Curated by Karen

Tonight I got my reward for nearly perfect attendance.

It was Listening Room 32 and I have  attended 31 of them, missing only July 2010, for which I was called out.

Let's just say I never made that mistake again.

So when I was asked many months ago to curate tonight's event, I agreed with anticipation and not a little trepidation.

If I chose bands that appealed to me, would other people feel the same?

Tonight I was going to find out.

Things got off to a great start with Dixie Donuts and lots of my friends in attendance for support.

Okay, so maybe they'd have been at the Listening Room anyway, but some knew I'd have their heads if they  didn't show.

And they did.

Emcee Chris did his usual casual opening speech, anticipating the inevitable arrival of organizer Jonathan to remind him of something.

It's like an old vaudeville routine in its reliability, much like the one light that always fell when the Listening Room was at the Michaux House.

Afterwards, Chris announced that the show had been curated by Karen, raved about my blog and the pressure was on.

I'd chosen locals Sweet Fern because they sound like no one else.

Josh, looking very dapper in a vest and button-down shirt, demonstrated his ability to play guitar, mandolin (played so enthusiastically he broke a string) and banjo, sing and crack wise while Allison's big voice is a singular pleasure.

Calling themselves an itinerant band, they did several Carter Family songs (they are, after all, the bedrock of Sweet Fern) and songs with evocative names like "You're Breaking My Heart" and "Three Night Drunk," an hilarious song that played to Allison's acting and comedic skills.

A couple of songs in, my friend turned to me and whispered excitedly, "I love male and female voices singing together."

I knew what she meant; hearing these two together was making fans of everyone in the room.

Eventually Josh tried passing his guitar to Allison to play, causing her to tell the crowd that it was the two-year anniversary of her playing guitar.

"Are you ever gonna commit to one guitar?" Josh teased her.

"I'm committed to the open road," she shot back.

Their banter was just another highlight of their performance and Josh indicated that they hoped to add some routines to their act.

"Are you guys excited about seeing Nettles?" he asked us. "I've been web-stalking them all afternoon. I'm excited to be on the bill with other plant life."

The very same thing had occurred to me.

Whether doing Doc Watson, Johnny Cash or Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn songs (Allison: "I'll sing Conway's part"), the set list was a peek into another time.

"Now all the Depression-era songs are coming back," Josh said, "What with poverty and debt and all."

I can do without Depression Redux, but as long as Sweet Fern is singing the soundtrack to the thrifty life, I'm good.

During the break, I made the rounds and had first-timers raving to me about what they'd just heard.

The scientist, as usual, slipped me some chocolate when he saw me; the friend who hadn't been to the L.R. since the night she met her good-looking hunk of man-meat (her words, not mine) came and brought her hunk; even the poet showed up after being singled out online.

Hey, whatever works, I say.

While the six-piece Nettles got set up onstage, I went up to meet leader Guion, whom I knew only from our series of e-mails arranging their appearance.

Everything was going according to my plan.

After some technical difficulties with a guitar, the band settled into making some exquisitely beautiful music, part folk, a little Celtic-inspired and in general very poetic.

Since they're from Charlottesville and don't play here, they were a fresh sound for an RVA audience.

Guion made the most of it, saying, "I can reuse all my jokes here."

Favorite line: "You'll be an old woman by the time I come to get you."

"Houses," about a friend who'd caught fire (we were assured said friend is better now) featured flute player Juliana playing saw (always a treat), heart-stopping harmonies of three or four voices and some of the most interesting banjo playing I've ever seen.

I was especially taken with what Sam's synth added to Nettles' sound; it was the element that kept working its way into my ears.

Guion mentioned the poet Frank Stanford as a source of inspiration, specifically his 542-page poem, "The Battlefield Where the Moon says I Love You."

The songs were beautiful, with titles like "Keep, Pt 2" and "It Wasn't a Dream, It Was a Flood" and full of spaces, superb musicianship and the blending of voices.

I felt like we were in the middle of a lyrical poetry reading with instruments.

As if I hadn't had enough pleasure from the evening, Guion took a moment to thank the Listening Room and saying, "I got to met Karen earlier. She seems like a great woman."

Sigh. And I was worried about what?

Nettles finished with something unexpected, "Leather-Winged Bat," an old song with different birds giving advice on love.

Hi, said the little turtle dove
I'll tell you how to win her love
Court her night and court her day
Never give her time to say oh, nay!

Naturally I was thrilled with a band that ended with an old English folk song, but the prolonged applause at the end was hardly just mine.

They'd like it, they'd really liked it.

And why not?

Once again, the Listening Room had provided a stellar night of (free) music without the annoyance of people blathering over a single note.

