Love is Like Oxygen

Words I never expected to hear from an artist's mouth: "I like to use data to make art."

That artist Sara Bouchard was saying it as we stood on the top floor of the Pump House - the very same one that used to host dances to which people came by boat back in the day - only made it more unlikely.

In this case, she'd created a sound installation based on water quality data from the James collected over all four seasons in 2017. She explained that the data showing dissolved oxygen levels in the river in two-hour increments was then entered into a software program that converted it to notes, which is almost more than I could comprehend.

Let's just say that this Luddite had no clue that such a thing was possible.

Once she had a score, she tapped tenor saxophonist Jason Scott to record it, while she played piano based on the pH levels of the river, which, like the oxygen levels, rise and fall on a daily basis and with the seasons.

Are you beginning to see why my head almost exploded as she explained it all?

Like my one and only tour of the Pump House previously, a hard hat was required to enter and only 20 people at a time were allowed inside the Pump House's cool, dim interior. Speakers were placed all around so that no matter which level you were on, the 30-minute composition was playing as the late afternoon sun slanted through the windows.

And beautiful as the music was anywhere in the late-19th century stone building, it was most dazzling when heard while on the Southern Gothic-looking uppermost dance floor with its lush views overlooking the canal.

I could only imagine what a wonderful place it must have been for dancing.

Chatting with the artist, I asked how she'd chosen Jason to record the piece. Seems he went to school with her husband, so he seemed like an easy choice. She was curious how I knew Jason and I explained that it was as simple as having seen him play in countless bands - RVA Big Band, the Hi-Steps, the Blue Tips, the Scott Clark 4-tet, the Jason Scott Quintet, to name but a few - over the years.

Well, that and running into him at all kinds of events around Richmond during the past decade.

If wandering around the vintage Pump House to a soundtrack created by the river's oxygen saturation levels isn't my most Richmond experience yet, it's got to be pretty damn close. So while the music only lasted half an hour, some of us spent a full hour taking in the completely unique vibe.

Now if only the Friends of the Pump House could raise enough money to restore the old place so that it could be enjoyed without hard hats, we'd be getting somewhere.

Then it was on to Secco's patio for a little Spanish immersion as the sun slowly set behind the trees. Okay, a lot of immersion.

There were pink Spanish bubbles as a belated birthday nod, Spanish white to accompany a killer kale salad with bottarga and breadcrumbs and meze (the spinach falafel among the best I've ever had), Spanish red to stand up to the spiciness of octopus Bolognese and even an after dinner Moscatel to make my warm carrot cake with dried fruit compote shine even brighter.

I have to say that the only thing that could have made the meal any more perfect would have been if we'd had a Saturday night dance at the Pump House to go to afterwards.

Dancing (slightly loopy) in the moonlight? Yes, please.

Left to My Own Devices

It's been a day for the unexpected.

Driving out to the northern neck to visit my parents, I had no idea it would begin snowing, swirling all around the cars and on the road, much like sand does on a beach road after a storm.

Driving over the Rappahannock, I saw a frozen river below me, great chunks of snow and ice dotting the surface.

But as I always do when crossing a bridge, I had the window down to smell the wet air (or what a watery death smells like, I can'rt decide) while inside the car the Pet Shop Boys' "Being Boring" was blasting.With not a single boat on the river, no one but me heard.

I left Mom and Dad's in enough time to get home and ready for my girl date tonight, only to find a phone message awaiting me (I know, how old school, right?) from my friend canceling our plans because she'd been down with that stomach bug everyone's getting all day (no doubt picked up at the bar where she works).

Hadn't seen that coming.

So instead of our intended restaurant and bar crawl until the wee hours, I decided on the documentary screening at Black Iris Gallery of "Records Collecting Dust" about the origins and holy grails of vinyl collecting.

Arriving at Black Iris just as three guys did, we found the door locked. What the...? From inside, Steady Sounds's owner gestured for us to come back in 15 minutes.

Good thing I only live three blocks away.

On my return, I found the doors open and plenty of familiar faces in the chairs. Chatting with a WRIR DJ, we lamented how you can never believe a starting time on a Facebook event invitation. This one had said the showing began at 8 p.m., so we'd both rushed over only to find it really began at 8:30.

Can we have some truth in inviting standards, please?

