Barely Legal Bona Fide Human Beings

Okay, Byrd Park Roundhouse, get your act together.

When I attended my first show there a few weeks ago, I showed up at 7 because that was the time on the Facebook event page. But upon arriving, a sandwich board announced that the doors actually opened at 7:30 and music wasn't until 8. The change was an excuse to walk around the lake on a beautiful evening, so no big deal.

But needless to say, when I made plans to go hear the Hot Seats at the Roundhouse tonight, I knew enough to arrive just before 8:00. Stopped at a  traffic light on the way over, I saw a plane fly directly under the bottom of the nearly full moon, leaving a vapor trail that looked like it provided a ledge for the moon to sit on.

I took it as a good omen for the evening.

Walking from where I parked toward the Roundhouse, I saw young families scattered around the lawn outside the Roundhouse's open door, kids scampering as parents listed to the music.

All of a sudden, I could hear that the band had started, a bit of a surprise since it wasn't yet 8.

Walking in, money in hand, the guy at the door looks apologetic. "I think they're about to finish up their set," he explained. "But maybe if you let them see you putting money in, they'll play a little longer."

Glancing over at bandleader Josh, whom I've known for years, I made an exaggerated motion with my arm, bringing it up and over my head to deposit the cash, which, incidentally, all goes to the band, and smiled broadly.

"You just got us a few more songs, I think," the door guy whispered with a grin before I found a seat in the back row. It wasn't a big crowd, but they were mighty and clearly fans of bluegrass and new grass and everything the talented Hot Seats - guitar, upright bass, fiddle, mandolin and occasionally banjo played by a woman otherwise seated in the front row - were serving up.

I'm sure if I'd been there when the show began, I'd know who she was.

The first full song I heard was "Compliance," an original song Josh said was about "someone having their foot on your throat and asking if you mind if they kick you." Who doesn't like fast-pickin' with major attitude in the lyrics?

"We're the Hot Seats, in case I didn't mention it and we've been around a while," Josh said to laughter. "It's our eighteenth birthday as a band, which makes us barely legal."

There was another original song, during which a Dad came in with his two young girls and headed toward the bathrooms, the kids never even turning to look at the four men vigorously making music as they passed by. It made me a little sad considering the volume and the energy and their complete indifference to both.

After a song about "being bona fide human beings," Josh promised, tongue firmly in cheek, that they would "keep the uplifting songs going." Then they launched into another of his songs, this one called "When You Were Young," which he says he wrote to remind himself not to be so crotchety.

When you were young
Things were fun
You used to like things
It was exciting

After reminding his bandmates they were moving into songs in the key of A, the did a nice little murder ballad called "Willow Garden." When you're listening to a good murder ballad, it's hard not to appreciate a setting as lovely as tonight's: windows open to the park, the sunset sliding behind the trees, humidity so low as to be imperceptible (which means I had to wear leggings so I wouldn't be cold).

Practically perfect except for the absence of company.

Even Josh couldn't help but commenting on our surroundings, announcing that he'd been married in the Roundhouse, "Thirteen years ago? Fourteen? I should know, shouldn't I?" All I'm saying about that is, I'd bet his wife knows how many years it's been.

Part of the beauty of the Hot Seats is hearing multiple voices harmonizing, but also hearing an occasional plaintive lead vocal by the fiddle player.

They were doing a song about a rattletrap van not known for starting with certainty or frequency when two women arrived and sat down in the row in front of me. I wondered if they'd gotten the same warning that I had, that the show was about to wind down.

When that song ended, that was it and people began heading out after a reminder from Josh about future Roundhouse shows. Curious about why the show had started so early, I stopped to ask the table guy and he explained that all the shows there are supposed to start at 7 sharp. Since I'd only been to one previously and it had started at 8, I'd made an erroneous assumption, I told him

Standing nearby was a couple who joined our conversation to say that they'd done the same thing after the Luray show. "We'd have been much earlier if we'd known it was really starting at 7," she said. Finally, witnesses to back up my story.

Finally fully armed with the correct information about future shows, I headed out, only to run into Josh, who gestured at the moon and observed that it was nearly full. When I told him about seeing the plane appearing to shave off the bottom of it earlier, he joked, "Oh, that's why it's missing that little part at the bottom." Who doesn't appreciate a clever musician?

Making my way to my car, I heard the distinctive strains of "Downtown," a song I love, so I stood by my car to finish listening to it. I couldn't tell where it was coming from because it was starting to get dark and the trees obliterated the source of the sound. Probably just somebody's boombox.

