Honeysuckle, Bittersweet

Bands or men, frequency doesn't have to equate with boredom.

As many times as I've seen the world music duo Lobo Marino - and that's a fair number over a period spanning 2010 to now - it's always different. They're changing, their music changes and the venue changes.

When I saw they were playing at Tin Pan in a listening room setting tonight, driving to suburban hell Henrico aside, I couldn't think of a single reason not to be there. And you can be sure that when my date considered using his GPS, I offered up my direction services instead.

On arrival, he mentioned that the benefit of using me over A.I. is that my directions include stories. I'd told him I'd brought him via Patterson Avenue because its gently rolling hills feel like something that's been traversed on horses (or in carriages) for centuries.

You don't get that kind of color from Siri.

Approaching the Tin Pan, we saw the evening's stars on a low brick wall, her head in his lap. They were sharing a moment in the post-rain cool evening air, without a care for the fact that they went onstage in 45 minutes.

Jameson and Laney aren't just talented musical partners, they're the equivalent of a couple comedy act of differing personalities who play off each other effortlessly on and off stage. The unicorn head clock made of a slab of lacquered wood that they gave me for my birthday 8 years ago is a fitting metaphor for their sunny can-do attitudes.

My kind of people, in other words.

We chatted them up outside, listening as Laney talked about the pipeline activism with which they're so involved. They'd landed at the Tin Pan in an effort to treat Richmond more like they treat the other cities on tour: by trying a variety of venues to pull different crowds. It made perfect sense.

They joined us at our table inside for more banter while we ordered dinner of hummus with everything bagel sprinkles, pita and veggies and a kale salad with Gorgonzola, nuts and chicken.

After Jameson gave me a hard time about something, he reminded me that our decade of friendship allows that privilege.

"Remember that show at Gallery 5 where you asked Nathaniel and I why two musicians at a show were talking while a band played?" he asked, chuckling. "But we hadn't seen each other in so long! You were right, we should've gone outside to talk."

Smart men learn quickly.

Then they went onstage to knock the socks off the audience, many of whom seemed never to have seen them before.

"If you have any questions during the show, just raise your hand and ask," they told the undoubtedly surprised room. Who doesn't like a transparent band?

They began by explaining about the band's name and how they'd first seen  the large sea lions known as lobo marino while living in South America, where they got away with anything they wanted, including holding up traffic.

Jameson recalled that they used to tell themselves that the animals were extraterrestrials who craned their necks upward in that distinctive way because they were awaiting the arrival of the mothership.

Then they played, which had to have been a revelation for anyone in the room who'd never seen a band that plays banjo, harmonium, drums with feet, mallets and sticks, guitar, bells around the ankles, mouth harp and brass jar (as a poor man's substitute for a similar instrument they couldn't afford).

And that's not even mentioning the litany of animal sounds Jameson brings to the mix.

Besides the sheer pleasure of a true listening room environment, the quieter room meant that the duo pulled out all kinds of early and acoustic material they no longer play out. I heard stuff I hadn't heard in years.

When Jameson said they were going to play the first song they ever wrote together, Laney was quick to correct him. "I didn't write it!" But that wasn't the point and "Animal Hands" is as much a delight to hear the 15th time as the first.

Before a song from the album recorded upstairs at Gallery 5, Jameson gave me a shout-out about having been there for the recording. "Her name is in the liner notes," he shares and I beam.

After he explains that he'd been the band's original lead singer, he said that once Laney found her voice, the job was hers and with good reason.

She challenged him to play a song that showed when he'd found his voice and he pulled out his mouth harp, an instrument he'd learned to play on a pilgrimage in Spain ("After Laney left me to go home") and Portugal.

"Cole, make us sound schwampy," Jameson told the sound guy. "That means reverb." And reverb was just what the mouth harp, foot-drummed song needed.

After Jameson tuned the guitar and she apologized about her playing skills, they did "The Loon," which Laney had written on a boat dock in Maine one summer after the sounds of the birds.

Every song had a story and it was a night for sharing all of that - anecdotes, activism, personal stories - in between the music. Back in 2008, I saw Yo la Tengo on tour and they did the same thing, interspersing chatter with music for a more intimate feel.

You know I love me some good conversation.

Before a song inspired by an eastern greeting, they talked about their time in Yogaville. Laney had been distressed when she discovered that men and women slept in separate dormitories and there was no hand-holding allowed. Her displeasure still simmered.

"Pretty sure all of that was on the sheet they gave us," Jameson noted wryly. "Laney didn't read it."

She ignores him and goes on to explain that they managed to sneak away and have sex at the river anyway while there. 'I can't believe you just told them that," Jameson laughed.

Asking for request, they got one but apologized in advance since they hadn't played it in eons. During an extensive instrumental part, Laney leaned in to the mic and said, "Bonus track" in a fake Siri-like voice.

Thankfully, they ended with "Holy River," a song that takes the audience to the church of the Ganges/James River and soars skyward. It's the ultimate closer.

Before the night was over, they'd invited the entire room to their squash roasting party next week and told the crowd that if they needed another dose of Lobo Marino before then, they're playing at Hardywood this weekend.

"But it'll be less talk, more rock at Hardywood," Laney warned us.

Funny, I was attracted to the fact that the audience wasn't allowed to talk and reveled in the fact that the musicians did as much talking as playing.

As my favorite cop would say, I like it. As my Grandma used to say, only boring people get bored.

Not even close.

Remember Me as a Sunny Day

Depending on your threshold for pain, there are multiple ways to relive the past.

In the less than two weeks since I got my turntable, I have lost hours, nay, entire day parts (and half the nights) listening to records, mostly with others, but alone as well.

It's already obvious I won't have any problem getting people to listen to records with me, but even better, some of my guests bring me gifts - the first three Pretender albums, new Yo la Tengo and the National - to ensure they'll be asked back. Smart men, all.

The sheer delight of listening to my decades-old record collection (so many albums lost to exes) keeps landing me in the Way Back Machine as I repeatedly get lost in what the song/album meant to me or reminds me of, how I came to it and why I loved it enough to buy it.

So after reading an article about Diana Ross in yesterday's Washington Post (ahead of her upcoming shows in D.C.), I thought it a fitting listen when I came across her 1976 Greatest Hits album.

The songs were mostly familiar, but where I became completely enraptured was when "Remember Me" came on.

The first notes of the piano grabbed me by the adolescent heart as I recalled how that Ashford & Simpson song - about a girl dumped by her guy, wishing him the best and imploring him to remember her as a good thing - had ruled my young world for a bit, despite the plain fact that I hadn't had so much as the stirrings of a relationship yet.

Remember me as the sound of laughter
And my face the morning after...
Remember me as a breath of Spring
Remember me as a good thing

Was I already looking past getting a boyfriend to getting dumped and moving on? Who knows how the teen age mind works?

And while I like how present you have to be when you're playing vinyl - even when it takes you directly to the past - some people I know prefer to look back at their lives by being mocked by all their friends rather than listening to old records, so when I got an invitation to Parker's 40th birthday roast at Gallery 5 last night, I signed on.

The only requested donation was for scarves, hats and canned goods for the Dakota pipeline protesters and I was more than happy to winnow my scarf and glove basket for the sake of a worthy cause. That it was also a benefit for Planned Parenthood, with all monetary proceeds being donated in Mike Pence's name made it even sweeter.

Lobo Marino played first and it was harmonium player and singer Laney who asked of the crowd, "Can I real quick get a show of hands of who's seen Parker's testicles?" Fully two thirds of the room raised their hands, although mine was not among them.

Because Laney had a cold and because the evening was all about Parker, Lobo Marino planned to play a short set.

It was after they did a moving new post-election song from their upcoming album that they invited former bandmate Nathaniel to join them onstage to play banjo.

During that song, the brown-skinned, mutton-chopped musician and one of the night's official roasters leaned toward me and whispered, "Let us not deny the whiteness of this - one man is playing banjo and another is playing jaw harp while beating his bare foot on a drum."

It was mighty white, I had to agree, but then, so is Parker and the diaper he's been known to wear.

Next up was singer/guitarist Georgie Isaacs, and part of her connection to Parker, like several others, was learning about the coal ash situation from his non-stop Facebook feed. See, it's not only about genitals with Parker.

But probably in a nod to the birthday boy, she did a mash-up that included "I Wanna Be Like You" from "The Jungle Book," as well as a couple of self-penned gems, one about needing a penis between her thighs and the other about procrastination masturbation ("I'll get to it as soon as I get off").

Burlesque queen Deanna Danger did a clown striptease (because, of course, Parker wanted one) that involved putting a gold top hat with shamrock on the birthday boy (clad in a vest and red sequin Speedo) and having him hold a rainbow while she squirted Velveeta into his pot of gold.

The roast itself skewered not only Parker ("Dude, I'll never get over the visual of you kissing my Mom") but the other roasters as well, making for equal opportunity mud-slinging.

You'd have to be a brave soul to sign on to being onstage with this bunch.

If my friends were to roast me, I can just imagine the aspects of Karen they'd mock. Bon would blast how fast I walk and Pru my need for multi-tasking, while Holmes would berate my overly long bangs. Moira would tease me about expecting my friends to keep up with me.

The list could go on if I'd allow it.

Instead, I'll skip the roast and go back to listening to records with friends. Although I began my new millennium record-listening party with a selection of rag tag albums from my checkered past, the irresistible urge to go buy more now that I have myself this groovy hi-fi has taken me to three record stores, one twice.

From "Roxy Music: The Atlantic Years 1973-80" to three Joan Armatrading records to "The Best of Donny Hathaway," I am meandering through the byways of my past via music I haven't heard in years, if not decades. That it all sounds so fabulous on vinyl only makes the trip better.

