Sweet Caroline, Love Will Tear Us Apart

Good thing I already have the big hair. Today was a day which both began and ended in the '80s.

First on my to-do list was to take a man who has been been known to pick me up in his car with Neil Diamond playing to see a Neil tribute band. That's right, the always enjoyable Diamond Heist was playing their monthly musical residency at Cary Street Cafe.

Arriving early enough to stake two choice seats at the end of the bar, we ordered lunch minutes before the show began.

"We're the Shivers and it's 1989," singer Will announced. "Everyone's 25 years younger, but it won't last." A guy walking toward the door to smoke on the patio looked up and commented as he passed, "I had hair."

Sweetheart, we all had things in 1989 we no longer have. I'm willing to bet that some of the women in the room could still pass the pencil test back then.

The band played through original and cover material, including "Dear Prudence," with references to drummer Rick 's house where the back door was always unlocked. Farcically, Will also thanked the Diamond Center for allowing the band to play. "I pulled some strings."

After playing "Vancouver," Will joked, "That was our stealth hit." After playing "89," he hit it again. "That was our second stealth hit." Hits or not, they looked to be having a good time playing together.

During the break, we were chowing down on black bean nachos (my date supplemented with a sandwich) when a guy appeared next to me looking anxious. "I left my card here last night," he told the bartender. "It's red."

Were you drunk, I inquired. "Yea, it's about the tenth time I've done that here." Sounds like someone has a bit of a problem.

When the girl returned with his card, she informed him they'd given themselves a 20% tip on last night's tab. "I'd have given you that much," he gushed, clearly relieved at retrieving it.

The first thing Will announced when he and Diamond Heist took the stage was that today was the one-year anniversary of their gig at Cary Street. Unfortunately, there was no cake to celebrate.

Instead, there were lots of Neil Diamond songs the band had learned since I'd seen them last - "Desiree," "You Got to Me" ( a fave of my seatmate), "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" - and new bad jokes.

After doing "Red, Red Wine," Will reminded the room to tip their bartenders. "And on that note, order a drink." What drink, singer Rebecca asked, playing along. "Love on the Rocks!" and another classic song began.

Drummer Dean was in the hospital, so the crowd was instructed to send good vibes his way, while fill-in (and Shivers') drummer Ricky had learned 34 songs in four days to fill in. The guy did a helluva job.

As I pointed out to my companion, part of the pleasure of a Diamond Heist show is watching the arc of the crowd as they move from straight through loopy to drunk. It didn't take long before people were dancing, some slow dancing and others doing the pony like it was 1967.

A guy in a jean jacket, sleeves cut off, came in to pay his tab and I couldn't help but notice his jacket had a Mt. Calvary Cemetery patch. Since I've walked through that place, I asked why he had it. "I used to live there," he said sullenly as if that explained it.

It was during what Will had called the Neil Diamond polka - the song "Beautiful Noise (nerd alert: I had the album) - while I was chair dancing and having a ball that a stranger came up to me and whispered in my ear, "You have the best legs in the whole place."

I shared that with my date, who kindly confirmed it.

By now, I know I can count on the barn-burner "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show" to be the last song of the last set, but today we got a surprise. As is typical, there are always celebrants at a Diamond Heist show and why not, given the feel-good vibes and guaranteed dancing that accompanies their gigs?

Today we had a woman celebrating her birthday and a couple celebrating one month of wedded bliss (good luck with that) plus someone named Jenny who'd requested a song, a request they saved till last.

That's when drummer Ricky proved his range by not only drumming but by doing lead vocals on "867-5309/Jenny," which got all the drunk women on the floor and gave the rest of us flashbacks to 1982. In a good way, I mean.

I always have a terrific time at a Diamond heist show, so my concern was that the one I'd brung did, too, a fact he confirmed as we left, although his delicate ears were still bleeding from the volume. Since I ruined my ears years ago with overly loud shows, the level hadn't even registered with me after the opening notes of "Forever in Blue Jeans."

After my date dropped me off, I had less than an hour to get ready and over to the Visual Arts Center for Ian Curtis' birthday celebration. Although, does it count as a celebration if the birthday boy has been dead for 35 years?

I walked in to find several musician friends, helped myself to a bag of free popcorn and took a seat with a great view.

