Love 'Em and Leave 'Em Fast

Eat local. Drink local. Listen local.

The way I was brought up (with a Richmond grandmother in the house), Sundays meant fried chicken for dinner.

Conveniently for me, Saison, mere blocks from home, does fried chicken on Sunday nights. All the family tradition, none of the work. Like.

I found a seat at the bar, took note of the football score and ordered Espolon and a quarter chicken.

"Light or dark?" was the bartender's only inquiry, while one of the servers stood at the end of the bar mouthing "dark, dark" to me.

Don't waste your energy, friend, I was already going dark, despite once having had my hand slapped for that preference.

A date had cooked fried chicken for me and when I kept helping myself to the dark pieces, he finally called me on it, claiming the last thigh for himself.

Here there was no one to chide me, so I enjoyed my crispy dark pieces with cole slaw and long-cooked green beans, tonight's designated sides.

The couple next to me soon paid their bill to leave for dinner at Rappahannock, causing the bartender to ask them to wait.

He put a lidded condiment container in front of them and asked if they'd deliver the shot to one of the bartenders at Rappahannock.

Shot of what? Shot of...soda, he said.

They agreed and were off while I went back to sucking bones and greasy fingers.

There wasn't enough time for dessert because my ultimate destination was Gallery 5 for music, so after a brief discussion of the opening of J-Ward's latest, the Rogue Gentleman, I walked a block over to show my ID and see the Low Branches new single release show.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a seated show, so I staked out a chair before mingling to chat with friends.

The instrument-maker talked about his long-term plan for a workshop. The historian wondered why she hadn't been sent the invitation to the show. The fuzzmaster said he was pleased with Friday's set.

Flu was a big topic because one of tonight's performers (Jonathan Vassar) had it, necessitating Annousheh doing a solo set to take his place.

I've seen her play with and without her band, but there's a purity to hearing just her voice and keyboards.

She did some familiar songs like the well-written "The Trouble I Find" and some equally impressive new ones done "against my better judgment," she said.

She finished with her exquisite slowed-down cover of "In the Air Tonight," a song that always reminds me of a Phil Collins interview where he said the only thing that will go on his gravestone is, "Phil Collins, He wrote "In the Air Tonight."

Truth is, her version is far more aching and haunting than Phil's ever was.

It was during that song that I looked over and saw a friend walk in, a friend who'd been on the other side of the world for the past seven months.

During the break I got up for a hug and a hello, hearing him describe that time as "tentative and exhilarating," probably an apt description for climbing rock faces, teaching schol and living without running water.

A baker at Aziza before he'd left, he's already taken up employment with Sub Rosa, detailing what a crazy re-opening weekend it had been for them.

The Low Branches' singer, Christina, had told me a little about the second band, whom I'd never heard of: Rodney "the soul singer" Stith.

Seems she and Rodney ran into each other at the grocery store many times and one of them, they discussed the song playing in the store, leading to finding out that they were both musicians.

Rodney had a backing band he referred to as "the soul system" for that voice, made up of drums, guitar, bass, keyboards and violin, leaving Rodney to sing and play guitar.

And sing he did, in a voice that channeled every vintage R & B singer worth his salt, and beginning with "Calling Out" to show how he could use that voice.

Saying he needed some participation, he then asked the crowd to sing out as the band did pieces of "California Dreamin," "Losing My Religion," "Little Red Corvette" and even the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way," a song that had certain members of the audience, Christina included, dancing in their seats in delight.

Me, I was amazed that so few people knew the words to "Little Red Corvette," as masterfully metaphorical a rock song as has ever been written.

During their set, I saw more friends arrive, this time the formerly-prickly one and his charming girlfriend, so I waved them over to the two empty seats in front of me.

The band returned to original material with "a new one, hot off the press, so hot it still has ink smears on it," a song Rodney described as about how women take men for granted, hurting them and moving on.

"Just Leave Me" had him putting his guitar down to stand and sing emotively like a true crooner, all hand gestures and closed eyes.

Reminding the crowd that tomorrow is MLK day, they closed with "Free at Last," integrating U2's "Pride (In the Name of Love)" to great effect and again soliciting the audience to sing along.

Hearing the friend next to me belt it out, I now understand why she's a karaoke queen. Such a voice.

Fortunately, there were more U2 fans than Prince fans among the crowd and it was a rousing and fitting tribute to King.

Afterwards, I turned to a friend, commenting that we see a lot of bands, but never anything like straight-on soul. I'd really enjoyed it.

During the break, I chatted with an old rocker about my recent acquisition of a Grin CD, a band I knew he'd remember (he did) and with his girlfriend about the painstaking cinnamon rolls she'd made from scratch using the Cinnabon recipe.

She told me she loved my hair and he told me it was interesting and we discussed the difference in the two statements. Men and women, never the twain shall meet.

But things ended on a high note when another friend told me, "I need more you in my life."

When Low Branches took the stage, it was with Annousheh playing keyboards, a first for the many times I've seen the band play.

