Real Man

When a man promises you you're going to get a boatload of him, he'd better come through.

And, no surprise, Todd Rundgren did. It's not like I hadn't seen him before cause I had, once in the mid-aughts at the Canal Club with probably fewer than 50 people - an amazing show I know I'll never top for sheer intimacy - and then in 2015 at the National. The problem with the latter show had been that it involved a flashy, LED-lit performance with Todd, a DJ and two wig and costume-changing female dancers/back-up singers and almost none of the classic Todd I craved.

In what was either a nod to the aging crowd or perhaps Todd's preference (he is, after all, turning 71 Saturday), this was a seated show, although that was news to me upon arrival. When I'd bought my ticket at the box office back in mid-April, I'd not been given a choice of being seated, so perhaps I was late to the game.

As part of steerage class, I was herded into one of three cordoned-off areas to stand, not a problem since I've stood at every show I've ever been to there except for my first (Lou Reed) because I didn't know any better, the seated shows (Henry Rollins, Joanna Newsome) and the couple of times I'd been in the VIP section.

With me in the corral was a woman who was as jazzed to see Todd as me, as evidenced by the fact that she'd been to both the shows I'd been to (and the odds of meeting another human who'd been at that Canal Club show was tiny) plus one at the Birchmere. Together we staked our claim at the front railing right behind the sound booth, not far from my usual spot directly in front of it.

Promptly at 7:30, Todd and his five-piece band came out to show us what his Individualist Tour would look like, with a giant video screen behind them. Explaining that the set was based on his recent book detailing his life and music from the '60s to the mid-'90s, he proclaimed, "You're going to get a boatload of me tonight."

Looking around at the decidedly middle-aged crowd dressed up and out on a rare Tuesday night, I didn't think anyone would have a problem with an overdose of Todd.

And just to make sure he had us eating out of his hand, he started at the beginning when we'd first fell hard for his sound with "Open My Eyes" from his Nazz days. The collective excitement/moans of pleasure/elation of those first few notes of "Hello, It's Me" were electrifying, and that's not even counting how good his voice  and the song still sounds.

I could have done without him exhorting the crowd to sing along (I hadn't come to hear them) but I also know people couldn't help themselves.

After thunderous applause, he shared that it was the first song he'd ever written, a sign if ever there was one of musical genius. After struggling for an idea (and stealing the chord changes from an older song), he'd settled on that most reliable of inspirations: breaking up with his girlfriend from senior year of high school. "Her Dad turned the hose on me," he said.

Next came "We Gotta Get You a Woman," a joy to hear since it was a well-played part of my collection of 45s in 1970. Even better, while the band played it, the video screen showed images of women from the '60s and '70s dancing in that distinctive way that could never be mistaken for any other era.

And, yes, there were white go-go boots and girls in fringed bikinis dancing, if that tells you anything. It was almost too good to be true.

It just kept getting better. Next they did "I Saw the Light in Your Eyes" and I was just one of the many dancing in place and absolutely in musical heaven. These songs were my youth and hearing them live was incomparable.

Saying that his guitar - a seafoam green Stratocaster - was sad about being ignored during all those piano ballads, he picked it up to introduce a guitar-based song. He reminisced about playing the blues "in the corners of the subway as only a white man can do" before making his guitar very happy with some screaming guitar work.

Talking about his future as a highway of black vinyl, he quipped, "It's amazing what you can accomplish without children around!" What made it even cooler was that as he played, the screen showed images of not only his albums, but albums he'd produced: Grand Funk Railroad's "We're An American band, " Badfinger's "Straight Up," the New York Doll's eponymous album, Meat Loaf's "Bat Out of Hell" and that's just what I recall.

And, if I'm honest, I had no clue he produced any of those, though I knew he produced his own stuff.

He talked about getting stuck artistically, so he remedied that by buying a round the world ticket "where as long as you keep going in the same direction, you're good" as a way of having new experiences. As he sang, images of old Pan Am tickets, itineraries (Kabul, Calcutta, Madras, Tehran, Bangkok, San Francisco, NYC) and postcards showed onscreen.

Throughout the evening, the once-young crowd didn't hesitate to sing and dance along, although those in the front seated row had to be repeatedly told to sit down by Security.

The 1978 song "Can We Still Be Friends" was accompanied by old photos of Todd with everyone who mattered in the '70s and '80s: Ringo, Alice Cooper, Elvira, Little Richard and Bowie.

Although Todd made sure neither of his guitars got ignored for too long, he sang many songs like "Real Man" either with microphone in hand stalking the stage or standing in front of it on the stand and pantomiming gestures as he sang. His hands went to his eyes, ears, heart and outstretched to convey lyrics winningly, even when old photos of him performing in enormous bell bottoms, spandex, sequins, shorts, plaid shirts with the sleeves cut off, a suit, satin pants and a whole lot more were screening overhead.

And because Todd's a huge fashionista, we also got photos of his wardrobe highlights: a pumpkin orange velvet suit, red satin pants, a brocade suit with a big polka dot shirt and small polka dot tie, a fringed jacket, a spandex catsuit, a space suit, a fat suit, as a woman and lots and lots of glam. I'm guessing that the point of those photos was to show us Todd's wardrobe obsession and it was as good a look at fashion history as a fan could hope for.

His fashion advice was simple, though. "Get a guitar and wear it. Doesn't matter if you can play it, you'll look sharp."

And while tonight's ensembles (yes, there were two) were less flashy, the man's still a snazzy dresser and proud of it. I can say that because the view from the cheap seats, um, cheap floor was stellar. Even so, during the 20-minute intermission during which the Todd nerds compared notes, I took the opportunity to slide into an empty seat to take a load off and get a tad closer.

For the section labeled "Digressions, Dreams and Dissertations," Todd took pre-recorded video questions from audience members lucky enough to have approached the tablet that recorded them.

Asked about his favorite song to play in concert, he denied having one, saying what he didn't want to play was a far shorter list (and includes "Bang the Drum All Day," which made some in the crowd moan in sadness). When he mentioned that he wasn't popular anymore, a drunk woman yelled out, "You're still popular!" to which Todd responded, "Shut up! I'm not soliciting answers from you."

Asked about his other guitar, he said it was a belated birthday gift from a restaurateur who also granted him oysters for life after he did a short set at his restaurant.

If only I had a skill set that could get me raw oysters for life.

After he finished answering dumb questions from middle-aged men, the band went on to play deeper cuts from all his bands and solo work, causing much whispering between Todd nerds as they marveled at hearing things they'd never heard in years of going to Todd's shows.

I only recognized a few (1973's "I Don't Want to Tie You Down"), but I could listen to Todd sing the phone book and be happy. And ending with 1978's "Fade Away" was practically perfect, even when it means putting up with seeing assorted exes dating back to the '90s.

"This is your love life" aside, when a man like Todd promises a boatload and delivers at least twice that, a girl can't ask for much more.

Except maybe a seated ticket next time he comes through town. And, if not, you can be sure I'll stand for Todd any day.

And It's All That You Got

It's always good to remember that the word fan comes from the word fanatic.

I don't think it's a reach to call a guy who's seen a band "dozens and dozens" of times over 20 years, a guy who last month went to Peru to see them perform, a guy who stripped off his regular shirt to reveal the band's t-shirt underneath, but only after they took the stage, fanatical.

I'm talking about Psychedelic Furs fan #1.

At first I just thought he was forward, leaning over to me in the darkness of the National as Bash and Pop bashed and popped on "Fast and Hard," to share that he hadn't seen a band in matching suits since the Dave Clark 5.

Right there, he's lost me. Are the Furs the only thing he's listened to since the Dave Clark 5? Or is he just hokey?

But when he came back from the restroom to find that the space next to me was still available, I didn't need to hear, "Thanks for saving my space for me." As if.

Honestly, I'd only noticed he'd left because I was glad he'd stop trying to initiate conversation.

When Bash and Pop finished with "Friday Night is Killing Me," he turned to ask how many times I'd seen the Furs.

Sure I'd sound like a dork, I said twice in three years. That's when he puffed up his chest and made it clear he was the experienced one since he'd crossed the equator and I'd never so much as left the state to see them.

But while he may have been an adoring Furs acolyte, he wasn't shy about passing judgement, either.

Richard Butler had removed his frock coat before beginning "Until She Comes" to reveal a button up black and white shirt with white piping. No surprise, he immediately pushed up the sleeves '80s-style to complete the look.

By the time the band finished "Heaven," #1 fan leaned over and announced, "Richard's getting man boobs. He's going to have to change his style of shirt."

Just for the record, #1 fan saw no irony in judging another middle-aged man's body while he himself was plenty solid around the mid-section.

That said, he was handy when I needed to know something quickly.

When they said goodnight. I turned to my walking encyclopedia of all things Furs to ask him if they do encores. He responded with three fingers and a prediction they'd begin with "India.

So you know, they did two songs and "India" was second. So there.

Was fan boy upset he was mistaken? Hell, no, because they led with "Sister Europe," a song he hadn't heard them do live in 20 years. He was very, very excited about this.

All throughout the band's set, fan boy would dance off beat and try to mimic the excellent dancing and hand motions of Richard onstage. The problem is that Richard becomes the lyrics - he has gestures for praying, raining, hearing, loving, talking and, during "All That Money Wants," vein-tapping - and no one, not even a fervent follower, can keep up.

Midway through their set, fan boy was jolted when the next song was not what he anticipated. "Oh, good, they're mixing it up!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight. "This isn't the same set list as Peru!"

Show-off.

And woe to the couple who decided to air their dirty laundry at #1 fan's favorite band's show. The oblivious lovebirds situated themselves right in front of him and I, allowing us to watch the arc of an argument and its aftermath play out in front of us.