Welcome to 40, Parker. Ain't no mountain high enough to keep you from exposing your genitalia for decades to come. Age, my friend, isn't about how old you are, but how many friends and records you enjoy along the way.

Harder: Change or Acceptance?

Sunday recap: It was a singular experience, both thrilling and demanding, to be asleep in a single bed on the screened porch of a guesthouse at the river when thunder and lightening roll in on three sides of me in the middle of the night. Truly, I felt the final thunderclap, painfully loud and incredibly near, reverberate inside my body. Okay, okay, you didn't have to shout.

Sometimes when you need it most, the universe delivers.

In the spirit of Helen Mirren wearing a purple dress in tribute to Prince at the White House Correspondents' dinner, I have been carrying a purple umbrella practically nonstop for over a week. The frequent showers have allowed me to grieve in my own purple way.

I'd barely left the house to walk over to Gallery 5 when a thunderclap announced the beginning of my night, rain began and out my Purpleness came again. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem walking in the rain, especially when it's warm, but I like it best from under an umbrella.

Hearing my name called as I reached for the gallery door, I saw a musician friend and sat down in an alcove to talk, where we were joined by guy who recognized her from a house show in Blacksburg. Next thing we knew, he was warming up his voice to ably demonstrate that he could throat sing, a rare skill in this town outside of Folk Fest weekend.

And that randomness doesn't even make it into the top tier tonight.

While I'd heard of Dharma Bombs, I didn't know what their sound was, but with four horns, guitar and bass, it very quickly showed itself to be a rousing mashup with some Dixieland roots that worked because of the group's sheer enthusiasm, energy and talent.

Or perhaps because of their intention to "chase away our Mondays."

The lead singer was barefoot and full of gusto for performing, which is not to say that the horn players weren't because the trumpeter pulled in a few jazz-like rounds of applause for his solos, the clarinet player had the crowd eating out of his hand, the sax players wailed and the bass player did an extended intro with no one else playing to highlight his abilities.

A rousing spiritual called "Glory, Bernie" ("Sing it with me!") was a bona fide toe-tapper while "Abigail" was more of a lament ("I went down to St. James Infirmary/To see my baby there/ Laid out on a cold, white table/ So calm, so cold, so fair") involving whiskey and "The Virginia Swing" closed out the set, appropriate given that people had been dancing throughout.

And if dancing on a Monday night isn't good for the soul, I don't know what is.

During the break, I caught up with my favorite silent movie expert about the public orchard he and others are spearheading on Southside. He's discovering the enormous satisfaction of working on an issue at the grass roots level to bring about change, even when you have to dance the bureaucratic dance to make it so.

This is just part of what makes him and his partner two of the grooviest people I count as friends.

We traded sides of the room when the Sun Flights took the stage, eager to be able to see all four band members: the two women who were the original members and the two guys recently added in to fill out their sound and add more beautiful voices to what was already exquisite harmony.

Seems they'd heard about Gallery 5 back in 2014 and been eager to play it ever since. "We made it out to the river today!" they shared with the crowd who responded with shouts of affirmation. "That's exactly how we felt about it!"

It's old news that I'm a sucker for harmonies and not only did they wow us with two and three-part versions, but they knocked it out of the park with a cover of "500 Miles," with each band member singing lead on a verse and breaking our hearts on the chorus singing together.

During their set, I used the friend card to call out a couple who were chatting near me while I was trying to lose myself in the ethereal harmonies onstage. Tapping on their shoulders, I whispered, "Two musicians walk into a venue. Who do you suppose were the talkers while another band played?"

The looks on their faces were priceless: surprise at my bossiness, perhaps, but also guilt because they are musicians and like people to pay attention to them. Pointing at each other, they mutually acknowledged that they'd been shot down.

All that matters is that turned their attention to their brethren onstage.

Referring to Virginia's river issues with Dominion Power, Sun Flights' last song was "These Times" (heaven help us with these times) which followed the introduction of the two new members of the Sun Flights project, who've sort of taken them from house show status to full-on venue status.

"Well, they were absolutely delightful," the guy next to me said. Turns out he'd come because a friend had told him he needed to see Lobo Marino, so I satisfied his curiosity about what he could expect as the duo began to set up (except his questions about the harmonium, which I hadn't a clue about).

Laney announced that while they got set up, there was going to be a Maypole dance since it was May first and that it would be set to Talking Heads.

A decorated May pole was produced and show-goers claimed ribbons attached to it to participate in the pagan ritual as one of the two guys next to me shook his head and grinned. Where else in Richmond could we be watching a Maypole dance set to Talking Heads? I wanted to know.

"Where else in the world?" one asked rhetorically, smiling happily.

Not judging here, but it was clear that not everyone participating understood right away the concept of going over and under the other ribbons, but eventually, the ribbons began to braid over the pole until it was mostly covered.

Ahh, can you feel it? Now May can begin.

Jameson began by telling the crowd to relax and let things happen, that they were going to ask us to step outside our comfort zones. "But not in a creepy way," Laney qualified. "In a migratory way."

When they performed the always-stirring "Holy River," a dancer named Sara in belly dancing garb took the stage behind them to undulate to the music, undoubtedly the first time many in the room had seen such dancing.

"Okay, here's where it starts to get experimental," Laney said. Jameson pulled out his mouth harp and played drum with his ankle, Laney played the rim of the drum and one of the Dharma Bombs' horn players appeared to blow. Midway through the song, DB's clarinetist and guitarist slunk through the curtains and joined in.

Then it was time to leave our zones. Jameson and Laney told us we were taking it to the streets and to grab some of the gigantic puppet heads sitting around.

With the musicians leading the way, the entire audience did a Pied Piper, following them down to Zephyr Gallery where people at the door were handing out small, lit white candles as we spilled in.

The gallery was dark, lit mainly by candles and the musicians sat down on the floor at the back and the audience filled up the floor in front of them. On the walls was art related to the mural projects, being readied for the First Fridays opening in a few days.

It was like we'd been led to a secret art temple to witness another Spring rite.

Listening to "We Hear the Ocean" in that hushed gallery was just short of a mystical experience. An a capella song followed with the audience providing the only accompaniment, our finger snapping.

"Candle down!" someone called out when a pillar was spotted horizontal. "Josh, can you get that?" someone called. "Oh, shit," Josh exclaimed before righting the wrong and making everyone feel a little safer.

And what would Laney say to all this, but, "See, this is what community is all about." Candles and May poles, spirituals and puppet heads, heavenly harmonies and migratory shows.

All that and walking home under the purple, in the rain. Where else, indeed?

We're All Standing in the Same Sunlight

Magical moments happen in this town with surprising regularity, but sometimes you realize it's more than just a happening or an evening.

It's the good vibrations of people who live here. It's that people here do things because they love doing them, because they want to share or find like-minded souls. Because they see a need and set out to fill it. Because they're passionate and can't help but spread it around.

Like the Good Day RVA folks, who were putting on a show at Hardywood this evening. Their story is simple:  they're a film collective dedicated to capturing live local music performances using Super 8 and digital to showcase just how completely cool this place is.

One thing I knew for sure about tonight's show was that while it wasn't my first show since I got back to Virginia five days ago (or even my second), this would be the one where I'd see the most friends, the greatest number of people I've known through the music scene the longest.

So I was 100% correct.

There were over half a dozen of the long-time Listening Room participants like me, an interesting coincidence since the LR has been a hot topic online this week with people lamenting the absence of a dedicated space where people really do shut up and listen.

Among our group, one recurring theme was how we continue to be surprised when out at shows that (unlike in the past), we no longer recognize the majority of the audience, a good thing since it means more people participating in the music scene than before.

The evening got off to a great start talking to a friend about the unlikely circumstances that had landed both of us in California last week, albeit opposite ends of the state. That led to mutual bemoaning about the weird weather happening the past few weeks and the news that the North Pole's temperature had risen above freezing.

He wasn't shy sharing his fears about how quickly things are changing and that it's clear we're hurtling toward the planet's end with insufficient efforts to adjust our behaviors. Cue tonight's theme.

I was happily catching up with all kinds of friends for the first time in 2016 (my wool and a friend's corduroy hot pants were a major topic, to our fashionista friend's delight), loving the fact that so many of us were there when Blanks took the stage. Turns out none of my friends had sen them before, surprising to me since I first saw them last June and several times since. There are just so many more bands worth seeing.

Leader Jessica has a terrifically husky voice and, according to my friend, they're a band with not just talent, but great hair, perhaps taking a cue from their leader. It was funny, as we admired the guitarist's long mane, she read it as a '90s throwback where several of us saw it as straight-ahead '70s. It's all in your perspective, no?

The wild card turned out to be cellist Zoe (also with fab locks) who demurely took over lead vocals for one song, kicking butts and taking names unexpectedly given her low-key demeanor. "Rock star!" someone in the audience called out when she finished and returned to her chair to wrap her legs around the cello for their last song.

During the break, the dance party king and I reveled in the recent announcement that LCD Soundsystem will be touring this year, right up until Dave Watkins took the stage to blow minds.

If the man was at all jet-lagged from his recent return, he managed to channel it into his usual killer set layering sound until the unobservant might think that there were multiple people on stage, not just one guy with mad skills and gorgeous curly hair.

And at Hardywood, there's so much head room for all that sound to move around in. The bad news was how many people talked the whole way through his set, including a trio of long-haired blond women who set up camp right next to us and annoyed the hell out of those of us trying to hear Dave. Ah, well, it is a brewery.

In line at the bathroom afterwards, the woman in front of me commented when the woman in front of her went into the loo. "So now I know every detail of why her daughter went to film school," she said, sounding a bit weary. "The things you learn standing in line for the ladies' room!"

