Darts of Pleasure

I was overdue checking off that musical box.

Back in 2004, my boyfriend had given me a copy of Franz Ferdinand's eponymous debut, no doubt because the band's sound mirrored that of all the post-punk bands then getting my admiring attention (see: Interpol, Editors, Bloc Party et al) along with him.

It was love at first listen. So arty, so cheeky, so Scottish.

And while I've since seen all three of those bands (Interpol twice), I'd yet to see the boys from Glasgow live, so when I saw they'd be playing the Jefferson in Charlottesville, tickets were purchased and plans made.

The crowd was still small when we found our place for Atlanta trio Omni in front of the sound booth facing a black and white backdrop of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Clever, if probably too obscure for some in the crowd..

Omni took the stage and it was immediately obvious why they'd been chosen to open for Franz Ferdinand. Their au courant take on post punk - all angular and passionate - clearly took a page from the Glaswegians' book.

My companion noted how surprising it was that so few people were using their phones to photograph the band, but my guess was that they just didn't care enough about Omni and, sure enough, once the headliners came out, so did the devices.

One person filmed practically every song with a stinkin' iPad, for cryin' out loud, blocking multiple people's views.

It was a decidedly under-tattooed crowd, but then I'm looking at it with Richmond eyes and this audience was nowhere near the usual majority tattooed.

By the time Omni finished, the crowd was close to capacity but not sold out and clearly eager for the main event. What was surprising was the youth of the crowd - many people did not qualify for alcohol wristbands - because this is a 13-year old band and how much Franz Ferdinand can you remember if you were in Pampers for the first two albums?

Since I had been plenty old enough to overplay that first album, I was nothing short of thrilled when the band came out and began their show the same way they'd begun that album in 2004: with the song "Jacqueline."

It's always better on holiday
So much better on holiday
That's why we only work 
When we need the money

Following that with "No You Girls" was a masterful move since it had been used in an iPod commercial, thus ensuring that everyone in the room besides me knew it well.

Kiss me where your eye won't meet me
Meet me where your mind won't kiss me
No, you girls never know
How you make a boy feel

I was unprepared for what a master showman lead singer Alex Kapranos was, his belt buckle worn over his hip and his legs in constant motion, scissor kicking, side kicking as high as his shoulder and wielding his guitar like a phallus.

After two songs, he had the room eating out of his hand and decided to toss out compliments. "Hello, Charlottesville! You've got a nice town here. We had a stroll around this afternoon and met lots of nice people. There's good vibes here. We could stay here a while!"

When they played "Darkness of the Matinee," I was reminded of reading  a critic's review of the album back in 2004 which likened the sound of "Matinee" to Roxy Music, a comparison neither my boyfriend nor I heard and was no more apparent tonight.

My companion, however, considers the second verse iconic, so I listened for those words instead.

I time every journey to bump into you accidentally
I charm you and tell you of the boys I hate
All the girls I hate, all the words I hate
All the clothes I hate, how I'll never be anything I hate
You smile, mention something that you like
How you'd have a happy life if you did the things you like

The band was incredibly tight and, to all appearances, having a ball and by the time they got to "Do You Want To," Alex was in full rock star mode, posturing, pouting and encouraging the adoring crowd to clap longer after each song.

A couple of guys near the stage had brought Scotland's flag and waved it around to get the band's attention. When one of the guys managed to scramble up on stage, he danced with it over his head until a security guard tried to whisk him away. Alex shook his head no, security vanished and the guy soon dismounted the stage the way he'd come.

We Franz Ferdinand fans are not heathens, sir.

Alex introduced "Walk Away" as "a breakup song about being in love and walking away from it, knowing you're making the biggest mistake of your life," but what struck me was that it had a bit of a Roxy Music vibe to it, something I'd never noticed before.

I cannot turn to see those eyes
As apologies may rise
I must be strong and stay an unbeliever
And love the sound of you walking away, you walking away

Their first big hit, "Take Me Out," got a nice long tease of a lead-in and then the crowd lost it for the song, so the band wisely moved directly into "Ulysses" to keep the momentum going.

