When Walkers Ruled the Streets

No, smart ass, I haven't moved.

My train didn't come in until almost 5:00, then I had emails to answer because the wifi on the train hadn't been working for three hours, so by the time I got cleaned up and found my way to Vasen Brewing (incidentally my first time at that particular brewery), the first film of the double feature was already playing.

I'd missed the last couple Silent Music Revivals, a fact made clear when I walked into Vasen and SMR organizer Jameson greeted me with a hug and a quick quip while the movie played overhead. "Oh, I thought you moved. It's been a while."

Hardee har-har.

He left out the part about how he and his partner Laney - wearing a maxi-skirt closely related to one I wore in the early '70s - had been touring all winter and not even in Richmond (luckily she pointed it out) but it just goes to prove that some friends are hilarious. The next familiar face was Dave Watkins, who was providing the soundtrack to tonight's second film, and who graciously took up residence next to me at the bar where we had a great view of the film "Berlin: Symphony of a Metropolis" depicting all kinds of scenes - transportation, nightlife, children, sports, dancing, you name it - from 1927 Berlin.

Crafting an improvised soundtrack was St. Petersburg's Infinite Third, aka Billy Mays, a one man guitar looping machine in the mode of Dave himself and I have to say his spot-on and sprawling accompaniment provided the emotion for a film that came across liker an artistic documentary without commentary. One with no story but one where everyone wore hats, all little girls pushed doll carriages and it was apparently in vogue to spend a lot of camera time lingering on women's legs.

As a devoted student of cultural history, I found one of the most interesting scenes to be a shot of an intersection with motorcars, horse-drawn carriages and people standing in the intersection having extended conversations while traffic nonchalantly moved around them.

Oh, to have been alive when pedestrians ruled the streets like that.

When it finished, Jameson provided a fitting descriptor, saying that if we liked "peaceful, people-watching films," that this was one of a series on different cities done in the '20s. No kidding, I'm sure I'd enjoy seeing some of the others just for the look at how real people were dressing, acting, living.

Thanking the brewery crowd for their attention, he acknowledged a table celebrating a birthday, but Mays took it a step further, inviting the whole table up to collaborate on a birthday song, albeit not a traditional one. Laney kicked it off by singing a soulful happy birthday phrase into the mic and then passed it on to the others from the table so Mays could create a song by looping whatever birthday sentiment or noise they made in with the rest.

Let's just say I don't think the celebrant will be forgetting this year's birthday song anytime soon.

Next up was Dave Watkins, notable because after all these years seeing him play the acoustic and electric dulcitars, tonight we were being treated to his first performance on his latest handmade musical extravaganza: a synthesizer with enough pedals and gadgets to expand his sonic palette in all kinds of new directions. Brilliantly, of course.

That's not to say he didn't play some dulcitar and run it through it, but he also made music solely on the synthesizer, playing keys and turning knobs to complement what we were seeing onscreen with the 1920 German expressionist film "From Morning to Midnight."

In his pre-film chat, Jameson shared that the film was from the same period as "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari," a classic silent film I've seen several times and that was patently obvious. Same flat plane kind of effect, same cardboard-looking sets (doors couldn't have appeared any flimsier), same dramatic lighting.

"From Morning to Midnight," though, did have a story that revolved around a beautiful Italian woman needing money and the poor bank clerk who steals it in hopes she'll want to marry him (spoiler alert: she doesn't) once he delivers.

I was especially impressed with how she pulled a letter of credit out of her enormous fur muff (sable would be my guess), causing me to ponder what else she might have stored there. Never underestimate the power of a muff would have been my early 20th century takeaway.

After ditching his good and honest family, he takes the cash and tries to buy happiness (spoiler alert: it doesn't work) by visiting a house of ill repute and betting big time on cycle races, resulting in the film's raciest dialog.

"I want passion for my money!" he demands, slapping $100,000 prize money (from an "anonymous donor") down. When that doesn't satisfy his jones, he slaps $500,000 down and exclaims, "I want to push passion until it's nude!"

Just when I was thinking how racy that must have been for 1920s Germany, a friend pointed out that gay porn got its start there about the same time. No big deal, in other words.

Dave, meanwhile, had shared with me pre-film that after all this winter spent building this new instrument, he'd only gone as far as turning it on to make sure it worked before tonight's show. No practice, no noodling, no nothing.

Which, as anyone who's ever seen a Dave Watkins show knows, means from the moment the film began, he was weaving an audio spell over the crowd with his virtuosity while effortlessly improvising just the right soundtrack for the action, whether our deceitful hero was battling fake snow that appeared to be being thrown by the handfuls, seeing skulls where women's faces really were or redeeming himself with the Salvation Army.

Between my absences at the Silent Music Revival and the months that had passed since I'd last seen Dave play, one thing was painfully clear. It wasn't just that it had been a while, it had been way too long.

Time to get on board with pushing passion until it's nude. Or at least blushing.

Lady Marmalata's Bongos

Turns out stay-cationing is every bit as non-stop as vacationing.

1. Mick, I hardly knew ye
I finally got around to seeing "Yves Saint Laurent: The Perfection of Style" at the VMFA Friday evening, honestly surprised at the number of parents who'd dragged their kids to see a fashion exhibit. "Mom, there's just more clothes in this room, too!" one kid whined.

But what clothes! For me, it was the cultural history lesson that resonated most. The exhibit began back in the dark ages of afternoon dresses, short evening dresses and long evening gowns and moved through the swingin' '60s and '70s with leather maxi coats and sheer pantsuits to clothing that paid homage to art: the Mondrian mini, the Wesselman evening gown and the Georges Braque short evening dress.

Nothing surprised me as much as a black and white photo of Jerry Hall, Mick Jagger and YSL at an event. It wasn't Hall's ruffly swimsuit-like ensemble, it was seeing Jagger with a full beard that stopped me in my tracks.

Why would he ever have chosen to cover up his most famous feature? I'm guessing his vanity won out.

2. Bad luck
When I stopped into Don't Look Back for dinner after YSL, they were in full happy hour mode, meaning there wasn't a seat to be had, but a kind bartender was willing to take my order for shrimp and fish tacos while I waited for a chance to plant my backside.

Happily, my dinner arrived moments after I snagged a bar stool. Chowing down, I asked myself why I hadn't been there in so long when the tacos are so solid and came up with no good answer. Resolved: add more DLB to my life.

Goal thwarted when I woke up the next morning to read that DLB had suffered an early morning fire and is closed indefinitely. Was I the jinx?

3. Making faces, saving democracy
Beau Cribbs and the RVA Tonight crew were hosting a Bongo Beach Bash at the Byrd for those of of us in town and in need of a laugh.

The show involved beach balls, jokes about mayoral candidate Bobby Junes, a nefarious businessman buying up the ocean and a tribute to all the artists who died last year done by the duo of Tomato and Tomah-to.

Then there was local skull-a-day artist Noah Scalin entreating us to be creative (told to find a stranger, create a face out of what was in our purses and pockets and post it, the musician next to me and I crafted one of guitar picks, a nail clipper and a metal straw and then chose not to post it), the head of Virginia's ACLU sharing ways to resist and Mikrowaves as the musical guest (afterward I overheard a quartet's assessment of the band: "They were like Reek Big Fish but I couldn't understand what the words were. I liked it!").

I really don't know how I could have covered more bases in a two hour period.

4. Rocks and rawk
Saturday dawned cloudy and warm, so I led the only guy I know who owns an Ava Gardner Museum hat down to Belle Isle for the express purpose of staking a claim on a rock next to the equivalent of nature's foot bath.

The rolling cloud cover allowed us to linger without burning in the sun while a fierce jet of water pummeled our feet (and occasionally threatened to knock me from my perch, it was that strong) and provided a soundtrack just one step removed from crashing surf.

Later that day, I had Simon and Grafunckle's "Greatest Hits" blaring when my date came to collect me, causing my next door neighbors to comment on the volume. When I explained that a woman always needs a dressing soundtrack, they grinned like fools.

Well aware that half the town was going to Dogwood Dell to hear the music from "Hamilton," we devoted the evening to music at Gallery 5 instead where our audience presence was more needed and my companion got to experience the sublime pleasures of seeing Dave Watkins perform.

The show kicked off with Deer Eat Birds, a young (and satisfyingly diverse) group having a ball crafting their post rock aural landscape with occasional Curtis Mayfield-like vocals from the frontman, while Epiphany, with two 7-string guitars and a 6-string bass, had clearly studied their rock god posturing moves.

Dave Watkins played third for a change, fitting given his years of experience over the much younger bands on the bill. Half the room talked through the first few minutes of his set until, as is always the case, they became sucked in to the elaborate and multi-layered soundscapes he was creating. Ditto my companion who, like me, was awed by how Dave is able to construct his music.

Last up was Majjin Boo, the emo/math rock/experimental/prog group we'd seen play an acoustic set just the other night in the park. Their plugged in sound with a drummer was a far cry from our first time hearing them, so I'll be curious to hear how the sound develops with time.

Walking home after the show,  we marveled at how quiet Jackson Ward was. Almost no one on porches or walking down the street and, even odder, almost no sounds of traffic. In case we'd missed an apocalypse alert, we immediately retreated to my balcony for more music and a little night breeze.

5. Mountain Mist

The second day of a four day-weekend should be a no-brainer. Of course I want to plan something fun and why not with days left for goofing off?

Our happy motoring began by heading to Crozet - past a succession of cops pulling over speeders - for wine tasting, a picnic and polo match-watching from a prime spot under a large shade tree.

