour since April 1, covering over 13,000 miles with 3,000 left to go before the end of the month.

Leader Mark explained that he lived in Arlington, Virginia, singer Rose in Massachusetts and pedal steel player Tom was from Pennsylvania.

"For those of you keeping score, we play commonwealth music," he cracked. Literate humor, I like that. And if you ask me, it's better described as poetic music.

And I don't just like his voice, I adore his voice, which, as the girlfriend sitting next to me observed, "I even like his speaking voice." Uh huh.

Their sound is sort of alt-folk with his acoustic guitar bumped up with just enough reverb to tread near rock territory but Tom's pedal steel and Rose's exquisite voice on harmony and sometimes lead anchoring things firmly in LR territory.

When Mark mentioned that Tom was a Civil War buff who had spent some hours looking at Richmond's historic sites like Cold Harbor, he called us the birthplace of entrenchments.

"We used to make out there," my friend said leaning in as he husband sat oblivious on the other side of her.

The buoyant "However Many Takes It Takes," a song about perseverance, a subject I know well, won my vote for the line, "I'll be in the kingdom of your dreams."

"Sometimes it requires all arms and legs be on the ground to solve technical difficulties," Mark said at one point, pulling stuff out of the power strip in front of him and then flinging them over his shoulder. "None of that was necessary but it was for dramatic effect."

Dramatic aptly described his voice and Rose's over Tom's pedal steel or slide guitar and each song shimmered with the talent of the three. We couldn't have asked for a finer band to finish out the Listening Room.

For a soulful song about the coming apocalypse, Mark said, "There's nothing you can do except snap and sing along," which is about what I plan to do when the apocalypse finally does arrive.

Off their album of murder ballads from last year ("We sold dozens and dozens of that album"), they did "Pretty Polly" as Mark put it, "Modernized for your contemporary ears." That meant instead of guitar, he sang and stamped on the wooden floor.

We got another from that album when Rose sang "The Drunkard's Doom" and about brought the house down with her exquisite voice, sort of Emmylou Harris-like.

Then there was more literary humor when Mark told of writing a song because of Beverly Cleary and I wondered how many people in the crowd knew who she or Ramona Quimby had been.

Saying he couldn't call it "Ramona" because of Dylan's "To Ramona," he'd titled it "Beverly Cleary's 115th Dream," although he admitted that he didn't know that it was really her 115th.

Peace and love and harmony
and all the things that lovers need
Like hope and health and clarity and time
Oh, precious, precious time

And, just like that, the final Listening Room wound down. Mark called up the entire LR crew - Antonia, Jonathan, Chris, Rob, Nate- and Mac for the big singalong finale, Tom Waits' "Come On Up to the House."

I've no doubt that some of that crew got a bit misty up there singing because I know the long-time regulars in the room felt that way.

It was a really good run and the Listening Room set new standards for shows in this town. Oh, and the bands I discovered through being at almost every Listening Room. All the people I met there.

But it's not the end of the world, It's just a closing of the circle. It's run its course and now we'll have Listening Room Presents shows on an occasional basis.

What matters most is what Jonathan said. Keep on listening.

You better believe I will.

How High the Roses

My goodness, what a lot of rain!

Not that I allowed it to keep me from the Listening Room, these days a much more infrequent event than it used to be.

Besides walking five miles to school uphill in a blizzard, I also remember when the Listening Room was a regularly scheduled monthly event, as reliable a part of my month as the full moon.

But things change and, as one Listening Room founder recently told me, when the series began in 2009, it was far more needed than it is now with all kinds of series and a much more vibrant music scene than back then.

So when I saw the eleventh hour announcement about this week's event, I looked forward to it, sure I'd see all the regular gang. Except, no, not so much.

Maybe it was the torrents of rain falling, maybe people already had plans by the time they got word of the show, but it was definitely a smaller than usual crowd.

Oh, sure, the scientists was there and told me about his upcoming one month trek down the James with his students. My favorite dulcitar player gave me a hug and we talked ballet. The accordion player and I were talking when someone walked up and asked if we were related. "No, but I wish we were," she said. But then duty called.

Ever since the Foundry crew who puts on the Listening Room became an all male bunch, the food and coffee table has been a bit more of a challenge.

So when the LR's photographer Rob showed up just before starting time with coffee and treats, I volunteered to help him get things set up.

What that meant was that he handed me his pocket knife so that I could cut goodies in half and lay them out for attendees, some of whom were already wondering out loud where the sweets were.

Nate was our MC tonight, observing that if we were wondering where the Civil War-era looking guy was - regular MC Chris- he was away on business so Nate was filling in.

He spoke from the Firehouse's stage which was set with "A Streetcar Named Desire's" set, a couple of shabby rooms and a staircase, reminding me that I'd like to see that play.

The theater also had a display of local streetcar photography, including one labeled as "Streetcar at Broad and Main," something any Richmonder worth her salt knows does not exist since the two streets run parallel.

But the pictures themselves were fascinating to look at.

Red Lewis fit his name, a long, tall drink of water with a guitar and a carrot top and he began with the first song he ever wrote, finishing by telling us it was available in fleshed out form on "a nice CD" with him playing all the instruments.

He did a Hank Williams' cover, "Long Gone Daddy" and one about long distance romances.

"I don't know if anyone else made the same bad decision I did when I was like 19 or 20 and she was 2500 miles away in Calgary," he said about his song, "Absence Makes the Heart Go Yonder."

Red said it was surreal to be playing while people were actively listening since he was used to playing in a bar and being ignored.

"This is a pretty cool song about running into the ghost of Hank," he grinned. "I guess I got a theme going up here." He even sang the parts of the song where Hank was talking to sound like Hank.

Pulling out his banjo, he closed with "This Haunted Love," before ably demonstrating his sense of humor again, saying."If you like that song, it's on that nice CD over there I keep mentioning, along with t-shirts, but I only have three left because they're inexcusably comfortable."

Intermission was a trade-off - new people arrived but some left, too - and then Nate returned to the stage thanking the Firehouse and photographer Rob for always documenting the show. "There will be creepy pictures of you on the Internet," he warned.

...and the Wiremen were up next, the atmospheric duo of New Yorker Lynn Wright on guitar and vocals and Paul Watson on trumpet and backing vocals.

I don't even know how many times I've seen them, not to mention the array of locations (Ghostprint Gallery, Poe's Pub, Balliceaux), but the two create a moody kind of indie jazz that sounds like it's been filtered through both the '60s and European basement clubs.

Lynn, looking dapper as always with a navy and white polka-dotted silk scarf around his throat and capable of a warble of a croon that owes a great deal to Bryan Ferry, sang song after song, including one he said was so hot off the presses ("this afternoon") that he might have to resort to his cheat sheet.

If he did, I didn't notice.

How high the roses
How low the sea

He switched from a jangly, reverb-toned jazz guitar to an acoustic for a piece called "Cuervo" (as in "raven" in Spanish, not tequila), a piece he'd originally written for a dance company as an instrumental but had since added a few lyrics to the haunting melody.