During the encore, a fan gave the band a giant red heart that read, "Thank you for playing!" and Alex accepted it and put it center stage, which caused its creator to scream in excitement.

They finished with "This Fire" and Alex wrapped in the Scottish flag, an effect that paid homage to countless rock gods before him and only stoked the crowd's devotion. When the band bowed and left the stage, the room seemed to sigh with satisfaction and release.

Personally, I was just happy to have finally seen these guys do live what they accomplish so cheekily (and so very Scottish-ly) on their records with so much flair and passion. It was one musical box satisfyingly checked.

In the ladies' room afterward, I overheard a young voice ask her friend if she was going to go to the bathroom.

"I'm too much in awe," she said breathily. "I never thought I'd see them live!"

When I walked out and saw her impossibly young face and lack of alcohol wristband, my first thought was, and you've been waiting since when? Kindergarten? Puh-leeze.

No, you girls never know what delayed gratification feels like. It's really sweet.

Thank Your Lucky Stars

All the usual suspects - dinner, music - and watching cultural history made, too!

An hour drive on a sumptuously sunny and atypically warm November day landed us on the patio at Public Fish & Oyster in Charlottesville under trees shedding leaves on the table, the chairs and the patio.

It was a fine seasonal touch completely out of sync with the wildly warm weather.

At the top of the chalkboard oyster menu was a siren bivalve that combined a long-time favorite place with my preferred level of brininess. The Hatteras Salts were delicious but not nearly as salty as expected, but Public gets no points from me for serving them with two lame options: cocktail sauce and red wine vinegar rather than a proper mignonette or even horseradish.

Where they did score points was with the solid advice on a sign in the ladies' room reading, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together" ~ Elizabeth Taylor.

I immediately re-applied lipstick and returned to the table in time for a delivery of Sinols Rosato, an easy drinking Spanish pink. I was as together as I was going to get.

Dinner of an autumn salad loaded with arugula, pomegranate, apple, fennel, candied nuts and hunks of creamy Mycella Bleu was a winning way to eat Fall, while roasted Mission figs with Caramont Farms chevre, almond and honey was downright decadent. And while the lobster meat was plentiful, the overly dense roll containing that meat on my lobster roll was a questionable choice.

I barely finished my totally predictable flourless chocolate torte dessert when we we changed location to a bar table at Fitzroy, the better to catch the start of the final game of the World Series.

The funny part is, if you were to ask anyone who knows me, friend or family, they'd have likely taken a bet that I would most definitely not be watching a baseball game tonight or any night.

Oh, ye of little faith.

We were only able to watch an hour of it before heading over to the Jefferson Theater at 9:00 for the reason we were in the mountains in the first place: Beach House.

I've got a long history with this dream pop band, having seen them as openers back in 2007 at the Norva (can't recall the headliners, though), having bought a ticket to see them in Charlottesville in May 2012 and then not gone, and then seeing them for the first time as headliners in September 2012.

The floor was getting crowded when I took up my usual post near the sound booth, finding a fan to chat with within spitting distance (of course I didn't verify that ability).  Unlike my nine-year history with the band, he'd only discovered them a year and a half ago, necessitating him going back to investigate their full discography.

His conclusion was that "Teen Dream" was their masterpiece, a conclusion long-time fans already agreed upon.

When I asked him about his first show, he said it had been Blink 182 ("I know, old school, right?" says this guy who couldn't have even been a gleam in his Daddy's eye when the band formed in '92) with My Chemical Romance, a band I'd also seen back in 2008 (although technically, I'd gone for the opener, Muse).

Like the previous Beach House shows, there are a few rules. Minimal light on the band, minimal between-song banter. They're here to play and nothing more. Like 2012, they teased us with gems from "Teen Dream" such as "10 Mile Stereo" and "Take Care," although this tour, they're leaving out the more bombastic "Norway." Pity.

They did one song they hadn't played in three years "from the set list you all contributed to," a fact of which I'd been unaware. Had I known I could put in my two cents' worth, you can be assured I would have.