The James River Film Society was showing the documentary "Joy Division" along with a couple of experimental films made by VCU film professor Mike Jones back in his student days in...you guessed it, the early '80s.

Jones had been a huge Joy Division fan and influenced by the band when he as making the films. The titles say it all: "Dead Love" and "Dead Friends." The former had been made after a break-up with his girlfriend and was pretty much a poem about his sadness set to black and white images shot at Belle Isle and narrated by trumpeter Paul Watson, whom I've seen many times.

After the second short about a friend who'd died in a car crash, I used the break to look at the outstanding collection of Joy Division records, singles and books on display in the back. Jones posited that their striking album art had probably caused scores of young people to go into communication arts.

Yea, and the rest to form bands.

Tonight's main feature was "Joy Division," a documentary about the seminal band and when better to show it than for lead singer Ian Curtis' birthday? I'd seen the film "Control" a few years ago when the James River Film society had shown it, but Jones said the documentary was better.

Honestly, when isn't a documentary better than a retelling of fact?

This one benefited from scads of fabulous footage of early shows and photo shoots of the four very young men from Manchester who saw an early Sex Pistols show at the Electric Circus and all resolved to form a band.

It didn't hurt that they were all talented and hard-working, none less than Curtis, the lyricist and singer whose frenetic moves onstage were mesmerizing. With the energy of punk and literary-based lyrics expressing complex emotions, they were a sensation almost from the start.

The most challenging part of the film was understanding the extremely thick accents of the musicians, producers and managers who were the talking heads of the film. Once I got past that, it was fascinating.

His wife refused to participate in the making of the film, but his lover agreed and her commentary was some of the most telling about Curtis' difficulties dealing with epilepsy and not wanting to let the band down." Onstage, it was like he was plugged into electric voltage. He was completely outside of himself."

Hardest to understand was how no one in the band paid any attention to the tortured lyrics he was writing or they might have had a clue how bad off he was. The band members admitted to not even listening to the words, a fact which is incomprehensible to someone like me who focuses on the words to a song.

The thing with a documentary is that you know going in how it will end, but you still get completely caught up in the information.

Because who could have imagined that he could have written as brilliant a pop song as "Love Will Tear Us Apart" in a mere three hours? Or that a member of the band would have been told that he'd committed suicide and gone ahead with his Sunday lunch? Or opted out of going to his funeral? Or that the name "Joy Division" came from the name the Nazis gave their military officers' brothel?

Of course it was a fabulous soundtrack because it was all Joy Division, impossible to hear without inadvertently hearing the hundreds of bands who have aped their style or Curtis' distinctive vocals in the ensuing years since his suicide in 1980.

As Neil Diamond sang back in the '70s, done too soon.

Play It Now

I had a bit of an obsession about seeing the windows.

After hearing a lecture about Sheltering Arms Hospital and its 71-year history on Clay Street, here, I'd been dead curious about seeing those operating room windows that used to be opened during surgery, admitting fresh air and flies.

The notion of such a thing alone got me to the Grant mansion today where the fine folks at Sheltering Arms were offering guided tours of the rooms, complete with costumed interpreters.

As we gathered for the first tour, the crowd was asked if anyone had been born at Sheltering Arms and, lo and behold, two people in the group had.

We were led from room to room where black and white enlargements of of photographs showed the original look and configuration of the spaces and people dressed in old nurses' uniforms (and one man portraying Dr. Hunter McGuire)  told us about the staff they were portraying.

The nursing superintendent told us about how strict she was but also about how she'd broken the law by setting a fire on the roof to stop crows from nesting up there.

We saw the short-term ward, the original columns now mostly covered over with walls and the pharmacy, originally lined with wooden shelves holding bottles of donated drugs.

Best of all, I got to climb the steps to the third floor and see the former operating room and the windows that had once been used for ventilation during surgery.

At the lecture, we'd been told that the view from those windows facing east stretched for miles but today's view as cluttered with nearby buildings.

Still, I got to see what I'd come to see.

We finished out that floor with a trip to the nursery, just off the hallway that led to the nurses' residence, another facet I'd been struck by.

Aren't you always on call when you live where you work?

Leaving the medical past behind and well satisfied at having gotten a glimpse of what had been only hearsay before, I motored west to meet Pru for brunch and music at Cary Street Cafe.