Not for us the canopies (labeled with affiliations such as Ole Miss, Alabama and, of course, UVA) lined up along the sidelines when we could see the polo matches just as well and keep our bottles of Crose' Rose' comfortably shaded. New since the last time I'd been, King Family Vineyards now has wine carts that drive around the perimeter so guests don't have to make the trek to the tasting room when their bottle gets low.

First world problems, I know.

I overheard a woman say they'd been staying in Staunton and decided to drive over for the match today and been pleasantly surprised that it was 10 degrees cooler here than it had been in Staunton. We'd definitely chosen the right direction to head today.

Midway through the first match, we spotted a mist rolling down the mountain and eventually a light rain arrived, but just enough to send us to the stable's porch for ten minutes before it moved on and we could return to our encampment.

Plenty of people left during the shower and others departed after the first match, but with a mountain-loving companion who'd never been to a polo match, we were there for the duration. Even once the second and final match ended, we lingered on until one of the wine cart drivers informed us that they had a wedding coming in so we'd need to move to the tasting room.

Somehow, four hours had passed in the blink of an eye.

6. Pie-eyed

The temperature in Crozet was 84 degrees when we left and we fully expected to return to a sauna in Richmond, but it was only 86 when we rolled in, despite fluctuations up to 88 as we drove east.

The neighborhood was just as deserted, but we took a chance and strolled over to Graffiato's for pizza, spotting a few tourists near Quirk and not much else in the way of liveliness, so we made our own.

The hostess made sure we knew it was still happy hour - please, imbibe cheaply! - and we paired discount drinking with an Untouchables pizza (spinach, mozzarella, smoked ricotta, chili-garlic oil and the best possible pizza sweet note, tomato marmalata) and a spicy Italian sausage pizzetta for the win.

Digestion was accompanied by Bryan Ferry, a little night air and endless conversation, as it should be on a fine stay-cation.

Life I love you, all is groovy.

Here We Go Loop-de-Loo

They're baaaack!

Three of the female variety stood in front of me at Steady Sounds.

My favorite had long, curly red hair tied up in a black scrunchee, a black and white striped t-shirt over black shorts and low-top white Converse, but she won my heart with her violet cloth bag which was a copy of the original cover of Virginia Wolf's "A Room of One's Own" worn earnestly and un-ironically.

Three, or maybe it was four, of various sexes, all talking over top of each other like in a Robert Altman movie, spilled out of a house on Marshall Street as I walked home from the record store.

I heard one laughing voice asking, "Did you have fun today?" while another squealed, "Where are we going now?" and a third exclaimed, "I had so much fun today!"

Pure, unadulterated exuberance.

Three of the male persuasion of varying heights and one female with a skateboard awaited on the corner of Clay and Harrison.

Clearly new to city life, they were so hesitant as to be paralyzed about crossing the street, despite the red light that kept me from moving until they did, so I waved them across, garnering grins and thank yous. Their mothers would be so proud.

You guessed it, Richmond is suddenly lousy with incoming gringos freshmen and you can barely swing a dead cat without hitting one so inevitably when I leave my apartment, there they are.

As opposed to my three-block walk, Philly quintet Honey Radar said it took seven hours to get to Steady Sounds, which seemed to be a surprise to them but is really just common sense to anyone who knows I-95 on a Friday (especially during the summer).

Walking in, the first friends I saw there were the living room show hosts, still recovering from the high of Wednesday evening's show and the requisite celebrating that followed. On the other hand, they were there.

The band's catchy sound was short, jangly (hello, three guitarists), lo-fi and, at least one friend heard Guided By Voices influences as we listened to older stuff and songs from their new album. Most songs didn't so much end as fall away, as if their attention was already on to something else.

Midway through their set, the store owner slid a couple of beers across his counter in the direction of the long-haired guitarist (as opposed to the other two with wholesome short hair) who, without taking his right hand off the guitar used his left to give his benefactor a thumbs up, open the beer one-handed and take a swig before returning to the song.

That's talent, folks.

Even so, the in-store performance at Steady Sounds was merely the appetizer for the show at Hardywood that became my next stop.

I found the photographer minus his cute wife at a picnic table outside, chowing down while inside, the crowd was summer-small, meaning I scored a table and chair with no effort at all.

Kenneka Cook had just begun playing when I arrived and while I'd forgotten her name, immediately I recalled first seeing her al fresco at the Valentine's music in the garden series. Using her rich voice, she layers it with beat boxing until there's a full-bodied soul song with harmonies coming out of one woman.

"This is one I wrote the words to but not the music," she teased. "You'll recognize it." The theme to "Mission Impossible" turned out to be not only familiar but also a fine music bed for her songwriting.

Extroverts are always happy when the break between music is full of company.

I was soon joined by a dapper friend and comedian, fiendishly attired in sunglasses, a seersucker jacket with a pin on the lapel and a harmonica in the pocket. Occasionally he'd withdraw a black handkerchief and dab dramatically at his forehead and neck like a true Southern gentleman despite his Indian heritage.

He wasted no time trying to make me laugh, explaining how refers to Hillary Clinton. "I call her Hi C, but I know that's not a good name because no one likes Hi-C," he deadpanned.

When I responded, "Well, they like it better than Tang," his eyes grew wide and he laughed because he though its was so hilarious.

Hilarious to the point that he later told the story to another friend, with attribution, of course (despite me telling him he could use it), assuring me, "I don't steal jokes, well, except for that once and that was from a magazine article."

We all understand situational rationalization, don't we?

A musician friend came over to say hello and ask how my summer is going, to which I said it's been fabulous.

Her surprised look was followed by admitting that she tends to focus on the lame parts rather than the great bits when asked about her summer. Wednesday I'd been asked the exact same question and had responded the same way, only to have that friend lament, "Maybe mine has been fabulous and I just don't say it."

Why the hell not?

When Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" began playing, my body took over but I also told Mr. Dapper that I was the only one in the room who not only knew the song title, but the artist.

Not content to believe me, he pulled out his phone and moved toward the speaker to Soundhound it, but I insisted on telling him what it was before he could tell me what his device said.

 Just then I spotted a nearby woman dancing just as hard as I was to it.

Naturally, she was soon added to my circle, saying she'd forgotten Patrice's name despite dancing to it like it was 1982 again.

Originally a native Richmonder, she'd spent 20 years living in Miami Beach and when I asked what lured her back, she put it succinctly. "I'd gotten too old for clubs, I was too young for Century Village, so I came back because Richmond got hip while I was gone."

On that topic, the photographer and I discoursed long and hard after he told me about a couple of record compilations his record label is putting together along with photographs, show flyers and video archives that trace the arc of the rise of RVA's scene the past seven years.

Well, butter me up and call me a biscuit because there's a project I intend to get behind 100%.

A big reason I'd come tonight was to hear Nelly Kate do her looping magic with voice, keyboard and knobs, which she did despite technical difficulties that would have beaten a lesser artist.

The haunting songs, though produced similarly to Kenneka's, sounded like they were from another universe, but her set was too short considering the gap between shows now that she's living out of town for a while.

She called Dave Watkins up to join her for one song before ceding the stage to him and his dulcitar looping magic. Guitar geeks and guys in general made up the front row, all agog at Dave's mastery with his handmade instrument.

Once he was finished, I got a sweaty hug and a chance to chat with him about summer, which must be close to over because there are three parties on my block tonight which is a sure indication that they're back.

But ask me how my evening went and I'll tell you it was fabulous. Because it was.

No Parking Zone

Tea Party sounds so much nicer than "mob of racists and homophobes."
~ bumpersticker on Park Avenue

Looking great! Flowers look pretty good, too!
~ guy calling out from car with out-of-state plates after driving the wrong way on a one-way street and spotting me watching his idiocy as I water my garden

Hey! Got any time left you could share?
~ stranger asking for my parking receipt as I get back in my car (I gave him my leftover hour)

My cross-country adventuring friend is back, so we decamped to the North to mingle, watch potters at the wheel and listen to men in pink shirts play music in the garden before servicing my hired mouth.

Gleaned from her trip to the Left Coast and back: never visit Oklahoma City on prom night, casinos on reservations are depressing but watching talented bowlers is stellar entertainment and having a cold when you're in a car for four weeks is taxing on both parties.

Oh, yes, and a bracelet suggesting the rhythms of life is worth the price.

As we're leaving the restaurant, we spot a family table with all four children under 10, heads bowed and engrossed in the blue lights of screens.

Tragic, we agree.

"They've been like that since they sat down," the impossibly young-looking hostess pipes up, her blond ponytail swinging as she shakes her pretty little head. "Headphones, too. We weren't like that when we were little."

And by we, I have to assume she means her fellow young millennials (as opposed to older millennials or Generation Z, the latest demographic target of fact-finding marketers) who had to wait until middle school to be granted device privileges.

Cry me a river.

Even the drive back from the hinterlands passes quickly with talk of Republican-baiters, wedding officiating and eleventh hour house tours. Fireworks are exploding over the Diamond as we drive by and she reminisces about a drive to the North Carolina beach on a long-ago July fourth, passing fireworks for miles along I-95, a sight you never forget.

Four weeks is really too long for friends to try to recap in a matter of hours. Hence, impending lunch plans were made to further the insider tip sharing of a two-time Paris pro.

She waved me goodbye with an armful of books - Egan's Pulitzer Prize-winning "A Visit from the Goon Squad" and Moore's "Sacre Bleu, a Comedy D'Art," among others - while at the same time clarifying that they were not birthday presents, merely fodder for discussion.

Be still my conversation heart, let's do read and dissect together.

But for tonight, let's instead invite a fellow music-lover (coincidentally a fellow) to take a somewhat steamy stroll over to Strange Matter for a show, arriving well enough in advance (okay, 20 minutes) to slide over to Ipanema and have a glass of wine and share some social intercourse in the uncrowded restaurant.