With no opening act and no chit-chatting with the crowd, we were in and out of the Jefferson Theater in an hour and a half and back at the Fitzroy to catch the end of the baseball game in a room that seemed to be evenly split between rabid Chicago and Cleveland fans.

Feeling optimistic, we weren't the only people in the room to order a bottle of bubbly.

When the game ended tied and had to go to extra innings and then a rain delay, we stayed, despite the hour drive still ahead. How do you walk away from watching a team trying to make up for 108 years of failure?

Not to mention that Aroldis Chapman was some kind of cute with that smile of his.

One of the more satisfying aspects about watching the game was knowing that out on the Northern Neck, my octogenarian parents were undoubtedly still up, too, cheering a team none of us usually care about but who certainly seem to have earned their post-midnight moment in the sun.

Presumably without the drink or the lipstick, they'd pulled themselves together admirably. All I'd done was cheer and clap.

Hey, Chicago, what do you say? The Cubs have gone and won today.

Going Down Smooth

You've got to get busy inviting by noon if you want me to join you.

So when a favorite sax players messaged at 12:16 suggesting, "Hey, I just had an idea for people interested. Go up early for wine tasting, dinner and then show. It's Charlottesville appreciation day!" he'd missed me by about fourteen minutes.

I'd been invited to go to Charlottesville to see Lake Street Dive, a band I've twice seen at Balliceaux for five bucks and one which is just now hitting the big time (see: recent Colbert Report appearance), back in December by someone who had caught a couple of their songs at a festival a few years back and been itching to see them again ever since.

Fast forward to the day of the show and Facebook is lighting up with Richmond friends who are also planning to go to the show.

But since I was picked up at noon, I didn't see the sax player's suggestion for making an all-day event of it until I got back.

As it happened, his bright idea pretty much mirrored what we'd planned for occupying ourselves pre-show. As in, great minds think alike.

We began at Barboursville winery for lunch at Palladio where I was tickled to see the restaurant windows open to the blue skies and warm air outside.

Fittingly, the meal began with Barboursville's Brut Cuvee 1814 as we noshed on herb focaccia and waded through the wordy menu to choose which three courses we each wanted.

Given the beautiful day, I imagined myself at a seaside cafe come summertime, opting for crispy shrimp, lobster, oysters, calamari, rockfish and lemon slices (yes, also crispy) with a rich saffron chive aioli worthy of the delicately battered frittura di mare and made all the better with a pairing of Vintage Rose 2012.

Ah, seafood and pink wine, is there a faster way to reduce me to a grinning fool?

My devotion to swine would not be ignored, necessitating my first course be housemade spicy Italian sausage, white bean and escarole soup even though it wasn't really a soup day, but the fancy pork and beans was stellar with the Chardonnay Reserve 2012.

Since our reservation had been for 1:30, by this point in our meal, other tables were beginning to empty so we asked our server to hold off on the next course so we could take a short stroll and finish our Chardonnay along the way.

His only admonishment was not to leave the property, hardly likely since we had more food and drink on the way.

But you can only admire sweeping vistas and rolling hills for so long once your glass is drained, so we strolled back to our table for our final course.

Returning to my warm weather theme, my last course was seared Rock Mountain trout filet with apple chestnut hash, parsnip puree and sage brown butter sauce complemented by the Viognier Reserve 2012 and enjoyed down to the last bite.

In theory, a cheese plate would have been a divine finish, but neither of us had room enough at that point, so we demurred when our server asked. He then suggested we go next door to the tasting room for the complimentary tasting that comes with lunch at Palladio, a fine idea, we concluded.

Except that it wasn't because the tasting room was crowded with winery hoppers out on a gorgeous day, and since we had just tasted through four of the wines anyway, instead we got a bottle of the Viognier Reserve 2012 and headed up the hill to the Barboursville ruins.

Nothing like a little archeology with your afternoon grape, I always (wanted to) say.

Since I'd last been to the ruins, scaffolding had gone up as if they were shoring up the old chimneys deigned by T.J. One thing I was sure of, it would have been a magnificent view from up there.

But our place was on the ground. Piles of snow lingered in shadowy spots, but we took a blanket and found a sunny meadow with a view of a white clapboard church in the distance, a red outbuilding and a ring of trees surrounding us while we enjoyed the juicy wine that further reinforced my summer theme with aromas of peach.