The film's producer had planned to attend but yesterday's snow had thwarted that, so we got right down to the film which began with a host of record collectors recalling the first album they owned, typically bought when they were in elementary school.

Creedence Clearwater Revivals' "Pendulum." The Beatles' "Magical Mystery Tour." Grand Funk Railroad's "An American Band." Kiss' "Alive."

Several of the interviewees said that while their parents had been music lovers, their taste had run more to "hippie" music, so once these guys began bringing home hard rock and metal, a musical line in the sand had been drawn between generations.

Apparently no Mom was supportive of her son listening to Iron Maiden.

I could relate when one guy said he'd play a favorite 45 for fifty times in a row. No one who had 45s hasn't been guilty of that.

Another recalled his awe when he first heard Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. "You can do that and put it on a record? That blew me away," was his takeaway.

Several mentioned the thrill and uncertainty of taking a chance buying an album without knowing the band or anything about the record. That's a distinct thrill few millennials could even imagine in a music world so saturated by hype.

Everyone of a certain age related to the guy who said that he still had all his really good record finds, "Except all the really good stuff my ex-girlfriends stole." I know I lost more than a few great albums to breakups and poorly separated record collections.

One guy had a fascinating collection of civil rights-related records, stuff by Stokely Carmichael, Angela Davis, Bobby Seale and even Aretha's preacher father, Reverend C.L. Franklin. Who knew activists made albums?

It was too bad the producer hadn't made it because there could have been some terrific post-screening discussion had he been there.

The documentary had been unexpectedly compelling. When a friend called not long before I left to see it, I'd shared what I was going to see.

He was amazed. "You mean record collecting has already gone out of style and come back in enough that it's worthy of a documentary?" I could just imagine him shaking his head through the telephone line and he's got one of the biggest and best record collections I know (all original, of course).

Walking out of Black Iris, the filmmaker I'd had dinner with last week asked where I was off to, assuming correctly that my night wasn't over. My second stop was Savory Grain to see Shinola Brown play.

I had no idea about this band beyond that I knew the sax player and the invitation had indicated new and old soul music was their metier. It sounded plenty good to me.

Inside, I snagged a bar stool only to hear my name called and spot a friend at my side. He'd just come from seeing "5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche" at Richmond Triangle Players and was having a post-play drink with a friend.

According to him, I had to join them.

This was a surprise. I certainly hadn't expected company, just music. But his friend was delightful, they had stools right in front of the band and why the hell not?

The funny part is, I'd just invoked his name last night when talking to a friend about renting out her house during the bike race. I knew he'd done it and told her to talk to him. It was as if I'd conjured him up.

He and his friend told me about the play, about how he'd been called up on stage to eat quiche and how much fun he'd had. I heard about his recent engagement and how he worries people will think they're moving too quickly. I learned that Savory Grain is his neighborhood bar, his go-to place because he can walk home.

At one point, I ran my hand through my hair and both he and his friend reached over and did the same to me repeatedly. "I love your hair. It's so '80s," she raved. Exactly what I'm shooting for - Pet Shop Boys-era hair.

Shinola Brown turned out to be a scaled down version of the Hi Steps, a favorite local R & B cover band I've seen numerous times. With just five members, they took on songs as diverse as "You Really Got a Hold On Me" and "Something," all well-executed due to the guitarist and drummer both having great voices.

My friend pointed out that he'd made the draperies framing the alcove where the band was playing. His friend pointed out that she was the one who'd taught him to sew. I volunteered that I sew and we marveled at being three people who sew in a 21st century world where so few do.

There wound up being other friends at the bar. The bartender I know from storytelling and the trumpet player and his wife I'd just seen at the VCU game and Mardi Gras show. For someone who'd expected to listen to soul music alone, it had turned into a surprisingly social evening.

Late in, one of the bartender shrugged on a blazer and paused in front of us. "Where do you think you're going?" my friend's friend asked between seat dancing to Otis Redding.

"Home to f*ck my wife and go to sleep," he replied matter-of-factly.

"In that velveteen jacket?" she asked, invoking her fabric knowledge. The hysterical part of that is I'd just been thinking how much his blazer reminded me of one I'd sewn for my boyfriend back in college, which had been burgundy velveteen.

"Velveteen?" he yelled, laughing loudly, clapping his hands in delight and clearly having no idea that velveteen blazers were a thing.