Now that they no longer have a drummer, Josh is back on cello instead of bass, a welcome treat since his playing adds so much to their sound.

Christina thanked everyone for coming out on such a cold night and I didn't have the heart to tell her I came to share body heat since there wasn't any extra at my house.

They played songs I knew but had never heard with the addition of keys, and then she said in her quiet voice, "This song goes out to all the ladies. This might have happened to you...yea," and trailed off.

Dolly Parton's "Jolene" gets 'em every time with its lyrics about knowing that your man secretly pines for another woman and Josh plucking that mournful cello.

For their new release, "Rain Song," Adam from Nick Coward and the Last Battle joined them on trumpet and with Annousheh playing keyboards, it was a beautifully lush sounding arrangement of a song I've heard a few times, but always far more pared down.

A friend had told me earlier that he thinks "Rain Song" was the best thing they'd ever done and not just "indie good," but the kind of song that could be a real hit, even with west end moms.

He's got a point there.

Partway through the song, Christina hit the wrong note, something I've not heard her do, and the look on her face was hysterical, but the band just paused and started a do-over, ending perfectly.

"We seem really serious up here but really, we're always just trying not to crack up," she explained.

This from a woman who prides herself on mournful songs. She once gave me a CD labeled, "Sad folk songs for Karen's birthday" and it was some of the loveliest sad stuff you can imagine.

But I've also seen her laugh plenty, too, so I understood what she meant.

Next they did "Rain Song" again, this time in Turkish, followed by a Turkish folk song, both appropriate because Christina leaves for vacation in Turkey soon where she'll no doubt eat, drink and listen locally.

And with any luck, come back knowing "Little Red Corvette" in Turkish.

Fill Up the Flask, Son

Some nights are so Richmond, it's impossible not to be in love with this city.

Like on an exquisitely beautiful, fall-feeling evening under a deepening blue sky watching chimney swifts swoop overhead in the courtyard next to Quirk Gallery.

But, wait.

As if the weather, location and scenery weren't plenty to feed the soul, there's more.

The occasion for this gathering three blocks from my house was a Huckiddy puppet show.

If that doesn't sound like too much fun for a Saturday night, then you've obviously never been to one.

I've been to three so I know to count on puppet sibling rivalry, death and music, not necessarily in that order. Complete with beer and popcorn for sale.

What I hadn't expected was how many friends would be there.

My favorite J-Ward couple.  The bowling birthday boy from last Sunday. The fetching GLAP hosts, one's hair newly banged. A couple of WRIR DJs, both with gigs tonight.

For that matter, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a musician I knew.

The entertainment began with one of my favorites, Dave Watkins, doing his incomparable sound layering with dulcitar and drum.

While he wowed the crowd looping his intricate melodies, I noticed that some people had brought their own fun.

One brought wine in a small bottle labeled 100% juice (not a lie), another had a silver flask she took nips from.

It was all very civilized.

Hard as it must be to follow Dave, Josh Small did a grand job by employing a cartoon theme (a nod to the puppets) for his song selections.

"My Favorite Dream" came from a WWII-era Mickey Mouse short and two songs were drawn from "Robin Hood," his personal Disney favorite.

At the end of one, "Love," he wound the song down by singing progressively softer, eventually calling out, "Analog fade-out!' to the amusement of the audio geeks in the audience.

Dave came back for a couple of songs and then it was show time.

Chris Hulbert and his sister Cat manned the puppets while a quartet of bass, cello, guitar and trumpet provided the musical accompaniment.

And in case you can't imagine it, listening to the aching strings of Josh's cello or the mournful wail of Bob's trumpet in a brick-walled courtyard where the sound has nowhere to go but skyward is a distinct Richmond pleasure.

As is usually the case, the puppet show began with Huckle complaining and his sister, F'funia, having none of it.

Huckle's first complaint was that he lived in the ghetto where all the people in his neighborhood were hot, 20-something college students, a line that reduced me and my J-Ward neighbors to near tears with its familiarity.

Except we would never call J-Ward a ghetto.

But F'funia never lets Huckle feel too sorry for himself, bringing him up short by reminding him about the time he shot her three times.

"I pulled myself up, son!" she told him to an explosion of laughter.

She soon discerns that Huckle's problem is that his heart is gone and maybe that's why he's sad and tired.

Songs abound and the band's contribution to the unfolding story is considerable.

The two bicker back and forth, about his nicknames for her (babe, chunky, fatty fat), about finding a pig or old lady heart to replace his and about how a "whatever" attitude prevents Huckle from seeing the humor in life.

With their big red lips, expressive hands and Huckle's earring (mirroring puppeteer Chris'), the puppets interact so naturally it's easy to forget there are two people behind the stage busy every second making that happen.

"That's funny. It's not super-hilarious, but it's funny," F'funia tells Huckle at one point.

Actually, a Huckiddy puppet show is super-hilarious pretty much start to finish.

Well, except for the heartbreaking moments, but those just make the whole show feel more real.

