A Living Witness

The concessions are falling like dominoes.

First, there were the many layers of clothing worn to the festival Friday evening night. Afterward, I partially lowered the two windows in the living room before bed because I knew it was going to dip down to 50 that night. But when I awoke to find my apartment was 67 degrees - when a mere two days ago it was still peaking around 82-83 most afternoons - I find myself shutting all the windows before it gets any colder. Bad as it was when the cotton blanket went back on the bed two weeks ago, now I'm adding the lightweight bed spread on top of it.

And then, horror of horrors, I not only considered wearing jeans to the Folk Fest Saturday afternoon, I actually did wear jeans. Summer, I pine for you.

How did things degenerate so quickly?

At least the sun was shining when Mr. Wright and I set out to walk to the Folk Festival Saturday, although I knew standing on wet grass in the dark, shivering and cold, was in my future.

What I do for music.

Our first stop was the Dominion Dance Pavilion, except that for some reason, there's no pavilion this year. What's odd about that is that there was a pavilion, at least up through Thursday, a fact I know because Mac and I walked by it several times last week on our way to the Pipeline. But by Friday evening, it was just a dance floor and chairs with no raised stage and no covering. We'd tried to see Ras Michael and the Sons of Negus there Friday, but with zero view of the band and a whole lot of drunk bros on the dance floor, we'd walked away.

Things were marginally better in daylight - at least we could spot Linda Gail Lewis, Jerry Lee Lewis' baby sister, if we squinted - in the distance, so we found chairs and sat down for some boogie-woogie piano classics: Hound Dog, Great Balls of Fire, Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On, you know the genre.

The dance floor was crowded with people getting their groove thang on, including not a few swing dancers who actually knew what they were doing. One woman in a red top had her choice of partners, cycling through one man after another, but dancing every song.

Before heading up the hill, we made a pilgrimage to admire the James running fast and hard, a churning brown froth that guaranteed I won't be getting on the pipeline anytime soon. The architect focused less on the mighty river and more on structural issues, commenting about how strong bridge supports have to be to take the kinds of stress a swollen river places on them.

The climb to Second Street was worth it for the energetic sounds of New Orleans bounce, thanks to Ricky B and his band (which included a tuba, as all good NOLA bands should) whipping the crowd up.

"We're gonna keep it up until the sweat drops down your draws!"  Ricky B. yelled, pronouncing "drawers" exactly like my Richmond-born father does. Later, at another stage, I overheard an older woman tell a stranger that she'd just seen a musician tell the crowd, "He told us to perspire in our underpants!"

Let's just say it lost a lot in her translation.

The distinctive beat, the call and response and the sheer stage charisma of Ricky B. made for an outstanding set that managed to get old and young involved waving hands and pointing with one finger to signify that we are all one race. If only.

After snagging chicken empanadas from La Milpa, we ate them standing on the hill watching Vishten, an Acadian duo singing songs of great beauty. At one point, the male of the duo asked the crowd, "Will you sing along with us?" and the crowd roared its affirmation. "In French?" he asked and got mostly laughter.

Near the end of their set, just as the sun was about to slide behind the Lee bridge, a two-car train passed slowly along the overhead track behind the stage and the man in the passenger seat waved enthusiastically at the crowd, causing thousands of people to wave back. A few minutes later, the train returned in the opposite direction and this time the driver waved at us and got the same reaction.

Given the scarcity of two-car CSX trains, we had to assume it was a Folk Fest special.

Right on time, Mavis Staples came out, a fireplug of a woman in a black dress with a hot pink wrap jacket, ready to dazzle the crowd, some of whom had been waiting in place through one or two previous bands to ensure they got to see her.

We had a fine perch at a crest on the hill and when the couple in front of us decided to pull up stakes, they invited us to take over their prime real estate, although how anyone can walk away when Mavis is singing is beyond me.

Besides singing every song from the depths of her soul, Mavis took on the very festival that had incited her. "This is your 14th festival, and our first time here! What took you so long to invite me?" She also had family in the audience, so she told us all the food they'd brought her - spoonbread, collard greens and black-eyed peas - and called out to each one by name. She was none too happy when she heard cousin George had stayed at home, but assumed he must be in bad shape to pass up hearing her sing.

After talking about her years spent marching with Martin Luther King (and being thrown in jail for it), she sang "Freedom Highway," the song her father Pops Staples had written for the cause. If she'd come out and only sung one song, that would have been the one. I don't think I'll ever forget hearing that voice belt out the anthem of the civil rights movement.

At the song's end, she must have sung, "I won't turn around" 12 or 15 times before stopping the band and yelling, "Because I have come too far!" and I felt goosebumps.

But it got better. "Pops wrote that song in 1962. I was there and I'm still here. I'm a living witness!" Mavis hollered and the mostly older crowd testified along with her.

Hearing the first instantly recognizable funky notes of "Respect Yourself" - mind you, I had the song on a 45 - was like flashing back to my young self when I first heard it. As much as the lyrics had resonated then, hearing Mavis sing, "Take the sheet off your face, boy, it's a brand new day!" in 2018 (when white men just last year marched with tiki torches) all but ensured that the crowd would respond with cheers, applause and raised fists.

And, hopefully, by voting next month.

Add in a line such as, "Keep talkin' bout the President, won't stop air pollution," and we got yet another sad reminder of the current state of affairs.

Then it was back to 1967 and Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth," which caused the middle-aged crowd to sing their hearts out, not that any of us could compare to Mavis' voice.

As the coolness of the evening set in, a stagehand brought Mavis a black scarf and she wrapped it around her neck to warm those golden vocal chords. It also looked quite stylish with her pink-accented dress.

When she promised to take us down Memory Lane, my '70s self knew at once what was next. As the strains of "I'll Take You There," another 45 in my collection, filled the dusk air, I didn't even need to watch Mavis sing. It was enough to take in that song as the sun sank in the west and know that I got to hear Mavis Staples before I died.

Which, given the cold and damp of the Folk Festival, could be any moment now. Oy, is it Spring yet?

Facing Fall

You don't go to 13 out of 14 Folk Festivals without learning that Friday's where it's at.

There's a low-key vibe to opening night that is unlike any other point during the festival. Mac, Mr. Wright and I walked down to the river from J-Ward, arriving not long after 6 and heading straight to Gregory's Grill for crabcake sandwiches and eastern Carolina barbecue.

Overheard along the way was, "I didn't expect anyone to be here yet!" although the speaker looked to be about 17, so I'm not sure her frame of reference for past festivals was wide or particularly deep. Then with sandwiches in hand, we made our way to the Altria stage where Cora Harvey Armstrong was already taking people to church with her gospel singing and piano playing backed by a singing quintet of sisters and nieces.

The ground was too soggy after Hurricane Micahel's wind-swept rains to sit on the hill facing the river, though it didn't stop a woman in shorts and flip-flops. Mac stated the obvious - "Why would anyone wear shorts and flip-flops on a night when it's going down to 49 degrees?" - as the sounds of testifying filled the air.

To make things even more spiritual, the sun was setting behind the Lee bridge and the pedestrian bridge to Belle Isle, filling the sky with streaks of red and purple framed like tableaux between sections of the bridges' supports. Overhead, a sliver of a moon hung in the evening sky and the light posts on the bridge stood in for low-hanging stars.

After a few songs, Cora told her back-up singers to take a break and asked the crowd to call out their requests. "And if I know 'em, I'll sing 'em and if I don't you can go home and sing them to yourself," she laughed.

Launching into "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," I was reminded how that it had been in the song books of my elementary school music classes - with a notation that it was a "Negro spiritual" - that we used to sing.

I'd bet my bottom dollar that children in elementary schools today no longer are taught Negro spirituals.

After singing five requests and trying to control the crowd's enthusiasm for suggesting more - "I'm gonna get to that one, just let me sing this one first" - she told the adoring audience that we should donate generously to the bucket brigade and she'd come back again and "play more of your songs."

"Come on, ladies!" she called to her backup singers and went back to her set list after introducing her band and singers and explaining how each one was related to her. Like me, Cora was from a family of all girls and shared a story she said her sisters tell her not to. "Daddy said he turned that bed every which way but he never did get a boy."

I have no doubt my Dad could relate to that.

By the time she got to the closer, a song about loving Jesus, the guy behind me was saying, "She's like going to church two days early!" Obviously he'd missed the part where Cora had told us that she's an ordained Baptist minister.

After scoring some sticky toffee pudding from the fish and chips truck, we slogged through mud behind Tredegar to get to the Community Foundation stage to see the first female kora virtuoso in the history of Gambia.

A friend had warned the Facebook world, "Don't sleep on this one," and he's someone whose musical advice I take. Thanks, Michael, for the best advice of the day.

Sona Jobateh came out in a spectacular Gambian full-length dress of deep reds, greens, gold and black, strapped on the 21-stringed instrument and proceeded to blow the mind of everyone under the tent and probably standing outside it, too.