Paul's horn is a big part of the pleasure of ...and the Wiremen, adding to their dusky sound, which really should always be played under the lowest of lights.

Saying they'd close with Alex Chilton's song "written some time back in the '70s", the beautiful strains of Big Star's "Take Care" with Paul blowing his trumpet around the edges of the song as they took us home for the night.

Take care not to hurt yourself
beware of the need for help 
You might need too much
and people are such

Take care, please take care

Some people read idea books
and some people have pretty looks
But if your eyes are wide
and all words aside

Take care, please take care

The Listening Room doesn't happen as often as it used to, but it can still provide the kind of evening where you hear hypnotic music that gives you the thrill only live music played to a hushed room can.

Or maybe it's just been a while and absence does make the heart grow fonder of what I used to get every single month.

Creepy pictures aside.

No History of Heartbreaking

Musical appetizer followed by musical entree.

Daniel Bachman was playing an in-store at Steady Sounds so I joined a room full of mostly guys to see the guy NPR described as an American primitive-style acoustic guitarist.

What I liked about him was how he got so into his songs, whether about his new home, Orange County, N.C. or his sister, that he seemed to forget about all the people in the store.

I had just read something about how Carlos Santana calls reaching that zone a "state of grace" and it sure looked to me like that's where Daniel was while surrounded by adoring guitar geeks.

Sure, I admired, but I was not worthy of admiring his talent.

Then, tonight's main event was the Listening Room, holiday edition.

That meant candy canes, hot chocolate and the usual array of baked goods, my contribution being brownies with nuts and caramel.

Given the holiday season, it was no surprise that most of the usual crew was missing in action but the second string took up the slack admirably.

The poet played door person/bouncer, stamping hands and handing out programs while updating me on her love life.

Sounds like she and the man of her dreams will be looking for some country living when he moves here come January.

The scientist who teaches at VCU came in wearing a dapper sweater vest and telling us about the cleaver tie pin (his Dad was a butcher) he intends to wear for finals next week.

I scurried back to my usual seat amongst strangers instead of familiar faces. Sadly.

Molly Parden from Nashville played first, gracing the room with her lovely voice and the beautiful tones of her guitar.

Singing songs about a friend with a messy kitchen, another from Kentucky and her Dad ("The Story of a Man") who lives in the Atlanta suburbs, she even did a Christmas one, "Through the Snow" by Nashville songwriter Nathan Phillips.

"I was a heartbreaker at nineteen," she explained introducing 'Please, Baby, Please,' "and this is the first song I wrote after breaking someone's heart."

I'm ashamed to say that I wrote nothing beyond a journal entry after breaking my first heart, although my defense is my lack of musical ability.

She entreated us to come say hello after her set, saying, "I'd love to meet you and shake your hand and meet your children if they're here."

During the break I ran into a friend who hadn't brought her child and we discoursed on the subject of getting the right ratio of hot chocolate to marshmallow, a goal as worthy as making your last bite of sandwich synch up with the final potato chip.

The second act was Classical Revolution RVA, the group devoted to taking classical music out of the concert hall and putting it in restaurants and bars where people talk over it.

Except not at the Listening Room, of course.

Ellen on violin and Andrew on classical guitar played a tango piece to great silence before telling us about an upcoming Mozart festival in Carytown.

Then there was a dark Shostakovitch piece done by a string quartet that got a partial standing ovation, no doubt partly because it was the first time classical music has ever been played at the Listening Room.

And isn't that the beauty of the Listening Room that you can hear the totally unexpected?

Last up was Timbre, also from Nashville and on a Christmas tour with Molly.

Earlier, Molly had warned us that Molly played the harp and that harps were heavenly. "You're going to hear a slice of heaven," she'd forewarned us.

Right she was as Timbre and her sister, Tetra, who'd just come back from Mozambique, proceeded to wow the crowd.

Beginning with "Silent Night," the audience was mesmerized by her voice and the sound of her harp.

Her set included a 16th century carol, "Coventry Carol," played with Tetra.

When violinist Treesa of Classical Revolutions (and the Richmond Symphony) came onstage to join Timbre, she said the plans were changed because the cellist had to leave so she didn't need any strings now.

"That was an ice-cold way to get her off stage," my seatmate, guitar god Prabir said, commenting on Treesa's abrupt dismissal.

Timbre said she was from a musical family, did annual Christmas shows and went on to sing a song she'd written based on a story about red-breasted birds her parents had read her as a child.

It was perfectly lovely if geographically inaccurate.

"The story is set in Israel and has woods and snow, " she commented, allowing for how an Israeli setting negated both those things.

But she also did "O, Holy Night" and a Sufjan Stevens Christmas song because, as she said, "he writes awesome Christmas songs."

He does, but that's no surprise.  On the other hand, the last thing I expected at the Listening Room was Christmas songs and hot chocolate.

How perfectly festive that both offered themselves up.

Molly was right. It was, indeed, a slice of heaven.

Anniversary Song

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Triangles, Like Songs and Minor Keys

There was lots of music calling to me tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interloper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I'm not complaining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The music was much the same.

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

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

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

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

Even seat-stealers couldn't resist.

Worm Salt and Hard-Working Men

It was like a moment from the 1950s, right here in Jackson Ward.

There I was, eating my dinner surrounded by men, listening to records on the stereo and flipping through Betty Crocker's New Good and Easy Cookbook.

After a day spent playing catch-up, talking to a bouzouki player in Newfoundland and writing about the Spanish civil war, I put myself together and walked down the street to Saison, where I found nothing but the opposite sex.

Pointing out to the bartender that one of these things was not like the other, he arched an eyebrow and asked if I had a problem with it.

I did not.

Part of my motivation to come had been that it was vinyl night (although I'd been too lazy to bring a contribution myself), but, as it turned out, I also made tequila happy hour.

I am helpless in the face of half-priced tequila, even more so given what was already on the turntable: English post-punk band The Sound.

Espolon blanco in hand, I was now ready to consider some eats.

Fried corn with cayenne and gusano salt (you know, salt blended with desiccated caterpillar) gave me a spicy accompaniment to my Espolon and I followed that with greens.

Pickled fig salad with country ham, arugula, orange sections and toasted black walnuts gave me some sweet to go with the salty this time.

My menu had come in a book of old Virginia photographs, but the guy next to me got his in a far more fabulous book.

That's right, I had to ask to look at Betty Crocker's New Good and Easy Cookbook, a spiral-bound classic from 1954.

It was such a fascinating cultural snapshot, I barely even made small talk for a while.

Well, except to say, ooh, look at this menu for morning meal at the ranch! Ranch?

Or, check out this recipe for snow-capped franks (mashed potato and bacon on split hot dogs).

There was an entire section on homey, hearty, happy lunches.

The guys around me found it hysterical.

You don't even want to know where the conversation went once I told them about the menu labeled "lunch for a hard-working man."

You can be sure that the man wasn't making it.

