Cross the Sea

I don't believe I've ever been so glad to see May end.

That's a pretty remarkable statement coming from someone who's always adored stretching out her birthday and diving into the start of warm weather, but, man, this has been a tough May.

June kicked off with a leisurely lunch on the Chickahominy, talking with the couple I'd gone to visit about everything from what she was reading that I haven't - Joan Didion's "White Album" (the successor to "Slouching Toward Bethlehem," which I have read) - to a house concert with an environmentally conscious vegan potluck.

She had me in stitches talking about the oblivious hipsters who'd brought dried out Trader Joe's jicama, wrapped in plastic and boasting an enormous carbon footprint as their offering. "My beet hummus was the only homemade thing there!" she marveled.

Of course there were Oreos because no vegan potluck is complete without them.

Now that I see how far out they live, I am terribly impressed at how often I run into them at events in the city.

The first Music in the Garden at the Valentine for the season not only delivered good tunes (the always satisfying odd time signatures of Rattlemouth's world beats and an all-acoustic version of reggae band Mighty Joshua, complete with acoustic bass guitar and pump organ, but the soft opening of Garnetts at the Valentine.

It was also a chance for Mac and I to catch up after May had messed with us both, leaving us with the mixed emotions of having weathered a sea of storms.

Good thing we're both optimists.

We ate at a table with an older woman with a pronounced Boston accent despite having left that city to go to college in West Virginia where she met her husband and then settled in Virginia. Fifty years later, her vowels were still instantly recognizable as Beantown's.

Low humidity and a gentle breeze made it a beautiful night for live music in the Valentine's garden under an enormous magnolia tree in full bloom that we guessed had to be pre-Civil War judging by its girth. During the break between bands, we headed inside the museum so she could see "Hearts on our Sleeves," the new fashion exhibit I was happy to see a third time.

That 1970 cocktail dress with ruffled bell sleeves had my name written all over it.

And because there's no reason to go to only one show when you can go to two, I also landed at Flora for the Kia Cavallaro EP release show. Incredibly, it was my first time in Flora's back room for music, a fact that boggled not only my mind but that of one of the long-time managers, too.

"How is that possible?" she wanted to know.

I have to assume I've been remiss on my musical devotion and that's nothing I want to brag about. See: life's been a little rough lately. Begone, May.

Kia's sound had been described as homespun songs that weave together dreams and roots music and her fretless banjo certainly contributed to that rootsiness, while her little girl voice gave the songs an appealing earnest innocence.

But where she was truly in a league of her own was that she wore tap shoes and tapped out some rhythm to accompany herself and ensure that every part of her body was making music. It was nothing short of delightful and in the most unexpected way.

Next up was Kenneka Cook whom, coincidentally, I'd first seen last year at one of the Valentine's Music in the Garden shows as she layered her rich voice over beats.

Ordering wine, I got into conversation with three guys I know to varying degrees. One said he had a long history with smart women, one accused me of making people like me and one chided me for not replying to his "what are you up to?' message the day before.

I wanted to explore the first, I disagreed with the second and I reminded the third that I can't spend the abundant time on social media that he does.

Right now, I'm just trying to sort through the wreckage of May and come out happier in June. I keep reminding myself that all I can do is keep my head down and continue working on becoming a better me. I need to do this because it's overdue.

And as Didion famously wrote, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." I tell myself scores every single day.

Come Play with Me

Let the record show that it was 67 degrees today and every window in my apartment was open.

Let it also show that despite having known Nate for five years - we met on February 12, 2012 at Globehopper when I first heard the Richmanian Ramblers - it was only today that I first ate his bagels, a mission accomplished by being first in line with Mac at the new Blue Bee Cidery.

Let it show that our walk from Blue Bee to the Byrd was tropical-like, if not downright beachy, and that the theater was surprisingly full for an afternoon matinee at this late stage of the holiday madness (I know a guy who went to three holiday parties today alone) when everyone there probably had something else they should've been doing.

Not Mac - who'd never seen this classic all the way through - nor me, that much was clear. Our misfortune was sitting next to a couple of women who believed that we'd rather hear them belting out the musical numbers than hear the actors doing a far better job.