And just like that, the afternoon was gone and it was on to Charlotteville.

After a nosh at Bijou (I'm not ashamed to say I kept it to a bleu cheese salad with candied walnuts and blueberry vinaigrette followed by a copious chocolate mousse) we made our way down the mall to the Jefferson Theater and a rapidly gathering sold out crowd.

This is when I go into standard operating procedure for shows: procure Espolon and take up residence in front of the sound booth where it not only sounds the best but I can be assured of not being knocked from behind, a peril of being short.

From that vantage point, I spotted the sax player surrounded by friends, the restaurant owner who never stops talking at shows and the guy I run into at lectures and shows all the time.

So Richmond was representing nicely.

Opening was the Congress, a quartet who clearly worshiped at the altar of jam bands, blending blues and southern rock, covering "People Get Ready," which pleased me and Van the Man's "Into the Mystic," to the great delight of the crowd, especially the Boomers present.

During the break, the crowd grew hugely and when the canned music went to "What's New, Pussycat?" Lake Street Dive finally took the stage.

Singer and front woman Rachel looked fabulous in a fitted-waist '50s style dress with a full skirt with which she could swing and sashay to great effect.

From the Balliceaux shows, I'd recalled her jazz vocal stylings, but in the nearly two years since I'd seen them, she's clearly come into her own, adding an even more dynamic presence to her already impressive voice.

And the band! I remembered the female upright bass player (from Iowa City, Iowa, no less), the guitarist/trumpet player who'd gotten his new glasses just before I'd last seen him and the talented singing drummer.

Actually, all three sang backing vocals, making for some impressive harmonies on almost every song.

Introducing "Another song about Bobby," Rachel explained, "Some people you can't stop writing about." Tells you everything you need to know about Bobby, doesn't it?

Or is it just me who finds romance in writing?

She sang "Seventeen" about wishing she'd met a certain someone when she was younger, about being wasted in her parents' basement, the new "Use Me Up" and "Bad Self Portraits," the title song off the album that just came out this month.

The Congress were called back onstage to join them to cover McCartney's "Let Me Roll It," which they'd done Congress-less last time I'd seen them, but it sounded fresh with the additional voices and it's a song I love anyway.

I was thrilled they did "You Go Down Smooth," a song they'd done when I last heard them, long before this album came out and one that had been memorable even as they apologized for its newness then.

When they left the stage, we all knew they were coming back and I felt pretty sure it would be to cover "Rich Girl," which they did, to the ecstasies of the crowd.

Then the canned music kicked back to "What's New, Pussycat?" and we spilled out onto the downtown mall in the cold night air, everyone raving about the show.

The sax player was dead on. Hell of a Charlottesville appreciation day, even if I didn't join the group field trip.

Sometimes you want to fill up your dance card and sometimes you don't.

I Got It

Not sure which was more random, Stonewall Jackson or The Stranger.

With a show in Charlottesville tonight, the plan was to hit White Hall Vineyards, eat dinner and hear fuzzed out music.

Kind of a perfect day, actually.

By a lucky coincidence, it had snowed lightly last night  so heading into the mountains was a visual treat.

Fields and pastures were covered in a thin layer of snow so barns sat on white against the brilliant blue sky.

In some shadier patches of curving back roads, there was even still ice on the road at late afternoon.

Arriving at White Hall, we found neither cars nor people.

Apparently the weather had closed them down tight, which wasn't a problem except I'd been hoping to use their, ahem, facilities.

Back up the road we went to Stinson Vineyards, a tiny boutique winery at the foot of the mountains.

The kind of place where you pull up to the tasting room and the owners come running from their house across the driveway.

It was that 1790 house, the one they're busy refurbishing, that had hosted Stonewall Jackson during the Valley campaign. His troops had slept on the lawn.

As if that historical tidbit wasn't cool enough, it turned out that the original vines had been planted 40 years ago by Gabriele Rausse, one of my very favorite Virginia winemakers.