The music isn't loud enough, but the vibe is comfortable and music awaits us a few doors down.

Loop master Dave Watkins has gone and built himself another instrument, this time with a $99 Telecaster kit and the usual obscene amount of elbow grease, and proceeds to make music on it, magnificently layering sounds made by playing the guitar, tapping on it and singing into it to create dense soundscapes that entrance the room.

And by room, I mean a semi-circle of young men standing around Dave, worshiping at his altar and trying to absorb his genius.

Between songs a friend says hello and shares that just a few minutes earlier, he'd noticed that everyone in the audience was male until I walked in. "Women don't like this kind of music, I guess," he says. "Too technical?"

But I like it a lot, I remind him. "Women don't like power pop, either," he insists. Well, I love that, too. "Well, you're not a typical woman."

Thank you, I'll take that as a the compliment.

Philly's Laser Background took the stage and played their new album "Correct" from start to finish, effectively taking the crowd on a mildly psychedelic electronic journey complete with synthesizers and, as my date so perfectly put it, cosmetically-enhanced voice work (loads of effects).

Naturally the requisite non-stop dance guy threw his waist-length hair around as he stepped erratically and shook his body directly in front of the stage to the trippy sounds that deserved visual effects.

Born too late, he'd have made a terrific Dead follower, forever searching for a beat.

I'd shared with a friend that I'd seen Laser Background referred to as "paisley pop" and it took only one song for him to turn and deadpan, "I hear no paisley." Turns out he spoke too soon because a few songs later, a decidedly whimsical paisley pop feel emerged and I savored the moment almost as much as the music.

This, kids, is why we come out for live music on a Thursday night.

Recluse Raccoon closed out the show, trucker hats on heads and rhythm section keeping things lively as guitarist Timothy sang his succinct and slightly mournful songs to close out the evening and send the two of us walking home along a mostly deserted Broad Street, a far cry from the suburban landscapes of Henrico County and any clandestine Tea Party activity.

A women doesn't have to be typical to appreciate a late night post-paisley walk when the company's right and there's time left to share.

Things move really fast now. How did that happen?

We're All Standing in the Same Sunlight

Magical moments happen in this town with surprising regularity, but sometimes you realize it's more than just a happening or an evening.

It's the good vibrations of people who live here. It's that people here do things because they love doing them, because they want to share or find like-minded souls. Because they see a need and set out to fill it. Because they're passionate and can't help but spread it around.

Like the Good Day RVA folks, who were putting on a show at Hardywood this evening. Their story is simple:  they're a film collective dedicated to capturing live local music performances using Super 8 and digital to showcase just how completely cool this place is.

One thing I knew for sure about tonight's show was that while it wasn't my first show since I got back to Virginia five days ago (or even my second), this would be the one where I'd see the most friends, the greatest number of people I've known through the music scene the longest.

So I was 100% correct.

There were over half a dozen of the long-time Listening Room participants like me, an interesting coincidence since the LR has been a hot topic online this week with people lamenting the absence of a dedicated space where people really do shut up and listen.

Among our group, one recurring theme was how we continue to be surprised when out at shows that (unlike in the past), we no longer recognize the majority of the audience, a good thing since it means more people participating in the music scene than before.

The evening got off to a great start talking to a friend about the unlikely circumstances that had landed both of us in California last week, albeit opposite ends of the state. That led to mutual bemoaning about the weird weather happening the past few weeks and the news that the North Pole's temperature had risen above freezing.

He wasn't shy sharing his fears about how quickly things are changing and that it's clear we're hurtling toward the planet's end with insufficient efforts to adjust our behaviors. Cue tonight's theme.

I was happily catching up with all kinds of friends for the first time in 2016 (my wool and a friend's corduroy hot pants were a major topic, to our fashionista friend's delight), loving the fact that so many of us were there when Blanks took the stage. Turns out none of my friends had sen them before, surprising to me since I first saw them last June and several times since. There are just so many more bands worth seeing.

Leader Jessica has a terrifically husky voice and, according to my friend, they're a band with not just talent, but great hair, perhaps taking a cue from their leader. It was funny, as we admired the guitarist's long mane, she read it as a '90s throwback where several of us saw it as straight-ahead '70s. It's all in your perspective, no?

The wild card turned out to be cellist Zoe (also with fab locks) who demurely took over lead vocals for one song, kicking butts and taking names unexpectedly given her low-key demeanor. "Rock star!" someone in the audience called out when she finished and returned to her chair to wrap her legs around the cello for their last song.

During the break, the dance party king and I reveled in the recent announcement that LCD Soundsystem will be touring this year, right up until Dave Watkins took the stage to blow minds.

If the man was at all jet-lagged from his recent return, he managed to channel it into his usual killer set layering sound until the unobservant might think that there were multiple people on stage, not just one guy with mad skills and gorgeous curly hair.

And at Hardywood, there's so much head room for all that sound to move around in. The bad news was how many people talked the whole way through his set, including a trio of long-haired blond women who set up camp right next to us and annoyed the hell out of those of us trying to hear Dave. Ah, well, it is a brewery.

In line at the bathroom afterwards, the woman in front of me commented when the woman in front of her went into the loo. "So now I know every detail of why her daughter went to film school," she said, sounding a bit weary. "The things you learn standing in line for the ladies' room!"

When I got back to the stage, the Good Day RVA collective was just about to introduce two new videos, the first of which was of Dave performing, shot at the old GRTC bus depot, the one with all the colorful murals done for the RVA Street Art Fest.

With swooping overhead shots and close-ups of Dave playing (and even hitting various pedals on his board) alternating with imagery from the murals, it was enough to make a Richmonder's chest swell with pride about how rad this place and its art-makers are.

But here's the interesting part: partway through, I realized how respectfully hushed the room had gotten. Now that there was a visual on a screen, they were quiet, when mere minutes earlier, they'd been babbling through his live set.

Somebody needs parental guidance.

Next came Lobo Marino's video, shot at Yogaville in Buckingham County, an attempt to protest the natural gas pipeline Dominion wants to put in through Virginia, West Virginia and North Carolina.

Shots of the band - augmented by cellist Zoe and violinist Jessica - playing outdoors in hats and coats at Yogaville were interspersed with footage shot all over the Commonwealth and intended to convey the scope of the proposed project.

It was incredibly moving to watch them perform "Awake" and look at scenes shot everywhere from Highland County to Suffolk County. In many ways, it was a call to action.

After the video, they took the stage to do a live set beginning with "Celebrate," a reminder of appreciating what we have in this planet."We wrote this about the Ganges River, but it's really about the James," Laney said as they launched into the rousing "Holy River."

Having walked the Pipeline Walkway today for the first time in weeks, it was easy to visualize the river while they sang.

Afterwards Laney laid the issue out for the crowd, explaining that preventing this pipeline is our issue. "It's not Dominion's issue, it's not the Virginia State Senate. It's up to each of us to cut back on how much power we use, to responsibly reduce our power usage."

This is one area where I can salute myself because I'm already on board by forsaking air conditioning usage back in 1993 and consistently keeping to 64-degree heat during the winter no matter how many layers I have to add. I may not be off the grid like Laney and Jameson, but I'm certainly doing my little part.

Dave Watkins returned to the stage for a mind-blowing jam session finale with the expanded Lobo Marino that had Dave and Jessica singing into their dulcitar and violin respectively, while Jameson wailed on the mouth harp, Zoe plucked her heart out and Laney tied it together on harmonium.

When they passed around petitions for us to fill out to send to Dominion, I pulled out a pen and made my opinion known and then shared it with friends so they could do the same. Power comes from the people.

"They are so cute," my girlfriend whispered to me. "They make me want to be a better person." They remind me of people I knew back in my college days, people who were trying to effect change from a grass roots level by living differently than the masses and I love that about them.

It's like the '70s redux. We can affect change.

Only at the grooviest shows in Richmond are you absorbing local film-making, being entertained with live music and adding your signature to those of others trying to make our voices heard by the people who would negatively affect our planet and therefore our lives.

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden...

The things you learn in Richmond going to a show! How to be a better person, for one.

You Can Do Anything

The beauty of Richmond is that there's always something worth doing.

It's just another Tuesday night, right? The students have high-tailed it out of town with classes being cancelled, the suburbanites are holed up in their junior McMansions, afraid to venture out, and with everything going on this week, it's easy to throw up your hands and say why bother.

But then I see that Dave Watkins is playing at Black Iris, not even three blocks from my house and I know a perfect Tuesday night has fallen into my lap. The crowd is definitely smaller than usual - maybe 40 people - but it's a quality bunch.

I barely have time to say hello to the professor who's curated the gallery show when Dave, his dulcitar and his massive pedal board begin filling the gallery with something I've never heard from him before. Dynamic to the max and very controlled, hearing this different sound from him is a wonder for long-time fans like me.

With one of his unique light shows playing behind him, Dave has curated a total experience.

By the end of his set, there are elements of his usual improvisational sound with lots of looping, but it also feels like we are experiencing a subtle shift in his musical direction and that's exciting. It is definitely some of, if not the, best playing I've heard out of the dozens of his performances I've attended.

I only wish more out-of-towners were in the house tonight to help spread the gospel of Dave Watkins.

During the break, I get a chance to mingle. The photographer and I talk about Fall breathing down our necks. The busker thanks me for the article I wrote about her, saying it brought in a much larger crowd to her last show. The cook says business is Carytown has been painfully slow and we commiserate over the plethora of available parking in our beloved J-Ward this week.

"It's emptier than when the students are on break!" he laments. It's true.

Next up is tonight' touring band, the Andrew Weathers Ensemble, a singer/guitarist accompanied by a cellist. Of note is that they are from Oakland and are currently both barefoot on stage.

