Big Love

Be present. Well, duh.

That zen-like reminder was painted on the wall of the restaurant, but not the first restaurant I went to today because that one was in service of my hired mouth and was for breakfast.

Breakfast was before we took a road trip to Norfolk listening to REM and the Bo Deans and cursing people who brake for no good reason and before our silver-tongued tour guide gave us a walking tour of Norfolk's waterfront.

It was during that walkabout that he led us to Java Surf Coffee Shop, passing a window display with a sign that read, "In a relationship, one person needs to be the emotional designated driver," sparking a discussion of whether that's true or not. Dissent was expressed; I abstained.

Eventually, we made it to the piece-de-resistance: the USS Wisconsin, a circa 1943 battleship rising up like a giant silver blowfish on steroids when we first encountered it head on.

Honestly, I was unprepared for how massive it was and if we'd had the time, I'd have been all about touring it. Another time, I hope.

Impressive in a different sort of way was a ridiculously long dark blue sailboat (by that, I mean far longer than my apartment times two) with masts too high to fit in the photograph I tried to take of it. That it was registered in the Cayman Islands gave us to believe there was drug-laundering money involved, but made it no less beautiful or tremendously sized.

After meandering through downtown, we landed on the sidewalk in front of a doormat-sized inlay that used fancy script to spell out "The Fontaine Room," giving testament to the restaurant's former life.

These days, it's a swinging hot spot called the Grilled Cheese Bistro which required a short wait for one of the community tables (which is the only kind they have, a trend I embrace), but paid off in spades with exceptional sandwiches (cooked in buckets of clarified butter), killer fries and a bartender who never let the hordes wipe the smile off her face or the good attitude from her words.

I think it was because she was being present. I know I was.

Now that I think about it, though, I may also have been swayed by them having Dominion Brewing root beer on tap, because what accompanies a Johnny Appleseed grilled cheese better?

By the time we rolled out of there, a long line had already begun snaking down the sidewalk in anticipation of tonight's Hanson show at the Norva, bringing up the question, who loves Hanson that much in 2017 anyway?

Clearly the show was sold out, but it mattered not because by late afternoon, we were heading back because we've got shows of our own in Richmond, you know.

And tonight's was a helluva bill: the Richmond Symphony with Tim Barry, Clair Morgan, Natalie Prass, Bio Ritmo and Matthew E. White.

Setting out on foot, we breezed past the crowded Grace Street restaurant patios to land at Maya, where our server was a familiar face and, coincidentally, a J-Ward neighbor. Given tonight's show, the place was mobbed and he was keeping everything handled with his usual aplomb and self-deprecation.

I don't often eat three meals out in one day unless I'm on vacation (I could stretch that a bit and say that with the road trip and playing tourist all day that it was vacation-like), but sometimes you just have to eat the fish tacos and be happy someone else is willing to cook for you.

Across the street, the Carpenter Center was filling up with a mix of longtime Symphony Pops subscribers and a whole lot of people who'd probably never been to the Symphony in their life, but were fans of one of the bands performing tonight.

It was a pretty fascinating show in that local musician Trey Pollard had written arrangements for their songs based on what would best suit their existing music. It ranged from Tim Barry being just a voice and guitar to Bio Ritmo's nine musicians (tonight with the bonus of singer Laura Ann Singh) and salsa rhythms, providing huge flexibility in where and how much the symphony came in.

Clair Morgan provided humor when his band took the stage without him and he finally came out, saying, "My wife's gonna kill me, but I can't find my guitar strap." Luckily, it was soon located and they could play, vibraphones and all, without any husbands being killed.

Ultimately, rock trumped symphony and light projections made the performance oh-so groovy while the crowd didn't hesitate to call out to friends and favorite performers onstage.

In the loo during intermission, I heard my name called and there was the woman I run into everywhere: the Northern Neck, a southside coffee shop, an obscure house show, now the symphony.

Heading back to my seat, I heard my name called and turned around to see my former neighbor. When I marveled that he'd recognized me from the back, he said it was my hair. I think I believe him.