Sure were. Just like record collections made up of bands you took a chance on. Endlessly picking up the needle and dropping it back on the same song.

And we were never holding back or worried that 
time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back
You could always rely on a friend
Cause we were never being boring
We were never being bored

And I'm not saying he stole it, but when my relationship ended with that velveteen blazer-wearing boyfriend, my copy of Badfinger's "No Dice" disappeared right along with him.

Talk about unexpected, you could do that? That blew me away.

Once is Never Enough

If you're going to repeat yourself, at least repeat good things.

To start it was random compliments and heartfelt gratitude and isn't that why any girl goes to her local art museum?

Walking in the VMFA's Boulevard (and my favorite) entrance, the guard greets us.

I do the same, adding in questions about the museum's attendance today.

"We had a lot of people here earlier today, but they've gone home. We sent them out into the night," he explained.

I made a crack about visiting relatives and the desire to escape and he agreed and as I make for the hallway to leave, he casually observes apropos of nothing, "Those are nifty tights, by the way."

It may very well be my first time I was complimented as "nifty."

After scoring our Chihuly tickets, we head downstairs for some glass.

I've already seen the show, here,  but I was a willing second-timer here with a Chihuly virgin.

We began with those glorious Venetian balls in a rowboat before moving on to the "Persian Ceiling."

Waling in to the gallery, my jaw dropped as we watched three women walk into the gallery, never so much as look up, and pass right through as if a suspended ceiling holding 1,000 (yes, one thousand!) glass objects wasn't directly over their heads.

Maybe they missed the signage and maybe not.

Still, whoa.

It was then that I remembered the artist's recommendation for the best way to see the "Persian Ceiling."

You got it; I stretched out on the floor so as to have an optimum vantage point for the assemblage of Chihuly glass overhead.

Then a funny thing happened.

My date laid down.

Then another couple. And a young guy. And...

Before all was said and done, seven other people followed my lead and got horizontal with the floor, just like I had.

From somewhere near the front of the gallery, a voice called out, "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," I answered, not the least bit afraid I wasn't the intended complimentee.

Moments later, a VMFA guard walked into the room and announced, "You have to get up. I can't let you lay on the floor."

Oh, can't you? Are we really a threat stretched out on the floor?

To our rescue came a man who'd declined to get down for fear he couldn't get up.

"Just let me take a picture," he said commandingly and the very young guard ceded power to him.

None of us hurried to get up (what was the guard going to do, after all?) but eventually we unwound our supine bodies and rejoined the vertical.

Moving through the exhibit, an occasional stranger would smile or nod at me and I had to presume it was someone who had joined me on the floor.

After our encounter of the Chihuly kind, we did the logical thing and walked upstairs to Amuse for a glass.

We'd timed it perfectly.

There was plenty of room at the bar and the dining room was just beginning to fill up.

The bartender confirmed what I already suspected; Amuse had been a madhouse today.

"It was crazy, our busiest day other than Mother's Day," she said wearily, but with a smile on her face.

Whoa. Glad we'd missed the masses.

With a bottle of Portuguese Tinto Rioja, we sampled the amuse bouche, a white bean puree with micro-greens on a flat bread.

It was one perfect bite, just as it should be.

From there we went to Rappahannock curry-fried oysters with a cucumber and mint raita and pickled veggies.

After copious amounts of raw Rappahannock River oysters to start my Thanksgiving day meal yesterday, I  was eager for something different.

The trifecta of curry, cucumber and mint hit a home run in my mouth.

Next up, we did the crispy pork belly with Romesco sauce and fried spinach and were just as delighted.

The fatty belly, sweet Romesco and delightfully crispy spinach made for a an impressive flavor and texture combination.

By this time, the dining room was completely full and we had just enough wine left for dessert.

I used my influence to choose the chocolate pot de creme with amaretto macaroons, for which I was immediately grateful.

The dense pudding begged to be spread on the rich cookies tasting of almonds and coconut.

And, just so you know, chocolate and coconut top my dessert hit parade.

Together, they were sublime. Samoas, anyone?

Sitting at the bar glowing with pleasure after so many stellar tastes, I felt a hand on my back.

"I'm grateful," a woman said, looking directly in my eyes. "That was an amazing experience. I'll always remember that. Thank you."

I seemed to remember her feet near mine when I'd taken to the floor.

