The Camera Loves You

Maybe it's just me, but the day after a 10-hour party, an early evening is in order.

That it was also bittersweet, musical and full of friends was icing on the cake.

After a solo dinner at 821 Cafe eating black beans nachos and listening to thrash, I landed at Balliceaux in time to nab a front row seat for the screening of the new documentary, "Goodbye Garbers."

My expectation was that I'd see lots of familiar faces, which I did, including more than a few who also showed up in the film, making for lively conversations about punk glasses, post-punk, the seedy Safeway on Grace Street and the value of cover bands in the overall musical scheme of things.

Just promise me there'll never be a Dexy's Midnight Runners cover band, please.

And, oh, did we digress. What is up with millennials who, when asked what music they're listening to currently, always seem to respond in the distant past (shoegaze? Pink Floyd? Stones? what the hell?) instead of with bands who are their contemporaries?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Introducing the documentary was musician and first-time filmmaker Allison Apperson, who'd backed into the project when musician friend Kelly Queener suggested they make a video about the closing of the Garbers building in the Bottom, the premiere practice space for scores of local bands over several decades.

Allison was the logical choice since she not only had editing experience, but had even named her band after the renowned practice space. Only problem was, Kelly had said "video" and Allison heard "documentary" and the latter was what we were about to see.

For me, what was cool about the film was seeing footage of bands playing in the practice spaces subdivided into the 65,000 square foot Garbers Garage Door Company building. Kelly had begun as a painter there and only later picked up a guitar as an alternate means of creative self-expression.

A woman named Colleen actually lived there, making art and expressing gratitude to owner Carl Otto for allowing her residency (as well as props to anyone born in 1957 like she was).

Carl appeared onscreen several times, explaining how he'd inherited the space from his father-in-law and saw no reason not to rent out the unused parts of the building to musicians, calling it "the best security system" to have people coming and going from the building night and day.

Because of course bands are not going to practice much during the staid 9-5 worker bee time frame.

While I knew that Garber's was a practice space, before tonight, I'd had no idea of just how many bands had made music there.

The first had been Fat Elvis starting in 1986 - the year I came to Richmond - plus a long-time residency by salsa kings Bio Ritmo and lots more, including White Laces, Manzara, the Ar-Kaics, Diamond Center, Hot Dolphin and Snowy Owls.

All bands I'd seen more than once. Even the documentary's musical talking heads were people I knew. Several said the same thing, that you could hear the evolution of other bands' albums there. That musicians fed off the energy of each other. How terrific the sound was in the building.

Best of all, Carl referred to his young tenants as making an enjoyable noise, at least right up until the end of June when he closed the building in anticipation of selling it. To be fair, the man is going on 80.

Everyone I talked to afterwards was gobsmacked at what a fabulous job Allison had done on the film, which in no way came across as a first effort. Clearly, the Garbers building attracted people of multiple talents.

Even better, her sense of humor resulted in a caption labeling guitarist, DJ and all-around music geek Paul Ivey as "angry musician," a joke he didn't even notice during tonight's screening, while some of us howled.

Perhaps his new Brian Wilson tour t-shirt had him in a blissfully zen state where he didn't notice such silliness.

After the screening, Kelly's band, Peace Beast, took the stage to deliver the kind of live music that used to percolate at the Garbers building. Their brand of dreamy psych pop with two female vocalists was the ideal way to feel the magic of the Garbers scene that is no more.

From here on out, it'll just be the stuff of legend, although the documentary probably ought to be required viewing for up and coming young Richmond musicians looking for inspiration.

Even the so-called angry ones.

That's All Right

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

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

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

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

Holy moley, when had this become a competitive sport?

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

Talk about letting kids loose in the candy store!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Make Me Happy

My mother decided this morning was the time to lecture me about my life choices.

I worry about you traveling at night by yourself and with no cell phone. I'm not sure how much longer you can get by without a full-time job and a guaranteed income. I realize you're doing what you love but you're living with no security. End of lecture. I just want you to have a normal life. Love, Mom

Normal? Did she think I ever aspired to a normal life?

My abnormal evening began at Bellytimber, where I found Nate, an oddball local fixture on the scene sitting on the bench out front smoking a cigarette. He had one pant leg pushed up over his knee as if to catch some sun on his fish belly-white calf.

I met Nate years ago at 821 Cafe, but I have run into him at a dozen different city restaurants, usually drinking coffee and willing to talk to just about anyone.

He's a talented artist and I have one of his drawings framed in my living room, a reminder that you can't judge talent by coherent speech.

Today, he asked me what I did and informed me that sometimes he needs a writer, so he may be in touch about my services.

Then he rolled that pant leg down and I went inside to interview a cute, well-spoken and fast-talking scientist over a drink.

That's normal, right?

After a fascinating conversation about the intersection of science and art, I left for the Anderson Gallery's opening.

VCU students as well as local artists and even a VMFA curator had beat me to the shows, making for a lively crowd.

Esther Partegas' "You Are Here" was a black and white wraparound installation broken up by several large-scale color photos in light boxes showing city and nature scenes interrupted by rips and folds, proof that they came off of signs rather than reality.

Upstairs, LaToya Ruby Frazier's "A Haunted Capital" showed another kind of reality, this one that of the artist's hometown, Braddock, Pennsylvania.

Using herself, her mother and grandmother as models, the black and white photographs told a grim story of a once-bustling industrial town now a decaying home to the few people remaining despite unemployment and the destruction of the area's only hospital.

Part of "Race, Place and Identity," the multi-venue show currently happening all over town, it's a moving and evocative look at some people's reality.

As a woman said to me as we stood in front of a photograph, "It's hard to feel poor when you look at these."

Maybe I should take my mother to see the show for some perspective on my well-being.

Leaving VCU for eastward-ho destinations, I arrived at Globehopper Coffee and Lounge before even the musicians scheduled to play did.

Luckily, I found friends, got a cup of hot chocolate ("Whipped?" the barista inquired. Why wouldn't I? "No good reason," she concurred) and found a table near the front.

Soon singer/guitarist Josh Small and singer/harmonica player Andrew Ali took chairs in the front window and began the show.

Performing a variety of songs they'd each written, a standard or two and some collectively-written tunes, they proceeded to capture the attention of everyone in the room except the bored-looking children.

Josh is a self-taught musician, claiming that everything he knows he learned from his musician father who only knew one chord.

Josh knows far more than that and demonstrated it by playing songs inspired by cartoons, friendship and stories, songs like "South in My Mouth," "The Tallest Tree" (which he'd recently performed at SPARC's Live Art event) and Andrew's "My Stomp," a blues song about being able to write the blues despite being young.

They did an original called "So Long," which had my favorite lyric of the evening: I can try to make you happy with some music and a bottle of wine.

Before doing Howlin' Wolf's "44," Josh told us he'd been playing that song in Monroe Park during the "Occupy Monroe Park" demonstration when he'd heard the strains of a harmonica in the crowd; it was Andrew chiming in.

"That's how we met," Josh said before they sang the menacing song.

For two musicians, seems to me that's almost a meeting-cute story. not to mention the socially conscious angle.

They closed with "Front Porch," Andrew's ode to Richmond's abiding porch culture.

And aren't we the richer for it? Even those of us with limited income can enjoy porch-side pleasures in this town.

Page Bond Gallery was my next stop for painter Will Berry's opening, "I saw the Sun," a series of paintings on luminescent, gold, sort of an exploration of light reminiscent of ancient sun worshiping.

Black imagery, some organic-looking and some geometric, on shiny, gold backgrounds made for jewel-like panels on the wall, a rich effect.

I'd love to go back and see it in the daylight to see if it resonates any differently.

From there, I went to a friend's house for wine and dessert, a merely incidental gathering after an extensive happy hour on their part and a mere four stops on mine.

He is the only person I know besides my parents who still gets the Times Disgrace delivered and since the wine writer had recently raved about a South African wine, the Curator White, he'd purchased a few bottles.

I never have to be talked into drinking South African and this chenin blanc, chardonnay and viognier blend, described in the article as, "big, juicy, exotic fruit and mouth-filling" was more than fine by me.

Over dessert of vanilla gelato with a decadent homemade chocolate sauce, we listened to Fairport Convention ("Britain's version of Peter, Paul and Mary") and BBC recordings of the Kimks.