Let it show that when you have seen a film, say "White Christmas," every year since you were a child, it's not enough to sit back and enjoy (always a relative term when applied to the torn and spring-popping Byrd seats) the familiar plot and dazzling mid-century visuals of VistaVision (reddest reds you've ever seen).

Curiosity seeker that I am, I must see something new.

Accomplished:
1. In the final scene, how had I never noticed the tenth anniversary sign on the cake (Happy 10th anniversary 151st Division)? The 10 candles, always, but the sign? Not once.
2. Pre-safety match usage was rampant. Bing strikes a match for his pipe on his shoe, with his fingernail, probably with his teeth in a scene that got left on the cutting room floor. 1954 was pre-safety concerns, clearly.

Let it show that walking back to Scott's Addition marveling at the still-balmy air when sunset was only minutes away, our conversation turned prescient when raindrops suddenly hit us, followed by major northerly wind gusts and an immediate and significant drop in temperature.

Frankly, we never should have brought the subject up.

Let it show that I wouldn't have missed tonight's 10th anniversary celebration of the Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5, or the opportunity to introduce a recent conversational partner to one of my long-time favorite events, despite not being up to dinner out beforehand.

The lost weekend - don't ask.

Let it show that lots of my people were there - the film prof, the filmmaker, the woman at the Byrd I'd told about the event months ago, the Turkish pop songstress - and on time, which is more than I can say for some of the newer fans.

Creator Jameson always says 8 sharp! on the invitation because he means it, kids. Take note for the future (April, in case you weren't paying attention).

He had, of course, picked a terrific holiday present for the crowd with Russian director Ladislas Starevich's 1913 black and white "Night Before Christmas," and nothing like the Clement Moore poem we know.

The herky-jerky antics of the peasant village as well as the editing (and brief bits of early stop-motion animation) couldn't have been better suited to Rattlemouth's odd time signatures and global beats ensuring that their improvised soundtrack nailed the madcap action.

Instead of Moore's sugary take on Christmas Eve, we had a witch whose cottage was known for "entertaining willing visitors" and a hirsute demon with a tongue that presaged that of Gene Simmons, along with dry humping and homo-erotica, men stuffed in bags and a young and solidly-built peasant beauty looking for the man who truly loved her.

She claimed she wanted shoes like the tsarina's, but what she really wanted was a man willing to go to great lengths to get them for her to show his love.

Let the record show that I saw two holiday classic films today, and they both came down to love stories. Because the best things really do happen when you're dancing...or entertaining willing visitors.

Before you can say Merry Christmas, you're a goner. I know it must be true because I saw it on the big screen. Twice in one festive day.

Happy Hours

Not every night out involves furthering my cultural literacy. Among the purely indulgent things I did tonight:

Drank enough M. Lawrence "Sex" Brut Rose on tap at Pomegranate to cover three hours of conversation (because sex should start every evening).

Discovered the pleasures of a doughnut burger with bacon jam (yes, that's a burger with doughnuts where the roll should be), the epitome of sweet/salty perfection.

Shocked a friend who asked how much I actually make in a year ("But you live such a rich life!").

Got all southern with Dr. Pepper-braised short ribs with cilantro (I'm crazy about some fatty short ribs).

Marveled over a text about the uses of alcohol and those who come to that realization later rather than sooner.

Heard about why it's time to switch from acrylics to oil, made plans for an absinthe-fueled visit to the VMFA to see "Van Gogh, Manet, Matisse: The Art of the Flower" next weekend and admired a ten-year old with the prescience to invest in Apple stock.

Concluded that there's nothing like a smart and funny friend of almost 20 years. That there are so many parallels in our wild and woolly lives is pure gravy.

Was greeted by a stranger who said, "Now you're what I call my kind of woman. Hello, baby."

Joined a conversation at Balliceaux with formally-clad strangers about Hampden-Sydney boys and why their polite facades belie their true selves.

Listened to Rattlemouth's distinctive world music vibe from the front bar as hippie chick after hippie chick heads to the back room to do the "catching a butterfly" dance to odd time signatures.

Discussed the pleasures (plenty of parking in J-Ward) and perils (no hotel rooms in the state of Florida) of Spring Break week.