Walking through the inner lobby, I ran into a gorgeous girlfriend and once in the outer lobby, a favorite sax player greeted me. My people were everywhere.

Be present often enough and they all find you. Okay, maybe not in the Fontaine Room, but definitely here in Richmond.

Does being asleep count as being present? Asking for a friend...

In Our Minds and Hearts

Even after three decades here, I'm still discovering new places to plant myself.

At the Bijou, new were some (but not all) of the re-installed theater seats from the Westhampton Theatre, notable because it meant that we no longer have to abuse our asses with those ergonomically-incorrect white plastic chairs to see film of note.

Tonight's trivia question concerned Holly Hunter's role in the movie and we were instructed to signal when we spotted her. Bags of popcorn in hand, the small group at the 5:10 show settled in to the new seats, ready for what was to come.

Mostly, anyway. How anyone can watch that entire knife through the hand on the window sash scene without averting their eyes is beyond me. Just saying, I felt squirming on both sides of me.

The unexpected beauty of seeing a film you last saw 33 years ago when it was in first run is that it could almost be an entirely new-to-you movie this time around.

And I say "almost" because even with little to no memory of seeing "Blood Simple" in 1984, the film stands instantly recognizable as a Coen Brothers movie because everything they're known for now was fully formed and on display in this, their first film.

I had forgotten how perfectly lovely and very of-the-era 27-year old Frances McDormand looked, somewhere between Tony Tenille and Farah Fawcett. No wonder Joel Coen married her almost immediately.

Like all good '80s films, we saw men's blazer sleeves pushed up a la Miami Vice, as well as a man's shirt with only one button buttoned and far too much curly chest hair on display. But it was the geezer (M. Emmett Walsh's character) who showed his age by sporting a mustard yellow leisure suit with bell-bottom pants.

So completely un-hip by then.

The surprise was that apparently in '84, we were still tying up moving boxes with brown twine and, honestly, I'd have guessed that habit had long since been replaced with packing tape.

Midway through the film, I heard Holly Hunter's vice on an answering machine and signaled to win the evening's prize - two tickets to a future screening at the Bijou - a nanosecond before another woman in my row realized who it was.

After a mini-film discussion post-screening, I walked home in the dark, despite it barely being past 6:30. Autumn, I hate what you bring.

The newness in tonight's music adventure came not from the venue's name, Sound of Music Studio, because I'd seen bands at SoM on Foushee Street as well as at SoM on Broad Street, but tonight's SoM was on Altamont in the hipper-than-thou Scott's Addition 'hood.

I don't ask why they move, I just follow where the music goes.

When I arrived, I found two women bent over a map, one drawing and explaining Richmond to the other, who just moved here. When I saw she'd marked and labeled Short Pump, I took it upon myself to inform the newcomer that she had no need of venturing so far west.

Pointing to Willow Lawn and eastward, I assured her that all the life she needed could be found there, complete with Target on the far western fringes. What more could a person require?

She thanked me with wonder and gratitude in her eyes, or at least that's what I chose to tell myself.

A big reason I'd come was to hear Bad Magic, the musical project of Julie Karr, a guitarist and singer with a throaty voice and confessional delivery of whom I'd long been a fan but who used to do an acoustic solo act.

She was apologizing for her cold when I got there, saying, "The mic is gonna need a bacterial wash after this. That would be my advice!"

Behind the band, a dated film of roller bladers played, with occasional interview segments in front of a flag-draped fireplace.

Trying to decide what to play next, the band bantered about songs. "What's it called?" Julie asked the others, then turned to the crowd. "We named it in the computer, but not in our minds and hearts."

Turns out the song was called "Three" and had some terrific early Interpol-sounding guitar licks in it.

Between songs, she vented about the film behind her, saying, "I do not want to see a Confederate flag behind me again. Not at all. Can we make sure that happens? I do not want to see any more Confederate flags!" Since I'd already noticed the same thing, I appreciated her addressing it for the entire room.