If I'd had any sense, I would have followed the music because as soon as I got home, I saw that a friend was at opening night of Dogwood Dell and the English Beat - purveyors of Brit pop, rock and prog from the '60s and '70s - were playing the night away.

I'd been within spitting distance of the amphitheater and not had a clue. So if they played my Petula Clark favorite, "Don't Sleep in the Subway, Darling," I'd rather not know about it.

I don't want to sound crotchety, but I hate missing out on double fun.

Party Like It's 1776

One tenet of a stay-cation is already clear: there will be naps, daily naps.

After Monday's rest period, I suggested a sunset viewing party from Rockett's Landing and made sure we got there in time to nab a table with an umbrella (later arrivals were not so fortunate), the better to perpetually adjust our nest of shade from the waning sun.

I don't mind glowing but full-on sweating detracts from a girl's Hawaiian print sundress.

It's such a picaresque setting that I hesitated when my date inquired about the source of bubbles in the water just across river (no one wants to blurt out "sewage treatment plant," just like no one wants to remind you that the pipeline carries sewage and storm water runoff), although even he had to admit that it interfered in no way with the sunset vibe.

From our perch on high at Conch Republic, we watched crew teams glide by (some with an accompanying coach in a power boat), power boats arrive laden with 20-somethings after a big day on the river and even some sort of law enforcement boat scouting for trouble.

The woman at the table next to us explained away the boat cop's mission, saying,"Anybody knows you store your beer in the woods and just go get it as you need it, not bring it on the boat!" Given my sub-par navigation skills, I think it's safe to say I'd never find that beer again, but that's just me.

We toasted the majesty of the sunset with Vino Verde, sesame-crusted ahi tuna and a salad of blueberries, strawberries, craisins and grape tomatoes over mesclun while people came and went from the balcony around us.

I don't know which of us was more surprised when we realized the sun was serious about setting, but it left us no choice but to acknowledge that more than three hours had gone by in the course of a conversation and the James was now a gunmetal green shade headed to even darker night time hues.

Tuesday kicked off with a trip to Lewis Ginter Botanical Gardens because Carmax was paying for everyone's admission today and why not celebrate independence with lush plantings and benches strategically placed in shaded tree stands?

What I hadn't anticipated was the thousands of other people taking advantage of Carmax's generosity (cops were directing traffic, it was so jammed), but we solved that little problem by always taking the path less crowded and avoiding the child-centric areas where toddler screams reminded passers-by how natural it is for little ones to yell when water is involved (see: ocean).

Since it had been a few years since I was last at the Gardens, I enjoyed every bit of it. The conifer garden, the tree trail, the new floating bridges (what a kick to feel the bridge give as we strode across it), smelling the heirloom varieties in the rose garden, the contemplative Japanese garden.

The line for the butterfly garden extended too far to even consider, but we didn't miss much else. Meanwhile, holiday-appropriate t-shirts abounded.

Red, white and Dude
United States of Awesome
Do you even 'Murica, Bro?

And that doesn't even count the countless flag t-shirts (flags shaped like hearts, stars and stripes on Minnie Mouse's head bow) or red, white and blue ensembles we saw. At least, unlike at the beach, we didn't have to bear witness to flag-motif bikinis and bathing trunks.

Some things you can't ever un-see.

So, you see, we do have something to be grateful for on this, the anniversary of our independence from a country not nearly as fat or stupid as our own.

There may have been a nap again on Tuesday afternoon, but who's counting?

Since it's been two decades since I've been in Richmond for Independence Day, it seemed only right to spend it at Dogwood Dell for explosions in the sky and whatever came with that.

By our hand, that whatever included chicken schwermas from Donor Kebob, fruit and King Family Vineyards Blanc de Blanc snagged on our road trip Sunday. Because bubbly and freedom go hand in hand.

By Dogwood Dell's hand, that whatever was so much more. And I'm not just talking about the aerial show the bats put on at dusk, though I do like to watch.

Selections from red-hot "Hamilton." Byrd manager Todd Schall-Vass movingly read key parts of the Declaration of Independence (and then touched on the document's other "highlights," a thinly-disguised way of pointing out our current leader's shortcomings and failures). The Richmond Concert Band doing all the patriotic songs we used to have to sing in elementary school ("You're a Grand Old Flag," "America the Beautiful," "Battle Hymn of the Republic"). Veterans and military personnel being asked to stand for protracted ovations.

