Big Love Comes Home

There's a lot to be said for delayed gratification.

When I bought my ticket back on October 10th for the Matt White show tonight at Strange Matter, I knew I'd be in for an impressive night of music.

Even expecting a knock-out, I wasn't prepared for what a memorable night it was.

I arrived promptly at 9  because the word was "Sounds at 9." Okay, not 9 per se, but not long after, either.

Making my way to the bar, I found myself next to a guy who said hello and introduced himself.

He'd come in to pay his tab from last night and now was curious about what was going on tonight.

I explained who the magnificently-maned Matt White was, about his Spacebomb studio and house band, then he explained that he was just back from Yogaville and had his dog in his car and was now really sorry he couldn't stay.

Not long after, with no introduction, Matt and his band -all very familiar faces since I've been seeing them play in myriad configurations for years now- plus the Rosebuds' Howard Ivans walked out of the kitchen and through the crowd to reach the stage.

Explaining that he'd been doing some songs with the Spacebomb guys, he began singing the new material over some of the funkiest R & B grooves being made by white boys today.

He even thanked the crowd for coming out early, although the pleasure was all ours and a guy I knew who didn't show up until just after 10 missed a simply superb set by coming late, a fact I may have pointed out.

It was all so retro-soul with Ivans' terrific voice and it was irresistibly danceable.

After several kick-ass original songs, Ivans said, "I'm going to do a Robert Palmer song, if that's okay."

Okay? I can't think of a more appropriate white boy to cover and "You Are in My System" benefited from the air tight rhythm and horn sections.

"You're listening to the best band in America," Ivans said, stating what Richmond music-lovers already know.

His set wound down far too quickly and suddenly we were at the last two songs.

One was a slow burner, the kind of song you want someone to slow- dance with to it and the last one, "Red Face Boy," was a barn-burner.

My dance party-loving friend looked at me, grinning ear to ear, "I feel like I should be doing the hustle," he enthused after the first few beats.

He was spot on; the silken groove was made to boogie to and there weren't many people resisting it, whether full-on dancing or grooving in place.

After the set ended, trumpeter Bob Miller walked by and said hello. Telling him how much I'd loved what they'd played, he expressed regret that they'd only had a half dozen chances to play with Ivans on tour.

"I'd love to play these songs more," he admitted, showing his true-blue soul side.

Strange Matter got more crowded during the break and by the time Matt, Cameron, Scott, Pinson, Gabe, Bob, Trey and Bryan returned, the feel-good energy in the room was palpable.

Hometown boy puts out record with local band, makes year-end best of lists, tours US and Europe (100-plus shows this year, Matt said) and finally comes back to play for long-time fans.

"It's good to be home," Matt said sounding quite sincere.

It was good to be hearing the band Paste, Pitchfork and practically every other musical tastemaker had raved as emerging fully formed.

Of note was that guitarist Trey Pollard was sometimes playing pedal steel, notable mainly because I'd seen him play it at the Listening Room back in April 2010 when he'd first been learning it.

Then, he'd told me it took every ounce of concentration he had to play it and tonight it appeared to be an extension of him, much the way his guitar is.

During one song, dapperly-hatted bassist Cameron and leader Matt showed off their best Motown-like dance moves, playing and turning in unison to face stage right and left, mirroring each other.

Title track "Big Love" got its rhythmic hand claps courtesy of the horn section, with Bryan and Bob using the instruments they were born with. Likewise, Cameron and Gabe did double duty singing back-up.

It's hard to convey just how tight these guys are and how full their soul-meets-Muscle-Shoals sound is, but their obvious pleasure in playing together was readily apparent.

"This show tonight is important," Matt said between songs. "This is a special music community and a great artistic community. You might miss it if you don't stop and appreciate it. This is a special place. We've done 122 shows this year and I talk up Richmond in every city we play, send love back here. That's because it's real. Special things happen here."

He said that since it was the end of the mini-tour with Howard, and they were at home, there was no reason not to play every song they had, including new material off the recent EP.

With percussionist Scott Clark double-fisting tambourines while grinning like he was having the time of his life, they did just that.

Matt explained that the next song was very quiet. "I'm just telling you that in other cities, I stare at people to make them shut up for this song. You can't do that in your home town, it's rude. But if you want to wrap up your conversations so you can hear it..."

