Promise of Change

Sometimes the big questions rear their heads and the right answer isn't immediately obvious.

Or, it is perfectly clear, but no one's quite brave enough to deal with it yet, a situation better suited to a procrastinator than the efficient sort. For the record, I'm not a procrastinator.

Without hesitation, I did go to the second installment of Battery Park Stories to hear reminiscing from long-time residents about the neighborhood. One recalled his childhood in Battery Park as akin to "The Wizard of Oz" after Dorothy got to Oz and everything was technicolor. Apparently the birds were chirping and the sky was sunny every day in Battery Park in the '60s.

Another recalled how back in the '80s, he couldn't get a pizza, much less a sub, delivered to his house, a sorry fact that is no longer the case.

Connections were made. A man on the panel spotted a woman in the audience and said, "When did you grow up? I haven't seen you in 40 years!" It was kind of charming.

One woman told a fascinating tale of her siblings and their vastly different school experiences. The oldest two went from kindergarten to graduation with the same  bunch of neighborhood kids.

One of her sisters wound up being bussed, a circumstance that required her friend's grandfather to walk them across Brookland Park Parkway for safety. The woman on the panel had yet another experience. She'd been bussed to an integrated school where she found the shock to be not kids of another race, but kids of another (shocking!) neighborhood.

The most poignant moment came when discussing changes in the 'hood. One man said intellectually he loved the diversity, the additional businesses, the feeling of living in a TV show, but emotionally, he had to acknowledge that it was no longer the neighborhood where he spent his childhood.

He's still trying to adjust to the joggers and free libraries. "In ten years, will I even recognize it?" he mused aloud. "Will I be a minority in my own neighborhood, the place where I grew up?"

Another woman pointed to the post-Gaston period when neighbors pulled together and race was of no importance. She got choked up talking about it and people in the audience nodded their heads in agreement.

Everyone seemed to agree that we can all get along.

Rather than stay for the potluck, I moved on to dinner at Rancho T, which was so low key as to be almost dead tonight.

That said, we had a lovely meal of short rib pupasas, roasted beet salad, tacos (both rockfish and beef tongue) and chocolate ancho cake, with a bottle of Gruet Brut and the most fabulous '70s soundtrack of the likes of Chic, Earth, Wind & Fire and Jean Knight to accompany it.

I love how great music adds so much to the dining experience. Just as cool is that space, where I once spent so many nights watching bands when it was Sprout, and now still echoing with music I want to hear.

Leaving my date's wheels at Rancho T, we walked in the chilly night air to Balliceaux for music to finish out the evening. Luray was playing and all I'd ever heard live of them had been a few minutes as their set ended. Unacceptable.

Lots of familiar faces crowded the room, including Luray's bassist, just back from a mini-tour and singing the praises of the Philly audience, as respectful as a Listening Room setting, he said, while NYC's crowd had cut out after the opener. Their loss.

First up tonight was Andy C. Jenkins and the New Blood, the blood consisting of Cameron Ralston on bass, Pinson Chanselle on drums and Alan Parker on guitar (and, oh, that lap steel!), with Andy singing lead. Things got very earnest with a solid rhythm section behind and Alan producing terrific noodling or what my date referred to as "tasty licks."

For the next-to-last song, Andy invited local star Matt White to join him onstage for a song they co-wrote, a real treat for the crowd, especially those of us who'd missed his Friday show at the Broadberry.

And speaking of treats, finally seeing and hearing Luray's full set was rewarding on several levels because lead singer Shannon's voice was gorgeous and the trio behind her - Scott Burton's cinematic stylings on guitar, Brian Cruse's steady bass lines and CJ's interesting drums and percussion - took her banjo playing firmly into indie territory while her beautiful voice beckoned us along for the ride.

As a friend so succinctly put it, "Least BS I have heard from  a young band with a banjo in forever." We should know given all the young band banjo we've heard together over the past six years.

Practically every song started out sounding like the scene was being set for a movie, before seguing into a definitive shape, her appealing vocals weaving a sonic tapestry with the three talented musicians around her.

It took me far too long to see these guys and not because I'm a procrastinator. I do, however, think long and hard about the big questions.

I'm not getting any younger, you know?

That's All Right

For some things, I rearrange my entire schedule. Books are one of those things.

Tonight was the main library's annual book giveaway, which I'd attended last year for the first time, my bag in hand as directed. It is nirvana for a bibliophile like me, a chance to walk away with any titles that interest you. I gave up the artwalk to dig through stacks.

Last year, I'd arrived a half hour into the giveaway to find 30 or so people browsing the tables as librarians refreshed the cartons on the table. It was all very civilized.

Tonight I arrived ten minutes before the event began to find at least 75 people crowded into the lobby of the library. Many wore determined looks on their face and held cartons and crates with which to carry away their plunder.

Holy moley, when had this become a competitive sport?

The good news was that once we reached the bowels of the building where the giveaway is held, I saw that this year, we weren't relegated to just the center tables. No, we had full run of all the shelves in the basement, all the leftovers from the last library used book sale.

Talk about letting kids loose in the candy store!