The most interesting thing to me was how dependent the cookbook was on convenience foods- boxed cake mixes, instant mashed potatoes, cream of chicken soup, Bisquick and yet, there was a whole section of recipes on variety meats.

That's right, Betty told you how to make crispy fried livers, stuffed veal heart, tongue, broiled lamb kidneys, even liver and bacon patties.

Thank god there was no recipe fro snow-capped veal heart.

The book closed with a chapter on "fourth meals" also known as snacks, emphasizing how important they were.

Don't I know it. I'm having a snack fourth meal of bacon even as I type this.

While I was taking my trip down culinary memory lane, a guy came in with a newer album to share, one I knew, "In Guards We Trust" and the music shifted from 1985 to 2013.

Unfortunately, I wasn't going to be around at the end of the night to see what else came in and which customer's album was ultimately the staff pick, winning its owner gift certificates to Saison and Steady Sounds.

Like the guy sitting immediately to my left, I couldn't linger anymore because I had to get going to the Listening Room.

Back after a summer hiatus, it seemed like ages since I'd been to the Firehouse for music.

My first order of business was telling a friend how I'd been out at a restaurant when his father recognized me from the Listening Room and spoke to me.

And, no, we'd never met.

From there I reserved my usual seat and began making the rounds to mingle among the familiar and new faces.

The puppet master sat in front of me, the scientist had on his bowtie, the DJ had a drink in both hands and my neighbors brought warm cheesecake bars.

First up was James Harris Moore, from Nashville we were told and now living in Charlottesville.

He was a long, tall drink of water with a shock of curly hair, orange shoe laces and a good voice.

After a couple of songs, he made the inevitable comments about the quiet room. "This is a good challenge for me. I'm used to playing bars where people ignore me."

I get so twisted up sleeping next to you
Wondering what I'm going to be

He talked about songwriting, how sometimes songs come in 15 minutes while others take years to finish.

How sometimes writers get stuck, as he had, and find inspiration in unlikely places, for him a photography book.

For one song, he got all Andrew Bird on us, whistling the melody beautifully.

After thanking us for being good listeners ("Good job! I was afraid you'd forgotten since it's been a while"), he got to his last song.

"The next one's not mine but I love it anyway," he said, launching into a haunting cover of "Moon River."

It was the very best kind of cover, where the artist makes it his own and it was a stellar ending to his set.

Tonight's second act was, as host Chris said, a man who needed no introduction. "He's the godfather of the Listening Room."

Jonathan Vassar was the man who'd originally conceived of the Listening Room and he talked briefly about where it had come from and how the new crew was ably handling it since he and his lovely wife had had a baby.

He began with "Catch Me If You Can" before telling the audience that he had a cold and he was starving it.

Apparently his friend Will had told him cold or fever, the best thing to do was drown it.

We got to hear several songs from his days with local super group Ophelia, including the brilliantly worded, "$10 says I'm Broke" inspired when a friend wouldn't loan him money for a sandwich on the bus back from NYC.

That's harsh.

Jonathan is known for his spare, sad songs, the kind that mention things like Bethlehem Steel, hard-drinking women and the Bay Bridge.

After a few, he felt the need to qualify himself to any newcomers in the crowd, saying, "These songs are not about my family. I'm happily married with an 8-month old who's just about to start crawling. My brother-in-law shot video of him today."

Just when he was about to completely destroy his aching troubadour image for the newbies, he came to. " Of course, the more you have, the more you have to lose."

That's our Jonathan.

He dedicated "Bakersfield" to all the guys in Ophelia there tonight.

Reaching for the wrong harmonica for "Oklahoma Rose," he said, "I saw Kris Kristofferson this summer and he grabbed the wrong harmonica and if he can get the wrong one..."

He closed with "Drive," a song from his upcoming album and his set of beautiful and melancholy songs ended.

Ah, Listening Room #42, a recipe for a homey, hearty and happy evening.

And There It Goes

Tonight was the calm before the storm.

I have birthday plans for the next few days, every night.

And while I intentionally plan it so my birthday gets celebrated for as long as possible, I know from previous years that it's wise to take a wee rest in the midst of the reveling.

So that was me tonight, sedately having a Tennessee dog (mustard, onions, chili, cole slaw) and chocolate shake at the bar of City Dogs when a panicked-looking guy came in.

"We were just here and my friend's sister left her green cell phone here," he said breathlessly, indicating the bar area immediately adjacent to where I sat.

The guy on the other side of the indicated area looked at me and we shrugged; neither of us had seen a green phone when we'd sat down.

We all checked the floor, the bar stools and nothing.

The bartender had the bright idea of telling the guy to call the girls' phone, but he said he didn't know her number.

That was when the friend and her sister, the one who'd lost the phone in the first place, came rushing in.

Fortunately, she knew her own number and gave it to the bartender to call, hoping to locate the phone that way.

He called, we heard nothing.

Just then an older guy with a backpack comes in the restaurant holding a green phone out in front of him.

Turns out he'd found it in the grass on Main Street, ringing, and brought it into the nearest business.

The girl who'd lost it snatched it out of his hand, saying, "Thanks, crazy guy," and flouncing out of the restaurant with her phone and friends in tow.

The guy two seats away who'd helped me look around for the phone looked at me incredulously.

I'm sure my look was identical.

She could have at least bought the guy a $1 RVA dog, I said to him, still amazed at her rudeness and sense of entitlement.

"You mean instead of calling him "crazy guy" for no good reason?" he asked.

Clearly some people were raised by wolves.

I left that crowd for something more civilized, the Listening Room.

Clearly the planets were still out of alignment, though, because despite arriving at 7:32, someone was already sitting in my seat.

Okay, it's not my seat but it is the one I always sit in.

Plan B, the seat directly in front of my usual.

Also unusual tonight was that there was no set decoration onstage because Firehouse Theater is between shows.

Playing first tonight was man-about-town Prabir, playing songs off his new album, "Once Upon a Breakfast Menu."

It took him no time at all to play the funny guy, asking the crowd, "How're you guys doing?" before putting out his hand to stop us from answering.

After all, there's no talking at the Listening Room.

He did a song called "Clouds" about reaching for a CD ("what an archaic reference") and one called "Sept. 7" with an analogy for the ages.

"I took out a knife and carved up this life."

After multiple exotic tunings, Prabir called a friend up on stage so they could have a bowl of cereal together while we watched.

It was breakfast as performance art, only with Silk because Prabir has apparently recently gone vegan.

He also invited violinist Treesa and bassist Matt up to augment a few songs and promote their show Sunday night.

"We're playing a show with Paul McCartney's son at the Camel Sunday night," Prabir said.

"He has a name, you know," Matt reminded him.

"Yea, ca-ching!" Prabir retorted, grinning.

Fortunately, it's okay to laugh at the Listening Room.

Next MC Chris introduced Mohawk Lodge, a Canadian band with most of the members on their way back to Canada.

The tour that had begun April 29 had the rest of the band members leaving in the band van to return to Canada today while leader Ryder continued solo in a rental car ("It's kind of tough but I couldn't not play a show").

