Do What You Wanna Do

Happy birthday, Mr. Sax! I didn't know you, but I love your horn.

Despite pouring rain and soggy feet, I made Ghostprint Gallery my first stop for the opening of "Out of Sight," a show of paintings and ceramics. Walking into the gallery, I knew instinctively that the work had been the product of a woman solely based on the color palette.

Some of Jeanie Keys' pieces were representational while others required some deciphering; my favorites involved figures layered over each other. Depth of field gave way to areas of color chosen purely for their complementary nature with other aspects of the work.

Best of all, every single one had the same name: "Untitled."

The guitar player and I kept dinner in the neighborhood, roosting at Saison Market when Saison itself looked to be full up. Even the market's tables were filling up fast, like the crew of movie-makers avidly discussing a project next to us.

I was bummed to learn that I'd missed an opportunity to see "2001: A Space Odyssey" at the IMAX recently. Tomorrow night I'll be missing "The Big Lebowski" at the Byrd. Curses on the music-scheduling gods for planning screenings on nights when I'm unavailable.

Besides Vino Verde, my choice on this damp evening was lambs and clams, a satisfying bowl of the aforementioned in a clam trotter broth with fennel and Billy bread for sopping. That broth had a depth of flavor and subtle heat that had me sopping up every bit with my bread and wishing for more.

Meanwhile the guitarist told me about his writing group, recent band practices and the upcoming cultural road trips (Washington and Annapolis, both for lectures) he's eagerly anticipating while working down Saison's magnificent burger under a blanket of Manchego and bacon. He generously shared a couple bites with me.

Even the fries were textbook-perfect, twice-cooked, seriously crispy and with just enough salt to be addictive (not that they were technically mine to eat). One fell on the floor and I didn't even pretend to observe the five second rule, taking it directly from the floor to my waiting gob.

We camped out for a good long while after eating, talking about everything and nothing and watching the rain come and go. Since no one was waiting for our seats, we felt no guilt at all.

After parting company, my next stop was Balliceaux, because what's art and good food without a little music to close out the night?

The usual musician suspects were milling about when I got to the back room and only one of two sax players knew that it was Mr. Sax's birthday ("You know, Adolphe," the wise one said to the clueless one) when I mentioned it. He must not get the NPR feed because that's the only way this non-musician found out about it.

Since a good part of tonight's band, the Hi Steps, are jazz musicians, there was no chance the show was going to start on time, so I used the lull to make the rounds and chat.

From the bartender I heard about Alton Brown's fantastical food show last night (lots of people brought him gifts of food and drink). The bandleader and I discussed the Japanese James Brown cover band I'd seen last week ("You need to tell people when something like that is happening!") that he'd missed. The organizer told me she couldn't start dancing until she had more to drink. The stranger asked me if I came here often (seriously, men really say that?). The photographer moved her camera to the side to give me a big hug.

Finally all nine members of the band had drinks and took the stage to begin the show. Master guitarist and vocalist Elliot got the ball rolling by saying, "We're the Hi Steps. Thanks so much for coming out. Blah, blah, blah." Best band opening schtick ever.

From the first time I saw the Hi Steps two years ago, I was struck by how well chosen their soul set list is. Sure, they play some obvious hits - "Chain of Fools," "It's Your Thing" and "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" - but also lesser known gems (at least to me) such as "Can't Stop the Rain," "Give It Up" and "Tell Mama." Good stuff.

They've also got three incredibly soulful people who can sing - Elliot, keyboard player Bryce (tonight stylishly dressed right down to his cream-colored shoes) and the lovely Butterfly who dances just as good as she sings.

Tonight she got tired of the empty dance floor, saying, "We're up here sweating and you all should be up here sweating, too." Of course she was right, the music is meant for dancing, but the crowd was slow to shake it tonight and not a soul got up there during their first set.

For a change, this fan had an early morning wake-up call and couldn't hang around for the second set, but I'd like to think that that thumping bass line or relentless percussion and drums eventually did the trick.

I mean, on the birthday of the man who invented the saxophone, you'd hope maybe that kickass horn section would be what finally lured people out into the dance floor.