When I got back to the stage, the Good Day RVA collective was just about to introduce two new videos, the first of which was of Dave performing, shot at the old GRTC bus depot, the one with all the colorful murals done for the RVA Street Art Fest.

With swooping overhead shots and close-ups of Dave playing (and even hitting various pedals on his board) alternating with imagery from the murals, it was enough to make a Richmonder's chest swell with pride about how rad this place and its art-makers are.

But here's the interesting part: partway through, I realized how respectfully hushed the room had gotten. Now that there was a visual on a screen, they were quiet, when mere minutes earlier, they'd been babbling through his live set.

Somebody needs parental guidance.

Next came Lobo Marino's video, shot at Yogaville in Buckingham County, an attempt to protest the natural gas pipeline Dominion wants to put in through Virginia, West Virginia and North Carolina.

Shots of the band - augmented by cellist Zoe and violinist Jessica - playing outdoors in hats and coats at Yogaville were interspersed with footage shot all over the Commonwealth and intended to convey the scope of the proposed project.

It was incredibly moving to watch them perform "Awake" and look at scenes shot everywhere from Highland County to Suffolk County. In many ways, it was a call to action.

After the video, they took the stage to do a live set beginning with "Celebrate," a reminder of appreciating what we have in this planet."We wrote this about the Ganges River, but it's really about the James," Laney said as they launched into the rousing "Holy River."

Having walked the Pipeline Walkway today for the first time in weeks, it was easy to visualize the river while they sang.

Afterwards Laney laid the issue out for the crowd, explaining that preventing this pipeline is our issue. "It's not Dominion's issue, it's not the Virginia State Senate. It's up to each of us to cut back on how much power we use, to responsibly reduce our power usage."

This is one area where I can salute myself because I'm already on board by forsaking air conditioning usage back in 1993 and consistently keeping to 64-degree heat during the winter no matter how many layers I have to add. I may not be off the grid like Laney and Jameson, but I'm certainly doing my little part.

Dave Watkins returned to the stage for a mind-blowing jam session finale with the expanded Lobo Marino that had Dave and Jessica singing into their dulcitar and violin respectively, while Jameson wailed on the mouth harp, Zoe plucked her heart out and Laney tied it together on harmonium.

When they passed around petitions for us to fill out to send to Dominion, I pulled out a pen and made my opinion known and then shared it with friends so they could do the same. Power comes from the people.

"They are so cute," my girlfriend whispered to me. "They make me want to be a better person." They remind me of people I knew back in my college days, people who were trying to effect change from a grass roots level by living differently than the masses and I love that about them.

It's like the '70s redux. We can affect change.

Only at the grooviest shows in Richmond are you absorbing local film-making, being entertained with live music and adding your signature to those of others trying to make our voices heard by the people who would negatively affect our planet and therefore our lives.

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden...

The things you learn in Richmond going to a show! How to be a better person, for one.

Life is Beautiful

"Follow your bliss" only sounds dated to those who don't.

Two of my favorite bliss-followers, Jameson and Laney - the duo also known as Lobo Marino - were celebrating the release of their new album, "We Hear the Ocean," with a show at Big Secret, conveniently just blocks from my house.

If it seems weird to be going to a show at a place that does laser engraving and printing, then clearly you haven't been to shows at some of the places I have, you know convenience store parking lots or a porch with people in pajamas.

But Big Secret made sense because they had been the ones to create laser-etched curly maple and walnut wooden covers for this new vinyl release. Even groovier, it was an opportunity for collaboration with Big Secret's Jason, an old friend of Laney's, and Lobo Marino are all about community.

An unexpected opportunity to learn a new skill set had tied me up for a bit, but I managed to slide into the wide open door of Big Secret in time to catch half of the first song on the album. I guess technically, I missed the intro, too, but I'll just have to live with that.

As many times as I've walked by, this was my first time inside and the high-ceilinged room had an appropriately communal vibe with people - including a new mom and tiny baby encased in a Snugli - sitting on the floor, others standing around the room, a table of food and sangria set out for guests.

Fittingly, barefoot and seated on the floor were the musical guests of honor.

Hanging on the back wall was a foam core cut image of (what else?) a lobo marino. It really couldn't have been much mellower or more inviting.

The beauty of Lobo Marino isn't just how much they seem to enjoy what they do or how gorgeously their voices blend, but the wide-ranging assortment of music-makers and methods they employ: harmonium, jug, mouth harp, ankle bells, foot drumming, you name it. I think it's enough for them if it makes a unique sound and can be managed by two musicians.

Part of what makes these two so satisfying, though, is their songwriting. Not for them the silly love songs.

Instead they write about their aspirations, like the song Laney said was about their house "before we actually found it." She told a story about holding out for a non-normal house, something different and special, and it worked. They eventually found a 200-year old farmhouse in a wooded lot right smack in the city. The song presaged that.

They write about nature and taking care of what we have, about all of us needing to try harder to get along and stop warring. And they talk about how the core of what makes Richmond special is that it's such a collaborative community.

If you close your eyes, it could be the '60s again.

"We Hear the Ocean, Lift Up the Mountain," the title song, began with them both on mouth harps and soon caused a girl to start dancing in a decidedly middle eastern way, the palms of her graceful hands upturned, eyes closed.

We heard how the recording of this record moved at a snail's pace compared to their last albums, something they were unused to. "It took so long recording that I would fall asleep," Laney recalled.

But she also used some of that down time to write "We Hear the Ocean," so she acknowledged that sometimes there's a lesson in things not working out. "That song wouldn't have ended up on the album."

Jameson talked about writing a "process song," one that helped him see that emptiness is also openness, a state of being ready to receive.

Since they began touring together, Lobo Marino has logged mileage all over the world and I can hear how every adventure informs their sound and songwriting. Tonight's show was #172 for the year.

And that's a wonderful thing because they're two here and now types who give plenty of thought to what they out put in the world. They want to make it better. They want to be better brothers and sisters to their brethren on the planet.

In fact, that's the theme of "We Hear the Ocean" and one that bears repeating, assuming you can get people to look up from their cell phones (yes, there were even a few of those types there tonight).

After they finished playing the entire album, Laney reminded everyone to eat all the food and drink because she couldn't take it home. "All I have is a mini-fridge and it's full!" she said of life in the pale blue camper, their digs until they finish work on the farmhouse.

The room quickly became one big party and I mingled, having missed the pre-show socializing.

I was thrilled to hear from an artistic friend that he's finally giving up the restaurant business to freelance and concentrate on all the side projects he's wanted to work on. I told him I wouldn't live any other way.

When I spotted an improv comedian whose work I find not only hilarious but usually brilliantly inspired, I couldn't resist introducing myself. I love telling someone I admire their work.

Toward the end, I found myself talking to Laney about the joys of non-normal work, answering to yourself and how I'd never go back. "Me, neither, now that I found out that this works!" she said with a knowing smile.

Over at the merch table, I found myself in a quandary. The only format for the new record was, well, a record, which came with a bonus cassette tape that gets you four of the new songs remixed by local DJs.

And I'm that dinosaur who still uses CDs.

Reminding Jameson that I have no cell phone or TV, I had to also admit I have no turntable. "Really? That surprises me," he said with a grin and I could see humor coming. "I'd have thought since you didn't have a cell phone or TV, you would still have a turntable. You know, in keeping with the period."

Everyone's a comedian when you're a Luddite.

Walking outside, a guy who'd been at the show said hi and asked me what I'd been writing lately. Although he clearly knew me, I almost didn't recognize him, but we'd met at GWAR Bar one night as I was headed to a late show. I was curious what had brought him to tonight's show since I knew it was invitation-only.

"I was walking by and heard the music," he explained. "It sounded sort of mystical, like almost religious and I couldn't resist coming in to hear more. It's really beautiful music."

He asked if I knew the band, so I gave him the highlights from the seven or eight years I've known these two, but it's really pretty simple.

As far as I can tell from countless conversations and scores of shows, they're just two modern day troubadours following their bliss.

You know, in keeping with another period.

Ordinary World

Things I didn't expect to happen today:

Finding out how someone arrived at my blog. True story: someone in Midlothian Googled "how to find local sex buddies in zip code 23112." My blog was the 7th listing on the Google results page, apparently because I'd recently used the words find, sex, buddy and local in a post, although not in the same sentence. I imagine he was rather disappointed once he got to my page. And, yes, I'm presuming it was a "he."

Indulgent reading. By 3:30, I'd fine-tuned all four assignments due tomorrow, the same lot that's had me so busy the past week or so. It was a gorgeous afternoon, not humid and comfortably warm. Goof-off time.

Eager to finish John Taylor's "The Pleasure Groove," a memoir of life in Duran Duran (sure, I was around in the '80s but I certainly wasn't paying attention to DD), my book and I settled down in my green Adirondack chair on the balcony, read for two and a half hours straight and finished the sordid saga cultural memoir in the sunshine. It was glorious.

Being asked out in a parking lot. A guy who'd made eye contact and smiled at me in the toilet paper aisle at Kroger approached me in the parking lot afterwards to inquire if I was attached. When I pointed out the obvious age difference, he responded with, "Should that matter?" He said he was 31, but I probably should have asked for ID.

Using earplugs. I go to a lot of shows. A lot. In other words, I long ago destroyed my hearing. Even so, I keep a pair of earplugs in my bag at all times just in case the band is ear-bleedingly loud. I don't pull them out often.

At tonight's installment of Shannon Cleary's Commonwealth of Notions show, I went looking for them within the first two minutes of walking into Sound of Music. Noise rock duo Among the Rocks and Roots were the reason.