Taking the stage with his electric guitar, he took a moment to listen to the silence and observed, "Wow, this is an amazing room."

There was a lot going on his songs, despite him subbing for an entire band.

Favorite lyric: "I call timber because everyone I know is falling."

He took requests from the audience and played them, to his credit.

"Canadian Girl," was requested, along with "Calm Down," about which he said, "I haven't played this in a really long time."

I'm sure I wasn't the only one touched when he said, "I woke up today and my grandmother died and I'm going to play some songs. This one is for my Dad."

He played a couple of songs that had been written when he was part of a songwriters' conference in Berlin, including a political one despite not being a political person, he said.

"You guys are rad," he said, promising, "I'm coming back to Virginia."

We should be so lucky.

During intermission, I heard a friend's report on the new Mellow Mushroom in Carytown.

He gave it a thumbs up for the extensive beer list and vegan cheese available, neither of which matter one bit to me.

I am curious to see the Plan 9 tribute wall, though.

The last band of the night was My Old Ways, whom I'd seen at the Listening Room last June.

Made up of members from a bunch of local bands, they feature acoustic guitar, pedal steel, bass, drums and backup vocals/shaker.

Playing drums and every kind of percussion he could get his hands on was Willis, the guy who adds immeasurably to any band he plays in.

And he has dimples.

There were sad songs, pirate jokes, a song called "Dance" ("I just want to dance") and one written only two days ago, "And There It Goes."

I have to admire a band willing to debut something so new, although the lead singer acknowledged, "This last song we're going to play may be a disaster."

Favorite lyric: "Can we just go back to 2003?"

As evocative a lyric as that is, I don't really want to.

I've already carved up the last ten years and that knife is a tad dull at the moment.

Maybe I'll call timber instead.

Undone and Modern

You'd think there wasn't anything else to do but Bourdain tonight, but 'twasn't so.

Been there, done Tony six years ago. Next!

So when a Maryland friend called to say she'd be in town late this afternoon, I told her I was free until 7:30.

Her default restaurant is the Continental because it's in the neighborhood where she used to live but it didn't open until she'd moved.

Because she's time-challenged, I took my time arriving so she could feel superior about my tardiness.

She wanted to jump into a bottle of bubbles with me, but I was leaning toward soda bubbles instead, and despite the bartender's cajoling ("She can't finish  a whole bottle by herself," he tried telling me, but I knew better), held fast.

Over a plate of nachos and an encroaching crowd of young West End families, we swapped stories of rich people parties, ancient history and mutual friends.

Her best line: "Even though I'm nodding, it doesn't mean I agree with you."

We got so engrossed in philosophical arguments that all at once we looked up and 2 3/4 hours had passed and she needed to get to her dinner plans and I to my musical evening.

I arrived at the Firehouse in time to hold open the door for the woman who'd been kind enough to do the baking for the evening.

As a devotee of the Listening Room (38 of 40 attended), I felt no hesitation in immediately sampling from the three varieties of cookies she'd made.

Hands down favorite: the toffee bars, buttery and crispy underneath and buttery and chocolate on top, making for butter squared.

I'm enough of a veteran to know to go in to stake my claim on my seat before returning to socialize.

The self-proclaimed "old rocker" was munching a toffee bar on the couch, so I joined him, learning that he'd only found out about the Listening Room happening two hours earlier, and purely by chance.

"I saw it and said,  'That's what I'm doing tonight," he said between bites.

Happily, my favorite Jackson Ward couple came in with the good news that they'll soon be back at their Emrick flat after nine months of house surfing while the building was renovated after the fire last August.

Everyone who knows them is as excited as they are to have them back in the neighborhood, hanging out and going to shows as frequently as they used to.

MC Chris kicked off #40 squinting under the glare of the stage lights, reminding us that while it's taboo to talk during the music, it's okay to laugh at the musicians' jokes and sing along when instructed.

Liza Kate came on first and prefaced her set with, "I'm used to playing in bars, so I'm not used to this whole crystal-clear thing. But we'll get through it together," before dedicating the first song to her Mom.

After a couple of songs with just her hushed voice and guitar, she stated the obvious. "I don't know how to write happy songs."

It was then that I noticed the girl in front of me sketching Liza as she sang, alternately looking up at the singer and down at her sketchpad as Liza took form on the page.

A few more in and the singer loosened up a tad, saying, "Every song sung is one closer to dinner time. That's what's getting me through."

To paraphrase John Lennon, whatever gets you through the set.

At another point, she glanced down at her set list and wailed, "I have like 75 more songs," but her songs were succinct, so it probably looked like a lot more than the length of her set would have indicated.

Her last song yielded my favorite lyric.

We're lucky we're only a little undone.

Her low-key set had been a lovely kick-off to the evening.

During intermission, a dimpled friend came in from a beer-tasting event and took the seat nearest me, noting that our mutual music friend was M.I.A.

Again.

Hey, I'm not here to judge, but I've got no problems making jokes about absent friends.

Next Chris introduced Anousheh, saying that she, like Liza, had been making music for quite some time now.

The quintet is fronted by the Cupid's bow-mouthed Anousheh, tonight in show-stopping cute platform shoes that never stopped dancing.

And why should they when the band was playing the most delicious keyboard-based pop with her voice soaring over two killer guitars and a kick-ass rhythm section?

No wonder she couldn't stop dancing.

They were playing songs from her new EP "The Trouble I Find," like the longing-filled "On and On" and the knowing "The Trouble I Need," which got my vote for favorite lyric.

But the trouble I find is trouble I need.

Their set was so energetic and almost non-stop that they were almost through before she reminded the crowd that the record was for sale at the merch table, "We have download cards - very modern! - and t-shirts over at the table."

I've seen Anousheh play her songs with her band and I've seen her do them solo and while I love when all the focus is on her terrific voice, I'm crazy about her band's full sound.

I could listen to Tyler play guitar all night long.

But the sketcher in front of me was focused on the other guitar player and when I glanced at her pad, I saw him coming to life on the page, right down to his blue shirt and brown curls.

Glowing a bit with exertion after "My Hands," she took a big swig from her water bottle and said, "Thanks to Liza Kate for playing. We have both been doing this for a long time."

I heard a chuckle or two from some friends behind me, no doubt at Anousheh's interpretation of "long."

When it got down to their last two songs, she said one was new and the other was a cover.

"This new one is even louder than the others, if you can imagine that. And Marcus Shrock's chord progressions are so awesome."

The bass player got an "aw, shucks" look on his face before showing us how awesome they were.

"We're gonna end the night with a real bummer," Anousheh said, taking us out much the way Liza had brought us in.

Not that there's anything wrong with starting or finishing somewhat melancholy, especially when the voices expressing the melancholia are so lovely.

And the platform shoes so cute. Bourdain who?

Love and Despair, No "the"

It was a good night to get called out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

Well, this was news.

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

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

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

And if jazz, then why not classical?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He admitted that they'd just been printed today.