Bad Magic rocks a lot harder than Julie solo did, making for an engaging set before she announced that Toronto's Greys, not local band Clair Morgan, were up next.

"That's what you do, you make a sandwich with the out of town band inside. Welcome to Richmond, we eat you!" she joked about being the rye bread slice to Greys' filling.

Their lead singer began by warning us that they were going to play a quick set and then start driving home. I only hope he meant after a god night's sleep.

Their sound pulled from decades of punk, primarily '90s, some of it crossing into thrash territory, some straight up pop punk and some indebted to the Pixies' alternating loud/soft dynamic. Violent head banging accompanied others while a light show rather than southern relics and tasteless flags played behind them.

"This is the last night of a really long tour," the singer said and his body language showed that he was feeling it, although the other three musicians seemed to be cranked up to 11, maybe as a sendoff for the tour's last show.

All kinds of audio issues kept Clair Morgan from playing right away, but feedback and dead mic problems were eventually resolved and Clair got right down to business, both musical and political.

"In a couple of days, there's going to be a thing." From nearby, someone shushed him. "No, I'm not going to stop. If you want to keep certain people out of the White House, please vote on Tuesday. If you're for Donald Trump, please vote November ninth!"

It's tough to argue with a man who writes such well-crafted songs about life and family and surrounds himself with solid talent, while a breathtaking car chase from Hitchcock's "Family Plot" plays behind them.

Could it be that the point was to remind us of the danger and treachery that lies ahead on Tuesday?

I think we can all agree, the entire country's going to need a bacterial wash after that.

Helluva Hootenanny

It isn't every Monday night that a musicologist with ties to folk royalty hits Richmond.

But tonight was UR's annual Neumann lecture and the speaker was Tony Seeger, UCLA professor emeritus and director emeritus of the Smithsonian Folkways Recordings.

Not to mention Pete Seeger's nephew, so given the legend's death last week, we got part music talk, "Is Music Prophetic or Reflexive? Music, Activism and Social Change," and part family tribute to his uncle.

Walking in to Camp Concert hall at UR, I heard a woman motioning a friend to her row with the entreaty, "This is the 'Hootenanny' crowd."

I have to assume what she meant was here were the people old enough to remember when Pete Seeger was blacklisted from the "Hootenanny" TV show for his overly left wing views.

I didn't qualify, so I sat elsewhere, but I did spot a row of WRIR DJs front and center.

Coming onstage, Seeger used a banjo ("My travel banjo," he called it. "It didn't travel too well") and a computer to give a lively talk and singalong about protest music and his uncle.

It was a far-ranging talk starting with his assumption that all cultures had protest music. Not so, he discovered while studying Brazilian music which had not only no protest songs, but no children's songs or love songs.

Refusing to sing or dance constituted protest for Brazilians, a novel concept to a mouthy culture like ours.

He put the lyrics to "We Shall Not Be Moved" on the screen and then played banjo and led us in singing it, encouraging us first to be louder and then to try it with harmony

"The experience of singing together is part of what this talk is about," he said.

Discussing whether protest music was reflective (like the laments of the blues) or prophetic (music that gives direction or information and leads to change), he showed a quote to explain the power of music.

"People read a pamphlet only once but sing a song a thousand times," said Joe Hill, an IWW member and songwriter of the early 1900s.

Explaining that political parties had songbooks up until the '20s or '30s, he sang one about John Quincy Adams and how if he wasn't elected, Satan was coming.

Imagine what they could have come up with for Nixon or W.

Saying that the union movement was a singing movement because it was more fun for unionizers to sing than to listen to speakers, he proceeded to sing "Union Maid" about a female worker.

Having firmly grounded us in protest musicology, he got down to family business with a picture of the Seeger clan backstage at Carnegie Hall in 1963.

In it, he was a teen and I'm sure to the students in the room there was no resemblance between the young man in the photograph and the one on stage 50 years older.

He said the key to protest music's role was what it meant to people and that was affected by all kinds of factors: changing the speed of the song, the volume, or even the place and time.