For their set, Dave puts on a nature slide show and soon leaves blow in the breeze and birds flit across Andrew's face as he sings.

Theirs is a kind of mournful experimental folk with the sadness of the cello matched only by Andrew's weary-sounding vocals. It's a fusion of indie and folk with just enough hints of Appalachia and drone. Suddenly I understand why they're barefoot.

I already know why I'm here. Beautiful music is being made in this unnaturally quiet city tonight.

Those who bother to venture out are rewarded. We are the lucky ones.

The Things You Do

Sunday, that day when you showed a swell friend how to really enjoy what's out there.

First, you go to Scott's Addition where print collective Studio 23 is having their grand opening. You have to understand, I first visited Studio 23 eight years ago when they were ensconced in 600 square feet in Plant Zero, so I've been a fan for a while.

The new 7,000-square foot space was throwing a hell of a party, one the artistic friend and I weren't about to miss. The building was a former industrial wonder with skylights, a mezzanine and something like 20 artists' studios, all of which we walked through (one artist's to-do list included "Test lithograph press. Skateboard"). Fans of action could watch screen printing demonstrations (t-shirts of a map of Virginia with a heart for Richmond were being printed).

We wandered around, both running into people we knew, ogling inventive sculptures made of screening (the monkey was a wonder, wrapped around a lamp), sipping Ardent Brewery Saison (brewed two blocks away) and lemonade made on the spot, buying a print for their upcoming film screening (not the first print I've bought at S23) and being gifted with a fragrant fabric sachet filled with lavender by artist Elizabeth Cogar.

Ooh, we hadn't expected presents.

The place was packed with artistic types (like my friend), a DJ just starting to spin out back through the garage door (required to bring the presses in and out) and fans of the print format (such as me) mingling and admiring the machinery and the abundance of art on walls and tables.

Not to sound too new agey, but it felt like there was so much good energy inaugurating the sun-filled space.

But we weren't finished yet.

From there, we headed to Manchester to Crossroads Coffee to hear Samantha Pearl play music while enjoying late afternoon ice cream. Despite having met her ages ago and seeing her often since, I'd never heard her play.

My loss.

From the opening notes of her driven guitar playing (a beat-up-looking Fender with a red heart stuck on it), it was obvious we were being graced by a serious talent. Everything she played for the small crowd - "Under a Spell," "Daddy's Boy," "Gazing at the Stars" - was rendered spellbinding because of her intricate guitar chops and stellar voice.

Midway through her set, one of the Crossroads employees (the one who'd already told me that Samantha was "super good") stood beside us on the bench to roll up the garage door and allow the warm, sunny air into the coffee shop. It made for even better listening to have the late afternoon sun beaming in from behind us.

At one point, I leaned over to Samantha's boyfriend and whispered, "Holy crap" to express my amazement at the scope of this woman's talent and he smiled beatifically, saying, "Uh huh." In other words, you're a little late to the party, Karen.

My friend concurred, describing it as "that angelic sound over such a driving guitar."

Even on songs without vocals where she was just tearing up the guitar, there was none of the usual male "guitar face" business, just a calm certainty as she coaxed amazing depths of sound from it. Her effortless cool was mesmerizing to watch.

When she broke a string and needed to replace it, the inimitable Dave Watkins and his dulcitar took over for a few songs, enchanting my friend who knew him but had never seen him play with his dense layering of sound as he looped and improvised.

I love watching first-timers fall under the spell of Dave.

When Samantha returned to the stage fully strung, she did "If You Come Driving By," a song about street performing, something she regularly does by the White House. "The Secret Service guys always tip me. They're bored, so they like the distraction." I'd be willing to bet they'd tip even if they weren't bored simply because she's so talented.

We left before she was finished playing, not because we wouldn't have loved hearing more but because we had dinner reservations for the Jackdaw Chinese pop-up at Shoryuken.

Walking in, my friend asked if my evenings always started so early (we'd met at 3:30). No, I explained, it varies night to night. It's simple, you start whenever you need to so that you can make it to all the interesting things going on that day/night.

If I was trying to introduce my friend (a former 9 to 5-er now free to enjoy a life of reinvention) to some of the pleasures of my life, food had to be a part of it. And not just any food, but a one-night only chance to taste the newest project of two local chefs.

Before we could even sit down, the king of the dance parties came over to greet me, recommend the evening's cocktail, a gimlet, and hear about our afternoon of music. Additional greetings came from a favorite cocktail ninja and the front of the house queen in her sassy new bangs.

We slid into a corner table with a view of the entire room and ordered cocktails - including the gimlet - made sublime with the kitchen's pickled scallions, as well as the E. Honda Civic, a subtle beauty with Hangar One Budda's hand citron, muddled pear, lemongrass syrup and sparkling. Hello non-stop laughter and storytelling.

From there, it was all about the food and lots of it. The hostess had praised the congee, a rice porridge (surprisingly and perhaps a tad overly sweet) rendered decadent with pork belly, toasted crullers, egg, ginger and scallions but we also had to have the fried chicken made sticky with barrel-aged soy, ginger, five spices, chilis and peanuts.

Around us, we watched as couples came and went in less time than it took us to discuss her latest dinner party (where all the drunk 30-somethings congregated at one table, causing her to dub it "the kids' table") and the few who lingered sat in silence staring vacantly at their cell phones.

What the hell happened to dinner conversation, we wondered aloud, which led us to a major blather about the whole millennial dating situation, because neither us see swiping left or right a la Tinder as a suitable way to decide who to sleep with. Now, demonstrating smarts and laughter, that's a whole different story.

Laughter abounded at our table as I listened to the story of a spacey trip to Lowe's that climaxed with rows of toilets and a need to escape.

By the time we got to steamed buns of barbecue duck hot dog, peanuts, red onion and cilantro, it was dark outside and we were getting full. But not too full to make plans, so I pulled out my datebook so we could make some commitments before the summer gets much further along. I was even invited over for a sleepover next month (PJ party alert).

Despite the fullness of multiple cocktails and dishes, we surrendered to a final course called "Just because we can," a sort of Chinese riff on a chocolate tart with a fortune cookie crust and delectable orange sauce. The portion was small, our delight in it great.

After agreeing we were on the fast road to Hell, not because of anything we'd done today, but because of how we think/speak/behave in general, we threw in the towel, admitting to the Jackdaw contingent that we couldn't take any more.

Fortunately by that time, Friend had a fine buzz from the intoxicating combination of seven hours of art, music, conversation, food and drink. She's new to the pleasures of a life well-lived, but I can already tell she's catching on quickly.

Our to-do list is as random as that artist's. Holy crap, it was a great day.

Uh huh.

Celebrate RVA All Night

If I was going to get back in the game after three unprecedented nights off due to woeful retching, I figured I might as well go big.

And nothing in town was bigger tonight than the Gallery 5 tenth anniversary party. For someone like me who's been a supporter since the beginning and a neighbor for nine years, I couldn't very well miss it.

On arrival, it was still fairly civilized with plenty of people but enough space to move around comfortably, so I took advantage of that.

Upstairs was the birthday cake, a fantastical creation by G5 co-founder Amanda and a beaut of baking genius. Besides a layer resembling the red and gold stage downstairs, the four layer cake even had a layer simulating the water-stained walls in the upstairs art gallery. I found musician Prabir critiquing the top layer which was frosted like one of the four P.A. systems the gallery has fried over the years.

Puppet-maker Lilly told me about her new puppet shop on Hull Street and introduced me to the man who owns the Manchester wizard shop a few doors down. A former writer, he recognized my name from past bylines, such a treat to hear from a stranger because no one looks at bylines.

My favorite J-Ward neighbor husband was there, but sans his lovely wife who was under the weather at their flat across the street. I told him about the Dar Williams show I'd seen because I knew he'd be interested.

Downstairs, the floor was packed for Lobo Marino's set, no surprise given the feel-good vibes they put out. When they sing "Celebrate," you can tell they mean it.

Back upstairs, I took a moment to sign the giant pages that will go into the time capsule to be opened in 2025 before catching the always astounding Dave Watkins' set in the acoustically lovely gallery.

On the walls were large format photographs of memorable events from the past ten years, including friend P.J.'s killer overhead shot of the singer from Monotonix astride a drum surrounded by adoring fans.

The galleries were being to swell with people by then so I headed outside to catch some of the fire performers' set, as always marveling at how they effortlessly fling and swing flames within inches of their bodies (and hair!) without so much as blinking an eye.

Lilly and her puppeteers were staging a "no fracking" performance and eventually moved in on the fire performers for a group piece.

On my way back in, things had gotten crowded enough that the doorman was allowing one person in for every one that came out, a sure sign it would be my last trip out.

Spotting people with cake, I hurried upstairs to score a piece and a good thing, too, since they were already down to the last layer. Fortunately it was my favorite: chocolate cake with white icing. I savored my slice while chatting with a favorite music critic about the upcoming Hooray for the Riff Raff show I'm seeing later this month.

"They're the best band I've seen in years," she said. "I'm telling everyone to see them now. Her voice live will blow you away." Good to hear since tickets are already purchased.

In the downstairs gallery were large folio books full of ten years' worth of posters advertising Gallery 5 shows and events. I began from the beginning looking to see how many of them I recalled or attended - "Beautiful Boxer," "Disrobed 2," "Chicago 10," lots of them - before coming across my personal favorite.

It was the "I Dream of a Richmond" exhibit in January 2008 and it was significant for me because I had a photograph in that show so my name was listed on the poster along with those of real photographers. I have a copy of it framed at home but it's not the same as seeing it laid out in Gallery 5 for the whole world to see.