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

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

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

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

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

With no TV, I'd have no idea.

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

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

It was some quality self-deprecation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fried, Funk and Confetti

It was December repeating itself, but only in the best possible way.

December 5, 2012 was the last time I'd been to the Roosevelt for their infrequent fried chicken nights, so when I saw the smoke signal go up indicating it was yard bird night, all bets were off.

I found another fried fetishist and we were walking up the ramp to the Roosevelt at 5:05 in the pouring rain.

You have to understand, they start serving Lee's fried chicken when they open and when it's gone, it's gone.

And given that it's gluten-free and comes with an addictive chile/honey glaze for dipping, it goes fast.

When I was there in December, it was gone by 6:15. Ergo, there was no margin for error.

Our little five-top convened at a table, unusual for me since I always occupy a bar stool at the Roosevelt.

When our server came to take the order, it basically boiled down to fried chicken and greens: collards, brussels sprouts and broccoli.

And let me assure you, as the accountant pointed out, the only purpose of the green course was to put something between all that fried food and sudden death.

With Neko Case belting it out on the sound system, we munched chicken, dipping it into the sticky and spicy honey until everyone was in a food coma.

And still one of us took home enough chicken for his lunch for the next two days.

Our quintet splintered from there although two of us ended up at the Firehouse for the Listening Room and more repetition.

And like Lee's fried chicken, it was all worth repeating.

Instead of last month's store-bought doughnut holes at the L.R., tonight we had homemade cookies courtesy of one of the Richmanian Ramblers, Richmond's favorite Romanian gypsy band.

Emcee Chris thanked the attendees for braving the rain for music, not always the case in our fair city.

"Are there any Pacific Northwesters here?" he inquired, finding one in the third row. "This is nothing, right?"

The guy flicked his hand in a "Pshaw" manner that made it clear that he had little tolerance for weather wimps.

"Consider yourselves frontier types," Chris said before apologizing to first-timers for the kinks still being worked out while organizer Antonia is on leave.

"She's the glue of this event and she's, uh, got a newborn," he explained.

By the time she's back to running things, the boys may even have the hang of it, but no one's counting on it.

First up was Listening Room alumni Lobo Marino, who'd played December 14, 2010 on a wickedly cold night when the L.R. was still at the Michaux house.

They'd just come back from being on tour again and looked especially coordinated with Laney in an oxblood-colored dress and white sweater and Jameson in oxblood-hued pants and a white shirt with suspenders.

Sort of Richmond's very own White Stripes, at least ensemble-wise.

Lobo Marino are known for their unexpected stage goings-on and tonight's addition to the show was a voice-activated light that flashed according to what Laney sang.

With their unique assortment of instruments - harmonium, metal jug, bells on stools and ankles, mouth harp- they produce fluid songs for two voices and whatever mystical spirit moves them.

With a nod to RVA Magazine writer Shannon Cleary's best of 2012 singles list, they called friend Patrick Bell up on stage to play the mesmerizing "Stay With Me," a song they'd never played live before.

That, my friends, is why you never want to skip a Listening Room or moments like that are missed.

Lobo Marino made their set a true homecoming show, full of energy and happiness and before long, Jameson's suspenders were down around his knees and Laney moved her wide black belt back and forth between her waist and hips depending on whether or not she was playing the accordion.

For their joyous song "Celebrate," they called up four friends to assist and they arrived in pointed, shiny birthday hats (in one case, two hats, one over each ear) with tubes of shiny confetti, which they ejected over the stage mid-song.

For those of us at their last L.R. show, it was a variation on a theme; then they'd used a fan with streamers and bits of paper to shower the stage with festivity.

Afterwards, Laney looked around and observed, "I got confetti in my tea!"

I feel safe in saying that that's the first time those words were uttered at a Listening Room.

For their classic song "Animal Hands," the two did a face to face sing off, which afterwards Jameson claimed Laney won.

Which was true, but nothing could have topped the long ago December version of that song when the audience had thrown stuffed animals at the band during it.

As seems to be their latest inclination, they closed with a Hindi chant based on the story of a monkey god who picks up an entire city when a warrior needs only one herb.

They'd laid out the chant's lyrics for the crowd, asked a trio to join them onstage and set out to, as Laney put it, "Hopefully get to a state of religious ecstasy."

Sri ram jai jai ram
Sita ram jai radhey sham

A person really can't ask for more than a set that ends ecstatically.

During the intermission, I admired the tiny reason that Antonia has been missing in action from L.R. duty.

Tiny Casimir seemed right at home at the Listening Room, but given his lineage that's really no surprise.

Before beginning again, host Chris informed us that despite the L.R.'s "no talking" rule, it was okay to laugh if bands made jokes, undoubtedly good to know for newbies.

When the show resumed, it was with shoeless Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, who'd last played the L.R. December 18, 2009 after a snowstorm that kept many people home, but not me.

Wow, three years, where does the time go?.

Maybe it was the long time since their last appearance for this crowd, but they wasted no time with banter, jumping right into their set.

A couple of energetic songs in and Zac stopped to wipe his face, saying, "It might not look like it, but it's really hot up here. And that whole "laugh at our jokes" thing, you don't have to do that. We're not that funny."

That could be debated (he and violinist/keyboard player Jessica alone banter like exes), but with a band as good as Junglebeat, we were too busy getting into their pretty pop sound to debate it.

Three and sometimes four voices (a bass player who sings!) combining magnificently.

A kick-ass drummer, impossible not to watch, who defines their sound.

Well-placed violin. Unusual song structures. And the distinctively angelic voice of Zac.

"We get really excited when we play and then we play our songs too fast. We're blowing right through this," Zac said, just before consciously slowing down for "Colossus," a song about either Mila Kunis or Zac's masculinity, depending on which band member you believe.

Zac thanked Lobo Marino, saying, "They brought the funk and the confetti."

What more could a band want in a compliment?

Like Lobo Marino, one of their songs had been chosen by Shannon for his year-end best of list, so Zac thanked him and pointed at Lobo Marino in the front row, saying, "We're right under you guys!" before playing, "Wear a Helmet," a beautiful analogy about risk-taking when it comes to love.

Violinist Jessica reminisced about the first time they'd played that song live at the Triple, a dive on Broad Street she characterized as having only Yuenglings and pool tables.

She's right, that about sums up the Triple, may they rest in peace.

After "Babbayagga," a song about chicken legs and bad dreams, they did "Charles and Bixby," one of two songs they spent the weekend recording for a new record.

Halfway through it, Zac messed up, stopped and they restarted, leaving himself wide open to Jessica teasing him about a song they'd played "1,000 times."

Lees' fried chicken, Lobo Marino, Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat.

Decembers redux.

A thousand times or a few times, if it's something you enjoy in life, does it even matter if you keep repeating them?

Honestly, I can't think of a better way to get to religious ecstasy.

Enter Rap and Doughnut Holes

So I'm just another archivist out on on a rainy night.