Everyone's favorite Neil Diamond cover band, Diamond Heist, was playing all afternoon, with "Kentucky Woman" being performed when we got there.

It was already a full house with a small bridal party in tiaras, a steady stream of smokers leaving to go out front to puff and lots of fans of the band.

During "Soolaimon," the two women next to me instructed me to guard their stools while they went out to smoke. They were bigger than me, so I did what they told me to.

After ordering black bean nachos, lead singer Will announced, "We're Diamond Heist and thanks for being here because it would be lame without you guys."

I was happy to hear they now have a residency at Cary Street, performing every third Saturday of the month.

"Any first timers?" he asked the noisy group and a few people raised their hands. "These are for you!" and they launched into "I Am, I Said" and "Sweet Caroline," causing a raucous singalong.

When the set ended, he promised some surprises in the second set, including full frontal nudity.

Surprisingly, some people still chose to leave during the break. Not us. If twigs and berries were a possibility, Pru and I were going to hold tight our seats.

In the meantime we ate lunch - my nachos and her French onion soup - and listened to Will explain that they needed to increase their repertoire of Neil Diamond songs, which, he told us, are hard songs.

The second set began with "Hello Again" and took off with "Cherry, Cherry" after he said, "It could be called "Kerry, Kerry" and screams went up from a group of women who began dancing in the aisles.

"Red, Red Wine" elicited the observation, "Red, red wine or yellowish mimosas," a nod to all the pitchers full of mimosas standing on tables around the room.

Lit cupcakes were marched up to the drummer Dean, celebrating his 32nd birthday and the whole room serenaded him with "Happy Birthday."

Someone requested "the "ET" song - "Heartlight" and Will admitted, "That's one on the "need-to-learn" list. This is one that was requested and we know it. That's a nice confluence there."

It was the rabble-rousing "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show" and it had the keyboard player testifying mid-song.

Referencing this week's crowd-sourced Foo Fighters' show, he suggested the next crowd-sourced show should be Neil Diamond at the Diamond. Kind of brilliant.

"So we flipped the coin on the full frontal nudity ting and decided it was a really bad idea. There's not enough mimosas in the building for that."

They had a photographer there snapping pics for their Facebook page, so Pru and I smiled for the camera before she inched behind some big guy who barely moved to let her pass, saying to us and pointing to her breasts, "These puppies need more room. Want some?"

Um, no thanks, I have some of my own.

"I'm a Believer" and "Coming to America" got the crowd singing along on the chorus and for "Holly Holy," Will invited us to sing along or shake our moneymaker.

By then Pru was tired of sitting and wanted to exit, but I insisted we wait for "Cracklin' Rose," with the room screaming "Play it now!" in between sipping beer and talking to friends.

"We're going to close with a song we played earlier but had a request for,"Solitary Man," Will said. "It's related to full frontal nudity."

Only tangentially, I might add.

Floating Above It

There is no end to how small a town this can seem.

It happens all the time - I see a gallerist or restaurant person in the grocery story and they're so out of context that it takes me a sec to place them.

How there's never more than a few degrees of separation between anyone in this town.

Case in point: I am meeting a friend at his house and while waiting for his girlfriend to show up, he puts on a cassette tape of a band he was in back in the late '90s.

I spot a familiar face. The woman singing in the band is someone I knew a lifetime ago.

Funny how that happens.

Once his beloved arrived, we strolled over to Pomegranate, a neighborhood restaurant for them but one they'd never been to.

I consider it essential to know about any restaurant that I can easily walk to and from. I was assisting them with research.

On the way, I spotted Bertha, a woman whose backyard had backed up to mine for the 13 years I lived on Floyd Avenue.

Bertha had been old when I'd moved there in 1993 and I knew she'd lost her husband of 70-some years just a couple of years ago.

But there she was, sitting on the porch of the house she'd moved to during WW II.

Even though I moved away eight years ago, she remembered me almost at once and hugged me, eager to chat.

It didn't take long for her to brag about being 93 (she doesn't look a day over 80) and I asked her point blank if she attributed part of her longevity to her long, happy marriage.

She did and admitted she still misses him every day. "I was lost without him," she said.

It was a kind of wonderful flashback talking to Bertha after so long. Our lives had been intertwined for over a dozen years.