Researched what county faces the one where my parents live, finding that they've been mistaken in what they told me for 30 years. Wait, I thought parents knew everything.

Made time for current events - Hillary, Pharrell and renegade senators - and opinion-sharing on who's right and wrong.

Conclude that an evening that begins with a best girlfriend sharing a burger between two doughnuts and winds down with plans to make potato soup and soda bread for St. Patrick's Day is a giant step forward.

Now that's what I call my kind of evening. Hello, baby.

Darling If U Want Me 2

My aura seems to be attracting transplants.

For the second night in a row, I spent an evening listening to music with a stranger new to Richmond and already eager to sing its praises.

It happened over at Crossroads, a place I'd never been until December 1st and which I've now visited twice in barely over a month.

This time it  was for Rattlemouth, those practitioners of world music with the devoted, dancing following.

I first saw them back in 2008 at Art 6 of all places and with no idea what to expect, my companion and I had been hugely impressed with the way they could take, say, an Ethiopian groove and run with it until it became something wholly their own.

Since I'd been to Crossroads at the beginning of December for the mobbed Loversville show (they love their country music on southside...as did I that night), they'd added a patio pavilion with heaters, increasing the number of people they could seat for a show.

Even so, with my thin blood, I had no intention of sitting anywhere but indoors and just for good measure in this ungodly cold, ordered a large hot chocolate, too.

With whipped cream, but only because they didn't offer me marshmallows.

My server made it while singing along to the Stylistics "Betcha By Golly Wow," a song not every man could manage but he was spot on with the high notes.

He also acquitted himself admirably on Prince's "I Would Die 4 U," I happened to notice.

I took my liquid warmth to sit down at the only table inside, a circular six-top, assuming that the other tables had been moved to the patio to accommodate Rattlemouth's girth.

The five piece (guitar, bass, drums, electric cello and sax) takes up a goodly amount of room and anyone who's seen them knows that where they go, dancers follow, so space was essential.

So when a guy approached me asking if he could share my table, I welcomed him in, asking what kind of awful person would deny a stranger a chair.

"I came from New York and people do stuff like that all the time," he said, smiling. Well, this is Virginia, man, and we're a tad more gracious than that.

Ryan sat down and introduced himself, explaining that he was a recent transplant, having visited his mother in Lakeside during Christmas 2012 and been so impressed with our fair city that he'd since moved down here.

It was the usual RVA suspects that got under his skin and won him over: cost of living, quality of life, rarity of snow.

He was just starting to get into the local music scene and had been advised to check out Rattlemouth. I told him that was good advice because their world music sound, dancey in a hypnotic sort of way with its odd time signatures, allows the sizable talent of the band's members to shine.

Waiting for the band to set up, he told me about his work, his music and some upcoming projects he was excited about, one of which involved writing. When he found out what I did, he was almost giddy at all we had to talk about

When another guy joined our table and heard Ryan was a first-timer, he gushed, "You're gonna love 'em," causing Ryan to look at me and grin.

Yea, I told you that already.

Two songs in and everyone in the room was totally into it, heads and shoulders grooving, except maybe the guy who'd made my hot chocolate who was juggling behind the counter.

By the fourth song, the first dancers took the floor, doing the particular dance moves that this music elicits in fans. Part modern dance, part Deadhead butterfly-catching dance, part loose-limbed spastic, there were some serious moves being busted.

When one woman at our table got up to dance, she said over her shoulder, "It draws you out eventually."

Even the musicians weren't immune and when the sax player wasn't playing, he was holding his instrument horizontally and dancing with it side to side, eyes closed.

When a song would build to a pitch, the dancers became almost frenzied echoing the intensity of the music.

After the break ("Take a moment to talk amongst yourselves," we were instructed and you know I did), the band came back strong, barely giving the dancing crowd time to catch their breath between songs.

Hell, even the staff were dancing behind the counter by that point. Irresistible grooves wait for no one.

Ryan got up to leave before the last song, but not before handing me a piece of paper with his e-mail and phone number on it.

"Maybe you can mentor me about Richmond," he said before waving good-bye.

You're going to love it, friend. I'm telling you now.