I'm getting tired of hearing/reading all the complaints about the wet weather (you don't hear the Seattleites whining, do you?) so I picked my dinner partner based on his sunny attitude.

"Hey, everyone, don't hate me, but I am loving this rain," he wrote earlier today and I immediately e-mailed him asking if he was free for dinner.

I, too, was loving this weather and I wanted to be with someone who felt the same.

His only stipulation for eating out was frugality, making City Dogs a shoe-in.

Tuesdays Richmond dogs (mustard, chili, onions) are only a buck and what could be cheaper than that?

So we met at the Fan location where every seat except four bar stools were taken.

Apparently cheap dogs and rain (oh, and $4 PBR tall boys) are a marriage made in heaven in this town.

We coordinated on our sides, me ordering onion rings and him cole slaw, him telling our server he was looking for a healthy side.

"Yea, we don't really do healthy here," he grinned.

Nor was that why we were there.

In fact, we both loaded our chili-laden dogs with slaw and then shared the rings.

I even ordered a chocolate milk shake, ensuring, as my Richmond grandmother would have said, that I was headed to hell in a hand basket.

The thing is, they bring you the silver milkshake blending cup with the extra in it along with your shake so even when you finish, you still have all that extra shake to replenish your empty glass.

Grandma was right.

We split up after that, he to a meeting and me to the Listening Room for music.

Tonight's show was curated by WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary, who had asked some of his favorite musicians to play acoustic.

It was also the first Listening Room without Jonathan Vassar and his lovely wife, Antonia, because their stork visit is imminent.

Their absence made for all kinds of adaptation; Rob's hand-stamping skills were suspect and Chris forgot to notify Dixie Donuts, so we missed out on everyone's favorite treats, making do with doughnut holes from god knows where.

But we soldiered on.

I greeted organizer and emcee Chris, who introduced me to the bartender, saying, "Karen has been to more of the Listening Rooms than I have."

It was high praise, but then I have been to 35 of the 37 and one of the ones I missed was because I was in another country.

Okay, so I'm bragging.

My usual Listening Room pals were notably absent but fortunately, my favorite seat was free and I made eyes at a standing friend and the seat next to me until he got the hint and came over.

Introducing Ben Shepherd, Shannon observed, "It's safe to say that the characters in Ben's songs are troubled," and went on to list what ails them.

I've heard Ben many times and admire his insightful and literate lyrics and beautiful voice but for a lot of people, it was their first time experiencing him.

He's a long, tall drink of water clad in an army jacket and old brown lace-up boots that caused the scientist sitting next to me to nudge me and say, "Cool boots."

Ben dedicated a poignant song to anyone who'd ever lost a friend to dope, did a sweet song called "Silver Dog" and cracked wise.

"Shannon described about half the songs I'm going to play, but that's okay. I wouldn't have done it, but it's okay."

Ben took a swig from his PBR between every song, a slight variation on one of my favorite Sprout shows where he took a long pull on a bottle of red wine between songs.

Favorite lyric:
I can't fathom or really understand
The world that existed before I was born

After the break, Shannon brought up two of his favorites, Matt Seymour (from Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) and Harris Mendell (of Sundials) to trade songs for us.

It was especially interesting hearing these two play acoustic, not their usual format.

And they were as funny as a comedy duo, with Harris waving his arms over his head as Matt sang and Matt playing and picking silently, doing the exact same thing Matt was playing but without sound.

Shannon had asked them to do a few of his personal favorites, so Matt did "Peter Pan Syndrome," with the terrific lyric, "Will you be my Wendy? Will you be my Tinkerbell? Don't be silly, you can be my Tiger Lily still."

Harris sang a song, "Completely Broken," about coming down Harrison and turning east on Clay into oncoming car headlights.

"It's a song about letting something bad happen to you," he explained about an area mere blocks from my house.

One song Matt began singing in more typical Pedals on Our Pirate Ships fashion (loud and brash) before saying, "Sorry, guys," and taking it down to singer/songwriter mode.

He even inserted a guitar solo ("This is the funky part") and finished by turning to Harris and boasting, "Beat that!"

Harris rose to the challenge with a song about going to community college and an Archers of Loaf cover that Matt lip-synced to.

"This is the first time I ever heard Ben Shepherd," Harris said. "He's really good."

And that's the best part of a show like tonight's. I'm sure a lot of people heard musicians they'd never heard or never would have heard otherwise.

And, let's face it, this town could use some some cross-pollination when it comes to various music scenes.

Can't we all just listen to each other?

While the crowd had been thinner than usual to start the evening, the satisfying  part was that people continued to arrive so there was still a good crowd when Shannon got up to introduce Isaac Ramsey.

"First I want to thank some of the people off the top of my head who take the time to archive some of the music shows that happen here, like tonight," and went on to mention assorted groups (The Listening Room, RVA Magazine) and bloggers, like yours truly.

It was a very generous thing to do and a reminder that if someone doesn't record all these show memories, eventually they'll be lost.

But enough patting myself on the back.

Isaac began by saying, "I don't know how I'm going to follow the comedy of Matt and Harris," no small feat.

But I laughed immediately when he introduced his rap, "85 Bears," saying, "It's not necessarily about the team. It's about winning...and white flight."

I'd seen Issac before, both rapping as Swordplay and as part of the band Double Rainbow and his songwriting and rhyming skills are exceptional.

Isaac was undoubtedly the Listening Room's first rapper, albeit a very melodic one with a fine voice who played guitar (as well as percussion on his guitar).

He dedicated "Song for the Dead," with the tantalizing lyric, "Existence is a human assumption,"to "Anyone who lost someone last year."

Then he snuck in new material.

"This is a Double Rainbow song so new we haven't played it out yet," Isaac said by way of introduction. "So if you see Jamie, don't tell him."

If I saw Jamie, not that I know Jamie, I would tell him what a great song it was.

Isaac said, "This song is called "Mr. Rosenberg" and I'm pretty sure the story behind it is better than the song."

He proceeded to tell the story, which was disturbing and true, but the song was a worthy counterpoint, no matter what he said.

At first he called "Lay Down" another song about death, but changed that and called it a song about life.

Then he got up as if to leave, instead going backstage for another guitar.

"I did something I never do," he explained. "I brought two guitars so I wouldn't have to tune in front of you. I did that partly for me, but mostly for you. Okay, I have to tune a little."

He needn't have worried about not being funny with lines like that.

But it was his last comment that best summed up the evening.

"Based on how awesome this night was, I think I probably don't come to the Listening Room enough.

But then, who does, other than little miss 35 of 37?

Given tonight's genre-bending show, I bet a lot more people will be more assiduous about putting it in their calendar.

After all, why fathom or try to understand a world that existed before the Listening Room?

Like the Dixie Donuts that usually accompany the music, it's there every month for the taking.

Proof in the Pudding

Apparently some people have a crises of music.

As in, a friend mentioned how his friend wanted to meet up to discuss his latest issue.

The problem? Not job woes. Not a relationship faux pas. No alarming diagnosis.