She'd lent me her lawn mower before I had one (her husband always reminded me not to cut the lawn in flip-flops), taught me how to make squash fritters with the abundance she grew at the rear of my back yard and was, in general, the neighborhood busybody.

When my friends started ahem-ing to get me off her porch and walking to Pomegranate again, I hugged her goodbye.

"Come back again soon!" she admonished as I re-joined my dinner companions.

You know, I think I will. That's a woman with some great stories and I'd like to be the one to hear them.

When we got to the restaurant, every patio table was taken, but there was plenty of room in the main dining room which was suffering a wilting sonic attack from a group of  30-something women catching up on each other's lives.

Let's just say I heard the words "wedding" and "pregnancy" a lot.

We massed around the end of the bar so as to hear one another talk.

From bread served with salty high quality butter to salad to ravioli, blue fish two ways and twice fried quail over mashed potatoes, my friends were seduced by Pomegranate's food.

At one point, he compared her satisfied food moans to those of Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally," high praise indeed.

The closer was Pomegranate's version of bananas foster and, for the chocoholics among us, chocolate pate with figs and berries.

When our server delivered the chocolate pate, he was quick to point out the locally grown Black Mission figs.

Took them off of somebody's tree, didn't you? I inquired.

"We totally did," he said quickly and honestly.

I'm just happy to eat figs; I don't worry much about whose tree they were plucked from. Call me old school.

The pate tasted as if it had been made with that same decadent high fact butter as we'd been slathering on bread, meaning the rooves of our mouths were soon slick with fat. Mmm.

Friend pointed out that the bananas foster didn't taste as if it had been lit (he's cocky because he'd made four of them in a night once), but was nonetheless exquisite in its rich banana creaminess.

By then, not only the patio had cleared out, but the final trio of the get-together threw in the towel and went home to their pre-fab lives.

We were the last. Walking home down Auburn, I pointed out that a block away, my father had been born.

That was a long time ago in a galaxy far away.

After my friends went home to their beds and early wake-up calls, I made one last stop at Cary Street Cafe to hear Fear of Music.

Josh Small did a couple of songs to finish out the opening set while I joined the people began pouring in.

Spotted a restaurant manager, a bartender, an editor, a banjo player and who knows who else among the expectant looking crowd.

Once the all-Talking Heads extravaganza began, it didn't take long for the room to become a mass of people dancing or at the very least, dancing in place.

All except three I saw, who inexplicably managed to remain stationary while some of the danciest music since Kool & the Gang (whom David Byrne once earnestly cited as the band's main inspiration) tried to wind its way into their body.

I don't understand. When you're hearing "Psycho Killer" or "And She Was" or "Drugs," the human body just wants to move.

Didn't we prove that back in the '70s?

A friend was charmed when a guy began filling the room with hundreds of bubbles raining down on the dancing masses, an effect I might have seen in a couple other decades.

She and I have been saying for ages that we were going to schedule a night out together and here we'd shown up for the same late show on a Tuesday night.

When the town's small enough, you don't even have to make plans. We're just not that big and it's kind of grand.

I'll say it loud and proud...I guess that this must be the place.

Ready to Commit

Good times never seemed so good as a Sunday with nothing more than music on the menu.

Not willing to wait for today's date to get ready, I showed up all but unannounced with a bottle of Kuentz-Bas Riesling and a good attitude.

On the agenda for today was brunch with Diamond Heist at Cary Street Cafe and I intended to catch as much of the band as possible. Except that once we cracked the bottle of spicy and lush mouth-watering Riesling, the "dressing drink" period took away some of the urgency, if you know what I mean.

Eventually, we made it to Cary Street Cafe where an almost full house was swinging to the sounds of classic Neil Diamond songs, which I'm totally into.

I could blame it on my parents who took me to a Neil Diamond concert in 1979 or I could just admit that I appreciate the man's Tin Pan Alley talent and leave it at that.

We found seats at the bar, right in front of the "I See Drunk People" sign and to the right of the ice cold Jagermiester shots tap, appropriating a stool from a nearby table where it was being wasted as a purse holder.

"This is a song about a chair," lead singer Will joked before I began sipping my 1800 to "I Am, I Said."

I think it was while I was eating my Brazilian black bean soup that a photographer appeared and began shooting pictures of people at the bar, saying, "I wait till food gets near the mouth." You know, because few things are as attractive as people chewing.