And if I got more than a few pats on the back (not to mention the poster with my curating credit on it), well, apparently that's what happens when you do 31 of 32.

As thrilled as I am to have been asked to curate, the biggest satisfaction will be if I made Sweet Fern and/or Nettles fans out of anyone in the audience.

"I told you so," said the delighted curator.

Mexicali Ghosts

The summer officially began for me tonight with the kickoff of Anderson Gallery's Happy Hour series.

I had a ball at it last year, here, so I was more than ready to start it all up again and see what fresh fun they'd concocted.

Answer: dessert and music. It was an ice cream social with two bands playing and two new exhibits to see.

They might as well have called it the Happy Karen Hour series.

When we arrived Sweet Fern was playing, which meant Allison Self's big, beautiful voice and Josh Bearman's guitar and harmonies.

A diverse crowd (a neighbor, the man about town, WRIR folks, the beekeeper) was already in place, all tuned into what was being played.

I always enjoy watching people experience Allison singing for the first time because she just doesn't sound like anyone else in these parts.

Sometimes the songs were innuendo-filled (although I noticed that with young 'uns in the room, she didn't do her most ribald material) and sometimes straight up.

"I'm Just Here to Get my Baby Out of Jail," pretty much lays it out.

Josh used his quick wit to announce the finale, "I'm Leaving You This Lonesome Song."

Then they did just that.

I scored some Bev's Mexicali chocolate ice cream (the ice cream portion of the social) and took advantage of chocolate sauce and peanuts to top it.

When I returned inside to eat it, I had to explain to several confused guys what the "Mexicali" portion of the ice cream's name meant.

To a man, they were shocked when they tasted the heat behind the chocolate ("What is in this ice cream?" one confused looking guy wailed to me).

I also used the break to check out the tiny show "Summer Mixer," a collection of 1920s to 1970s household appliances and ephemera from the Eclectic Electric collection, which I'd seen in a larger form, here.

Call me mid-century modern, but I love those old Cool Spot fans and Havana shakers, all but emblems of happy housewives and glamorous partygoers of another era.

After satisfying my inner domestic goddess (for I don't have much of an outer one), I jumped ship upstairs to see Rosemarie Fiore's "Fireworks."

The large scale works made by setting off fireworks with dyes were unique, but it was her smoke domes that captured my attention.

Smoke bombs are set off inside molten glass for jellyfish looking creations defined by swirls and embellishments.

They really have to be seen to be understood, much less appreciated. But see them.

Back on the ground floor, River City Band was playing and I've seen them enough to know what good pickers they are.

Meanwhile, audience members looked for seats, many holding both a glass of wine and a dish of ice cream.

That's my kind of cocktail hour.

Guitarist Grant began by addressing Josh and Allison about their mutual admiration, saying. "We should have a Carter Family Festival this summer and sing all Carter Family songs. Maybe August?"

Reason number 85296 I love this town. There are people who think that way.

Seamlessly winding their way through the likes of Bill Munroe and the late, great Earl Scruggs, they dazzled with fast pickin' and strong harmonies.

When they finished, we took off for Aziza's and some chow.

The place was lively when we arrived but we were the only ones at the bar.

Catching the end of happy hour, obviously our second of the night, we chose a bottle of Santa Julia Viognier, which hit the spot with our small plate choices.

Sea bean salad was a must since who's ever heard of sea beans (we asked and were assured they grew in the sea)?

Served with marinated shrimp and tarragon vinaigrette, the dish had a briny crunch from the very slender bean stalks that complemented the zesty shrimp.

Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and a sunny side up egg had an underpinning of lemon and overtones of a rich yolk. Yum.

When our server came to check on us, I mentioned how hard it was to hear the music.

"Want me to turn it up?" she genially offered. "What music? 40s, 50s, 60s?"

I chose sixties and while it wouldn't have been my first choice (no reverb! no horns!), now I could at least hear it.

And while I didn't particularly need to hear "Last Train to Clarksville" again, I definitely got a kick out of hearing "Only the String Survive."

I remember my first love affair
Somehow or another the whole darn thing went wrong
My mama had some great advice
So I thought I'd put it into words of this song


The only way to top that was with Three Dog Night's "Old Fashioned Love Song."

Hey, I couldn't blame anyone but myself. I'd said yes to the sixties.

When she returned later to see if we wanted dessert, all of a sudden the music returned to 40s and then 50s music as we all looked dumbfounded.

After checking to make sure the other server hadn't changed the station, she shrugged it off as, "We have ghosts here."

In buildings that old that have seen that much? I'm not surprised in the least.

Putting aside paranormal activity, we declined a cream puff since we'd begun with Bev's at the Anderson  hours ago.

