The Devil's Time

My evening began with a lesson in self-appreciation.

On my way to dinner, I stopped at the drugstore where a woman gasped and pointed at my legs, "I loooove your tights, girl!" Thanking her, I said they were an inexpensive Target pair, a confidence that got her talking.

"I bought myself some cute ones like that and wore them to church with a sweater dress and not too hootchie-kootcie, either," she said, gesturing to a skirt length far longer than mine. "You should have seen the nasty looks I got in church. I told them don't hate on me because I got these nice legs"

She outweighed me by a hundred pounds minimum and she was as confident about her nice legs as I am about my old ones.

We were soul sisters, she and I.

On that high note, I went to Curry Craft for dinner, finding it satisfyingly busy with a lot of Indian people and a table of gabbing women, so I became the lone bar sitter.

My place in the universe is secure. While I am happy to be that person at the bar sitting alone, if I'd thought it through, I'd have brought some reading material.

One of the servers took pity on me, coming over after putting my order in to chat me up, asking what I do.

Poor thing, before my food arrived, he heard about my walking and music show going and took questions about how he fills his days (applying to graduate school and doing laundry).

I bet he was glad when my Juhu beach-style chaat, a medium-hot melange of puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions, pomegranate and spices and naan arrived, saving him from further interrogation.

Karawali prawns made killer hot with roasted tomato, clove, chili and garlic masala was balanced by lemon/curry leaf vinaigrette drizzled on the plate for contrasting color and flavor.

Full as a tick after a lovely, albeit unusually quiet, meal, I left in the pouring rain to go to Balliceaux for music.

My first stop was the loo, where I found wall art saying, "Trouble, Come Home," with an arrow pointing toward the back room.

Underneath it, someone had scrawled, "Tried."

We can't always accomplish what we set out to do.

Ombak was just about to start and I wouldn't have wanted to miss any of their set. It's been close to three years since they played out and, having seen them three or four times before that, I knew what a treat they are.

The band is so full of A-list musicians that listening to them is like being privy to a master class.

All of them - bandleader Bryan Hooten, Brian Jones, JC Kuhl, Trey Pollard and Cam Ralston- are so amazingly good that it's fun just to watch them eyeball each other as they take off in unexpected musical directions.

Tonight I sat back to enjoy their intriguing sound full of odd time signatures, which takes its cues from just about everything: jazz, folk music, math rock and much of the musical landscape in between, with a couple of music lovers I knew.

On "Island," Brian Jones was so busy drumming on every possible part of his drum kit that I half expected him to reach over his shoulder and start playing on the wooden frame of the window above his head. Cam's sheet music kept getting knocked off the stand by the bows coming off his bass.

Introducing "Megatron," Bryan observed that it was obvious these were old songs by the cultural references; "Island" came from the TV show "Lost" and "Megatron" came from the Transformers series.

While the titles may have been a tad dated, the music was as fresh as a daisy.

Watching the musicians take such delight in each others' solos is a big part of the Ombak experience for the audience.

And tonight that small, jazz-loving crowd was as respectful as a listening room, an utterly rare occurrence at Balliceaux.

After intermission, they played an abbreviated but still stellar rendition of "Aware" off the "Framing the Void" album most of us in the room probably own.

Before launching into "Listen to the World," Cam looked at the music, shaking his head and saying, "Oh, man!" and causing Bryan to check with him to see if he still wanted to do it.

"Suuuure," the bassist said, evoking the anything goes philosophy of the night, also evident before they did Brian Jones' "R.H.," a nod to Pittsburgh drummer Roger Humphries.

"Let's vamp first," Brian instructed the band.

"It's cool, baby," leader Bryan agreed, head bobbing as the song exploded.

"Fresh out of the oven" he called the brand new song "Collapses," warning that it wasn't fully cooked before knocking everyone's socks off with a 5/4 beat that a musician near me identified as "devil's time."