The crowd was diverse. I saw loads of new faces and plenty of people such as me who've been G5 regulars for a decade. T-shirts ran the gamut, too. "Death Metal," "The Beatles: Magical Mystery Tour," "Selfie, Paris," and a Springsteen tour shirt.

When I got near the bar in the back, I spotted Pete the former bartender and teased him that of course he'd be there tonight. Yep, he said he'd taken off from Metzger to attend. "I built this bar," he said with pride, knocking on it hard.

I caught the end of the burlesque show, enough to hear Deanna Danger rhapsodizing about the last performer and her attributes and then turning the floor over to...herself ("Did she just introduce herself?" the guy in front of me asked. Sure did) for a fabulous finale that took everything off except pasties and a g-string.

Lest you think I was only there for titillation, I did pause to sign a "Down to the Wire" petition to encourage Dominion Power to reconsider plans to put 295' power lines across the James River at Jamestown.

Jamestown, for crying out loud! How do we explain that to the busloads of 4th graders who go there on Social Studies field trips to learn about the founding of our country? There were no power lines in 1607, people.

Then in marched nine of the No BS Brass band guys and the party shifted into overdrive. Setting up just in front of the stage, they began their assault of horns and drums with drummer Lance yelling, "Yo, yo, yo, happy birthday Gallery 5!" and launching into "Happy Birthday."

From there, it was straight into "RVA All Day" and the three trombonists were sliding their horns over the heads of the dancers directly in front of them. "Take on Me" had the room singing along and "Thriller" left everyone in a heap.

Cake maker and co-founder Amanda, right up front for it all, nailed it when she yelled out, "Best birthday band ever!"

Already mostly set up on the stage were the Awesome Few, a band I'd heard good things about but had not yet seen. "We're the Awesome Few and this is a red hot f*cking night!" the singer yelled out. Who knew we'd have a 70-degree night for all this?

Their wall of guitar sound was loud enough to send all my DJ and musician friends scurrying for their ear plugs while I foolishly allowed mine to take the pain. The songwriting was good, with much pointed commentary about music and radio. I liked them even if my ears did bleed a bit.

Midway through their set, the scientist came in and we hadn't seen each other in months. Where you been, stranger?

"Holed up, riding bikes, shooting cheap guns," he summed up before proudly pointing at his bicycle jersey emblazoned with "Richmond" across the chest. Asked his thoughts on the big bike race coming here in September, he said he was "cautiously optimistic." Aren't we all?

By that point, the last three days of infirmity were beginning to wear on me, so I decided to head out. On the way out the door, I passed Landon, lead singer of the next band, White Laces, a band so good it's still impressive no matter how many times I see them.

I was just out of steam after three days of barfing.

Right behind him was another music buddy and he looked at me in shock. "Not leaving, are you?" Sadly, yes. Not because I want to miss White Laces, but because this is one of those rare times when my body gets to overrule my love of music.

It's enough to know that a few blocks away in Jackson Ward, one of my favorite local bands is playing music I love for the masses. I may not be there to enjoy it this time, but I have blissed out at Gallery 5 for ten solid years.

I dream of a Richmond where places like Gallery 5 continue to offer all kinds of things to all kinds of people.

And when they open that time capsule in 2025, you know I'll be there.

Holy Halo

Because it's Oscar nomination season and because we spent the dinner hour discussing them - what and who were overlooked - and because of nothing more than I can, I hereby submit nominations for my Saturday evening.

Best mistaken cultural reference: Cashier looks at me and says, "You look like a '70s rock star." Which one, I ask? "Um, Cyndi Lauper? You know, with the scarves and the hair?" I do know, but that was the '80s, sweetheart.

Best way to spend the evening with an early bird friend: Wait till her husband goes to a bachelor party in Baltimore and invite her to dinner and an early music show. Only downside: our evening was over before he made it to the, ahem, "gentlemen's club," from which we were very much looking forward to seeing photos.

Best place to meet a picky eater at 4:00 for linner (her word, not mine): 821 Cafe, where the server doesn't ask what I want but whether I want a whole or half order of black bean nachos (half today). M.I.A. was the usual thrash soundtrack, perhaps a nod to the older crowd who'd come from seeing  "Million Dollar Quartet" at the Mosque Landmark Altria Theater. Our loss.

Best/most unexpected response when you walk up to a friend listening to loud music in her car: "Drake is the best!" hardly surprising from the person who introduced me to Miguel.

Best reason to go to Hardywood for the third time in 8 days: To hear Dave Watkins played his Mogwai cover and his own killer song "Marshall Street," to see Gull's one-man band Version 2015 (new mask, better songs, interpretive dance) and to be among the first to get to see Lobo Marino's new video "Holy River," a song so amazing it's likely to catapult them into the big time.

Best reference by the video's filmmaker: "This is the Hobbit of Lobo Marino." As in, the video shoot for "Holy River" resulted in so much footage that he also made videos for two other songs from the upcoming album. And we got to see them all tonight.

Best line about a guy with a beard: "He needs to cut that off and donate it to Locks of Love, pube version."

Best reaction to a song about a snapping turtle: "Did I tell you I bought a glass with turtles f*cking on it while I was thrifting today?" Nope. When she pulls up a picture, I see, yes, two happy green turtles engaged in the act. The caption reads, "Faster, faster."

Best Facebook status update while we're at the show: "My husband is out of town...so naturally I'm watching Gull cover Beyonce with Karen. I should point out that Karen had to ask me what Bey song it was. HALO, Karen, duh."

Best stranger to stand next to at a show: Sketch Girl, the artist who turns a blank page into an ink-wash illustration of one of the musicians onstage while the rest of us are just enjoying the music. Not to mention the heady scent of her markers, a flashback to the only acceptable childhood high.

Best compliment called to me from a passing car: "I love your hair. You look like a rock star!" Yes, I know the shouter, but that makes it no less flattering.

Best crack at Hardywood's expense: When Laney and Jameson are calling for Graham, their guest tabla player for the evening and he's not to be found, Laney muses, "He's not from here so he doesn't know how strong Hardywood's beer is." Fortunately he had not passed out and returned to join them for one more song.

Best use of the most body parts: Jameson of Lobo Marino who managed to drum while playing harmonium with one foot and shaking the bell on his ankle with the other. Truly impressive.

Best possible way to end a four-hour show: With Lobo Marino reprising that killer new song "Holy River," which sounds even more wondrous live. Beautiful, magical and a clear indicator of a whole new level of songwriting for these two, who leave tomorrow for a two-month tour down the east coast to Key West. Their return show is already on my calendar.

And the winner is...Karen, duh.

Throw Me, Babycakes

There was a grand show happening at Gallery 5.

After taking my hired mouth and a friend to dinner, I dropped her off at home at 8:10 and by 8:30 was strolling over to G5.

Unfortunately, having to eat for a living had prevented me from hearing a couple of friends' DJ sets but I heard she played a lot of amazing girl-fronted bands and he played a bunch of ambient soundscapes, so all I know is I missed some great stuff.

Playing first was Positive No with their dynamic front woman Tracy sporting a fabulous haircut, colorful tunic and high wattage smiles as she pogoed in place and sang in her dreamy voice over fuzzed out guitar.

"Because there's burlesque here sometimes, I'm seeing some really interesting stuff on the floor up here," she said. "Sequins I like to think once covered naughty bits, entire peel-off nails that look like fingernails."

She dedicated one song to their drummer Willis, saying it was his third to last show with the band, a real shame since I'm a big fan of his hard-hitting drumming.

By the end of their energetic set, everyone looked hot but Tracy said it best. "I welcome anyone to tell me where my mascara ended up on my face."

Guitarist Kenny volunteered, "I believe Boy George is DJ-ing at the Hat Factory tonight..."

"We'll all need to freshen up first," she cracked back.

During the break we had another guest DJ, but I spent my time chatting with friends about buying frilly underwear at Taboo, couples breaking up and not breaking up and whether it's okay to use someone's phone to respond as the phone owner or not.

A friend approached me to chat, leaning in and asking about the crowd, "Who are these people?" Very few were familiar to me, so I had no answer.

It was business as usual when Dave Watkins came onstage with his (handmade) dulcitar and looping pedals and began blowing minds by layering his music to make dense, atmospheric songs.

The three young girls next to me, each with a big "X" on her hand, were mesmerized and watched slack-jawed as Dave made music.

There were more than the usual number of photographers there tonight and I laughed watching them repeatedly shoot pictures of Dave performing.

No photograph is capable of capturing the magic and energy of a Dave Watkins set, but damn if they didn't try.

I could have told them they'd end up with shots of a handsome guy, his curly hair hanging over his forehead, concentrating on doing 12 things at once. Just doesn't convey.

During that break, a group of us got into a discussion of Interpol and how fans of the band can immediately name their favorite song or two.

What was striking was that three of us immediately named "Leif Erikson" as our top choice.

She swears that I was prey for the female
Well then hook me up and throw me, babycakes, cause I'd like to get hooked

My cute friend referred to Interpol as great road trip music and I told her that the first two Interpol albums live permanently in my car for just that reason.

A guy I see at so many shows came up to chat only to discover we have a mutual love of summer heat and disdain for air conditioning.

He lived 20 years in San Francisco and cited our warmer weather and lower cost of living as reasons why Richmond beats San Fran any day.

And for the second time tonight, a friend walked up and asked me sotto voice, "So who are all these people? I've never seen them at shows here before."

We had to guess that they'd read about the Hoax Hunters show and didn't want to miss it. We gave them credit for that.

Then it was on to the reason tonight was such a celebration: Hoax Hunters' "Comfort & Safety" record release show.