To illustrate his point, he played Hendrix's rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" at Woodstock, something I am embarrassed to say I've heard but never seen.

I was mesmerized by how beautiful his hands were, the fingers long and expressive, but not everyone was.

When the lights came up, half the students were grinning like fools and the other half were texting, ignoring the performance all together.

Does it say something about me that I wanted to slap the phones out of their hands and banish them from the room because they were not worthy?

Probably.

Seeger made the point that even when no words were sung, changing the speed and place of the anthem amounted to using sound to make a statement.

He showed another video clip about Seeger's civil rights movement work, singing "We Shall Overcome."

The footage of Pete Seeger had him saying all he'd done was add a few verses and change "will" to "shall" and that he'd gotten far too much credit for that song.

Everyone else interviewed disagreed, saying him singing it had played a huge role in the movement.

We even saw a short clip of him singing "If I Had a Hammer," to a school group, a song I remember singing in music class in elementary school.

And throughout the videos and the talk, Tony Seeger would periodically have us singing "We Shall Not Be Moved" again and again.

Pete Seeger's last big effort had been years spent in getting the Hudson River cleaned up, so he'd built a sloop called "Clearwater" and performed on it up and down the river so people would notice how polluted it was and start cleaning it up.

No surprise, it worked and the river became swimmable and clean again.

The talk couldn't end until we sang together some more and harmonized one last time, his final slide saying, "Sing together," a message that might as well have come from his uncle.

During the Q & A, someone asked why Seeger had gotten so angry with Dylan when he went electric for the first time at the Newport Folk Fest.

When Seeger began with, "Well, I was 17 or 18 and I was there," I knew we were in for a good story.

He explained that part of the beauty of Newport was that it was a democratic event with all performers being paid the same and no one getting more attention or time than anyone else.

So when Dylan plugged in at an all-acoustic festival, his music became louder than everyone else's.

And since there weren't supposed to be electric instruments, the equipment wasn't designed for anything but acoustic. "The sound was an unholy mess," Seeger recalled, unpleasant and muddy. "it became an unequal field for the other musicians."

Imagine hearing first-hand why Pete Seeger took issue with Dylan for plugging in from someone who not only was there, but talked to his uncle about it afterwards.

Man, I love me some musicology.

After that kind of excitement, I could hardly go home so I stopped by the Camel to catch the last band of a three-band set.

Quintet Clair Morgan was getting set up, so I talked to the dance party king about the local DJ scene and the pot roast his brother had made him for dinner.

I checked in with the friend I'd seen Saturday night to see if he'd followed through on his plans to sleep in and take a bike ride in yesterday's glorious warmth.

Yes to the first, no to the ride, but he had spent the afternoon on his porch and proudly shared that he'd left his phone at work the day before, so he'd not only had porch time but a phone-free day.

Kind of like every day for me.

The band was having problems with their computer, eventually electing to start even though it wasn't working, meaning some songs were absent the ambient sound the computer provides.

But Clair's voice, songwriting and guitar playing are all stellar, so the band rallied around and made do without technology.

Toward the end, he taught the crowd a line for us to sing and had us practice, so I found myself once again singing together with others.

Instructing us to sing louder once he began the rest of the song, he said, "You, guy-on-a-first-date, sing really loud and she'll be impressed. So impressed she'll go out for coffee with you."

Maybe even come to your apartment and listen to Sigur Ros with you. Eventually move in.

As I learned tonight, such is the power of singing together.

To Make Me Happy

My mother decided this morning was the time to lecture me about my life choices.

I worry about you traveling at night by yourself and with no cell phone. I'm not sure how much longer you can get by without a full-time job and a guaranteed income. I realize you're doing what you love but you're living with no security. End of lecture. I just want you to have a normal life. Love, Mom

Normal? Did she think I ever aspired to a normal life?

My abnormal evening began at Bellytimber, where I found Nate, an oddball local fixture on the scene sitting on the bench out front smoking a cigarette. He had one pant leg pushed up over his knee as if to catch some sun on his fish belly-white calf.

