Just a June Cleaver

I probably don't come across like the apron type. Tonight I was.

Actually, the evening began, as so many good ones do, with music. In a park. Just before sunset. It featured a piano brought over from Jackson Ward.

And lots of friends. Mr. Mount Vernon, in town to do radio, immediately calls my name. The resident ballet expert, worn out. The harmonium queen, sharing how she'd finagled permission to sing in a VMFA Hindu gallery. Senor Songwriting, watching intently. The dance party king was only spotted from a distance, constantly busy taking photographs with his camera.

The piano was delivered to the enclosed grassy park and Chris Dowhan, in a seasonal blue plaid shirt, was introduced. As he began playing, the birds in the trees around us took up a cheeping chorus. "That song was by Josh Ritter. Anyone know who he is? It's called 'Another New World."

From there on, it was all original material and eventually crickets replace birds as the accompanists. He told us that a friend was supposed to play with him but he'd dropped out at the last minute. "So here we are."

Even after admitting he was getting cold, he played one last piece before the crowd of 3 or 4 dozen broke up, wandering off into the fall night. These shows always end just after nightfall; it's planned that way.

Which conveniently allowed time for me to join friends for dinner.

I'd been invited for fried chicken night and, despite having had fried chicken 48 hours ago, was looking forward to more. My host had begun buttermilk- brining the chicken last night in anticipation of our dinner party, having chosen the recipe because it appeared in both Martha Stewart and the Times-Dispatch, which, I might point out, could almost be considered an axis of evil.

Having had cooking dinner parties with these two before, I know what my role is. I corral the troops, assign jobs and coordinate to make sure everything is coming along simultaneously. It's not tough because I was born to boss.

In no time, I'm handed a glass of Cote des Roses and pointed in the direction of the recipe clipping attached to a standing book. Simple enough, but I am not dressed for frying chicken, even if my dress is a $3 thrift store find.

When I grab a dish towel (we grew up calling them "tea towels") to tuck into the shoulders of my dress to protect it, I wish for an apron. Voila! The host is soon tying one around my waist and not just a yellow, red and black beauty, but an apron made from a Siegel's Ham that came out of the trunk of a car.*

*He recalls his family driving to meet a man on Christmas Day and the man taking a Siegel's ham out of the trunk to give to his Dad. "My mother used every scrap of that ham and bone," he brags, 50 years later. "And she made an apron out of the bag!"

It may as well be the Eisenhower years again, with this perky little apron tied in a bow over my polka dot dress. Mamie would be proud.

I'm ready to work.

Coating is combined, chicken parts are dredged and oil is heated. I'm reminded of the years my Richmond grandmother lived with us and our frequent Sunday dinners of fried chicken. She would wait 'till everyone had had breakfast and then begin the lengthy process of frying enough chicken for nine people.

That was me tonight, without the weekly practice. But it's not that different from riding a bike once you get back in the rhythm of it. Or - dare I say it? - maybe the right apron provides the juju.

While the host begins the frying, he is soon over it, handing off utensils and placing me in full command.

You can be sure many jokes were cracked about the last time I fried chicken (don't have to), along with a desire to photograph the spectacle (didn't happen). But the chicken got fried.

The music was every bit as good as the meal because I discovered Bob Moses, described by my host as sounding like "Talk Talk meets Bryan Ferry" and instantly fell in love with the sound. Smoky vocals, lots of guitars and a thumping dance beat bore his assessment out nicely.

After it ended the first time, I made him play the album again. Full of influences that I listened to the first time around and neatly re-packaged in 2015 by young musicians, it's everything I like about new music. And fabulous dinner music.

We gorged on fried chicken, Mrs. Marshall's potato salad (they're both native Richmonders), rolls and an endless salad bowl of spring greens, an obscene amount of red onions, apples, craisins, spiced nuts and Feta, patting ourselves on the back for different reasons.