The album, which boasts the tin foil-looking Markel building on the cover was being played start to finish for tonight's lucky fans.

Band leader PJ began by thanking producer Allen for his infinite patience as they recorded the dozen songs, mostly hard and fast, always loud (I saw far more earplugs than usual tonight) and short, but with an assurance that was impressive to behold.

PJ rhapsodized about Richmond's scene, about how it was challenging to make it musically here but how that was the thing that drew him here.

"There's so much good music here now. This town has really transformed."

I still recall the first time I saw PJ, whom I knew as a band photographer (met him when I bought one of his Interpol photographs from him) and all around nice guy, play music onstage at Sprout three summers ago.

I'd been blown away with what stage presence he'd had, becoming someone very different than the sweet guy I knew.

That talent has only grown over the years as PJ has become a hell of a showman, pushing the mic stand away as if it's a bully on the playground and then snatching it back as if to say, where the hell do you think you're going?

Plus he has all the rock star guitar moves and faces to ensure you can't take your eyes off of him for fear you'll miss something epic.

True to form, at one point he knocked the mic stand over entirely, saying. "Sorry, James. Not sorry."

After that, PJ felt the need to tune before doing "Six/Five" and then inviting Dave Watkins onstage to play guitar (not dulcitar) with them.

After a raffle to give away a clear copy of the new album, PJ said, "We're going to reward those who stayed around with a song by a guy I recently took a selfie with."

Right there I knew he meant Bob Mould (saw the selfie on Facebook) and they tore through a Husker Du song with all the energy and volume of, well, Husker Du.

Based on what a stellar set they played, I think it's a safe bet that from now on, I'm going to hear a whole lot of "Who are these people?" at their shows as word about Hoax Hunters gets out.

PJ's right about how Richmond's scene has transformed. Killer bands like his made sure of that.

Hmm, wonder what his favorite Interpol song is?

Play What You Know

If I'd been a student, my teacher would have told me to stop horsing around.

Walking up the brick walkway to happy hour at the Anderson Gallery, I spotted tonight's musical guest - Dave Watkins -being posed for some pictures under a tree.

I could have paused to stay out of frame, could have breezed by and into the gallery, but, no, I all but ran up behind him and used my hand to stick rabbit ears behind his head.

His newly shorn head, I might add, since Dave was sporting a very attractive curly on top, high and tight on the sides summer do.

It was my first time photo-bombing, just for the record, and I'm pretty pleased with myself about it.

Saying hello to a gallerist and an artist, I was almost immediately joined by other members of the Dave Watkins fan club: neighbors from J-Ward, the photographer and his cute wife, the motorcyclist, the DJ, the one with the new state job.

Hail, hail, the gang's all here.

A friend immediately complimented my hair, asking me where I'd gotten it cut. As if. I love how much credit people give me.

When I told her it had been Hair Cuttery in August 2013, she told me she asks her husband to just lop off the end of her ponytail when she needs a trim (he won't, by the way). I guess we'll just keep growing it out then, she and I.

Once everyone in our little group had a beverage in hand, we sat outside on the brick patio catching up.

The couple who'd just returned from the Red Wing Roots music festival told a funny story of having their pirate flag stolen from the pole (which they didn't steal) beside their tent. Far more valuable stuff was ignored, but the thieves got the skull and crossbones.

My friend loved the poetry of a pirate flag having been pirated.

Because there are even more music shows this week than normal, we all compared notes to see who is going to which shows.

An artist I know from another lifetime came over and told me she had seen me running up behind Dave and how great I looked. "You never change," she said, "no matter how many years go by. I hope that means you're happy!"

I dare say I am.

When we moved inside for music, Dave proceeded to not only blow minds with his music but also put on a sound-activated light show on the walls of the gallery.

Is there nothing the man can't do?

Building up layers of musical phrases with his electric dulcitar - you know, the one he built himself just like the new haircut he gave himself - and looping them so he could produce the sound of an entire band instead of just one guy, I watched minds being blown as first-timers became part of the cult of Dave.

Me, I've been a card-carrying member of his fan club for five years now and he knows it.

When his set ended, there was major applause and extended mingling. My neighbors asked me to join them for dinner, but I had plans. Neither was surprised.

"Do you go out every night?" the husband asked. I do, I told him. I can't think of a good reason not to.

The plans that kept me from eating with them were at Richmond Triangle Players where brothers Evan and Chris Nasteff were doing a cabaret/rock show.

Plus it was going to be an interactive show so every attendee got to put two song requests in the hat (bribes were suggested). The only rule was that there could be no show tune requests because they didn't know what a show tune was until eight years ago and show tunes are difficult...or so they claimed.

Considering Evan's an actor (I'd seen him do a terrific job in "Cabaret" last month), their aversion to show tunes was unexpected.

No surprise, I ran into an actor friend and we got to talking about auditions for "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," my excitement over The Basement (the new theater space coming to my neighborhood where "Hedwig" will play) and, of all things, the Pump House in Byrd Park, which he'd heard was finally being renovated.

If the Pump House is ever redone, he thinks the preview event should be a tea dance to kick off pride week. I can't think of a better way to christen the old dance floor than having a bunch of queens break it in. Can I get an amen?

Finally taking my seat in the second row, when I was asked where I'd come from, I said happy hour.

"Are you happy?" he wanted to know. Oh, yes, I'm happy.

All of a sudden tonight's star, Evan, was onstage and demanding of the room, "Sit down!" followed by his best "Cabaret" German accent saying, "You VILL sit down!" so we did.

He and his band - brother Chris on guitar, Grant on guitar, Bobby on bass and Bentley on drums- were all in tank tops and they enthusiastically crashed into the Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There," making for a fabulous start to the evening.

We all yelled our approval.

Partway through, Richmond icon Marjorie Lee Stewart VanderCamp (aka Maggie) took the stage before being shooed away while Chris and Grant got out their acoustic guitars and did "And I Love Her" with Bentley hand drumming, which I love the sound of.

Meanwhile, the Nasteff parents were in the front row, alternately taking pictures and looking rather proud.

Next Evan called the platinum blond Grey up (she's currently doing "Hair," which I'd also just seen) and she took the stage looking like a million bucks in pink satin pants, a black sequin top and silver platform shoes before destroying the room (or at least me) doing a slow burn of the Foundations' "Baby, Now That I Found You" with Chris on guitar.

You better believe I hooted and hollered after that one.

The next guest was the ringer. Nick, also taking  a night off from "Hair" joined Chris and Evan on Crosby, Stills and Nash's magnificently alliterative "Helplessly Hoping," complete with three part harmonies. Absolutely beautiful.

Afterwards, Evan quipped, "As you can see by the words written all over Nick's arms, that's not his last song with us." Sure enough, both arms were covered in lyrics.

Admitting that they couldn't stand John Mayer but admired his music, the band rocked through "3 x 5" and then went in a whole different direction with Chris doing R. Kelly's "Remix of Ignition" and I screamed even louder at the end.

After singing about stroking it and feeling that body, Chris looked over at the woman who had birthed him and said, eyes down, "Hi, Mom."

And what better to follow sexual pleading than with "Hey Ya," with the line, "I don't wanna meet your Mama, I just want to make you come-a"?

Sorry, Mama Nasteff.

The always energetic Matt did a couple of Green Day songs - "She" and "Pullin' Teeth"- with Marjorie, claiming they only learned them yesterday. If so, well done, you two.

Who needed show tunes when these guys were killing it with rock?

That was when we got to the request box and Evan pulled out some wiseacre's suggestion for Lindsay Buckingham pre-Fleetwood Mac.

"Are you kidding?" Evan said, tossing it aside. "I'm going to take your dollar anyway."

The next request was for "Genie in a Bottle," followed by a another for the same song. Who are you people?

Only problem was Evan didn't have his phone so he couldn't look up the chords. Aw, too bad.

"Yea, we thought this through," Chris deadpanned at the mic for the third time tonight, his go-to announcement every time things got chaotic onstage.

They decided the smart thing to do was break for intermission, let everyone get drinks, they'd find the chords and start the second act with "Genie."

After a mad rush for the bar (with Will Smith playing on the sound system) and a friend saying to me, "This is crazier than the Ghostlight after party," which is really saying something because that's always a pretty silly evening, the audience mostly took their drinks to their seats so the Nasteffs could carry on.

Because that's what they'd come to do and, by gum, they were going to do it.

Evan sang lead on "Genie," while Marjorie did the best interpretive dance and backing vocals and the band members just cracked up the entire time.

When you think about it, that's actually an appropriate reaction to that silly song.

Midway through the Killers' "When You Were Young," Evan flashed Chris a smile and said, "See, I did learn that last chord." Apparently brotherly one-upmanship never dies.

Nick returned, studying his lyric-filled arm during the intro to "My Sharona," before belting it out which got lots of audience squeals, but then they went into OK Go's "Here We Go Again" sung by Evan, before reverting to "Sharona."

Ye gads, a medley!

Walking offstage, someone called to Nick asking, "Who's Sharona?" and he yelled, "Mine!"

Chris did "Life in the Slaw Lane," an acoustic ode to fruits and vegetables that had the crowd cracking up with every line of wordplay ("Her name was Peaches, a soiled but radishing beauty with huge gourds"), laughing himself at points.

Naturally they had to follow that with something crazy like Tenacious D, resulting in Papa Nasteff calling out from the first row, "Play something you know!"

No matter how old you get, they still think they're the boss of you. Pipe down, Daddio.

"We're gonna do a Dire Straits song as re-imagined by the Killers because we're not old as shit," Evan said before trading off vocals with Chris on "Romeo and Juliet," a song I admit I hadn't heard before and I am old as shit, despite what artists might tell me.