I met Nate years ago at 821 Cafe, but I have run into him at a dozen different city restaurants, usually drinking coffee and willing to talk to just about anyone.

He's a talented artist and I have one of his drawings framed in my living room, a reminder that you can't judge talent by coherent speech.

Today, he asked me what I did and informed me that sometimes he needs a writer, so he may be in touch about my services.

Then he rolled that pant leg down and I went inside to interview a cute, well-spoken and fast-talking scientist over a drink.

That's normal, right?

After a fascinating conversation about the intersection of science and art, I left for the Anderson Gallery's opening.

VCU students as well as local artists and even a VMFA curator had beat me to the shows, making for a lively crowd.

Esther Partegas' "You Are Here" was a black and white wraparound installation broken up by several large-scale color photos in light boxes showing city and nature scenes interrupted by rips and folds, proof that they came off of signs rather than reality.

Upstairs, LaToya Ruby Frazier's "A Haunted Capital" showed another kind of reality, this one that of the artist's hometown, Braddock, Pennsylvania.

Using herself, her mother and grandmother as models, the black and white photographs told a grim story of a once-bustling industrial town now a decaying home to the few people remaining despite unemployment and the destruction of the area's only hospital.

Part of "Race, Place and Identity," the multi-venue show currently happening all over town, it's a moving and evocative look at some people's reality.

As a woman said to me as we stood in front of a photograph, "It's hard to feel poor when you look at these."

Maybe I should take my mother to see the show for some perspective on my well-being.

Leaving VCU for eastward-ho destinations, I arrived at Globehopper Coffee and Lounge before even the musicians scheduled to play did.

Luckily, I found friends, got a cup of hot chocolate ("Whipped?" the barista inquired. Why wouldn't I? "No good reason," she concurred) and found a table near the front.

Soon singer/guitarist Josh Small and singer/harmonica player Andrew Ali took chairs in the front window and began the show.

Performing a variety of songs they'd each written, a standard or two and some collectively-written tunes, they proceeded to capture the attention of everyone in the room except the bored-looking children.

Josh is a self-taught musician, claiming that everything he knows he learned from his musician father who only knew one chord.

Josh knows far more than that and demonstrated it by playing songs inspired by cartoons, friendship and stories, songs like "South in My Mouth," "The Tallest Tree" (which he'd recently performed at SPARC's Live Art event) and Andrew's "My Stomp," a blues song about being able to write the blues despite being young.

They did an original called "So Long," which had my favorite lyric of the evening: I can try to make you happy with some music and a bottle of wine.

Before doing Howlin' Wolf's "44," Josh told us he'd been playing that song in Monroe Park during the "Occupy Monroe Park" demonstration when he'd heard the strains of a harmonica in the crowd; it was Andrew chiming in.

"That's how we met," Josh said before they sang the menacing song.

For two musicians, seems to me that's almost a meeting-cute story. not to mention the socially conscious angle.

They closed with "Front Porch," Andrew's ode to Richmond's abiding porch culture.

And aren't we the richer for it? Even those of us with limited income can enjoy porch-side pleasures in this town.

Page Bond Gallery was my next stop for painter Will Berry's opening, "I saw the Sun," a series of paintings on luminescent, gold, sort of an exploration of light reminiscent of ancient sun worshiping.

Black imagery, some organic-looking and some geometric, on shiny, gold backgrounds made for jewel-like panels on the wall, a rich effect.

I'd love to go back and see it in the daylight to see if it resonates any differently.

From there, I went to a friend's house for wine and dessert, a merely incidental gathering after an extensive happy hour on their part and a mere four stops on mine.

He is the only person I know besides my parents who still gets the Times Disgrace delivered and since the wine writer had recently raved about a South African wine, the Curator White, he'd purchased a few bottles.

I never have to be talked into drinking South African and this chenin blanc, chardonnay and viognier blend, described in the article as, "big, juicy, exotic fruit and mouth-filling" was more than fine by me.