I'm embarrassed to say that some people went right on blathering and shouting drunkenly while the rest of us shut up so we could hear the beautifully quiet song.

We got the two-song warning because, Matt said, it would be awkward to do an encore since there was no place to go or wait.

Not that this crowd wouldn't have willingly waited for more deep grooves and blaring horns.

But as he pointed out, when a seven-song record unexpectedly takes off and you start touring, it's a limited repertoire you have to pull from.

The beauty was that it's also a very satisfyingly danceable one and by the end of the show, the room-filling chorus made for the feeling of a tent revival.

Richmond-style, of course.

Best of all, these guys are representing us all over the globe, making this town look as good as some of us already know it is.

No delay in gratification there.

Fill Up the Flask, Son

Some nights are so Richmond, it's impossible not to be in love with this city.

Like on an exquisitely beautiful, fall-feeling evening under a deepening blue sky watching chimney swifts swoop overhead in the courtyard next to Quirk Gallery.

But, wait.

As if the weather, location and scenery weren't plenty to feed the soul, there's more.

The occasion for this gathering three blocks from my house was a Huckiddy puppet show.

If that doesn't sound like too much fun for a Saturday night, then you've obviously never been to one.

I've been to three so I know to count on puppet sibling rivalry, death and music, not necessarily in that order. Complete with beer and popcorn for sale.

What I hadn't expected was how many friends would be there.

My favorite J-Ward couple.  The bowling birthday boy from last Sunday. The fetching GLAP hosts, one's hair newly banged. A couple of WRIR DJs, both with gigs tonight.

For that matter, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a musician I knew.

The entertainment began with one of my favorites, Dave Watkins, doing his incomparable sound layering with dulcitar and drum.

While he wowed the crowd looping his intricate melodies, I noticed that some people had brought their own fun.

One brought wine in a small bottle labeled 100% juice (not a lie), another had a silver flask she took nips from.

It was all very civilized.

Hard as it must be to follow Dave, Josh Small did a grand job by employing a cartoon theme (a nod to the puppets) for his song selections.

"My Favorite Dream" came from a WWII-era Mickey Mouse short and two songs were drawn from "Robin Hood," his personal Disney favorite.

At the end of one, "Love," he wound the song down by singing progressively softer, eventually calling out, "Analog fade-out!' to the amusement of the audio geeks in the audience.

Dave came back for a couple of songs and then it was show time.

Chris Hulbert and his sister Cat manned the puppets while a quartet of bass, cello, guitar and trumpet provided the musical accompaniment.

And in case you can't imagine it, listening to the aching strings of Josh's cello or the mournful wail of Bob's trumpet in a brick-walled courtyard where the sound has nowhere to go but skyward is a distinct Richmond pleasure.

As is usually the case, the puppet show began with Huckle complaining and his sister, F'funia, having none of it.

Huckle's first complaint was that he lived in the ghetto where all the people in his neighborhood were hot, 20-something college students, a line that reduced me and my J-Ward neighbors to near tears with its familiarity.

Except we would never call J-Ward a ghetto.

But F'funia never lets Huckle feel too sorry for himself, bringing him up short by reminding him about the time he shot her three times.

"I pulled myself up, son!" she told him to an explosion of laughter.

She soon discerns that Huckle's problem is that his heart is gone and maybe that's why he's sad and tired.

Songs abound and the band's contribution to the unfolding story is considerable.

The two bicker back and forth, about his nicknames for her (babe, chunky, fatty fat), about finding a pig or old lady heart to replace his and about how a "whatever" attitude prevents Huckle from seeing the humor in life.

With their big red lips, expressive hands and Huckle's earring (mirroring puppeteer Chris'), the puppets interact so naturally it's easy to forget there are two people behind the stage busy every second making that happen.

"That's funny. It's not super-hilarious, but it's funny," F'funia tells Huckle at one point.

Actually, a Huckiddy puppet show is super-hilarious pretty much start to finish.

Well, except for the heartbreaking moments, but those just make the whole show feel more real.

When you're sitting outdoors under the stars laughing at foul-mouthed puppets and listening to a quartet play into the cool night air, maybe a reality check is in order.