Nudging me, my date whispered, "See, I told you it was a Dead bar," pointing at a skull behind the bar. Do I care about the Dead when "Sweet Caroline" is being sung? Or ever? I do not.

Unfortunately, we'd arrived not long before the band's break and while it gave us an opportunity to eat, the bonus was that Will (aka Neil) was working the room and stopped by to chat.

His "diamond"-encrusted collar and initial applique didn't go half as far at establishing his Neil credibility as his voice did, with the same distinctive low, gravel-filled sound that defined all those hits.

Once Diamond Heist took the stage again, we heard "Hello Again" and "Holly, Holy," two classics.

But, as Will pointed out, one thing Neil was known for was writing for other singers, so they then did "Red, Red Wine."

After the melancholy "Solitary Man," Will quipped, "If you didn't notice Rebecca's vibraslap solo, she'll do it again." What's key there is that I now know what that thing is called.

Introducing "If You Know What I Mean," off the "Beautiful Noise" album (yep, have it on vinyl), he called it "an oddly arranged album produced by Robbie Robertson." Afterwards, the drummer cracked, "We're going to call a mulligan on that one. Who wrote the set list?"

"Music is hard," Will told us before doing "Shiloh" (dubbing it afterwards, "Success with an awkward moment there"). Meanwhile, a girl came in, sat down at the bar and was handed a copy of a crossword puzzle with no words exchanged.

She worked diligently on it for 15 minutes, slid it across the bar and then turned to watch the band as if her work here was now finished.

"If anyone knows how to polka, this is the standard Neil Diamond polka song," he said about the song, "Beautiful Noise,"

And with what is probably the finest band solicitation I've ever heard, Will announced, "Like most fourteen year olds, we're on Facebook, so if you're ready to commit, we have a page."

How did we commit before the Facebook era anyway?

I'd have to say my only regret of the afternoon was not dancing to "I'm a Believer," but you can be sure that'll never happen again. We live, we learn.

During "Coming to America," the crowd got seriously into it (or perhaps were sufficiently drunk by then) to shout "today!" along with the band. "You are too kind," the drummer said at the end. "Because I f*cked that last one up."

The guy was hysterical.

The final offering, "Song Sung Blue," was a full-on singalong but the crowd was unwilling to accept that the fun was over.

"We literally know one more Neil Diamond song," Will said, half apologetically and they tore into "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show," a killer closer.

I mean, really. Who else on earth could sell a line such as, "Pack up the babies and grab the old ladies"? Who? No one but Neil, that's who.

After I saw a few songs of a Diamond Heist show a few weeks ago, I was telling a friend how much I'd enjoyed it and how I intended to go back and see them again. She was incredulous.

"You? You, Miss Must Have New Music, Miss Hates Classic Rock likes a Neil Diamond cover band? Who are you and what have you done with Karen?"

Please. The songs are classic '60s and '70s pop and, as far as I'm concerned, a blast to hear played live.

My parents would be so proud.

Once the band was finished there, so were we. With a couple hours to kill before the next band I wanted to go see, we decided a bottle of Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose and a cheese plate in the garden were in order.

Besides investigating the four kinds of mint - apple, pepper, spear and lemon - growing back there (a regular mojito garden) we got into a philosophical discussion of the proper length of time in a relationship before a man should propose.

My friend had some real life experience to back up her opinion about the danger of a man waiting too long to ask. You snooze, you lose, according to her.

When we left for Commercial Taphouse, we detoured through an alley where I was enchanted to see the most magnificent alley garden I've ever witnessed. And this town has some doozies.

This guy's beds, containers and trellises were breathtaking, with lisianthus (which I've always found tough to grow), stargazer lilies, bougainvillea, orchids, and the first artichoke plants I'd ever seen. Oh, yes, and zinnia,s gourds, tomatoes, herbs and who knows what all.

He had it all - topiary, bee hives, statuary, a koi pond, espaliered fruit trees- and apparently the time to maintain it all because everything looked lush and beautiful, as if we weren't in the middle of a dry spell.

Tearing ourselves away from his wonderland, we continued on, coming across two guys sitting at a table behind McCormack's Whisky Grill who wanted to know where we were headed.

Luckily for us, they approved of us going to Commercial for music and let us pass.