No bets on whether Adolphe would have been proud, but at least it would have been fitting. Blah, blah, blah.

It's My Thing

You know how they say a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse?

Well, Tobacco Company is as good as Hardywood to a music-loving non-beer drinker.

Which means that after my hired mouth and posse finished dinner and a friend was too tired for fun, I found myself alone at Tobacco Company to see the Hi Steps on a Friday night.

Taking a seat on the far side of the bar, a tequila discussion ensued with the white-shirted bartender before Don Julio landed in front of me. A couple at the end of the bar asked of him what kind of music the band would be playing and his best guess was jazz, based on their instruments.

Unwilling to let him put misinformation out there, I corrected him. Vintage R & B, I shared. Motown even. Smiles abounded.

Not long after, a guy sat down next to me wanting more information about the band. I supplied it, sharing how good they were, and he decided to stay.

"I used to live in Detroit," he said, smiling. "I've got Motown in my veins." Well, my friend, then you're going to have a good time.

Visiting from Ann Arbor, Michigan, he turned out to be a music-loving radiologist in town to teach a class. Already, he'd had lunch at Bistro Bobette, dinner at Magpie (where he'd been forewarned about the 'hood and I un-warned him) and to the Country Club of Virginia.

I've gone on record as being no fan of the Tobacco Company or its clientele (the kind who order "three Fireballs and a Budweiser"), but I do so enjoy the Hi Steps, so I ignored my aversion for a chance to kick off my soul-filled weekend appropriately.

It only took the first few strains of "Let's Stay Together" for my new friend to thank me profusely for the recommendation. A huge Stevie Wonder fan, he totally dug hearing "Superstition" and raved about the musicianship on "Ain't Too Proud to Beg."

Between songs we chatted, during which time I learned that his first concert was 38 Special opening up for Journey in 1980. Nice. Hold on loosely, baby.

I think he decided he was going to talk to me when I pointed out that singer Butterfly's mic wasn't high enough in the mix and he pegged me for a music lover.

As the Hi Steps began winning over the drunken, shouting crowd with gems such as "Chain, Chain, Chain" and "It's Your Thing," a highly perfumed, overly made-up blond asked if the stool next to me was taken and sat down.

Explaining that she was in town from Minneapolis to visit her hospitalized brother, she was at T.C. with her sister who'd been part of a rehearsal dinner upstairs on the third floor.

Given that this woman was no spring chicken, I inquired about the wedding party's age. Uh-huh. The groom is 50-something and the bride-to be is 25. "They have a pre-nup," she informed me. Good thing.

"I give it six months," Blondie said, promising to point them out when they came downstairs to the bar.

Rather than discuss the obvious, I asked about her first show only to learn that she'd grown up in Richmond and her inaugural concert had been Foreigner at the Coliseum in 1984.

When I replied, "Wow, Foreigner," she seemed to take it as an insult, quickly sharing that she'd been to plenty of shows since.

"I saw Bon Jovi there, too," she said eagerly. "And Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. And Roger Waters doing "The Wall." And Barbra Streisand. And Bob Seger." I told her that was plenty of proof that she was a true-blue music lover.

All of a sudden, there were shrieks and the crowd behind us against the big front windows began making noise. Turning, I saw that many of them had their phones out and trained on the sidewalk outside the window.

A fight had broken out in front of TC and it wasn't even midnight yet. Give me strength. Even worse was the knee jerk reaction of the crowd to immediately begin filming it.

Meanwhile, a guy comes over and orders a double Amaretto as the bartender is lining up ten Jager Bombs for another wedding party. Kids, it's going to be a looong wedding day if you keep drinking that stuff tonight.

By now, the Hi Steps had a full crowd dancing in front of them while they played Stevie Wonder's "I Wish" and "Try a Little Tenderness." The bartender sashayed over and gave me a thumbs up, saying, "You were right!" about the band. Duh.

I noticed a shy, quiet looking man across the bar eating a sandwich and fries and after a bit, he had a bartender put some of his fries on a separate plate and send them over to a couple of older women at the end of the bar. After delivering them, the bartender pointed out the man to the women and he saluted them with a smile.