The photographer friend, new camera in hand, who'd met me for the show came up, pushing earplugs into his ears, "I wasn't expecting that. I'm glad I had these in the car." Be prepared, my friend, that's my motto.

Feeling like I would faint. Sound of Music was hot and not just un-air conditioned hot (I'm used to that, I live that way) but stagnant air hot. Heat that penetrates your brain and pores, making you feel woozy.

Bolting outside between sets to evening air easily 15 degrees cooler than inside was like immersion in a pool. So refreshing. An ensuing book discussion - come on, I had to talk about "Pleasure Groove" and friend is about to read musician Colin Meloy's "Wildwood Imperium" - kept us out there long enough to cool down and catch up.

Hearing blog pros and cons. A friend told me that when she reads on my blog what I write about my visits to her house, it makes her cry - in a good way. Another friend told me his secret plan to spread a rumor and convince people of an untruth for his personal amusement. I was instructed not to blog about it for fear of ruining his evil fun.

Heat trumping music. Lobo Marino's set had all the usual pleasures - tribal drumming, harmonium and jaw harp, Laney and Jameson's voices blending sublimely - that ensured that a song such as "Holy River" was  a religious experience, while the classic "Animal Hands" got a spirited revival and "Old Man Snapping Turtle" got a variation on a theme by replacing the didgeridoo that had been played on the record with Jameson making what he called "weird animal noises."

On the way out the door after their set, the doorman complimented my hair, saying it still looked great despite the sultry heat of the room. If this was intended to lure me back inside, it failed. Epically.

By this point, I was ready to throw in the towel. I wasn't the only one who stood on Broad Street talking for 20 minutes before admitting we just couldn't handle going back into the airless room, especially since another 30 or 40 people had arrived while we chatted out front.

I'm not proud of that, but there it is.

You think you know how a Saturday's going to go, but you never really do. I wasn't expecting any of that.

Signed, Sealed and Delivered

I've got no romantic notions about how wonderful living in a past time period might have been.

Belle Epoque, Roaring '20s, "Mad Men"-era '50s? Thank you, no. I wouldn't have been happy living in any era before the Pill, so it's convenient how my lifetime dovetailed so nicely with that game changer.

But one thing I do regret losing is the letter-writing era.

Make no mistake, when I came up, letter writing was still very much the norm.

I had a French pen pal for three years. The summer between 10th and 11th grades, I corresponded with an admirer named Charlie who wrote me impassioned letters, his handwriting getting bigger and darker to emphasize his compliments and feelings.

My best friend moved after college and we wrote back and forth weekly as she shared the frustrations of a California girl trying to adjust to New England (and marriage). When I first moved to Richmond, I regularly wrote to my Mom and some of my sisters about life after Dupont Circle.

Tellingly, I still have all of their letters.

But if someone wanted to suss out the story of my life through correspondence, they'd only have one side of the story - the letters written to me. I'm just about positive no one saved my letters.

So how could I not be intrigued to hear that Cheryl Jackson Baker, author of "Affectionately Yours: The Civil War Letters of William B. Jackson and His Wife Julia," was reading at Chop Suey tonight?

The Jacksons were her Ohio great-great grandparents and the trove of letters written from 1862 through 1866 had been found in her Dad's Florida closet after he died.

When I walked in, she was asking people in the room what had piqued their interest to attend her talk. Most said it was the Civil War angle or that they were history buffs. For me, it was all about the couple correspondence

Baker began by reading a letter from August 15, 1862 from William, stationed in Alabama, writing about the three mountain women who had visited camp hoping to trade things such as apples and pickled cucumbers for salt and sugar.

His letter said their dresses were fastened with thorns (reason #9257 the past would've held zero appeal for me) and that they inquired if there was any "chaw tobacco." Plugs in their mouths, they claimed it was the best chaw they'd ever had.

She read from a letter a bible quote, pointing out how rare that was. "Being Episcopalians, they didn't quote the bible often. I can say that because I'm an Episcopalian."

The letters she read were wonderful, with intimate details of daily life (Julia took quinine pills when she had headaches), references to home (peach trees) and exultations about the war's progress. Baker was especially pleased to get to read in Richmond a letter about Julia's rejoicing when she heard that Richmond was in the Union's possession (it wasn't true).

Through multiple letters, it became clear that Julia was a bit high maintenance, always nagging William to come home (just drop that silly war business and get back here) and reminding him how difficult her life was now.

If they don't let men come home more often, they'll have to put up insane asylums for the women.

Apparently, Julia also had a flair for the dramatic.

Baker kept things interesting by telling us about Chapter 5, also known as the sex chapter, where she'd assembled the most intimate of Julia and William's letters. Civil War shades of gray, so to speak.

"Just read that chapter!" a woman in the front row cajoled. Seems that William had heard about a way for Julia to use a "proxy" through the mail to have a baby while he was away. Oh, yes, we were definitely all curious about that.

But even without the smutty stuff, the eloquent letters, copies of which we saw in hand-outs, were written in the penmanship of people who practiced. Many words were underlined for emphasis. War and home front updates aside, they were full of affection and love for each other, written down so they could return to reread them whenever they chose to.

That's what we've lost with the passing of letter writing. Oh, sure, I've saved a few romantic e-mails over the years, but it's not the same as handwritten letters. Nothing is.

Parting way with the Episcopalians, my next stop was with the Baptists. As part of their summer "Classics in the Courtyard" series, First Baptist was showing the 1938 classic, "The Adventures of Robin Hood." Besides the obvious appeal of an outdoor movie on a summer night, I'd never seen an Errol Flynn movie.

I was ready to be swashbuckled.

Pulling into the parking lot at First Baptist, I see exactly two cars and a couple, folding chairs on their shoulders, looking disappointed. "It must be canceled," she says. "There's no movie screen, no people, no popcorn!"

Bummer.

On the plus side, I happen to know that there is music at Crossroads Coffee ("Forget the GOP debates. Come experience something positive"), so I turn the car around and head there, arriving during Annabeth McNamara's set of live, magical folk music.

Looking particularly fetching in a tiara, she plays guitar and banjo accompanied by cute couple Renee Byrd on drums and Logan Byrd on upright bass.

At the counter, I quietly order chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce, to which the guy verifies, "You want chocolate with chocolate?" I do. When he delivers it to me, it's with a look of pride. "I put chocolate sauce in the bottom, then the ice cream and chocolate sauce on top." This man could be my soul mate.

Among other things, the band plays through such folk standards as a heartbreak song, a sad song and perhaps most impressively, a song in the same key as "Margaritaville" that answers that song.

When they finish, Annabeth says, "Stick around for Lobo Marino coming up next. I feel like they're creating a community that's even more important than music." I'd attest to the same.

A woman comes in and sits down next to me, turning to ask if I've seen Lobo Marino before. Oh, please. I knew Jameson and Laney before they were Lobo Marino. But I am impressed that she's participated in the annual All Saints Halloween parade, a raucous event I've marched in many times.

She turns out to be an avid cyclist, an artist and an interesting one, having migrated to the city a couple of years ago after exile in the county and jumped into the local scene. We bond over our shared freelance status (she does graphic design), our days spent working alone at home and our mutual need to get out in the world by the end of the workday.

Lobo Marino, meanwhile, are weaving their mystical musical sounds with the garage door rolled up, the rain falling lightly outside and a guy near me standing entranced, eyes closed, hands clasped, swaying to every sound the duo produces. Staff and patrons move around him, so as to not disturb his reverie.

Singing "Holy River," they have the full attention of every person in the room, creating some sort of cosmic connection effortlessly as their voices blend and soar. This, my friends, is how these two are creating a community.

A hundred and fifty years ago, I'd have gone home and written a letter to my beloved, telling him about the conversations with my new friend, the seductive music I heard and how I wish he could have been with me. I might have gotten a little mushy. With any luck, I'd have put it as eloquently as the Alarm.

Our love is the faith that keeps on burning
I love to feel the rain in the summertime
I love to feel the rain on my face

P.S. Come home soon. None of us wants to end up in the insane asylum.

Celebrate RVA All Night

If I was going to get back in the game after three unprecedented nights off due to woeful retching, I figured I might as well go big.

And nothing in town was bigger tonight than the Gallery 5 tenth anniversary party. For someone like me who's been a supporter since the beginning and a neighbor for nine years, I couldn't very well miss it.

On arrival, it was still fairly civilized with plenty of people but enough space to move around comfortably, so I took advantage of that.

Upstairs was the birthday cake, a fantastical creation by G5 co-founder Amanda and a beaut of baking genius. Besides a layer resembling the red and gold stage downstairs, the four layer cake even had a layer simulating the water-stained walls in the upstairs art gallery. I found musician Prabir critiquing the top layer which was frosted like one of the four P.A. systems the gallery has fried over the years.

Puppet-maker Lilly told me about her new puppet shop on Hull Street and introduced me to the man who owns the Manchester wizard shop a few doors down. A former writer, he recognized my name from past bylines, such a treat to hear from a stranger because no one looks at bylines.

My favorite J-Ward neighbor husband was there, but sans his lovely wife who was under the weather at their flat across the street. I told him about the Dar Williams show I'd seen because I knew he'd be interested.

Downstairs, the floor was packed for Lobo Marino's set, no surprise given the feel-good vibes they put out. When they sing "Celebrate," you can tell they mean it.

Back upstairs, I took a moment to sign the giant pages that will go into the time capsule to be opened in 2025 before catching the always astounding Dave Watkins' set in the acoustically lovely gallery.

On the walls were large format photographs of memorable events from the past ten years, including friend P.J.'s killer overhead shot of the singer from Monotonix astride a drum surrounded by adoring fans.

The galleries were being to swell with people by then so I headed outside to catch some of the fire performers' set, as always marveling at how they effortlessly fling and swing flames within inches of their bodies (and hair!) without so much as blinking an eye.