The comic highlight was the woman standing on the pathway in front of us who turned and immediately ran into a toddler, causing her to trip, flip and roll over on the stone path, Meanwhile, the 3-year old who'd caused the spill laughed uproariously, not understanding that the woman had not meant to fall.

But by far, the program was most seductive while the band played "The 1812 Overture" to the night sky, complete with cannons firing and seamlessly seguing into the fireworks display. We watched from our perch near a crepe myrtle tree, enjoying the pyrotechnics between branches while the rolling smoke cloud grew denser and higher.

We were among the leisurely packing up, in no hurry to join the legions of people exiting Byrd Park. Somehow, it then took us 50 minutes to traverse the 2 1/2 miles to my apartment once the outdoor fun concluded.

All I can say is, I'm going to need a nap.

Someday We'll Be Together

Would anyone really want to read yet another sad saga about my attempt to see a play being thwarted by summer weather behaving badly?

That's what I thought.

Better instead I share my walk up a deserted - it was prime church time - Chamberlayne Avenue where the clerk at Walgreens told me he'd driven through heavy fog to get to work this morning. That fog had become pea soup and I'd sweated my way through it to get there.

Walking home, I crossed the bridge over the paddock where two mounted police horses were casually grazing in a mostly dirt field, the one gnawing on some higher branches out of necessity. I remember the first time I'd spotted the horses there and the feeling of amazement that horses lived a quarter of a mile from me.

When I passed Perly's a bit later, the line waiting for seats was almost to the corner. People who wouldn't consider eating outside were willing to stand out there indefinitely in hopes of some beef bacon.

No, you explain it to me.

The shank of the afternoon was spent on lunch and then the matinee of "Dreamgirls" at the November Theatre, which, it must be noted, was completely full and satisfyingly diverse.

I understand that blue hair lives matter, but it was nice to see a matinee crowd who didn't all qualify for Social Security for a change.

With the usual gaping holes in my pop cultural literacy, I'd never seen "Dreamgirls," not the play, not the movie. To my credit, I'm enough of a Supremes fan to have held on to half a dozen pieces of their vinyl all these years, and I've certainly read plenty about their backstory.

So I knew the essence of the play's plot before the razzle-dazzle production kicked off with a parade of '60s and '70s fashions, falls and wigs to designate the passage of time, songs that were well-executed but never truly grabbed me and a lot of choreography I very much enjoyed.

As I did conversation with the charming man who'd moved to Hampton in 1960 and his lovely "friend" ("My wife died 15 years ago," he explained after calling her "friend") next to him, both avid theater buffs who happily discussed venues there and restaurants here for post-theater dining.

To be helpful, I provided a list.

Because it felt like a two-musical day, the later plan was to meet a friend at Dogwood Dell for a performance of "Spamalot," except it was up to me to go and stake out territory until she got off work.

When I got there, the orchestra was chatting among themselves, rows were gradually filling up with a mixture of beach chairs, tall chairs, blankets and, among the young, grass-sitters. It was like being out of town because I didn't see a soul I knew.

Which was only slightly problematic since I was meeting a friend. Later, she calls to tell me she hung with strangers when she couldn't find me, ran into the restaurateur I recently introduced her to and then proceeds to give me the "man dish," at least right up until he calls.

An announcement was made from the stage that there was to be no ball or Frisbee throwing in the seating area, as if civilized people wouldn't presume this. The "no alcohol or glass" announcement was met with no reaction, undoubtedly due to the number of people imbibing.

A few drops of rain, a little heat lightening and the performance was delayed 20 minutes. Lightening got bolder and we were sent away.

Believe me, I know the drill.

Waiting in the bottleneck to leave the Dell, I saw a guy ask about the year on a shiny blue Mustang ('67, classic stuff) and a couple of guys tossing a Frisbee between trees in the parking lot. Making lemonade, folks, that's all they're doing.

Cruising home, listening to the radio sing, "I got a picture of you over the hazard light," and silently giving thanks that young men still write such things, I was caught unaware when, yet again, the Weather Service started warning that Richmond and a lot of nearby places were about to get slammed.

ETA in Jackson Ward: 9:10, which you know means I was determinedly driving east trying to take shelter before any bad weather hit. Why take them so seriously, you ask? Last time they provided a strong warning and time, devastation touched down within two minutes of their prediction.

Seems they are right on the money sometimes.

After deciding not to take out my contacts so as to avoid a near-sighted, impressionistic view of the storm, I took up a completely unsafe position on my balcony, watching as lightening lit up the sky. Never bolts, just enormous flashes and far-off thunder.