She immediately became my spirit animal when she announced, "It's good to be here, but it's cold!" Amen, honey, I'm suffering every second with this abrupt switch to fall post-Michael. When Mac showed up in jeans and a top with jacket in hand, I'd detailed my many layers - slip, dress, sweater, scarf, jacket, shawl - and she'd scoffed. "Really, Karen? Really"

Yes, really. By the end of the evening, I was grateful for every single layer.

But Sona made me forget my cold hands and feet with a robust performance of Gambian music, new and traditional, and a fluidity on all those strings that no doubt belied how challenging it was to play. At one point, she brought out her son to play a vibes-like native instrument to accompany the band.

Her guitar player was stellar and his Carlos Santana-like guitar face was every bit as good. During one song, she faced off with each of her musicians - bass, guitar, drums and percussion - matching their rhythms note for note. Other songs, she taught the crowd the words and encouraged us to sing along.

But is was seeing and hearing this beautiful, talented woman play an instrument that for centuries has only been played by men that blew our minds. Mac suggested that it was the phallic nature of how the instrument is worn - it juts out from the pelvis, attached to a heavy leather strap - that had made it off limits to women for so long.

Regardless, sitting under the tent atop that hill, listening to Sona and her band play epitomized everything that is magical and wondrous about the Folk Festival. If not for the organizers, I could have gone my whole life without ever hearing griot played by a master. A female master, so even better.

Oh, and that one out of fourteen festivals that I missed? I was in Italy that year and if anything excuses a Folk Fest absence, it's world travel.

Still, Richmond was where I wanted to be last night.

Music is a Woman

I'd been remiss in my global folk.

Although I've been at the Folk Fest the last two days, I'd yet to see anything but American music. Oh, it had been some fine American folk music - Memphis soul, western swing, soul blues, go-go, zydeco - but I couldn't be happy with my festival experience without hearing music from further afield.

It's not like the world revolves around this country.

So after the disappointment of finding that my Sunday Washington Post wasn't waiting for me on the front porch, I set out for the river, hoping to beat some of the slow-moving hordes on the Folk Fest's final day.

At the Westrock stage, I slid into a seat adjacent to a large, multi-generational Iranian clan to see Shaba Motallebi and Naghmeh Faramand school us in their instruments - Shaba on tar, a long-necked stringed instrument and Naghmeh on goblet drum and frame drum - and play classic Persian music, which we were told was all about improvising.

Shaba played a song she wrote during the birth of her second child and dedicated it to all the mothers in attendance, saying afterward that she always relives the birth when she sings that song.

Explaining how a tar was made (they're only made for a specific person and only after the maker has seen them play), she mentioned walnut and mulberry being used for the frame and the front being made with "baby lamb skin...unfortunately."

Even that disturbing bit of information didn't rouse the green and purple-haired teenager sitting in the row behind me next to her purple-haired mother. She stared stonily ahead to show her Mom her disdain for the being at the Folk Fest (or perhaps just for a mother with purple hair).

We also heard about the daf, a frame drum comprised of a large circle of goatskin in a wooden frame with rings attached to the back so it sounded like two instruments at the same time. Naghmeh shared that because of the way it was played, with hands toward the sky, it was believed to harness the power of nature,

"It sounds like Buddy Rich!" a guy behind me noted once she began playing.

Midway through a classic Persian song that was supposed to segue into improvisation, a ridiculously long coal train rumbled through and after trying to sing and play over it, Shaba gave up. "That's the longest train I ever saw. We'll wait for it to pass."

Not only was it worth it, but the closer was just as beautiful, sung in Farsi and a melding of Persian and Indian music.

The Iranian clan left when their set ended, and were replaced by two older couples, one from Bon Air and the other from New Kent County and they proceeded to argue about the best way to get "that damn horse track" (Colonial Downs) reopened so they could enjoy it again.

"Pass legislation to tax the hell out of the owner, that'll make him sell!" one suggested. Clearly he's never heard the fable about the wind and the sun.

Despite their inane conversation, I stayed put for Nicolae Feraru, a master of the hammered dulcimer, and his Chicago band playing traditional Romanian music that the announcer warned us about. "You're going to hear danger and espionage."

Turns out there were two hammered dulcimer players and a lot of the music did have a sinister sound to it, though not everything they played sounded that way.

Even so, it wasn't long before the man behind me whispered to his friend, "My bride says she wants to go," and they made tracks.

After the first few notes by the accordion player, a woman behind me clapped and grinned. "We finally get a polka!" she squealed and began dancing in her folding chair.

I spotted an old guy dressed as Uncle Sam and carrying the American flag heading toward us and all I could think was, don't let this be about the fact that it's a group of immigrants playing onstage, but happily, he and the Mrs. were just looking for seats in the shade now that the sun had come out.

Wow, there was a time when such a thought never would have crossed my mind, but that was before last November 8th.

Heading up the hill, I managed to not only catch the last part of Innov Gnawa's set of Moroccan trance, but run into a former Balliceaux regular I used to see almost weekly. He's still lamenting the loss of regular jazz in his neighborhood, but was willing to settle for another beer to lighten the mood and catch up.

At that point, I was finished with the Folk Fest, having earned my global credits in one fell swoop of an afternoon (and feeling pretty good about it), but not with the subject of music entirely.

That was because the Richmond Jazz Society was bringing Duke Ellington's granddaughter to town today as part of the "Virginia Jazz: The Early Years" exhibit currently at the Valentine and I had a ticket to be there.

Although she's a talented and well-respected dancer and choreographer, of course what people wanted to hear about was life with her grandfather, who asked his own son to dye his gray hair brown so as to make Sir Duke not seem so aged.

Sure that such a man wouldn't dig being called Grandpa, Mercedes asked him what he wanted her to call him. He suggested "Uncle Edward" and he forever called his granddaughter "Aunt Mercedes." That's some serious male vanity right there.

She shared stories about growing up in Duke's orbit because she was raised by her grandmother in New York City and went to a Catholic school where she learned Irish jigs and reels (predecessors to tap dance, she said) and a love of dance was spawned.

There were stories of Sir Duke's favorite singer, Ella Fitzgerald, babysitting her and how, because the band toured year round, any time they were playing in NYC, it was a celebration for the families with presents and fried chicken.

When asked about being around so many musicians, Mercedes diplomatically said, "They were unique. I was going to say strange," and went on to clarify based on "Uncle" Edward's theories.

Trombone players were "very slippery" and sax players who didn't play any other reed instrument were "not very bright." Bass players were "the salt of the earth" and "drummers were fine after they'd had their first nervous breakdown."

It was a good thing it was a mostly older crowd when the subject of the old Jackie Gleason show came up, because no one else would remember the show's June Taylor Dancers, of which Mercedes was the first and only black member, eventually moving to Miami when the show began taping there.

Given that she began dancing with the troupe in 1963, she had plenty of stories that reflect the sad state of race relations in this country.

Trying to rent an apartment in Miami, the landlord took her friend aside to ask "what" Mercedes was. The friend said she was Hawaiian so she got the lease. Traveling with family to Hawaii after a 7-month gig in Australia performing "West Side Story," a woman on the beach wanted to know why she was there since she didn't need a tan.

The mortification of being a white person never ends.

She reminded the room of rapt listeners that Duke always advocated for "a mixed bag of people" and made sure his orchestra had both black and white musicians. The Broadway musical based on his songs, "Sophisticated Ladies" was likewise cast.

His advice to his granddaughter was to move to Europe because there were more opportunities there for blacks and that home is where the work is. His mantra, Mercedes said, was to keep moving.

On that point, Duke Ellington and I are in full agreement. I don't know know how else you could describe my day...or even my life.

Meanwhile, like with an annoying train, I just wait for the interruptions to pass.

One Is More Than Enough

You can ask me to do many difficult things, but walking slowly is not one of them.

And, sadly, at the Richmond Folk Fest, there are frequent times when I am forced to walk at the snail's pace of humanity. It is excruciating, I can assure you.

And that was after I tried traversing the block along Second and Grace where a quintet of skateboarders had made it their own this Saturday afternoon. A guy walked by me, warning, "You better walk faster, this is now a skate zone."

Then he leaned in chuckling, saying, "Ain't never seen a guy with a gray beard on a skateboard." Clearly you don't spend enough time in certain parts of the city, then. I know 50-somethings who still skate regularly.

Because a writing deadline had kept me from making it down to the Folk Fest until the shank of the afternoon, I was bound to wind up in the crush of music fans heading across the bridge to Brown's Island at the exact same moment (side note: how do people stand to walk that slowly?).

By the time I reached the dance pavilion, I'd run into the radio show host, my favorite hippie musicians, a WRIR DJ and two musicians in search of the best world music. Before the day was over, I also saw the printmaker and her husband, one of my first blog fans and her man, the bookseller and my neighbor, in a particularly gregarious mood after 4 beers (and on his way to score his fifth).

My arrival was ideally timed to find a spot on the dance floor barely four people back from the stage that gave me a bird's eye view (minus his feet) of Memphis soul singer Don Bryant and his band the Bo-Keys, who played without Don on the first song to build the anticipation.

Then the dapper Don joined them and you could just see the joy of performing radiating from his face. This is a 75-year old man who put out his first album in 1969 and his second this summer, a man still marveling at his good fortune.