Still, I felt pretty full of myself for having created a "happening," not that I had intended for anyone other than me to do it.

And yet they had.

Sometimes it's just about doing what you want and anyone else following is pure gravy.

But then museums close and you have to find new places to do your thing.

Hello, Hi-Steps.

For my second evening with this group of talented local jazz musicians, I made sure to arrive in time to get a good vantage point.

I was happy to find a diverse crowd spanning 20-somethings to probably 50-somethings, all clearly fans of soul music.

Hats were everywhere - a tweed one on bassist Cameron, another on trumpeter Bob and a newsboy cap on trombonist Toby.

Leader Jason in a leather blazer.

Very dapper, indeed.

Lead singer Brittany took it back to the appropriate era with a taupe maxi sweater dress with a yellow ribbon tied at the waist.

Groovy with a capital "G."

There was a new guitarist/male vocalist tonight, doing a fine job trading vocals with Brittany.

It only took the first few notes to remind me how much I enjoy how hard drummer Pinson Chanselle hits the drums.

After the first two songs, bandleader Jason told the crowd, "This is not a spectator sport. I mean, you can watch us if you want, but we'd rather watch you dance."

He was right, of course.

Few spectator sports are as enjoyable as Friday night dancing.

"Ain't Too Proud to Beg" got the room dancing until the break.

A girl I know spotted me and came over to say hello, mentioning that it was her first time at Balliceaux.

Oh honey.

Soon after, a guy walked up to me and started a surprising conversation about flooring.

Seems Balliceaux has glow-in-the-dark floors, the same ones he'd put in his basement around his hot tub.

Then there were the black lights he'd installed down there, he said.

"Pretty '70s, huh?" he snorted, laughing loudly.

Who'd have thought that was a goal?

During "Tired of Being Alone," singer Brittany wasn't needed so she danced along with the the crowd (or her mother, depending on who you listened to).

Nearby, two guys grooved. "I could listen to this song all day," he told his buddy enthusiastically. "On repeat."

Is there any other way?

While the set list had a lot of similarities to the first show I'd seen, all I could focus on was how tight these guys sounded considering they've only played out twice.

Pros. It's that simple.

After "Try a Little Tenderness," guitarist Elliott cracked wise, noting, "And that turkey I had last night, that was tenderness."

Standing nearby me was DJ Mike Murphy, who was playing soul music before, during and after the Hi-Steps.

With the band doing a handful of classics ("Tell Me Something Good," "It's Your Thing," "Chain of Fools") and the crowd singing along, it occurred to me that those were exactly the songs Mike wouldn't play.

Songs like the closer, "Signed, Sealed and Delivered."

Which means both he and the Hi-Steps have the right idea.

If we're going to dance to soul music, let it be to deep cuts on vinyl or else played live.

And, remember, kids, this is not a spectator sport.

But it sure is fun. So fun I put it on repeat.

Tell Me Something Good

It was long, but it was worth every minute of it.

First there was Eat ("We'll cook, you eat!"), the new concept that's taken over at Pescado's China Street.

We took seats at the bar during happy hour, scored some Chilean chardonnay from the witty and small-scale bartender and took our time with the witty and large-format menu.

There were so many intriguing sounding choices that it took a while, but we eventually settled on two.

PB & J was a take on panzanella with mixed greens, sliced red and green grapes, toasted brioche and Thai peanut vinaigrette.

It definitely delivered the requisite sweet and salty promised.

The Dog House was a Sausagecraft sausage on a Flour Garden bun, topped with caramelized onions, broccoli rabe, pickled mustard seed and roasted tomato aioli.

The broccoli rabe was a tad toothsome for eating on the sandwich and we were inclined to think its savory bitterness overpowered the sausage, so we removed it and ate it like a side (which it also is on the menu).

The remaining combination was outstanding, the sweet onions and the pungent mustard seeds ideal complements to the dog.

We barely finished that before beating feet to Strange Matter for Hoax Hunters' CD release show and lots of familiar faces.

The duo of Tyrannosaurus Awesome opened with their usual energetic guitar/drumming and non-stop aural assault.

In my next life, I'll be a drummer so I can have arms that well sculpted.

Hoax Hunters took the stage and thrashed that thrash they do so well.

Despite a recent cold, P.J.'s vocals sounded spot-on and, as  always, his on-stage persona is fierce and completely unlike his usual mild-mannered and droll photographer self.