Post savory course, we drift apart. While two of us are drooling over an oozing chocolate cake, we call to the third, asking what he's doing while we do dessert. From the other room, we hear a timid, "I'm not sure," sending us into a laugh attack while not letting up on the chocolate for a moment.

Reuniting to listen to records, I got a lecture on why Daniel Craig makes such a fine Bond (they've already got a date for opening day). I was introduced to Joe Williams' album "A Man Ain't Supposed to Cry" from 1958, finding that his voice reminds me of Johnny Hartman's.

From 1972, he played the Incredible String Band ("They exploded after Woodstock," he tells me, ever the rock historian) and hear the roots of chamber folk. I crack up when I hear that the singers' names are Rose and Licorice. I'm sorry, these names are too groovy for words circa 1972.

Because my host has recently done a thorough alphabetizing of his collection, he's stumbled on some gems he's not played in decades.

One is "Roots of British Rock" from 1975 featuring an assortment of bands doing their damnedest to sound American. It's almost eerie how un-British they sound. A song called "Apache" sounds about like what you'd expect a cliched interpretation of an Indian name to sound like, but when an American band covered it, they added the sound of rifle shots and it was a big hit.

How like us to add violence and sensationalize an otherwise corny song.

Even better is "In the Beginning," a compilation of big-name artists - Rod Stewart, Linda Ronstsadt, Billy Joel, Steve Miller, David Bowie - in unknown bands before they were big. It was incredibly cool hearing these people long before they made it and had a definable sound.

It's like seeing a home movie of a friend as a child when you've only known them as an adult. Ohhhh, so that's where you came from. You hear the seeds of their sound but also so much unsure youth as they try to figure out who they are and what their sound is.

The musical one refers to the other two of us as tone deaf (which is likely true) and likes to show off his superior music knowledge whenever possible. Tonight it's on this album because it features Brinsley Schwarz, an English guitarist who got famous playing with Graham Parker (whose music I do know fairly well).

He tells us he can't play certain songs because (and here it gets loud), "You can't handle Brinsley Schwarz!" like he's Jack Nicholson. As it turns out, we can.

If I can handle frying chicken in an apron to an electronic pop soundtrack, I can pretty much handle anything. Give me a crack at a Siegel's ham from a trunk and just watch me go.

Love and Despair, No "the"

It was a good night to get called out.

Sliding into a barstool at Don't Look Back, the hirsute bartender cocked an eyebrow and inquired, "Need a menu?"

Nope, I told him, I need a Frito pie and a Coke.

"Awesome," he responded. "How simple is that?" and, I swear, not more than two minutes later I was eating.

Nearby a server informed another, "I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to earn a living."

Son, you need to figure out how to do both and you'll be much happier.

I heard my name and felt a hand on my back, turning to find two wine geek friends enjoying beers, providing a welcome break from my bag o' beans, cheese and salsa which I'd been inhaling at an unladylike pace.

Both expressed their love of the Frito pie, too, before moving on to more compelling things like traveling to Spain, rose' parties and anniversary restaurants before rejoining their fellow beer drinkers.

My Frito pie scarfed, it was time to head to the Firehouse for the Listening Room.

I was delighted to walk in, drop off some cookies I'd brought and immediately see a handsome keyboard player of whom I have been a fan for something like six years now.

Since I hadn't known he was part of one of tonight's groups, it was an unexpected delight to learn I'd be hearing his mellifluous tones and agile fingers.

Taking a few steps toward my usual seat, I was stopped in my tracks by the drummer onstage doing a soundcheck with a band I didn't recognize.

He waved, I waved and, for the second time already tonight, I had the pleasure of discovering that a musician I admire was part of one of the groups playing.

The night was going very well and it had barely started.

When I arrived at "my" seat, it was to find that a music buddy had reserved it for me, lest some interloper usurp it, as has happened a few times.

First up was Chris Dowhan, a guy I've known for years, although, as I found out, not as well as I thought.