Our host's fave song on that compilation was "This Strange Effect," to which he played air guitar and I marveled at how un-Kinks-like it sounded.

I regaled my girlfriend with the story about my mother (a woman who met the love of her life at 22 and is still happily enjoying his company decades later) and her concern for my status and she bit her lip chuckling.

"That's so sweet," she said sincerely. "In an Eisenhower kind of way."

Bingo.

When they got ready to crash due to early morning wake-up calls for their real jobs, I still had time to get to Strange Matter to catch two bands of a four-band bill.

I tucked a $5 bill in my glove and walked in, handing it still folded to the door guy, who looked at it, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Origami?"

Something like that.

I found the master of lighting, Dave, at the controls of his light set-up and took up residence next to him, centered in the room for best sound.

The room was solidly full with lots of new faces and just enough familiar ones to assure me that I'd know people. With VCU back in session, it looked like a lot of people had decided to check out some local music.

Clair Morgan, who had morphed from Clair and a female backup singer when I last saw him in October at, of all places, Globehopper, to a quintet with drummer (Michael, whom I knew from the long-ago Mermaid Skeletons), another guitarist, bassist and keyboard player (the backup singer from last time).

They were good, the kind of good where some people can't even pick out just one thing they like about them.

I was partial to the strong guitars while another friend was taken with a song with three drummers. But mostly it was how seamlessly they blended pop with more technical elements.

Listening to their take on '90s alternative, I couldn't help but think how the band members were evoking music from their childhoods.

No complaints from me; if I liked something the first time around, I'm always interested in hearing it interpreted by a generation who can fill in with influences from subsequent years as well.

They're definitely a band to watch.

Headlining were Snowy Owls, a band that won my musical heart years ago with their reverb-drenched sound.

The only thing that's changed over the years is leader Matt's hair gets longer (thus obliterating more of his face when he sings) and the band gets tighter.

Allen's bass still screams, much to my delight.

Lighting wizard Dave had a surprise in store tonight, adding into his usual colorful swirling geometric light effects a video called, "Kitten Party."

So amid psychedelic swirls of color and shape, we'd see a kitten licking itself. Or looking up at the camera adoringly.

This is notable mainly because Matt is known for two obsessions, his music and his cat. He posts as many pictures of his feline on Facebook as new mothers do of their offspring.

So if you knew Matt, it was particularly funny to see him playing fuzzed-out guitar and singing in his understated way with cat images peeking out behind him.

Dancing in place to my favorite kind of music-from-a-cave while a groovy light show featuring cats played behind the band, I have to admit, I was totally into what passes for normal in my life.

Absolutely loving it.

Oh, Mom...At least I'm happy!
Love, Karen

Music Math

It was my kind of musical equation.

Take a band showing all kinds of influences I love - Muse, Interpol, maybe even a little Radiohead- and add in a personable local singer of whom I've been a fan for at least five years and, voila, you get a band tailor-made for me.

Those Manic Seas was a three-piece (nattily dressed in shirts, ties and suspenders) with a twist.

Their lead singer wasn't a real person.

Instead, a TV was mounted atop a mannequin and the singer's face and voice were on TV.

It only took me a minute to recognize the face from my seat atop the back banquette, and I'm sure my delayed recognition was partly due to the way he was singing.

Usually Ben plays the sensitive type when singing and tonight his vocal delivery had far more of an edge.

Because the music kicked ass in a post-punk kind of way.

Suddenly I saw Ben in the crowd, clearly having a good time watching himself sing on TV and he spotted me.

He came over to say hi, a big grin on his face.

"You didn't know I was in every band in town, did you?" he joked.

Well, clearly I hadn't known he was in this one.

Being the nosy type, I had to know how it worked to be singing in a band when you don't actually sing onstage, so I asked.

Turns out the band writes the music and then it's his job to put lyrics to it and sing it on camera.

I told him I was amazed to see him seeing in a way so unlike all the other ways I've heard him.

"It is a challenge for me," he admitted.

That said, if he hadn't told me that, I wouldn't have known it didn't come easily to him.

In between songs, the screen went to static, only to return when the sinuous Interpol-like guitars kicked up again.

By the last song, Ben's face onscreen no longer had the beard he'd had in all the other songs.

Artistic statement or unrelated razor incident? We'll never know.

During the break, a couple of friends came over, all as impressed with the band's sound as I'd been.

We agreed that it's always a treat to hear a new local band for the first time.

The headliners were Snowy Owls, a long-time favorite of mine with the talented Dave Watkins doing groovy light projections for them.

Leader Matt looked different; his hair keeps getting longer but now his beard was gone.

A hirsute trade-off, perhaps?

Announcing, "We're going to play some classic rock," the quartet began a spot-on set of shoegaze.

"Who's ready for summer?" Matt asked of the Thursday night audience before delivering three of the four new summer songs from their upcoming EP.

The shimmery, summery songs were exactly what I want the soundtrack to my summer to sound like.

If my summer turns out as good as those songs, I'm golden.

"This next one is more peppy," Matt said, bringing me out of my summer reverie and back to songs that had him shredding while his hair swung around his face.

They closed with the killer, reverb-laden track "Yr Eyes" while I stood on the banquette for one last view of these guys playing before the evening ended.

Long-time favorite band plus three new songs to herald the recently-arrived summer season equals my second satisfying musical equation of the night.

So my kind of math.

Ides of March

Yes, I know there was a game going on.

Even the VMFA knew about the game, hence the welcome to the Black and Gold Maria Film/Video Fest.

All those other years I attended, it was just the Black Maria Film/Video Fest.

Clearly film types have a sense of humor.

But even with the addition of gold and the smaller-than-usual audience, it was still a stellar night of screen watching.

The animated film "Feral," five years in the making, was unbelievably gorgeous with a simple gray-scale and tonal palette that told the story of trying to tame a wild thing.

My takeaway was don't attempt it.

"Bug People" was all kinds of funny, with a woman sharing stir-fry and taco recipes using bugs and an exterminator extolling the pleasures of his job.

The only part I had a problem with was when a scientist put some kind of 8" worm-like-looking  millipede on the filmmaker's arm and explained that removing it would sound like Velcro.

Not what I want to hear when a bug is removed from a human.

Most evocative of what we saw tonight was "Time Exposure" about the filmmaker's father's photography hobby.

It used vintage photographs and voice-over to trace his passion for picture-taking.

Most hysterical was "Queen of the Night Aria" which had a mother doll singing in Italian, instructing her doll daughter to kill her husband for her.

The brilliance was that they lyrics were subtitled with lines like, "I am really pissed" and "I was a good stay-at-home mom."

Spending two hours watching film shorts is satisfying in that way that reading a good book of short stories is; you get your satisfaction quickly and if something doesn't thrill you, it's over soon.

Once the festival ended, I headed over to Strange Matter and barely got out of the car before I started running into people I knew.

One had just seen my car at the museum a half hour ago. One said, "Hey, Fig!" And one I was introduced to tonight said, "Come on, you're coming with us."

Do I know you?

Conveniently, one of them also asked  if I was going to the Camel for the show.

Doh. Only then did I realize I'd confused my venues tonight.

I still made it to the Camel in time to find friends and catch Way, Shape or Form, whom I'd discovered at Live at Ipanema where I'd become a fan of their pastiche of electronic, jazz and pop.

As a friend later noted, that's the kind of band that could play the Modlin Center and they'd love the sound.

When they finished, Snowy Owls began setting up but it took a while before they began playing.

As I learned later, they'd delayed because there had been a noise complaint to WRIR upstairs and it seemed prudent not to arouse the caller's ire again so quickly.

That and they were waiting for the cop to leave.

But then they began with the full-on fuzz that makes me their devoted fan and all was right with the world.

"We're playing songs off an EP we put out a while ago," leader Matt said,"Back to front if you're keeping score."

I wasn't, I was just glad to be hearing them play, watching Brandon bopping his head as he wailed on the drums while Allen faced him, working off what he saw more than what he could hear.

"The next song is about love and color theory," Matt said. "They go together so well."

Naturally, the artistic nerds in the crowd nodded in agreement.

They treated us to a brand new song, "Kerfluffle," to end their set and it was terrific to hear something I hadn't before.

Apparently the noise complainer had given up because Snowy Owls was followed in short order by Nick Coward and the Last Battle.

It was their CD release show and it seemed like there were a bazillion people on stage.