First it was clear disagreement, then a protracted period of discussion and eventual settling of the matter. You'd think that the worst part would be the standing make-up sex that came afterwards (tongues and hands were flying), but in actuality, it was the post-coital drunken dissection of what had just gone wrong ("I'm not going to do it!" and "So I'm the bad Adam because I won't dance?") that led to fan boy standing up for his right to worship at the Furs' altar.

"Can you be quiet?" he demanded of the lovebirds. "I came to hear the show!"

It was enough for Romeo to half walk, half-carry Juliet out of the National and make fan boy (and honestly, me) very, very happy.

Of course, that could be said about every song the band played, whether a huge hit or lesser known. I can tell you that the most phones came out to capture "Pretty in Pink," the loudest roar was for "Love My Way," it took a while before most of the room recognized "Heartbreak Beat" and "Ghost in You" got its own interpretive dance thanks to Richard.

It was also a heavily paired-off crowd and what wasn't coupled was male. Think middle-aged meat market for those who weren't happily-ever-aftering and still like synths.

So with fan boy to my right (of course he had to be in front of the center of the sound booth for optimum viewing), I couldn't help but chat up the woman on my left, only to learn that she was 4 or 5 when she first heard the Furs. For her at 36, it was music from her childhood.

Naturally, I wanted to know if the current music she listens to pulls from the Furs' sound. She was somewhat perplexed by the question, but thought maybe so. Some of it. Kind of.

Spare me the lack of opinion.

As for people I actually knew, there was a favorite WRIR couple who stopped to chat on their way down front for a close-up view. Like me, they'd seen the band here in 2015 and couldn't think of a single reason not to come enjoy them again this Saturday night.

Then on my way out, I ran into  an arty couple I'd seen at my first Furs show in 2014. They'd somehow recognized me (short woman, big hair, constantly dancing) from the back while standing behind the sound booth while I was in front of it.

"They're always so good," she said, while I got shallow and pointed out that Richard Butler has aged awfully well. After all, a show is audio and visual, right?

And if you don't think #1 fan likes the visual as much as the audio, you're kidding yourself.

Let's just say I'm not the one who went to Peru or noticed the man boobs.

When the synth and sax are wailing and Richard Butler's singing, "And it feels like love and it don't mean a lot," I'm thinking that it's all that we got and I'm not looking at his chest.

I'm in heaven.

The Leader is You

Of course it was the familiar faces, too, but you can't overlook how much I enjoy theatrical types.

As I discussed with three different friends at the National, tonight's Foxygen show was a no-brainer for multiple reasons besides it was a beautiful night to be out.

Let's see, to start with, the trio was being backed up by members of the Spacebomb Records house band aka some of the best jazz cats (don't look at me, that's what they call each other) in Richmond, from the 5-piece horn section to the well-known rhythm section of Pinson and Cameron to the incomparable Trey Pollard on guitar, the very same who'd done the arrangements for the new Foxygen record.

That alone would have gotten me there, but I'd also heard singer Sam refer to the duo as "just theater kids," and history shows I'm a  fan of onstage over-wrought millennial stage drama tunes (hello, how many times did I attend the Ghost Light afterparty just to hear such people belt out show tunes?).

A third reason that several of us also acknowledged was that it was only a $15 ticket and happening a Tuesday night where it was easily the most interesting thing going on in town tonight.

My favorite reason came from a fellow Yo La Tengo fan who said simply, "I love to dance." Enough said.

In any case, ding, ding, ding. We have a winner, folks.

The opener was Aussie Gabriella Cohen who came out alone, admitting she'd been worried she'd be late because she was still changing her blouse. She's apparently wearing a lot of blouses on this tour and tonight's was a stand-up collar, puffy-sleeved, cream colored one with lace trim, very Victorian and/or '70s, depending on your point of reference.

She tried to tell us she  just wanted to come along as Foxygen's roadie, but they insisted she get onstage. Since she used to be the singer for the Furrs, she's obviously got some experience, although one friend thought she came across as not quite ready for prime time.

This was an interesting comparison since just before the show, I'd heard a snippet from a 1994 interview with the Dave Matthews Band, not long after they'd gotten their first record deal. Besides sounding incredibly young and excited (and not ready for prime time, either), they'd played "Ants Marching" right there in the studio and the passion and freshness of it was evident compared to how it undoubtedly sounds live now.

Sometimes, not quite ready for the big league is exactly when you most enjoy a band.

After the first song solo and an acknowledgement she worshipped Johnny Cash, Gabriella was joined by her band whom she immediately introduced, a nice touch, I thought. The quartet's songs were a combination of neo-country/western and girl group with lots of effects on the voice  and guitars and a bit of underlying garage.

"Do you all live here?" she asked of the enthusiastic crowd. "Have you been to Australia? Do you want to?" When the crowd cheered, she laughed. "Do you think we all surf?" She rolls her eyes. "Not much."

Banter was minimal - "This is another song" and "Thank you" - and the other guitarist added her lovely vocals to Gabriella's, as did the bassist on occasion. "This is our last song which is a good thing because then you can hear Foxygen!" Maybe, but in the meantime, I was totally digging the screaming post-punk guitar behind lyrics like, "Why don't we get together?"

During the break, I heard from my musician friend about the satisfactions of teaching guitar (students noodling between lessons) and from a photographer friend about being smitten by someone who'd last significant other was an illustrator for the "New Yorker." Tough act to follow, man.

When he bemoaned the difficulties of a long distance relationship like the one on which he was embarking, I reminded him that if a long-distance one is better than none at all, he might want to keep his bellyaching to himself.

Then the lights went down and I lost my friend to the front rows so he could dance with the mob while I stayed directly in front of the sound board, shielded from behind and with a good view. Also, plenty of room to dance.

Foxygen came out, which meant three faces I didn't know and eight I did. When I think back to that first time I ever saw Trey Pollard at a Listening Room in 2010, I couldn't help but think how cool it was to see him as part of this.

Singer Sam, a theater kid if ever there was one, came out in a skinny white t-shirt and jeans with Todd Rundgren-like hair (short bangs, long hair), round sunglasses and all the moves. There was posturing, there was drama, there was showing off with kicks, mic stand manipulations and fists in the air.

And that was just in the first song.

He introduced the girl singer as Julie and her job, it appeared, was to flip her hair, dance in syncopation with Sam and sing back-up or harmonize while looking cute. She nailed it. On the second song, he sang, "I left my heart in San Francisco" and she sang back, "That's okay, I live in L.A."

Three songs in and the band's influences were clear: Bowie, Queen and a lot of Mick Jagger's dance moves. A friend heard prog rock influences while I heard psychedelic.

Potatoes, potahtoes.

"A lot of local boys on stage tonight," Sam shouted enthusiastically, referring to a group of musicians mostly older than himself. Too funny. "Give it up for the Spacebomb crew!" he directed and the crowd did.

With each song, we got another massive dose of theater kid drama, whether guitarist/keyboard player Jonathan's screaming guitar solo, one foot on his bench, the other on top of the piano, or singer Sam acting as much as singing, helicoptering his arms and dropping and catching the mic.

We heard songs that were Queen-esque and others that invoked ABBA big time while the bubbly crowd bopped four colorful balloons (no doubt supplied by the band) into the air. There were costume changes, during which the band competed: Jonathan's exuberant piano playing versus a percussive onslaught in return.

Then we also had a song called "Where the Red Fern Grows," which I'm quite sure refers to an old children's book title, and wildly theatrical-sounding songs with multiple-part arrangements that allowed Sam to pull out his best deep voice for emphasis.

So. Much. Drama. It was fully fabulous.

My musician friend concluded at the end that he'd liked about 65% of the songs we'd heard. Personally, I'd liked 100% of the overwrought songs that winked at themselves and and reached for grandiosity while eight of the most talented musicians I know backed them up.

Not only did I want to give it up for the Spacebomb crew, but we Yo La Tengo fans love to dance.

You Got Your Limits, Baby, I Got Mine

A man can change a lot in three years.

So even if you were crazy about him in 2014, there are no guarantees for how well he'll hold up come 2017...or even whether you'll still react to him as you did originally.

You have to go see him to find out.

When I first saw that St. Paul and the Broken Bones were playing the National, I did nothing. My fabulous first experience seeing the band on a sweaty late June day in 2014 outside on Brown's Island had set a high bar for what this soulful group from Alabama was capable of and I wasn't entirely sure it would translate to a larger stage indoors.

But then Mac wanted to go and she's never been to the National, so one night after we were leaving the Gypsy Room next door, we stopped by the National's box office and scored two tickets.

Okay, then, I was going to see what St. Paul had become with three more revolutions of the sun. I'm probably not exactly the same, so why should he be?

Then she messaged me today saying she was feeling poorly but was still hoping to attend. By the time she picked me up, she had rallied a bit but was nowhere near 100%, so we kept things simple.

Smart concert-goers know to park once and party twice, so after stashing her car in my usual parking space (I have one for every venue I frequent), we moseyed over to Greenleaf's Pool Room (also a first for her) for supper amid the manicured pool-playing masses.

Without conferring, we chose the exact same order: housemade tomato soup, bar toast oiled and grilled, then layered with chimichurri, grilled mushrooms and garlicky sauteed greens, washed down by pomegranate lemonade and followed by today's dessert du jour: a plump cognac truffle in a honeycomb sugar nest with raspberry puree and toffee brittle.

She saw the meal as a good source of Vitamin C along with the immunity-boosting powers of garlic and pomegranate, while I saw it as an ideal simple supper. Win/win.

The music wasn't just to my liking, it might well have been a mix tape of bands I've seen in concert as one after another - Keane, the Killers, the Fray, Muse - played, an aural document to my show-going history.

I still can't seem to remember to allow enough extra time to go through all the new security precautions - metal detectors, X-ray machines, bag checks - at the National, meaning we arrived after Aaron Lee Tasjan and his band had begun playing.

