The Good Life

It pays to fall for a soul man early in his career.

From the very first time I'd heard Devon Gilfillian, I was in love with this voice and musicianship. The song "High" was as close to 21st century R&B perfection as I've yet to hear and, believe me, that's a sound I go looking for. But too often, I'm disappointed by overly graphic lyrics that spell out what I'd prefer to hear suggested subtly.

I'm looking at you, Miguel. Love your songs, but not the trashy lyrics.

Then I heard Devon's second single, "Get Out and Get It" and it was full of '70s musical references, showing that young Devon had been well-schooled in the music of my youth. Turns out his Dad is a musician who'd made sure his son listened to lots of Stevie Wonder, Earth Wind and Fire and, perhaps most interestingly, Jimi Hendrix.

So when I saw that Devon was playing the Southern in Charlottesville, I bought tickets without even caring if I had plans that night. Nothing could top hearing that man live in that tiny room. Mac didn't hesitate to jump on board, and a plan was hatched.

After the massive thunderstorm that blew threw today, darkening the sky so that I had to turn on lights to work at 3:00 in the afternoon, the drive to the show was dry and uneventful (if you don't count Mac's penchant for speeding). After she grabbed a slice at Christian's Pizza, we made it to the Southern minutes before opener Carl Anderson took the stage, his leather guitar strap embossed with his name: CARL.

I'd seen Carl before when he opened for Sons of Bill at Capital Alehouse and like that time, his low-key sad songs reminded me of Richmond's own Jonathan Vassar, the Americana master of morose melodies and haunting songwriting. After Carl sang his first song, he took off his glasses, flung them to the stage's carpeted floor and asked of the crowd, "How the hell are you?"

For a Wednesday night crowd - most of which was wearing flip-flops and definitely not a Richmond-looking  crowd - which spanned all ages and genders, we were loud and excited to be there listening to his heartfelt Americana, accompanied only by acoustic guitar.

Don't come 'round with the devil on your breath.

He talked abut how happy he was to be playing some dates with Devon since his last tour had been, "just me in the Corolla, getting a little stoned and spending too much time in my head." Heads nodded in understanding.

"I don't know why I took my glasses off," Carl later lamented. "I can't see my set list now. I'm always making things hard on myself." Between his self-deprecation, humor ("I'm going to slow things down here, but looking at my set list, it's amazing I'm still alive. I gotta write some happy songs") and singing songs in character, he was the epitome of a Nashville troubadour.

His song "Pills," sung with a sickeningly sweet fake smile, was not, however, a happy song. And no surprise, he closed with a sad song, but we would have expected nothing less.

You could feel the excitement building during the break.

The stage was already set for Devon's band, three extremely talented (white) Nashville musicians with seriously long hair, jaw-droppingly good back-up singer voices (their harmonies with Devon were nothing short of swoon-worthy) and lots of energy, the better to support Devon's soulful voice, on display from the very first notes.

From the slow jam sound accompanied by Hendrix-like guitar parts (he switched between three different guitars) of "Full Disclosure" to the booty-shaking sound of "Dangerous," Devon had the crowd in the palm of his handsome hand from start to finish. For a musician who's only put out an EP (his full-length album is due to drop soonish), the man oozed confidence.

At one point, Mac and I looked at each other amazed that we were lucky enough to be seeing him in this tiny venue before he blows up, which he inevitably will (Capitol Records wouldn't have signed him so blindingly fast otherwise).

Things got serious when he shared a story of he and his band driving somewhere when a car hit them head-on. The experience had understandably affected him greatly and, like any good songwriter, it had shifted his attitude about life ("You gotta think about what's important in life") and he'd written a song about it called "Stranger."

"Whether someone drives into you at 80 mph or you meet someone and fall in love with them, I'm telling you that one person can completely change your life." Don't I know it. The haunting song was accompanied only by the keys.

Besides the immense talent we were witnessing, it was his (and his bandmates') genuine pleasure in performing that truly made the show. They were clearly having as much fun as we were, except they also got to show off their talent.

That's what's known as a win/win.

Telling the crowd that the band had just completed their first full-length record, Devon asked to play some of the new songs for us before he introduced "The Good Life," as a song about embracing diversity of all kinds.

I just want everyone to love one another
Do you hear what I'm sayin', sisters and brothers?