I knew Chris as a talented baker and cook. As an attentive server. As a frequent traveler to Italy who actually knows Italian. As an all-around nice guy.

And while I knew he was musically inclined, it was with a guitar.

When I saw him, I teased him, telling him not to screw up and he said that no one would know if he did.

Huh?

Emcee Chris Payne got things rolling late (a fact I may have alluded to, but only for the sake of first-timers because I wouldn't want them to think that the Listening Room isn't usually a punctual event), explaining that they were shorthanded.

That's a veiled way of saying that organizers Antonia and Jonathan are sorely missed.

He then introduced Chris Dowhan, who moved to the grand piano and announced, "This piece is in five movements and I've been working on it four or five years now."

Well, this was news.

He proceeded to play his composition sensitively and seemingly lost in it.

It didn't seem like he was even aware of the audience.

As he played, I looked around at the rapt crowd and it reminded me of another first at the Listening Room, when Antonia had curated an all-jazz evening.

And if jazz, then why not classical?

When he finished, he leaned down, picked up his beer and moved away to major applause.

I was amazed; how had I not known he had this talent? I had to find out.

During the break, I waited in line to compliment his performance, but what I really wanted was answers.

Turns out his piano playing is a solitary escape for him, something he doesn't mention to friends.

A lot of the piece had been written at night one summer when he'd worked at an Italian winery.

He'd agreed to play it in front of an audience because he'd been invited to play by a musician friend and had figured if not now, when?

I was just glad I'd been there to hear it.

Wandering around, I ran into some latecomers, including a drummer friend I see at shows where he is always fixated on the band's drummer.

Explaining that he'd missed a very cool piano piece, I assured him that the next band had a drummer he could watch.

But after four hours of drum practice today, he said he wasn't interested in any more drumming.

Kevin won't want to hear that, I told him, referring to the next band's talented drummer, familiar to me from his own band, Marionette.

"Why do you know all the drummers in town?" he asked, smiling.

Duh. They're personable guys, I told him.

And, drummers do it with rhythm, I didn't tell him.

Back in my seat, emcee Chris threw out a thanks to me for bringing cookies, causing the stranger next to me to say, "I didn't have any, but I'm sure they were good."

Isn't it gratifying how a perfect stranger can have such faith in me?

Drummer Kevin was part of Patrick Bates' band, who played next and included cello, sax, acoustic guitar and bass.

Explaining that he hadn't played a proper show in this town in a very long time, the band proceeded to prove that they should.

He dedicated the second song to Chris because, "I know how much he likes a good samba."

I liked it because the bass player played bongos, the cellist played keys and Kevin used brushes instead of sticks.

"About a month and half ago, something happened to me," Patrick said by way of introduction. "Let's see if I can get through this," as the other musicians put down their instruments and let him accompany himself solely on acoustic guitar.

It was a beautiful, if sad-sounding, song.

Lyric: Though I know it was worth the effort, There are no guarantees."

Amen.

For their last song, he said it had a chanting part toward the end and asked that we join in.

"We'll try to get the energy in the room circulating," he explained.

"There are also tabs of acid under your seats," the droll bass player added.

Truth was, there weren't, but many of us joined in on the "come together" part anyway, getting the energy going.

So it was that we started the third set with the energy well-placed.

"Thanks for hanging around," emcee Chris said from the stage. "You guys are my favorites. Don't tell the people who left."

He came clean about tonight's programs, which were suspiciously absent of the usual.

And by usual, I mean, the poster imagery, the times the sets would happen and the upcoming events on the back.

He admitted that they'd just been printed today.

Meanwhile, behind him the leader of the next band to play the smart-assed keyboard player pointed out that he'd put a "the" in front of their name when there wasn't one.

"Take out your programs and scratch off "the" in front of Mason Brothers," Chris instructed. I did.

I'm beginning to think I need to volunteer to help these poor guys out.