Honestly, I might prefer that a man sent me fries rather than buy me a drink at that point in the evening.

And speaking of such, after Blondie and her sister left for the club downstairs (thankfully taking her noxious cloud of perfume with her), a guy took her stool to order drinks and pay for them.

But when the check arrived, he squinted at it and handed it to me. "Can I use your eyes?" he asked. $34.68, I told him, but why in the world are you asking a woman of my advanced age, sharing it to prove my point.

"God, I'm ten years younger than you," he said, leaning in closer and staring. "You look beautiful! Is that your husband next to you?" Nope. "Can I buy you a drink?" Nope.

When I spotted a white van pull up in front of TC and a gaggle of drunk girls spill out of it, I commented to the bartender that that was the last thing they needed given the already large, loud and drunken crowd.

He agreed, acknowledging that the music was the only redeeming part of the evening. It was true, throughout the night, all three of the bartenders had been dancing behind the bar as they poured and served to the irresistible sounds of the band.

During the band's break, Mr. Ann Arbor pointed to a screen where a referee had been trampled and was laying motionless on the field face down. Watching the replay, he diagnosed what had happened to the man's leg when two large players had collided over him.

That led to discussion of sports and his teams: Lions, Tigers and Wolverines, apparently. Sounds one step removed from the "Wizard of Oz" to me.

When I explained that I grew up in a Redskins family, he first made a joke ("I hear the Redskins are thinking of changing their name. They're dropping the 'Washington' part" Ba-dum-bum) and then told me we were lucky to have Kirk Cousins quarterbacking because he'd played at Michigan State, clearly a good thing in his opinion.

But mostly we talked music while the band played songs like "Movin' On Up" and he raved about the keyboard player's prowess or the guitar player's effortless licks. Seems he'd also been at TC last night and seen a lackluster duo so he was hugely impressed with what he saw tonight.

Yea, the Hi Steps will do that to a music lover.

Realizing the late hour (and the fact that he had to be up at 6 a.m. to teach), he finally said, "Okay, I'm going to have a Fireball to remember Richmond by and then go." Since he'd already said he'd never even heard of a Fireball, I was a tad surprised.

He should have known by the bartender's face (a grimace) when he asked about it, but he bravely took a sip and turned to me. "Don't bother getting a Fireball." Don't worry.

After a killer rendition of "Take Another Little Piece of My Heart," I walked up to the stage and gave bandleader Jason a salute and a thanks for the terrific night of music.

The cobblestone streets were freshly wet from rain and the booty-short crowd was out en masse headed to clubs.

Don't drink beer, don't care for the crowd at Hardywood, but I've been to all kinds of shows there because the music appealed.

Crowd-wise, TC is far worse with golf shirts and Rumpilminz drinkers, but they at least carry tequila, so there was no reason to miss the Hi Steps.

I may not have lived in Detroit, but I got a little Motown in my veins, too. And while I'm at it, as a public service I'm willing to share my eyes with a blind horse.

Or man, as the case may be.

Keep It Moving

I was overdue for a good nine-hour evening.

First up was an in-store performance at my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds.

Performing were a Japanese duo called Elekibass, two Japanese guys who love the Beatles and the Kinks.

The lead singer had a Beatles-esque mop-top and the lead guitarist (wearing a brown short with a lace jabot, I kid you not) somehow had curly Asian hair, making them totally adorable.

They began with an upbeat, sunny song called "Good Morning Blues," sung in heavily-accented English as the lead singer, wearing a plaid suit and tie, walked among the small crowd in the record store.

After a couple of songs, two others joined them, one playing tambourine and shaker ball and the other bass.

At that point, the songs were sung in Japanese.

When they finished, the lead singer began passing out Elekibass buttons as souvenirs.

I don't know why. I'm quite sure none of us will forget a Japanese band anytime soon.

Ashley Eriksson followed, playing someone else's keyboards and singing young woman songs of loss and love.

But enough about that.