The beauty of being reminded of reality is just how lucky we are to be in Richmond where a sublime confluence like tonight happens surprisingly often.

Just another Saturday night in the ghetto, kids.

Once is Never Enough

If you're going to repeat yourself, at least repeat good things.

To start it was random compliments and heartfelt gratitude and isn't that why any girl goes to her local art museum?

Walking in the VMFA's Boulevard (and my favorite) entrance, the guard greets us.

I do the same, adding in questions about the museum's attendance today.

"We had a lot of people here earlier today, but they've gone home. We sent them out into the night," he explained.

I made a crack about visiting relatives and the desire to escape and he agreed and as I make for the hallway to leave, he casually observes apropos of nothing, "Those are nifty tights, by the way."

It may very well be my first time I was complimented as "nifty."

After scoring our Chihuly tickets, we head downstairs for some glass.

I've already seen the show, here,  but I was a willing second-timer here with a Chihuly virgin.

We began with those glorious Venetian balls in a rowboat before moving on to the "Persian Ceiling."

Waling in to the gallery, my jaw dropped as we watched three women walk into the gallery, never so much as look up, and pass right through as if a suspended ceiling holding 1,000 (yes, one thousand!) glass objects wasn't directly over their heads.

Maybe they missed the signage and maybe not.

Still, whoa.

It was then that I remembered the artist's recommendation for the best way to see the "Persian Ceiling."

You got it; I stretched out on the floor so as to have an optimum vantage point for the assemblage of Chihuly glass overhead.

Then a funny thing happened.

My date laid down.

Then another couple. And a young guy. And...

Before all was said and done, seven other people followed my lead and got horizontal with the floor, just like I had.

From somewhere near the front of the gallery, a voice called out, "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," I answered, not the least bit afraid I wasn't the intended complimentee.

Moments later, a VMFA guard walked into the room and announced, "You have to get up. I can't let you lay on the floor."

Oh, can't you? Are we really a threat stretched out on the floor?

To our rescue came a man who'd declined to get down for fear he couldn't get up.

"Just let me take a picture," he said commandingly and the very young guard ceded power to him.

None of us hurried to get up (what was the guard going to do, after all?) but eventually we unwound our supine bodies and rejoined the vertical.

Moving through the exhibit, an occasional stranger would smile or nod at me and I had to presume it was someone who had joined me on the floor.

After our encounter of the Chihuly kind, we did the logical thing and walked upstairs to Amuse for a glass.

We'd timed it perfectly.

There was plenty of room at the bar and the dining room was just beginning to fill up.

The bartender confirmed what I already suspected; Amuse had been a madhouse today.

"It was crazy, our busiest day other than Mother's Day," she said wearily, but with a smile on her face.

Whoa. Glad we'd missed the masses.

With a bottle of Portuguese Tinto Rioja, we sampled the amuse bouche, a white bean puree with micro-greens on a flat bread.

It was one perfect bite, just as it should be.

From there we went to Rappahannock curry-fried oysters with a cucumber and mint raita and pickled veggies.

After copious amounts of raw Rappahannock River oysters to start my Thanksgiving day meal yesterday, I  was eager for something different.

The trifecta of curry, cucumber and mint hit a home run in my mouth.

Next up, we did the crispy pork belly with Romesco sauce and fried spinach and were just as delighted.

The fatty belly, sweet Romesco and delightfully crispy spinach made for a an impressive flavor and texture combination.

By this time, the dining room was completely full and we had just enough wine left for dessert.

I used my influence to choose the chocolate pot de creme with amaretto macaroons, for which I was immediately grateful.

The dense pudding begged to be spread on the rich cookies tasting of almonds and coconut.

And, just so you know, chocolate and coconut top my dessert hit parade.

Together, they were sublime. Samoas, anyone?

Sitting at the bar glowing with pleasure after so many stellar tastes, I felt a hand on my back.

"I'm grateful," a woman said, looking directly in my eyes. "That was an amazing experience. I'll always remember that. Thank you."

I seemed to remember her feet near mine when I'd taken to the floor.

Still, I felt pretty full of myself for having created a "happening," not that I had intended for anyone other than me to do it.

And yet they had.

Sometimes it's just about doing what you want and anyone else following is pure gravy.

But then museums close and you have to find new places to do your thing.