And speaking of early ice cream, I think they should serve Bev's at that Carter Family Festival later this summer.

It'll be the perfect bookend to tonight's start of the season.

And reason 85297.

Baby Help Me Remember It All

I am one of the rest of us and quite proud of it.

So when WRIR throws itself and the rest of us a birthday party, I go.

No, not always; I've been to five and this was their seventh.

I go because it's a great way to support Richmond's independent radio station.

Ten dollars is a small price to pay for multiple rooms of diverse music, storytelling, comedy and burlesque.

I go because practically everyone I know goes to it. And some I didn't know until tonight.

You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a DJ. Music lovers of every ilk are there.

A woman walks up and says, "Hi, Karen" and says something about being "Anonymous" on my blog.

She guessed who I was by my (40 Euro) tights and tells me she reads it to get ideas of what to do.

I admit it; I love the compliment.

The pretty people come (Michael and Matt) and say wildly flattering things to me in the first five minutes I'm there.

The homebodies come in their adorable vintage shoes.

The prickly one comes not only smiling but looking dapper.

The long-time music buddy comes with tales of a predictably madcap show I missed.

I go because they serve birthday cake and it's chocolate with white icing, a favorite of mine.

It will surprise no one who knows me but I am one of the first people to get a piece.

I grab a corner (more icing!) with no black decoration since we all learned last year that it turns your teeth black in a most unattractive manner.

I go to hear music any way it's presented. And, I'll be honest, without earplugs.

I hear a drum circle from three feet away and I feel like the drum rhythms have me rooted in place unable to move away, despite the volume, until the drums stop.

Sweet Fern, aka Allison Self and Josh Bearman, play un-amplified in the main hallway next to the food table.

Only the small circle of us who surround them from two feet away are able to hear their Carter Family and Johnny Cash covers over the din of the crowd.

Allison finished with what she called a dirty song, Lucille Bogen's "Shave Em Dry,"  throwing out the f-bomb and sex references to the rapt group surrounding her.

I loved watching people hear her do it for the first time.

I go to hear Baby Help Me Forget's last show, knowing lead singer and showman extraordinaire Jamie will end up shirtless and on the floor.

It's emotional because it's the end for the band. "It's been a good run," Jamie says. It has.

Their set the last night Sprout was open will go down in the annals of great Richmond shows.

I go to see the awesome light show Dave Watkins puts on behind the bands. The groovy factor is high.

I go to hear White Laces demonstrate for the second time in two weeks why their continuing musical evolution is an amazing thing to behold.

Just when your body starts moving and you expect to get locked in a groove, the tempo changes up and you know you are  being challenged.

And you like it a lot.

As if all that weren't enough, I am told I was thanked. And I see the proof.

Why wouldn't I pull out the cute tights for a party that good?

Pickin' and Grinnin' to Sangiovese

You can try keeping me in by inviting me to dinner, but that doesn't mean I won't suggest going out at some point.

Which is to say that after the veal and the bottle of Mulderbosch Rose were savored near an open window (yes, on a fine January evening), I made a case for adjourning to Carytown Bistro for a little bluegrass.

I've been told that I can make a very convincing argument when I want to.

Since it was my first time there for music since it changed from Bin 22, I didn't know how much of a crowd to expect.

The place turned out to be nearly full with a lot of people standing to hear Tara Mills (Charlottesville) and Chloe Edmonstone (Asheville) play their bluegrass.

They'd rounded up a local bass player and part-time RVA mandolin player to round out the sound and shoehorned themselves into the alcove up front.

The reluctant contingent and I got glasses of the Tuscan Il Bastardo and managed to grab a couple of recently available seats in a community booth right up front.

The set featured the violinist Chloe and the bass player Zach each singing lead vocals  for a song, changing up their sound considerably.

Chloe's voice reminded me a bit of Allison's, always a good thing.

Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats arrived during the break, convenient because he was on next.

In his defense, he'd just finished his shift on WRIR, so it wasn't like he'd been dawdling.

But he and band mate Allison Self, who've dubbed themselves Sweet Fern, know exactly what they're doing and the two launched onto their set effortlessly.

Josh is a master at stage banter, one very funny and superbly talented guy.

Allison's big, beautiful voice was made for "old timey" music and between her ukulele and his guitar/mandolin, they pulled off a stellar performance, only resorting to a lyric sheet for the encore demanded by the audience.

With a Carter Family cover, songs about tried and true love as well as one about being a single gal, there was a little something to make everyone happy.

Which was a good thing considering I'd dragged the dinner party with me out into a balmy sixty-degree night to partake of a little mountain music.

Doesn't sound like much of a sacrifice to me.

Fortunate are those I can convince to join me. Dessert can always wait.