Then suddenly, the wind whipped up trees two stories taller than the houses beneath them in a way that said nothing good could come out of such fierceness and a steady rain began to fall.

Two minutes later, the frenetic trees are completely still and the air is palpable. I hate a damp cold, but I relish a damp pre-storm heat.

Before long, a gentle rain began blowing toward my legs and face as I sat sprawled in an Adirondack chair facing the alley. Rain caught on the tendrils of moonflowers twining through the balcony railing, dripping onto my legs.

Sure, I was getting wet, but not soggy wet like yesterday when I decided to walk three miles to drop off rent. I got almost two miles in - I was right in front of Redskin Park with all the weekend fans watching the team grunt practice - when rain started and didn't let up, so I slogged on to my landlord's house, at that point, mainly to borrow an umbrella.

He graciously gave me one and I got two blocks up the street toward home when the rain stopped and the muggy sun returned to start drying out my clothes as I walked home.

By the way, carrying a cumbersome walking umbrella all the way. Grateful/not grateful.

No, tonight's rain was less direct so more enjoyable, even as the lightening and thunder got more and more distant, the temperature seemed to drop and sirens began wailing from a couple different directions.

Inside, without the waning visuals, the storm amounts to no more than the steady patter of rain broken up by the sound of cars on wet pavement and the relentless drip of gutters. It stops as suddenly as it began, kind of like the man dishing.

I may aspire to eat ham and jam and Spam a lot, but clearly there's no double dipping on musicals in one day. Mother Nature says no.

One Cure for Love

Walk alone (you already heard about that). Work alone (two deadlines). Eat alone (Garnett's, but at least the cook was wearing a navy captain's hat and I walked into "This Must Be the Place" playing on the stereo).

After a while, all that alone gets old.

That's when you call up a friend and ask if they'll come out and play with you.

And if they're someone who knows you well and wants to make you happy, they woo you with Pinotage Rose and fresh figs.

Driving over to pick up my date, I saw a horse drawn carriage pulling a smiling couple up Robinson Street toward Monument Avenue.

Both of the carriage drivers wore top hats and tuxes. The couple were making goo-goo eyes at each other.

Must be love.

The crowd at Dogwood Dell was small but mighty when we arrived with our contraband Riebeek Rose, a bag of figs freshly plucked off Friend's backyard fig tree and chairs.

We were there to see "Spite Marriage," a 1929 silent comedy with the handsome Buster Keaton. The kicker was that live music was being provided by Ben Miller, he of Ghost Light after party fame and a ridiculously talented pianist.

We took our place one row behind Ben, who was outfitted in a tuxedo t-shirt, and spread out our picnic blanket.

The Pinotage Rose was lovely, well-chilled and boasting flavors of cherries and strawberries, a treat from someone who knew my taste.

The film soon began while I dove into the fresh figs, devouring three within the first ten minutes of the film.

Call me a fig pig.

Ben had thoughtfully chosen the perfect music for the story of a lowly pants presser who falls in love with a Broadway star.

"Dixieland," "When the Saints Go Marching In," he had all the corny bases covered.

The story centered around a simple man who worshiped an actress in a play about life on a plantation.

Every southern cliche was trotted out - "A scratch is nothing to a southern gentleman" - as our heroine fought off northern soldiers while pining for her true southern love.

Of course, the northern soldier was evil - "Remember, gal, there's only one way to save him"- sending her beau off to the barn to be shot.

The movie had its lessons, too, such as, "There's only one cure for love: marriage and suicide," a rather dire reaction to attraction if you ask me, but then, I'm a northerner.

Ben kept us entertained with the appropriate songs: "We're in the Money" when our hero marries the actress and a personal favorite, "Shall We Dance?" when the newlyweds celebrate at Cafe la Boheme," a hangout "for actors and those with money."

We watched our heroine resort to a drunken fit of jealousy when her man takes up with another, younger woman and heard the archaic command, "Douse the lights."

When's the last time you heard anyone use the verb "douse"? Exactly.

During the scene on the yacht when Keaton tries to woo the actress, Ben played Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer," to great effect.

Fortunately for fans of romance, the object of her affection comes to his senses, telling the actress, "You should have known that woman meant nothing to me. I love you, dear."

I'm still waiting for a man to refer to me as "dear."

Things got dramatic when the action switched to the ship and the boiler caught fire ("Save me! Save me, dear!") and the weather turned bad ("A squall!" - another terrific, underused word), forcing our hero to hang from masts, put out fires and bail water.

Never fear, he not only squelched all the problems aboard ship (mainly by hitting every man with a bottle over the head and knocking him out) but won our heroine's heart.