He kicked off their set by measuring out the ingredients he was going to need - four tablespoons of Memphis guitar, a cup of fatback drumming, a pinch of organ (I was especially taken with the organist's showmanship: every time his hands left the keys, he yanked them back dramatically, as if he'd touched something hot and beamed a smile) - and began strutting and dancing like a man half his age.

As far as I could tell, his only concession to age was alternating a barn burning song with a slow jam to allow him to catch his breath.

When I'd interviewed him a few weeks ago, he'd told me his show would be all about the love and he wasn't kidding. The set included songs about doubting your partner, jealousy, being hurt by love and being true and the ones that weren't danceable were perfect for swaying to, slow dance-style.

Don's voice, honed by years of singing gospel, had no problem producing notes high and low that got the crowd screaming in appreciation. "Don't Turn Your Back on Me" gave us possibly his best lyric:

I'm doing the best that I can
Remember, I'm only a man

Don't worry, we never lose sight of that. Then, just to prove he's still nothing but a man, he closed with "One Ain't Enough (and Two's Too Many)," entreating the adoring crowd to sing along and offering the mic to a few people up front to sing the classic line about having too few or too many women.

Crossing the footbridge after his set ended, I heard a terrified-sounding woman tell her children about the overcrowded bridge, "We're all gonna die." Quality parenting at its best.

Dropping money in one of the Folk Fest's orange buckets to earn my Saturday sticker, I was caught off guard when the guy bearing the bucket threw his arms around me, then turned to the crowd, shouting, "Cheap stickers, free hugs!"

After scoring a foil-wrapped Maryland-style crabcake, I headed up the hill to the Community Foundation stage and soon ran into a DJ/musician friend heading away. I was incredulous that he wasn't staying for Be'la Donna, the all-women go-go group from D.C. I'd been looking forward to all day.

"Doesn't sound like go-go to me," he grumbled. I didn't take him for an expert on all-women go-go groups and kept going to find a better view.

Besides having great hair and all the energy in the world, these women were dressed to impress in bright dresses and tops that made for an explosion of color as they sang, danced and played in high-heeled lock step, singing, "They don't love you like I love you" and doing shout-outs to prove it.

No question it was hot onstage and one of the singers used a large folding fan to cool herself off in between stints at the microphone.

Near where I was standing watching, a mother with an affection for go-go began dancing in circles around her mortified teen-aged daughter who couldn't even look her mother in the eye as she gyrated. A better question might have been, how could the daughter not be moving at all to such an infectious beat?

When their set ended, I began walking, only to hear my name called and see my favorite part time server/professor beckoning me over to meet her friend ("Karen's not too cool to go to a poetry reading," she assured him) and catch up. Before it was all over, we'd covered a multitude of unmentionable topics before moving on to going to Godfrey's Latin night later and the demise of the Virginia State Penitentiary that once stood near where we did.

It's what we like about each other: our interests swing widely.

Walking back up the hill toward home, who should I run into again returning for a second stab at the Folk Fest, but the two musicians with a taste for world music? Turns out they'd taken my advice and parked on my block before hoofing it down rather than wasting time trying to park downtown.

Still, at a festival teeming with people, it was amazing to happen on the same two twice in one day.

With enough music under my belt to be able to live with myself, I finished out the night at the Comedy Coalition to watch three of the house teams do long form improv. It was completely different than what 'd been doing since yesterday and for that reason, it was a fine way to close out my day.

The Johnsons' cue was "planetarium" and that sent them off riffing on scarecrows hitting on people in a corn maze ("Don't flatter yourselves. I said I had pimento cheese!") and a married woman making a Jolene-esque plea to her husband's first wife so he'd pay attention to her instead.

Dollar Machine, in their last performance ever, got "basement" as their starting point, which took us to hoarders, colonies of feral cats and hamsters being buried in Crystal Light containers. Just as funny were alley trolls who put strolling daters to various tests (like demonstrating second base) to see if they'd make sound couples.

If only such a thing could be determined so easily in an alley.

Last up was Big Bosses, comprised of the Coalition's heavy hitters, long time staff and teachers, making light of a phrase from a bad Christmas movie, "It's turbo time!" which quickly became, "It's justice week!"

Before long, we were enmeshed in comedy involving Superpowers like Single Dad Man, Subtraction Man and Inquisition Man and a reporter who persisted in saying, "I'm from the local papes" before taking notes.

A character named Dick Cheney was the bad guy (casting to type), fixing the 2000 election and killing anyone who disagreed with him. These days, you laugh so you don't cry.

But only after you've danced to a Memphis soul singer reminding you to never give up on love. His rationale? "Love's not giving up on you!"

Is that a promise? Because I would be willing to walk slower to make it so.

Of Hens and Brisk Slips

I stretched for the stars and I know how it feels to reach too high, too far, too soon. Even so, I intend to see the whole of the moon.

With two articles to write today, I skipped my morning walk and got right to it. Doing research for a quote, I came across one of those beautifully written sentences that stay with you, this one by  F. Scott Fitzgerald: They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.

I'm not sure what's more romantic about that, the speed or the inability to resist, so I want to think about it some more.

In early afternoon I was interrupted by the phone ringing and answered to find a pollster at Roanoke College on the line. I tried to beg off, but allowed myself to be cajoled into doing it for the sake of representing the intelligent voter.

When she got to a question about my opinion of 45, I eschewed choices of approve, disapprove or no opinion to deliver a scathing indictment of a lunatic. "We're not supposed to say this, but I agree with you!" she  laughed. "God, it's so refreshing to hear someone answer like you just did."

How, honestly?

Facebook had alerted me that a DJ at WRIR who'd been at the Paul Weller show Saturday was devoting his entire show to a tribute to the Modfather, so once my work was finished, I tuned in to hear rare, alternate and acoustic versions of his songs mixed in with similar artists.

Some sets were so achingly perfect: solo Weller on "Into Tomorrow," Style Council's "Walls Come Tumbling Down" and the Jam's cover of "Heat Wave" segued seamlessly into the Waterboys' "Whole of the Moon," and it was such a beautiful musical flow, I just sat there smiling in appreciation, unable to do anything but listen.

That's some well-curated music, son.

Toward the end of the show, the DJ (who, I'll admit, I've known for 25 years), was tripping over his tongue after so much rhapsodizing about the show and Weller's music, not that it wasn't warranted.

Sounding utterly smarmy, he made a wisecrack about his tongue being too big, and amended that to say it wasn't always a bad thing. "If you know what I mean...and, frankly, I think that you do," he cracked hilariously before thanking listeners for joining him in basking in the afterglow of the Weller show.

I'll bask as long as you play, good sir.

It was damp and getting dark when Mac showed up to trek with me to the Richmond Folk Fest and besides desperately needing the walk, the visuals were stellar with the city looking atmospherically romantic with fog and muted lights along the bridges and canal.

The hordes hadn't yet arrived, so we easily made our way to a row of food vendors where she got a banh mi and, from La Milpa, I chose Mexican-style shredded chicken tacos that sang with the flavors of onions, lime juice, cilantro and white cheese. No sour cream or salsa to be found.

We ate our meals at a community table under a tree with leaves still attached rustling in the night breezes. When I commented on how positively musical the wet, green leaves sounded - completely unlike the rustling of dry brown leaves on a tree - the stranger across from me (notable because she and her companion were first-time Folk Fest attendees) agreed. "Yes, it's like music."

From there, we headed to the Westrock stage to see Hot Club of Cowtown's stylish pastiche of hot jazz and western swing.

There was a pink-collared dog onstage and the bass player (who looked like a cross between a young Patrick Swayze and Chris Isaac) was wiping the strings on his upright bass, presumably to dry them off in the 100% humidity.

The Austin trio played Richmond 10 years ago when it was the National Folk Fest, has now been together 20 years and their polished set showed that with a helluva range of songs: "I'm an Old Cowhand" to "The Continental" to "Big Balls in Cowtown," I kid you not.

After thunderous applause, the bass player (the front of his shirt soaked with sweat from slapping that bass so hard) noted, "Maybe we need to come back here more than once every 10 years!" and while that seems logical, I question how many in the audience would come see the band if it was at a local venue and not in the sheltered confines of the Folk Fest.

Just an observation.

As we sat under the tent surrounded by hundreds of people, we could feel a cool breeze blow across us from the river every few minutes, a reminder that fall is trying to assert itself.

We hurried over to the dance pavilion to catch the end of C.J. Chenier and the Red Hot Louisiana Band's crowded set because Mac loves zydeco, before crossing the bridge to leave the island (where we passed a young woman telling her friend, "I would just give him a blow job") and heading up the hill to the Altria stage for soul blues - a genre based in gospel - courtesy of Eddie Cotton, Jr.

The blues master announced from the stage that he was about to "turn this place into a juke joint," which would've been a real accomplishment considering that we were on a steep, grassy hill, but he did a damn fine job of trying.

Unfortunately, we landed next to a guy who chose the same spot to talk non-stop to his companion for 45 minutes straight.

"That's the thing," he explained patiently to her as if she cared. "Other women tempt me." Apparently they also dump him or turn out to be transgender and he explained how often both had happened to him loudly, along with his theories on why.