The Mrs. did the tasting with us, saying that she and her husband had moved down from Bethesda and that their daughter was the winemaker.

When her husband heard I was a native Washingtonian, we compared births only to find that we'd been born in the same hospital.

Small world.

We tasted through a Provencal-style Rose, a non-oak monster Chardonnay, both red and white table wines, a lovely Meritage, a late harvest Petit Manseng and a port-style Imperialis, made with Tannat, a rustic grape I'd discovered through a Uruguayan winemaker and loved.

Unexpectedly, we also had a bonus red, Tusk Mountain Vineyards' La Tour d'Afton, a Bordeaux-style blend.

Tusk's wines are not available to the public, but the engineer/winemaker allows Stinson to round out their list with his.

So a pit stop at Stinson had served up all kinds of unexpected treats.

Dinner followed at the Blue Moon Diner, mainly to avoid the downtown mall and because they had so many great album covers in the window.

I'm not going to lie, it was a little cool at our window table, but the vibe was relaxed and clearly most people were regulars with names the staff knew.

Shrimp dumplings came with cabbage and angry mayo, an apt name for a habanero-infused mayo.

While eating them, we realized that Billy Joel's "The Stranger" album was on.

Not a song, or two, but the entire album, which I'd never heard.

When I asked, our sever said he'd been "grandfathered in as the DJ" and he'd chosen the music, gesturing to the long rows of record albums in the two front windows.

I gotta say, any time a Richmond restaurant wants to jump on this trend and play records during dinner service, I will be your devoted fan.

Given temperatures in the teens, I wanted the chicken pot pie, made with Polyface farms organic chicken, carrots, peas, corn, celery and onions with a puff pastry crust.

Personally, I'd rather have  traditional biscuit crust on a pot pie, but the choice wasn't mine.

Digging in deep to the little Dutch oven, I found a bottom layer of mashed potatoes under the meaty pot pie, a filling and welcome addition to a dish that easily served two.

We finished with Barry White on the stereo and the grills-wich, as classic a diner dessert as I could imagine.

Grilled Krispy Kreme donuts were topped with Chaps ice cream (a local thing) and chocolate syrup.

It certainly wasn't ice cream weather, but the grilled doughnuts turned out to be far tastier than you might expect.

On the other hand, I don't need to eat them again any time soon.

As I got up to leave, I heard my name called and there were two Richmond friends having dinner at the bar.

Smaller world.

From there, we headed to the Jefferson to see Yo La Tengo, where I was certain I'd see more people I knew.

I didn't even get inside before spotting an "old rocker" (his words, not mine) at the box office.

Inside, I found a couple of young rockers I knew.

The pace was crawling with familiar faces.

Not enough to sell out, which surprised me, but a good-sized crowd nonetheless.

The stage was set with three green wooden trees before the three members of YLT came out.

"Our Way to Fall" set the tone for the first set with a simple acoustic bent that carried through till intermission.

All slow songs, no screaming feedback. Highly suspicious for YLT.

And the devoted audience got it, shutting up entirely.

It was beautiful.

In between songs, a fan called out a request and leader Ira said, "That doesn't exactly fit the format," before pausing.

"Although I don't know why I said that. We have an a capella version of that song that would knock your socks off."

Of course they do. Only Yo la Tengo.

A few songs more in and Ira told the crowd, "I'm sorry to see the Jefferson go."

What was this?

"Every venue Yo La Tengo has played in Charlottesville has closed. So either this is Yo la Tengo's last show in Charlottesville or this place is closing."

Yo la Tengo humor.

But come to think of it, I'd seen them five yars ago at the Satellite Ballroom and that was long-gone. Hmmm...

Before their last song, Ira said they were going to take a break, move some shrubbery and come back for a second set.

As my guitarist friend had guessed after the very first song, the plan was for the second set to be full on electric.

They came screaming back with "Nothing to Hide" and all the fuzz the crowd had hoped for.

Well, we're gonna wait, wait
See what comes after
Wait, wait, harder not faster

As I heard the first notes of "Sugarcube," my guitarist friend leaned in and beamed. "That's my guitar."

I'm sure he meant the brand not that instrument.