When you're sitting outdoors under the stars laughing at foul-mouthed puppets and listening to a quartet play into the cool night air, maybe a reality check is in order.

The beauty of being reminded of reality is just how lucky we are to be in Richmond where a sublime confluence like tonight happens surprisingly often.

Just another Saturday night in the ghetto, kids.

No Princes Tonight

Some evenings just make you feel like a warm muffin, you know, all happy and satisfied. This turned out to be one of those.

It started with dinner at Sprout with Andrew. Although I'd shared his birthday dinner with his friends last Friday, tonight was just the two of us doing our annual shared meal in honor of him. I applaud his ability to keep his birthday going; he's now five days in and still celebrating.

This wicked cold compelled us both to start with Charlie's chicken and potato soup, full of large chunks of chicken and skin-on potatoes floating in a lovely clear broth. I felt better about the cold with every spoonful.

For my main course, I had the sliced steak salad (salad greens and radish with mustard dressing), the meat perfectly medium rare and the freshest-tasting mixed greens possible in December.

Andrew had the grilled cheddar with sliced apples and didn't even offer me a bite, despite having nothing but superlatives to say about it. I let it slide because it was, after all, his sandwich. Dessert, in the form of raspberry cream puffs on a plate of chocolate sauce, disappeared in the blink of an eye.

I left to go to the loo and ran into a friend; we talked about last night's show which she'd missed and she kindly invited me to her Christmas party. I must have chatted longer than I realized because when I finally came out of the bathroom, Andrew was waiting for me with my coat in hand. Time to go.

And he was right because tonight was the Listening Room and smart cookies know to arrive in time to socialize (and get the good donuts, if you're so inclined) before the music starts promptly at 8. So off we went.

As I walked by the musicians' room on the way in, my friend Jameson called to me. He'd told me the other night that he wanted me (and 20 other people) to help with stage props during their set tonight. Eyeing the collection of stuffed animals on the table, he grabbed one and said, "You should have the beaver," causing the room to explode in laughter. Indeed I should.

Josh Quarles of the Speckled Bird went on first and it was a pleasure to hear him solo for a change. He announced that, "I'm going to be the boring one compared with the other two acts." Boring is not the word I would have used for his excellent songwriting and voice. He even did some looping to bring his cello playing into the room.

I have seen Jameson's band, Lobo Marino, before but I knew this was going to be a particularly colorful set. Jameson came onstage barefoot (with reason) and Laney looked like a movie star in a long gold coat over all black; Nathaniel was his usual handsome multi-talented self.

They did a few songs off the upcoming album (recorded with the oh-so-talented Dave Watkins recently) and then music off their stellar last CD, "Keep Your Head Up."

At one point, Jameson's need for bare feet became obvious when he used his big toe to turn on a power strip, which started two box fans with paper streamers attached and bits of paper resting on top. It was quite an effect as paper scattered and streamers blew around during the song.

When they got to "Animal Hands," it was time for the crowd participation. The cue was the line "Oh, my god" and it was then that stuffed animal-holders had been instructed to throw their fuzzies at the band. I was in the front row center, so it was no difficulty at all to lob my beaver directly between Jameson's thighs. Let's just say I was the one who exploded in laughter that time.

Mingling after that set, I ran into a friend who'd assured me he was coming to the Listening Room (silly me, I thought he meant at the beginning). Turns out he was late because he'd gotten drunk (at the office Christmas party) and then lost (having parked over by Crossroads Coffee by mistake and then hiked to the show). But better late than never. I invited him to join us in the front row.

The laughter continued with Fuzzy Baby's set. If you haven't experienced them before, you can't be prepared for just how unique everything about this duo is. They bill themselves as a two-person one-man band for starters.

Instruments? Guitars, cymbals, drums, tuba, clarinet, cowbells, tambourine, and a Brazilian drum played from the inside. A capella, whistling, harmonies. Songs about cheese, unrequited love, obsessive love, photo albums and one of Richmond's finest trumpeters, Bob (the already classic, "Chimpanbob").

Theirs is truly music to laugh along with, when you're not marveling at their musical talent. A photographer friend leaned over in between songs and said, "I can't believe he's keeping time like that" about Giustino playing drums, cymbals, guitar and singing all at once. Not to mention looking extremely dapper doing it.

And the stage banter! Giustino's witty repartee with the audience riffed on everything from Josh and Lobo Marino to living room practice sessions ("I always have a microphone pointed at my crotch"). Molly was the perfect foil, setting him up and batting him down.

The late arrival friend asked me afterwards if they always did the banter (they do) and if it was always the same (it never is, which impressed him no end). Walking out, I asked him if he wanted a ride back to his car. He did.

Before he got out of my car, he asked me what I was doing next. "Are you off to have a drink and talk to princes?" he wondered.

I said that I hadn't decided but that I might just go home. "And write a blog post at 11-something?" he asked, clearly not believing.

"It could happen," I told him. It did.