Mac and I could have moved, I suppose, but we had a lamp post to lean on, a clear view of the band and enough optimism to think he'd eventually shut up. We were wrong.

Meanwhile Eddie sang out, "Hey, Richmond, let's have some fun! You only get one life, then you're done," a philosophy I embrace wholeheartedly. His music ensured that the crowd would be moving non-stop and his voice harnessed the power of church singing.

During another song he asked all the men who were in love to raise their hands. "How many of you are henpecked?" he asked and many hands went down.

"There's nothing wrong with being henpecked as long as you're pecked by the right hen!" he told them and a few hands went back up. Nothing like a blues master to set the menfolk straight.

"Okay, on the count of four, I want everyone to get up and shake something!" he demanded, causing even the Baby Boomers to shake their aging tail feathers, some more appealingly than others.

For that matter, Mac and I couldn't hep but notice that you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a middle-aged man at the Folk Fest, so it could be a good place to meet fellow music lovers of the male persuasion who aren't yet in love.

Recovery from intimacy is optional, if you know what I mean. And, frankly, I think that you do.

Bog Spot dot Com

My life writes itself.

As if I would pass up the opportunity to see Maceo Parker and Daddy G in a hurricane? Puh-leeze. But the friend who was meeting me was of a different persuasion.

Dang! I'm not walking anywhere in this bullshit. It's POURING!
According to Accuweather it's going to clear up shortly.

Which it most certainly did not, but that's hardly the point.

Those who plan their life around the temperature and precipitation are doomed to miss all kinds of wondrous things, but also, they are forever in my mind labeled weather wimps.

With one of my larger umbrellas in hand, I hoofed it to the Richmond Folk Festival without knowing if my friend would show or not, despite me leaving back-up instructions should he decide to brave the monsoon later.

The walk was a lot like parkour because I was constantly  jumping over puddles, fording streamlets and having to negotiate ledges and curbs to avoid getting further soaked.

And if I thought it was bad on city streets and sidewalks, I was completely unprepared for the quicksand-like miasma of Tredegar and Brown's Island's once-grassy fields and dirt pathways.

I'd just stepped onto the muddy mess of Gary Gerloff Way when I spotted everyone's favorite banjo player leaving, but, as he said, for the very best of reasons: to go home to his four-day old baby.

He got a pass.

After dropping my contribution in the bucket, I headed up the steps at Tredegar behind a guy who already had a napkin wedged into the heel of his boot to address a festival blister, only to realize I'd reached the wrong stage.

The trade-off was running into a wine rep friend on the way out, feeling guilty about bailing because of rain so he gifted me with his Folk Fest map to help avoid future navigational errors.

Moseying back down the steps, I made my first stop at Urbanna Crabcakes for, what else, a crabcake sandwich (and the pleasure of hearing the kid behind the table bark at the kitchen staff's adults, "CrabCAKE!" like a drill sergeant) and passed the time while they were making it by watching two FF volunteers take possession of their fried oyster boats.

The woman took hers to the table and promptly covered the bivalves and fries with ketchup, then cocktail sauce, then hot sauce and finally tartar sauce.

X-ray glasses would have been the only way to see the oysters for the condiments.

Just as I'm concluding that she must really hate the taste of oysters, she holds up a squirt bottle, raises an eyebrow at her companion and a look of panic crosses his face.

"Er, no, um, I like them the way they are," he tells her, clutching his fried oyster boat closer to protect it from her saucy invasion.

Walking to a hospitality tent to sit down and eat, I lost my shoe for the first time when mud sucked it clean off my foot, setting the tone for the entire evening and future lost shoes. On the up side, the crabcake was outstanding: large, sauteed to a golden brown and resting on a boat of fries.

Fortified, I walked over to our Plan B meeting place but after seeing no sign of my weather wimp friend, took the higher bridge to Brown's Island where I spotted a "Don't NOVA my RVA" bumper sticker on a bridge support as I went by.

Yes, for the love of all that is sacred, please don't.

But what I also noticed from the bridge's high point as I looked around at the silvery gray canal, sky and river along with the bridges and sidewalks bustling with pedestrians was that Richmond was having its London moment and all those weather wimps were missing it.

I was headed to the Dominion Dance Pavilion for the foreseeable future, feeling confident because it's a covered stage, but I had no clue as to what awaited me.

Located at the far end of Brown's Island near the trail for my beloved Pipeline Walkway, it clearly sat at a low point on the island, meaning a moat had formed on three sides of the wooden dance floor that had been laid.

I slogged through to a seat and was immediately reminded me of my amateur status when a pro and his wife arrived and a hand towel appeared from his pocket to dry their seats before sitting down. So very civilized.

Just as I was beating myself up for not having done the same, the woman next to me complimented me on my bell bottoms and I forgot practicality entirely for a compliment from a stranger.

Her husband warned me off attempting to cross the area to their right to get to the dance floor because of how deep the water and mud were. I only needed to see one guy attempt it to realize that people needed to be warned away from it.

I did my best, but watching insistent types try to cross it anyway provided a lot of entertainment for the three of us. Before long, people were taking selfies of their feet and legs buried past their ankles in the mud baths and by the end of the night, people were bringing friends over to admire the depth of the muck.

When a guy appeared to my left and his girlfriend to my right on the dance floor, he waved her around, nailing the situation.

 "It's a bog!" That it was.

Me, I was there to see Gary "U.S" Bonds, who brought his Norfolk sound to the stage and managed to prove within a couple of '60s songs I'd never heard why Springsteen, among others, had been so influenced by his sax-fronted brand of rock and roll.

When Gary asked an audience member where she was from, I couldn't hear the answer, but he apparently had. "Ports-mouth? You're from Ports-mouth? Deal with it!"

When he explained that they were combining several of their early '60s hits into a medley because they hated the songs they'd been playing for a half century, I understood completely.

On a more upbeat note, during a recent visit to Spain involving beautiful beaches and $3 wine, Gary had been told that their song "I Wanna Holler" was number three in Spain, a fact he attributed to "too much cheap wine."

He sounded as amazed as anybody at the news.

But the highlight of the set was when 90-year old Gene "Daddy G" Barge took the stage to sing "Way Back Home, talk about stopping by Oceanview and Church Street and playing the sax like a boss.

Without a doubt, the most sublime moment came when he told of playing with Bonnie Raitt on Oprah's show and, as a tribute to Bonnie, launched into a heartbreaking rendition of her '90s hit "I Can't Make You Love Me" - a song I find so incredibly sad that I never purposely listen to it - on sax.

I'm just going to say that until you've sat under a tent listening to a nonagenarian rip your heart out playing saxophone while a hurricane dumps rain all around you and winds buffet the tent you're under, you haven't had the fullest Folk Fest experience.

While the next band was setting up and more people arrived to pose in the bog, others used it as an open sewer, spitting in it and hocking into it. I had to assume they were raised by wolves.

On a higher plain, I watched as a guy took off his plastic bag raincoat, wrapped it around one of the tent's support poles, tied it in a knot and pushed it high up on the pole so he could return later and claim it.

Easily the most creative coat check I'd ever seen.

Soon I was joined by an artistic friend and music lover (we'd run into each other at Psychedelic Furs and I learned tonight of his abiding passion for punk), at the festival by himself because his main squeeze was at a birthday party, although she also thought he was crazy for going out in this weather for music.

But it's Maceo Parker, I insisted, feeling his need. "That's exactly what I told her," he said. And it's Maceo in a hurricane, so even better, we agreed.

L'Orchestre Afrisa Internationale took over the stage to deliver New World-influenced African music that soon had a band member dancing in a way that white people would call twerking but in reality was African-based in the first place.

Naturally, he also executed it far better than anyone my color could.

Despite the rain and mud on the dance floor, the crowd danced almost non-stop to Congolese music as trains screeched by and rain poured down even harder. My feet were wet and cold, as were my friend's, but we were in this for the duration.

Occasionally, I'd use my umbrella to block the wind-driven rain blowing in the canal side of the tent, but when my friend tried to do the same, the wind turned his umbrella inside out.

Mind you, we were inside the tent.

After their set, a Folk Fest talking head thanked the crowd for being there despite the elements. "You're a hearty bunch to be here in a hurricane! You're the real Folk Fest fanatics!"

I don't know about all that, but I do know every person in the Dance Pavilion braved the weather for the sake of seeing Maceo Parker.

Things got down and dirty fast as he and his impeccably-dressed band and back-up singers (one from James Brown's band and the other his cousin) did a number on songs by James Brown, George Clinton and others I didn't know.

"We only got two songs and this is one of 'em!" Maceo hollered before getting down on "Make It Funky."

It takes two to make things go right
It takes two to make it outasight

"They're really laying it down heavy," my friend commented once Mr. Parker and his trombone player got wailing.

They did Marvin Gay's "Let's Get It On" and his cousin sang lead on "Stand By Me" and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, the sax man was closing by saying, "I'm Maceo Parker!" as if everyone under that tent didn't already know.