Lilly and her puppeteers were staging a "no fracking" performance and eventually moved in on the fire performers for a group piece.

On my way back in, things had gotten crowded enough that the doorman was allowing one person in for every one that came out, a sure sign it would be my last trip out.

Spotting people with cake, I hurried upstairs to score a piece and a good thing, too, since they were already down to the last layer. Fortunately it was my favorite: chocolate cake with white icing. I savored my slice while chatting with a favorite music critic about the upcoming Hooray for the Riff Raff show I'm seeing later this month.

"They're the best band I've seen in years," she said. "I'm telling everyone to see them now. Her voice live will blow you away." Good to hear since tickets are already purchased.

In the downstairs gallery were large folio books full of ten years' worth of posters advertising Gallery 5 shows and events. I began from the beginning looking to see how many of them I recalled or attended - "Beautiful Boxer," "Disrobed 2," "Chicago 10," lots of them - before coming across my personal favorite.

It was the "I Dream of a Richmond" exhibit in January 2008 and it was significant for me because I had a photograph in that show so my name was listed on the poster along with those of real photographers. I have a copy of it framed at home but it's not the same as seeing it laid out in Gallery 5 for the whole world to see.

The crowd was diverse. I saw loads of new faces and plenty of people such as me who've been G5 regulars for a decade. T-shirts ran the gamut, too. "Death Metal," "The Beatles: Magical Mystery Tour," "Selfie, Paris," and a Springsteen tour shirt.

When I got near the bar in the back, I spotted Pete the former bartender and teased him that of course he'd be there tonight. Yep, he said he'd taken off from Metzger to attend. "I built this bar," he said with pride, knocking on it hard.

I caught the end of the burlesque show, enough to hear Deanna Danger rhapsodizing about the last performer and her attributes and then turning the floor over to...herself ("Did she just introduce herself?" the guy in front of me asked. Sure did) for a fabulous finale that took everything off except pasties and a g-string.

Lest you think I was only there for titillation, I did pause to sign a "Down to the Wire" petition to encourage Dominion Power to reconsider plans to put 295' power lines across the James River at Jamestown.

Jamestown, for crying out loud! How do we explain that to the busloads of 4th graders who go there on Social Studies field trips to learn about the founding of our country? There were no power lines in 1607, people.

Then in marched nine of the No BS Brass band guys and the party shifted into overdrive. Setting up just in front of the stage, they began their assault of horns and drums with drummer Lance yelling, "Yo, yo, yo, happy birthday Gallery 5!" and launching into "Happy Birthday."

From there, it was straight into "RVA All Day" and the three trombonists were sliding their horns over the heads of the dancers directly in front of them. "Take on Me" had the room singing along and "Thriller" left everyone in a heap.

Cake maker and co-founder Amanda, right up front for it all, nailed it when she yelled out, "Best birthday band ever!"

Already mostly set up on the stage were the Awesome Few, a band I'd heard good things about but had not yet seen. "We're the Awesome Few and this is a red hot f*cking night!" the singer yelled out. Who knew we'd have a 70-degree night for all this?

Their wall of guitar sound was loud enough to send all my DJ and musician friends scurrying for their ear plugs while I foolishly allowed mine to take the pain. The songwriting was good, with much pointed commentary about music and radio. I liked them even if my ears did bleed a bit.

Midway through their set, the scientist came in and we hadn't seen each other in months. Where you been, stranger?

"Holed up, riding bikes, shooting cheap guns," he summed up before proudly pointing at his bicycle jersey emblazoned with "Richmond" across the chest. Asked his thoughts on the big bike race coming here in September, he said he was "cautiously optimistic." Aren't we all?

By that point, the last three days of infirmity were beginning to wear on me, so I decided to head out. On the way out the door, I passed Landon, lead singer of the next band, White Laces, a band so good it's still impressive no matter how many times I see them.

I was just out of steam after three days of barfing.

Right behind him was another music buddy and he looked at me in shock. "Not leaving, are you?" Sadly, yes. Not because I want to miss White Laces, but because this is one of those rare times when my body gets to overrule my love of music.

It's enough to know that a few blocks away in Jackson Ward, one of my favorite local bands is playing music I love for the masses. I may not be there to enjoy it this time, but I have blissed out at Gallery 5 for ten solid years.

I dream of a Richmond where places like Gallery 5 continue to offer all kinds of things to all kinds of people.

And when they open that time capsule in 2025, you know I'll be there.

Holy Halo

Because it's Oscar nomination season and because we spent the dinner hour discussing them - what and who were overlooked - and because of nothing more than I can, I hereby submit nominations for my Saturday evening.

Best mistaken cultural reference: Cashier looks at me and says, "You look like a '70s rock star." Which one, I ask? "Um, Cyndi Lauper? You know, with the scarves and the hair?" I do know, but that was the '80s, sweetheart.

Best way to spend the evening with an early bird friend: Wait till her husband goes to a bachelor party in Baltimore and invite her to dinner and an early music show. Only downside: our evening was over before he made it to the, ahem, "gentlemen's club," from which we were very much looking forward to seeing photos.

Best place to meet a picky eater at 4:00 for linner (her word, not mine): 821 Cafe, where the server doesn't ask what I want but whether I want a whole or half order of black bean nachos (half today). M.I.A. was the usual thrash soundtrack, perhaps a nod to the older crowd who'd come from seeing  "Million Dollar Quartet" at the Mosque Landmark Altria Theater. Our loss.

Best/most unexpected response when you walk up to a friend listening to loud music in her car: "Drake is the best!" hardly surprising from the person who introduced me to Miguel.

Best reason to go to Hardywood for the third time in 8 days: To hear Dave Watkins played his Mogwai cover and his own killer song "Marshall Street," to see Gull's one-man band Version 2015 (new mask, better songs, interpretive dance) and to be among the first to get to see Lobo Marino's new video "Holy River," a song so amazing it's likely to catapult them into the big time.

Best reference by the video's filmmaker: "This is the Hobbit of Lobo Marino." As in, the video shoot for "Holy River" resulted in so much footage that he also made videos for two other songs from the upcoming album. And we got to see them all tonight.

Best line about a guy with a beard: "He needs to cut that off and donate it to Locks of Love, pube version."

Best reaction to a song about a snapping turtle: "Did I tell you I bought a glass with turtles f*cking on it while I was thrifting today?" Nope. When she pulls up a picture, I see, yes, two happy green turtles engaged in the act. The caption reads, "Faster, faster."

Best Facebook status update while we're at the show: "My husband is out of town...so naturally I'm watching Gull cover Beyonce with Karen. I should point out that Karen had to ask me what Bey song it was. HALO, Karen, duh."

Best stranger to stand next to at a show: Sketch Girl, the artist who turns a blank page into an ink-wash illustration of one of the musicians onstage while the rest of us are just enjoying the music. Not to mention the heady scent of her markers, a flashback to the only acceptable childhood high.

Best compliment called to me from a passing car: "I love your hair. You look like a rock star!" Yes, I know the shouter, but that makes it no less flattering.

Best crack at Hardywood's expense: When Laney and Jameson are calling for Graham, their guest tabla player for the evening and he's not to be found, Laney muses, "He's not from here so he doesn't know how strong Hardywood's beer is." Fortunately he had not passed out and returned to join them for one more song.

Best use of the most body parts: Jameson of Lobo Marino who managed to drum while playing harmonium with one foot and shaking the bell on his ankle with the other. Truly impressive.

Best possible way to end a four-hour show: With Lobo Marino reprising that killer new song "Holy River," which sounds even more wondrous live. Beautiful, magical and a clear indicator of a whole new level of songwriting for these two, who leave tomorrow for a two-month tour down the east coast to Key West. Their return show is already on my calendar.

And the winner is...Karen, duh.

Better Off Alive

I really couldn't have asked for more interesting men to spend my day with.

After a sunny, music-filled road trip to the northern neck, I wound up at the studio of a man named Jim who makes guitars for a living. And not just any guitars, but ones that start at $6,000 and go up.

Even better, the first thing he wanted to know was if I'd eaten lunch yet. So not only was I going to spend the next couple hours hearing about these one of a kind instruments he crafts, but he was going to feed me, too.

Score.

We walked to The Corner, which wasn't really on a true corner, at least not the kind we have in the city, but we were far from anything urban-like, so I let it slide.

It was everything you'd expect from a river restaurant, from the tiki bar on the front porch to the pool table and dart board in the back room.

When I asked what he recommended, he said his wife thought their crabcake the best in the state, so I ordered it, at least up until he asked for a Jim burger.

Both the server and I wanted to know what this off-menu item was and found out: burger with double cheese, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Also known as a Karen burger.

Let's just say I changed my order.

We did a good part of the interview there, allowing for bad jokes and segues into the unlikeliest of topics - the sex lives of parents (my fault), men who can fix anything (both he and his father) and the causes of E.D. (he brought that one up) - but always coming back to his love of being a luthier.

After another hour back in his studio admiring these works of art he makes by hand (ever seen a harp-guitar replica? I have...now), it was time for me to hit the road again.

Instructing me to "drive safe," I did my best, ending up at Good Luck Cellars where the next man I was interviewing was out on his tractor plowing rows for the new batch of vines to be planted next week.

You have to admire a man who handles a tractor well.

His wife and I strolled down toward where he was working while a car pulling into the tasting room parking lot let out a wolf whistle in our direction.

As she put it, "I'll take it." That made two of us.

Once he'd joined us and washed his hands of the terroir, the two of us headed up to the cupola with a 360-degree view of the rolling land, various plantings and multiple houses for the pack of winery dogs, all rescued hounds (be still, my heart) to chat.