Mac and I have a history with Aaron because he was the opening band when we saw Lydia Loveless in Charlottesville in November and we both liked his droll humor, smart songwriting and killer guitar chops, but little did we know that we were going to hear most of the same stage banter (the blotter acid incident that produced four folk-rock songs) we'd heard four months ago.

No matter, the songs are still solid.

His humor was most definitely still in evidence, like when he introduced himself as, "Aaron Lee Tasjan. I hope I'm pronouncing that correctly." Or after announcing the next song would be "Success," saying, "Gotta write what you know."

One story new to me was about being at a female-heavy Cat Power show and one of the few other men besides Aaron yelled out, "The bitch can't sing," causing other women in the audience to look at Aaron to see if he was going to deal with the offender.

"No, I'm not gonna deal with him, but I will go home and write a folk-rock revenge song," he told them before playing us, "You Know, the Bitch Can't Sing" with such tongue-in-cheek lyrics as, "She had a tattoo that was meaningful."

Aren't they all, assuming you ask the tattooed person?

After his set ended, a guy standing behind me asked about seeing me writing in a notebook, perplexed at why I was using such an analog method and to what purpose. I soon learned that the foursome he was with was from Harrisonburg, all worked at JMU and were in town for the night for the show, having already been to Lucy's and Hardywood.

Unlike me, none of them had seen St. Paul and the Broken Bones, which I would guess was also the case for 95% of the people in the room.

At one point, singer Paul told the wildly enthusiastic crowd that they'd only played here once "and none of you were at that show, were you?" I raised my hand to differ and the guy I'd just met pointed and said, "She was!"

How quickly they forget.

Their set began with Paul in a purple choir robe which he threw off James Brown-style to kick off their set of soulful songs matched by assured yet controlled dance moves.

When last I'd seen him, he'd worn a dark blue suit with white shirt with French cuffs and white shoes, but tonight's ensemble was a dusty mauve blazer with a green pattern ("looks like my Grandma's couch," he said) and I was nowhere close enough to see if his cuffs were French or otherwise.

Another change was that the former septet had added a sax/flute player to the horn duo of trombone and trumpet. Paul's ease with the microphone as prop - the cord in his teeth, for cryin' out loud - was even more polished, if that's possible, than last time.

Barely a third of the way into their set, Mac looked at me and said she felt so lousy she was leaving. I didn't mind walking home, but I was terribly sorry she was going to miss the rest of their set.

Because the stage was bigger, Paul spent more time prowling it as he sang or maybe he's just cut back on his dance moves after so much touring. Oh, they're still there, but a tad less frequently and now a dramatic hand or arm gesture subs for full-on grooving.

Not so yours truly, although by that time, the sold-out crowd was shoulder to shoulder and every other move resulted in brushing up against a stranger. If someone begrudges me a little honest dancing in place, the problem is theirs, not mine.

Things got slow and sexy for a while and if there'd been room, there might've been slow dancing, but instead we made do with swaying.

Now that the band has a second album, they no longer need to cover Wilson Pickett or Otis Redding like they did 3 years ago, but even newer material still carries that retro soul vibe of a Muscle Shoals session with blaring horns, organ-sounding keys and a killer rhythm section driving it all.

Was tonight's show as magical as that $5 June night had been?

How could it be? Besides that the band is more polished and confident now, we weren't outside on a humid, sticky night listening to soul music accompanied by the sounds of the James river and a passing train. When you lose the sweat, you lose something.

Not saying I didn't enjoy tonight's show plenty, but there's something to be said for a girl's first experience with a band or a man. That's all I'm saying.

I can't sing and I have no meaningful tattoos. I'm saying it because you gotta write what you know.

One More Shot at Second Chances

Everyone arrives at Postmodern Jukebox a different way. And, like the Ark, they generally arrive in twos.

In my case, it was two plus a fifth wheel (yours truly, marking a notable exception to the rule), that began at Saison for dinner, along with scads of others on their way to the same show. I barely made it two steps in when my J-Ward neighbors, the librarian and the social butterfly, called out from the bar.

The owner seated me at the back most table to await my tardy couple date and, since I'd run into him twice last weekend, I inquired about his plans for this weekend.

They were far more industrious than last week, with doors being hung, new cocktails to be tested out and, with any luck he said, perfecting the mixture of tequila and tonic in a single tap for ease of cocktail-making.

Talk about your post modern bartending.

Once my friends arrived, we awaited the arrival of our server and when it didn't happen, someone suggested that the fourth place setting at the table had her thinking we were waiting for my date.

So the evening began with a good laugh.

"Quick, move the menus and the place setting so she'll know it's just us," Pru insisted. It was just as a I was whisking the silverware into my lap that our server arrived, probably wondering if I was stealing flatware, but more than willing to fetch us a bottle of Faverelles Blanc, a white Burgundy, once I laid it back on the table.

I was, after all, just following direction.

Despite a large table of competitive shouters behind us, we managed to order and move on to updates since we'd gone out last weekend. In the five days since we'd last laid eyes on one another, there'd been multiple updates on the sunny western hemisphere adventure and everyone had a theory on why.

My favorite justification came from Beau on the subject of controlling types: "Take it from a computer geek..."

Unfortunately, I also had to take a raft of razzing when I told him that I'd been notified that Windows XP support had ended, a factor because apparently I have Windows XP (who knew?). That said, it's always good when you can provide a friend with a really hearty chuckle, especially one laced with condescension.

It was the happy couple's first dinner at Saison and the kitchen represented well. Beau's special of fried skate wing with fingerling potatoes was stellar while Pru's choice of a bacon cheeseburger validated how solid their burger continues to be even given the burger competition these days.

My brussels sprouts salad was shredded with radicchio, mustard seed, bleu cheese, walnuts and fig vinaigrette, while escabeche of pickled shrimp, mussels, salmon and roe with fennel, carrots and aioli was my currency to trade for bites of skate wing.

Chocolate sacher torte took care of my needs while affogoto and coffee provided major caffeine fixes for the Church Hill contingent as the early wave of diners cleared out and we soon followed suit to head to the National.

Waiting to get in, I saw several friends pass by as we stood in the slow-moving line, only to eventually discover that the National has now installed metal detectors and everyone must pass their belongings through an X-ray machine to get in. We might as well have been at the airport

Inside, we parted ways since their tickets were for seats in the balcony and mine was a general admission ticket for the floor, so I made a beeline for right in front of the sound booth, exactly where I'd stood when I saw the band here in May 2015.

Many of the people standing around me were the same, too. That's because I was far from the only one at the show who'd first discovered the band by being shown a PMJ video by Amour's owner, a PMJ junkie if ever there was one.

Looking dapper in a printed vest under his jacket, he and his entourage of a dozen or so devotees showed up around me and I recognized every single one from his restaurant. Sort of like a field trip for customers.

On the subject of the new metal detectors, a bearded friend said hello and dryly commented, "Is this the Trump state?" about the new entry procedure, while one of the Amour customers admitted he'd been turned away at the door for having three knives on his person.

Three? Seemed like a lot to me, but the theater professor insisted they each had particular functions: for eating, for theater work and for small odd jobs. Needless to say, he'd been sent back to his car to divest himself of all of them.

Winning the award for best reason to be at the show, my bearded friend explained that it was only because he'd found a backpack that looked like a teddy bear and inside had a wallet, an iPhone 7 and a mix CD that included a song by a local woman who'd been on American Idol.

After doing some research to track the owner down, he'd returned it all to Joey, who just happened to be one of the Post Modern Jukebox singers. Small world, eh?

The band - piano, bass, guitar/banjo, drums, sax/clarinet, trombone - arrived onstage before the MC bounded out and asked who'd seen them before. My hand was not the only one to go up, along with some fairly loud vocal affirmations from others, as well.

"How many this is your first time?" The Johnny-come-lately roar was impressive.

For the next hour and a half, PMJ did what they do so well: take mindless and occasionally classic pop and rock songs and present them in atypical arrangements that make them not just palatable but downright enjoyable, impressive even, given the major talent doing them.

So we got "Call Me Maybe" with dancing girls, "Toxic" as a torch song (MC: "I feel like I always have to have a smoke after that song") and, for the ladies of RVA, a long curly-haired man balancing a stringed instrument on one finger whilst he guzzled a beer.

Running throughout many of the songs was the talent of tap dancer Lisa who had as many sparkly outfits as she did dancing moves. At one point, the drummer challenged her, beating his sticks on her stage to mimic her taps.

"Whatever!" someone in the crowd called out because no one could outshine Lisa's moves.

Next, Joey of the lost backpack was introduced, causing the beard to lean down and whisper to me, "She should've given me a free ticket for giving her stuff back to her," a fair point. All bangs and gold sequined dress, Joey accompanied herself, first on ukulele as she sang that dreadful ballad "Delilah," and eventually on accordion.

"Sweet Child o' Mine" was sung by Mr. Long Hair sitting on the edge of the stage ("Ladies, I'll see you after the show," he swaggers, pointing) and laying onstage doing scissor kicks while the trombonist soloed over top of him, a feat almost matched by "Stacie's Mom" being started as a three-part a capella harmony before morphing into a piano rag and ending as full-on bluegrass jam.

Take that, Fountains of Wayne.

Even the MC got into the act beyond doing introductions, saying he'd never sung in front of people before ("That's not a lie, it's a fib. Okay, an alternative fact.") and then doing "My Heart Will Go On."

And the song that had first introduced me to PMJ, "All About That Bass" began with clarinet, upright bass, banjo and drums and featured three female vocalists, including one who, after singing, "You know I won't be no stick figure silicone Barbie doll," pointed at her ample breasts and quipped, "Grew these myself!"

Because at a PMJ show, you're guaranteed top notch tap dancing, boy toy sex objects, boob references, encores that feature not just Radiohead but Justin Bieber, mannequin posing and seeing a red kazoo plucked from the cleavage of a singer for a solo.