Closing with a mashup of "Get On Up" and a reprise of "We Love to Love You," my friend's pleasure at the set was obvious. "I kept expecting James Brown to come out."

That wasn't necessary. It was enough that Daddy G and Maceo came to Richmond in a hurricane and I got to see and hear it.

Dang, it wasn't just all right, it was clean outasight. So I got a little wet. I'll dry.

Outskirts of Love

There we were, Richmond, perfectly at home at our annual Folk Fest.

It's barely been two weeks since some of us were a tad rattled by the UCI bike race, but the Folk Fest? Pros, I tell you; we're pros. We got this.

Especially on a scandalously gorgeous October evening still drawing us in with the embracing heat of summer but the low humidity of Fall. You can even smell it in the air. It's more mature, less eager to please.

Richmond would've been outside tonight even without the festival kicking off, but tonight's weather felt like payback for all those soggy festival days where we showed up anyway and went home partially sodden for the sake of music. I have a (formerly) cute pair of flats that never recovered.

Researched my roots (Irish band the Alt), marveled at how few people were dancing to Cajun music (Bruce Dalgrepont Cajun band) and heard Shemekia Copeland (in 4" pink heels, no less) live for the first time since a 1998 Jumpin' in July show at the old VMFA sculpture garden.

This girl is a woman now. She brought a new kind of wisdom to "Married to the Blues," a song she'd done 17 years ago.

Admired the Richmond Symphony's new portable theater, on display tonight as the Altria Stage where Shemekia sang. I was told by a knowledgeable source that they paid a half mil for it, plus it comes with its own tractor-trailer because where the hell would you store it?

Gelati Celesti's "Just Ask" flavor for the evening? White chocolate, peanut butter and Oreos. The combination sounds repulsive, more like a late night decision to combine the little bits of everything left in the freezer.

Just no. Chocolate decadence will do just fine after that Sherries' crabcake I just devoured.

What does it sound like when the daughter of a legendary blues guitarist goes to Nashville to make a record? She finds out that country music ain't nothin' but the blues with a twang. Having a crack band behind her doesn't hurt, either. Think Keith Richards trying emulate American blues and these guys were sourcing at the same place.

Passing trains are part of the Folk Festival's charm, evidenced by people applauding when one started across the nearest trestle.

Best millennial assessment of tonight's smorgasbord of music to his two buddies after 60 seconds of watching?

"A little higher quality than at Sticky Rice, hm?"

Damn straight, Skippy. Is this your first rodeo?

The Remains of the Days (and Nights)

It was like going to the frat house where the big party had been the night before.

I'm talking about the riverfront after the Folk Fest this weekend.

Sneaking up on the remains of it all by taking 14th Street to the pipeline walkway, I got behind a British couple who've been Richmond residents for three years now.

The paused to let me pass by, presuming I was moving at a faster pace than they were, but instead I stopped to chat with them, learning it was their first time on the pipeline. We gushed about the river views it afforded and the pleasures of rushing water so nearby.

Like me, they'd been to the Folk Fest, but had to leave after seeing only two bands because their kids were getting restless. Today the kids were at school and they were enjoying a leisurely hike.

When the subject of the weekend weather came up, they laughed it off as "English weather," something they were used to. Good for the complexion, that's how I like to look at it. I hadn't minded it a bit.

Since they'd never taken the pipeline up to Brown's Island, they followed me up to see where it came out and then headed back down to the riverfront.

Teams of workers were busy disassembling all the trappings of the Folk Fest on the island - collapsing tents, folding chairs -and while the Dominion Dance pavilion stage was gone, the big dance floor remained so I glided across it, alone on the expanse that had seen so many dancing feet (including my own) all weekend.

Passing a Segway tour group further on, I paused to listen to the guide's spiel, learning something I never knew about the Federal Reserve building: it's a 1/8 scale version of the World Trade Center.

How had I never heard (or noticed) that interesting fact?

Heading up Fifth Street, I turned off on Gary Gerloff Way where a worker was pulling up the protective strips that cover the countless extension cords that went to the nearby stage.

I waited until he drove his little golf cart away and then ran down the hill to the RTD stage and mounted it like I had a right to be there. I may have even taken a bow to the empty field while I was up there.

The way I see it, life is full of opportunities and it's my right to grab them when I see them.

Good for way more than the complexion.

Folk All Day

Not a lot to write about tonight besides Folk Fest version 3.

Lafayette Gilchrist and the New Volcanoes doing a tribute to go-go and D.C. Slick, lunch at Croaker's Spot (chicken wing basket with fries and cornbread), Wild Ponies doing a Patsy Cline cover and the heart-wrenching "Truthless."

A guy in the Port-Potty next to me burping big time and then saying "'scuse me" to no one in particular.

Hip-hop artist Supaman in full native American regalia, spouting corny jokes like a comedian in Atlantic City or, worse, a vaudevillian.

The Mayans who came down the pole on ropes (annoying guy behind me as they wound the ropes: "I hope this isn't going to be super-anti-climatic") and the incomparable Debashish Bhattacharya doing a different set than yesterday to a far noisier crowd. A pity.

Not to mention the Holmes Brothers absolutely killing it with effortless blues musicianship and scratchy old vocals, with me dancing all the while they played.

Random hoodies and t-shirts: "Vegan Muscle Team" and "Abs of Ale." I'll leave it to your imagination what the wearers looked like.

Spotted en route: the man about town, the neighbors pushing a stroller, the sax player, the chef and his co-owner.

Best summation of Friday's opening rainy night performances: "It was a private show for the few."

Another year of Folk Fest over, another year of sterling entertainment. A good time was had all three days.

Still, some days 'tis better to under-share. Pity.

Music Does Intoxicate

Meanwhile, back at the Folk Fest...

What I mean is, of course I went back today, setting out on foot from my house and going down Fifth Street with the throngs of people intent on enjoying music now that the rain had stopped.

I began with Afro-Persian band Ensemble Shanbehzadeh and wasn't there five minutes before running into the former baker and the guitarist/writer, both captured by the activity onstage featuring dancing and large sticks. It was even better when volunteers from the audience joined them, trying to match their movements.

Then it was over to the MWV stage (passing the smart-assed gardener and my J-Ward neighbors) to score a third row seat for Debashish Bhattacharya and family, meaning brother Subhasis, a master tabla player, and daughter Anandi singing.

They're touring behind their new album "Madiera: If Music Could Intoxicate," setting out to prove that we didn't need other substances to get to another place.

I saw Debashish and Subhasis at the Folk Fest back in 2009 (where he'd earned my undying fandom by pronouncing, "Music is a better religious activity than doing anything else") and, like at that show, their timing was so spot on, stopping and starting on a dime simultaneously, that the crowd couldn't help but burst into spontaneous applause throughout the show.

This time, with the addition of Anandi singing so beautifully, it was just as impressive but even more moving.

Explaining that she was going to sing an aggressive song about a king who decided not to marry a courtesan because of the color of her skin, so she "danced like lightening and sang like rain" to show him that his decision would come back to haunt him, she sang like she meant it.

It was a song, she said, that changes with every performance so it can't be written down.

My only complaint with their entire set was ongoing sound problems resulting in ear-bleeding feedback more than a few times. You'd think after ten years of Folk Fests, we'd have sound issues figured out.

After she sang "My Beloved" and her father kissed her on the head, Anandi jumped off the low stage, looking both traditional and contemporary in her pink tunic over black leggings.

Then we were treated to Indian slide guitar and tabla by two brothers who can anticipate each other so superbly that it's like they're a single four-handed musical wizard.

Deebashish told how his mother had been an exceptionally talented singer but that Indian women in the '40s and '50s weren't allowed to perform in public, so she couldn't sing outside the house.

"Now my Mom has a voice in her granddaughter," he said, praising to an already impressed crowd his daughter's talent.

When their set ended, the audience jumped to its feet in a standing ovation much like they'd done that night back in 2009 when I first saw them.

From there, I headed to the Folklife Stage to see the oyster shucking sisters I had interviewed for Style Weekly's Folk Fest issue.

Deborah, decked out in multiple loops of pearls, threw her arms around me and her sister Clementine bragged that they'd seen my piece on them at the hotel last night before they went back to shucking and answering oyster questions.

I spotted two of the local art scene's high priestesses eating lunch from the Goatacado truck and stopped to see what they'd seen so far. They'd attempted the Throwdown on Brown breakdancing competition but it had been mobbed. "The only way we could see anything was in people's phone screens," they reported.

Don't get me started, I'd replied, because the thought of people too busy filming for the future to be present in the moment is the curse of the 21st century.

A stop at the Benevolent Burrito got me a black bean quesadilla with guacamole, pickled slaw and sour cream and as I stood there devouring it, a couple walked up to me and inquired what it was and where I'd gotten it. I like to think I looked like I was enjoying my lunch.

Thus fortified, I showed my colors as the groupie I am, making a beeline for the dancing pavilion to see William Bell. Again.

Okay, yes, I'd seen him last night, although just an hour of his 90-minute performance and I wanted more.

This time I stood rather than sitting, starting out maybe eight people back from the stage and winding up in the third row by the time his set ended.