We managed to nab the last table inside (after two grown men apparently raised by wolves snatched the table we were headed for) where Loversville was already breaking hearts and twanging hard, the pedal steel just wringing out every aching note as lead singer Cassandra and her beehive held down the vintage look.

Having seen them before, I was more than ready for old school country music a la Patsy Cline, George Jones, and Everly Brothers. You know, gems like "It's the Bottle Talking,""I'll Do My Crying in the Rain" and the always popular "Pick Me Up On Your Way Down."

They just don't write 'em like that anymore, do they?

"We got an accordion in the house," Cassandra said and we were treated to a drop-in accordion player on the next few songs. Next thing we knew, the pedal steel player switched to fiddle and it was practically a jamboree.

In tribute to Tommy Ramone's recent demise, they even did a Ramones song, at which point my friend told me she'd seen them at the Boathouse in Norfolk in 1993. I had no idea.

The things you find out about a person when you spend seven hours with them.

Or maybe that was just the bottle talking.

Make It Up as We Go Along

If the measure of a good end to an evening is a sweaty dress, I scored big time.

After a particularly complimentary date invitation, we wound up at Acacia, which was nearly empty, not necessarily a bad thing after my last couple of exceedingly crowded nights there.

Beginning light and bright (Hollerer Gruner Veltliner), the evening unfolded with shared stories while men in business attire clustered awkwardly at the bar to drink before retiring to tables.

The music playing was interesting enough to catch my ear - Fly Golden Eagle was a major highlight - an unexpected plus at a place known for middle eastern trance music.

Eventually bowing to our server's pressure, we decided to go prix fixe, which for me meant a well-executed salad of roasted beets, goat cheese, mixed lettuces and balsamic vinaigrette followed by two tempura-fried softshell crabs over cheddar grits and sauteed kale in a lemon  butter sauce while my date went with a buttery petite filet.

In no hurry to rush the evening, we moved on to Mas de la Dame Rose about the same time another couple at the bar did (copycats!) and called them out on it. They took the criticism, smiled and drank the pink wine nonetheless.

My dessert was chocolate cake (which came across more like a brownie, so perhaps it was a cake brownie) with brown sugar ice cream and chocolate almond streusel but I had no compunction about tasting my date's molasses cake with sweet carrot mousse, cream cheese ice cream and candied pecans, a delicious alternative to chocolate, although not quite as wonderful as gingerbread.

After discussion of dive bars on Collington Road, the weather forecast and heads too big to get out of restaurant doors, we finished up with bubbles before ending a mighty fine date.

But I knew that after a stellar 9 1/2 hours of sleep last night, sleep was not forthcoming so I headed to Cary Street Cafe for some cover bands. Judging by the crowd, I wasn't the only one with that idea.

It was my first time hearing Diamond Heist, a Neil Diamond cover band and it didn't take long to make me sorry I'd missed part of their set.

Luckily, I got to hear "I'm a Believer," "Coming to America" and, most importantly, "Sweet Caroline," a song that had the crowd shouting along in unison.

Good times never seemed so good
I feel inclined 
to believe they never could

When they came offstage, I told the singer how much I'd enjoyed their set and he responded by saying, "You're Karen from the Times Dispatch, right?"

Wow, that was another lifetime ago, but yes, that would be me.

We talked about Neil Diamond and I was amazed to learn that he hadn't known the songs before the band began. Clearly, he's not as chronologically challenged as me.

People poured in before Fear of Music, a Talking Heads cover band, took the stage. I've seen them before, so I knew to expect hits and deep cuts, all note perfect and that's what they delivered.

I saw lots of familiar faces - the editor, the DJ, the National employee, the man about town- but also lots of people too young to have been alive when this music came out. Surely it was the songs that had sucked them in.

"Life in Wartime," "Take Me to the River, "(Nothing But) Flowers," they nailed song after song and it took no time at all before I was one of the people dancing to every note.

Before long, I marched up to the man about town and told him he needed to join me for dancing and he was agreeable enough to accommodate, bringing his beer to my space in front of the band.

From there, it was a free for all, with wild dancing going on to "Burning Down the House, "Road to Nowhere" and "Wild, Wild Life." There's no other way to react to that music.

Of course, my favorite is "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)" and you better believe I sang and danced to every word.