Hello, Hi-Steps.

For my second evening with this group of talented local jazz musicians, I made sure to arrive in time to get a good vantage point.

I was happy to find a diverse crowd spanning 20-somethings to probably 50-somethings, all clearly fans of soul music.

Hats were everywhere - a tweed one on bassist Cameron, another on trumpeter Bob and a newsboy cap on trombonist Toby.

Leader Jason in a leather blazer.

Very dapper, indeed.

Lead singer Brittany took it back to the appropriate era with a taupe maxi sweater dress with a yellow ribbon tied at the waist.

Groovy with a capital "G."

There was a new guitarist/male vocalist tonight, doing a fine job trading vocals with Brittany.

It only took the first few notes to remind me how much I enjoy how hard drummer Pinson Chanselle hits the drums.

After the first two songs, bandleader Jason told the crowd, "This is not a spectator sport. I mean, you can watch us if you want, but we'd rather watch you dance."

He was right, of course.

Few spectator sports are as enjoyable as Friday night dancing.

"Ain't Too Proud to Beg" got the room dancing until the break.

A girl I know spotted me and came over to say hello, mentioning that it was her first time at Balliceaux.

Oh honey.

Soon after, a guy walked up to me and started a surprising conversation about flooring.

Seems Balliceaux has glow-in-the-dark floors, the same ones he'd put in his basement around his hot tub.

Then there were the black lights he'd installed down there, he said.

"Pretty '70s, huh?" he snorted, laughing loudly.

Who'd have thought that was a goal?

During "Tired of Being Alone," singer Brittany wasn't needed so she danced along with the the crowd (or her mother, depending on who you listened to).

Nearby, two guys grooved. "I could listen to this song all day," he told his buddy enthusiastically. "On repeat."

Is there any other way?

While the set list had a lot of similarities to the first show I'd seen, all I could focus on was how tight these guys sounded considering they've only played out twice.

Pros. It's that simple.

After "Try a Little Tenderness," guitarist Elliott cracked wise, noting, "And that turkey I had last night, that was tenderness."

Standing nearby me was DJ Mike Murphy, who was playing soul music before, during and after the Hi-Steps.

With the band doing a handful of classics ("Tell Me Something Good," "It's Your Thing," "Chain of Fools") and the crowd singing along, it occurred to me that those were exactly the songs Mike wouldn't play.

Songs like the closer, "Signed, Sealed and Delivered."

Which means both he and the Hi-Steps have the right idea.

If we're going to dance to soul music, let it be to deep cuts on vinyl or else played live.

And, remember, kids, this is not a spectator sport.

But it sure is fun. So fun I put it on repeat.

Tell Me Something Good

It was long, but it was worth every minute of it.

First there was Eat ("We'll cook, you eat!"), the new concept that's taken over at Pescado's China Street.

We took seats at the bar during happy hour, scored some Chilean chardonnay from the witty and small-scale bartender and took our time with the witty and large-format menu.

There were so many intriguing sounding choices that it took a while, but we eventually settled on two.

PB & J was a take on panzanella with mixed greens, sliced red and green grapes, toasted brioche and Thai peanut vinaigrette.

It definitely delivered the requisite sweet and salty promised.

The Dog House was a Sausagecraft sausage on a Flour Garden bun, topped with caramelized onions, broccoli rabe, pickled mustard seed and roasted tomato aioli.

The broccoli rabe was a tad toothsome for eating on the sandwich and we were inclined to think its savory bitterness overpowered the sausage, so we removed it and ate it like a side (which it also is on the menu).

The remaining combination was outstanding, the sweet onions and the pungent mustard seeds ideal complements to the dog.

We barely finished that before beating feet to Strange Matter for Hoax Hunters' CD release show and lots of familiar faces.

The duo of Tyrannosaurus Awesome opened with their usual energetic guitar/drumming and non-stop aural assault.

In my next life, I'll be a drummer so I can have arms that well sculpted.

Hoax Hunters took the stage and thrashed that thrash they do so well.

Despite a recent cold, P.J.'s vocals sounded spot-on and, as  always, his on-stage persona is fierce and completely unlike his usual mild-mannered and droll photographer self.

By the end of their set, he'd knocked over his mic stand and was on the floor, but still playing.