The emcee told the crowd, "If you aren't with your sweetheart now, you'll wish you were by the end of William Bell's show."

Tell me something I didn't already know.

Immediately, he got everyone moving and grooving to "Easy Coming Out, Hard Going In" (how he got away with that title in 1977, I have no idea) and just kept it up as more and more people kept arriving.

Sure, I heard some of the songs I'd heard last night and absolutely, I enjoyed hearing them live again.

During "You Don't Miss Your Water," a woman in a pink hat in the front row kept making heart signs in Bell's direction until he finally acknowledged her. "I love you, too!"

Because the crowd was so much bigger than last night's there was even more slow dancing going on all around me, but who can resist the soul stylings of William Bell?

"Can I testify a little bit, y'all?" he called out and the audience roared back their assent. Me, I just kept dancing by myself, occasionally getting knocked into my women with big purses or couples caught up in each other.

I stayed for the whole set because I knew it was my last chance to see him and if that makes me a groupie, then so be it.

Even so, I was able to catch the last few songs of duo Kostas Fetfatsidis and Evan Karapanagiotides playing traditional Pontic Greek music that sounded like it came from high on a hill from a sheepherder's lonely perch.

Walking back up to Second Street when they finished, I came upon Supaman, the Indian hip-hop performer, in his full headdress and regalia, waiting to be picked up after his recent performance.

As I walked up the rest of the hill, the wind making me cold, the van with Supaman in it drove beside me. As it should be.I'm just the rabid fan, the groupie, if you will.

I'm all for the talent saving their strength to perform for people like us. I'll even testify to that.

Honest, You Do

So it rained a bit. No one's going to melt.

Rarely do I miss opening night at the Folk Fest and my plans to go alone got a shot in the arm when one of my favorite couples agreed to let me and my umbella tag along.

We parked on Franklin Street, right in front of the Main Library and hoofed it down Second Street to the new amphitheater space.

My friends had yet to experience the fabulous new Brown's Island Way, also know as the connector road, and the view behind the Virginia War Memorial. I like it because standing at the top of it affords a panoramic view of the river grander and wider than any other.

It is steep, though. Because the route down Second Street leads to Belle Isle, it's a terrain I know well since it's one of my regular walks. My friends were less impressed with having to walk down it on a wet evening, something about a near 90-degree angle and wet sidewalks.

That was solved by stopping midway down and taking up roost on a gravel path that allowed a view of Mariachis los Camperos de Nato Cani that was matched only by the four year old in front of us, choreographing a dance to match the Mariachis' music and slyly glancing up to make sure someone was watching him every step of the way.

I obliged and smiled at his spontaneous performance. The kid had some serious moves for a toddler.

Dressed in regional costume, they did music for dancing (and a costumed couple came out and showed us how it was done) and music for romancing (with dramatic vocals guaranteed to win a woman), one after the other.

When they finished, we continued heading lower toward the food and merch tents until we found Sherry's crabcakes out of Charlottesville, done the way I like them: thick and sauteed golden brown. None of this deep-fried crab cake business for me. For god's sake, I grew up in Maryland.

When we each ordered one, the man behind the counter inquired if we all wanted sauce on them. No thanks, I told him, I prefer to taste just the crab. My friends were aghast that I'd go sauce-less, but I got back-up from behind the counter.

"Everybody should get what they want," he said with a smile to me and a raised eyebrow in their direction. So there.

P.S. My crabcake sandwich was delicious just as I ordered it. It was interesting, although there were eight large tables set up along these food tents, we were the only ones who sat down at one, facing a row of empty and wet white tables glowing under the lights.

As I was finishing up my sandwich, I could the hear the distinct sounds of soul music and immediately called it to the attention of my friends. We're going to need to go find that, I said.

When they finished eating, we took the stairs to reach the Community stage and hear William Bell, Stax Studio pioneer. I stood on the wall behind the Lincoln statue and had a terrific view of Bell and his crack band, but my friends decided to sit down inside the tent and I followed.

Immediately sorry I had missed even a moment of his show, I nonetheless was thrilled when the first thing he did was his mega-hit "I Forgot to Be Your Lover."

"Fellas," he said, "I'm doing something for you. Ladies, I want you to listen to me" and then began singing, "Never stop loving me."

Women swooned. To take it over the top, he segued into "You Send Me" and now everybody knew every word. Next came "New Lease on Life," the horn section killing it.

I'm going to start my life all over again
I got a new lease on life, I got a lover and a friend

Before long, a couple standing just outside the tent began slow-dancing under the ropes. It was very sweet.

Pulling out the first song he'd ever recorded at age 17, he let the crowd sing along with him to "You Don't Miss Your Water." During a dramatic pause during the song, he called out, "Somebody play a solo for me!" and the keyboard player obliged.

Introducing his song, "Every Day Will Be Like a Holiday When My Baby Comes Home," he said, "And by come home, I mean to William Bell's house."

Smooth move.

Saying that they'd sold a million and a half of the next song, they played "Tryin' To Love Two" about how that just wouldn't do (no sh*t, Sherlock) and then went seamlessly into "Stand By Me" and "Cupid, Draw Back Your Bow."

That was it, he thanked the crowd "because without you, there would be no me" and left the stage. Happily, the band stayed put and he soon returned for the slow burn of "Everybody Loves a Winner."

It felt like we had just seen a legend and we had. A serious soul legend who'd been making music since 1961 and still had what it takes. Damn impressive.

From there, we wandered back to the Altria stage, running into a sassy and smiling bartender friend, a telephone collector and far too many people with enormous baby strollers trying to navigate wet surfaces.

Once back on that most sloped of hills, we found Boban and Marko Markovic Orkestar, a large Balkan brass band dressed in matching red shirts except for the two soloists out front.

They got to wear faded and holey jeans, clearly a status symbol for a brass player.

You could hear so much in the music - gypsy, tavern, my friend even heard King Crimson - and the crowd went crazy when they recognized the music to "Hava Nagila."

Twice, fans from the audience climbed onstage to dance and show their appreciation for the band while out on the wet grass, the crowd clapped, danced and hollered with as much enthusiasm as the band was putting out.

And when they finished, we weren't left with that sense of loss like at a regular show. The festival will be back for the next two days, so I've got plenty more chances to hear amazing music, with or without friends.

 Sure, it rained lightly a few times and umbrellas came out, but never hard and never long. The air temperature cooperated, hovering in the mid-60s, sweater or light jacket weather. The little white lights crisscrossing the riverfront gave the look of shiny necklaces strung across the Tredegar grounds.

The way I see it, it's just one weekend a year of endless folk music, so neither snow nor rain nor heat, much less gloom of night, is going to keep me from taking in everything I can.

And tonight that was whatever my friends wanted to see. They've got great taste.

RVA, I Love You Back

I gave myself over to the Folk Fest today.

Yes, it was a shame about the rain, although I can't recall a wet FF since the very first one, so we've been very lucky.

Walking down 5th Street, the smell of the river wafted up on the breeze most agreeably. It was going to be a fine day to be waterside.

I was there right when  things got started, taking the Gary Gerloff trail to the Altria stage to see Newfoundland's the Dardanelles.

"This is only our third time in the U.S.," guitarist Tom said as a light rain fell on us and the stage. "We didn't expect anyone to show up. We thought we'd be over there with the kettle corn."

By the middle of their enthusiastic set, a FF volunteer was spreading straw on the field in an attempt to fill puddles.

They did jigs (but not the Irish kind) and bouzouki player Matt showed off his magnificent voice doing a song a capella, rendering the crowd as quiet as the Listening Room.

Afterwards Tom drolly observed, "There's not many crowds who would stand in the rain for an unaccompanied ballad."

It may have been the ultimate crowd compliment.

Next up was polka whiz Alex Meixner who already had people dancing before 1:00 with his wild take on traditional music.

Hands down, my favorite was his rendition of Aaron Copland's "Hoedown" from "Rodeo," a piece I never dreamed I'd hear done polka-style and could hear again tonight.

Near the end of his rollicking set, he yelled, "In 100 years, there'll be no emo music. In 100 years, there'll be no screamo music. But in 1,000 years, there will still be polka!"

You can't argue with the truth.

Alash was a trio of Truvan throat singers, a remarkable, almost primal sound if you've never heard it before.

The pavilion was all but full as the three played unfamiliar instruments and sang "songs about how they can sing," according to the interpreter.

Back at the dance pavilion, the Marshall Ford Swing band got people two-stepping on the slippery, grass clipping-covered wooden dance floor.

But when they did a Texas waltz, people started grabbing their honeys for some slow dancing, Texas-style.

Singer Emily Gimble was the real deal (her Daddy's Johnny Gimble, a swing fiddler of great renown) and her voice went a long way toward their authentic sound.

From there, it was back up the hill for food from La Milpa, a welcome sight since I can't seem to get myself to southside to eat there.

Scoring a steak taco, chicken and cheese empanada and a pork tamale, I took my lunch up to the Community stage for Stooges Brass band.

Two of the musicians pitted the right and left sides of the audience against each other in a noise-making match, which was fun, but I kept thinking that they had nothing on our own No BS Brass band.