Yet another great thing about the music was that it encompassed not only plenty of slow jams but just as much hard rockin' thank to Devon's years studying Hendrix (and maybe Buddy Guy?) to shape his guitar stylings. It was never more apparent than during "Troublemaker" when he and the bass player leaned back to back to execute screaming solos together.

Everyone went crazy for his new single, "Get Out and Get It" with its Afro-beat influences. Seems he toured South Africa last year and fell hard for the Afro-beat sound.

Stop asking who's gonna light the fire
Stop asking who's gonna take you higher

I swear, between the socially conscious message and solid funk groove, it could have been the '70s all over again. Mac and I just kept grinning at each other, thrilled to witness it all. At one point, she noted, "He reminds me of Sam Cooke," referring to his heart-melting voice. Uh huh.

After introducing his bandmates, complete with mini bios and effusive compliments, the band went back to playing and Devon took his guitar-playing into the crowd, crouching low as he moved, until he was three feet in front of us. To top that, he then laid down on his back while continuing to play, smiling all the while like he was having the time of his life.

I know we were.

As if we couldn't be any more enamored of this man, when he mentioned that he'd be at the merch table after the show, he promised that he had t-shirts with his cat's picture on them. I'm not even a cat person and I found that charming.

After an hour and a half whipping the crowd into a frenzy, Devon said goodnight before returning, grinning with happiness, for the encore we demanded loudly. More, we wanted so much more.

"Think of the slow dancing days back in the '90s," he instructed. "Then find someone you want to squeeze and let's take it back!" He called his band back onstage to harmonize with him and using only a keyboard accompaniment, began something very '90s sounding that got plenty of people in the room singing along.

All my life, I prayed for someone like you
And I hope that you do love me, too
And I hope you feel the same way, too

Mac's guesses were Boyz 2 Men or New Kids on the Block and I admit I hadn't a clue. Actually, I couldn't have cared less, since anytime this man was singing, I was all ears, whether I recognized it or not. My only (teeny, tiny) regret was that he didn't sing "High," the song that introduced me to him.

Driving home through patches of light fog, I had en epiphany. The good news was we'd just seen a rising star in a room the size of my apartment. The bad news is we know with absolute certainty we'll never get to see him in such a small venue again. And you know what they say: you gotta take the good with the bad.

Do you hear what I'm sayin', sisters and brothers?

Love Letters and Alcohol

One of these things was not like the other.

Namely, me.

But when a friend offered me a ticket to the Sons of Bill show at Capital Ale House tonight, I figured why not?

I'd heard a few of their alt-rock songs on WNRN, as well as a couple by Carl Anderson (the opener) and live music on a Saturday night is an inalienable right, no?

When I arrived just before Anderson began, the room looked about two thirds full, but that quickly grew to cpacity.

T-shirts seen in the crowd: The Hold Steady, Deftones and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

My friend and I made our way to the front, leaning on the long wooden divider near the stage to watch.

A guy from Virginia Beach came over and chatted us up, saying he was a big SoB fan and had seen them many times, as had my friend.

Both proceeded to school me.

Three brothers fronted this band: James and Sam on guitars and Abe on keyboards, along with (non brothers) Seth on bass and Richmonder Todd on drums.

When he began, Anderson was lucky to have so many people already in attendance for his set and he said as much.

He played one song because, "When the mother of three of the guys in the headlining band asks you to play a song, you play it. This is for Barbara."

We weren't the only ones in the crowd who got a kick out his "Twenty-something Blues," a song written because "I recently experienced them."

I'm trying to remember what was worth feeling blue about when I was a 20-something.

Sample lyric: "Ever since my baby left, I can't find no place to call home."

He covered a song called "Losers" by L.A. band Bell Brigade before wrapping up his short set.

Just before SoB got started, my friend had the idea that we should mount the divider, the better to afford two short women a good vantage point.

She hoisted herself up easily enough, but I was a bit more hesitant given I was wearing a dress and the divider was fairly high.

The problem was solved when I inquired of the guy standing in front of us wearing two cameras if I could borrow his knee.

Turns out he couldn't bend down, but his able-bodied son was more than willing to do what was needed.

Will you get down on one knee like you're proposing to me, I asked sweetly.

A quick step on his knee and I was sitting atop the divider, able to see over tall men.

Our new Virginia Beach friend circled back around, observing, "Found yourselves some good seats, I see."

He introduced himself and we had a new best friend named Stewart.

