The Leader is You

Of course it was the familiar faces, too, but you can't overlook how much I enjoy theatrical types.

As I discussed with three different friends at the National, tonight's Foxygen show was a no-brainer for multiple reasons besides it was a beautiful night to be out.

Let's see, to start with, the trio was being backed up by members of the Spacebomb Records house band aka some of the best jazz cats (don't look at me, that's what they call each other) in Richmond, from the 5-piece horn section to the well-known rhythm section of Pinson and Cameron to the incomparable Trey Pollard on guitar, the very same who'd done the arrangements for the new Foxygen record.

That alone would have gotten me there, but I'd also heard singer Sam refer to the duo as "just theater kids," and history shows I'm a  fan of onstage over-wrought millennial stage drama tunes (hello, how many times did I attend the Ghost Light afterparty just to hear such people belt out show tunes?).

A third reason that several of us also acknowledged was that it was only a $15 ticket and happening a Tuesday night where it was easily the most interesting thing going on in town tonight.

My favorite reason came from a fellow Yo La Tengo fan who said simply, "I love to dance." Enough said.

In any case, ding, ding, ding. We have a winner, folks.

The opener was Aussie Gabriella Cohen who came out alone, admitting she'd been worried she'd be late because she was still changing her blouse. She's apparently wearing a lot of blouses on this tour and tonight's was a stand-up collar, puffy-sleeved, cream colored one with lace trim, very Victorian and/or '70s, depending on your point of reference.

She tried to tell us she  just wanted to come along as Foxygen's roadie, but they insisted she get onstage. Since she used to be the singer for the Furrs, she's obviously got some experience, although one friend thought she came across as not quite ready for prime time.

This was an interesting comparison since just before the show, I'd heard a snippet from a 1994 interview with the Dave Matthews Band, not long after they'd gotten their first record deal. Besides sounding incredibly young and excited (and not ready for prime time, either), they'd played "Ants Marching" right there in the studio and the passion and freshness of it was evident compared to how it undoubtedly sounds live now.

Sometimes, not quite ready for the big league is exactly when you most enjoy a band.

After the first song solo and an acknowledgement she worshipped Johnny Cash, Gabriella was joined by her band whom she immediately introduced, a nice touch, I thought. The quartet's songs were a combination of neo-country/western and girl group with lots of effects on the voice  and guitars and a bit of underlying garage.

"Do you all live here?" she asked of the enthusiastic crowd. "Have you been to Australia? Do you want to?" When the crowd cheered, she laughed. "Do you think we all surf?" She rolls her eyes. "Not much."

Banter was minimal - "This is another song" and "Thank you" - and the other guitarist added her lovely vocals to Gabriella's, as did the bassist on occasion. "This is our last song which is a good thing because then you can hear Foxygen!" Maybe, but in the meantime, I was totally digging the screaming post-punk guitar behind lyrics like, "Why don't we get together?"

During the break, I heard from my musician friend about the satisfactions of teaching guitar (students noodling between lessons) and from a photographer friend about being smitten by someone who'd last significant other was an illustrator for the "New Yorker." Tough act to follow, man.

When he bemoaned the difficulties of a long distance relationship like the one on which he was embarking, I reminded him that if a long-distance one is better than none at all, he might want to keep his bellyaching to himself.

Then the lights went down and I lost my friend to the front rows so he could dance with the mob while I stayed directly in front of the sound board, shielded from behind and with a good view. Also, plenty of room to dance.

Foxygen came out, which meant three faces I didn't know and eight I did. When I think back to that first time I ever saw Trey Pollard at a Listening Room in 2010, I couldn't help but think how cool it was to see him as part of this.

Singer Sam, a theater kid if ever there was one, came out in a skinny white t-shirt and jeans with Todd Rundgren-like hair (short bangs, long hair), round sunglasses and all the moves. There was posturing, there was drama, there was showing off with kicks, mic stand manipulations and fists in the air.

And that was just in the first song.

He introduced the girl singer as Julie and her job, it appeared, was to flip her hair, dance in syncopation with Sam and sing back-up or harmonize while looking cute. She nailed it. On the second song, he sang, "I left my heart in San Francisco" and she sang back, "That's okay, I live in L.A."

Three songs in and the band's influences were clear: Bowie, Queen and a lot of Mick Jagger's dance moves. A friend heard prog rock influences while I heard psychedelic.

Potatoes, potahtoes.

"A lot of local boys on stage tonight," Sam shouted enthusiastically, referring to a group of musicians mostly older than himself. Too funny. "Give it up for the Spacebomb crew!" he directed and the crowd did.

With each song, we got another massive dose of theater kid drama, whether guitarist/keyboard player Jonathan's screaming guitar solo, one foot on his bench, the other on top of the piano, or singer Sam acting as much as singing, helicoptering his arms and dropping and catching the mic.