"Little Honda" got cranked up until it exploded into a guitar solo with Ira playing his guitar in the air, on the floor and swinging it 360 degrees around to make sound.

First gear, it's alright
Second gear, hang on tight
Third gear, ain't I right?
Faster, it's all right

Only Yo la Tengo cover a Beach Boys motorcycle song.

Meanwhile, a distressingly large number of twenty-somethings around me plugged their ears with their fingers.

Really, kids? If not now, when?

Haven't you heard that youth is when you destroy your hearing with loud shows?

After feeding our feedback frenzy, the band said goodnight and stayed away until it seemed unlikely they'd come back.

When they did, it was  as their alter-ego, Condo Fucks, a proto-punk band who played "Whatcha Gonna Do About It?" with snarl and volume.

Explaining that Condo had been on hiatus, Ira announced some new material and they did "Bastards of Love."

Because there's nowhere to go after a Condo Fucks set, they finished with a simple version of The Troggs' "With a Girl Like You," sung simply by Georgia.

It was as far away from their screaming guitar sound as could be had, making it the perfect finish.

Only Yo la Tengo.

Completely satisfied, we went to leave, only to have them return for one last song before calling it a night.

A cold night. It was thirteen degrees on the way home from the show.

And totally worth venturing out on such a frigid night.

At least with a girl like me. Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba.

Full Moon over Phantogram

What happened was I won.

One minute I was listening to public radio and then I was caller number five and got two tickets to Phantogram.

I then traded one of those tickets for a ride to Charlottesville and the pleasure of my company.

When you're suddenly gifted with tickets to a show you were considering seeing anyway, you have to make the most of it.

The drive to Charlottesville took us straight through hard rain and back out in about a minute.

Our destination was Starr Hill State Park, which I'm sure even most of Charlottesville doesn't know about, was positively sylvan.

Tucked  away in a neighborhood of the tiniest houses on the narrowest streets, it was a grassy field.

The simplest of parks. A field.

Okay, with a garden including trees, Johnny Jump-ups and weeds near the back. And two benches at the top of the hill where the park sign was.

Benches are for park amateurs.

We spread a blanket facing the little woods for a Spanish/South African culture exchange (Manchego and Mulderbosch Rose).

The sky went from overcast to bright blue to roiling storm clouds while we enjoyed grapes on the grass.

But music called and dinner first, so we made our way to the mall.

We ended up at Bijou, a place I hadn't been since 2001 when I ate there with an old boyfriend during the Virginia Film Festival.

It was the year I heard Gena Rowlands speak.

To be honest, it didn't seem to have changed in a decade.

At the bar we had the distinct pleasure of being served by the host, also known as the owner's son.

It was his first might and he admitted he stumbled a few times. Luckily, not with the Prosecco.

I found his learning curve endearing.

Describing tonight's soup, he said it was a chilled tomato with crab when it was actually a charred tomato with crab.

"I was wrong," he came back soon after saying. "It's hot soup not cold."

We got it anyway, finding tons of crabmeat inside the thick broth,

A blue cheese salad was just that, more stinky cheese than anything (greens, candied walnuts, blueberry vinaigrette), which suited us fine.

Tuna ceviche tacos with ginger cucumber salsa, creme fraiche and baby greens in crispy flatbread taco shells had good crunch and flavor.

"They've been on the menu forever," the bartender said. "We can't take them off."

I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been on the menu last time I was in.

Dessert was a last minute call and two people said it was a house favorite.

Grilled banana bread with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce won't win any novelty awards, but delivered meal-end sweet.

The odyssey ended at the Jefferson Theater where I walked in and the wristband guy immediately began giving me one.

Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I asked, being a good, law-abiding citizen.

"Nah," he said, waving his hand and smiling. "I've seen you in here before."

Frequency makes it easier to flout the law apparently.

Openers Ki: Theory were playing their high energy electronica when we found our places in front of the sound booth.

Known for his remixes, we were treated to his of Ladytron's "Runaway."

In between sets, we were amused to see that coming soon were The Police (Experience) and Squeeze (Us), adequate cover band names perhaps but not in the league of Even Better Than the Real Thing.

