Kissing Like a Bandit

Because ultimately, don't we all gotta have it?

But  first of all, we gotta have that indefinable "thing."

Sitting in the Grace Street Theater waiting for the second installment of the inaugural Afrikana Independent Film Festival, the three of us - full as ticks after fish tacos at Asado - were seriously grooving to Afrikana's usual excellent pre-show mix (see 1985's "Oh Sheila") when "Wishing Well" came on and all our faces lit up.

"Terrance Trent D'Arby," my photographer friend announced authoritatively and his girlfriend immediately leaned over close, rubbing up against him, saying, "I love this man" because he'd known the artist's name.

Of course, in my perfect world, all men would recognize the sound of Terrance Trent D'Arby. It would be a fine way to separate the men from the boys.

We agreed that everyone needs their person to know certain things and he'd just scored big by knowing that one. But there's no way to know what your potential person needs you to know and therein lies the rub.

Seeing Spike Lee's first film, "She's Gotta Have It" on this, the 30th anniversary of the film, delivered a fascinating look at the '80s (white socks almost up to the knees, jumpsuits, Jane Fonda-era workout gear and men in gym shorts), female sexuality (I recall from seeing it in the theater what a huge deal the depiction of a black woman's sexuality was) and the very beginnings of the indie movie genre.

I can't recall how the black and whiteness of the film registered in '86, but tonight it felt right for the time, meaning that the interlude in color with singing and dancing amounted to an unpleasant reminder of bad '80s cliches.

For that matter, the audience cracked up at many of the cheesy '80s details throughout, but then, it had already been established that few in the audience had ever seen the film on a big screen, being far too young.

Which means that for them, the film's message of societal acceptance of female choice when it comes to number of partners must seem ridiculously obvious since they've never known any other reality.

For those of us seeing it 30 years later, it was a poignant reminder of the long arc of the double standard.

Because whether they're concurrent or consecutive, we shes of the world do gotta have it. Fact.

Bidding goodbye to the "sleepy" (perhaps a euphemism for "needing to have it") couple, I did a fast walk to Comedy Coalition for "Live from the Pacement," a variety show staged by trombonist/percussionist extraordinaire, Reggie Pace.

He and co-host Aaron sat in chairs with a revolving colored lamp on the floor casting patterns on the wall and welcomed an odd assortment of guests, to great hilarity.

Josh told online dating and Tinder ("The shallowest dating app ever") stories, asking for a show of hands on who's used Tinder, only to find a model couple there who'd met on the shallow app. In his own experience, he'd learned that nerd girls date for life because ~ spoiler alert, he said ~ to them, they don't see any difference in one guy from another.

From my vantage point of seniority, I could challenge that but I won't.

We got music from jazz guitarist Scott Burton, keyboard player Larry Branch and Reggie playing his smorgasbord of percussion, after which he pocketed his triangle. That led to a discussion of how John Popper wears a bandoleer to hold all his harmonicas and a side story about a man who carries his pacemaker in a similar vest.

It was real variety with potato jokes courtesy of comedian Katie as Mrs. Potatohead (What's the difference in mashed potatoes and pea soup? Anyone can mash potatoes), interpretive dancing (Josh: "That was proof that the girls in "Napoleon Dynamite' do grow up") and, in a more serious vein, a gorgeous flute rendition of "Winter Spirits" by Lauren Serpa.

"That was beautiful and now we're gonna ruin it," Aaron said, introducing Jim as Eleanor Gasm, who had the ability to read people's sexual histories by touching their foreheads.

Touching a couple's foreheads, she announced, "They don't love each other." To a guy with a peculiar high-pitched laugh, "You're going to die alone." To a guy about his date: "She likes the goatee, but lose the mustache." Her: "No, it's the reverse, lose the goatee."

To the crowd, "Who's willing to go home with someone here tonight?" No hands raised.

When he got to me, he touched, asked how I was doing tonight and announced that I was looking for two men. No one said Eleanor was always right.

The two guys next to me got highly uncomfortable when he asked how long they'd been dating (a month) and then if they'd done it yet ("We're not going to talk about that," the more uptight one said).

Man of the evening Reggie expressed amazement that Eleanor was polling the audience on their sex lives, noting that things had taken a turn for the worse. That was actually one of the best parts of the evening: watching Reggie as audience member onstage (when he wasn't performing), squirming and laughing along with the rest of us

Before the night was over, there was a hot dog break with three costumed hot dogs and a riff on "Rapper's Delight" done by Reggie's "father" in a bad fake mustache and high voice ("My boy is so talented!").