From there I went to Reynolds Gallery to hear an artists' talk with Sally Mann, Jessie Mann, Liz Liguori and Ray of the Mountain Lake workshop.

They were discoursing about the new show "Metempsychosis," large format pieces that had used laser imagery, linseed oil, paint and debris like pine needles and wasps to create a wholly new image over a Sally Man discard.

Sally Mann's daughter Jessie, both her muse and once her photographic subject, is all grown up and at the root of this project that used her Mom's photos to scratch, paint and essentially collage on.

The gallery was full of attendees eager to hear about the collaboration and processes (four months just to dry one of these images) required to bring these diptychs to fruition.

During the discussion, the subject of authorship of a collaborative piece came up, raising the issue of attribution when multiple artists use multiple processes to complete a single work.

Looking at the striking works afterwards, a combination of Sally Mann's "bonfire" pieces (discards), Liz's use of a laser through multiple prisms and Jessie's painting, assigning one name seemed ridiculous.

I left the over-crowded opening to go have a bite (the crabby patatas bravas were outstanding) and ran into a DJ friend who had messaged me just a few days ago, saying, "Hey, need a song for a mix. Got one?"

It had been many hours later when I got home and saw that message, so my input was no longer needed.

Tonight, he explained that he'd gone ahead with the mix and promptly went to his car, retrieved a copy of the mix tape and gifted me with it.

Not a bad outcome.

I chatted with a nearby beer-drinker who, when asked about music, told me he liked bands like Periphery and Born of Osiris.

"You know, progressive metal," he said condescendingly.

"Oh, you mean like Between the Buried and Me?" I asked earnestly.

"I have to hug you now," he said, jumping up. "You have changed my world."

Not only was Between the Buried and Me his favorite band, but he had never encountered a single person who knew of them.

Score one for me.

I may know about progressive metal, but it's not really my cup of tea, so when I left with my belly full of South African wine and patatas, it was to go to Balliceaux for music.

The Hi Steps were playing and they're a band who play vintage soul music for the current audience's dancing pleasure.

They say it right up front: they're not for listening to, they're for dancing to.

That means songs like "Higher and Higher,"Ain't Too Proud to Beg" and Curtis Mayfield's "Move on Up."

I ordered a Cazadores and found a spot  near all kinds of people I knew and I was set for the night.

Since I'd last seen the Hi Steps, they'd increased their repertoire, adding in songs like Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart," admirably sung by the red and black-clad Butterfly Vazquez with enough lung power to do Joplin proud.

The always impressive Bryce McCormick on keyboards handled vocals when Butterfly didn't, like on their superb cover of Al Green's "Let's Stay Together."

A couple of guys came in and positioned themselves near me, one of them leaning over and asking, "Do you recognize me?"

I did. It was Hugo, a gentle soul I knew from several restaurant jobs, who soon asked me to dance.

Bio Ritmo's conga player Giustino was in the audience and soon joined the band for "Proud Mary," playing with pliers in his teeth until he could stop and adjust his conga drum.

A restaurant friend suddenly appeared at my side, saying, "How did I not see you when I came in?"

I had no idea, but welcomed him in just as bandleader Jason entreated the crowd to fill the empty space in front of the stage. To come dance, in other words.

"Come into the light," he pleaded.

This somehow reminded my friend of a movie and he was soon sharing  a childhood memory.

"I remember when my parents took me to see "Jaws" at the drive-in," he said. "I was sitting on the roof of our mini-van and they were inside having sex and I remember the raft scene and rocking on the top of that van."

Too much information. That's the kind of thing that scars a kid for life.

Back in the real world, the band did a killer rendition of MJ's "PYT" and even I was tempted to dance.

When they began Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic," couples flooded the dance floor to slow dance, something I'd have done if I'd had someone appropriate to do it with.

About that time, three of the members of No BS Brass band came in to catch the final song, Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle."

You know what's not hard to handle?

Starting at 5:00 with cute little Japanese boys and finishing out at 1:45 with seasoned musicians playing music I never heard live until they came along.

That and changing a guy's world with the just the right music talk.