A former orthopedic surgeon who bought the property ten years ago and now lives there full-time, I sensed the passion he'd once put into medicine now transferred to the farming life.

It was fascinating listening to him wax poetic about the shift to a rural life, the learning curve of farming and winemaking (helped considerably by the consultants he brought in) and his enthusiasm for becoming part of the northern neck community.

His passion for his new life was all over his face when he took me down into the cellar, where with a beatific smile on his face, he said, "This is my heaven."

Mine followed as he handed me pours from the tanks as we made our way around the huge room, glasses in hand before making it into the barrel room.

You see, this is what is called "research" in my business and is part of why I'm willing to be a dirt poor freelance writer.

By the time I waved goodbye to the grape farmers, I was barely able to make it back to the big city in time to catch tonight's music panel discussion at Candela Gallery.

It's part of this weekend's "The Great Busk Event," three days of focusing on street performance, in tribute to Jackson Ward's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson.

See: statue at Leigh and Adams streets.

I'd figured I'd miss the beginning of it all, but walked in to find everyone still in full-on mingle mode and stopped to chat with a favorite Americana musician who was noticeably hatless because he's decided to grow out his hair. The neighborhood fabricator, whom I seem to run into everywhere now, was there, as was the photographer I met at the  ladies' arm wrestling night who's also turning up wherever I do.

Eventually we took seats so the panel could begin enlightening us.

Here's the first fun fact I learned: busk is Spanish for "to seek." And, sure, buskers seek money in the hat laying on the sidewalk, but they seek much more than that, as we heard from the panelists.

WRIR DJ Carlito moderated a panel of musicians, some of whom busk and some who never have, on the subject of folk music and where they pull their influences from.

Answers were all over the place, with many coming from outside the U.S., places like France, Spain, Romania, Egypt and Chile.

Accordionist Barry cited a Jewish cantor and Richmond's Tobacco parade of yesteryear, with the Armstrong and Walker marching bands recalled as the best musicians in town.

Laney of Lobo Marino, said that her band's extensive travels informed their music, meaning every album showed different influences. "We're modern gypsies," she explained.

Salsa pianist Marlysse talked about the difficulty of busking when your instrument is so large and you haven't mastered the accordion.

After a grazing break, we gathered for music from our panel.

Herschel did his idol, Randy Newman's "Better Off Dead" accompanied by his baritone ukulele, making sure we knew he has the only baritone uke in town and even name checking another uke player who claims hers is a baritone. Not so, he said.

The Richmanian Ramblers' Nate played his Czechoslovakian upright bass to demonstrate the difference between desperation and longing in Romanian gypsy music, playing a couple of songs to prove his point. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows were nowhere to be found in his music.

DJ Mikemetic talked about the art of DJ'ing and the challenge of trying to get people to dance to music they've never heard before.

Barry, the accordion player, and Khalima, a belly dancer, began with an improvisational piece before doing an 800-year old song called "Surrender," an eventuality if you'd seen Khalima's stunning dancing.

Midway through the song, Nate picked up his bass and began playing along, providing some deep, rhythmic notes to the performance.

Last up was Laney, who did a traditional Hindu call and response chant with musical partner Jameson sitting in his seat next to me before soloing on one of their original spirituals, the jubilant "Celebrate," a song impossible to tire of, no matter how many times I hear it.

The time has come for us to celebrate, celebrate
For all we are, we can not hesitate, hesitate

Who's got time to hesitate when there are luthiers to lunch with, winemakers to sip with and buskers to entertain me?

Like them, for me it's all about the seeking.

Ending Properly

To paraphrase Tiny Tim, god bless us, every one in Richmond.

I say that because after a day that included driving to southside (thrifting and I got the cutest $1 dress), walking to Broad (interviewing a curator), hearing my name called in the middle of Broad Street (and being unexpectedly handed a gift) and taking my hired mouth out to eat, I wanted something more.

And, god bless this town, I didn't have to look far to find it. The catch was the finality of it.

The Well, the reincarnation of the restaurant Cous Cous smack in the middle of VCU's campus, will soon be no more. But tonight they were holding their last/one of their last music shows and the lineup looked good enough to get me over there.

That, and I wanted to add to my list of doomed restaurants holding final shows I attend (see: Sprout, Cellar Door). As added incentive, the Well is where I fainted last Valentine's Day, so it holds a unique place in my heart.

The night got off to a fine start when I had to claim to be having an affair with a girlfriend in order to placate a male friend who hadn't seen either of us in a while. Don't ask.

Before things got overly revealing, the music began with Spacemonster, a lo-fi, bedroom pop one-man project with plenty of looping and catchy songs, most of which had abrupt endings. While he was playing, I noticed the strangest smell in the room and the only thing I could think of was that it smelled like skunk, which seemed like an unlikely possibility.

That said, toward the end of Spacemonster's set, I heard a guy ask a girl why it smelled like skunk in there. Good question.

The show had been set up so that as bands were breaking down/setting up, you could go up into the lounge area where Lobo Marino would be playing their world music. I did just that, joining a few other people to watch their percussion and harmonium-accompanied music being played tucked away in a corner as people joined us one by one. Percussionist Jameson got so into it in the small space that he was soon shedding his sweater and hat to cool down.

What was interesting was that because of the talking in the other room and the fact that they were up a few stairs and tucked away, you'd never know they were playing unless you came all the way up and could hear their un-amplified sound.

Hidden music, an unexpected treat. Then just as one of their songs ended, music began in the main room.

Quartet Antiphons played a sort of experimental folk, notable for singer Brian's high warble. Midway through their set, he said, "Uh-oh, I dropped a semi-translucent pick on the floor," a problem given the white tile floor.

A fan soon found it, allowing them to do a Built to Spill cover that had the drummer wailing but his white cardigan never came off. Cool is as cool does.

After playing the original "Billowing/Bellowing," Brian dismissed the band. "Give a hand to these guys," he instructed, "Cause they make me sound way better than I do by myself and now I'm gonna play by myself."

When he finished, I went back up to catch another Lobo Marino set and found a couple of friends there, one with gossip to share.

This was their Christmas set, with "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "O Holy Night," both rolled into non-holiday songs for some clever mash-ups. This time, there were more people listening since it had been announced from the stage that they'd be playing in the lounge.

The secret was out.

By the time Spandrel began playing, some of the earlier crowd had been replaced by newcomers. Given how close we are to the holiday week, I had no doubt that the people who are left in town would continue to arrive, looking for something to do.

What Spandrel had going for them was male/female vocalists, nice harmonies and a lush sound that should have been mic'd better.

A friend came over to stand next to me, complaining that she was trying to find a place in the room where she could best hear the vocals. I told her I thought the vocals were way too low in the mix and that was the problem, not her position.

It's not like I know anything, just that I couldn't hear them well enough, either.

On their last song, another melodic gem perfect for driving music, the ending was abrupt and a bit rough before singer Kylie said goodnight. Guitarist Timmy was having none of it.

"I can fix this," he said, starting a do-over. "We're gonna end this song properly."

And did they ever. With lots of pedals and effects, they delivered a glorious music-from-a-cave (my favorite, you know) sound that ended with knob turning and feedback. Now that's what I'm talking about.

After a busy day focused on all the things I had to get done, how perfect to end my evening with friends to talk to and new music to listen to.

It's a shame the Well is almost gone. Tonight was a reminder of how much good music I've seen there.

Hopefully something new will arise from its ashes...with any luck, sans the skunk smell.

Something That You'll Never Comprehend

For a change, I really earned my night out.

The day began by seeing the VistaVision classic,"White Christmas," at Movieland with a favorite couple, one of whom was seeing it for the first time.

I don't even know how it's possible that anyone hasn't seen this holiday chestnut, but it was a distinct pleasure to listen as he cracked up to Danny Kaye's antics and Bing's corny humor.

Fittingly, that was followed by procurement of the Christmas tree, especially novel this year because it was actually snowing for the brief time it took to choose the tree.

So very Charlie Brown Christmas-like.

Once the tree was decorated, I had writing to finish to make deadline before I could even think about heading out.

By the time my day was behind me, it was 8:30 and I couldn't get going fast enough to Helen's for a show.

I'd half expected a small crowd because of the weather and instead found the place mobbed.

Luckily, a table near the end of the bar was free and I sat down next to a couple who warned me to leave my coat on because we were so near the door which kept opening for new arrivals.

I was luckier than they were because there was a large radiator behind my back, a boon for a cold-blooded type like me.

A musician friend spotted me and came over to sit down and catch up since he was just back from a month in India and we hadn't seen each other for ages before that.

Buster Keaton, blah, blah, love life update, blah, blah, travel plans.

We took a few minutes to admire the magnificence that is Helen's Christmas decorations, from the lit-up plastic nativity scene to the small, silver pom-pom Christmas trees to the reindeer in assorted positions.

The evening's entertainment began with Haints in the Holler, a bluegrass quartet who began by wishing us happy holidays, merry Christmas and feliz navidad.

"I feel that's offensive" a smart-assed guy called out from the bar.

"We aim to offend," the drummer cleverly retorted.

With fiddle, guitar, drums, bass and sometimes banjo, mandolin and washboard, they took us on a bluegrass odyssey, admitting that they weren't "super-good" at between-song chatter.

The highlight was a song called "Dead in Kentucky" about the singer's wish to be returned to Virginia if found dead anywhere else.

Best line was, "Nothing beats drinking in Richmond" and it got a lot of cheers when they sang it.

Following them was a band that many in the crowd had come to see, Dear Ghosts.

I hadn't heard the name, but I had seen half of the band, Lucy Dacus, perform at a Ghost Light afterparty a while back and remembered her stellar voice.