The collection of hosts and performers on the stage eventually came up with a takeaway for the evening: Things can always get worse.

Now there's a mantra for a Friday night.

To prove it, the show closed with "Barb" in a glitter vest and wearing rollerblades, entreating people to join her in karaoke, including a Dido tune which evolved into a rousing group singalong.

Because sometimes you gotta make do when you gotta have it and can't.

Start the Day on a Swingset

Three nights in a row of music married to comedy. It's practically a Christmas miracle.

Call it heart-warming, the way talented people are going out of their way to entertain those of us who haven't left town and don't have holiday parties to go to.

Waiting for the back room to open, I got caught up in a conversation about the pros and cons of technology with a younger guy who had a rationalization for every point about the negative effects of technology. So what if people don't converse as much? Hey, more time to research on the Internet, he insists.

The only concession he makes is that in his peer group, if people are talking and there's a silence, everyone immediately goes to their screen. Silence means they're bored and need stimulus. "We're not too good on social interaction."

You realize your people are doomed, I inquire politely enough. He grins "We're all gonna die, so what does it matter?"

There's the old fighting spirit.

Eventually he admits that he works in IT and brags about an app he's developed which allows the user to put in a neighborhood and find out pertinent details about the bars there. And by pertinent, he's talking things such as the energy level, the age range of patrons and whether there's dancing or karaoke.

Cute, sure, but as I inform him, I already know all that information about most of the places in the city, so I've no earthly use for his app. As it turn out, neither do other locals, but visitors and tourists are a different story.

When I got up from the bar to find a seat in the back, my new friend joins me as the room filled up quickly for the Brunswick Christmas Extravaganza, an original Christmas tale told by a big band and friends. Santa hat-clad bandleader John Hulley had dreamed up a whole scenario of the band at an imaginary cabin (Tuckaway Lodge, get it?) in the snow-covered woods trying to put on a show.

Think Mickey and Judy (go ahead and Google it, kids, I'll wait).

I gotta say, it was a festive-looking band with various members dressing the part in Christmas sweaters, a wreath bow instead of a bow tie, a sweater that lit up, even a string of lights on a trombone.

It was every bit as corny as it sounds and perfectly delightful at the same time. Anything that begins with Donny Hathaway's "This Christmas" played by a 12-piece band is off to an excellent start.

From there, a Christmas music sampler alternated with skits such as a mailman played by singer Kelli Strawbridge delivering John mail at the remote cabin, only to take over the mic - "I got this covered" - when he hears the band is about to do James Browns' "Soulful Christmas."

Who better to play a Santa-wannabe who looks more like a bum with attitude than Balliceaux's music guru, Chris Bopst? Perennial toothpick in mouth, and looking a little like the Grinch, he explains to the bandleader that he's the replacement for the guy he hired for the show. "He had a few problems, girlfriend got pregnant, kids are screaming, you know."

Charlie Brown was channeled when bassist Cameron Ralston got "Christmas Time is Here" started and I was reminded how terrific that song sounds live after hearing it a million times recorded. Reggie Pace nailed the triangles and other percussion in the song and did it looking like a sharp-dressed man in a lavender shirt and tie under a black vest.

Listening to the lovely Sam Reed, radiant in a long red gown, sing "The Christmas Song" was almost as good as hearing Nat King Cole sing it, although it didn't hurt that she was three feet from my face. I'd call it a perfect holiday moment.

The reliably funny Josh Blubaugh from Richmond Comedy Coalition must have drawn the short straw because he played the Sugar Plum Fairy dressed, incidentally, in a hot dog costume, to the kickin' Duke Ellington arrangement of Tchaikovsky's dance of the sugar plum fairy, the "Sugar Rum Cherry."

Words can't adequately convey both the hilarity and the pure pleasure of sitting in Balliceaux listening to a classic composer's music channeled through a black musical pioneer while a large man with a beard dances around the seated audience. The premise was trumpet player Sam Koff's dream sequence (brought on by experiments to create the perfect Christmas cocktail) a la "Nutcracker," but with tequila in hand, it was practically transcendent.

Then, oh, no, there was a power outage at the Tuckaway! Fortunately, staff scrambled around setting up candles and the yellow stool next to me, which had been labeled, "Reserved! NOT a seat!" suddenly had four votives casting flattering candlelight my way while the band played "Silent Night."