A friend told me there were eight so I stood on tiptoe to try to see what they all were playing, when I counted nine.

"Whatever it is, it's a full orchestra up there," he cracked.

Indeed. It was cello player Constance Sisk's last show with the band and they'd added two new members, including Troy from Way, Shape or Form.

Just another stellar example of the incestuous world of Richmond musicians and I mean that in the best possible way.

"Hi, we're Nick Coward and the Last Battle and this is "Thieves," Nick said, kicking off a set of new music.

Well, not all that new.

"This song is called "Rock" and it was on our first EP and our second EP and it's on the album," he said. "But we promise not to record it again."

You know, when a song is that good, it's easy to see how it kept getting put on whatever they were working on.

Judging by the crowd's reaction, I think we were all in agreement that the band's full sound, with sax, cello and keyboards adding heft to the guitars, bass and drums, is awfully compelling.

But just so I don't look like a complete music fanatic, let the record show that I did inquire about the score of the game before leaving.

Fortunately, the team was able to pull out another victory without me having to watch.

Now can I go back to my music? I mean, go team.

Down for the Count

The last thing I expected on Valentine's Day was for things to go down.

And by things, I mean me.

After bratwurst and Garnacha at home for dinner, I did what I always do to celebrate the day of love.

I went to Cous Cous for their Black Valentine's Day party.

For a change, I even had company for it.

When we got there, the crowd was almost exclusively male, made up of guys at the bar and musicians standing in the middle.

It was noted that I was one of the few in the room with XX chromosomes.

But gradually the room began to fill up and my fair sex was better represented.

To make mingling easier on this traditionally romantic evening, Cous Cous was running a special of $2.50 Aristocrat tequila shots for our Valentine's Day pleasure.

And while you couldn't pay me to drink what the bartender referred to as, "More of a tequila-flavored grain alcohol," I saw plenty of people doing so.

Still, most of the people I spoke to while sipping my water were musician friends, including the guys in Snowy Owls who were slated to perform tonight.

Since the Black Valentine's Day party always features songs about love gone bad, I wanted to confirm the rumor that they were going to do My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless" album.

What I heard was that guitarist Matt had chosen all his favorite MBV songs and the rest of the band had agreed to learn them.

At one point, Matt pulled out small sheets of paper with lyrics printed on them in the tiniest of fonts.

I told him I hoped he wasn't going to need to read them given how tough that would be.

"Yea, I should've written them on bigger pieces and just laid them out on the floor," he laughed. "I could have just looked down and read them. It's shoegaze, right?"

Now, that was funny.

Allen, the bass player was lamenting how late Cous Cous shows get started and, for people with real jobs, I'm sure it is tough to wait for a show to begin around 11 when you have to be up early in the morning.

But eventually it did and Jake Mayday was first.

It was just him and a guitar, but by then the crowd was all up in his space, meaning he had to close his eyes to sing because people were standing less than a foot from his face.

Not me. One of the benefits of an early arrival was having a small section of the dividing wall on which to lean and place my water.

Jake began with Death Cab for Cutie's "Cath," a personal favorite as Death Cab goes.

But you said your vows, and you closed the door
On so many men who would have loved you more

In a high point of the evening, Matt turned to me and asked what the song was.

Although he's someone with whom I've discussed our shared taste in music a hundred times (we began with a discussion of Bleeding Rainbow, a recent recommendation I'd since fallen in love with), I told him it was the very first time he ever asked me what a song was.

As it turned out, I was fortunate to get that feelgood moment before the crash.

From there Jake was off on more of the same, causing a friend to ask, "Is he gonna do all Ben Gibbard?"

I wouldn't know, because as I stood there watching Jake, all at once I felt like there were too many people in the room and all the air was suddenly sucked out.

Admittedly, I was overdressed (heart-covered dress, sweater, coat sweater and jean jacket with two scarves) for being in a room with so many other people and all at once I felt it.

The next thing I knew, I was on the floor and being pulled back up by those around me.

When I arose, indignant, I asked what happened and was told I'd dropped to the ground.

I promptly did it a second time, only this time I awoke on the kitchen floor with concerned faces around me.

On the plus side, the kitchen door had been opened and the air was much cooler back there, so I felt human again.

As I answered questions of my rescuers, a woman on the phone had clearly called 911 and was talking about me.

Someone handed me a Coke and the woman on the phone shouted, "No food or drink!" per her instructions from the 911 operator and it was snatched away from me after one sip.

By this time, my head was clear, I was no longer hot and woozy and all I wanted to do was get up off of Cous Cous' kitchen floor.

But no, everyone insisted that I wait for the EMS to arrive.

After having a lively conversation with them, confirming that I'd had three meals today, I'd had two glasses of wine hours earlier and nothing like this had ever happened to me before, they let me sit up.

There I answered what day it was, who the president was and how many quarters in $1.50.

When one of the medical technicians asked the guy questioning me if they were going to take me in, he all but laughed.

"No, she's just fine now," he replied. Someone noted that I was "sharp as a tack."

Slipping out the kitchen door to get some fresh air rather than back through the room with the show, my companion and I walked around the front of Cous Cous, where a group was taking a smoke break between sets.

One of the girls who'd helped carry me to the back was there and asked how I felt.

I told her I was perfectly fine, just not sure if I should go back in to see the rest of the show.

"You should be okay," she reassured me. "Just stand in the back where you can get some air."

Another girl sitting on the bench, pulled her cigarette out of her mouth and got vehement.

"You just fainted!" she said with authority. "You need to go home!"

Well, there was that.

And there my black Valentine's Day ended, with no My Bloody Valentine, no shoegaze and no ringing ears.

Cupid, you done me wrong last night.

Living the Life, er, Dream

Best kind of day to hang around and goof off: a rainy day like today.

In fact, I could have happily stayed home after my walk, but of course I didn't.

No, I went back to see "Spring Awakening" for the second time. And once again, I saw it from a stage seat.

And the best reason to see it a mere three weeks after I last saw it?

I mean, besides the five dollar ticket?

To sit on the opposite side of the stage from last time and notice things I hadn't when I was experiencing the story for the first time.

Like how when the boys in the cast are onstage singing "The Bitch of Living" I could see some of the girls in the cast just offstage dancing with abandon.

From my new vantage point, I could see the band, too, like when the guitarist switched from an electric to an acoustic guitar in full view of me.

Or when I could see the music director, her back to the band and facing the cast onstage, keeping tempo enthusiastically during "Totally F**ked."

But probably the best reason for sitting on the left side of the stage was the up close and personal view of the hilarious masturbation scene.

I'll tell you what, it's moments like that that make lifelong theater fans.

By the time the matinee let out, we were overdue to eat so we headed to Lunch.

It was an ideal time: after the lunch crowd and before the dinner crowd.

Even better, their happy hour runs every day of the week, so our Martin Codax Albarino was a mere $3.50 a glass.

Hello hay and honeysuckle on the cheap.

The River City Smokehouse and the Fay (house made chicken salad on multi-grain) preceded the very berry pound cake with mixed berries and whipped cream.

Best part of the meal: the pulled pork with coleslaw on a bun.

Our soundtrack was pure '60s Motown ("Baby Love," "Ain't No Woman") and while it was suggested I dance, I didn't.

I did, however, compliment our server on her beautiful breasts and she thanked me, saying, "That means so much more coming from a woman instead of a man. Like a woman telling you how good your make-up looks."

Actually her make-up looked great, too, but I didn't want to push my luck.

The best reason to finish up at Gallery 5 for the Commonwealth of Notions show was to benefit WRIR and Gallery 5.

WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had assembled a stellar cast of bands for our philanthropic dollar.

Best reason to get to a show on time: so you don't miss anything you'd love to have heard.

I missed Snowy Owls' set and they not only played a new song but covered a White Laces song.

Damn, I could have smacked myself for missing out on those.

Best substitute for what I missed: catching the end of White Laces' incredibly tight set from the ticket desk.

Best surround sound set: Colloquial Orchestra's dynamic smorgasbord of eight musicians placed around the room and following the lead of the amazingly talented Dave Watkins on electric dulcitar.

The 27-minute improvised piece featured some of my favorite people, including Adam of Marionette, Matt of Snowy Owls and PJ, a guy who changes from mild-mannered photographer to a beast of a guitar god when he has an instrument in his hand.