The crowd was huge, though, so the New Orleans band must have been doing something right.

I left because I wanted to catch fadista Nathalie Pires, having just this past year discovered fado music with RVA's own fadista.

Her voice was beautiful, although a guy near me said he thought it was lost on the enormous Altria stage, and the songs of longing seemed perfect for a gray, rainy day.

By that point in the day, the ground around the Altria stage felt like a saturated sponge and finding a place to stand was challenging given that I hadn't worn boots.

So once she finished, I was happy to leave there, more so because I couldn't wait to hear Mighty Sam McClain, a 70-year old R & B singer I'd interviewed for Style.

From the second he opened his mouth, I was in thrall to his gorgeous voice, an instrument he discovered at 13, but one he'd been using all his life in church and in the cotton fields.

He was dressed in a tuxedo jacket and jeans and moved awfully well for a septuagenarian, executing hip thrusts, head bobs and shoulder shakes to punctuate his songs.

Things got funky fast and all around me people were dancing which seemed to please Sam.

After every song, there was major applause, hooting and hollering and each time, Sam smiled handsomely and said, "I love you back!"

Eventually he said, "I'm gonna squat, like B.B. King," and sat down on a stool for a slow song about love.

"If you're gonna love, you're gonna feel some pain," he warned. Amen to that.

Things got going again with "New Man in Town," a song he said had been used a dozen times on "All McBeal," and a song that got him dancing in place.

The crowd went nuts when the band started covering Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground," sending the funk factor off the charts.

The band got the word that their time was up and people yelled for them to keep going.

Sam dutifully closed with a short song and thank-you to his maker before shaking hands and leaving the stage with the black towel he had used throughout the set to wipe the cascading sweat off his bald head and face draped over one shoulder like a the star that he is.

My last stop was back up the hill for Spanish Harlem Orchestra, a band the Folk Fest has been trying to get for nine years.

The only downside was that by then the field was a marsh and there was absolutely nowhere to stand that didn't involved my feet being partially submerged.

I wasn't going to miss this amazing salsa band, so I backed up to the gravel path, sacrificing a close-up view for the sake of a hard surface to stand on.

Bandleader Oscar Hernandez kicked things off and the percussion never let up which should have been a very god thing but the field was way too wet to dance.

I feel certain my Bronx-born, Puerto-Rican friend Gerry would say that it's just wrong to listen to salsa dura when dancing is not an option.

But we had no choice and the music was hip-shakingly stellar, as evidenced by how many Richmond musicians were in the crowd.

By the time I headed back up the Gary Gerloff trail, my shoes were soaked through (and even so, a woman next to me at SHO had pointed at them and told me they were such cute shoes), my feet were cold from being wet so long and I was ready to take a break from the festivities for a bit.

Every year we rave about how lucky we are to have this annual celebration of music right in our back yard.

And every year, I am in awe of those who make it happen, choosing myriad musical stylings to expose us, to enthrall us, to make us shake our booty, and to make us remember just how wonderful it is to spend three days celebrating music of the world.

There aren't many crowds that would stand in the rain all day long just to hear music they've never heard before.

We're a credit to ourselves, my friends.

Meat Comas and Clarinets

If you're going to party after the Folk Fest, may I suggest it's with a klezmer band.

I took yet another Folk Fest virgin to the festival tonight, although we saw nowhere near as much music as I had last night with my first newcomer.

It may have been because tonight's companion was not a musician.

It may have been the larger crowds making movement more difficult or it may have been that after having seen six bands last night my choices were more limited.

But we still managed to hear music.

The highlight tonight was the Malian group Bassekou Kouyate and Ngoni Ba, who got a late start because setting up their sound system took forever.

Apparently their unique instruments were quite a challenge to mic, but once they got started, the crowd was right behind them, clapping and dancing.

But I could tell my friend was losing interest, so we made Mali our last stop.

After I dropped the newbie off, I headed over to Buzz and Ned's BBQ to join a Klezmer band after-party.

After their Folk Fest set, Winograd's Nue Tanznoyz Kapele and dancer Steven Weintraub were being feted by Buzz with ribs, brisket and appropriate liquor and in return, they were playing for the party.

Arriving, I discovered a bar comprised of  Slivovitz (made from "ripe and sound Damson plums") and Becherovka, a digestif made with herbal bitters.

Because who would want to use unsound plums for liquor?

While I was told of the significance of them and even tasted these spirits of the Jews, I was happiest to find Cazadores right next to them.

I happen to know that the bass player (and Buzz himself) are tequila fans, so I felt no guilt in forsaking the traditional for the agave.

When the band arrived at Buzz and Ned's, the first thing they did was perform a song while the amazed customers put down their ribs and stared.

Steven, the dancer in the group,  pranced about with a scarf enticing women to join him.

Once that was out of the way, we all sat down at the big picnic tables to eat...and eat.

Plates of succulent ribs were followed by a brisket as big as my thigh (and far more tender) and potato salad, macaroni and cheese, onion rings, hush puppies and I don't even remember what else.

At one point, the bass player looked at me and said, "Jewish people never eat this well."

Or so much pork, I'm sure.

Buzz himself carved the brisket from a picnic table and we didn't even bother with plates or utensils.

People grabbed the chunks and slices they wanted as they were sliced.

Sliced onion was available for the Texans

Once the band was sated, and it took a while, they grabbed their instruments and again began playing.

By the second song, there were two accordion players and one clarinetist standing on picnic table benches playing while their brethren played from the floor.

Multi-level Klezmer.

Then they went inside the restaurant to play for the staff who was busy cleaning up once the last customer left.

"That never happens," one of the servers later told me.

Steven got more women to dance and eventually a circle dance formed.

All but three bites of the brisket got eaten.

Less than two inches of Slivovitz remained out of the two bottles that started the party.

One of the musicians told me that "A clarinet is a voice and it tells the story of the Jewish people."

I didn't exactly dance on a picnic table, I merely sat on one.

And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Good God, Paul, Never?

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but I have a musician friend who had never been to the Folk Fest.

Not during the three years it was the National Folk Fest and not during the three years since RVA took it over.

Good god, I had no choice but to pop that cherry for him.

In my effort to ensure that he enjoyed himself, we saw six of the seven performances tonight, requiring that we we cross back and forth between the hill and Brown's Island four times.

Luckily, neither of us minds a walk.

We began under the "Richmond at its Best" banner with Cape Breton duo Mary Jane Leonard and Wendy MacIsaac doing their new/old take on Scottish music.

Introducing a Gaelic love song, Mary Jane explained the lyrics she'd be singing in Gaelic. Girl loves boy, boy dumps girl, girl is heartbroken, Mom says if he returns she won't be sad.

"That's as upbeat as Gaelic love songs get," she said to laughter.

Jamaica's The Mighty Diamonds were next for us and their first song was a perfect analogy for the pastiche that is the Folk Fest.

This reggae band, who've been around since 1969, started with their version of Dave Brubek's "Take 5" from 1959.

Not that I knew that.

And therein lies the beauty of having a musician as a festival companion, even if he was a first-timer.

Our initial trip across the bridge was for Qi Shu Fang Peking Opera, a spectacle to be sure.

Part acrobatic with gravity-defying flips, part theatrical with elaborate costumes and staged fights, and completely compelling music with instruments I couldn't identify, it was a huge crowd pleaser, especially for the novice.

Our first foray into the dance pavilion was for Pedrito Martinez Group doing Afro-Cuban house party music that had more than a few people dancing.

Late in their set, a band member asked the crowd, "Who's going to come up here and dance with me?"

"I'm pretty sure it's not going to be me," my companion said drolly.

Two women made the cut before Pedrito removed his shirt to cool down from all the dancing and percussion-playing he was doing.

From behind me, I heard a mild-mannered-looking woman say, "I want that shirt!"

Which is to say, the band had the crowd seriously worked up.

It was a very different crowd for 74-year old blues guitarist Magic Slim and his group the Teardrops, who, while he needed to sit to play, still managed to impress on the guitar.

The last performance of the evening was Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys doing the Cajun thing back at the dance pavilion.

By that point in the evening, the tent was filled and enough alcohol had been consumed that lots of people were dancing.

One guy had his hat tied to his arm, a half-finished bag of popcorn tied to his belt, a big-old fanny pack actually on his fanny ("Probably full of gorp," my friend observed) and light-up Mardi Gras beads around his neck, but was dancing sweetly with his wife in spite of his pack load.

There were also plenty of girl couples dancing, either because they'd come with girlfriends or their men-folk didn't want to dance.

As we stood near a support pole for the tent listening to the accordion and multiple fiddles, my friend mentioned that he might resort to dancing with it.

I'd already instructed him not to tell anyone that he was a first-timer since I had a reputation to maintain.

"Oh, my status as a first-timer is the least of your worries," he'd assured me. "I could ruin your reputation any number of ways."

Now I realize he was talking about doing a pole dance to Cajun music.

That would have been a rookie mistake. Fortunately, he'd been warned.

But what a picture that would have been for one of the many Folk Fest photographers.

Richmond at its best indeed.

Is It Warm or Is It Me?