A few minutes later, another girl hoisted herself up to join us, but she lasted only a couple of minutes.

When I asked why she got down, she said, "The divider felt a little shaky when I got up there. Plus I wanted to be closer to him," and pointed at her man.

True love at Cap Ale House.

It was clear from the crowd's reaction when Sons of Bill came onstage that there were a lot of long-time fans there.

"Can we dim the lights?" lead singer James immediately asked. "It feels a little cafeteria in here."

Honestly, it was fairly dim throughout the room with the only major lighting on stage.

As they moved through their set, it didn't take me long to figure out that I was probably the only person in the room who had never seen SoB before.

One time, they got as far as the first three notes when my friend asked of Stewart, "Is this 'The Rain'?"

It must have been because they smiled and nodded at each other once it began fully.

Even with limited song recognition skills, it didn't take any effort to fall in love with Sam's stellar guitar playing.

While some of the songs came across more alt-country, so far as I could tell, this was a guitar-driven band who rocked hard.

Bonus: there is nothing like the sound of siblings harmonizing and these three were gorgeous together.

James did most of the leads, with Sam and Abe each taking a couple of songs.

One of the rabid SoB fans next to me informed me that Sam had gone to Julliard and been a jazz guitarist, although tonight he was more of a rock god.

I did recognize "Broken Bottles," a song about love letters and alcohol with lap steel accompaniment, with its memorable lyric:

Hank Williams might have been a lovesick drinker
But being a lovesick drunk don't make you Hank

Come on, them's words to live by.

Because of my SoB virgin status, I was unable to join in when everyone began singing along.

The crowd chorus got especially loud after James exhorted us to, "See if you can sing louder than Charleston did the other night," causing James to grin and say, "Sweet!" when the volume rose.

During another song, the guy in front of me was telling strangers, "This song is about my high school," so I guessed he went to school with one or some of the sons.

Sample lyric: Go down to King Street and find myself a queen

The energy in the room was terrific, no doubt aided by a lot of fans from Charlottesville and points beyond (like our new BFF Stewart).

"We played D.C. last night and it was a great show," James said, "If you can put up with D.C."

The tone of his voice conveyed that they'd prefer not to.

After a gospel song testified mightily by brother Abe and his keys, we got a treat.

"Let's take a little adventure to 1988," James enthused. "I was four."

Amid audience groans (four, really?) the band launched into REM's "Finest Work Song" and I couldn't have been more surprised or tickled.

It was the best kind of cover, too, with SoB making it their own, taking it and running with it way past the REM four-minute mark.

Let's just say Sam's playing would have made Peter Buck proud.

And I say that as someone who heard REM do it in 1989.

Side note: Fully half the crowd showed absolutely no recognition of the song whatsoever.

Weird.

Before doing a song from their new album, "Sirens," James said, "We recorded it with Dave Lowery of Cracker right here in Richmond, so we ate at Nick's a lot. Any of you know Nick's?"

Know it? I live two blocks from it. I consider it part of the heart of my neighborhood.

I was the lone person to respond when he asked the question, but my voice was lost among the talkers.

"Best sandwiches around," James informed the clueless crowd.

All I could do was clap in agreement.

J-Ward, represent.

Earlier, James had commented that the girls down in front of the stage were always the same, no matter what the city.

It didn't sound like a compliment to me.

But when it came time to close the show, he threw one of them a bone.

"You guys have been great," he said. "All except you. You've been right in front of my microphone all night. But that's okay, cause we're going to play 'Texas," and she all but fainted, apparently having yelled out for it repeatedly all night.

The kick-ass song about a Virginia boy needing to get the hell out of Texas name-checked several cities ("Got my butt kicked in a bar outside Abilene" and "I wasn't strange enough to fit in in Austin, I soon found out") and had the crowd in ecstasy.

And while the narrow divider had not been the most comfortable seat for the past two hours, my view had been stellar.

True, I'd probably been the only first-timer hearing Sons of Bill.

And I'd definitely been the only Jackson Ward resident if no one else knew Nick's.

Doesn't matter. I can always appreciate a tight band displaying superior musicianship and harmonizing in full-on rock mode.

But as someone who was a tad older than four in 1988, it was especially an unexpected delight to hear REM re-interpreted by a band of Virginia boys.

I sang along to every word.

Seems I ended up fitting in just fine.