Also of note was Brandon, who entered the fray late in the game, setting up a drum and taking over percussion duties impressively a bit after the set had begun.

Best act to overcome technical difficulties: Swordplay.

Isaac's rapping over vinyl is always a testament to his lyrical skills, but tonight he had so much snap, crackle and pop that he finally gave up using the mic and just sang a capella.

Later he told me that he felt like the sound problems were smacking him in the face, fighting him even.

To his credit, he fought back and won.

Best instinctive crowd direction: when the Low Branches' Christina opened her mouth to sing, what sounded like a half dozen people immediately shushed the crowd.

And they stayed quiet for the most part, even (or especially) when she covered the Boss.

For that matter, her comment, "We're the Low Branches and we're living the life. Er, dream. This is why we don't do stage talk," had the crowd, and even fellow bandmate Matt, cracking up.

Best multi-tasking by one musician in three bands: Matt, who played in Snowy Owls, Colloquial Orchestra and The Low Branches.

I don't know how my favorite fuzz-master even had time to do a shot of whiskey.

Best way to get a crowd dancing: having Bermuda Triangles play on the floor in front of the stage.

Their tribal drumming and wailing sax sound immediately got everyone moving and eventually there was full-on dancing going on as people lost their inhibitions and let the music take them away.

Best seamless transition: during Bermuda Triangles' last song, the final band, Canary, oh, Canary, took the stage.

Drummer Mark jumped into the drumming fray, playing along with  the Triangles  while CoC's guitarist and bass player held their instruments but stayed silent.

After Triangles' last note, they were thanked and Canary, oh, Canary began their set.

Theirs are some of my favorite bass lines.

Later in their set, guitarist Micheal announced, "Mark has broken his snare. Any drummer out there have a spare he can borrow?"

Not surprisingly, the show went on given the number of instruments in the room.

It was exceeded only by the number of musicians in the room.

Which made Gallery 5 the best possible place to spend my Saturday night.

And, just for the record, the light rain falling when I left made for the best possible walk home.

Daylight Licked Me Into Shape

I practically qualify for mayor of Balliceaux lately.

Let's just say that when I paid my five bucks to get in, the door guy said he didn't need to stamp my hand because he knows me (should I decide I wanted to come and go).

For the fourth time in eight days, I was back in the back room to hear live music, a testament to how much terrific talent is passing through there lately.

Playing first was Peace Beast, a band I hadn't seen since last August.

With two members from the Diamond Center and two from Roanoke, all I recalled was a female-fronted band, but that was enough to get me there.

Tonight's show reminded me what else I'd liked about them.

Kyle's guitar playing, Kelly's songwriting and the overall dreamy psychedelic mood of the music add up to my kind of music.

Kelly is an enigmatic frontwoman, though. It's hard to tell if she's enjoying herself despite the compelling lyrics coming out of her mouth.

Honestly, I hope she is, but for purely selfish reasons.

I was really excited to see The Garbers for the first time. Born out of the ashes of Hot Lava, I'd heard nothing but great things about singer Allison Apperson's latest pop project.

To tell you the truth, I already knew that if it was anything like Hot Lava, I was going to love it.

It was. I did.

Sunny and bouncy with lots of harmonies and the kind of keyboards that make it impossible to stand still, The Garbers grabbed the attention of even the pretty people and chatters in the room.

Earlier, drummer Giustino had said hello and we'd discussed his choice of a (red) polyester shirt on a night where he'd be working up a sweat.

Any drumming is work, but his is especially frenetic and energetic(attributable perhaps to 20 years in Bio Ritmo?) .

Now onstage, he also admitted that his corduroy flares were interfering with his abilities on kick drum.

Never one to be shy about making a fashion statement (I once saw his other project, Fuzzy Baby, perform as the Red Stripes in all red polyester), Giustin just rolled up his pant leg and drummed on.

The Garbers don't have a lot of music yet because they've only been playing together since December, but what we heard, infectious and poppy as it was, sounded like a great start for a future album.

In anticipation of the last act, my girlfriend and I took seats on the back of the front booth, enjoying unexpected seating with a view over the crowd.

Snowy Owls finished out the night with a vocal mic that had a mind of its own, coming and going at will.

No matter how many times I see these guys, I always find myself grinning ear to ear at the fuzzed-out sounds that scream "music from a cave," a genre near and dear to my heart.

There were lots of new faces in the crowd and more dancers than usual, so word must begetting out that they're a band to experience.

Pshaw, how long have I been saying that?

Leader Matt had told me when I'd first arrived to expect a new cover, but declined to share what it would be, saying it would be obvious.

From the first seconds as Brandon's drums led off into the guitars and inevitable, "Show me, show me, show me," the crowd went wild.

Dancing began in earnest as a roomful of people who were probably being conceived or born when the song came out went crazy (perhaps that explains the instinctual response).

And, the fact is, if you can't go crazy over a good song by The Cure, when can you?

From there they went back to original music, finishing with "Could" and hearing the crowd calling for an encore.

Why, it was just like heaven.

What Lack of Love Does

Somehow I must have seemed like a good sipping partner.

Wine date #1: Cafe Caturra with a glass of Santa Julia Torrontes, a friend and her Baltimore beau and a roaring fire despite the open door and 50-degree temperature outside.

Suggested soundtrack: Animal Collective ("Walking around in our summertime clothes, nowhere to go while our bodies glow").

Wine date #2: The Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Prosecco, hordes of people headed to see "The Lion King" and a DJ telling me about his glorious walk in today's sunshine.

Suggested soundtrack: The XX ("Wanna find myself by the sea, in another's company").

Wine date #3: Ipanema with a glass of Analissa Primitivo, a friend in the cutest earrings and a discussion of being an independent woman when given no other choice.

Suggested soundtrack: The Helio Sequence ("Lately, I don't think of you at all, or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on").

The evening concludes at Strange Matter for music and a light show.

The crowd is good-sized but not packed, probably because there are several other good shows going on tonight.

First up is Airstrip out of North Carolina and when I ask a musician friend what they sound like, he responds, "You know that North Carolina indie band sound? Yea, that's what they sound like."

Damn if he wasn't right on. The Chapel Hill foursome's music covered the 80s and the 90s despite issues with broken guitar strings and being out of tune.

During the break, Matt of Snowy Owls asked me to help him carry shots to the stage and the imbibing of those shots began their set.

They covered Superdrag (a nod to Matt's Knoxville roots) and fuzzed out hard while continuing to win the crowd away from their drinking and talking.

The Cinnamon Band played last and they had a bunch of drunken die hard fans in the room singing along to almost every song.

They covered Nick Lowe's "What Lack of Love Has Done" as well as doing both the A and B sides of their upcoming single.

"Easy does it doesn't cut it when you want someone."

Hey, they said it, not me.

After their set, I chatted with friends, one of whom inquired what I thought of the Cinnamon Band.

"Her answer has nudity in it," my girlfriend said to much laughter.

Because I first saw the Cinnamon Band unplugged, I still get a kick out of hearing them full-on electric and I said so.

I did not so much as mention naked anything.

There was some discussion of which instrument can win a person's heart; I heard a case for pedal steel guitar and I know someone else who would say sax.

I'd be inclined to go with the vox as the irresistible instrument for me.

Words. It always comes down to words.

Smoke Over Blue Moon

It was a mere 56 years of music from start to finish tonight.

Appropriately, we began with the VMFA's sold-out screening of  the documentary, "Elvis '56," followed by a panel discussion.

Yes, sold out. It's become perfectly clear too me that this town is full of Elvis fanatics. Me, I'm just a documentary dork, but this crowd came for The King.

Organizer Trent Nichols got things rolling saying, "Welcome. I think I saw Elvis sitting over there." From behind me I heard some middle-aged woman say exasperatedly, "I wish."

In fact, it was local rocker Wrenn Magnum, magnificent in his black pompadour and period-appropriate duds.

The 1987 film was outstanding, eschewing the usual talking heads that dominate a documentary and instead showing clips from the dozen TV appearances he made in 1956 as well as many of Alfred Wertheimer's photographs taken during that ten-day period when he shot 2500 images of the then-unknown Presley.

I was thrilled with the narration of the film, which was done by Levon Helm in his distinctive Arkansas accent.

The panel included Wertheimer, who noted that after a flurry of interest when he took those pictures, they were basically forgotten until Elvis died in 1977.