Oops, I did it again. I went back to the Folk Fest to hear and see more intriguing music and I allowed myself to be sucked in by the Persian's pink bagpipes and hips. Forgive me for my weakness, for which I make no apologies.

Today I got on the Danny Train, as my friend likes to refer to himself, because he hadn't yet made it down to the festival. We parked early and easily and were in place in the second row for Capoeira Luanda with half an hour to spare and time to cruise the food booths before the Brazilians took the stage.

We picked up some candied almonds at the Oktoberfest booth and settled in for the national sport of Brazil. I was fascinated to learn that the art of the moves developed as a disguise for the Africans to practice martial arts without their colonial Portuguese masters being aware.

The restraint, the control and the athleticism of the performers literally took my breath away...and more than once. Their lithe bodies seemed to bend and hold in unimaginable ways before snapping back to normal without ever making contact with the other bodies on stage.

Picture a handsome man in a handstand position doing scissor kicks upside down across the stage. Truly the "gentle warriors" that were described and a thing of beauty to witness.

Afterwards we got Thai food from Carytown's Ginger Thai and trudged up the hill to eat lunch before seeing Otrov, a group of Croatian-American musicians paying gypsy bluegrass music, if such a thing can be imagined (and if we've got gypsy punk, why not gypsy bluegrass?). They employed five different fretted string instruments and sang in their native tongue in voices easily imagined in a tavern.

And because I'm weak and because I'd already run into three people who'd agreed that Ensemble Shanbehzadeh had stolen the festival, I took the D-Train to the Dominion Stage for a repeat performance. The MC made the comment that over the weekend, the band "has become as popular in Richmond as it is unpopular with its native government." High praise indeed.

I was gratified to hear from the female half of the couple who had hosted the ensemble earlier in the week that when she suggested that the pink bagpipe had a sensual quality to it, Shanbehzadeh openly acknowledged, "Not just sensual, sexual."

Yes well, I certainly had noticed. Just like I'd noticed other repeat female audience members besides myself today.

What a lovely hot afternoon at the Folk Fest. Perhaps I should have brought a fan.

Folk Me

What's the best thing about the Richmond Folk Fest over the National Folk Fest? That would be the increasing focus on international music and tonight provided a an unparalleled kick-off to that emphasis.

I was meeting a favorite couple, so I arrived just before 6:30 to stake out the best seats (second row center) for a 7:15 show. Already in place in the same row was a guy looking as eager as I no doubt did, who immediately engaged me in conversation. He turned out to be a drummer who recently moved back to RVA from Colorado after 8 years away.

You can imagine what a conversation starter that was! He's just discovering all the changes in our music scene since he was last here and he was terribly impressed when he learned how often I'm out for live music ("I wish everyone was like you.") and asked for recommendations on local bands to check out. Happy to oblige, friend.

After last year's Folk Fest performance by Debashish Bhattacharya, here, I knew that if I was only going to see one performance this weekend, it was going to be Zakir Hussain playing tabla. As my handsome Indian friend (and half my couple date) had told me, the man is a maestro.

Midway through his first piece, the audience began clapping and cheering during one especially fast part, causing Hussain to throw out his hands in a "What are you people doing?" gesture. I had been wondering the same thing since they were drowning out the man's playing.

During the next piece, he was even clearer with the overly-noisy and enthusiastic, admonishing them "I'll tell you when to clap." Of note was that the sizable Indian contingent of the audience knew better than to mar the performance with making noise mid-music.

My new drummer friend, who was not clapping either, said between pieces, "People always do that on a drum solo. They don't know any better." Presumably they did after being told by the maestro.

Hussain had said that all the tabla movement was from the wrist down ("We get tennis wrist.") and at times, his fingers flew so fast they were unrecognizable as digits. His partner, playing the melody, had fingers just as fleet. And it wasn't just me who was left wowed.

After the encore, the drummer turned to me and said, "I can die happy now" with an enormous grin on his face. Drummer nirvana from the second row for both the talented and the mere fan.

That performance alone would have made for an absolutely amazing night, but due to the genius of the programming staff, there was more to come. Ensemble Shanbehzadeh, an Iranian trio, followed with a performance unlike anything I could have imagined.

Leader Saied Shanbehzadeh (now exiled in Paris because he wouldn't alter his music to suit his government) is a master of the double-reed bagpipe, which, I might add, was pink and tasseled. It's hard to describe the magnificence of a man passionately dancing while playing a pink bagpipe between two drummers (one his teenage son).

There may be men with more sinuous dance stylings on the planet, but I doubt you could find a member of tonight's audience who would believe that. From Cossack-style leg kicks to provocative pelvic thrusting and the most fluid hips imaginable on a man, you could almost see the females in the crowd responding.

At one point, the female half of my couple date looked over at me, her eyes enormous and just nodded knowingly at me. I nodded right back. Words weren't necessary, although we came up with a few choice ones later.

Afterwards, I spotted a friend who looked a little glazed and she said, "I need to go find someplace to dance and release some of this pent-up energy after that." I'm quite sure she wasn't the only one feeling that way. The man was a force of nature and the music's raw emotion was captivating.

With a mere 45 minutes to perform, Shanbehzadeh eschewed stage banter, saying only that he "loved people of all countries." He closed the show with, "Next year, all of us in New York!" Don't I wish.

Walking back up 5th Street, the handsome one suggested Lemaire to finish off the evening with wine, cocktails, cheeses and beef tartare. Since we'd been engrossed in music all evening, it was really our first chance for extended conversation.

He, like Hussain, is Indian, she's from Ukraine and the ensemble was Persian, making for a most international night at the Richmond Folk Fest.

I couldn't feel any more white-bread or any more thrilled to have witnessed such far-flung talent tonight.

Did I mention those hips?

Black Sheep Leads to Riot Grrls

I made tonight a walking night because today was the last warm day until at least Thursday so I wanted to take advantage of it, not being a fan of fall weather (unlike practically everyone else).

Seems like the last four or five times I'd been to the Black Sheep had been for lunch, so I sashayed over there for dinner and it turned out to be the perfect choice. Tes was waiting tables and Nate from Gull was eating with a visiting musician, so we got to discuss the Debashish Bhatacharya slide guitar performance we'd all three been mesmerized by Saturday at the Folk Fest; I was gratified to learn that they were both as awestruck as I'd been.

For dinner, I chose the General Tso's sweetbreads: quick fried sweetbreads in sweet sauce with spicy Sezchuan peppers, broccoli and white rice. For drinking: Les Heretiques 2008 Carignan, a bio-dynamic wine with an earthy taste and long finish (and yes, I know I should have gotten the Reisling given my dinner order, but I was curious about the grape and wanted to do the groovy bio-dynamic thing). For dessert: the chocolate creme brulee since I hadn't had it in ten whole days (no, really).

Stuffed and feeling pretty good about it, I headed over to Gallery 5 for the showing of "Don't Need You: The Herstory of Riot Grrrl" about the feminist movement of the early 90s that created a way for women to be part of the hardcore scene and not just "hangers" (girls who held the guys' jackets while they performed, moshed or just participated in punk shows). The documentary revealed how the mainstream media co-opted the term and misrepresented the movement in order to sell it to the public, causing the disenchantment and eventual dissolution of it.

The audience was much larger than typically comes to these monthly screenings and not completely female, either. The discussion afterwards showed that there is real curiosity among younger women about what they can do in today's climate to re-energize the movement. As well they should be; someone's got to move the banner forward. Bikini Kill, Bratmobile and Heavens to Betsy did their part. It seems likely we will form a collective to address some of these issues in rva; it'll be interesting to see what these young women do to further the cause of feminism.

Found! A Man Who Thinks Like Me.

What's a good rva-ite to do on a dreary Saturday afternoon but head down to the Folk Fest?

The crowds were perhaps a bit smaller than in the past, but in all likelihood that was just because of the on and off rain.

As it should be, I ran into plenty of local musicians I knew, as well as assorted others I recognized from various places, since everyone in town seems to attend this event, Andrew excepted.

The Sophia Bilides Trio was playing Greek tavern music from the 30s and 40s; it wasn't tough to imagine being in a Greek bar sipping ouzo and listening to the songs of love and longing.

The Samba Mapangala & Orchestre Virunga enthusiastically played East African Rumba, engaging the crowd, despite the showers that began when they did.

The absolute highlight was Debashish Bhattacharya and his younger brother Subhasis and the large crowd was well aware of the amazing performance we were witnessing.

Debashish, on the chaturangui, a 22-string guitar he created and his brother, a master tabla player, blew the crowd away with their passion and speed.

Their timing was so spot on, stopping and starting on a dime simultaneously, that the crowd couldn't help but burst into spontaneous applause throughout the show.

They finished with Debashish on the slide ukulele and it brought the house down. I wouldn't have missed that performance for anything, nor, I'm sure, would most in the crowd.

An unusually high percentage of musicians and music geeks were sitting under that canopy to witness such major talent.

I was already in complete fan adoration, but Debashish sealed the deal when, late in the performance, he told the crowd, "Music is a better religious activity than doing anything else."

Amen.