Jam Up and Jelly Tight

With a last quarter moon in the sky and Jupiter aligning with Venus, I doubt my evening could've been much groovier.

Cue finger snapping.

Given my penchant for poetry, where better to begin than a reading at Chop Suey Books featuring the varied poetic stylings of Cecily Iddings, Simeon Berry, and Sandra Beasley?

A small but devoted cadre of verse lovers filled the chairs and aisles as Simeon took his place facing us to warn of the weirdness of his poems ("They own a lint collective," hello?). He was an excellent reader, easy to understand, never stumbling over words as he read from "Ampersand Revisited" and "Monograpgh."

Favorite line: How fresh to make scholarship sexy

Cecily chose to read only one poem from her book "Everyone Here," but it was a long one (with some wonderfully phrased lines such as, "Strangers in pajamas, new from dreaming") and she tended to laugh at particularly sexual lines that didn't come across as funny, except to her. It was just a bit unsettling.

Favorite line: She's owed a life she can't collect

After thanking Chop Suey owner Ward for letting her "crash the party," Sandra read from her book "Count the Waves," which she characterized as a book of love poems. Not traditional love poems, but more "can you love me this way?" type of love poems. Her reading style resembled acting, loud and projecting to the back row.

From the poem #6459, a numerical designation for the phrase "the country is quite mountainous" came the line, "The goats gambol and bray on the cliffs." After she finished, she insisted, "I swear that's a love poem." We didn't ask her to defend that statement, but probably should have.

Favorite line tie: You must not look for poetry in poems and Fit a melody in the crook of your arm and strum.

Yet again, Chop Suey delivered another stellar hour for those of us who revel in hearing poetry read aloud to us.

The only way to top that was to head to the Earth Folk Collective in Manchester for the first ever Blackberry Jam, exactly the play on words it seems.

The couple who own the property had invited friends to come help pick blackberries, make jam over an open fire, enjoy a potluck and wile away the evening listening to three musical acts. I packed my chair, a bottle of wine and set out for southside.

Walking from the street up the path to the party, I passed a hand-painted sign saying "Compost," multiple garden beds encircled by large burlap coffee bags and a dozen or so people engaged in yoga off to the side of the path. One woman had a child mounted on her upright legs while another was giving a neck massage.

Further on, a small group held lit sparklers aloft, a post-holiday nod.

By this time, berries had been picked, jam had been made and Florida's Mark Etherington, also known as Mountain Hollar, was starting his psychedelic folk set on a fairy light-lit stage carved out of the freestanding garage. Behind him were flowered curtains and framing the open door were lights of green and white. Next to it, lights decorated a pergola where people sat talking or swinging in a hanging basket chair. The charming pale blue camper where my friends currently reside had its own string of pale blue lights.

All in all, everything had a magical feel to it.

The music paused. "Hot weather and guitars do not go well together," Mark said between songs, tuning. "It's out of tune again." No one minded waiting.

My favorite Jackson Ward neighbors spotted me and the handsome bearded one whispered, "Is this the new Listening Room?" referring to the long-time series we'd all attended. Wouldn't that be something if it were?

After Mark's marvelously trippy set, our host gave me a tour of the improvements they've made to the circa 1800s house they are working on while living in the trailer.

He showed me where they're stripping off the cheesy faux brick facade to reveal clapboard protected for over half a century by the tacky covering. The bathroom had gotten a floor-lift, green skylights and exposed ceiling rafters. They'd made a guest room for visitors and touring musicians.

Back outside, I watched toddlers take advantage of a baby pool to cool down, greeted a few friends and suddenly realized I couldn't very well go to a blackberry jam and not have, duh, blackberry jam.

I went in search of it just in time because the pot on the cooling embers had barely an inch of jam left, but I managed to score some along with my neighbors (I'd told the Beard I'd have to call him out if he left without tasting jam, so he did). It was tart with the satisfying crunch of blackberry seeds, but I found I liked it best in this heat when underneath a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream eaten out of one of grandma's coffee cups.

The J-Ward contingent discussed how very '70s-like the whole evening felt with people of all ages, kids running around, clusters of people scattered throughout the property and a committed DIY ethos. There was a dish-washing station on the porch, gray water collection inside for plant watering and recycle containers for beer cans and wine bottles.

Mentioning it to our much younger hostess, she enthused about how much she's learned from reading the '70s literature by the people who'd first resolved to live in harmony with the earth. "It's a way for sub-cultures now to benefit from everything they learned then," she said, no doubt referring to the stuff my friends and I recalled. See what I mean about the groovy factor?

The only jarring note to the peace and love vibe was the glare of cell phones by those unable to just enjoy the moment.

Before the next band began, she took the stage to share that she opposed the natural gas pipeline being espoused and letting folks know she had "No Pipeline" signs available for people to take home to share their voice on the subject.

"Sorry, you're at my house, so you have to listen to my soapbox," she said with a gorgeous smile. No one seemed to mind or differ in opinion.

Duo Haints in the Holler, playing drum and guitar, started playing and people began settling down again to listen to their earnest take on Americana. After a couple of songs played at center stage, they moved forward to the edge of the stage, making for far better sound for the audience and an interesting silhouette effect with the twinkling lights just behind them now.

As their voices melded in songs such as "Many Nights," I sat back in my chair enjoying the occasional breeze rustling through the tree tops and lifting my hair off my neck, just the way a summer evening should. Every now and then, a plane would fly overhead, lost behind the cloud cover of the thunderstorms that never happened, more of a fuzzy moving nimbus than a defined shape.

Twice they tried to end their set and twice the relaxed crowd called for just one more and they obliged. No one seemed in a hurry for the night to end.