Since then, he said, a week doesn't go by that someone doesn't contact him about using a photo or ten. That one gig has become his life's work.

"I'll be on this job when I'm dead," he said without a trace of irony.

As someone who didn't keep up with Elvis' music, I'd have to say the highlight was hearing his cover of "Blue Moon," truly a thing of beauty.

I say that as I sit here typing and listening to it.

From the museum, we left for Cellar Door. That's not the royal we; I was in the company of a DJ since it's National DJ Day and all.

Tomorrow is Squirrel Appreciation Day and I'll try to celebrate that, too, once I figure out how best to do so.

With a bottle of Santa Julia Malbec, a Pumphouse (grilled cheese, spinach and tomato), a bowl of the Rope Swing (Peruvian chicken soup with quinoa, veggies and pasta) and a plate of Romesco (artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers and olive tapenade on crostini), we had plenty to occupy us.

By the time we finished all that, it was time to high tail it to Strange Matter and the best free show bill I've heard in a  long time, including lots of my favorite music from a cave.

Walking in, a guy I know only by the way he introduced himself to me last year ("I'm an old rocker"), came up and said to me, "I knew you'd be here."

Yea, there's a big surprise.

Snowy Owls played their best set yet (no less than four other people said the same thing), getting the show off to a pitch-perfect start.

Super Vacations, a psych-punk quintet I'd been told I'd like, came next with their fast and short songs. I did like them, although not so much the singer's habit of tossing beer cans into the crowd.

White Laces, this time playing as a quartet (I've seen them as a duo and trio, too) and doing lots of new material, expertly played to my taste with loads of reverb and bass.

Old Rocker complained about too much reverb, but I begged to differ. No such thing.

After their set, I ran into Kyle, leader of The Diamond Center on my way to the bathroom.

He gave me a sheepish look and explained that he wouldn't be playing his twelve-string tonight.

I have to assume he was warning me since I have been known to gush every time I hear him play that thing.

"I thought, 'Oh, no, Karen's here and I'm not playing it," he said apologetically. "But I'm playing the Rickenbacker."

For the record, I'd be the last to complain about hearing a Rickenbacker and I told him so.

"Someday I'll have a Rickenbacker 12-string and we'll both be happy," he said.

I can't wait.

Until then, I was more than happy with their smoke-laced set of psychedelia, the closest musical thing we have to a non-drug-induced high in Richmond.

It was quite a leap from Elvis' "Blue Moon" and yet a perfectly natural progression.

On today of all days, I'm sure any of the DJs at the show (and there were many) could appreciate the beauty of it.

On the Four Overrated Things

It was Silent Music Revival, deluxe holiday edition.

The silent was the two movies, the music was Snowy Owls and the Revival was more of a party in a 19th-century townhouse on Franklin Street.

Shoegaze accompanied "The Insects' Christmas" and "The Frozen North," the latter with Buster Keaton killing people.

It was funnier than it sounds.

My only complaint with having Snowy Owls do the musical score tonight was that hearing them for 24 minutes was not enough.

They must have sensed my feelings because even after the films ended and Jameson said thanks for coming, they began to noodle around and people like me stayed to listen.

At a Christmas party afterwards, I was talking to a friendly woman I didn't know and she was complimenting me wildly on my tights.

When her boyfriend came up, she began to introduce me when he waved her off, saying we already knew each other.

"Oh? How do you two know each other? she asked in a less friendly voice than before.

I turned back around to her. "He's never seen me with my tights off," I assured her.

That cured that attitude problem.

Mingling and misconceptions, that's the stuff holiday parties: are made of.

Scrambled Brains and Pumpkin Pie

How ironic that I spent the second anniversary of Virginia's smoking ban in a smoky restaurant.

But only after hearing how to scramble a cadaver's brain through his nose.

It's like this: Mr. Mummy, aka Bob Brier, was speaking at the VMFA on "Mummification; Resurrection of a Lost Art" and who could resist a topic like that?

Rhetorical question.

I was the one in my seat fifteen minutes before the talk began and after being warned by a museum buddy that it was going to be really graphic.

You see, Brier, a Senior Research Fellow at Long Island University, decided seventeen years ago to figure out the specifics of how the Egyptians mummified their dead.

So he procured a cadaver (someone who had donated his body to science) and proceeded to follow the step-by-step instructions written down by a long-ago Greek visitor to Egypt.

"Strong men faint during this talk," he deadpanned.

So he told us about using drawings to identify and replicate tools used in the process.

"It was the first time in 2,000 years that anyone had mummified a human body in the Egyptian style," he justifiably bragged.

A large C-shaped tool with a hook at both ends was used to enter the nose and scramble the brain ("like a whisk") before pouring out its contents.

A three-inch incision was made to remove the body's organs except for the heart.

It was left in the body because they believed that you thought with your heart and would need it in the afterlife.

The brain goes but the heart stays. Sounds like the aftermath of a bad breakup.

I found the talk fascinating as much for Mr. Mummy's expansive knowledge on the topic as for his casual and humorous way of sharing it.

After looking at spleens and bloody gauze pulled through a nasal cavity, what else was there to do but eat?

Upstairs at Amuse, I found an empty bar and planted myself before the slower-moving lecture crowd made their way up.

It was the last night of Amuse's Fall menu so I took advantage of a special that will be on the new menu starting tomorrow.

Oxtail chili with cornbread croutons and a glass of Cline Pinot Noir was just what I needed after talk of bodily fluids and palm wine poured into the abdominal cavity.

At my server's suggestion, I finished with the chocolate pate.

I must have made it look good because the women at the end of the bar followed suit, as did the couple behind me, who raised their spoons to me.

I allowed enough time to go see "The Majestic and the Mundane: Landscape Photographs of Ansel Adams and Lewis Baltz" before leaving.

The contrast of Adams' sublime National Park scenes and  Baltz's images of a trashed wasteland shared in common an abstract black and white beauty that transcended the actual subject of the photos.

Last up was a show at the Republic, a place I rarely go; the smoke is excessive and, as a friend put it, "These are not our people."

Or, as a friend had posted when he walked into Republic tonight, "Republic = New Jersey."

That's all I'm saying.

But Snowy Owls was playing and, like so many local music lovers, I am a huge fan.

Opening was D.C.'s Mittenfields and I definitely liked their three-guitar wall of sound, which at times bordered on post-rock when there were no vocals.

The lead singer played bass and he and the drummer never let up banging against that wall.

In what is surely a first, the band had brought mini-pumpkin pies to share with the audience. They were passed around and scarfed immediately.

For possibly another first time in my life, I saw a show from a couch facing the stage.

It was comfy, I had a good friend sitting next to me, another asked if he could "sit on my arm" and we had a straight shot at the stage.

Actually, also of the staircase to the bathroom where a large sign said, "CAUTION! Hold Handrail,"yet I saw multiple people trip down the first few stairs and catch themselves.

They couldn't say they weren't warned.

Snowy Owls played an excellent set and it was interesting to watch some of the DC visitors fall under their spell.

By the time the show ended, I could tell I reeked of smoke even though I was in a room reeking of smoke.

Once I got myself off the low-slung couch, I discovered any number of musician friends I hadn't seen come in, including several who had been at the Paul Simon show the other night.

We basked in the memories of seeing a legend while trying to guess how pricey tickets to next year's Graceland anniversary tour will be.

Leaving the restaurant, I ran into a long-haired friend and we commiserated about once again having to go to bed with smelly hair, a fact you notice every time you roll over in bed.

I could observe that at least no one else has to put up with my smelly hair tonight, but that would be thinking with my heart.

And I'm not Egyptian and I don't want my brain pulled out through my nose.

Nor am I counting on the afterlife; I'm hoping to get it right this time around.

Eventually anyway.

Wowee Zowee

In his running series of self-admitted "bad ideas," Joon Kim finally put on another cover show.

The last one, a salty tribute to Guided by Voices, had been so many months ago that some of us had given up hope that there'd ever be another one. When it was finally announced as a tribute to Pavement, it became doubly enticing when more than one musician referred to it as sure to be a train wreck.

Just so you know, I'm talking about the musicians who were playing the show saying that.

In typical musician fashion, most left learning Pavement songs until the last week before the show and had minimal practices. Which was fine because the whole evening was great fun and for the Pavement-obsessed (and there was a good-sized contingent of them) as well as plain old music lovers, it was quite a treat to hear.

