Something Shimmering and White

I have to appreciate a willing partner-in-music.

While I don't get a sense that Australian psych-rock from the '90s is your thing, if you'd like to join me tonight, the Church are playing at the Broadberry.

Well, you know, I was saying just the other day that I hadn't seen a good '90s Australian psych-rock show in ages.

Also, a sense of humor.

When we'd walked to Texas Beach in the morning, it had been muggy and cloudy (also great justification for lounging against a rock near rushing water in the river so we could walk back with wet shorts), but by evening the sky was blue, the humidity had dropped and we wanted to eat outside.

Suiting our needs to a T, the patio at Lalo's Cocina beckoned, even as the hostess looked uncertain about our request to dine al fresco. After checking with a superior for the okay, we were led back outside where we had a terrific view of the quickly shifting cloudscape.

Our dimpled, pierced server was delightful, sharing that she was new and we were her first ever patio table. We promised to be gentle.

She was only slightly flummoxed when, after we'd asked for a bottle of Vina Galana Verdejo, she returned with a bottle of Avinyo Petillant, explaining sheepishly that they were out of Verdejo. We cheered her up considerably when we embraced the easy-drinking prickly wine.

Hell, I'd have ordered it in the first place if it had been listed on the menu.

As we sat there sipping in the evening breeze, we noshed through guacamole (although not prepared tableside, like it used to be), shrimp and avocado salad and well-seasoned quesadillas of beef and chicken as the older crowd we knew to be headed to the same show began arriving.

Seems lots of people hadn't been to a good '80s Australian psych-rock show in ages, either.

When you're talking about a band that's been around for 37 years, you're also talking about a band of middle-aged men. There are myriad upsides to that: the show, slated to begin at 8, began on time. The volume was ideal, such that no earplugs were required, a major switch from the 3 young buck bands we'd seen just the other night. And the whole shebang was over by 10:00.

It's like the Church had read their aging fan base's concert wish list and complied with them all.

But for those of us who didn't care when the show began or ended, or what the volume was, the real treat was watching these guys who've played together so long execute their music flawlessly. There were three guitarists (including a 12-string - be still my heart - two of whom were introduced as "lead guitar") and no two were ever playing the same thing at the same time.

There was a fair amount of glammy vocal delivery, keyboards augmented all that guitar sound and while the band occasionally took off in showy directions, they never failed to rein it in and bring the song back around to its original structure. They were pros.

And, unlike the youngster bands we'd heard the other night, these guys hadn't studied rock star posturing, they'd been doing it since Reagan was president.

Practically between every song, the guitarists changed guitars, but never in a way that interrupted the flow of the set. Between song banter was comfortable, not cumbersome.

"Imagine it's summer 1990 and you turn on the radio and it's the perfect song," said lead singer Steve. "This is the song after that one." Or, another time, "This is the third song."

I think we've already established that I appreciate a man with a fine sense of humor. Meanwhile, the crowd ate it up.

Even though I knew to expect it, it was still unpleasant when the band began "Under the Milky Way" and every other person in the crowd raised their phone to shoot video of it rather than just listening and enjoying.

Not us. I reveled in hearing the band's shimmering guitar sound live while my companion appreciated their musical chops, showmanship and songcraft. I got to hear a band I'd liked for decades and he walked out impressed by his first '90s Australian psych-rock band.

Imagine it's summer 2017 and you walk out of a stellar show, there's a nearly full moon in the sky and you still have the rest of the evening ahead of you under the Milky Way tonight.

It's almost like I'd been led here despite my destination. My, but that worked out well.

Sunshine, Everybody Loves the Sunshine

There are a lot of people out there who are lazy and disinterested in life. I think it's great that you have such a sense of adventure and curiosity.

This gorgeous warm weather is almost enough to make you forget who's running the country.

My heat's been turned off since yesterday morning, my windows flung wide open for two days and shorts have already become my new daytime normal. It was a delightfully sweaty walk around Belle Isle and environs, followed by a trip to the polls to vote (I was #69, for what that's worth) for my house of delegates representative.

Exiting my polling place, both the two people handing out campaign materials - one supporting Regie Ford, the other John Barclay - thanked me for voting but it was the Ford supporter who said, "I see you walk by my house every day and you are moving!"

Not to quibble, but isn't that the whole point of walking?

Spending all afternoon writing meant I had a soundtrack of Jackson Ward reveling in a glorious February day with the sounds of skateboarders, radios turned up with car windows down and the hum of small planes cruising overhead, all the delightful distractions of having the outside coming in on a winter's day.

All of which was merely prelude to a much anticipated evening.

Christmas gifts are supposed to be thoughtful so what could be better for a music lover than the gift of a show? Especially when it's the first of a four-show tour where the other cities are (wait for it) London, Paris and New York.

Just to be clear, I'd have adored seeing one of the other shows but honestly, that would have been a bit pricey for a Christmas present. Besides, then you'd have to have the whole when-is-it-okay-to-travel-with-someone discussion and experience has proven that opinions differ wildly on that subject.

Instead we parked once and partied thrice by meeting at Lalo's Cocina for tacos and travel conversation (yea or nay?) before sidling over to the Broadberry to see Richmond's own Matthew E. White along with London songbird Flo Morrissey perform songs from their new cover duets album, "Gentlewoman, Ruby Man."

Backed by Big Cat, the name Matt's given his usual RVA crew of stellar musicians (Pinson on drums, Cameron on bass, Alan on guitar and Devonne on keyboards), the Yank and the Brit delivered beautifully-conceived covers compellingly re-imagined without concern for genre.