But poor John was bummed that guests wouldn't make it for their Christmas show (which he'd dubbed "Home for the Hulley-days," causing the band to shout out that they had not agreed on that), so Reggie left the percussion onstage to come  play the Linus role and remind John what Christmas is all about and it's not a packed audience.

Kind of brings a tear to your eye, doesn't it?

Before closing with "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," John shared that he'd spent the afternoon making 15 or 20 Brunswick Christmas ornaments. "Please take one. I painted them for you."

When the song ended, the crowd jumped up clapping and John, clearly thrilled with the reception to and success of his writing and conducting endeavor, threw his Santa hat up in the air. It landed neatly on my shoulder in the second row, where I left it as I applauded along with the rest of the room.

When I return it to its rightful owner, he proclaims it a Christmas miracle. Nah, it's more that taking someone's Christmas hat is wrong, just wrong.

You see, friends, here in Richmond, our big bands not only dream up Christmas variety shows and execute them flawlessly, they take the time to hand-paint Christmas tree ornaments for us to take home as a memory. Brooklyn only wishes it was half as mind-blowingly sincere.

Would you believe
I got peace of mind
And I'll be groovin'
At Christmas time

And that perfect Christmas cocktail I'll have in hand as I groove? Chances are it'll be a Sugar Rum Cherry.

Time to Chill

Sometimes I have to get the work out of the way before I start the fun.

Meaning the hired mouth swept through two places and deposited me at home by 11:00. Seriously, 11 p.m.?

So, assignment over, I said goodnight to my dining companion and moved on to the fun part of the evening.

D.J. Harrison and Sound Genesis were playing at Balliceaux. For the uninitiated, that meant that Reggie Pace and his hand-selected crew wold be playing the music.

Walking in, I found the DJ set already deep into it. Reggie, he of No BS and Bon Iver, was just finishing up his set. The lilliputian photographer was hard at work capturing it all.

The crowd was half dancing, but obviously entranced by the music.

The first person I ran into was a songbird Lydia, back from the West Coast, and thrilled to be hearing Reggie. I made sure to inquire if she'd be playing a show while she was back on our coast.

At the bar, I asked for an Espolon and the bartender inquired if I wanted to open a tab. Not necessary. One was plenty.

Not long after, Reggie gave way to Sound Genesis, a DJ he said was familiar to many rap artists but who was virtually unknown in Richmond.

His music was low key and people began dancing almost at once, unable to resist the slow grooves he was playing.

A girl was dancing mid-floor ("This music is so chill," she said, eyes closed) but soon made her way to my side, asking if I liked to dance. Do I ever!

She turned out to be a graduate student at the Corcoran and she felt like she'd met a soul mate when she found out about my art history and Washington, D.C. background.

After asking me to dance. she ordered two fireballs, insisting that I drink with her. While I had no idea what a fireball was, she explained, "Like a fireball candy but with alcohol."

Of course. But when a stranger is buying you a drink, you drink it and that's that, so I did.

After downing our fireballs, a guy walked by and I recognized him from a band I'd interviewed in 2007. Amazingly, he remembered me.

Next thing you know, we were talking about personal freedom, fashion and how children can crimp your style (okay, so that was his complaint).

I also saw a wildly curly-haired upright bass player I knew from shows around town and we got into it about where I'd seen him play as well as tonight's entrancing vibe.

The music was chill but before long most of the room was dancing or at least grooving to it.

Reggie came over to let me know that this was not a one-off event and that at least two DJs would be playing every other week.

It'd hard to beat an Espolon in hand and multiple people to talk to or dance with especially with chill-wave playing by a DJ who needs to be heard by way more people.

"Hi, I'm Xavier," the DJ said, introducing himself to me post-set. "Will you be back in two weeks?"

I will. First we work and then we play.

Triangles, Like Songs and Minor Keys

There was lots of music calling to me tonight.

I started at the Listening Room where the poet was handing out programs and lamenting her cold, a remnant of a debauched long weekend with another poet.

I didn't need to tell her we reap what we sow.

Dropping off the cookies I'd volunteered to bring, a discussion ensued about the six that had fallen off the cookie sheet onto my kitchen floor.

A musician insisted I should have brought them anyway while another guy told a story of a slice of pizza landing cheese down on carpet and asking whether or not that was fair game.