Nelly Kate and Landis Wine of White Laces got things off to a fine start doing two songs beautifully, each doing lead vocal on one. They admitted that they were breaking the first rule of a Pavement cover show by playing a cover and not a true Pavement song.

As it turned out, they were only the first of several to do so.

Dave Watkins and his dulcitar took up the challenge next, throwing in a cover of "No More Kings" and inviting the audience to make disgruntled crowd noises. Instead, the crowd ate it up.

It was my first time seeing The Milkstains, despite how often they play out and having been told I'd like them. "Alright, we're going to try and do some Pavement songs or at least remember the lyrics," the lead singer said. Doing only two songs, they succeeded admirably and friends were right; I really liked their surf rock sound.

Snowy Owls did five songs so well that there was no doubt that leader Matt was a Pavement fan. They'd also had multiple practices and sounded terrific.

Climbers took forever to get started and did two songs before adding in Willis on drums. Seems he was a last minute addition to the band's line-up tonight, having learned the song in the bathroom just beforehand.

A pro, he made their last song the best of the set.

The crowd loved it when Kyle and Brandi of Diamond Center took the stage because they were in costume. Kyle, in a sparkly two-piece dress and necklace looked particularly fetching drag-like except for his monumental beard and fur hat with flaps. Brandi's pope hat and glitter make up couldn't compete. After some technical difficulties, Kyle sang a couple of songs before making a promise.

"We're playing a show here on Thursday and it won't sound anything like this," he promised. A guy who'd never seen them before asked afterwards if that had been music they'd played. If he only knew them in their usual style, he'd be amazed.

Joon's ever-changing band Adah played last with Joon and his violin in front of the stage and the rest of the band on it. They rocked it hard, about driving the audience crazy with "Cut Your Hair," a song even non-fans might know.

And there were plenty of them there, too. A musician friend asked me if I knew about Pavement when he came in. Well, duh. Let's just say I was around when they formed in '89 and when they disbanded in '99. But his girlfriend, whom he'd brought with him, had never heard of them. Another friend told me he hated Pavement but came to support his friends.

But there was a core group who sang along with every single word to every song, recognizing each one by the first notes. That's the beauty of a well-chosen cover show. Casual fans get to see a bunch of bands play and uber-fans get to hear live versions they might never otherwise hear.

Toward the end, Joon took suggestions for the next event's band to be covered. Someone even yelled out my idea: Yo la Tengo. And since they're known for an enormous repertoire of cover songs, both live and on records, it could be a cover show of covers songs done by YLT and performed by local musicians.

A "hall of mirrors" tribute to Yo la Tengo; can't you just see it? Well if you can, it won't be anytime soon. These things happen on musician time.

With a nod to another favorite, I would suggest waiting with a glacier's patience.

You Know It's True

Things got groovy at the Camel tonight.

The invitation was irresistible: "Heading to the Camel to blow minds. Join me if you like that kind of thing."

Since I was already planning to go, I was then even more curious about what to expect.

Instead of just another music show, this one was nothing short of audio/visual splendor with the talented Dave Watkins creating a visual landscape for the bands.

The first of those was Louisiana Territory who'd been on hiatus all summer and returned ready to rock with a new drummer.

"We're gonna try out a whole lot of new songs," the lead singer warned us, including a twangy, slightly country sounding one called "You Know It's True."

They also did a new song about a subject, according to the singer, that "I'm not allowed to talk about in this band," namely make-up sex.

It was only after they later played "I Let You Down" that I wondered if the two songs were related.

Not that it's any of my business.

After their set I was joined by a friend intent on eating before Snowy Owls took the stage.

As he scarfed, we talked about how much we both like Snowy Owls' reverb-drenched sound, but he put it best.

"They sound like good, early Smashing Pumpkins without Billy Corgan's annoying voice."

To make a great sounding band even better without the use of recreational drugs, Dave's swirling light show matched the tempo and intensity of the songs.

It was a fascinating juxtaposition with the visual seeming like it could have been right out of the 60s and the audio more 90s.

Best of all, the lighting effects had nothing to do with a computer, instead requiring multiple cameras, audio boxes and an operator.

Dave, the operator, told me, "The magic is in not knowing what's going to happen." You know, like life.

A friend told me that he'd just gotten word today that he'll be in the Spielberg "Lincoln" movie. I've no doubt that he's merely the first of many long haired, bearded men I know who'll make the cut.

I'm no mathematician, but you heard it here first. The Venn diagram of Richmond's music scene and the male extras for "Lincoln" will show a huge area of overlap.

I stayed for only part of Last Century's set before making my way outside to talk to a friend and talented guitarist.

Introducing me to his friend, he summed me up by saying, "Karen is the ultimate patron of the arts. When I see her show up at something I'm involved in, it makes me feel great."

Imagine getting that kind of credit just for showing up to witness the talented people and have my mind blown.

I don't know how I got so lucky.

So Long, Farewell

Once you've touched the lead singer's sweaty chest, it's hard to go back in the hot room.

Tonight was the going away party for Sprout, the restaurant/venue that went out of business yesterday.

For their last hurrah, they invited something like fourteen bands to perform beginning at 5:00. And in true RVA fashion, the first band didn't start till after 6:00.

Not that it mattered.

The late start gave us early arrivals time to mingle and remember the many shows we'd seen at Sprout.

A good part of the restaurant's CD collection was available for the taking.

Band photographer PJ Sykes pulled a half dozen out of the pile and handed them to me. "You need these," he said. I believed him.

When the music finally started, the small crowd all moved into the back room to hear Miss Bliss (apparently a TV reference, so I didn't get it).

The duo of guitarist/singer Allison Apperson and drummer Noell Alexander played psychedelic surf pop with, wait for it, kazoo solos.

They closed with a cover of the Drifters' "Up on the Roof," dedicating it to Spout and the Fourth of July.

During the break, I wandered out and ran into Coffee Guy and helped owner Laurie remove tea lights from punch cups.

Shannon Cleary played next with violinist Joon Kim backing him up on violin, making for a fuller sound than usual.

Shannon covered an Itchy Hearts song as well as doing a particularly lovely "On the Way Home" by the late Nathan Joyce.

Taking the stage quickly, Ben Shepherd placed his bottle of Beaujolais to the side, strapped on his guitar and jumped right in.

Ben's a strong songwriter; for the first song, my friend jumped up announcing, "I have to give my full attention to this song. It's so well done, written from two points of view."

He's got a strong, clear voice, too, and his pulls on the Beaujolais bottle didn't seem to affect that.

An audience member called out for "Silver Dog" and he closed with it.

The set up for the next band was going to take a few minutes, so everyone moved into the main dining room where Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats did an acoustic set.

I was smart enough to return to the back room and stake out my territory for Snowy Owls' set next.

Feel free to call me a Snowy Owls groupie; I love their reverb-soaked sound, distinctive bass lines and Matt's nu-gaze vocals.

I planted myself on the back of one of the benches so I was higher than everyone in the room despite being in the back.

It's a rare treat for someone 5'5" to look down at a crowd, so I savored it, letting the sound of music from a cave wash over me.

A definite highlight besides the music was hearing a musician friend acknowledge that Snowy Owls rocked way more than he remembered.

He'd been under the impression that since leader Matt is also in the folky Low Branches that Snowy Owls was similar. Now he knows better.

Just as I knew better than to leave my perch when the next band up was Baby Help Me Forget. The crowd began to migrate from the outside and other room and I held fast atop the bench.

No matter how many times I see these guys, I'm always eager to see them again.

The band is high energy and lead singer (and Sprout co-owner) Jamie is the best showman in town.

He joined the band tonight by jumping down from atop the pallet wall that separates the kitchen to the floor in front of the stage.

Laurie sat atop the wall moving and grooving, silhouetted from behind.

Dressed in tight white pants, a patterned shirt, chain belt and velveteen blazer, Jamie looked every inch the part as he danced, gyrated, dropped to his knees and generally tore it up.

The blazer came off after the first few songs.

His non-stop movements, jumping from the stage to the floor, singing on his knees and dancing amongst the crowd whipped up everyone in the room to a frenzy.

Jamie tried to say a few words about the occasion, but summed it up with, "F**king Sprout! That's all I'm going to say!" It was enough.