Over dessert of vanilla gelato with a decadent homemade chocolate sauce, we listened to Fairport Convention ("Britain's version of Peter, Paul and Mary") and BBC recordings of the Kimks.

Our host's fave song on that compilation was "This Strange Effect," to which he played air guitar and I marveled at how un-Kinks-like it sounded.

I regaled my girlfriend with the story about my mother (a woman who met the love of her life at 22 and is still happily enjoying his company decades later) and her concern for my status and she bit her lip chuckling.

"That's so sweet," she said sincerely. "In an Eisenhower kind of way."

Bingo.

When they got ready to crash due to early morning wake-up calls for their real jobs, I still had time to get to Strange Matter to catch two bands of a four-band bill.

I tucked a $5 bill in my glove and walked in, handing it still folded to the door guy, who looked at it, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Origami?"

Something like that.

I found the master of lighting, Dave, at the controls of his light set-up and took up residence next to him, centered in the room for best sound.

The room was solidly full with lots of new faces and just enough familiar ones to assure me that I'd know people. With VCU back in session, it looked like a lot of people had decided to check out some local music.

Clair Morgan, who had morphed from Clair and a female backup singer when I last saw him in October at, of all places, Globehopper, to a quintet with drummer (Michael, whom I knew from the long-ago Mermaid Skeletons), another guitarist, bassist and keyboard player (the backup singer from last time).

They were good, the kind of good where some people can't even pick out just one thing they like about them.

I was partial to the strong guitars while another friend was taken with a song with three drummers. But mostly it was how seamlessly they blended pop with more technical elements.

Listening to their take on '90s alternative, I couldn't help but think how the band members were evoking music from their childhoods.

No complaints from me; if I liked something the first time around, I'm always interested in hearing it interpreted by a generation who can fill in with influences from subsequent years as well.

They're definitely a band to watch.

Headlining were Snowy Owls, a band that won my musical heart years ago with their reverb-drenched sound.

The only thing that's changed over the years is leader Matt's hair gets longer (thus obliterating more of his face when he sings) and the band gets tighter.

Allen's bass still screams, much to my delight.

Lighting wizard Dave had a surprise in store tonight, adding into his usual colorful swirling geometric light effects a video called, "Kitten Party."

So amid psychedelic swirls of color and shape, we'd see a kitten licking itself. Or looking up at the camera adoringly.

This is notable mainly because Matt is known for two obsessions, his music and his cat. He posts as many pictures of his feline on Facebook as new mothers do of their offspring.

So if you knew Matt, it was particularly funny to see him playing fuzzed-out guitar and singing in his understated way with cat images peeking out behind him.

Dancing in place to my favorite kind of music-from-a-cave while a groovy light show featuring cats played behind the band, I have to admit, I was totally into what passes for normal in my life.

Absolutely loving it.

Oh, Mom...At least I'm happy!
Love, Karen

Awarding the Gold

Just when I think my love life is looking up, it gets trumped in spades.

Not that I think wooing is a competitive sport.

With plans to meet a girlfriend for music, I left for a solo dinner at the Roosevelt.

The Weaker Thans were blasting when I got there, alerting me to the fact that we weren't listening to bartender T's music.

Nope, it was Brandon ("Canada's finest!" he grinned when I asked about the source of the tunes), the artist behind one of my largest pieces of art, and he started by recommending Potomac Point Abbinato, a Chianti-style blend, perfect for barbecued chicken, and his current favorite.

Since I was the sole customer, my spicy steak tartare came out in what seemed like the blink of an eye, full of capers and with house-made potato chips and pickled cucumber slices on the side to balance out the richness.

I call that a really good start to the evening. The chef came out and we talked about the upcoming and ill-timed Beast Feast.

Then it was time for the wine to do its pairing job with smokey chicken wings with Alabama white sauce (white sauce with barbecue sauce and sinus-clearing horseradish) and the Roosevelt's own hot sauce.