My grandmother always said if you were hungry enough you'd eat anything, I shared, and one girl said, "Even if it has a hair in it?" I left them to it.

It was time to stake my territory but, lo and behold, somebody large was in my seat.

Interloper.

The funny part was that three different people came up to me before the show started asking what in the hell that woman was doing in my seat.

Dunno, but she was too big for me to take on, so I took the nearest available and made do.

Emcee Chris started after 8:00, as usual ("I got a text and an arm tug telling me I was late"), saying, "I'm pleased to introduce a really neat collaboration. Who says neat? A really cool collaboration, JJ Burton."

The trio included two long-time favorites of mine, guitarist Scott Burton, whose ponytail is now halfway down his back, and trombonist/knobs/percussionist Reggie Pace, he of Bon Iver fame, along with drummer/keyboard player Devonne Harris.

Scott said the project began when he was writing his usual cinematic guitar pieces to which DJ Jneiro Jarel (hence the JJ part) added beats and that collaboration had morphed into this three-piece we were seeing.

It was their first time playing out, not that you could tell given what stellar musicians these guys are (at one point Reggie was playing trombone with one hand and twisting knobs with the other) and after their first prolonged piece, Scott looked up, smiling and nodding at the other two as if to acknowledge how well it had gone.

Sitting in the audience listening to the elaborate soundscapes they were creating, we already knew that.

Sound came from drumsticks on cymbals, triangles and Scott's flying fingers for a truly impressive new sound from some old favorites.

After the break we got Josh Small and Bonnie Staley, both Listening Room alums, with Laura singing back-up for a set of country-tinged songs.

They began with one of Josh's, "Grace Inez" about his 80-year old grandmother followed by a 1938 song, "Hello, Stranger," a song Bonnie had always loved before discovering Josh did too.

Their three voices melded beautifully, talent on top of talent.

Josh's "Tallest Tree" he described by saying, "Most of my songs are self-absorbed and depressing and this one is no different. It's not a love song but it's surely a like song."

Well, if you can't find love, I guess like will have to do.

More covers followed - Gillian Welch's "Red Clay Halo" and Loretta Lynn's "Honky Tonk Girl," which Bonnie described as, "A good song about being sad and young."

"The next song is an original," Josh said, "But don't worry, it's wildly derivative. It's called "Family Farm," but that's disingenuous because we never had a farm. I grew up in Falls Church, Virginia."

The James Taylor-inspired song may have been about an imagined life, but was a solid winner for the voices singing it.

They closed with what Josh called "my rap-iest" song but Bonnie corrected him to, "Your most R & B-est, maybe," a better assessment of a song that blended country and soul.

As Listening Rooms go, the program was easily one of the most diverse ever, making it a music-lover's dream, even if they couldn't sit in their own seat.

But I'm not complaining.

After the Listening Room ended, a bunch of us hurried over to Grace Street for a special edition of Live at Ipanema.

It was kind of a big deal because playing was Nashville guitarist William Tyler, so people kept on coming.

A friend and I ordered pumpkin spice cake to celebrate the season and found bar stools with a straight shot view of the playing area.

Dave Watkins got the crowd warmed up with his dulcitar playing (which Tyler later called "inspiring") and yet again, I watched as first timers went from casually listening to wondering how Dave was making so much sound, a couple eventually coming around to stand in front of him and watch him work his looping magic.

By the time Tyler picked up his 12-string guitar and started playing, Ipanema was mobbed, probably even unsafely so.

People were everywhere, kneeling, sitting and standing to watch him play his instrumental guitar music.

He started by saying that a girl had come up to him before the show and said, "I love the books you're reading," a reference to his song titles which reflect just that.

It turns out that since there are no lyrics, Tyler likes to explain every song, where it came from, how it was written, to set the scene before playing.

So with his idea of "light reading," we heard "Cadillac Desert" about water policy in the West, "Poets and Saints" which he called a "cathedral psychedelic song for a non-existent religion" and once he switched to six-string, "We Can't Go Home Again," which he'd begun writing in Nashville and finished in Dublin after visiting his girlfriend's parents unannounced.

It was funny, when he started playing, the guitarists in the room just stood there slack-jawed, but soon they all moved and congregated directly in front of Tyler where they had an unobstructed view to watch this wizard of the strings.

"Geography of Nowhere" was born out of a 20-hour train ride where the same Turkish folk song played endlessly, "full of minor key melody," he explained.

When he got home, he tried to replicate elements of the song as best he could, making for an evocative piece.