His friend is convinced that Richmond's music scene is dying.

"Go out with me for one night and I'll prove you wrong," my friend told the disillusioned one.

And tonight would have been a perfect example of the diversity of local music there for the taking.

First up, the Listening Room, where cardigan-wearing Jonathan did emcee duties, rambled a bit and then said, "Here they come and here I go."

Corny, maybe but as a friend observed as he walked off, "Jonathan may be about to become a father but he has all the makings of a grandfather."

The "they" he'd mentioned were the Black Brothers, as in Black like the VCU music building, and a quartet of guitar, drums, bass and trumpet.

Their sound was southern, bluesy and, unlike most Listening Room sets, fully electric with drums.

We don't often get drummer face-making at the Listening Room, but we did tonight, except when he had a drumstick in his mouth.

For that matter, we don't often see a pair of loafers or an argyle sweater on the Listening Room stage, either.

As if that weren't different enough, the room was darkened and there were two turntables on stage, both with lights under glass spinning on them for the grooviest of light shows.

We heard "80 Grams," a song about Heath Ledger, "Holding Back," a new song they'd never played live and a dedication to the guitarist's mom on her birthday.

Just when I'd been lulled into listening to them like another indie band, the horn would come in or the drummer would start playing around and I'd remember, oh, yea, there are jazz nerds present.

When they finished, they said they had t-shirts and one CD for sale ("It's $100," the guitarist teased).

So, Exhibit A -southern blues with horn.

At the start of the second set, host Jonathan broke the bad news: he and wife Antonia will be less involved with the Listening Room for a while because of their upcoming spawn's arrival.

I think I saw Antonia tear up when he said it and, frankly, I felt the same.

But even misty, the mom-to-be looked fabulous with a red scarf in her hair, dangling red earrings and a beautiful blue flouncy skirt that qualified her for the queen of the gypsies.

Those two have been the bedrock of the L.R. evenings and their presence will be missed, even if it's only temporary.

And then for something completely different, the Richmanian Ramblers played.

The good people who bring us Romanian gypsy music for two violins, clarinet, upright bass, accordion and acoustic guitar came to sing about drinking, sheep and dancing.

"The next song is a dance song," bassist Nate warned us. "But you guys are sitting, so that won't work."

Vocalist Antonia piped up with, "But it's the Listening Room, so you can't talk, but you can dance. Quietly."

For the record, I saw no dancing, despite the song's call to move our bodies.

And here's another thing I never expected to hear at the L.R. "Here's a song about a terrible dowry."

After having seen them multiple times, I know my favorite tune is what's affectionately called "the sheep love song."

In it, a shepherdess and her shepherd boyfriend call to each other across the hills and I love their emotive call and response (not that I understand Romanian, but I get their intent).

I knew there were a lot of first-timers at the L.R. tonight and I love what a diverse program they experienced on their initial visit.

Okay, Exhibit B - Romanian gypsy music.

After the Listening Room, I headed to the Nile to meet a friend for the Malhombre show.

Why more music after two interesting bands?

Because Malhombre's melancholy rock with occasional forays into French pop is too irresistible not to introduce to a musician friend.

And more stylish than you can imagine, with the singer in cream-colored boots and the drummer in amazing plaid pants.

The duo began by saying, "How do you like our projections? It's our honeymoon pictures from Paris and Rome."

All kidding aside, the views projected showed ruins, Citroens and a definite sense of places other than Laurel Street.

Tonight's set was particularly civilized, with the twenty or so people there seated in chairs and raptly paying attention to singer/guitarist Blasco and his partner Giustino, working up a righteous sweat on the drums.

There was a song in French, a momentous song ("I wanna be in tune for this song cause it's important") and lots of major chords ("He plays all major chords," my musician friend observed. "Just when I think he's going to go all sad, he sounds happy.").

Naturally with the French involved, there was a song about being drunk and in love.

"At the same time!" interjected Giustino.

"I don't know if I've ever been love sober," cracked Blasco.

He passed his hat, telling the audience, "If any of you want to contribute to our life, you can."  We did.

When they tried to end, the crowd called for more.

To top off a fine set, they played a "relationship song from the man's point of view."

Who knew there was such a thing?

Alright, Exhibit C - melancholy French pop/rock.

The music scene here has dried up? Seriously?

I'd say the crises is among those sitting at home while horns blow, sheep make love and major chords abound.

Call me crises-less.

Saudade for a Flip Phone

You know, the traditional gift for a third anniversary is leather.

Tonight was the third anniversary installment of the Listening Room and I counted myself among a very few who were there on that first night at the Michaux House, but I saw no obvious celebration leather.

Instead, I saw lots of new faces for the monthly installment of music that requires rapt attention and absolute silence from the audience.

After a proper mingling period with cookies (raspberry chocolate brownies and pecan sandies, oh, my!) and long-lost greetings (I missed last month's performance while in Italy), the show began.

Emcee Chris, with his newly shorn locks, waxed nostalgic about the early Listening Room days before the first act began.

Daniel Levi Goans and his wife Laura seemed glad to be here, saying, "This is an ideal environment for us to be heard."

They did a Dylan cover for a friend who was seeing Dylan tonight, with Daniel noting, "71 and still got it. Bob Dylan, not me."

"Obviously," his wife Laura said from the stage floor.

It takes a good woman to keep a man in line.

Laura had also made songbooks for the attendeea with each song numbered so we could follow along.

It could have been a little like hymn numbers on a chart in church, except I don't actually know that for sure.

Introducing the song "Enemies," Daniel observed, "This is a song from a real and true story. Hope I remember the ending."

For the record, he seemed to.

I learned about the Portuguese word "saudade" and the longing it implies, so I'd have to say that the Listening Room makes you smarter.

Favorite lyric: "Symphonies of sideways glances, Hands grazed and midnight romances."

During the break, I said hello to the poet and her visiting admirer, the scientist in shorts on this November night, the running sax player and the smiling beekeeper who joined us in the second row.

You see the most interesting people at the Listening Room.

The second act had nostalgic value because the Low Branches had played that very first Listening Room.

As singer Christina admitted, "It was our first Listening Room and probably my fourth time singing out."

Well, judging by how her voice and stage presence have matured, I'd say that the L.R. made for a wonderfully auspicious start for her Richmond career.

Josh was playing electric bass tonight instead of cello, as always adding a depth to their stripped-down sound.

Christina said he was also the one mixing and producing their new album, "One Hundred Years Old," due out at the end of January.

Mid-song, Christina stopped singing and said, "There's an echo. It sounds like there's a lot of us up here."

A minor adjustment, she started up again and it sounded like Matt, Christina and Josh again, the echo faded away.

With a voice as beautiful and hushed as hers, echo is unwanted.

"It's really great to have you with us," Christina said before their last song. "Friends, new friends and friends of friends."

That's about as good a summation of the family tree of the Listening Room as I've ever heard.

The good-sized crowd milled around during the break, brought back to their seats when Chris began talking from the stage.