With her in this band was Adam Watkins and while it took a few minutes to get into their sound, I soon found myself terribly impressed with their sad songs.

Both had beautiful voices that blended together to tug at your heartstrings, sort of a lo-fi She and Him minus the chirpy side of that sound.

Adam sang, played guitar and occasional drum while Lucy sang and played some ukulele.

From the first few notes of "I Would Die For You," I knew we were in for a treat because it was one of the songs I'd heard Lucy do and knew how impressively she'd owned it.

It was even more impressive with Adam, slowed down to a languorous pace and truly the essence of a great cover as they made it wholly their own.

Afterwards, Lucy announced, "That wasn't our song, that was Prince," and I turned to my friend and asked if it was really possible that anyone in the room hadn't known that.

"Maybe," he said reluctantly. That's just tragic.

When they ended their set, the DJ across the table from me said that he, too, had taken a moment to figure them out and then really liked their sound.

All I can say is I can't wait to hear more of them soon.

During the set-up for the traveling band, another musician friend came by and we got into a discussion of the history of psychedelic music and mind-expanding psychedelia practices in general.

Recommending a documentary and a book, the man clearly knew his psychedelia.

The reason for tonight's show was Florida band Teach Me Equals, a duo with enormous dramatic stage presence who were sonically compelling and went on to play their new record for us.

He played cello like a madman, all but destroying his first bow in five songs by shredding, when he wasn't playing it like a guitar, beating on it or blowing into the hollow.

She was appealingly fast on guitar when she wasn't tearing it up on violin, playing it like a ukulele, drumming on it or singing/blowing into it.

I'd seen Dave Watkins do all those things to his dulcitar, but never seen them done to a violin or cello.

My friend and I were constantly craning our heads to see how they were making their sounds.

Songs, not so much, but edgy, experimental soundscapes, absolutely.

I gladly threw money into the donation jar to help keep these guys in gas money while on this tour.

The show finished up with Lobo Marino, just back from a month in India, and off to who knows where next month.

It's always a pleasure to hear what new influences they've picked up on their travels, which occupy what seems to be 90% of their time.

Since they didn't go on until 11:30, Laney began by making a toast to all the people who had to get up early and got to work tomorrow.

Fortunately, I'm not one of them.

Their set began with Laney walking through the restaurant playing her song flute and carrying burning incense while Jameson beat on his drum.

They truly are RVA's own world music duo.

Laney explained that her harmonium was new, having been acquired during their month in India, "So me and the harmonium are still getting to know each other."

Promising several spiritual songs, the did an intense version of "O Come, All Ye faithful" which morphed seamlessly into an Indian chant.

After their classic crowd-pleaser, "Celebrate" they did another mash-up, this one beginning with a dirge-like "O Holy Night."

Next to Jameson, one of the plastic wise men flickered on and off throughout as if in time or perhaps as a commentary on their unconventional arrangements.

The musician next to me turned and commented on how their sincerity was as much a part of their performance as their musicianship.

"This is such a genuine experience," he said. "It almost gives me the vapors."

Quick, the smelling salts. You don't want to miss even a moment of a musical evening like this.

Dine and Dyad

What a beautiful night of community!

It began with the benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery at the Roosevelt, where chefs from Pasture, Secco, Julep, Aziza, Magpie, Heritage and, of course, the Roosevelt's own chef Lee made enough food for an army.

Knowing that between the very worthy cause and a buffet made by this crew, this was going to be major draw, I wisely arrived at 5:33 for the 5:30 event.

Foolish me.

They'd opened the doors at 5:27 and the line was already out the door with people lined up (a line lasting the next hour and a half) to pay $20 and wait as long as it took to go through the chow line.

Not me.

I paid and went to find a bar stool and glass of water.

Doing so, a server with an enormous tray of Chef Lee's fried chicken made her way through the mob, headed for the buffet table.

Without even thinking about it, I leaned in to her, inquired if I could grab a piece and got a smiling nod.

Forget that I didn't have a plate, or flatware, I was thrilled.

Sitting in my stool, I made do with bev naps as I tore into the steaming fried chicken.

Licking my fingers afterwards, I spotted Aziza's cream puffs sitting at the end of the bar and making my way there, made off with one of those.

The room was so warm with April and people that the ganache was melting on my fingers.

Yum.

When I returned to my seat, I noticed the guy now in the stool next to me busy with dinner.

Clearly he was doing things the right way with a full plate of food and not individual items eaten out of hand.

But I didn't hold that against him and he turned out to be a great conversationalist, a treat for me.

He got high points for telling me that I didn't have a cell phone.

I thought him terribly astute, but he corrected me, "It's not laying on the bar. Look around here. If you had one, it'd be out."

That may have been the point when he mentioned that I was odd.

He was there because of Sub Rosa's owner Evrim because they share a Turkish descent and the occasional conversation where he can exercise his pidgin Turkish.

So there was his reason for being at the benefit and I'm sure every other person there had their own reason, whether neighbors, customers and or just eager to help out.

The sense of community in the room was almost palpable.

Someone had donated two kegs of handcrafted beer - an Earl Grey brown ale and a black IPA- and the bartenders were wisely pouring it as fast as they could so as to have cups of it ready when people ordered it.

At one point, they were doing the equivalent of firemen passing buckets of water from team to team, with one bartender handing off two cups to the next bartender who then passed them off to a server for delivery.

Team work par excellence.

Chef Randy from Julep had stopped by and been sucked into the madness, helping Lee in the kitchen when the onslaught arrived en masse.

It wasn't long before the food began running out, a fact politely explained to latecomers, most of whom took it well.

There was the one group who copped an attitude, complaining that they'd driven in from the West end and even using the f-word to express their displeasure, but complaining because a benefit runs out of food seems incredibly petty, not to mention overly-entitled.

But for the other 98% of the attendees, there was much smiling, laughing, talking to Evrim and support for both his bakery and making sure the tenants above him are taken care of.

It was a beautiful thing to behold.

I lingered till the staff began eating, just in case they needed help with anything, but they seemed to have everything under control once the eaters left.

From there I moved on to another community, the musical one, at Bainbridge Collective.

The house show was called Dyad: A Night of Wine and Acoustic Music for Two and featured three bands, each comprised of a man and a woman.

The wine was all from Virginia, something I've never once seen in all my years of show-going, so there was Jefferson, Trump, St. Michele and Horton, among many others.

In a nod to the evening's theme, I went with Horton Norton, as indigenous as it gets.

We began on the back porch of the house with conversation and shared pleasure about the warm, spring weather.

Pittsburgh duo Broken Fences were the reason for the evening as they made a stop in Richmond on their current tour and they were happily sitting on a porch couch talking about how much they like Richmond.

Eventually, the show began in the main room and we took seats so that locals Dalliance could start.

He played guitar and they both sang, a delight because they both had such incredible voices for the literate songs they sang.

I was sorry when they got to their last song "Near" so quickly but laughed when guitarist Kendall said in a martyred voice, "I like this song with lots of reverb, but I guess I can do it acoustic."

He could, they did and I was sorry to see them go.

The reason for the evening, Broken Fences, was next, and I hadn't seen them since June 2011, back at the now-defunct Sprout.

They began by saying they'd arrived early to our fair city, allowing time to rework an old song they hadn't played in a while and half-apologizing in advance for it.

All I heard was two more amazing voices combined in ethereal harmonies for gentle folk songs.

Afterwards, they promised they'd go back to singing songs they knew better.

On "Song for You," Dalliance's Kendall added in foot stomping while Lobo Marino's Laney did thigh slapping, causing Broken Fence's Guy to thank them for the percussion when the song finished.

They mentioned that for a change they were getting to spend two nights in Richmond instead of rising at the crack of dawn to make it to the next city, so they had plans to go to Belle Isle tomorrow.

Boy, if they think they like Richmond now, they're never going to want to leave after a sunny day on the river.

They said the next song was begun before their dog got sick and finished the day before they had to put him down.

It was exquisite, heartbreaking and when it was over, someone said, "I'm sad," while someone else said, "Must be the wine's making me a little teary, too."

I know I was sitting there choking up thinking about the beloved beagle I'd had to put down a few years ago.

Saying, "Let's have some levity," they launched into a newer song, "The Glass is Gone" before finishing with "Stormy Clouds," as evocative as you'd imagine with that title and their voices.

Now that we're older
Can we stand still
And let the world unfurl?

We certainly can.

The other thing we can (and should) do is get this duo to play the Listening Room so dozens of people can hear their intense-sounding songs and incredible voices.

Last up was Lobo Marino playing their usual eastern-influenced tribal music, only this time in front of a black and white wall hanging with flashing colored Christmas lights underneath it.

Way cool.

Everyone in the room was having a blast as Jameson and Laney rolled through some of their songs, including one in Spanish and the much-requested, "Celebrate."

Banging on a jug, squeezing a harmonium, or wailing, these two put every bit of their travels into their music.

Laney's effort was so energetic that when the song ended, she looked at the audience and said, "That's it! We're finished."

But she wasn't finished reminding the audience to go buy Broken Fence's CDs and put some gas money in the jar to help them along on their travels.

"Cause Richmond does the right thing when musicians come through this town," Jameson said, stating the obvious.

We do the right thing whether it's out-of-towners or one of our own.

It's what makes this such a fine community.

Drink, Puke, Die

It was the best kind of St. Patrick's Day party at Helen's.

First, the holiday food specials: Guinness beef stew, shepherd's pie and reubens.

When I got there, I found two musician friends slated to perform already at the bar eating.

But being vegetarians, they weren't going to be much help in choosing which meaty special to have.

What they were was nice enough to join me at a table where I decided on beef stew.