That's thrash at its best.

I lost my date at that point but made my way to Balliceaux for the Hi-Steps.

Like everyone else, I had no idea who the Hi-Steps were, but I knew to expect old-school soul.

On arrival, I found a mob of P.Y.T.s mingling and trying to be seen at the front bar.

Eschewing that scene, I paid my cover and went to the back room where I found a slightly older and definitely more interesting crowd.

Turns out that the Hi-Steps is a group of RVA's best known jazz players led by saxophonist Jason Scott.

People like Cam Ralston on bass and Pinson Chanselle on drums.

At the bar to get a Cazadores, I ran into one of the band, trumpet player Bob Miller (Fight the Big Bull, Bio Ritmo) who looked even more dapper than usual in a pale blue polyester suit.

I learned later from his charming wife that she'd bought it for him as an Easter gift.

He had to have been the hit of the Easter parade in it.

But all of the band were sharp-dressed men: Cameron in his harlequin vest, Jason in his monochromatic dark blue, singer Brittany in a long skirt.

From Bob I learned that the group was planning to play a variety of soul music from obscure to hits and a lot in between.

Also that they had lost their singer a week ago and had to scramble.

The band hadn't been sure how many people might show up tonight.

"Well, you heard about it," Bob pointed out.

As I told him, when certain musicians send me an invitation, I pay attention.

Rising local superstar Matt White showed up to see his friends play, causing quite a stir.

When he said hello, I couldn't resist teasing him about his recent "Rolling Stone artists to watch" mention and inquire about Hopscotch, the festival he'd played last week.

I'd seen Prabir, he of the Goldrush, in the front room and he soon joined me in the back along with a girl (who still said things like "Life is so awesome!") and a record label guy from Jersey.

We were a motley crew.

During the band's first set, we heard classic soul music, and although none of the songs were familiar to me except one ("Ain't Too Proud to Beg"), they all had that smooth soul groove and people began to dance.

Jason had told the crowd that that was the idea.

With trumpet, trombone, sax, electric bass, keyboards, drums, guitar and a male and female singer, they had every component required for delivering R & B.

A DJ friend was particularly taken with their rendition of "Get Out of My Life, Woman" with its slower intensity.

Just before their last song, Prabir observed that they needed to tear it up before the break to ensure everyone stuck around for the second set.

"Second sets are the best," he said knowingly. "But it's time to give 'em the cheese plate."

The band played a high energy number that seemed likely to leave people wanting for more.

During the break, I spoke to Jason, the group's mastermind, who admitted that he'd gotten the idea when he saw how popular the soul DJ nights were.

Why not play the classic soul repertory live, he thought. "But I didn't know the music at all, so I went to Spotify and started looking for artists and songs, some I knew and some I didn't and picked from that."

And for their second set, they destroyed it.

Songs like "It's Your Thing," which had people dancing within the first few notes.

"Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher" and "Tired of Being Alone" were well received, but when that big old bass line began for "Tell Me something Good," Prabir and I about lost it.

There was the quintessential song of the evening for me.

The brass, having no part in it, began to dance in place, getting as funky as the dancers in front of them and bass player Cameron's head got a workout grooving along.

When I heard the band begin "Try a Little Tenderness," with its quiet intro, I turned to Prabir and said of the suddenly-chatting crowd, "They have no idea what's about to happen."

Grinning maniacally, he nodded. "No, they don't. It's gonna be awesome."

When the song finally broke open, the room exploded as people began dancing, flailing and shouting with the energy of the song.

After they did "Chain of Fools," I asked a bartender friend what he thought of the band.

"I couldn't see them at first and when I heard that singer, I thought she was an old black woman," he said. "When I finally saw she was a young white girl, I couldn't believe it! They're great."

Likewise, Charles Arthur on guitar and vocals had done a stellar job on the songs where he sang lead.

"This is our first show ever," Jason informed the crowd before their last song.

Judging by the amazing musicianship (they'd only had one rehearsal), ideal variety of known and unknown material and enthusiasm emanating from them, I'd say the Hi-Steps are going to be the big must-see act this fall.

Think about it.

Live soul music performed by some of the top musicians in town.

Mad energy for nearly three straight hours.

I'd suggest you wear your dancing shoes.