Last up was Mason Brothers (no "the") with mandolin, guitar, bass, drums and Ben Willson on keys, the man whose talent and humor I have been impressed by all these years.

Leader James joked about the vibe of the Listening Room being like the last season of "Lost," although Ben differed in opinion.

With no TV, I'd have no idea.

"We're One" was introduced as a "song for everyone" and showed an infectious quality while "Calling Out to You" was more plaintive.

James took a moment to acknowledge the talent that had come before, saying, "Thanks to Chris Dowhan for that piano piece. Listening, I felt love and despair, like my life and now you get bubblegum from Mason Brothers. We are one, we are one."

It was some quality self-deprecation.

After a few songs, Ben called out to Dave in the sound booth, "I'm going to need a little more keys in the monitor. I'm so needy."

That made two of us because up until then, I was straining to hear his keyboard, although fortunately his backing vocals (and joking asides) were coming through beautifully.

James cracked wise, saying, "For future Listening Rooms, I think artists should have to whisper."

At one point, listening to the band's tight and melodic roots rock, it occurred to me how far the Listening Room has come.

This is my 37th  of 39 Listening Rooms and in the beginning, such things as electric instruments, much less drums, were conspicuously absent.

Mason Brothers' last song "Ghost Season," which came from their second album and which James called "very scary," perfectly demonstrated the evolution of the music series.

It was easily one of the most rocking finishes ever at a Listening Room.

Looking around, I could see that people were as into having their faces rocked off as they'd been when Chris had been playing piano or when Patrick Bates' band had been playing a samba.

Maybe it's something for the Listening Room organizers to think about.

When the music's this good, people forget about the late start, uninformative programs and missing baked goods.

And that's without tabs of acid under their seats.

Thai, Cake and Solos

Here's the thing: some of the most interesting people I know have limited availability because of their jobs (ah, yes, I vaguely remember the concept). So when we are able to get together for an evening, we try to cram in as much as possible while we enjoy each other's company; that was how it went down tonight. Luckily, we're both Geminis so it's more like having four people trying to do it all, making it far more achievable.

We began in Carytown at Ginger Thai, which was crowded when we arrived and standing room only when we left. First off we had the Spicy Papaya salad and the Spicy Squid Salad, both of which packed a lot of heat. Next up she got Tiger Cry Steak (the name alone was compelling), flank steak marinated in lemongrass and garlic with Num Prik sauce and jasmine rice. I had the Spicy Drunken Noodles with pork because I'm a fan of those soft nat rice noodles. No surprise that we couldn't finish it all.

Our next stop was Ipanema for wine and dessert. I chose the Vanilla Chocolate Cake with Mocha icing; it's the ideal dessert when you want both flavors because it has one layer of each. We leisurely sipped our wine, chatting up some of the contented bar sitters. The question posed earlier today in a comment by Johnny H (the mayor of Ipanema) on my Divine Comedy post was answered: we saw each other there.

After each downing a couple of glasses of Malbec, we moved our cars to my neck of the woods and walked over to Gallery 5 for a solo music performance benefit show for G5. The four musicians, Patrick Ball (of Autocue), Brett Adams (of the Riot Before), Evan Setzer (previously in the Silent Type) and Chris Dowhan (previously in Adara) each did a couple of songs followed by a group performance.

The crowd was annoyingly talkative and my friend and I wished we had had a means of eliminating those who wouldn't shut up. We may be Geminis, but we can get ugly when surrounded by self-involved blabbers. Granted, Gallery 5 was benefiting from them having paid to get in the door, but we couldn't imagine the musicians appreciated trying to sing over the din.

By this time, my overworked friend was yawning and ready to call it a night, so we strolled back to my place, with my "Whiskey Wednesday" neighbors shouting out to me, beckoning me over, as we passed by their front porch gathering.

Of course, for all I know it was "Frangelico Friday" or some such thing, but two of the four of us were ready for bed.