And I'm not just saying that because my friend is The Edge.

A couple of WRIR DJs came in and said hello and with the other friend I'd seen earlier, I thought it was a decent RVA representation.

We were (I'm presuming) all there for Phantogram's beat-driven psych/dream pop.

They'd already earned points with me by citing Cocteau Twins, the Beatles and Sonic Youth as influences.

All my limited musical vocabulary can say is, whatever their guitar influences were, I was on board.

Swirling guitars (screaming post-punk like sometimes), spacey keyboards (what everybody's doing these days), lots of echo (Karen lovers her music from a cave) and airy vocals.

They were courtesy of the fishnetted keyboardist/singer Sarah, she of the swinging bob and expressive legs.

Nancy Wilson's legacy will live forever.

Saying,"We haven't played this in a long time," they played "Voices" and the crowd's enthusiasm seemed to please her.

The lights were integral to the set, the patterns and colors making it sometimes feel like a dance party in an abandoned building.

They encored with "Nightlife" and the show was over by 10:42.

Street beat psych pop bands wrap it up early in C-ville on a Monday night.

Fortunately, it left plenty of time to admire that huge, full moon hanging over the mountains on the drive home.

And once in my apartment, I found moonlit-flooded rooms in both the front and back.

We call that a winning evening.

This Tornado Loves You

It's official. I've now seen Neko Case in four cities, a personal record for any band.

I'd been looking forward to this show for ages. I had an entire day in Charlottesville planned around it. It was going to be spectacular and include all the elements I love.

But if you read the previous post, you know today got away from me. Today got the upper hand.

As it was I had just enough time to pick up my car, get cleaned up and make it to Charlottesville two songs into opener Doug Paisley's set.

As I walked into the Jefferson Theater for the first time, he was telling a story about mailing a package and being asked if it was perishable.

No, he said it was ephemeral and attributed being in a college town to both he and the clerk knowing the relationship between the two words.

His sad songs had a dreamy quality and his smart lyrics reflected a guy with a lot going on in his head. He closed with a stunner, "Come Here, My Love."

He suggested folks find him at the merch table after the show and compare accents (he's Canadian). He looked sad there, too.

Although the box office had signs up saying the show was sold out, it was obvious sold out has a different meaning at the Jefferson than at the National.

The place was full, but not anywhere near uncomfortably so.

Interestingly enough, the first place that filled up was the seated balcony. I saw a lot of people try to go upstairs, only to return and have to "settle" for standing.

I was right in front of the sound booth, as usual, and since the room is much smaller (I'd guess it holds about 600), it had a much more intimate feel than the National.

Neko Case came out, red hair aflame and looking lovely, and began things with "That Teenage Feeling" ("I don't care if forever never comes cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling").

She had a four-piece band (upright bass, drums, guitar and pedal steel/banjo) and her regular backup singer, Hogan.

She chatted a lot with the audience (a talkative one unfortunately) about her band mates, about Kiss songs with flute parts ("That should never happen") and about her 1929 guitar.

Putting her electric guitar down, she said, "If you guys knew how dirty that guitar was, you'd be grossed out."

A fan yelled out a compliment about her toned arms, to which she replied, "Aw, shucks," before explaining the band's pre-show ritual.

"That's what we say to each other after we get dressed for a show: How do I look? Would you tap this?" she said to great laughter. "Then we say I would tap that with the light on."

There probably weren't many guys (and no doubt more than a few women) in the audience who wouldn't jump at the chance to tap Neko Case.

Her set rolled through so many beautiful songs (including the sad ones she said make her cry in rehearsal); she got big reactions to "Don't Forget Me," "Porchlight" and "Hold On," saving "Favorite" for part of the encore.

She must be a favorite of mine considering how many places and times I've seen her (and that doesn't even count with the New Pornographers).

I attribute it to that absolutely unique voice (which was in fine form tonight) and her repertoire of lost love songs.

She makes the perfect music to listen to when you want to wallow in what you don't have.

And if Neko Case is still working on getting it right, no wonder it's not falling in my lap.

Tap-worthy or not.