The shirt came off after a few more songs, tossed into the audience.

Everyone was moving non-stop and the room heated up quickly. But the energy was amazing.

When the band finished, the crowd applauded and demanded more. Despite cords already wound and instruments half put away, the band obliged.

No one tonight, no how, no way, was going to top what we had just experienced. I said as much to the girl sitting next to me.

The mass of humanity that was the audience began to exit the room then, looking for air to breathe although out in front was a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Chatting as I waited to get outside, Jamie came by, his shirt now back on. He greeted me and I teased him by asking if I could touch his sweat.

I asked for the sake of giving him a hard time about his exuberant performance, but he just grinned and said, "Gross!" as I touched him.

Standing outside talking to people, I heard the list of bands for the rest of the evening. Four more (three of which I've seen) followed by four noise bands.

The band that was about to start was an hour and a half behind schedule with seven more after them.

And I'd given up my prime real estate in the back room by coming outside.

Nothing was going to exceed the emotional peak I'd just witnessed. I wasn't going to touch anyone else's sweaty chest tonight.

Sprout, you will be missed.

Birthday Presence

I freely admit to disappointment if I go to a birthday party and there's no cake.

At The Richmond Scene's two-year party tonight, the cupcakes were huge, there were two kinds and they had been baked by the mom of Chris Payne, TRS's founder. Cake was present.

But most people were there for music, not cake. The four-band bill promised some excellent variety over the course of the evening.

Arriving at The Camel mere seconds before the bands started, I slid over to the bar for some bar food, planning to move to the stage side of the room after I ate.

I had a clear shot of the stage when Dogs on Main Street (aka Mac) took it. It was maybe the third time I'd seen him and I continue to be impressed with how invested in his performances he is.

As I watched and ate, I had a steady rotating cast of friends stop by to say hi as they passed by from the other side. It was like playing musical dinner companions without asking to play.

Then there are the friends who seem to sniff you out when you have, say, black bean nachos, and then claim to feel guilty when you insist they have some.

No, really, I won't judge you for helping me with my nachos.  I'm happy to have the help.

Eating accomplished, I asked the bartender for my check, only to be told, "No, you can't leave."

There's always one bully at a birthday party. Anyway, he relented.

I arrived on the stage side of the room just as Dave Watkins began playing.

After having recently raved about Dave's debut CD, due out in two weeks, here, it was nice to hear some live improvisation on the heels of that.

From my perch on the wall, I had a great view of both Dave and the people around me who had never seen him before.

One by one I watched them nudge each other ("Man, look at what he's doing!") as they tried to figure out how one guy was making so much sound ("Can you see him?" one guy asked incredulously of his buddy).

Pay attention, boys, you may learn something.

Between sets I caught up with various friends and was introduced to a guy I see at shows everywhere. He said the same of me, so we thought it about time we met.

Baseball-sized vanilla and chocolate cupcakes were passed around the room for the cake-obsessed (I wasn't the only one, it turned out) and the merely festive.

When Snowy Owls were introduced, it was with the admonishment to move closer because, "These guys are a rock band."

I would be more specific and say they are of the nu-gaze mode, with lots of fuzz and moody vocals.

My pleasure comes from lead singer/guitarist Matt, whose inner shoegaze rock god always comes out with this band, but also because I am rabid about the "music from a cave" sound.

In a new twist, bassist Allen Bergendahl had me mesmerized tonight with his contribution to the band's essence.

There were some screaming bass lines that epitomized what I like about the band's sound and the quality of the sound was so much better than it had been at their last show.

By the time their set was over, the air conditioning had chilled our little group to the point that we joined the smokers outside just to warm up.

No establishment has re-calibrated their thermostats since it stopped being 120 degrees in the shade, making dressing for summer problematic indoors after a while.

When I said goodbye to a girlfriend, she gave me a look. "You're leaving before me? Wait, where are you going?"

She didn't believe me when I said home.

Truth be told, I'd celebrated The Richmond Scene, enjoyed three excellent sets of music and had a cupcake.

I could leave the birthday party happy.

The (Not) Unhappy Hours

There are worse ways to start an evening than with an unhappy hour or two.

The Poe Museum was doing their monthly Unhappy Hours social coinciding with the opening of their new exhibit "Price and Poe: A Match Made in Hell." How could I not check that  out?

Arriving just as a friend did, we walked into the walled garden moments after a performance began. A costumed interpreter was speaking and singing as Poe's mother, the actress Eliza Poe.

She told her life story, sang some period songs and did two monologues, one from Romeo and Juliet and another written for Eliza Poe by a fan. Best line: "And female fortitude shall conquer pain." An enduring sentiment, for sure.

After the performance, a devil's food birthday cake (with a photograph of his face iced onto the cake) was cut in honor of tomorrow being the 100th anniversary of Vincent Price being born.

The "Match Made in Hell" exhibit is small, but illuminating. I don't think I realized that Price had starred in eleven adaptations of Poe's work. And I haven't seen a one of them.

And I had certainly never seen a life mask of Price, right down to his moustache hairs, done five years before his death.

A highlight of the evening was running onto one of the nude models from Gallery 5's recent Disrobed exhibit.

"Last time I saw you, you were naked," I said, sidling up to him. His laugh was so loud and hearty that it made heads turn so it was totally worth mentioning.

Leaving the formerly nude behind, I drove to Sprout to meet a friend for dinner to find the place packed. Luckily my friend had already secured a table because people kept coming in, too.

My friend already knew that he was going to get the sliders (and why not considering how amazing they are) but I succumbed to the pizetta of the day.

With Faith Farms Food sausage, Dave and Dee's mushrooms, bechamel sauce and feta/cheddar, it was mind-blowingly good. So good that when I gave another friend a taste, he ordered one for himself. Our server called it the meatzetta for its generous amount of spicy sausage.

Part of the reason for our early arrival was the "surprise" first performance of a new local band, the Blood Vows.

The inaugural set was short, only four songs, but full-on hard and energetic. Fronting the group was band photographer P.J. Sykes who turned out to have a whole different persona with a guitar in his hand rather than a camera.

I said it then and I'll say it now. He was a monster and I mean that in the best possible way. Go hard or go home doesn't begin to cover it.

The Cinnamon band followed and by then the room was packed and getting warm. I felt myself glowing but most of the guys had a full-on sweat going.

Every time I see this duo play again, I am more impressed with how melodic they are, what good songwriters they are and just how good they are at harmonizing, non-stop crashing drumming and shifting dynamics. Very compelling stuff, all.

Silversmiths were next and the crowd thinned noticeably, but it was 11:30 by then and a school night, so to speak, so perhaps it was understandable.

Last but by no means least were Snowy Owls, a group with somewhat hushed vocals but big fuzzy guitar, bass and drums.

For a lover of soundscapes like yours truly, their borderline shoegaze effects are the stuff of sonic dreams.

A good-sized crowd stayed for their set, confident that this was the best place to be for music in Richmond this Thursday night (okay, Friday morning by now).

A talented musician who had been up north for a while was happily back tonight, a friend cut loose and got uncharacteristically loopy on a school night, and just before the last song of the evening, a semi-drunk guy stepped down hard on my sandaled foot (and spent the rest of the show apologizing for it).

There are worse ways to end an evening than with throbbing toes. Fortunately I'd been lulled into a musical euphoria, so I barely felt it at all.

I can try beginning my night with unhappy hours all I want, but I never quite get the hang of not enjoying myself when friends and good music are involved.

And sausage. One can never underestimate the happiness quotient of a good pig product. Fact.

Let Me Count the PBR Cans

Music theorists often use mathematics to understand music.

Number of bands performing at the Camel tonight: 5
Number of hours the show lasted: 4 1/2
Number of covers: 1 (Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart")
Number of musicians (total) playing: 16
Number of picks lost: 1
Number of musicians onstage for Adah's set: 9
Number of guitarists writhing on the floor: 1
Number of mics used by Snowy Owls low-voiced vocalist Matt: 2
Number of guitars replaced mid-set: 1
Number of empty PBR cans: too many to count

The multi-talented Dave Watkins opened the show promptly at 8:00 with an electric guitar instead of his usual dulcitar and a loop pedal. As usual, he captured every person in the room with his skill and musicality.

Snowy Owls could have used a boost on Matt's vocals but their shimmering sound is a favorite of mine and the song "Lakes" so my style that it could have been written for me.