Let the wild rumpus begin, I'd instructed my cohorts earlier. Another jam-packed weekend is just beginning.

Trouble Finds Me

It's seasonal change time for new people in my life.

Ye gads, I don't mean I switch out friends when Fall inches toward Winter, I mean that people - those new in my life who've yet to know me through cold weather - haven't yet learned to be prepared.

Translation: always dress appropriately for possible hoofing. My date had proper layers on, but decided against bringing his scarf, a move he later regretted on leg three of our evening.

They live and learn or fall by the wayside. I believe that's called survival of the fittest.

After dealing with especially dense traffic traversing the city from Carytown to chez moi (I could empathize after a recent 23-minute trip from Chop Suey home at rush hour), he was more than happy to put foot to pavement en route to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque.

Along the way, he was providing an impromptu history lesson about the area, from clubs I'd never heard of to Grace Place, which I had, as well as a hilarious explanation of why he hadn't frequented the Lee Art Theatre for its porn programming.

It's always a lighter than usual crowd at VCU's screening before Thanksgiving and tonight was no different for the 76-minute "River of Grass," director Kelly Reichardt's first film and recently restored to its glorious 1994 brilliance.

Who knew films needed shoring up after only two decades?

The reigning visiting Prof introduced the movie by reading what would have been a fairly compelling paper on Reichardt and the development of her films, but came across as flat yet inquisitive when read aloud because each sentence ended with his voice going up so it sounded like a question.

It's a film that deals with later wave feminist issues?
It's far from a perfect film?
This is a getaway film in the style of Bonnie and Clyde?

Well, it is or it isn't? For god's sake, man, mean what you say and stop sounding so damn tentative.

Two unhappy people - the kind of young mother who puts Coke in her baby's bottle and a n'er-do-well who's finally kicked out of Grandma's house at age 30 - meet in Florida, think they killed someone and take off in his car.

Looking very much like an old school movie, it also delivered a smack upside the head about the role of Fate in our lives, but always with a wink and a sly nod.

There was narration that didn't always match the action ("He told me to stay home while he was on his crime spree," as he goes through his grandmother's underwear drawer). Languid pacing that appealed to seasoned audience members but only a millennial film student could stand. Jazz music and a character who practices that kind of drumming throughout the story.

It's love on the run seen through a post-Coen brothers lens, not to mention wearing its '90s indie heart on its sleeve. Dreadful things happen that seem very funny in the moment. Lotsa deadpan reactions.

Not to be missed is the marvel of watching our lovers smoke a joint by passing it to each other using only their toes. I would doubt this scenario more if I hadn't once been able to open a man's wallet and remove a credit card from it using only my toes.

But enough of that...

After a thoroughly satisfying 76 minutes of sun-drenched Florida seediness, characters born to hopelessness and an ending emphasizing the inevitability of Life, some bracing cold air was just what we needed.

That we had to walk a half a mile to eat may have resulted in a tad more bracing than He Who Shuns Scarves required, but so be it. Inside 821 Cafe, there was a heater practically with my name on it positioned right next to the booth in the front window, so the decision was made.

Our server was new to me, so she was unaware of my standing order, but when the bearded guy delivered my black bean nachos, he nodded, saying, "Oh, of course" when he recognized me. The 821 virgin called his choice of a grilled cheese with turkey and a side of chili a "sick day lunch," but he didn't wolf it down like he was ailing, if you know what I mean.

Besides, sick days always involved ginger ale at my house.

Walking back, I teased him that he'd shown up at my door with a record so I'd invite him up to show off my new (old) turntable again, but he insisted his motives were purer than that. Did I mention his decided sense of humor?

Still, he didn't hesitate to accept my invitation upstairs for a listening party that included his gift: a double album, the National's 2013 "Trouble Will Find Me," and my first vinyl of theirs. Even four sides in, Matt Berninger's voice never sounded so warm.

Just the thing on a cold night involving traipsing all over with a fair weather friend who seems motivated to get the hang of Winter with a walker.

And who, like me, is already counting the days to Winter Solstice. In the meantime, there will be scarves.

The Way You Remember Me

How long 'till we learn dancing is dangerous?
How long 'till we find the devil inside of us?
How high is too low?
We're not that young*
So we're never going to stop

*Mind you, written and sung by a man of indeterminate age, so his notion of "youth" may be suspect.

I bought my ticket for St. Lucia at the National six weeks ago, but only found a worthy date for it a few days ago. In the meantime, the only other St. Lucia fan I know had commented that while the new album "Matter" wasn't quite as good as the first (because how many are?), there were more than a few terrific songs.

My first listen uncovered "Dancing on Glass," the Prince-titled "Game 4 You," the driving (and vaguely Christopher Cross-inflected) "Winds of Change" and the slow jam "Love Someone," meaning I now had even more reasons to look forward to this show.

We stopped at Rapp Session for Old Saltes and bluefish dip accompanied by sparkling Rose while the duo next to us nattered over why a friend had managed to pull down the towel racks and shower curtain while staying in their home.

"What could you be doing in a bathroom that would pull things off the wall?" she wondered aloud. Sex was my guess but I was told to shush.

Our time at Rapp Session was limited by needing to get a ticket for my companion at the National's box office, which required navigating the hustle and bustle of crowds on their way to eat before the Richmond Symphony season opener with Itzhak Perlman, resulting in blue hairs crowding every restaurant we passed.

But once that was accomplished, we were free to adjourn to Vagabond, where sparkling Rose and a massive ancho cocoa-smoked lamb shoulder tostada with chimichurri aioli and a flurry of Manchego on top finished off our appetites with lamb-be-cue worthy of the State Fair.

Arriving at the National shortly after Sofi Tukker (that's Sofi and Tukker, a duo) began their set, I overheard a guy refer to Tukker's hair as "Very Split Enz," while we all know that no one has hair with quite the swoop of Split Enz.

We heard songs in Portuguese, songs sung to recorded tracks (karaoke?) and praise when the audience followed instructions to do hand gestures to a song.

"We haven't had that much participation since we were in Latvia and no, that's not a punchline!" Tukker said from the stage.

I'm not gonna lie, I've been an unabashed fan of St. Lucia's debut album "When the Night" since I first heard it in 2013 and for years kept it in my car as quality back-up emergency music when I hadn't time to select fresh road trip soundtracks.

Fact: when you're on cruise control to the Northern Neck or Outer Banks, sometimes nothing but synth and danceable percussion will do.

After a couple of songs from the new album, the crowd roared when they launched into "Closer Than This," but I couldn't have been the only one noticing singer Jean-Philip Grobler's indebtedness to, say, George Michael.

I especially loved the wind effect that defined his performance, as his hair and black and white patterned shirt were blown constantly, as if he were starring in a cheesy '80s video, which, for all I know, he may have wished he was. He certainly wouldn't be the first.

He certainly had no fear of walking through the crowd, eventually making it back to the area in front of the sound booth where we stood and watched him high-five any number of dizzy fans.

Come to think of it, the percussionist bore a fair resemblance to John Oates in a sleeveless t-shirt and sweat pants tapered at the ankle, his shirt also billowing from an unseen fan.

Oh, if it were only that easy to revive that era.

Interestingly enough, I saw not a soul I know, a rarity for a show at the National, so I can only assume that my passion for '80s synth music-influenced bands with singers from South Africa is not one shared by my friends.

Happily, I only needed one, difficult as he may be. I'd be the first to admit that dancing can be dangerous but how high is too low?

I aim to find out.

So Here We Are/Positive Tension

Every evening should end with a man making the heart sign with his hands at me.

Part of my annual birthday celebration involves a designated birthday show (as opposed to any other live music I happen to catch during the festivities), but what are the chances I'd run into the same two guys I'd met at last year's birthday show?

Both at the National, then it had been Psychedelic Furs and tonight it was Bloc Party - a band I coincidentally saw ten years ago in June at Constitution Hall in D.C. - but the guys were the same, as was the spot where we reconnected: in front of the sound booth. Small world.

The band Oscar was fronted by a baritone Brit named Oscar who wore a knee-length dressing gown with red embellishment on the sides and a giant image of Mickey Mouse on the back over jeans and a t-shirt. Walking in mid-song, I nudged the guy next to me to ask if it was the first song.

"No, it's the third, but they're good!" he enthused, although I knew from the first two minutes of listening how good they were. I'd made a point to be there in time to catch Oscar.

Smart words, poppy lyrics and just the right amount of young man swagger made for an ideal start to my birthday show.

"I got all excited cause I thought Missy Elliott was from here," Oscar said. "She's not, though, she's from Norfolk." The audience begged to differ. "Portsmouth!" several people hollered.

Oscar shook his head. "Norfolk, Portsmouth, Richmond, you do know those were all English before you stole them?" I knew, but I can't vouch for the rest of the crowd. Hell, I was surprised at how many had the badge of youth, a telltale "X," on their hands.

Practically every song was dance-worthy, but "Daffodil Days" was one of those practically perfect ones that marries sunny 60s-sounding pop filtered through strong bass lines, occasional synths and '80s guitars.

Be still, my Aqua Net heart.

"Are you excited about seeing Bloc Party and the Vaccines?" Oscar asked the room. "We're here to. Warm. You. Up." Part blase, part sarcastic, Oscar's attitude was as colorful as his kimono and he'd already made me a fan.

After their set, the guys next to me needed clarification. They'd misidentified Oscar as the Vaccines because they'd never heard of either one and apparently have no access to the Interwebs to research such things.

From what I'd heard of the Vaccines' music over the past few years, I knew it was well-executed and incredibly catchy, but seeing lead singer Justin's bigger than life dramatics onstage - pointing at people in the crowd, dropping to his knees to sing from the floor, hands over his eyes for effect - only upped the ante.

Well, what did you expect from the Vaccines?