I enjoyed every bit of the heat of the crispy wings (drumettes and middle joints) and before long had sticky fingers and a tongue looking for a cool-down.

My fingers were nicely taken care of when Brandon showed up with a hot, wet napkin spiraled into a coffee cup.

One of the staff walked by and whispered conspiratorially, "We're all dressing as "The Outsiders" for Halloween. Everyone wants to be a greaser except one girl who said she'd be a soc."

Well, who would want to be a social when they could be a greaser?

Back at the eating ranch, I'd saved the best (or at least the most decadent) for last.

Crispy fried pig's head was covered in a fried egg and arugula with New Orleans barbecued shrimp surrounding the head.

I doubt even a Social ever got served something so obscene.

The server walked by again, bringing the latest Halloween bulletin to me. "And we're going to be zombies, too!" she grinned. Zombie Outsiders?

"Yes!" she said manically. You crazy kids.

I had no more time to discuss greasers or Weaker Thans because I had to get to Globehopper to meet my friend for a show.

Of course, I immediately ran into someone I knew and was so busy chatting that when my friend arrived, she sailed right by me, never even noticing me.

When she did, I took what little time we had before music to check on what she'd been up to.

The look she gave me told me that there were several good stories there and not nearly enough time. 

Singer-songwriter Clair Morgan went first and a musician friend had earlier filled me in on just how talented Clair was.

Even so, I was blown away with his literate and insightful songs of life and love.

Playing guitar and with a female back up singer, he held the coffee shop in his thrall as he played through his set.

There were several young children running amok at the show and one ran up and started twirling mid-song, resulting in Clair saying, "Sorry it isn't better dancing music."

A very tolerant attitude, I thought.

Favorite lyric: "Getting older each day and there's no one listening." 

After Clair's set, I swung around and told my girlfriend to spill the beans. I could not have anticipated how many beans she had.

There was the charming date who'd taken her to dinner, the symphony and out for drinks, then shown up the next day to replace a long burnt-out light bulb on her front porch, which he just happened to have noticed.

Oh, yes, and he cleaned her front windows while he was there.

The next day, there was the lunch date who picked her up at work and took her for a picnic of what she said were the best sandwiches she'd had in some time.

Something about perfectly crusty baguettes and a thermos of good coffee that had her in raptures.

Then that night, she heard a knock on her door at 10:00 and there was Guy #3, a long-time friend, with a bouquet of flowers and professing his love and devotion for her right there on her stoop. 

Good god, what pheromone does this woman have?

I don't see her for five days and she's had more action than you could shake a stick at.

As the Weaker Thans would say, it's a "Tournament of Hearts."

Our conversation was cut short when the Low Branches began, but they're always worth it.

Christina has such a beautiful voice and while her songs tend to be sad ("All our songs are depressing, but we brought our best and brightest!" she joked), Matt's guitar and Josh's bass make for some truly lovely music.

Time stood still when they did a cover of "Jolene."

Thanking the crowd for coming, Christina said, "It's so nice. There's a lot of people here we like and a lot we don't...know." The crowd laughed. "But we'll like you, too! I'm not sure when they're going to take the mic away from me." 

Apologizing for a recent cold affecting her ability to hit some high notes on a song, they finished with a Turkish song sung so superbly it was hard to believe she'd been sick.

Singing in Turkish, he voice had far more energy than her usual sad songs, both a pleasure to hear and very striking.

And just like that, the show was over. I immediately informed my friend we were going out for a glass to finish our discussion.

Forgetting that it was restaurant week, we ended up at a very busy Julep's for wine while all around us people dined for $25.13 and the kitchen no doubt wanted to kill themselves.

And if not over restaurant week, surely over Beast Feast, at least from what I'm hearing.

Since it's Virginia Wine Month, I had my second Virginia wine of the evening, this one the Rosemont Lake Country Red, a fruit-forward and silky blend.

Over vino, I got all the details of her past few days, right down to who has a chance and who's already out of the running.

The Weaker Thans would call that part of her love life "The Reasons."