The bowl of stellar stew had nice, big chunks of meat, plenty of carrots and potatoes and a hearty gravy full of pepper.

It should have been enough but I followed that with a reuben if only because I was told the corned beef was house-cured.

I don't know if the kitchen staff had any Irish in them, but this was some beautiful corned beef, sauerkraut and Swiss on perfectly grilled rye.

About the time I finished the first half of it, another musician friend came in and I invited him to join us.

I made the introductions and he complimented my sandwich.

Feeling generous full, I offered him a bite.

He reminded me that he's become pretty much a vegetarian...at least until this afternoon.

Seems he'd stopped by a friend's house and had ended up eating pig.

And a lot of it.

As if that wasn't surprising enough, he was eager to eat my beef, too, so I cut him a piece of the sandwich. And another.

I felt like I was contributing to the delinquency of a vegetarian.

Saying he once considered himself a connoisseur of reubens, he proclaimed mine possibly the best he'd ever had.

Aren't you glad you came now, I asked.

"Well, I thought the music would be good," he countered.

And it was.

Leading the charge were my friends, Lobo Marino, who began by addressing me, with Jameson saying, "We're not playing anything you haven't heard, Karen. Nothing new."

I didn't mind.

I'm a big fan of their tribal folk with harmonium and it wasn't long before a guy at the bar was so taken with Laney's harmonium playing that he moved closer to try to figure out the instrument.

Admitting that they hadn't had time to learn any U2 or Cranberries, they launched into their set.

Laney had told me earlier that she'd tried to learn one Irish song that had a lyric about drink, puke, die, but they didn't play that one, either.

And I feel safe in saying that Lobo Marino is the only local band who could have pulled out a papal gem for the occasion.

"This is dedicated to Francis Francis," they said before playing "Pope's Nose," an older song of theirs with great imagery ("Do you know the Pope? He picks at his nose") that I hadn't heard in a while.

They tried to go even older and play "Animal Hands" but for some reason Jameson had lost his voice, so that song wasn't happening.

The improvised a song instead and then ceded the floor to Williamsburg's Poisoned Dwarf (just as an influx of people came in the door), who'd been billed as a five-piece but were clearly six.

The most amazing part was how they managed to fit six guys and at least nine instruments (unique things like Scottish small pipes, a mini-bagpipe, and Irish flute) in an alcove that usually holds a two-top.

At one point, I feel sure I saw the fiddle player's elbow bonk the drummer's head.

They played Celtic music that had people clapping and toe-tapping by the second driving song.

A guy near me started dancing in his chair and then moving his arms in time until I reminded him that no arm motion is allowed in Irish dancing.

Besides the appealing variety of instruments the band played, they also traded them off to each other, so you never knew who'd be playing what.

At one point, a girl grinned and said to no one in particular, "I love Irish music!" to which her boyfriend responded, "That's because you're drunk."

It was funny, but the truth is when you have a bunch of musicians playing traditional Irish music with as much skilled musicianship as we were hearing, anybody's going to like Irish music.

Especially at a St. Patrick's Day party where no one pukes or dies.

Fried, Funk and Confetti

It was December repeating itself, but only in the best possible way.

December 5, 2012 was the last time I'd been to the Roosevelt for their infrequent fried chicken nights, so when I saw the smoke signal go up indicating it was yard bird night, all bets were off.

I found another fried fetishist and we were walking up the ramp to the Roosevelt at 5:05 in the pouring rain.

You have to understand, they start serving Lee's fried chicken when they open and when it's gone, it's gone.

And given that it's gluten-free and comes with an addictive chile/honey glaze for dipping, it goes fast.

When I was there in December, it was gone by 6:15. Ergo, there was no margin for error.

Our little five-top convened at a table, unusual for me since I always occupy a bar stool at the Roosevelt.

When our server came to take the order, it basically boiled down to fried chicken and greens: collards, brussels sprouts and broccoli.

And let me assure you, as the accountant pointed out, the only purpose of the green course was to put something between all that fried food and sudden death.

With Neko Case belting it out on the sound system, we munched chicken, dipping it into the sticky and spicy honey until everyone was in a food coma.

And still one of us took home enough chicken for his lunch for the next two days.

Our quintet splintered from there although two of us ended up at the Firehouse for the Listening Room and more repetition.

And like Lee's fried chicken, it was all worth repeating.

Instead of last month's store-bought doughnut holes at the L.R., tonight we had homemade cookies courtesy of one of the Richmanian Ramblers, Richmond's favorite Romanian gypsy band.

Emcee Chris thanked the attendees for braving the rain for music, not always the case in our fair city.

"Are there any Pacific Northwesters here?" he inquired, finding one in the third row. "This is nothing, right?"

The guy flicked his hand in a "Pshaw" manner that made it clear that he had little tolerance for weather wimps.

"Consider yourselves frontier types," Chris said before apologizing to first-timers for the kinks still being worked out while organizer Antonia is on leave.

"She's the glue of this event and she's, uh, got a newborn," he explained.

By the time she's back to running things, the boys may even have the hang of it, but no one's counting on it.

First up was Listening Room alumni Lobo Marino, who'd played December 14, 2010 on a wickedly cold night when the L.R. was still at the Michaux house.

They'd just come back from being on tour again and looked especially coordinated with Laney in an oxblood-colored dress and white sweater and Jameson in oxblood-hued pants and a white shirt with suspenders.

Sort of Richmond's very own White Stripes, at least ensemble-wise.

Lobo Marino are known for their unexpected stage goings-on and tonight's addition to the show was a voice-activated light that flashed according to what Laney sang.

With their unique assortment of instruments - harmonium, metal jug, bells on stools and ankles, mouth harp- they produce fluid songs for two voices and whatever mystical spirit moves them.

With a nod to RVA Magazine writer Shannon Cleary's best of 2012 singles list, they called friend Patrick Bell up on stage to play the mesmerizing "Stay With Me," a song they'd never played live before.

That, my friends, is why you never want to skip a Listening Room or moments like that are missed.

Lobo Marino made their set a true homecoming show, full of energy and happiness and before long, Jameson's suspenders were down around his knees and Laney moved her wide black belt back and forth between her waist and hips depending on whether or not she was playing the accordion.

For their joyous song "Celebrate," they called up four friends to assist and they arrived in pointed, shiny birthday hats (in one case, two hats, one over each ear) with tubes of shiny confetti, which they ejected over the stage mid-song.

For those of us at their last L.R. show, it was a variation on a theme; then they'd used a fan with streamers and bits of paper to shower the stage with festivity.

Afterwards, Laney looked around and observed, "I got confetti in my tea!"

I feel safe in saying that that's the first time those words were uttered at a Listening Room.

For their classic song "Animal Hands," the two did a face to face sing off, which afterwards Jameson claimed Laney won.

Which was true, but nothing could have topped the long ago December version of that song when the audience had thrown stuffed animals at the band during it.

As seems to be their latest inclination, they closed with a Hindi chant based on the story of a monkey god who picks up an entire city when a warrior needs only one herb.

They'd laid out the chant's lyrics for the crowd, asked a trio to join them onstage and set out to, as Laney put it, "Hopefully get to a state of religious ecstasy."

Sri ram jai jai ram
Sita ram jai radhey sham

A person really can't ask for more than a set that ends ecstatically.

During the intermission, I admired the tiny reason that Antonia has been missing in action from L.R. duty.

Tiny Casimir seemed right at home at the Listening Room, but given his lineage that's really no surprise.

Before beginning again, host Chris informed us that despite the L.R.'s "no talking" rule, it was okay to laugh if bands made jokes, undoubtedly good to know for newbies.

When the show resumed, it was with shoeless Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat, who'd last played the L.R. December 18, 2009 after a snowstorm that kept many people home, but not me.

Wow, three years, where does the time go?.

Maybe it was the long time since their last appearance for this crowd, but they wasted no time with banter, jumping right into their set.

A couple of energetic songs in and Zac stopped to wipe his face, saying, "It might not look like it, but it's really hot up here. And that whole "laugh at our jokes" thing, you don't have to do that. We're not that funny."

That could be debated (he and violinist/keyboard player Jessica alone banter like exes), but with a band as good as Junglebeat, we were too busy getting into their pretty pop sound to debate it.

Three and sometimes four voices (a bass player who sings!) combining magnificently.

A kick-ass drummer, impossible not to watch, who defines their sound.

Well-placed violin. Unusual song structures. And the distinctively angelic voice of Zac.

"We get really excited when we play and then we play our songs too fast. We're blowing right through this," Zac said, just before consciously slowing down for "Colossus," a song about either Mila Kunis or Zac's masculinity, depending on which band member you believe.

Zac thanked Lobo Marino, saying, "They brought the funk and the confetti."

What more could a band want in a compliment?

Like Lobo Marino, one of their songs had been chosen by Shannon for his year-end best of list, so Zac thanked him and pointed at Lobo Marino in the front row, saying, "We're right under you guys!" before playing, "Wear a Helmet," a beautiful analogy about risk-taking when it comes to love.

Violinist Jessica reminisced about the first time they'd played that song live at the Triple, a dive on Broad Street she characterized as having only Yuenglings and pool tables.

She's right, that about sums up the Triple, may they rest in peace.

After "Babbayagga," a song about chicken legs and bad dreams, they did "Charles and Bixby," one of two songs they spent the weekend recording for a new record.

Halfway through it, Zac messed up, stopped and they restarted, leaving himself wide open to Jessica teasing him about a song they'd played "1,000 times."

Lees' fried chicken, Lobo Marino, Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat.

Decembers redux.

A thousand times or a few times, if it's something you enjoy in life, does it even matter if you keep repeating them?

Honestly, I can't think of a better way to get to religious ecstasy.