Nick and Majorie returned ("Yes, Nick, it's that arm!"), ready to regale us with a song from "School of Rock" while having a dance-off with each other. "Teacher's Pet" was definitely the song where the band rocked out hardest.

"Rock and roll!" someone shouted as they finished. That's what we'd come for.

"We're gonna play our encore as our last song and then do one request," Evan said before "Hey, Jude" and the whole audience joining in for the "na, na, na" chorus, a true kumbaya moment.

Because I've been to the Ghostlight after party plenty, I more or less was certain that "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time" would be the big finale (Evan always closes the show doing it) and I wasn't disappointed.

With the band cracking up, the crowd singing along, tonight's cabaret/rock show ended on the happiest of notes.

The brothers who have always wanted to do a show together can now scratch that off their bucket list after a well-executed performance.

I'm pretty sure they were having as good a time as we were.

Some things you don't have to think through.

Now Hear This

After keeping it in the neighborhood all day long, I did the same tonight.

It wasn't a tough call. There was a terrific show at Gallery 5 and on my walk over, I saw the sloppy remains of Broad Appetit being dismantled, plastic soda and water bottles still littering the street.

No surprise, it always takes a few days to recover from the influx of visitors to the 'hood, people who forget that this is a place where people actually live, not just festival central.

At Gallery 5, I said hello to a few musicians I knew before heading inside for the show to begin.

The inimitable Dave Watkins was first up, wooing people away from their conversations and phones to watch him work magic on his electric dulcitar.

They really had no choice once he kicked into the second song, a punch to the gut that was far harder than usual and screamed far closer to Half Bascule, his Appalachian folk/spaghetti western/metal project.

A Mogwai cover wasn't far behind as I savored Dave's take on post rock and a band I know he loves.

The enthusiastic applause at the end of his set came from both people like me who've had the pleasure of watching him for years as well as those who were seeing him for the first time tonight, marveling at how one man can make so much sound.

Next came Blanks, in their first appearance playing out and fronted by Jessica Blanks, whom I've seen play violin and keyboards many times in the past as part of Zac Hyricak and the Jungle Beat.

They were four women - cello, violin/synth and two guitars - and a guy on drums, with his drum kit decorated with garlands of roses.

Jessica had told me outside that she'd be playing guitar, something I'd never seen her do, and that she was nervous. I recognized the other guitarist from the band Spandrel, purveyors of classic '70s-sounding rock and it was she who took charge, saying to the crowd, "Guys, don't stand back there. It's dark!" and pulling us closer to the stage.

She and Jessica sang together, their voices blending beautifully on Jessica's songs as they worked through their set.

We soon learned that Jack the drummer won't graduate high school until next week. "So are you saying he's barely legal?" a girl called from the audience. And if he is, then what?

Wait, wait, don't tell me.

Their chamber pop rock sound was fascinating for the amalgamation of cello and violin with synths, drum and guitar and I'm looking forward to future shows as they get more comfortable with each other and the material.

I thought they showed extraordinary promise for a first outing.

Brooklyn's Cal Folger Day took the stage next, starting by playing guitar and singing. "I'm going to begin with a song about crockery called "Butterfingers," she deadpanned.

Her voice was a revelation, part Joni Mitchell, part Regina Spektor and her lyrics both quirky and confessional.

When she couldn't remember the opening line to a song, she shrugged and said, "And the name of the song is "Stupid!" It didn't matter, she went on to play "Having a Boyfriend Ain't the Christian Thing to Do" with her tongue firmly in cheek (I think).

As a heathen, frankly it doesn't matter to me whether it is or isn't.

Eventually the "Stupid" lyrics came back to her and she played it for us, including the brilliant lyric, "If only you were stupid, then this would be easy." Ain't it the truth?

After a while, she moved over to the keyboard saying she was a fan of the DelMarVa area and the word itself before singing a song about Lewes, Delaware, a place her family has a home.

Her voice was amazing, whether on a song about where you want your body buried or about having a teenage crush on the man whose kids you babysit.

When she finished, she let us know she had music for sale along with an illustrated housekeeping manual. You know, that last bit of information didn't even come as a surprise, unique as she came across.

To close out the evening was Nevin Kight, the name of Kevin Night's music project. He's a guitarist with Wild Nothing, which means I may already have seen him when I saw Wild Nothing play Strange Matter two summers ago on a blazingly hot August night.

He's in town recording an album and he'd assembled a group of local musicians including Jessica and one of the guys from Spandrel, among others, to play with him tonight so we were looking at two guitarists, a bassist, a violinist and two drummers.

Seems they'd begun at 12:30 last night and practiced for three hours and now we were going to see how that worked out.

As they kicked into "Affirmation" off that upcoming record, one of the drummers grabbed a tambourine in one hand and a grapefruit in the other and perched on top of an amp, looming over Kevin.

As he took a bite from the fruit, he jumped down, sat on the stage and peeled it before taking off into the audience to distribute sections to some of us.

I'd have to say it's the first time I've been handed grapefruit at a show.

"We're going to do a Chris Isaak cover," Kevin said, "but all the songs on that album are great, not just "Wicked Game."

I thought they nailed the cover, even if not everyone knew exactly when the song was supposed to end. As Kevin pointed out, considering the band wasn't even a day old, they were doing a damn fine job.

Saying he had dreamed the song, Kevin announced "Serf Under the Table," which grew into a psychedelic wall of guitar and drum sound I was hoping would never end. My wish is that it will sound that big on the album.

"Work It Out" and "Changeling" were almost as good and you could see the musicians getting more comfortable with each song.

Kevin said his new album was being recorded in Nashville and Richmond and I found it appropriate to hear us in the company of music city.

The band left the stage except for Jessica and Kevin and they closed with "Angels and Birds," which would have been the slow dance of the evening if this had been a dance.

But it wasn't a dance, it was just a grand neighborhood show to close out Sunday. For the most part, a fun day.

Cage Match

Some of us live in urban bohemia and some of us grew up in suburban bohemia.

The latter would be Slash Coleman, who came to the Library of Virginia tonight for a reading (actually a retelling) from his new book, "The Bohemian Love Diaries."

Three years ago, I spent Valentine's night with Slash and a bunch of other singles at Crossroads Art, listening to him and a few guests share stories about how the course of true love never does run smooth, a fact of which I was well aware at that time.

Tonight's reading drew a lively crowd, several of whom told me they were intrigued by the book's title.

After chatting with a woman about industrial farming and (no kidding) circumcision during the wine and cheese reception, Slash took center stage in a full beard and ripped jeans to bring us up to date on his life.

And while usually his stories have a humorous side, this one involved him getting a collapsed lung that eventually required surgery to re-inflate and causing him to cancel the rest of his book tour speaking engagements,

Well, except for this one because, here's the thing: Slash grew up in Chester, a word he humorously pronounced all evening long the way the locals do.

Showing us the book cover, we saw a picture of Slash when he was about eight, back when his artist father used to load up the family for monthly trips to Alaska to find an artists' colony.

Except they rarely got any farther than Fredericksburg.

Tonight's talk was about being raised by an eccentric family and his failed love relationships as a result of coming out of all that eccentricity.

He showed us an Italian version of the book with the title changed to "Love with a High Fever," a title he didn't think was any better than his.

I don't know about that.

Sharing the story of his parents' meeting at the tea room at Miller & Rhoads, we heard that Dad, a sculptor, had been a sign painter for M & R and Mom was French and a student at RPI. Along the way, he threw in that Grandpa danced at the Moulin Rouge and Grandma was a watercolor painter.

On his parents' first date, he showed up in a stolen car with a case of Manischewitz wine and a plan to win her heart. Instead he drank it all and passed out and she walked home alone to her dorm.

Disastrous as it sounds, he invited her to Passover for their second date, but they ended up eloping before the second date.

Slash recalled an early interest in sports that was of no consequence to his artistic parents. The closest to sporty they got was when his Dad organized a softball game between the Freaks, a bunch of sculptors, and the Pigs, a team of Richmond police officers.

Begging his mother to let him play baseball, she responded that he would be paralyzed and said no, but he eventually found an old glove in his Dad's studio and signed up for the team himself.

Sharing tales of gymnastics, wrestling and being brought home to his mother after sports injuries, he waxed poetic about Coach Walt, a man who wore Brut by Faberge and had a white person Afro.

It's a pretty vivid visual.

He recalled fondly the period when his father sold roadkill sculptures to support the family. It gets pretty odd here because while the head was from one animal and the legs from another, the body was always made of bread.

Yup, you read right.

So one of his pieces might have the head of a turtle, the legs of a lizard and a pumpernickel body. And when pieces didn't sell after a while, they  were retired to the backyard as ornamentation, at least until the bread rotted or was eaten.

I'd say that's pretty bohemian.

In any case, the book is being shopped around as a TV series and who knows, a series could show up on TV about a boy from Chester who came from a family of six Leo women and eight artists.

During the Q & A, Slash said he prefers to read non-fiction because, "I'm interested in how people put their truths together."

Exactly the way I feel about non-fiction and no doubt part of the reason that people read my blog every day.

Or maybe they're eager to read about my love with a high fever exploits, who knows?

Truth telling aside, next on my plate was the annual musicircus at UR, the one hour beautiful cacophony of musicians playing whatever they choose.

Don't ask me, composer John Cage thought it up and I just participate every year.

The musicircus got a late start because the eighth blackbird show ran over, so it was almost 9 when the sirens went off and everyone began playing.

Wandering down hallways, up and down staircases, into practice and classrooms, the milling crowd had myriad options for what kind of music with which to begin.

Since so many people were gathered on the first floor, my fellow Cage lover and I sprinted upstairs in an attempt to beat the masses.