Matt said the French were terribly impressed that they'd included Nino Ferrer's "Looking for You," a song that was chosen after Flo got it on her Spotify discovery playlist, a fact he insisted wasn't especially cool. Charlotte Gainsbourg's "Heaven Can Wait" came out heavenly indeed, while "Grease" became a whole new animal with their thoughtful rendition of the darker lyrics.

There ain't no danger we can go too far
We start believing now that we can be who we are

A standout moment was hearing Leonard Cohen's "Suzanne" sung live so soon after losing him, but nothing rocked my socks quite like their take on the Velvet Underground's "Sunday Morning," with Devonne's retro-sounding keyboard and Alan showing off the lead rock guitar chops Matt had praised earlier ("They're aren't many left").

Early dawning
Sunday morning
It's all the wasted years
So close behind

Matt's hushed vocals were a killer counterpoint to Flo's clear tones as they wove through the assortment of covers that swung from vintage '60s and '70s to the au courant Frank Ocean and James Blake songs they'd chosen for this project.

It won't ever get old, not in my soul
Not in my spirit, keep it alive

The good news at the Broadberry was the addition of the new restrooms (I'll ignore for the moment the guy coming out of the ladies' room) so it's no longer necessary to fight your way through the audience to relieve yourself, but the bad news was that it was so sticky hot inside the venue - partially my fault for not standing still - that I alternated eating the last of the ice cubes in my cup with using them to cool myself.

An even better solution turned out to be a leisurely nightcap at Sabai with vintage soul playing and a chance to mull over the myriad possibilities of change. Wasted years aside, I'd been reminded that you can't always sleep nine hours if you want to see the sun rise.

Good advice, but I have some of my own. Souls won't get old when fueled by a sense of adventure and curiosity.

Take it from #69.

Bring on May Flowers

That sound you heard was April not letting the screen door hit her in the ass as she moved on.

Is it me or did April just blow by in the blink of an eye? Part of it was that I was down and out sick for the first two days, vomiting at home and at MVC like a champ. Maybe part of it is attributable to the week I spent playing tourist in Memphis and Oxford.

Even so, man, this month left me in the dust.

In fact, tonight's get-together was originally planned for April 1 but I'd had to cancel on my two less extroverted girlfriends lest I retch on them. It took us a month to reschedule and it worked out even better because the one with the real job is off tomorrow, meaning we could do more than just eat.

After much back and forth, we decided that after dinner we'd see a movie, something the three of us have never done. The pop culture queen suggested "Mall Cop" but I refused steered her to "Woman in Gold" because you can never go wrong with Helen Mirren. Plus it was playing at 9:10, giving us plenty of time for eating and catching up first.

After deferring to me for a restaurant choice (and dropping hints about margaritas and guacamole), we met at Lalo's Cocina, a place new to both of them although I'd already been three times. Even so, I was surprised to walk in to find a jazz combo playing on a Thursday evening.

I'm always happy to hear live music.

The friend who'd requested margs and guac was soon watching as table-side guacamole was made to her specifications (more cilantro than I might have chosen) while she sipped a margarita not overly sweet. The braided one ordered a combo plate heavy on cheese and vegetables ("I know you like meat, Karen") and I was happy with black bean nachos, not on the menu, but  an accommodation by the kitchen.

Gardening was a major topic because the reason my friend is off work tomorrow is to go to the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden plant sale. The other one is thinking of going back to school to get another degree, this one in horticulture. To their delight, I told them about a terrarium workshop that's going on this Saturday.

I taught myself gardening years ago by reading books for inspiration and trial and error. In the past, I had large perennial borders but am perfectly happy now with a very small flower garden out front, an array of clay containers leading to my front door and window boxes inside.

Just enough but not so much upkeep that it cuts into my play time. They'll learn.

One particularly interesting topic of conversation was the study released today that says that people stop listening to new music around age 33. "Everyone I know is obviously an exception to this wacky study," the marg drinker posited.

She's right. In fact, such a goofy study made me realize how fortunate I am that few of my friends are the kind of people who have given up on new music. Some may have limited exposure to it, maybe only NPR (not that there's anything wrong with that), but when they hear something fresh they like, they seek it out.

That said, we do have a new coffee shop nearby called Classic Rock Coffee for those who need some Skynyrd with their Joe, so based on science, I guess that means the customers will all be 34+.

Jobs came up because one friend is interviewing in hopes of leaving a poorly-managed department and the other is under-employed, looking for more hours and job satisfaction that doesn't involve a computer.

I shared that the subject of an article I wrote recently thanked me, adding, "You have a cool job." Cool is in the eye of the beholder, but I like what I do a lot. What most people don't realize is that I do it for subsistence pay and I'm fine with that.

But most people want a higher standard of living, so they wind up in jobs that give them no satisfaction, navigating office politics and putting up with co-worker "frenemies." I'd rather be poor.

Of course we talked about Balliceaux closing for the summer. It's a topic on every music-lover and musician's lips since it was announced. Everyone agrees that the back room and booker Chris are too big an asset to the music scene to accept that it might go away forever.

The musician in our midst talked about what great energy the space has, something I've witnessed countless times at shows there. As a fan, all I can say is I've seen some amazing acts play that back room - Hey Marseilles, Kings Go Forth, Lake Street Dive - that would have skipped Richmond if not for Chris and Balliceaux.

Needless to say, we were getting pretty worked up about all this when suddenly we noticed the time and had to hustle to make the movie. Art history, here we come.

In line to buy our tickets, we hit a glitch: there was no 9:10 screening. What the...?

Two of us had checked the theater's website and both seen "Woman in Gold" listed at 9:10 Thursday, yet the ticket sellers were informing us that it just wasn't so.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, since when can't you believe everything you read on the Internet?

For all I know, they announced it in April and I was too scattered to notice.