The chords of slow burner "Dream Lover" got the full effect with the fog machine, providing eye candy for those of us without slow dance partners, while the clever lyrics of "Bad Mood" ("Oh, am I not as thoughtful as you thought I'd be?") got points from the language geeks.

Part of the pleasure of Britpop is the Brit boys singing it and Justin was no exception. After multiple leans, one foot atop his monitor as his body arched out to the crowd, he showed himself to be a bit of a fop by tucking in his shirt, then blousing it out just a bit and adjusting his pants.

There! His look was complete again.

Naturally the crowd went bonkers for "Post Break-Up Sex" and "If You Wanna" off their first album in 2011, but really, between his theatricality, how tight they were and the catchiest of songs, their entire set was strong.

"So which band was that?" the guy next to me inquires after their set. I thought we'd covered this, but I needed him to guard my spot while I went to the loo, so I had to be nice.

When we got to chatting about Bloc Party, I was surprised to hear that while he loved the band's new album "Hymns," he had never heard any of the old stuff. I, on the other hand, have 2005's "Silent Alarm" and 2007's "A Weekend in the City" and don't know any material from 2012 on.

Together, we made one complete Bloc Party fan. Where I had the advantage was in knowing singer Kele's distinctive accent wherein all "th" sounds become "f."

"Fanks for coming out!' he calls. "It's always fun to get to see real America!"

So while I'd go crazy for "Banquet" ("A heart of stone, a smoking gun, I'm working it out"), he'd get excited about "Different Drugs" ("You're standing in the doorway with a look I used to know") from the new record.

I have to admit, I'd forgotten how shot through with post-punk revival guitar work their sound was, but that is in no way a complaint. Every guitar geek around me went nuts for the solos.

All three of us agreed that the turnout was far better than we'd anticipated for a Wednesday evening, the only problem being the late arriving trio who planted roots directly in front of us.

The couple was all hands while the long-suffering friend kept her gaze fixed forward, at least until they suggested leaving and she got furious. They wound up staying for two more songs before the girl stalked out. The funny part was that the couple didn't immediately leave, pausing to suck face hard for a couple of minutes before following what was presumably their ride.

"Peace out, Richmond!" Kele called to end my birthday show and a stellar evening of Britpop.

Walking out through the crowd, I spotted Oscar at his merch table alone. Sliding over, I told him that while I'd seen Bloc Party before and thoroughly enjoyed the Vaccines perky take on '80s pop, his was the performance that made my night.

And that, my friends, is how you get a man to make a heart of his hands and direct it at you.

Fair warning, though: I'm not entirely sure, but it may only work on British men or at your birthday show.

Making a Woman Fan Out of Me

If I couldn't actually be at the edge of the sea, at least I could witness the funk.

Ghostprint Gallery's opening for Carol Meese's "Edge of the Sea" exhibition offered a vaguely abstract look at a landscape I know very well. The artist, one of those fortunate people who have a house on the Outer Banks, created works evoking but not technically representing the beach and water I've been visiting annually since I was two.

The pieces are incredibly atmospheric, whether it's a view of the beach walking South, like "Orange and Gray" or one from the non-ocean side, such as "Salvo Sound." Birds, sea foam, grasses, everything is suggested rather than clearly defined with Meese's loose brushstrokes and painterly style.

If you're like me, the show will make you wish it were warmer weather and you were there. That, or it'll make you wish you had a fatter wallet. As a girlfriend I ran into put it, "I aspire to be able to buy art." The works in the show were actually very well-priced, just out of the range of freelance writers.

I convened an ad hoc film discussion when I ran into a couple of fellow film buffs, briefly abandoning art. UR's International Film series is about to crank up again and a friend made me laugh when she described it as, "A wonderful foreign film series, but all the movies, even the comedies, are depressing." She exaggerates, but only a tad.

A pragmatist would say they're just more realistic than Hollywood versions.

Tonight's main event was a show at the National which began with only about 40 people present for opener Rome Fortune, a hip hop artist from Atlanta dressed all in white. No, hip hop isn't usually my thing, but if I only went to see musicians who were my "thing," I'd be a pretty stale person, now wouldn't I?

I prefer to think that I'm not.

We gave the guy credit, though, because despite the insufficient crowd, he danced and rapped his heart out with solid beats and engaging arrangements, gradually enticing people to, as he put it, "move those asses,' even calling out a guy for not dancing with the lovely lady beside him.

Personally, I think men should be called out for that sin more often.

In the bathroom after his set, I heard a girl tell her friend, "I'm a fan of tall, well-dressed dudes but right now, I don't wanna walk that slanted floor in these heels." I have no clue what good-looking hunk of man meat she was passing on for the sake of cute shoes.

As a woman of a certain age, I  have a policy on that matter, learned through experience. Never wear shoes you can't walk in to do whatever it is you might want to do, honey.

Walking back to my position in front of the sound booth, I was amazed at how many more people of all ages had shown up, including a guy behind me who leaned in and asked, "Do they sell pot here?"

Well, I don't know about that, but there definitely was a lot of pot smoking going on in the crowd once Lettuce took the stage and, for that matter, there was also crowd-surfing and light saber-waving. It was a colorful crowd, all around.

I'd discovered Lettuce a few months ago when I'd first heard "He Made a Woman Out of Me" and been smitten, intrigued by the sound of a six-piece funk band inspired by Tower of Power and Earth, Wind and Fire who'd formed at Berklee College 24 years ago.

As long as I've been around and as much as I like a good funk band, that's a long time not to have heard of them.

Needless to say, after a quarter of a century together the group - trumpet, sax, guitar, bass, keys, drums - was impressively tight, nailing stops, starts and tempo changes as easily as batting their eyes. The horns were especially swoon-worthy, put through all kinds of effects and sometimes following the lead guitar's role in moving the music along. The drummer killed it and every kind of percussion was trotted out to fuel the funk.

A sticker on the sound guy's laptop proclaimed the band's intent: "May the funk be with you."

Best of all, the dude-heavy crowd - described by my companion as old, young, hippies, music geeks and festival kids - started dancing from the first notes and never stopped (except between songs) for two sets. Fact is, you can still dance, even when you're passing a joint or waving a light saber. But then, the point of funk is to shake your ass.

As the keyboard player soulfully sang, "You gotta do your thing." You know I did.

The Waiting Game

There are so many ways this blog post could go.

I could talk about the afternoon spent at my parents helping my Mom prepare for today's bridge luncheon using Betty Crocker's 1969 cookbook "Salads" to craft the main dish, tuna/egg/olive salad in a puff pastry bowl.

When she took me upstairs, it was to give me her mother's ring, significant because my Washington. D.C. grandma and I were very close and she knew that despite my not being a jewelry person, I would want it.

I could write about going to the new Mott Gallery in Carytown to see Frederick Chiribog's fascinating work, an exhibit of ready-mades a la Marcel Duchamp, mobiles (one strung on fishing wire so it appeared to be flying unaided across the gallery) and detailed wooden dioramas.

But the real draw was guitarist/singer Samantha Pearl sharing her fierce guitar chops and lovely voice against a colorful mural of Cubist-like figures dancing and cavorting.

I probably ought to post about the Todd Rundgren show at the National, for which I arrived on time only to learn, along with the middle-aged masses, that Todd had hit traffic on I-95, so the show wouldn't start until 9:30.

It would make for hilarious reading if I blogged about the Deadhead couple from Dinwiddie County, long-time dedicated show-goers I befriended when they were looking for somewhere to have a drink besides Coda next store, and our sojourn to Greenleaf's Pool Room where I had Sloppy Joe sliders and they had mojitos and Don Julio.

The real subject should undoubtedly be the Todd show, a flashy, LED-lit performance with Todd, a DJ and two wig and costume-changing female dancers/back-up singers. This was not my mother's Todd show (although I'd been amazed when she'd told me she knew who Todd was) of yore or even like the show I saw of his 10 years ago at the Canal Club.

Instead, the highly-energetic 67-year old sang, danced, mimed lyrics and occasionally played guitar as he tore through a two-hour set of his most EDM-sounding material, adding in other material here and there and giving it the dance beat treatment.

There may have been disappointed Todd fans out there who were secretly wishing for a full band and note-perfect renditions of the hits, but I wasn't one of them. I was more than happy to dance in place - my usual: in front of the sound booth - to just about every song.

For one such as me, who's been a fan of Todd's practically since I bought my first records (45s, natch), the pure pleasure principle was just hearing that voice and how amazingly good it still sounds, even coming from a balding man in an overly tight sleeveless t-shirt prancing across the stage.

For sheer humor, I could write about going to Saison after the show, where I talked to a drunk man slurring his words, questioning my hair and critiquing how I wore my necklace (no, really) and watched as front and back of the house staffs from the Roosevelt and Metzger showed up for late night refreshment after closing their own kitchens.

Bathroom graffiti was outstanding: "Bring back pubes" and "If you ain't handcrafting shit in RVA, you ain't poppin'." Your pubes are your business, and I'm hand-picking words, so I hope that counts.

But, no, for the best possible story, what I should blog about is that as I was leaving the National, the guy who was holding the door open in front of me met my eyes and it may as well have been 1992 again. Standing in front of me was a featured player from my past, someone with whom I had a colorful back story and someone I hadn't seen in 20 years.

Cue "Hello, It's Me."

We met when we were both doing radio, a business I got out of in 2005 and he only escaped four years ago after years of considering himself a radio rat, to open a record store. No surprise there; the two of us had spent ridiculous amounts of time talking music and going to shows. Cue "A Long Time, A Long Way to Go."

Last night, we caught up as best we could walking down the block before he and his friend headed for their car to drive back to Tidewater. He made one last appearance as I was standing at my car. Cue "Something/Anything?"

He suggested I come down to his record store. My suggestion was that a conversation (or many) were in order. Cue "Parallel Lines." How do you run into someone you haven't seen in 20 years and just pick up the conversation?