It was my first time seeing Climbers, a trio with a knack for a huge sound. Their drummer was a show in and of himself with his loose limbs and busy styling.

I've seen At the Stars lots of times, unlike many of my friends at tonight's show, so I knew to expect Britpop proficiency and polished sound. Even so, Steven's guitar playing always impresses me.

Adah and guests from the previous bands closed the show with two drummers, four guitarists (five when Joon wasn't playing violin), bass, keyboards, knob turner and two vocalists.

Interestingly enough, lead singer Joon positions his mic to face the side rather than the audience; I don't think it's anything personal, but he's never looking at us (his bangs don't help). He also ends up on the floor playing guitar, both on his knees and on his back. Now that's entertainment.

When I first arrived, a stranger immediately invited me to sit next to him at the bar. Instead I stood and he insisted on buying me a glass of wine (bartender: "Just let him"). He wanted to talk about me and I wanted to talk about the upcoming music.

When Dave Watkins began playing, I moved away from the bar to better hear the show, telling the guy that he was going to enjoy these bands. He later found me and raved about how right I was about Dave's music ("Good thing I didn't smoke a doobie first or I would've got lost in it").

It was a satisfying moment, but not my favorite one. That came about with some quick-witted friend humor.

Two musician friends sitting next to me had a sudden whispered conversation mid-song, both finishing with big smiles. Don't smile around me and not share; I wanted to know what they'd said.

"We were talking about how hot you look tonight," one cracked, breaking the cardinal friend rule of non-commentary about such things.

Smacking him, I said, "You were not. What was it really?"

"We said these guys would be great on a bill with Louisiana Territory," he said. Now that's more like it: musician geek talk. I knew it. I settled back in my chair satisfied.

"And then we said you look really hot tonight."

Equal and abundant points for musicianship and humor. How many points?

One for every empty PBR can in the room tonight.

A Salty Salute: Tequila and Guided by Voices

What I know for sure (to paraphrase a recent Kennedy Center honoree):

a) That a bar that offers 52 tequilas should be on my regular route.

I hadn't been to the Whisky Grill and Smokehouse since the second week it was open and back then, they did not have an entire book detailing the liquors they carried. Now they do.

Sure, some of my favorites were there: Corazon, Don Julio, el Tesoro, as well as plenty new to me: Corrolejo, el Jimodor, Milagro.

Cielo Reposado, described as tasting of "toffee, cheese, dried cherry, brown spices and pineapple custard with a slightly tannic entry and a medium-full body that finishes with a long, okay, mint, cream and spice nuanced fade," delivered.

No chaser required.

It being Monday and all, they were out of the half chicken and the barbecue, so I had brisket (fatty bits included: yum) and beans (hot, hearty and belly-warming) and discussed with my server why drummers come home from being on tour in such great shape, why juice fasts are worth it and what RVA has over LA.

b) That you didn't have to be a music fan in the 90s to appreciate a Guided by Voices tribute, but tonight's show was a huge treat for those of us who were. And on a Monday night, too. The crowd was enthusiastic and clearly full of fans come to hear some of a favorite band's music.

For fans of indie music since there was such a thing, GBV's lo-fi pop was the best-kept secret around.

The amazing part was that there were enough GBV fans among Richmond's current crop of musicians to do a tribute show (enthusiastically and drunkenly, as the invitation stated).

After taking the second best seat in the house, a friend came in and took the best one, directly next to me, so now I had music, a clear view and a musician friend with whom to enjoy the show.

Sadly, there was no Cielo Reposado in the house, but everything else was perfect.

Herschel Stratego and his ukulele made the most interesting commitment; while agreeing to perform, he also admitted that he didn't know of GBV before being asked.

But he did his research, resulting in a brief set that shared fun facts about the band and sampled some of their music. A for effort.

Climbers and Trillions used neither a ukulele nor humor, but more than did justice to several GBV songs, in all their poppy brevity.

Paul Ivey vs. Board of Education, if not GBV fans, had certainly done their homework and delivered a well-done set. Paul looked like he could have been one of GBV's fans from back in the day and he was an excellent interpreter of the sound.

The highlight for me was Snowy Owls' set because, although I'd fallen in love with their shoegaze sound online, I had yet to hear them live and Matt is one of my favorite music buddies (the kind who recommends bands he thinks I'll like and sends me links to check out after we talk).

Their drummer had approached me earlier to introduce himself, saying "I see you at every show I go to" which caused my friend and seatmate to say, "I bet you hear that all the time."

I bet I do and I consider it a compliment of the highest order (so much better than the unoriginal "hey, great legs!").

Once they finished, the crowd around me went wild. "Strong set!" one fan said, nodding in approval. These people were taking their GBV covers very seriously; it was really cute.

Adah's leader Jun had organized the show and they played last.

Their very passionate set included some fierce violin playing on the part of Jun, who ended by turning to his band and saying,

"We rehearsed one more, but I'm too tired." End of set...but understandable after what we'd just witnessed.

The crowd was in no hurry to leave, so people lingered and talked about the show and what might be next.

There's talk of this becoming a series of tribute shows to bands that matter. I heard Pavement thrown around as the likely next honoree, but several people made a strong case for Spoon.

Either way, I'm in.

Another thing I know for sure is c) that when the current generation is re-interpreting older music, I want to hear it (especially when they're doing it drunkenly and enthusiastically).

I might suggest a little indie nap so they don't get so tired next time, though.

Bring Me Your Shoegaze

When you begin your evening with pheasant ravioli in a sage butter sauce, it surely must mean that wonderful things are ahead for the evening. And they were.

I dropped by my neighborhood joint for wine and then got sucked in by the ravioli du jour, savoring its delicate flavor and rich sauce while enjoying conversation with the staff about how only regular customers have the nerve to show up not long before closing, knowing they will be welcomed, and allowed to linger.

That contingent at Bistro 27 tonight included the Italian four-top, the wine shop owner and his main squeeze, and yours truly once the crowd thinned out, which was just fine with me. I never lack for chatty types in the neighborhood. And then it was music time.

Tonight's Live at Ipanema show featured The Diamond Center and was technically a redo since they'd already played once. But there had been recording issues, so we were graced with their shoegaze presence a second time.

Let me just state for the record that Kirk's twelve-string guitar made my night and I told him so. I'm a huge fan of the twelve-string anyway and too few guitarists use it, so when one does, I become his slave. Or maybe enraptured would be a better description.

The Diamond Center is already doing everything right as far as I'm concerned and I've seen them probably a half dozen times in the year since they relocated to RVA, first from Athens, GA and then Lubbock, TX, absorbing influences along the way.

Noisy guitars, reverb, male and female vocals, psychedelic sounds and 60s-ish pop can only mean one thing to me: music from a cave! If I were any more devoted to this musical genre, I'd have to marry it (and I'm not the marrying kind).

It worked out well, too, because I'd taken my favorite bar stool, situated next to band photographer extraordinaire P.J. Sykes and his honey and we were joined by a couple of superb local musicians I know, providing me with a coterie of music geeks. How do I get so lucky sometimes?

Being near the door put us essentially behind and to the side of the band, making for ideal listening because TDC can be loud and the volume was pitch perfect where we were and we still had a view.

We also had the added benefit of being near the door, allowing cool air to enter the rapidly warming restaurant. With each addition to the crowd, the body heat rose exponentially.

I saw no less than six guys remove their sweaters mid-set, seven if you include the bartender (and why would we not include the charming, musical and artistic Brandon?). Between songs, guitarist Kirk also acknowledged the heat in the band's corner, but I didn't see him remove anything.

After a set that included a song the band had learned only last night, the appreciative crowd clapped their devotion loudly. The usual post-show mingling began and I lucked into a conversation with a musician about the importance of sequencing a band's CD or even a mix tape, a subject near and dear to my heart.

Maybe it's the time I spent working in radio, but I always notice train wrecks; you know, when one song follows the wrong song and your ear tells you that they should never have been placed together.

Tonight I learned that there are other people who feel that way, too. We didn't start a support group or anything, but we may have wallowed a bit in our mutual music obsession. Clearly it was good for both of us, because he requested a hug afterwards.

Considering how I spent most of the day, I couldn't have asked for a better finish to it.

A twelve-string guitar and music from a cave: the panacea for anything that might ail me.

Well, almost anything.