By the end of their set, he'd knocked over his mic stand and was on the floor, but still playing.

That's thrash at its best.

I lost my date at that point but made my way to Balliceaux for the Hi-Steps.

Like everyone else, I had no idea who the Hi-Steps were, but I knew to expect old-school soul.

On arrival, I found a mob of P.Y.T.s mingling and trying to be seen at the front bar.

Eschewing that scene, I paid my cover and went to the back room where I found a slightly older and definitely more interesting crowd.

Turns out that the Hi-Steps is a group of RVA's best known jazz players led by saxophonist Jason Scott.

People like Cam Ralston on bass and Pinson Chanselle on drums.

At the bar to get a Cazadores, I ran into one of the band, trumpet player Bob Miller (Fight the Big Bull, Bio Ritmo) who looked even more dapper than usual in a pale blue polyester suit.

I learned later from his charming wife that she'd bought it for him as an Easter gift.

He had to have been the hit of the Easter parade in it.

But all of the band were sharp-dressed men: Cameron in his harlequin vest, Jason in his monochromatic dark blue, singer Brittany in a long skirt.

From Bob I learned that the group was planning to play a variety of soul music from obscure to hits and a lot in between.

Also that they had lost their singer a week ago and had to scramble.

The band hadn't been sure how many people might show up tonight.

"Well, you heard about it," Bob pointed out.

As I told him, when certain musicians send me an invitation, I pay attention.

Rising local superstar Matt White showed up to see his friends play, causing quite a stir.

When he said hello, I couldn't resist teasing him about his recent "Rolling Stone artists to watch" mention and inquire about Hopscotch, the festival he'd played last week.

I'd seen Prabir, he of the Goldrush, in the front room and he soon joined me in the back along with a girl (who still said things like "Life is so awesome!") and a record label guy from Jersey.

We were a motley crew.

During the band's first set, we heard classic soul music, and although none of the songs were familiar to me except one ("Ain't Too Proud to Beg"), they all had that smooth soul groove and people began to dance.

Jason had told the crowd that that was the idea.

With trumpet, trombone, sax, electric bass, keyboards, drums, guitar and a male and female singer, they had every component required for delivering R & B.

A DJ friend was particularly taken with their rendition of "Get Out of My Life, Woman" with its slower intensity.

Just before their last song, Prabir observed that they needed to tear it up before the break to ensure everyone stuck around for the second set.

"Second sets are the best," he said knowingly. "But it's time to give 'em the cheese plate."

The band played a high energy number that seemed likely to leave people wanting for more.

During the break, I spoke to Jason, the group's mastermind, who admitted that he'd gotten the idea when he saw how popular the soul DJ nights were.

Why not play the classic soul repertory live, he thought. "But I didn't know the music at all, so I went to Spotify and started looking for artists and songs, some I knew and some I didn't and picked from that."

And for their second set, they destroyed it.

Songs like "It's Your Thing," which had people dancing within the first few notes.

"Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher" and "Tired of Being Alone" were well received, but when that big old bass line began for "Tell Me something Good," Prabir and I about lost it.

There was the quintessential song of the evening for me.

The brass, having no part in it, began to dance in place, getting as funky as the dancers in front of them and bass player Cameron's head got a workout grooving along.

When I heard the band begin "Try a Little Tenderness," with its quiet intro, I turned to Prabir and said of the suddenly-chatting crowd, "They have no idea what's about to happen."

Grinning maniacally, he nodded. "No, they don't. It's gonna be awesome."

When the song finally broke open, the room exploded as people began dancing, flailing and shouting with the energy of the song.

After they did "Chain of Fools," I asked a bartender friend what he thought of the band.

"I couldn't see them at first and when I heard that singer, I thought she was an old black woman," he said. "When I finally saw she was a young white girl, I couldn't believe it! They're great."

Likewise, Charles Arthur on guitar and vocals had done a stellar job on the songs where he sang lead.

"This is our first show ever," Jason informed the crowd before their last song.

Judging by the amazing musicianship (they'd only had one rehearsal), ideal variety of known and unknown material and enthusiasm emanating from them, I'd say the Hi-Steps are going to be the big must-see act this fall.

Think about it.

Live soul music performed by some of the top musicians in town.

Mad energy for nearly three straight hours.

I'd suggest you wear your dancing shoes.