The end.

I've seen my fair share of silent movies, but few as romantic as this gem. Add in the moon moving from tree to tree over the Dell and it turned out to be a lovely way to spend an evening sipping Pinotage.

After dropping off my companion, I soldiered on alone to Commercial Taphouse to hear the Scott Clark 4-tet.

Everyone I know in the local jazz world is concerned that now that Commercial has been bought by An of Mekong, the sublime evenings of jazz will be history.

I hope that's not true, but in case it is, I didn't want to miss hearing one of my favorite local jazz groups perform for what may be the last time there.

Unexpectedly, I found several friends - a guitarist, a trombonist, a teacher, a songbird - although I was discouraged to hear they no longer carry any decent tequilas.

Sorry, I don't want to have to drink wine while listening to jazz. I will, but I don't want to. Not a good sign, friends.

From Mingus ("Weird Nightmare") to Scott Clark originals ("Plum"), it was an evening of killer jazz riffs, the quartet as tight and on point as I've ever heard them.

So the evening ends alone, but only after some superb entertainment.

Still waiting for someone to ask, "Shall we dance?"

The Beat of Dancing Feet

It's not summer in Richmond without a trip to the Dell.

The combination of perfect weather and opening night for "42nd Street" was cause enough for a picnic at Dogwood Dell with a friend.

Claiming it had been 20 years since she'd last been to the city's annual summer Festival of the Arts, she nonetheless knew to pack a picnic cloth, chair and corkscrew.

It's like riding a bike. You never really forget how it's done.

Of course, there's also the little matter of house rules such as no glass and no alcoholic beverages, so we just thought of our Le Petit Rouviere Rose as pink grape juice and drank it out of plastic cups while munching on sandwiches and salads.

The evening's emcee greeted us with, "Let's talk about this weather. This doesn't happen very often in July." It was nice enough that I'd brought a sweater and beach towel to keep me warm once it got dark (and needed both).

Unfortunately, beautiful weather and absence of humidity did not eliminate the bugs, though, so we slathered on bug spray and gave props to those around us who'd been clever enough to bring big citronella candles to burn (note to self).

Once again, I was at a play as a first-timer. I'd neither seen the original 1933 film or the 1980 play of "42nd Street." Hell, I hadn't even known that movie musicals ever got made into plays. Idiot.

So you can imagine how dazzling the opening number was to this newbie, with 30-some tap dancers creating a Busby Berkley-like spectacle right there on the Dell stage.

I'll put it this way: it was everything I thought "42nd Street" would be in one number. Not to mention how gratifying it is to see a play with that many female roles in it.

And speaking of my people, most of the costumes were on point, evoking both 1933 and the way chorus girls dressed in rehearsal. All except one anyway.

For some reason, one actress wore her blouse outside of her skirt instead of tucked in, something no woman in the '30s would have done unless she was cleaning house or working on a farm. It looked totally out of place next to all the other women and their cinched waisted ensembles.

So much of the dialogue was funny, such as an exchange between members of the chorus about men.

What is it about tenors that makes them wolves?
Must be all that tight underwear they wear.
No, that's what makes them tenors.

Despite my "42nd Street" virgin status, I soon discovered I knew many of the songs from it - "We're in the Money," "Lullaby of Broadway," "Shuffle Off to Buffalo" and, of course, the title song.

But you could have knocked me over with a feather when the prima donna character, Dorothy, began singing "I Only Have Eyes for You," one of my all-time favorite songs.

Turns out that's a song written by Warren and Dubin, the talent behind all the songs in "42nd Street," although not part of the 1933 film version.

So there I was, lucky enough to be at Dogwood Dell sipping Rose, listening to one of my all-time favorite romantic songs with stars twinkling above me. My smile was as wide as our picnic blanket.

While that may have been the musical high point for me, make no mistake, I enjoyed every minute of the colorful spectacle that was "We're in the Money."

I don't think I was the only one, either, because at intermission (at almost 10:00) almost no one in the capacity crowd left. Even the pre-teen boys in the chairs next to me seemed enthralled.

Given all the hoofing and high kicking, it could have been that they were leg men. Maybe they were first timers at Dogwood Dell.

Or maybe they were just as enthralled with getting to see a free production under the stars of a big, glitzy musical, complete with chorus girls, set at the height of the Depression.

Goodness knows I was.

Plunk Phunk at the Dell

Only once have I seen a performer with more than 25 albums to his credit and that was last fall's terrific Al Green show, here.