Next time I'm having a difficult go of something, that's how I'll refer to it.

They finished with a Tuvan folk melody, with Bryan saying, "I don't know what it's about because I don't speak Tuvan."

It began with Cam bowing his bass for a change and Brian playing drums with no sticks and made all the better by guitarist Trey Pollard sliding notes into each other to mimic Tuvan throat singing.

God, these guys are good.

The best news is that Ombak is back and planning to play one night a month at Balliceaux for the foreseeable future.

If Ombak is trouble, they tried and have finally come home.

It's cool, baby. So cool.

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.

Bittersweet and Solo

Familiar faces, different places.

To start, it was like a mini-artwalk, with Candela Gallery having an opening and artist's talk on this damp Friday evening.

The show, "Bittersweet on Bostwick Lane" featured work by photographer Susan Worsham, a name I didn't recognize, but a face I did.

I'd met her years ago at Zeus Gallery Cafe and we'd talked about photography; later, I'd seen her at photography shows and always enjoyed her positivity.

But until I saw her smiling face tonight, I hadn't made the connection.

The show comes from Susan's life experiences which include the deaths of her parents and her brother's suicide.

Interestingly enough, the works highlight beauty as much as decay and death.

And not all are photographs.

One called "Watercolor" is a collection of antique veterinary slides, with samples of things like rabbit tongue, eye of pig and human testicle included.

Others relate to her family's former neighbor Margaret, a former biology teacher, who was an integral part of her childhood.

Margaret's presence is felt throughout the exhibition, in her microscope and handmade bread doily, in a  large-scale photograph of her under Susan's mother's favorite camellia tree and in a piece of bread she baked which Susan let go moldy before photographing.

Even better, Susan recorded Margaret reminiscing and an hour-long recording of her memories and stories plays in Candela as you look at the photographs.

It's tempting to just sit down and listen to the wisdom of this wizened woman.

My vote for most disturbing photograph goes to "Snakes on My Childhood Bed," where a snake lounges next to a picture of Susan's mother on her wedding day.

It became even more meaningful when, during Susan's talk, she said that as a child, her mother had always assured her, "There's never going to be any snakes in your room."

Her mother couldn't have foreseen that a multiple-snake owner would eventually own the house or that Susan and her boyfriend would one day knock on that door and ask to see her childhood home.

On the other hand, clearly it provided inspiration for the artist.

Susan was an engaging speaker, sharing all kinds of stories about the idyllic beauty of her childhood on the UR campus and the sadness that came out of that lovely start in life.

Bittersweet it was.

Music followed with the RVA Solo show at For Instance Gallery, a place I'd never been.

But the faces I knew well.

A winding stair took me to the cozy gallery with art hung everywhere on the walls and three long windows fronting Cary Street downtown.

As things got set up, one of the musicians turned off the lights, leaving only a few colored bulbs from a lamp on and asked of the crowd which they preferred, dark or light.

I was the first to vote for dim, justifying the red, blue and yellow lamp lights as "groovy" and so the show went on sans overhead lighting.

It pays to be a big mouth sometimes.

Organizer Scott Clark soon stood up, announcing, "We're dedicated to starting shows on times and seven minutes late isn't too bad."

What followed was a succession of some of Richmond's best and brightest jazz musicians.

First trombonist Bryan Hooten played and since I'd never heard solo trombone, I was surprised to hear his sharp intakes of breath between blows.

He played an untitled piece, said, "Solo trombone is hard work,"took a big gulp of water and did an improvised number.

He then proceeded to empty his instrument.

"It's just condensed water," he grinned. "Contrary to popular belief, it's not spit, it's really just condensed water."

I believe him because I want to.

As he was playing a cello sonata he'd transcribed by his favorite composer, Gyorgy Ligeti, I couldn't help but admire the night view from the windows.

In each, a tree was foreground to a building across the street, all silhouetted against the misty gray sky as Bryan's trombone made beautiful noise.