I can't tell one from the other
Did I find you or you find me?
There was a time before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be, where I'll be

During the break between sets, the man about town got me water and explained that he could only stay for one or two more songs.

Six songs later, I reminded him of his words and we left not long before their last song.

My dress was as sweaty as his shirt and we agreed that everything on our bodies needed to make a direct line to the washing machine.

Cover up and say good night. Good night.

FILO and Funk

All I can say is thank goodness I have friends who stay in town for Thanksgiving so they can go out with me on Thanksgiving Eve when RVA is all but deserted.

Our adventure began at Bonvenu, and we were the first customers to arrive around 7ish.

The three of us staked out one end of the bar and saved a chair for the latecomer.

Knowing her inability to be punctual, we also went ahead and ordered wine.

Described as "aromas of red berries followed by notes of bell peppers," the 2007 Saint-Vincent Baron Bordeaux had a nice, long finish and gave us something with which to kick off our pre-holiday evening.

Just in case the tardy one was further delayed, we asked for the Fried Oysters Rockefeller over smoked bacon creamed spinach with lemon cream sauce and the sausage plate, featuring spicy andouille sausage, boudin blanc and sweet Italian sausage, served with Vermont white cheddar, mini buttermilk biscuits and fig jam.

I loved the variation on Oysters Rockefeller, deconstructed as it was, and all three of us found satisfaction in the sausage varieties.

I spread the little biscuits with jam to provide the sweet complement to my salty sausage.

Meanwhile, a woman came in for dinner, explaining that she was waiting for her husband to arrive. They had met at The Track eleven years ago and transferred their dinner dates to Bonvenu once it replaced that venerable institution.

Actually, I had a memorable first date at The Track, but it didn't result in an eleven-year relationship.

We had demolished that course and were finishing up the wine when a second bottle was ordered and our friend finally put in an appearance.

She was sorry to have missed the sausage, but we explained that people need sustenance waiting 50 minutes for a friend to show.

Just saying.

The music was interesting and, because it was the bartender's iPod, reflected quite the variety in music.

It's not often you hear The Archies on the same mix as Gorillaz (although an argument could be made for the comic/cartoon band connection).

When I teased her about how so much of her music was way older than she was, she skipped to Broken Bells and Andrew Bird to defend herself.

Hey, I'm not here to judge, just to comment (go ahead, Andrew, say it).

For dinner I had the French onion soup baked with garlic croutons (no kissing tonight) and Provolone, a satisfying and warm course after the oysters and sausage.

It was the first time I'd seen the one friend since deciding to take on the dating world, but unlike others with whom I'd shared this momentous and slow-arriving decision, he barely reacted.

No high-fiving, no "Finally!" comments, no nothing.

It was only after the tardy one prodded him to comment about the big news that he expressed his opinion.

Making an analogy about himself and his slow return to dating, he told me, "Eventually you have to stop howling at the moon."

Eventually I do.

We had just ordered dessert (one chocolate torte with ice cream, one chocolate pate with whipped cream, four forks) when in walked the Native Virginian, the man who had met me not long ago and tried to sweep me off my feet by inviting me to 1) Dublin and 2) church.

I will say it was a novel approach at attempting to woo a stranger.

When the third bottle of wine was empty and the chocolate plates licked clean, we realized we'd been the first customers in and the last out; just calls us FILOs.

At that point, we said goodnight to the attempted wooer and beat feet to Cary Street Cafe for music.

Playing tonight were the New Belgians, a collective of Richmond musicians (including Scott Clark, probably my favorite local jazz drummer) playing a funky, soulful, jazzy pastiche that hearkens back to a 70s groove.

Brass, thumping bass, lots of percussion, guitars (sometimes even lap steel) and occasional vocals had the crowd dancing around the stage; I saw several guys walk in the front door, pause momentarily and immediately begin bopping their heads to the music.

Sucked in upon entry they were.

In the middle of one song, an annoying and shrill sound began to compete with the music, but clearly not in time to it.

Apparently the smoke machine had set off the smoke detector; the door guy tried fanning it but finally realized that the smoke machine would just have to go. Bummer.

What's neo-70s funk without smokey effects?

It's damn good music on a night when there could easily have been no music at all given the scarcity of people still in town.

They were calling tonight their "Boom Thanksgiving" show.

Note to those not there tonight: band was booming.