But at tonight's Dogwood Dell show, Plunky Branch of Plunky and Oneness came close with an even 25 albums to his name. 


And I didn't have to pay a dime to see him or drive to Charlottesville. No disrespect to Al, of course; he was well worth both and I'd do it again. But you see my point.


The crowd was huge when I arrived at the Dell and continued to grow throughout intermission. I'm sure that had something to do with this being Plunky's 30th appearance at the Dell.


In fact, he said that his group, along with the Larry Bland Choir, were the first black acts to integrate the Dell stage. That information got a huge round of applause from the adoring crowd. I know I was impressed.


And that crowd included some sharp-dressed men, let me tell you. My favorite had on a powder blue beret, a Hawaiian shirt of the same blue, coral and various greens, celery green slacks and two tone green and taupe shoes. He was something to behold (and I did).


As was the performance. Despite 40 years in the music business, Plunky still has the enthusiasm that, well, Al Green does. 


I suppose there's something about getting to your 60s and still making music that keeps a man happy and motivated.


Taking the audience on a musical journey through Richmond, NYC and Paris, Plunky's nine-piece (all clad in white while himself wore a colorful orange and black ensemble) "took it back," covering Stevie Wonder and Chuck Brown ("If he's the godfather of go-go, I'm the grandfather") in a wide-ranging jam.


The three backup singers contributed considerably to the soulful sound and even occasionally did solos as they swayed in time.


Plunky encouraged the crowd to sing along, clap along or dance. "You know, if you want to have a good time, you have to move something."


I didn't see anyone who wasn't moving something.


As the evening got funkier, Plunky explained that "Funk is in the spaces between the notes." He branded his version as "Original Plunk phunk" and there was a lot of head-nodding when he said that. 


Not surprising for a man who started playing African music in 1973 and has continued to evolve ever since.


As the snappy monochromatically dressed man sitting next to me asked rhetorically midway through the first set, "Can you dig it?"


I certainly could. Even white girls start moving something when the music's right.


And Plunky and Oneness were right on.

Wouldn't It Be Nice?

"Next time, bring a glass."

That's what the woman sitting near me at Dogwood Dell said to me at the end of the evening.  Earlier, when she'd tried to surreptitiously open a bottle of wine, I'd looked over and grinned at her.

All good Richmonders know alcohol is forbidden at the Dell. That said, I've never once been to a a performance there and not seen people drinking. Most people.

So at the end of the evening, she'd made sure to tell me that if I brought a glass in the future, it would be filled. Good to know and yet completely meaningless from a stranger.

A neighbor and I had gone for opening night to see the Upper East Side Big Band. As it turned out, we also got the Mills Family band as an opener.

Their set list ranged from "Little Liza Jane" to Paul Simon's "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover" to Sesame Street, all enhanced by Samson Trinh's unique bluegrass saxophone and nonstop leg gyrations..

We enjoyed our picnic supper of fried chicken, watermelon, grapes and German chocolate cake. We weren't going to starve; he also brought a  sandwich and I also ate a salad. Picnic of champions.

The night was beautiful, what with the temperature and humidity having dropped earlier despite no signs of the predicted thunderstorms.

As always at the Dell, dusk brought out the swooping bats over the trees and eventually the moon.

We had Jackson Ward neighbors sitting right in front of us ("We should have formed a caravan over from the Ward"), who only noticed us once my friend began lobbing grapes at them. Ah, the pleasures of thrown foodstuffs at outdoor activities.

The Upper East Side Big Band is big, with probably 18 or 19 musicians, including brass members from Bio Ritmo, Glows in the Dark and No BS Brass Band.

Their set led off with "Very Strange Night" from their first album and bandleader Trinh alternated vigorous musical directing with playing the flute. His multi-tasking was an indication of things to come.

A few songs later, out came five jazz vocalists. four women and one man, to augment the musicians on stage. "This is part one of blowing your mind," he told the audience.

They began with "Back in the USSR" with keyboard player Adrian Duke on lead vocal (the closet vocal comparison I could think of was David Clayton Thomas) and the other five on backup.

Segueing into "Dear Prudence," Trinh became a rubber-legged wonder, all but moon walking across the stage.

Raving about his love for the Beach Boys' masterpiece "Pet Sounds," Trinh said that, "This will be the first time in Richmond that the Beach Boys are done right."

The crowd lapped up "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows" before  a guest guitarist was brought onstage for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."