Cameron Ralston and his bass were up second and he began with what is usually an exercise to warm up, but what he referred to as "D Plus."

His bow arced and jumped around creating noises I couldn't begin to see him make, but then I'm a musical idiot.

Finishing, he admitted, "That opens up all kinds of creative doors."

How could it not?

Next he did an original piece he'd written while on tour (with our own Matthew White) when he'd heard about the Connecticut shootings.

"I imagined it for piano and bass originally, but seeing as how I'm the only one up here, I'll do it myself."

It was an achingly beautiful piece and after finishing, he changed gears, saying, "Let's do something fun. This is an Ornette Coleman tune called "The Sphinx."

And it was fun, as evidenced by his twitching leg and even his right hand, which became a blur as he tore through the piece.

Drummer Scott Clark took center stage next, saying that he and Cameron had been talking for years about doing a solo show and it had taken this long to make it happen.

That it was finally happening was a fact for which every music-lover in the room was eternally grateful, I'm sure.

Scott mentioned that he'd been reading "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" and writing off of the book and that it had become more meaningful as he'd toured parts of the country recently that the book had touched on.

"Seeing those places was profound. I don't know whether that will come through in my playing the drums, but just enjoy."

It did come through and I can't say how except that the improvised piece had a rhythmic urgency that played out in his handling of the brushes, mallets and bells.

Toward the end, he began reading a poem he had written about the Native American experience and it was truly a magical moment to hear him drumming and sharing his words simultaneously.

"And the drums relive what once was," he intoned beautifully.

At that moment, I felt privileged to be hearing his heartfelt playing and reading with the night sky behind him in this little second-floor gallery with only a handful of people.

Guitarist Scott Burton replaced the first Scott doing new solo material he was debuting.

As many times as I've seen Scott play in various incarnations, it may have also been the first time I'd ever heard him play an acoustic guitar.

We heard "Staircase" and "Interiors" before he said,"I'm going to play "I Believe" by a band called Tears for Fears."

His cover was exquisite and you could almost hear the people in the room holding their breath for every note.

Afterwards, he grinned and said, "Tears for Fears, yea!"

Yea, indeed.

Things got heavier for "Underwater," followed by "Scaffolding" and "The Lizard" and every time he locked into a groove, I noticed both Scott Clark and Cameron bobbing their heads in the front row.

And why not? I believe, right along with Tears for Fears.

I believe that Richmond is a place where talented musicians share their music in intimate galleries on misty winter nights.

Sculptors come. Music teachers come. Frenchmen come. And of course other musicians come.

But so should everyone who needs proof that this town has got it going on.

It may even make you believe.

Rogue Party for the Few

It was practically a private show.

Walking into Balliceaux last night, we were among a very small group in the back room for music.

Too bad, too, because Bryan Hooten was doing some amazing things on trombone as we scored wine and slid into a front booth.

Listening to what sounded like multiple notes being played at the same time, we marveled at the un-trombone-like sounds emanating from his instrument.

"Those were two new as-yet unnamed tunes," he explained. "Now I'll improvise one and dedicate to Patrick, who I met at a workshop in Canada. It was sort of a rogue party and there was a lot of whiskey drinking, so I'll call this one 'Rogue Party."

The music came on like a party, eventually winding down to the point where it was easy to imagine that only a few party guests were still standing...and then none as the song closed with a whimper.

Pouring out the contents of his horn, he got a laugh when he said, "Don't worry, it's just condensed water."

"Mirrors," from his solo trombone album, came next and this music-lover was thrilled when he explained what to listen for beforehand.

"I'll be doing some things with the shape of  his mouth to create different sounds," he said. "So if you imagine this tune is a painting, look for the stuff near the top."

Honestly, I heard amazing stuff coming from the top, middle and bottom of that aural painting.