Finally, our host thanked us all for coming, saying how happy it made him to share this kind of evening with friends. "We hope this is just the first of many Blackberry Jams to come!" he said from the stage.

Far out. It's poetry and Blackberry Jams that make up golden living dreams of visions.

And it's friends like the Earth Folk Collective - not the lint collective - who make it seem possible that peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars.

There's pure poetry in that kind of optimism.

Something That You'll Never Comprehend

For a change, I really earned my night out.

The day began by seeing the VistaVision classic,"White Christmas," at Movieland with a favorite couple, one of whom was seeing it for the first time.

I don't even know how it's possible that anyone hasn't seen this holiday chestnut, but it was a distinct pleasure to listen as he cracked up to Danny Kaye's antics and Bing's corny humor.

Fittingly, that was followed by procurement of the Christmas tree, especially novel this year because it was actually snowing for the brief time it took to choose the tree.

So very Charlie Brown Christmas-like.

Once the tree was decorated, I had writing to finish to make deadline before I could even think about heading out.

By the time my day was behind me, it was 8:30 and I couldn't get going fast enough to Helen's for a show.

I'd half expected a small crowd because of the weather and instead found the place mobbed.

Luckily, a table near the end of the bar was free and I sat down next to a couple who warned me to leave my coat on because we were so near the door which kept opening for new arrivals.

I was luckier than they were because there was a large radiator behind my back, a boon for a cold-blooded type like me.

A musician friend spotted me and came over to sit down and catch up since he was just back from a month in India and we hadn't seen each other for ages before that.

Buster Keaton, blah, blah, love life update, blah, blah, travel plans.

We took a few minutes to admire the magnificence that is Helen's Christmas decorations, from the lit-up plastic nativity scene to the small, silver pom-pom Christmas trees to the reindeer in assorted positions.

The evening's entertainment began with Haints in the Holler, a bluegrass quartet who began by wishing us happy holidays, merry Christmas and feliz navidad.

"I feel that's offensive" a smart-assed guy called out from the bar.

"We aim to offend," the drummer cleverly retorted.

With fiddle, guitar, drums, bass and sometimes banjo, mandolin and washboard, they took us on a bluegrass odyssey, admitting that they weren't "super-good" at between-song chatter.

The highlight was a song called "Dead in Kentucky" about the singer's wish to be returned to Virginia if found dead anywhere else.

Best line was, "Nothing beats drinking in Richmond" and it got a lot of cheers when they sang it.

Following them was a band that many in the crowd had come to see, Dear Ghosts.

I hadn't heard the name, but I had seen half of the band, Lucy Dacus, perform at a Ghost Light afterparty a while back and remembered her stellar voice.

With her in this band was Adam Watkins and while it took a few minutes to get into their sound, I soon found myself terribly impressed with their sad songs.

Both had beautiful voices that blended together to tug at your heartstrings, sort of a lo-fi She and Him minus the chirpy side of that sound.

Adam sang, played guitar and occasional drum while Lucy sang and played some ukulele.

From the first few notes of "I Would Die For You," I knew we were in for a treat because it was one of the songs I'd heard Lucy do and knew how impressively she'd owned it.

It was even more impressive with Adam, slowed down to a languorous pace and truly the essence of a great cover as they made it wholly their own.

Afterwards, Lucy announced, "That wasn't our song, that was Prince," and I turned to my friend and asked if it was really possible that anyone in the room hadn't known that.

"Maybe," he said reluctantly. That's just tragic.

When they ended their set, the DJ across the table from me said that he, too, had taken a moment to figure them out and then really liked their sound.

All I can say is I can't wait to hear more of them soon.

During the set-up for the traveling band, another musician friend came by and we got into a discussion of the history of psychedelic music and mind-expanding psychedelia practices in general.

Recommending a documentary and a book, the man clearly knew his psychedelia.

The reason for tonight's show was Florida band Teach Me Equals, a duo with enormous dramatic stage presence who were sonically compelling and went on to play their new record for us.

He played cello like a madman, all but destroying his first bow in five songs by shredding, when he wasn't playing it like a guitar, beating on it or blowing into the hollow.

She was appealingly fast on guitar when she wasn't tearing it up on violin, playing it like a ukulele, drumming on it or singing/blowing into it.

I'd seen Dave Watkins do all those things to his dulcitar, but never seen them done to a violin or cello.

My friend and I were constantly craning our heads to see how they were making their sounds.

Songs, not so much, but edgy, experimental soundscapes, absolutely.

I gladly threw money into the donation jar to help keep these guys in gas money while on this tour.

The show finished up with Lobo Marino, just back from a month in India, and off to who knows where next month.

It's always a pleasure to hear what new influences they've picked up on their travels, which occupy what seems to be 90% of their time.

Since they didn't go on until 11:30, Laney began by making a toast to all the people who had to get up early and got to work tomorrow.

Fortunately, I'm not one of them.

Their set began with Laney walking through the restaurant playing her song flute and carrying burning incense while Jameson beat on his drum.

They truly are RVA's own world music duo.

Laney explained that her harmonium was new, having been acquired during their month in India, "So me and the harmonium are still getting to know each other."

Promising several spiritual songs, the did an intense version of "O Come, All Ye faithful" which morphed seamlessly into an Indian chant.

After their classic crowd-pleaser, "Celebrate" they did another mash-up, this one beginning with a dirge-like "O Holy Night."

Next to Jameson, one of the plastic wise men flickered on and off throughout as if in time or perhaps as a commentary on their unconventional arrangements.

The musician next to me turned and commented on how their sincerity was as much a part of their performance as their musicianship.

"This is such a genuine experience," he said. "It almost gives me the vapors."

Quick, the smelling salts. You don't want to miss even a moment of a musical evening like this.