Given Trinh's love of the Beatles, finishing with "Rocky Raccoon" was no surprise. Many people packed up and made for the parking lot at that point, only to miss the barn-burner of the evening, "Helter Skelter." It got the baby boomers dancing, that's for sure.

Clearly pumped at the audience's reaction, Trinh shouted, "Maybe next year we can be on Style's Best Bands list. Five years and nothing!"

Had it been up to the crowd tonight, they'd have been a write-in vote.

After so much retro music, neighbor and I headed to Cous Cous for something much more au courant. The Diamond Center, those recent veterans of South by Southwest and Austin's Psychfest, were playing a free show.

I'm always torn about shows at Cous Cous; it's an ill-configured place to see a band perform and the crowd can be obnoxious.

It's impossible to have a conversation without endlessly repeating yourself and a pain in the neck to get a drink from the overcrowded bar.

But the show was free and the Diamond Center were playing. I always see scads of people I know, always the music lovers. It's a trade-off, she said diplomatically.

Visual projections were by Cosmic Hum and were they ever groovy. Amoeba-like forms morphed and moved over the screen behind the band and the ceiling.

At one point, the red blobs showing on the ductwork looked like blood spatters. Groovy and gruesome.

And then there's the music, with its hazy guitar (including  a twelve-string), haunting melodies and a sense of urgency that has bodies moving and heads bobbing.

There is a reason so many of us show up whenever they play. I ran into a musician friend who, like neighbor and I, had begun the evening at the Dell and moved on to something completely different sans his neighbor.

I saw the big-voiced singer and ukulele player I'd seen busking in Charlottesville before the Arcade Fire show. She'd been smart and watched the show from outside, saving herself from group sweat-in I endured.

And I saw the comedian/ukulele player/man-about-town who perennially suggests that I join his group after the show for some late night munchies and chatter at McLean's.

I declined; the picnic had more than scratched that itch. Even my insatiable need for music and conversation had been well-satisfied.

If I didn't know better, I'd say I had everything I need on this Friday night.

But next time, I'll bring a glass and see who's willing to fill it. There's just no telling.

Picnicking to Salsa

Give me Latin jazz over smooth jazz any day. Give me a free show over a $25 ticket, for that matter. I'll admit that it would have been interesting to see Chaka Khan perform, but I already had plans for this evening.

So when I heard a friend shouting my name from the street this morning, I went down to see what all the noise was about and invited him to go with me to the 4th Annual Latin Jazz Show Festival at Dogwood Dell.

We made a stop at Sally Belle's at Fountain Lake for our picnic lunch first. As we walked up to order, a random man asked us about our Sally Belle creds. As a Richmond resident for 52 years ("but not a native," he reminded us), he wanted to assess our familiarity with the legendary Sally Belle boxed lunches. A bit of discussion proved our familiarity with SB's cheese wafers and deviled eggs and he gave us the stamp of approval.

The irony was that when we went to order, the first thing we were told was that they'd had a run on boxed lunches that morning ("Guess it's that Jazz fest," the proprietor grumbled) and they wouldn't have some of the key ingredients back in stock until about 4 p.m. We could only imagine the furor it would cause when some customers heard that they were out of Sally Belle's potato salad.

We adapted easily, ordering cheeseburgers and those classic upside down cupcakes. We sat under an umbrella and watched the people on paddle boats getting sprayed by the mist of the fountain in the picaresque lake while smelling our burgers being grilled a few feet away. It's pretty charming the way they use a regular outdoor grill situated out behind the building that houses Sally Belle's. Let's just say it adds a lot to the picnic feel by seeing and smelling our food being cooked.

Over at Dogwood Dell, percussion was the first thing we heard as we exited the car. We easily found a shaded place to set up our chairs and start chowing down. Music was in full swing and couples were just beginning to fill up the courtyard area with their sinuous dance moves.

The group playing, Timbason La Original we think, played both traditional and original music. With shout-outs to the crowd identifying Puerto Ricans, Guatemalans, Colombians and Cubans, the band invited hand-clapping participation as well as dancing.

The band members themselves were a non-stop motion of swiveling hips and quick footed-moves. My friend and I had such a great time watching people with far more rhythm than ourselves sing, play and dance.

In between sets, Latin DJs kept the crowd entertained and moving. There was even a short fashion show of models in bathing suits, walking the stage to thumping Latin beats. Appropriately, all body types were represented, curvy as well as reed thin in swim suit styles both current and retro.

They even had a couple of male models for those of us in the audience who appreciate such things. I know I clapped loudly for the two handsome and well-built men, but not as loud as the two older women behind me who were all but coming out of their chairs to show their appreciation for the beefcake.