Honestly, you need a scorecard to keep track of the players. For her, not me, that is.

I can't decide if they'd call mine "A New Name for Everything" or "The Last Last One."

It all comes down to who's listening.

Stepping Out

It was a low-key night to stay in the neighborhood and see old friends.

Deciding to start at Bistro 27 because I hadn't yet heard Chef Carlos' tales of his recent trip to Paris, I was regaled with details about a dish of pig stomach wrapped in prosciutto and deep-fried.

Be still, my heart.

While he told me of drinking endless Cahors while there (well, he is Brazilian so Malbec's practically in his blood), I went with a Pinot Noir.

I was surprised (although apparently not as surprised as the Parisians) to hear that they'd had snow while he was there.

While hearing his recounting of exquisite sculpture, the tiniest of French bistros and a side trip to Dusseldorf, my companion and I moved on to eating.

There was halibut bobo, a take-off on his mother's recipe for shrimp bobo, delivering succulent, perfectly-cooked halibut in the distinctive sauce of yucca root puree, coconut milk and palm oil, a dish with a decided African influence.

I reveled in the oil and garlic-cooked broccolini, along with bacon-wrapped scallops and lentils (easily my favorite lentils in town) and a taste or two of pappardelle bolognese ("Close your eyes and pretend you're in Italy," the fork's owner instructed me).

Finishing with a one-two punch of panna cotta and chocolate mousse, all of a sudden it was show time.

And not only a show for music's sake, but a benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery, so a very worthy cause.

Fortunately, the show was only two blocks away at Gallery 5, where we walked in to find Patrick Bates playing his second song.

I'd seen the quintet not long ago at the Listening Room and really gotten into their sound, but tonight there were so many talkers in the room that I was glad I already knew what they sounded like.

And I wasn't the only one, since two other people also commented to me that it was a shame people didn't shut up so they could hear the nuances of the music.

Later even drummer Kevin said he was reluctant to use the brushes he'd used last time for fear they wouldn't be heard.

One thing I like about this band (besides Patrick's songs, the bass player's sense of humor and Kevin's drumming), is that the other two people have enough talent between them to play accordion, keyboards, cello and sax.

Now that's versatility.

I ran into a few friends (two drummers, a man-about-town, several former Mermaid Skeletons and a gallerist wearing the grooviest '70s tunic ever) between sets and then the sextet the Clair Morgans took the stage.

I'd listened online to get a feel for their sound and from the first song heard the same energetic indie music live that the MP3s had promised.

Patrick Bates was also in this band playing guitar, bongos and something that looked like a xylophone.

We got a dose of humor when a song began before Clair stopped it, looking sheepish.

"The show was going great until Clair put his capo on the wrong fret," Clair deadpanned, making the capo correction and finishing the song as it was meant to sound.

Damn fine.

One of my favorite moments came when one of the guitarists pulled out a drum as Patrick pulled out his bongos, meaning along with drummer Michael, fully half the band was beating on something.

Since a drummer friend had only a few minutes earlier been telling me about his idea for an all-drum music project, I couldn't resist nudging him and getting a big grin in return.

Headlining was Hens, a quintet I'd recently seen for the first time, and one full of big guitar sounds and big talent.

After a few songs, guitarist/singer Josh Hryciak said they'd been jamming on a new song and would go ahead and play it now.

But before that began, he moved center stage and gave us a pelvic wiggle for the ages before returning to play the song.

The man is a showman par excellence.

"That's a baby song," guitarist/singer David Shultz made sure we knew when the song wound down unceremoniously.

Guitarist/singer Marcus Shrock took over vocals for one song, indirectly reminding the crowd what a super-group these guys are with so much talent from time spent in former bands.

The last song was one big extended soundscape, with all of them looking like they were having a blast making music together.

And what could be better than friends (and employees - Josh worked at Sub Rosa) and fans getting together to make and hear music to support the worthiest of causes, a local business?

Knowing that Sub Roa is one step closer to re-opening, that's what.