Given the complete surprise of our meeting, it felt more natural than it had any right to be walking down Broad Street doing just that. Wow.

Cue "Can We Still Be Friends?" Hold on 1992, I'm about to find out...

That Boom Boom That All the Boys Chase

It's not every night I get all  gussied up to go stand with a roomful of people on dates and listen to songs by Nickelback and Dr. Dre.

But then, Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox has never come to town before.

My ticket had been procured months ago, part of a May extravaganza since canceled. Familiar faces abounded: the restaurant owner, the actress, the Man About Town, the ad agency owner, the teachers, all dressed to the nines.

Using piano, upright bass, drums, sax and trombone, Scott Bradlee turns ubiquitous pop songs into jazz and swing versions using three female singers (one of whom was a world class whistler), one male singer, an emcee who also danced and sang and a phenomenal female tap dancer.

The females made as many costume changes as Cher.

The audience does its part by donning vintage-style dresses, high heels and way cuter ensembles than I've ever seen at the National. Like a Prince show for which I've been known to wear lingerie, I knew enough to dress appropriately for this band with black and blue and lace.

No doubt about it, the arrangements are outstanding, the execution flawless and the dance moves synchronized. It's a show. Only problem? I don't listen to popular radio, so I had no idea about a lot of the songs, although I did glean that a rearranged Usher song is pretty damn hilarious.

To wit, "If you dance on a pole, that don't make you a 'ho." Actually hearing lyrics and not just production changes everything.

Make no mistake, I recognized  a fair number of tunes. "Sweet Child o' Mine," complete with tap dancing was pretty righteous. Hearing "Hey, Jude" whistled got the crowd waving their arms in the air. And Queen, any Queen song, caused a massive singalong.

Not ashamed to say I loved hearing three Taylor Swift songs - a slow burn of "Blank Space," a sultry "Shake It Off" and a gender-shifting "Style" - make the set list. Thanks, I think I will sing along.

One of the female singers played the bad girl role all evening, taunting men in the front row (taking off one guy's glasses and asking, "Do you put the "rich" in Richmond? From that answer then, I guess you put the "virgin" in Virginia?") and advising a couple of young girls, "Remember, you are too fabulous for just one husband!"

Giving the band a break, Scott did a piano mash-up of audience suggestions: Madonna, Sinatra, Queen and Beck, a testament to the man's piano chops and ability to improvise. He was an interesting one to watch because every time the band began a new song, he was looking at the crowd as if to gauge how well the song was  going over.

Often, it was a mixed bag because the crowd was so diverse- much like a Prince show, all ages and colors - so many who recognized Guns 'n Roses didn't know from Maroon 5.

The encore, of course, was the song that probably brought PMJ (as the stands in front of the horn section read) to the attention of many in the audience - "All About That (Upright) Bass."

Only instead of one woman playing bass and singing like in the video, we got three women alternately doing vocals and the (single and eligible, we were told) bass player handling bass duties.

More than once, both Bradlee and the emcee reminded the crowd that if you don't like music you're hearing, change it, which is, of course, exactly what they do with pop songs, taking them and making them something entirely different.

Don't like it, change it. Now there's a philosophy I can get behind, whether we're talking music or husbands.

Glass Half Full Always

Well, this is turning out to be way more of a day than I anticipated.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when I woke up to find that I had no water. After all, it was ridiculously cold last night and I hadn't left a faucet dripping. In my defense, my landlord had long ago told me that in all his years of owning this south-facing building, pipes had never frozen.

So I got on the horn and told him my dilemma and he was as surprised as I was. The good news was that I still had water coming out in my washing machine in the basement. That seemed like a good sign to him.

He was over in a flash, setting up a powerful heater in the hallway that leads upstairs to my apartment (where you could see your breath) because all the pipes are just behind the hallway wall. Still, he was scratching his head over why this had happened.

It was only when he checked with the guys downstairs, a trio of VCU students, that he found his answer. Thinking they could save money, they'd set their thermostat to 52. The idiocy of such a maneuver in below zero weather boggles the mind, or at least mine and my landlord's. Of course the pipes had frozen.

Don't get me wrong, I try as hard as anyone to save money on heating and keep mine set on 64, which means I wear four layers in the house in this weather. But 52, guys? Don't ever tell anyone that your Mamas didn't raise no fools because they did.

So with their and my heat cranked to tropical temperatures and the heater in the hall doing a slow thaw of the plumbing wall, I set out on my walk. I could almost stand the 17-degree temps (although with the wind, it feels like 8 degrees) if it weren't for still having to walk on ice patches and piles of snow on the sidewalks.

Because of that, I was amazed when I got near The National and saw people sitting on the sidewalk bundled up in blankets. They were young, pierced and had the look of the devoted. I had to know what band was worth sidewalk-sitting in this kind of cold.

The answer: Pierce the Veil, a post-hardcore band that's playing tonight. One green-haired guy shrugged and told me, "I don't even know the band. I'm just here 'cause of my friends," and gestured at two girls next to him, one with a nose ring eating a sandwich and the other with purple hair. "Besides, I'm from Ohio."

And in Ohio you sit on ice-encrusted sidewalks on 8-degree days? Wow, you are hardcore.

The other big cultural doin's on Broad Street was at the federal courthouse where TV trucks took up every available space. No surprise because the former First Lady was being sentenced today for her part in selling the prestige of the governor's office.

Approaching the corner, I saw a man being interviewed about it and I learned she'd gotten a year. As I waited for the light, I eavesdropped on his answers, which amounted to his belief that the jury (not him) had heard all the evidence and must have made the right choice.

As he was spelling his name for the camera, the light changed and I started across. All of a sudden, I felt a hand on my elbow and the newsman was calling me back, insisting I give my opinion for the camera.

Never one to be shy about what I think, I said I thought she deserved jail time. She'd broken the law repeatedly and for that, we punish people.

He told me that at the sentencing, her daughter had asked for leniency because she had been humiliated enough already. "Do you think she's been shamed enough?" he asked me.

"Would you be asking me that if she were black or not the governor's wife?" I asked him, a black man. He paused and tilted his head. Part of what's wrong with our society these days is not holding people accountable for what they do. Yes, I said that on camera.

I mentioned a conversation I'd had with a stranger earlier on my walk when I'd first spotted the TV trucks. The older man had said that he thought she was "grabby" and that was her downfall. I told the camera that I agreed with him on that. From the trial accounts I followed avidly in the newspapers, it seemed clear that she was a woman who wanted things and accepted gifts with no concern for the legality of it.

Of course they wanted my name at the end of the interview ("Like fig?") and I wanted to know who they were with (NBC). Once the camera was off, the newsman thanked me for agreeing to talk. "You're well-spoken and you raised some important points," he said.

Whether that was true or not, I surely was unrecognizable, buried in a hat, multiple scarves and my warmest coat, blathering about my opinion on jail time for a former Redskins' cheerleader.

Some days, that might have been the highlight of my day. Today, that peak moment will arrive once the pipes thaw and I have water again.

In the meantime, it's toasty warm in my apartment for a change and I'm not headed to jail. Good times.

Waiting Game

Sometimes speed is of the essence. Other times, not so much.

A while back, a friend e-mailed to ask me to meet him for a drink. He caught me just as I'd stopped working so I told him I'd have to shower and get ready, so it would be about an hour and a half.

He made fun of me for months afterward for my pokiness even when I reminded him that women necessarily take longer because we have legs to shave and hair to dry. I also took his mocking to heart and streamlined my process so I can get it done in 45 minutes when necessary.

As it turned out, tonight was one of those times.

By the time I finished writing and looked at the clock, it was 6:45, not a big deal except I had no plans. A quick look at what was happening tonight and I saw that Banks was at the National, mere blocks away. Bingo! I could make this happen.

At 7:45, I left the house shaved and dry headed, wishing I could let my friend know how efficient I've gotten about getting ready. I bought a ticket and found my usual spot in front of the sound booth just as the lights dimmed for local band Cosby (unfortunate name these days).

A large blue-lit "C" graced the side of the stage as the Richmond trio came out, immediately letting the crowd know they were hometown boys. I'd heard of them but my impression had been that they were pretty mainstream, so I hadn't sought them out.

When one of the Cosby brothers pulled out a key-tar, the crowd started yelling, "Key-tar!" in recognition. "We missed the '80s," the guitarist said. "But we have key-tar!"

Although they said it was their third time playing the National this year, they don't seem to have teh hang of it yet. The lead singer was completely without personality, never smiling at the crowd, in fact rarely looking at us, and cutting off his brother every time he tried to banter with the audience.

Worshipers of the '80s, their sound was anthemic and totally absent anything I hadn't heard a zillion times before. What they did have going for them was how good the brothers' voices sounded together.

Before their last song, the singer took off two of the multiple bracelets on his arm and tossed them out to the crowd. They began the last song twice but technical difficulties reared themselves and they finally yelled, "F*ck it" and started packing up.

They didn't seem to mind any more than we did.

During the break, I looked around the room watching it get fuller but seeing no one I knew. Finally, the lovely Anousheh said hello,expressing the same confusion about why more people weren't at this show. "Banks is huge," she said before leaving to find a spot up front. She said she wanted to study her moves before her own next tour.

Some lame DJ from XL102, the sponsor of the show, took the stage to tell a bad joke. "Why doesn't Stevie Wonder see his friends?" she queried the crowd, who yelled out that he was blind. "No, you judgmental assholes, because he's married!" I'm inclined to think a millennial wrote that joke.

Banks' drummer and guitarist/keyboard player took the stage first and began playing before she danced onstage looking like a British 19th century schoolmarm in a black capelet over a long black skirt. Only her pale face and slender forearms showed outside of the voluminous ensemble as she began singing "Alibi."