After that, Tyler instructed us, "Everyone needs to sit down," and those who could, did, including himself.

Seated, he played "Missionary Ridge," but only after explaining that the name is that of a mountain range near a Civil War battlefield, one that continued, he said, to have a sense of being haunted.

The music was much the same.

After his set, people flocked to the back to buy his records and rave about the solo guitar they'd just heard.

Up front, people lingered and I chatted for a while with a girlfriend I hadn't seen in weeks before getting up to leave.

"Thanks for coming, Karen," one of the organizers called to me.

What idiot wouldn't take advantage of such excellent free music on a random Tuesday night?

Even seat-stealers couldn't resist.

Tom and Jerry Saved Me

In terms of music, last week was an epic fail.

For the first time in I don't know how long, I went nine days without seeing a show.

Nine. Days. I may have lost my music cred entirely.

So it wasn't difficult to decide what to do today. Music times four.

Tom and Jerry got me started. Brain Jones et al were doing a live score of jazz, classical and pop music to old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons at the Camel.

The beauty of those cartoons is that there was no dialogue, so instruments stand in for voice and sound effects.

When a bra is used as a parachute in "Yankee Doodle Mouse," the simulated wolf whistle came from a  trombone.

And the last time I'd heard that trombone, which was courtesy of the inimitable Reggie Pace, was at the Bon Iver show at the National last month.

As cool as it had been seeing Reggie play in Bon Iver, and it was very cool, I was a whole lot closer to him tonight when he was playing his formidable trombone and triangle.

It's true; "Tom and Jerry" cartoons are incredibly  violent (although bloodless), which is exactly why you need all that percussion.

How else could you hear Tom bite into a clam shell sandwich in "Salt Water Tabby"?

Enter the uber-talented Brian Jones, a man who always salutes me when he sees me.

As hard as it was going to be to top vintage cartoon music, I knew it wouldn't be enough of a music fix after my recent drought, so I headed to Sprout afterwards.

It was tall people night there, so I didn't have a prayer of seeing more than an occasional head or leg of a musician, but I heard plenty.

First, Old Swampy played a short, swampy set for an enthusiastic crowd.

As a friend told me, "These guys are trouble makers." Or maybe that was treble-makers.

As an unexpected bonus, some friends rolled in toward the end of their set, so now I had amusing (and smiling) company for the duration.

Next San Francisco's Electric Shepherd came out of nowhere and totally engaged the crowd.

After the first couple of songs, a friend gave them the thumbs up with a big Cheshire grin.

I asked if that meant that he was enjoying revisiting 60s-era druggie music and he positively beamed. I took that for a yes.

If that sounds in any way negative, it's not.

The trio of Electric Shepherd was psychedelic, extremely dynamic and very into what they were doing (which almost came across like a soundtrack  or storytelling).

If not for the vocals, I would label it post-rock for how expressive and dynamic it was. I saw more than a few people buying their vinyl after their set, always a good sign.

There were a fair number of musicians at the show to check out a new local band, Peace Beast, with two members from The Diamond Center.

Their sound was very different than that band, and while I didn't stay for the entire set, they had an appealing sound with jangley guitars and girly vocals.

I will need to see them again soon to enjoy a full set.

Standing outside saying my goodbyes, I had a moment unlike any I've had in months.

No, not the self-satisfied pleasure of finally hearing live music again.

Chill bumps when I was outside.

It was a little cool standing outside Sprout after midnight.

I know everyone else  (besides the dress-loving Antonia and me) is happy that Fall is coming, but I wasn't ready for it tonight.

But I was definitely ready for music.

For Karen, Forever Ago

I bought my ticket for the Bon Iver show the second week in May, which meant I had to wait nearly three months for it.

At the time, the opening band was an unknown entity, so I felt doubly lucky when it was announced that the Rosebuds would open.

I'm a huge fan of the Raleigh band, having seen them in May 2008 when they opened for British Sea Power in Charlottesville. I fell in love with them that night.

As I told a friend today, I'd have gone to the show tonight if it had just been them.

But of course, it wasn't; the biggest draw was Bon Iver, made all the more significant because Richmond's own Reggie Pace is a member of the band these days.

When I arrived, the crowd was already shoulder to shoulder and the Rosebuds weren't coming on for another 45 minutes. That's highly unusual.

Just as rare was the temperature inside the National. I've been to shows in July there and about froze to death because of the air conditioning.