But in the end, the afternoon was all about the music and this beautiful weather was the perfect setting for it. The light breeze was undoubtedly appreciated by the non-stop salsa dancers as well as the energetic musicians.

It didn't make them any less cool (because they were amazing) but certainly more comfortable.

Call Me a Dog

Even during the dog days of August, a picnic at Dogwood Dell before a performance is still a pretty wonderful thing.

I let Garnett's provide the picnic (turkey, bacon and cole slaw on toasted rye bread with potato salad and chocolate mud pie) and I arrived early enough to score a front row spot for my blanket and chair.

An hour plus before the show and there were probably close to a hundred people who had already staked out their real estate.

Most were well into eating/drinking mode, all obeying the sign that warned "No dogs! No tables!"

Those who had brought bottled fun were being discreet about their pouring, but you could identify them by the higher volume of their laughter.

When it came time for dessert, I realized I'd left my utensils in the car.

Fortunately the group behind me saw my look of consternation and provided a fork.

I thanked them, explaining that if they hadn't come to my rescue, I'd have eaten the pie with my fingers.

"You shouldn't have told us about the pie," one girl warned, like she was going to snatch it out of my hands. I ate it quickly just in case.

The trio of girls next to me had forgotten a corkscrew and were puzzling over how to find one.

I pointed out a group I was pretty sure could supply one and when one of the girls went over to them, the entire group turned and looked at me.

Found out!

I went over and explained that I had noticed their cups and presumed that they might be able to help out.

They laughed, called me observant and invited me to join them for a cup of my own.

Generous picnicers were everywhere tonight.

Like all Dogwood Dell productions, this one began with Richmond mainstay Lou Dean opening the show, something he's apparently been doing for 48 years now (next up, Bill Bevins?).

He introduced Grant Mudge, artistic director of Richmond Shakespeare, who cracked wise by observing the capacity crowd and saying, "It's a shame Richmond doesn't love Shakespeare more. What a crowd!"

That crowd roared with approval at the acknowledgement.

If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it;

So began Richmond Shakespeare's first performance at the Dell in fourteen years and tonight's offering was Twelfth Night or What You Will.

As Shakespeare's romances go, it's not one that makes my heart beat faster, but the character of Malvolio in his yellow stockings with cross garters is absolutely one of my favorites.

Thomas Cunningham, whom I'd seen in several of RS's staged readings, did a great job with the beleaguered servant's role, but the cast was strong all the way around.

And how could I, a former beagle owner, not love a play that likens a woman to a beagle?

It came when the hilarious Sir Toby Belch (the always excellent Foster Solomon, whom I've seen many times over the years) declares, "She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; what o' that?"

I was probably the only member of the audience thinking, "Damn, I want the right person to say that about me."

What o' that indeed?

And hopefully it would be followed by an excess of...well everything.

Bats in the Dell. See?

If you haven't heard Porgy and Bess live with bats flying overhead and fireflies twinkling all around, you have truly missed one of the great pleasures of summertime in Richmond.

As magical as tonight's performance of it was for me, it was made even more so by sharing it with a recent transplant from NYC, one who had never experienced a Dogwood Dell performance.

The city's 54th Festival of the Arts is in full swing and having missed Virginia Opera's performance of Porgy and Bess last month due to financial constraints, I was eagerly anticipating tonight's show of highlights from it.

It had been so incredibly hot today that the musicians and singers were not able to even do a sound check until 7:30, so we arrived to the sounds of a mini-preview as they worked out the audio kinks.

There were five of us and we set up camp on a quilt and chairs in a shady spot on the grass and laid out food and libations.

We had wondered if the temperature would deter people from coming to the park, but no.

Like us, there were plenty of people more than happy to spend a warm night outside for the sake of some classic American music.

Free was undoubtedly also an incentive for many.

The program started with Rhapsody in Blue, followed by Japanese and then excerpts from An American in Paris.

And then the concert highlights from Porgy and Bess began, fourteen pieces in all.

Children danced, couples cuddled and fanned each other, while the rest of us just took in the magnificent sounds of a baritone, a soprano and a chorus teasing us with bits from Gershwin's masterpiece.

At dusk the fireflies came out followed shortly by the swooping bats and the light at the top of the Carillon was turned on.

By that point, it wasn't just the transplant who was swooning over the experience; we all felt like we were having the perfect summer night in Byrd Park.

Woman may born you, love you and mourn you
But a woman is a sometime thing
Yes, a woman is a sometime thing