I began at the tables holding CDs, scoring seven gems like a still-shrink-wrapped copy of the Sundays' "Static and Silence," the nostalgia of "Sergio Mendes & Brazil 66's Greatest Hits" and "Drift" by the Devlins, an Irish band I fell in love with after hearing their 1993 single "Someone to talk To" but never hearing another thing from since. Now, finally, 21 years later, I will.

Then it was on to the shelves which were a non-stop dance because every time you bent over to scan titles on a lower shelf, someone would inevitably want to pass behind you to get further down the aisle.

You could sense an urgency in some people, as if they were afraid that if they didn't hurry, the books they wanted would be snatched up before they could get them. This didn't concern me even the tiniest bit.

Did I really think anyone besides me wanted a 1944 edition of William Saroyan's "The Human Comedy," complete with chapter illustrations? Not really.

Was anyone fighting me for the 1931 copy of "The Thurber Carnival," a collection of his stories and essays? They were not.

And despite how many members of the second sex were there, I alone paused to nab second wave feminist icon Simone de Beauvoir's "Force of Circumstance." Hell, for that matter, who else would pick up a French existentialist and the '40s classic "Cheaper By the Dozen"?

But even less obscure books that went home with me, say Jacques Pepin's "The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen" and Isabel Allende's "Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses" (because who doesn't want to read about the delights of food and sex?), went unchallenged.

With an eye toward visiting Oxford, Mississippi, I scooped up "Collected Stories of William Faulkner," the better to prepare myself when I do.

When it felt like my arms were breaking from my eleven book, seven CD haul, I forced myself to leave, putting Hardywood in my sights and preparing myself for the overwhelming odor of hops.

Indie folk band Luray was midway through their set when I got there and located some musician friends near the front. Although I hadn't seen the band before, I'd been wanting to, interested because of guitarist Scott Burton and bassist Brian Cruse, both of whom I know from other bands, more jazz and world-oriented.

Here, with a female vocalist playing banjo, was something completely different and I liked it a lot, wishing I hadn't missed any of it.

During the break, I chatted with friends about the local music scene, casting my vote to restart Live at Ipanema, anticipating some of the excellent shows coming up this month and acknowledging that none of us had heard Snowy Owls in a good, long while.

One friend posited that the reason for that dovetailed with the reason that lead singer Matt was looking sharp in stylish new shoes tonight: new girlfriend. Love cuts into music every time.

Because it had been a while, it was an absolute pleasure when both guitarists in Snowy Owls cranked up their pedal boards and sent the sounds of shimmering reverb to my shoegaze-starved ears. Doing some of their best songs, a cover of the Cure's "Love Song" and a new song I hadn't heard, it felt like old times.

What's majorly different now is that the band that was once a trio has grown to a quintet with keyboards, making for a much fuller and groovier sound. I approved of every note, standing right in front of the stage with my favorite dulcitar player while the entire rest of the crowd stood eight feet behind us, as if separated by some imaginary barricade.

"They're just not cool enough," my friend quipped. Or something.

But because it's Hardywood, the fun has to be over early, leaving me plenty of time for another stop, this one at Cary Street Cafe where River City Band had just started their set. Grabbing a seat in the sound booth, I spotted a server in a t-shirt reading, "hippies use side door," a problem given that there isn't one.

The crowd wasn't big but it steadily grew as RCB, playing guitar, upright bass, mandolin and banjo, did their impeccable take on bluegrass and gospel under the spinning silver disco ball. Honestly, there's nothing bandleader Grant can't sing. Because yesterday would have been Elvis' 80th birthday, they even played his first release, "That's All Right."

A couple of girls in boots got the dancing started, shedding their coats in a booth and inducing others to shake a leg.

Grant stayed onstage to play mandolin when the band left and was joined by Alison Self (borrowing his guitar) to start off with "All the Good Times Are Past and Gone," followed by her directing everyone to buy RCB's music and merchandise.

"I don't have any. I have Bandcamp," she explained. "You can buy me a shot." Sure enough, within moments, she was handed one. "Think I'll sip it. I don't want to get drunk." Announcing she was going to do  "Your Cheatin' Heart," she insisted, "Don't be afraid to move around. Grab someone cute and dance with them!" Plenty of people did.

After Grant left the stage with much deserved applause, she did an original song called, "When I Feel Weak, I Make a Strong Drink," a couple of Kitty Wells' tunes, some more original material like "Lay Me Down" ("It's not about f*cking, it's about dying, but they're kind of the same thing. All my songs are sad.") and a Loretta Lynn tune.

No surprise, she got the crowd to sing and dance along to "Lord, I Wish I was a Single Girl Again," a song I've seen her perform many times and always popular.

She caught me by surprise when she said from the stage, "Thanks for coming out for the Tinder Meet-Up." What? To someone there, she called out, "Thanks for right-swiping me!" Since I will die without being right-swiped, this just made me laugh.

She closed with another of her inimitable originals, this one with the prolonged and very country-sounding title, "I Wouldn't Kiss You if I was Whiskey Drunk." And that's saying a lot.

Needless to say, this got the crowd dancing wildly, two-stepping on each other's toes with great abandon. I see a lot of right-swiping in their future.

In mine, a whole lot of reading and, if I'm lucky, some kissing, too. They're not mutually exclusive, right?

Because, single girl that I am, I'm counting on all the good times not being past and gone. And that's saying a lot.