Next thing, organizer Jonathan was walking onstage with his phone open and in hand.

"Is that flip phone?" a young attendee asked incredulously.

Yes, it was, youngster.

On the line and being amplified through the mic from Portland, Oregon was Chris Edwards, one of the L.R. founders and the original emcee.

"Chris, you're onstage again," Chris 2 told him.

"Oh, god!" Chris 1 responded, clearly surprised.

"We wanted to make you part of our third anniversary," Chris said and applause broke out for the L.R.'s original and well-spoken emcee.

Dave Watkins played third and he surprised long time fans like me by announcing, "I actually have a set list. If you've seen me before, you know that's..." and fading out.

"Unheard of?" asked a loud-mouth woman in the second row.

Okay, I asked that but he agreed.

Dave was playing his acoustic dulcitar, looping endlessly and wowing old and new fans.

He introduced "Pangea's Revenge" as a song written for a girl from Scotland he met in Richmond.

As many times as I've heard him sing that song, I hadn't known its starting point.

You have to admire a man who reacts to not being to drive or ride his bike to see a girl by writing a song about the super-continent.

From Scottish lasses to Scottish bands, Dave covered Mogwai's "Helicon 2," much to the delight of Mogwai fans like my friend's cute husband.

He also referenced the Colloquial Orchestra as, "A band I'm in with everyone else in Richmond."

Several of them were in attendance tonight, like the violinist who usually ends their set by writhing on the floor.

Dave surprised us all by taking out his guitar and playing the song he'd written for his high school talent show, "Square Peg, Round Hole" ("It's pretty wacky") with great flamenco-like flourishes and tapping the body of the guitar.

If you know Dave, you weren't surprised that he won or that he used the prize money  to buy prom tickets.

That's a hell of a date, ladies, talented and practical.

He finished with "Marshall Street" from his latest CD and my personal favorite on the album.

It began with Dave looping dulcitar, including blowing into the body, and then he went on to drum madly.

Just as the song was coming to a rambunctious end, his glasses slid off his face and landed on the stage.

Best. Finish. Ever.

I only wish I'd had some leather to show my appreciation for three fine years.

Loved It to Death

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

We'll paraphrase "old" and instead say "longtime" as in I met up with a friend of more than a few years at Mint.

I would never say she's old but our friendship certainly is.

Surprised to be the first person at the bar, the bartender informed me that I wasn't, that a group had just left.

My bar stool wasn't warm enough to prove him right.

My friend soon joined me and we took advantage of happy hour, she with a bourbon barrel stout and me with an Italian Cabernet.

We had so much to talk about, important stuff like ghettos, butt plug orders and trips to Paris, before we even looked at the menu.

It came down to pulled pork johnny cake "tacos" and a lobster corn dog with peach basil mustard sauce.

The tacos I'd had before so knew I liked the pig/slaw combo but the dog was new to me and, like I told my friend, how can you go wrong with what is essentially lobster meat and a crusty corn muffin?

That's right, you can't.

After discussing how we plan to end our lives, we parted ways on Main Street with plans to meet up this weekend.

Properly fortified with red wine and extensive laughter, I made the short drive to the Firehouse Theater for this month's Listening Room curated by WRIR's Eric Walters.

This was the "something new" part since I hadn't seen any of the bands before.

Emcee Chris took the stage sporting a new haircut and looking very handsome.

He admitted to being a tad unprepared with his announcements, seeking some information from the audience.

"It takes a village," he explained about using the crowd for specifics. "This first guy is the Michael Phelps of the Listening Room. This is his third Listening Room in a row and his fourth in a year."

It was Michael Coleman, drummer of Nettles and Hill and Wood and he began by saying that he had just made his Kickstarter goal today.

It must have been a good omen for him because his set was spot-on, his voice soulful and heartfelt.

With Rusty also playing guitar, Michael went through several of the songs from his upcoming album, including the title track "Precious Time."

Acknowledging Rusty "makes me sound so good," he told of how he'd met Rusty at a show and how "he basically forced his way into my musical world."

"I called the next morning," Rusty joked along. "I sent flowers."

I say if a guy's going to force himself on you, that's the least he can do.

Their guitar interplay was beautiful on "New Beginning," but it was "Never Let You Go" that provided  my favorite of his lyrics.

I've been making choices I've never made

It had been during Michael's set that I'd felt chilly and put on my sweater. Without a word exchanged my buddy in the next seat, Andrew, handed me his hoodie for my (presumably chilly) legs.

There was my something borrowed.

During the break I scored my second Dixie doughnut and saw a guy I was sure I knew but couldn't place.

Fortunately he recognized me too and made the connection, resulting in a blast from the past for both of us.

Knot Boxes played next and they were a trio of mandolin, fiddle and guitar.

Lead singer/guitarist Rebecca had a quiet voice and demeanor but her sidemen shone with enthusiasm as they played their takes on traditional and original songs.

"We arrange or derange them our way," Rebecca  said to laughter.

When she turned to Eric for the key and he told her E flat, she grinned at the crowd, saying, "At the Listening Room the audience hears everything."

We do and we like it.

Eric also shared that, "The name of our band is Knot Boxes and we formed two days ago. We're very excited about it."

Several musicians expressed how impressed they were that the band had recorded and mastered their album only two days ago and were selling it tonight.

Favorite lyric: "I bet your sad heart is breaking every moment I'm not there."

By the time Chris took the stage to introduce the last band, the crowd had thinned. "The level of musician ship is very high tonight," he said, stating the obvious.

It was about to get higher with Brooklyn's Jus Post Bellum, a quartet who had just played live on Eric's show.

"Eric hosted us on Wide Ear Folk and it was the first time we all played together on the radio," guitarist and vocalist Geoffrey said, looking quite dapper in a black hat. "We're getting off to a spoiled start on our several weeks' tour."

Bass player Daniel had a dramatic and distinctive way of flinging his arms to his sides in between playing his parts. Drummer Zach had a magnificent head of red curly hair. Vocalist Hannah sang like an angel in red lipstick.

They played several songs from their album of folk-tinged history songs, things like, "Be Each Man Judged," the title track, "Devil Winter" and closed with "That Old Pine Box."

At one point, Geoffrey consulted with the others about the next song before telling us, "We're having a band fight right now."

"Very quietly," agreed Daniel smiling.

Favorite lyric: "I only want you to love me to death."

When their dynamic set ended, the crowd went crazy clapping.

At least those left went crazy for having seen such talented musicians playing a distinctly different sound, one of lyrical melancholy with a sense of history, a truly unique sound.

This is where I get on my soapbox.

I am a big proponent of the two-band Listening Room for one reason only and it has nothing to do with  me.

It's because when there are three bands, it's inevitable that a good portion of the crowd leaves during the break before the third band.

It happened again tonight and it's a real shame that any music fan in Richmond missed hearing Jus Post Bellum because it was getting late.

And there, people, is my something blue.

Other than that, it was a happily-ever-after kind of an evening.

The kind to which I will always say "I do."