Next up was his workshop buddy Patrick, part of the band Sons of Daughters, who'd driven down from a show in Baltimore today for this show.

A duo tonight, Patrick was playing sax and clarinet and Devin drums and their bass player was missing in action.

"Our bass player couldn't join us for this little four-day retreat," Patrick explained.

Which was a shame in one way because he also provides vocals, but a treat because without him, they eschewed compositions for a whole lot of improvisation.

And they looked like they were having a ball doing it.

Barefoot Patrick closed his eyes and played his instrument waving it side to side, walking back and forth on the stage, sometimes even hanging his toes off the edge and once almost falling off.

Devin, in flip-flops, all but impaled himself on his drum kit, laying across it and even playing cymbals with his forearms.

Toward the end, he was going at it so hard that his drum all but danced further in between his legs and into his lap.

"Is It In You?" got the small audience riled up and "Jay's Tune" was based on music that got stuck in Devin's head.

"If you're enjoying any of this and want to take two thirds of us home with you, we have CDs for sale," they joked in conclusion.

No doubt everyone else in the room had far more musical knowledge than I did, because they called out at what I could only assume were impressive musical feats.

But this much I do know: it would have been hard to beat an evening of progressive jazz by some up and coming young guns, giving their all for a small group of strangers.

When they finished, a woman in the audience came up and asked Patrick, "How do you hold your breath for so long?"

I didn't hear the answer, but my guess would be years of practice.

We did ask about the band's name, clearly a reference to Everyman, since everyone is either a son of a daughter or a daughter of a son.

"Yea, my Mom seems to like it," he admitted with a grin.

Maybe even as much as every person in that room liked our intimate and excellent show.

Sometimes you just have to go out on a Sunday evening and take a chance.

That's when you find out that it is in you.

Easy as 1,2,3

I teared up over an imaginary beagle, I laughed my ass off as a friend shared his early dating adventures on stage and I did my best to keep up as a trombonist played both the melody and bass line concurrently. It was a really fun evening.

Beginning at the Empire Theater for the Acts of Faith Theatre Festival Preview, I snagged an aisle seat in a rapidly-filling theater.

The festival is a collaborative effort between the faith and theater communities and even a heathen like me usually finds productions worth checking out at the preview.

Not all the plays done during the festival are overtly religious (Romeo and Juliet) while some clearly have that bent (Godspell). The brief scenes we saw tonight gave a peek into what can be expected from this year's offerings.

Swift Creek Mill Theater is doing Once on This Island, which the emcee noted she had once performed in as part of an all-white Canadian cast. "Hey, we work with what we have up there."

Richmond Triangle Players are doing This Beautiful City, a play about an evangelical group that explores the separation of church and state, a subject on which I feel strongly.

Firehouse Theater is doing Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead about the Peanuts gang a few years on. The scene we saw involved CB discovering that Snoopy has become rabid and eaten Woodstock, an indication that he has to have his old beagle put down.

I got way more emotional than I should have when CB said that he just knew when Snoopy "didn't come bounding out of his red doghouse" that things were bad. Don't remind me.

Some moments were unintentionally comedic, like when the lead actor of The Choices of a Traveler walked on stage, and a gleeful voice in the audience squealed "Daddy!" to the delight of the crowd.

All in all, the festival looks to be presenting some provocative theater this spring and all the productions will offer an audience discussion after one of the performances. I, for one, like to talk back after seeing a play.

Conveniently, my second stop was just around the corner form the Empire and as I rounded the corner, I ran into friends leaving Comfort for the same show ("Look at you, switching those hips," I was told. No, I'm just walking fast because it's fricking freezing out here).

Gallery 5 was hosting the Comedy Coalition's Richmond Famous event. This is an evening where a local personality shares some true stories from their life and then the improv group goes for the soft underbelly of the story and improvises with scenes and characters stolen from the guest's stories.