Tonight was nothing like that. If someone bumped into you, it was sticky. Body heat radiated off of everyone.

A friend of a friend recognized me as soon as I took up my usual post in front of the sound booth. She, too, was a big Rosebuds fan so I was happy to meet a kindred soul.

There's no one genre that the Rosebuds fit neatly into because their sound varies from folk to full on rock and a lot in between.

Like countless bands before them, the relationship between the two principals (who were once married but are no longer) makes for great songwriting fodder.

Tonight's crowd was either eager to be entertained or smart enough to appreciate the talent of what they were seeing, but seemed to give the Rosebuds the audience they deserved.

In a particularly satisfying Rosebuds moment, a very tall couple moved directly in front of me just before the band started. 

But when they began putting their heads together and talking to each other non-stop, a girl behind me yelled "Shut up!" at them and they soon moved.

She was my hero

But when it came down to it, most people were there for Bon Iver. From the moment the band took the stage, the energy in the room was palpable.

Having Reggie up there, such a familiar presence in Richmond with his tireless performing out with No BS, Glows in the Dark, and FTBB, made for an electricity in the room.

Justin Vernon noticed it, acknowledging the crowd throughout for their enthusiasm.

A couple of people bordered on obnoxious; a guy who tried to start chants of "RVA!" and a girl who kept shouting, "I love you, Justin."

After  awhile, the crowd began telling them to shush.

Some of the fans who prefer the band's first album "For Emma, Forever Ago" have a problem with the new self-titled album being far less spare and more lushly produced.

For them, the large touring band behind Vernon gave additional weight to many originally-simpler songs. Percussion played a major role in the show (drummer nirvana even), as did horns, and Reggie did both.

That said, some of the most spare songs retained that quality with just Justin and his guitar and a surprisingly hushed crowd.

I refuse to pick a favorite album. I fell in love with "For Emma, Forever Ago" back in 2008 when I was living another life. It was beautiful; his voice and earnestness captured me. I wore that CD out.

But that album, written after Justin lost his job, got dumped and had mono resonated in a different way with me once I experienced all that (substituting pneumonia for mono) myself a few months later.

The new album sounds fuller and is obviously the work of a man in a much better place. He has a talented girlfriend, his health appears robust and, well, his job is what he was doing tonight.

Nice work if you can get it.

You can't sound heartbroken, sick and upset when you're happy. Nor should you try to.

So I can honestly say I like both the albums equally, unlike a  lot of people, for the different life stages and mindsets they represent.

The band covered Bjork, closed the set with the heartbreaking "For Emma" and came back for an encore that included the crowd favorite "Skinny Love" and a crowd singalong.

Sweaty as the room was, I saw no one leave before the encore was over. Perhaps they were stuck to their neighbors, but that, too, is unusual.

As I was waiting in the endless line to exit the building, I stood next to Bon Iver's sound guy, whom Justin had introduced during the show as a major talent in their sound.

"You must love your job," I said to him.

"It takes a lot out of you," he acknowledged. "But yea."

"I'm sure it gives a lot back," I countered. "That was such an amazing show. But I guess it always is."

"Actually, this was one of the best ever. This was something special tonight," he said smiling.

"Well, it was great for us to see Justin and Reggie," I explained.

Instant reaction. "Reggie is such a sweet guy," he enthused. "And so talented!"

Seems like the rest of the world is discovering that Mr. Can't Stop, Won't Stop Reggie Pace is one in a  million.

Flip-Flops and Folded Tongues

Thing 2 showed up at Lemaire in flip-flops, but as the bartender pointed out, the new Lemaire is fine with footwear of any kind (a far cry from the old days indeed).

It was our first get-together post-beach and Thing 2 wanted all the details of the subsequent Things (and meals), apparently finding my blog posts insufficient for all but the broadest details.

Besides $2 beers, Lemaire's special tonight was white or red sangria for $5, but it seems they have great specials practically every night and that should definitely be a draw.

For nibbling, we ordered a cheese plate with Humboldt Fog and Midnight Moon, fruit, crackers and bread.

At only $3 per cheese, it's a steal of a deal.

Because of the mix of hotel guests and locals, the crowd can be a variable one, but we had so much to discus that we never got around to chatting up other bar sitters, although we still managed a fair amount of people watching and discussion.

Thing 2 appropriated the check when it came, eager to prove a point to a certain Anonymous commenter. I just laughed; point taken.