Baby, I tied
I promise I'm usually better than this

Under five banners spelling out BANKS hanging from the light rigging, she proceeded to sing her downtempo R & B-laced pop while prowling around the stage pretty much non-stop. Her hands were the most expressive part of her body, floating around like a dancer's in graceful perpetual motion.

She shared that her Dad's side of the family is from Virginia before launching into the title track from her new album. "I think every single woman is a goddess and this song is called "Goddess." The devoted fans down in front sang along.

"I'm so glad my album is out. It felt like those songs have been in a little box for so long. This one is "F*ck Em, Only We Know"

We're just like magnets, baby, hypnotized,
Even addicted to your grumpy face

It was obvious Banks was feeling the powerful thrill of an adoring audience, often sticking the microphone out toward the crowd so she could hear them sing her lyrics. When she instructed, "Every single person in this room, put up your hands," they obeyed and swayed as if under a spell.

As she sang, she'd prance backwards into the shadows between the other two musicians and then sidle forward back into the light. And she wasn't hesitant to touch the hands of people in the front rows. "I love you!" a guy called to her as moved to the keyboard. "Love you back!" she said, no doubt delighting him.

Considering I went to the show having heard only one Banks' song, I was unprepared for the range of emotion and power she could alternate with sweetness and sorrow.

Saying, "You were perfect," she sang the terrific and soulful "Begging for Thread," a song that lays bare a woman hurt by her man and left the stage, saying goodnight.

The devoted crowd chanted till she returned and asked, "Do you guys know Drake? I want to do a cover of a song of his I've been listening to non-stop." It was an interesting choice because "The Motion" sounded like exactly he kind of beat-based R & B slow burner she writes but from the man's point of view.

She closed with "Stick" while moving along the edge of the stage running her hand up against the fingertips of anyone with outstretched hands, giving us one last chance to experience her vulnerable sound.

Her set lasted just a bit longer than it had taken me to get ready to go see her. Still, you want to look like a goddess when you go to see one.

Keeping True

Go away for a week and you've got a lot to make up for.

Stop one was the recently revamped Perly's, where I walked in to find a music-loving friend at the counter and sat down next to him.

Like me, he was fueling up before hitting Fall Line Fest shows tonight but we began by taking stock of the redone but still recognizable space.

Considering that it's mostly the same (the configuration), it's also very different in feel (a Jewish deli now).

I was particularly enamored of the paper place mats with the menu printed on them while he was impressed with the beer selection.

He was having a svelte corned beef sandwich (which was still pretty thick) but I swear my deli salad - chopped lettuce topped with chunks of pastrami, rolls of turkey and strips of salami, swiss, hard cooked eggs and a little too much Russian dressing- had more meat on it.

We'll call it a manly salad.

After dissecting the shows I'd missed and he'd seen at Fall Line Fest last night (Death, Matthew E. White), I left knowing I'd see him later at a show.

There was no way I was missing Potty Mouth, an all-girl punk pop band from Massachusetts, or the chance to see them with my cute friend at Gallery 5.

We stood right in front of the stage, waiting through bottled water being brought to the stage and drummer Victoria tying her shoes before the band could start.

After the first song, "Kids," singer Abby said, "I forgot to take out my ponytail. How can I have any fun like this?"

We all know punk requires flying hair, assuming you have it.

With that, she let down her long, blond hair, leaving it to hang in her face and move around as she sang and played guitar, not so different from Victoria's covering her face the whole time she drummed.

Some say you made a mistake
Well, you can taste my heartache
How does it taste?

Their set was high energy and I can only hope they were having as good a time as it looked like they were.

Inviting my friend to leave G5 for the National, her only request as that I drive.

When we stopped in front of Gallery 5 for the light, the girls of Potty Mouth were out front loading up their vehicle.

Never one to be shy, I called out to bassist Ally to tell her what a great show they'd put on, insisting they come back soon and play a longer set.

It never hurts to let one's admiration be known.

At the National, we were all kinds of surprised to find parking a snap, meaning not nearly enough people were inside.

After taking up residence in front of the sound booth, always my location at shows there, I saw a few friends, but not nearly as many as I'd expected.

Ditto the band, Sweden's Mary Onettes, which amounted to one guy instead of four.

"I was supposed to have my band withe me but they're busy wrestling ice bears in Sweden," singer/guitarist Philip explained.

I liked his sense of humor already.

But even if he hadn't had that, I'd still have been a sucker for the band's dream pop, which he performed using guitar and voice to recorded tracks by the rest of the band.

It may not have been ideal, but it still sounded great, echoing a lot of '80s bands' sounds I loved with songs such as "Everything, Everything," "God Knows I Had Plans" and the aching "Once I Was Pretty."

Everything I've ever done was a part of promising you and keeping true
Everything you've ever said is recorded in my heart.

Yep, I ate it all up with a spoon. I could have listened to them all night.

Instead, Philip introduced Amanda Mair, also from Sweden, who sang back-up for one Mary Onettes song and then did a set of her own of emotional piano ballads.

She reminded me a lot of '90s British songbird Lauren Christy, when my Perly's friend suddenly appeared right next to us, determined to hear her lovely voice from the best possible listening post in the room.

Why do you think this is my permanent position?

My friend got all excited when she saw that Potty Mouth had just tweeted about their set at Gallery 5, saying how friendly people in Richmond were.

"She's talking about you!" she insisted.  Good, maybe they'll come back like I asked.

Although the show was running a tad behind schedule, they almost made up for it with an unusually short break and then, hello!

Real Estate took the stage in their unassuming, so very un-Jersey-like way.

What they do very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals, making for the best kind of wistful nerd pop.

I'd been fortunate enough to see them their first time in Richmond, back in April 2012, at Strange Matter in a room that felt like a sauna and left me dripping wet after the show.

Not that it wasn't worth it.

Like last time, lead singer Martin isn't big on banter between songs, or even smiling much, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.

They began with the instrumental gem "Kinder Blumen," the ideal song to ease into their catalog, full of guitar interplay and catchy hooks and moved on to new stuff off their latest album, "Atlas."

Bassist Alex took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").

Haven't we all had those moments in a relationship?

As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams and extended finishes that equaled pure pop heaven.

Before it was all over, they mentioned the hot tub backstage and invited us all to bring swimsuits and join them.

After a week away, I had a lot to make up for but not enough time for a soak.

It's enough that I tried a new restaurant, saw four stellar bands and told complete strangers what to do, from my car no less.

I can't do everything in one night.

How Am I Gonna be an Optimist About This?

I have lots of birthday traditions and one is the birthday show.

It's almost always a band I've never seen before, maybe a guilty pleasure, just a night of fun music as part of the birthday week revelry.

This year the show was going to be Bastille, an English synthpop band that had blown up since I'd first gotten their album.

But you can't go to a sold-out show at the National without fortification first, so a friend took me to Cafe Rustica for dinner, mentioning that when he'd driven by the National earlier, there had been a line around the block of teenagers.

Not what I had expected, but it's a free country. Maybe they were all having birthdays, too.

Rustica was full of mostly women when we arrived and took stools at the bar for dinner but soon several couples arrived to mix it up a bit.

It had been ages since I'd eaten there but a bowl of plump mussels in white wine and garlic were as good as when I'd had them there years ago.

We followed that with a seasonal special of watermelon Caprese drizzled in balsamic, a nod to the fact that watermelon is better than tomatoes at the moment.

One of the couples who came in told their server that they were there to do their eating and drinking before going to see Bastille and another couple said the same. Apparently we'd found the place for the post-teen set to pre-game before the show.

Since Rustica is a good place to indulge a taste for the German, I got schweineschnitzel with spaetzle and blaukraut while my friend went with two massive brats smothered in Welsh rarebit.

Eventually, I had to stop eating so I'd be able to move at the show.

The National was already mobbed when we got there, but we found places near the sound booth in the back for Wolf Gang, the English opener.

A five-piece, they all looked young and pretty with pompadours and shirt sleeves rolled up to display tender biceps, so it felt a little like watching an English boy band.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Fortunately, they could all play their instruments well and the songs, pulling from '80s influences and maybe even a little '70s symphonic rock, were catchy as hell, enough to get even the non-teen members of the audience dancing in place.

During the break, we moved upstairs to the VIP section because we had the wristbands to do so and the bartender friend who'd handed me my Cazadores suggested it.

It is easier for a short person to see up there.

The show began with a blast of lights (another thing the bartender had warned us about), the "Twin Peaks" theme and the band bounding onstage to do "Bad Blood," the title song off the album that 80% of the room knew by heart.

Two women sitting at a table in front of us screamed every word of every song as they danced in place in their chairs hanging over the railing in rapture.

The two parents in front of us danced and sang while their kid sat in his chair and watched nearby.

Leader of the band Dan soon shed his hoodie, no doubt burning up as he danced non-stop while singing and occasionally playing keyboards or a drum.

The young female contingent let out ear-splitting screams at the start of every song as if every one were their fave.

And speaking of faves and dreamy, my friend said it felt like being at a show with the 17 Magazine crowd and yet there were more than a few middle-aged people anywhere we looked.

And like this one, many were dancing or bopping in place to the music. No judging here.

After telling us he was a terrible dancer (something we already knew), Dan asked the crowd to squat down and pop up at his command for the song "Of the Night" and sure enough, even the oldsters were springing up and down like a hyperactive toddler on command.

"Things We Lost in the Fire" and "Laura Palmer" made the audience go crazy but that was nothing compared to when he put his hoodie back on during "Flaws" and left the stage, weaving through the boxes and into the VIP section where he passed a foot away from where we stood watching his security guard try to both give him room to interact and keep him from the crazies.

A girl near me reached out to him and he took her hand and stared into her eyes for a second as he sang before moving on to incite others.

And while you might think she'd swoon a bit and then go back to watching Dan sing, no, indeed, she pulled out her phone and proceeded to spend the rest of the show texting on it, no doubt sharing her moment of glory.