Brian Jones, an organizer of the annual event, had assembled a percussion ensemble that included jazz drummer extraordinaire Scott Clark on tambourine.

Perched on an upholstered chair with two girls on couches for an audience was harmonica player Andrew Ali, whom I've seen play with Allison Self and lately, Josh Small. Tonight he was flying solo, singing and blowing his best blues.

Improv troupe the Johnsons (from Richmond Comedy Coalition) had wedged themselves into a hallway and were hilariously making up stuff with every word that came out of their mouths.

For sheer effect, it was tough to beat Kill Vonnegut, a punk quintet playing under black lights to a rapt audience.

For something completely different, the Family Band looked impossibly young and clean cut, with not a whisker of facial hair in the bunch, belting out Fountains of Wayne's "Stacey's Mom." I think they were all about 8 when it came out.

Tucked into a small room was Monk's Playground, where I recognized Larri Branch on piano, Brian Cruse on upright bass and the female sax player from RVA Big Band. As to which Monk song they were playing, I couldn't tell you.

I spotted David Roberts, whom I recognized from Classical Incarnations, playing piano alone in a room but couldn't hear him over the din, so I stepped in.

Turning, he invited me to look at his score, where I saw the title "Vexations" and the composer, Eric Satie, and an instruction at the top to play the theme 840 times.

David said that Cage had once done it and it had taken him 18 hours. Since the musicircus only lasts one hour, that wasn't happening tonight, but I was curious if repeating the same page of music was vexing him yet.

"A little, yes," he admitted with a smile, but I gave him the award for most Cage-appropriate music choice.

Coming down a stairwell, we happened on a sitar and a moment later the young woman who played it arrived, sitting on the floor to play. It was easily the handsomest instrument of the evening.

And purchased online, of course.

Tucked into a classroom with staffs drawn on the white board were guitarists Scott Burton and Matt White with another musician between them turning knobs and adjusting the effects of their playing to an ambient guitar wall of sound.

Alistair Calhoun took home the prize for smallest guitar, using reverb effects and finger picking to entice me to linger and listen.

DJ Carlito spun world music heavy on the middle east and even getting people to start dancing in the hallway. Pianist David Eslek was playing Lennon's "Imagine."

Downstairs we found the Josh Bearman group, a lot of whom seemed to be the Hot Seats, playing their spot-on old time and bluegrass music.

The gamelan orchestra had a Balinese shadow puppet play on film playing over their instruments, an ideal accompaniment to the lyrical music.

Near the door, Dave Watkins grabbed people's attention coming and going with his electric dulcitar and endless looping to create the sound of a quartet or even quintet.

Because he's Dave, he kept playing long after other musicians had stopped (or even left), treating the lingerers to a sonic finale that blew minds. But then, he's Dave Watkins, so he always delivers the grandiose.

Every year I say it because every year it's true.

Richmond is incredibly fortunate that we have a musicircus put on every year, with dozens of musicians both new to their craft and long-standing, playing their hearts out for free for one hour.

I saw so many people I know taking it all in. There were musicians playing and musicians as guests. Students experiencing it for the first time. Even a few little children in headphones.

Heads full and ears happy, the musicircus beats even Barnum & Bailey for sheer delight in the experience. Plus, no animals are harmed in the making of the musicircus.

That's how I'm putting today's truth together, ladies and germs. Make of it what you will.

Should you have any questions, you can find me in New Bohemia...or thereabouts. Possibly with a high fever.

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.

Art, Independence and Spirit

There were giveaways, there was art, there was metal.

Only another reader can appreciate how thrilled I was to hear about the main library's big book giveaway tonight, part of First Fridays artwalk.

The only requirement was that you bring your own bag and I brought a sturdy one, quite sure I'd find plenty that interested me. I like to think I have an advantage because my taste probably resides somewhat outside the mainstream.

It was a narrow hallway lined on both sides with boxes and boxes of books and the crowd moved slowly through it, each with their own reading agenda.

Many sections I gave only a cursory glance - romance, self-help, religion - while I lingered over others so as to not miss a hidden gem.

I spent about an hour and left with a baker's dozen books, everything from "Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley" to "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece" to "American Moderns: Bohemian New York and the Creation of a New Century."

There was no resisting a 1938 book called "If You Want to Write: A Book About Art, Independence and Spirit," which the poet Carl Sandberg called, "The best book ever written about how to write." We'll just see about that.

Lest I make it sound like I only chose non-fiction, I also snagged William Styron's "Sophie's Choice" for a good 515-page cry and Oscar Hijuelos' "A Simple Habana Melody," the latter chosen because I enjoyed his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" so much.

I met a book dealer carefully checking titles against the inventory on his phone and he raised an eyebrow, asking how I was doing. Giving him a peek into my bag, he smiled and said I was not an easy-to-categorize reader. Duh.

Then I lugged my booty upstairs to see some art.

Jason Clark's white, carved wood panels reminded me of monochromatic maps and his colored rubbings on paper made abstractions of familiar things.

Jess Pruett's show of collage works, "Caustic Merges," blended the female form with typography and iconography in an almost Byzantine-looking way so that each small, framed work had the feel of a much older object.

Leaving the library, I made my way back to J-Ward for the first opening at New Normal Apparel, where Boris Bernard's prints entitled "Your Failure Iz My Happiness" were showing.

There were screen prints of athletes kissing trophies and celebrating victories but my favorite was a decidedly pink one of the famous image from the 1968 Olympics of two black athletes raising their fists while the national anthem played.

Somehow seeing it screened in pink and rustically framed made it even more powerful. If only they'd been giving away prints, I'd have taken it home in a heartbeat.

But they weren't, so I headed down Clay to Gallery 5 to check out a group show, "Feels Good" and hear some music.

The place was freezing and I mean that not in a hyperbolic way but because the heat wasn't working and despite a few small heaters, it's impossible to warm ceilings two stories high with concrete floors and brick walls.

As a musician friend warned me on arrival, "Just leave your coat and gloves on." Oh, you can be sure I did.

First onstage was Spandrel, a band I'd seen just a few weeks ago at one of the Well's final shows before closing.

The quartet has a mellow sound (a DJ friend referred to it as "classic AM radio sounding) with three vocalists, all of whom traded instruments throughout their set.

Next came Half Bascule, named after the kind of bridge at Great Shiplock park, and made up of the uber-talented Dave Watkins and the equally impressive Nathaniel Rosenberry on drums.

They set up on the floor in front of the stage so the crowd was mere feet away.

The first thing Nathaniel did was peel off his jacket and hat before sitting down to play and then said, "If anyone here knows Dave, you know he's never played this instrument in public before."

True that and the instrument in question looked like a kid's bass with guitar strings.

With no more than that, the two of them took off on a sonic journey that knocked the crowd on their collective asses.

Part doom metal, part Appalachian folk and part spaghetti western (doom spaghetti, Dave later called it), the music was loud, fast and incredibly melodic.

The dance party king said to me at one point, "Now that part is pure southern rock. And that's pure Hendrix." I think I even heard some Led Zeppelin. Another guy heard Minus the Bear.

As they tore into this improvised music, each of them going at it with an intensity that only spurred the other on, the crowd stood in awe.

At one point, I saw a guy climb up onstage with his camera to shoot them playing from above. Another guy found his way to stand on a radiator behind Nathaniel and shoot over his shoulder. Others just stood inches away and shot pictures and video right in their faces.

Everyone in the room knew they were seeing something spectacular.

Now, I've seen Dave play dozens of times over the past almost five years, but never like that. Ditto for Nathaniel.

I had the feeling that their set ended only when Nathaniel was close to exhaustion.

A guy came up to me after their set, asking me if I'd been at the VMFA last night because he thought he recognized me.

Once I confirmed that, he stayed to talk, eager to know more about Dave and talk about the local scene.

Seems he'd graduated from VCU with a double major in sculpture and photography and then moved to San Francisco for 33 years and just returned.

He wanted suggestions for stuff to do now that he's back, so I made some, always happy to share my knowledge and get people out and enjoying the scene.

I shushed him when The Silent Type took the stage because I'd never heard them, despite a decade-long history here, although apparently they'd been on hiatus for years.

And while I say "they," we were also told that the guitarist Phil (from Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade) had stepped in and learned all the songs in two weeks.

The lead singer played acoustic guitar (tuning frequently because of how cold it was in there) and had a dramatic voice, reminding the DJ and me a bit of Morrissey's stagey delivery (which we both liked a lot), but it was the addition of the effect-laden electric guitar Phil was playing that made the sound for me.

His songs were very poetic - "Alarms," "Fools' Gold, Sinners' Blues," "The Year Since You Left Me" and decidedly downbeat, but as the former San Franciscan pointed out, "Upbeat gets old after a while. It's good to hear someone do downbeat well."

Agreed.

After some long-winded sound checking (and never really getting it right), Antiphons played, starting with a song called "Orchard Graves."

It was notable for how the band was dressed to play, namely as warmly as possible. The bass player wore his jacket and the guitarist wore an epic hat with flaps and blew on his hands to keep blood flowing in them.

Between the cold and the hour, their set was a casual one, with lots of asides to the audience. "Thanks again for being here. You guys are cute," singer Brian said.

They did a Built to Spill cover, "Twin Falls," a real crowd-pleaser and later said they were doing another cover, "But one we haven't done in a long time. That's a disclaimer."

When the bassist asked what the chords were, the lead singer laughed. "Just play it. What do we have to lose at this point?" before playing Weezer's "Only in Dreams."

"Thanks for humoring us," Brian finished to those of us still shivering and listening.

Hey, once a bohemian's gotten free books and heard doom spaghetti, she's pretty much agreeable to anything.

Feel free to test me on that.