Tonight's music adventure was very much something completely different.

A friend and I went to the Camel to hear live music played to accompany Tom and Jerry cartoons.

Honestly, I'd forgotten what a violence-fest T &a J cartoons were - so much pain, so many broken teeth, knots on heads, burnt fur and swallowed explosives.

In the pre-politically correct era, clearly anything went as long as it was animated.

The audience (okay, me anyway) enjoyed many laugh-out-loud moments during the classic Hanna-Barbera cartoons and the score, complete with Reggie Pace's trombone sound effects, was a treat.

A few of Brian Jones' crashing drum beats actually caused me to jump out of my seat, surely a satisfying audience effect for him.

When we'd arrived at the Camel, Brian had been outside cooling down after the first family-friendly show at 7.

He said the kids in that audience had been raucous, delighting in both the cartoons and the music.

His own daughter, he said, had even ended up sitting on his drum, not the most desirable effect.

There was no telling how an audience with the benefit of alcohol might react.

After a handful of cartoons and an intermission, the band improvised music to some of the short films of Stan Brakhage.

Since his work has no narrative and for the most part is experimental, the music followed suit.

At times driving and super-charged and at others, languid and unfolding, I admired the musicians for being able to watch and create simultaneously.

Brakhage's work did not have the most compelling visual elements, so the music was key.

Between sets, we talked with several musicians and learned all kinds of interesting musical facts, in particular, "You have to keep your tongue in shape."

Childish as it was, my friend and I laughed at the implications of that statement and imagined the conversations that could be inferred from it.

To demonstrate our silliness, or perhaps ignorance, not one but two horn players showed us tongue workouts; one even accordion-pleated his tongue.

It was truly an amazing thing to see.

And that was the free entertainment part of the evening.

The paid part was even more impressive.

Take on Me (and the Heat)

"So glad it's summer, but damn! It's hot up here," drummer Lance Koehler told the crowd at the Camel tonight, not that it was news to anyone in the crowded, overheated room. There were so many sweaty bodies jammed in there tonight, but poor Lance was trapped on a three-sided stage behind eight other musicians, all blowing hard, so I have to assume that it was even worse for him than the rest of us. And, let me tell you, the rest of us were hot.

But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.

From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.

Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.

I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.

But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.

Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.

And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.

It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."

And by all means, take me on.

RVA Jazzfest Killed It

Given how many events were cancelled for tonight, I felt lucky to find that the RVA Jazzfest was on.

With a focus on the Richmond jazz scene due to the snow-related absence of the two visiting artists, Ray Anderson and Adam Larrabee, our local musicians represented exceedingly well.

The crowd was much smaller than usual when the music began around 9, but fortunately people continued to come in for the first hour.

It was too bad for some of the late arrivals, because missing any of Trio of Justice's set was a major loss.

Reggie (Can't Stop/Won't Stop) Pace's latest project of low brass and percussion meant loud volume and heavy weights.

Trombone, tuba and drums drove the grooves and captured the audience in the palm of their musical hands.

Talking to Reggie before the show, he assured me that he'll be doing the Thompson and Grace balcony series again this summer; it's still one of my favorite free summer events and a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

And Reggie remains one of the most genuinely nice and most talented musicians in this town and that's saying a lot.

And did I mention that his lemonade is legendary?

The second act was the indomitable Kuhl (JC) + Jones (Brian), practically the RVA godfathers of jazz, despite their relatively young ages.

Jones' drumming may be a blur to watch, but it's such an amazing thing to hear.

There's no part of the sticks, mallets or drums themselves that he doesn't use and it's mesmerizing.

Headlining was Ombak, composer and trombonist Bryan Hooten's project, with their pastiche of musical influences and original compositions.

Luckily if you missed tonight's show, they do a regular gig at Balliceaux.

Needless to say, the audience was full of local musicians, as eager to enjoy this array of talent as the non-musical of us in the audience.

WCVE's Peter Solomon was there, taking in the show and offering me job advice.

There also looked to be students from VCU's jazz studies program, worshiping at the feet of their jazz elders, so to speak.

It was my third year for the Jazzfest, yet another example of the stellar and low-cost entertainment that goes on in RVA all the time.

If you weren't willing to brave the elements to check it out tonight, I won't judge you, but it's not that hard to find these musicians playing around town on a regular basis and often at the Camel.

You won't be disappointed and you'll likely be hugely impressed, I can assure you.