Except for her, the show ended then because she couldn't be bothered paying attention anymore. It was more important to ensure that the virtual world knew of her moment than to enjoy the rest of it.

I feel certain she won't be going to birthday shows when she's my age. Pity.

Of course the place exploded for "Pompeii," the earworm of a song everyone's heard whether they know it or not and the entire room sang along to close out the show.

It doesn't have to be timeless music to qualify for my birthday show - although I have to admire a band whose biggest hit focuses on two dead people after a volcanic eruption- but it has to be a good time.

One more birthday tradition upheld.

Wet and Under the Tide

I'd been looking forward to this since September when I bought my ticket.

The Glaswegian band Chvrches, a trio that straddles '70s disco and '80s new wave with some of the best-written music that ever set a booty to shaking, was playing the National.

I couldn't find anyone interested in going with me, but as it turned out, that didn't matter.

Arriving ten minutes before the opening band, I found a drummer friend on bar duty at the very chilly front bar and from him got Cazadores and conversation.

Moving inside, I found far more people already there than usual, a good sign.

Opener Wet from Brooklyn was tough to categorize because while the trio's music was fairly minimal (think the XX), lead singer Kelly had an exquisite and soulful voice she could use in almost any way she wanted.

All their songs were short and most ended abruptly, but when she was wailing, the crowd was entranced.

After their second song, she said, "This is our second show in Virginia and this one's already way more fun!"

No surprise there since they played the Norva a couple of nights ago and that's always an unpleasant crowd, no matter what the band.

Fact it, they were so interesting sounding with songs like "U Da Best" and the lead singer's note-bending voice, we didn't really have any choice but to respond.

Baby, you're the best
Figure out the rest
Maybe it's a test
Think we better quit while we're ahead

And in what felt like a hot minute, they finished. A friend walked by, stopped and said, "A seventeen-minute set, that must be a record!"

Maybe they were annoyed by the crowd.

I was ready to judge them based on the idiots in front of me when a girl looked at her phone and read what the guy next to her had just posted.

"You stole my words!" she accused him."I was going to write 'great music, great friends' but you just did!"

She paused, unsure how to handle this catastrophe. "I'll just share yours now."

Give. Me. Strength.

Fortunately, I turned to my left when I overheard a guy say he had driven down from Philly for this show.

Now that's a music fan I want to meet. He and his date were debating between driving back tonight or staying with friends in Washington. I voted for the latter.

The couple next to me jumped in, too, and, lo and behold, they were from South Africa, now living in Church Hill.

He came here for his ph.D. and she followed, obviously smitten enough to change continents for him.

Once they found out I'd visited their motherland ("We never meet people who've actually been"), we became fast friends.

Talking about wine, he told me he'd been amazed to find that the CVS in the Bottom carried the South African wine Two Oceans, although, as he put it, "That's a shit wine we'd use to mix with Coke."

I assured him there were restaurants in Richmond who carry South African wines that do not require a mixer.

Like me, they were thrilled to pieces to be seeing Chvrches, so we lined up along the sound booth as the lights went down.

By then the crowd was dense, if not sold out then very, very close to it.

The Scottish trio came out and wasted no time playing their one album's worth of music against a pulsating backdrop of lights.

They began with "We Sink" and it was like they'd switched the on button for the dance party to begin.

The only problem was that there were so many people, it was tough to move much, not that we didn't do the best we could.

Singer Lauren was a bundle of energy whether singing or dancing and framed by Martin on synths/samples and Iain on guitar and keyboard.

After she stated the obvious ("This is our first time in Richmond"), they barreled through pitch-perfect renditions of songs that ensured the dance party never wavered.

"Thanks, guys," she said as nonchalantly as if we'd held a door open for her or something. "Hands up if you're feeling a little post-Thanksgiving full tonight. You! Put that away! I wanted you all to share, but we didn't need to see that."

My post-Thanksgiving feeling was I was thankful I hadn't seen whatever she had.

I loved hearing one of my favorite songs, "Night Sky," for Martin's backing vocals in a thick Scottish burr.

Saying that this was their fourth (!) tour in 2013, Lauren thanked the crowd again for coming out, as if there could have been anything nearly as much fun going on tonight.

"Recover," the fabulous pop song that several DJs have already remixed, sent the already dance feverish crowd into overdrive, making me wish there had been about 200 fewer people in there, but dancing nonetheless.

During another of my favorites, "Tether," the crowd sang out the chorus as if one cue.

I feel incapable of seeing the end
I feel incapable of saying it's over

"This is f*cking amazing," Martin said of our mass singalong.

Even better, he finally came out from behind his knob-turning station to roar out "Under the Tide" while Lauren took a back seat.

Her voice is a big part of the band's appeal, I admit, but his thickly-accented singing and killer dance moves during the chorus made me wish he had more lead vocals. Maybe on the second album.

"We're gonna play one more song," Lauren warned us like you do a small child so we could start preparing, "and let you get on with your Friday night cause there must be lots of fun things to do. I don't know what they are because I don't live here."

Listening to them play the bouncy "The Mother We Share," I think most of the crowd was already thinking about the encore.

Given that this is a band who just put out their first album in September, this was a room full of uber-fans not ready to let go of the real thing after listening non-stop to recorded music since it first began leaking out into the ether.

We made enough noise for them to come back in short order.

"Holy f*cking shit," Martin yelled. "This is my favorite show of the year!"

Lauren pointed to a child in the front row and chastised Martin for his language, as if a Scot could refrain when excited. "In context, it's fine," she reminded him.

"By the Throat" with its swirling synths and dark lyrics was the climax of the evening, thrilling as we listened and danced to it and leaving us worn out and already missing it when it ended.

All that's golden is never real
And I won't play fair with you this time
All that's golden is never so
And I'll be thankful when you let go

When the lights came up, I blinked at my new friends, the ones with whom I'd been dancing up against all evening.

Raving about what we'd just experienced, they finished by asking for my e-mail so we could stay in touch.

Extending his arms, the ph.D. candidate and his beloved gathered me in. "South African love hug!" he said, encircling us both. Tethered to strangers and set to a stellar Scottish soundtrack.

I'm with Martin. F*cking amazing night.

Strawberry Letter 23

You could say it's my week for funky legends.

An early morning offer of two free tickets to see Shuggie Otis at the National made for a great way to start the day.

It took exactly one e-mail to find a willing partner for dinner and a show, leaving me to ponder only how warmly to dress on what felt like a cold snap of an evening (so cool I came home to find neighbors with their fire pit burning briskly).

Walking up to the venue, it was easy to see what a diverse audience the 59-year old psychedelic soul pioneer had attracted.

The crowd ran the gamut from hipsters to those Shuggie's age, although I have to admit I didn't see any hands with an "X" so everyone was at least 21.

Opener John Murry's set had begun when we arrived and his songs came across as southern gothic Americana, which made it no surprise when I ran into a friend who works at the National who told me Murray had told him that he's William Faulkner's great-grandson.

He was a mumbler of the highest order, making it tough to hear song names, although I did hear him say, "Every record should have a song by somebody else on it" before doing a cover I didn't recognize.

After his set, he instructed the crowd to move closer, saying, "Mumble, mumble, see Shuggie, mumble, so you can experience his playing and get a soul, too."

Not content with being soulless, my companion and I moved to within six people of the stage for an excellent vantage point.

Suddenly, the band appeared and a booming announcer's voice called out their names before Shuggie himself took the stage, resplendent in a gray suit, white ascot, sunglasses  and white fedora.

He and his band - keyboards, drums, bass and a three-piece horn section- seemed to be having a blast the whole night as the played songs from Shuggie's '70s albums including the critically-acclaimed "Inspiration Information" (like the Sly Stone-inspired spelling in "Aht Uh Mi Hed") and blues tunes, punctuating them with shredding guitar work on his Les Paul guitar.

From the first notes, it was impossible to stand still for this funk master who's been making booties shake since 1969.

I thought the best part of his solos, besides his obvious guitar mastery, was the giant smile that came on his face, baring a set of perfect teeth every time he shredded for us.

The horn section was strong, playing everything from baritone sax to flute to ensure the brass required for good rhythm and blues, and killing it with extended solos. The pianist banged on his keys open-handed and the bass player slapped the strings for all he was worth.

Introducing "Trying to Get Close to You," Shuggie shared his wisdom, saying, "Cause the first thing you do when you meet someone good is try!"

That's just what we do.

He showed humor throughout the night with comments like, "I'm gonna say I love you. But I don't know if I mean it!"

Men.

Shuggie's voice wasn't the strongest, but with backing vocals and so much instrumentation, all that mattered was how much fun they all were having.

After the last song, the band left the stage and the crowd began to cheer. Nobody was ready to stop dancing.

The trumpet player came back out and yelled, "You want Shuggie back, you're going to have to do better than that!"

That set off a cacophony and before long, the legend returned to treat us to his best-known song, albeit not the version most people know.

"Strawberry Letter 23" was a much bigger hit for the Brothers Johnson than it was for Shuggie, but it's his song and he and the band made it their own with a solid rendition of a '70s classic.

I'm assuming the hipsters in the crowd knew it from being sampled so often.

They finished with a funky version of "Ice Cold Daydream," during which Shuggie ended up laying on the stage playing his guitar facing the ceiling.

The trumpet player ran over, grabbed the mic and yelled, "Ladies and gentlemen, the legend, Shuggie Otis!" and pointed at the floor.

As if anyone in the room didn't know where he was.

It was everything I could do to see Shuggie writhing on the stage, fedora still in place, because of the phalanx of people pointing cameras at him instead of just experiencing the moment.

But I digress.

By the time the band left the stage, Shuggie shouting, "That's how we do it!" we'd been ecstatically dancing for two straight hours to funk and blues done old-school style.

I'm gonna say I loved the show. And I do mean it.