Tonight's victim/guest was Kevin Clay, the tireless guy behind the GayRVA website and events and also a friend of mine. Kevin had bravely brought his college dating journal to share with the audience and it was a touchingly hilarious.

He told of trying to impress a date with a meticulously-assembled Easter basket, only to discover that the guy was Jewish. Oops.

He planned to reveal his heart's desire to another crush on top of the Empire State Building and when that didn't work out, he made a flow chart in his journal explaining why not.

You can imagine what ripe material this was for the lightening quick improvisational skills of RCC; two of them denied their love to each other using not only flow charts, but Venn diagrams, bar graphs and all kinds of geeky visual aids while the audience roared.

It was especially fun because I was in the front row, as were Kevin's boyfriend and best friend, both of whom laughed the loudest at Kevin's tales of being a 12-year old girl in a college guy's body.

By the time the comedy was over, I was starving and music-starved, so I went to Sprout to satisfy both needs. I love how they continue to keep the kitchen open for show-goers.

There was no way I was passing up the Blue Point oyster and mushroom quiche over mixed local greens with a balsamic reduction, a new item on the menu.

Even the bartender looked at it and said, "I haven't had that but it looks really, really good." It was and the peppery greens and dense, sweet balsamic were a nice contrast to the rich creaminess of the quiche.

I ran into a couple of musician friends (Sprout's shows are always full of them), providing the resources to answer any musical questions I might have during the evening, not to mention satisfying my conversational needs.

Tonight's show was billed as dueling soloists and performing first was Bryan Hooten (No BS Brass band, Ombak, Fight the Big Bull) on trombone and and then Chris Farmer on drums (with keyboards and loop), with a vague promise of something collaborative after that.

Bryan worked hard tonight, getting red-faced and sweaty and playing so fast and hard that you could hear the spit collecting in his instrument. Periodically he spit it out because he didn't have time to swallow it.

He improvised to a couple of pieces, did a most creative version of Ellington's "In a Sentimental Mood" and tore it up with a take on Herbie Hancock's "Chameleon."

Mid-song, I looked over at my multi-instrumentalist friend (who plays sax) to find him laughing. "I can't believe he's playing he melody and the bass line at the same time," he said by way of explaining his chuckling. It was quite a unique sound, that's for sure.

Between sets I got a piece of chocolate truffle cake and chatted with my friends. They were both getting antsy waiting to hear Chris do his magic on the drums.

And he was impressive, wrapping energetic drumming around those robot keys of his. My drummer friend told me that Chris is a big Brian Eno fan and I could almost hear that.

He also said he's a pocket rhythm drummer as if I understood that, but there wasn't time to have it explained during the performance, so that'll be another of my dumb non-musician questions next time we talk.

The crowd was full of serious head-bobbing Farmer lovers, including one annoying and tall guy who positioned himself in the very front, blocking everyone's view and taking endless pictures ("He's my main man!").

At one point, he even stepped up on the stage and then did a "stage dive," jumping five inches to the floor and bumping into people. Another oldster kept yelling for the Kinks. Spare me, both of you.

After the final collaboration with Bryan augmented by a friend of Chris' named Clint on keys and knob-turning, I went to pay my bill (the bartender: "I'm going to try that oyster quiche you had!" You should do that, my friend). Another excellent show and meal at Sprout.

I ran into one of the guys from Fight the Big Bull at the bar and we fell into a discussion of Keith Richards' autobiography (which he's reading and I've read excerpts from) and the British emphasis on the blues.

He was particularly disgusted that a much younger fellow sax player who had just left had confused Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. "But he's only 24, so what does he know?" Unlike me, he probably knows what pocket rhythm drumming is.

In my defense, though, I've never once confused Zeppelin and Floyd. Or, like the guy in tonight's crowd who compared a piece to Emerson, Lake and Palmer and then corrected himself to say Radiohead, confused those two.

So I've got that going for me. Which begs the question, is there anyone out there who will think that's enough?

Of course there is.