We heard songs that were Queen-esque and others that invoked ABBA big time while the bubbly crowd bopped four colorful balloons (no doubt supplied by the band) into the air. There were costume changes, during which the band competed: Jonathan's exuberant piano playing versus a percussive onslaught in return.

Then we also had a song called "Where the Red Fern Grows," which I'm quite sure refers to an old children's book title, and wildly theatrical-sounding songs with multiple-part arrangements that allowed Sam to pull out his best deep voice for emphasis.

So. Much. Drama. It was fully fabulous.

My musician friend concluded at the end that he'd liked about 65% of the songs we'd heard. Personally, I'd liked 100% of the overwrought songs that winked at themselves and and reached for grandiosity while eight of the most talented musicians I know backed them up.

Not only did I want to give it up for the Spacebomb crew, but we Yo La Tengo fans love to dance.

This is My Tree

I'm back in the saddle again, but it took me nearly eleven hours to get there.

Coming off of vacation, today's walk was the first one in over a week that involved shoes, much less banking and errands along the way. While laundry had been finished last night, today there was grocery shopping to do. I spent almost four hours on a writing assignment before stripping the Christmas tree bare, wrangling it through the window and tossing it to the sidewalk below (don't try this alone, kids). After cleaning house and paying bills, I finally settled down to read the last two days' worth of the Washington Post.

Then there was the downloading (or is it uploading?) of the 200 vacation pictures I took and the deletion of the hundred that were blurry, of the ground (I kept one foot shot for posterity) or redundant (now why would I take six of the exact same angle of the lighthouse?).

My world restored to its rightful order, at long last I was free to get cleaned up and go out for live music.

Local heroes Spacebomb Records were presenting Spanish singer-songwriter Alondra Bentley for my listening pleasure, preceded by socialization with whomever I might happen to find. Happily, I walked into the back room to find all kinds of familiar faces.

I kvetched with the sax player who hikes about the impending cold weather and how it doesn't stop us from being outside, just ensures that we dress properly for it. The guy who works at the National told me about the recent Lotus show where the band played till 2 a.m. and then hung around shooting the breeze until 5 a.m. The calendar editor and I bemoaned the public's lack of understanding of print deadlines. The New Year's Eve DJ told me about how successful his tail feather-shaking party had been.

Then with no fanfare, Alondra and her handsome jean jacket-clad musical partner took the stage. She was adorably dressed in a navy blue dress with matching trim at the neck and sleeve cuffs and looked as groovy as a happening model from the '60s.

They both took guitars in hand and proceeded to show us how it's done on the other side of the pond, with Spanish-sounding guitar work and a beautiful voice that sounded distinctly un-American, not just in its phrasing but in its delivery. Clearly its origins were not from these parts.

She began by smiling (and never stopped), saying that she'd never played here before but that she was already loving Richmond and its friendliness. "Everyone is so nice. Maybe we should move here. Should we?" We'd only heard a couple of songs and still everyone called out in the affirmative.

When they did a song from her album for kids, she clarified that it was for kids of all ages, two to 200 and did "Wake Up," which began with the lyric of a rooster crowing, although as she sang it, it was absent any cock, as in, "Coo-cadoodle-do."

Afterwards, a friend sitting nearby leaned over and observed, "It feels like we're in Soho in 1967." It was true, with her clear, dulcet tones, dark bangs and groovy dress, we could have been in a smoky basement bar snapping our fingers instead of clapping.

She said she had a lot of songs about family and did "Garden Room" about warning her Dad that she wanted to see the world. Another was about her "crazy" sister whose odd habits she catalogs safely "because she's over the pond and can't hear me."

At one point, she put her guitar down and brought out a maraca, saying it belonged to Pinson the Magic, a reference to Spacebomb's talented drummer. "So it's going to be special even though I don't really know how to play it."

Although she'd been born in England, her accent reflected that she'd lived in Spain since age five and her lyrics were full of imagery you don't hear much here, things such as fruit scones, chocolate boxes filled with pencils, long skirts for dancing and bourbon biscuits.

"You're my tree where the birds live," she sang. Songs were enhanced by her partner's harmonies and piano playing on the second half of them. His style was almost lounge-like, often running the keys as accompaniment to her trilling voice. "In My Garden" got one couple slow dancing, much to her delight.

She told us she'd arrived in Richmond on New Year's Day and spent the last two days recording. "There is nowhere else in the world where we could have made this album. It had to be here."

What's interesting about that, my friend and I decided, was that her sound was very much Spanish and coastal sounding with undertones of lounge, making us curious about how Spacebomb's trademark horn section and impressive percussion will add to that.

No doubt in the same mystical way that the Muscle Shoals Studio affected the sound of artists as diverse as Aretha Franklin, Cat Stevens and the Black Keys.

During one lively song, the bartender began shaking a cocktail in time with the song, causing the keyboard player to call, "Cool, man!" to him when they finished.

When they got to their last song, the applause was loud and long and nobody went anywhere, so I doubt I was the only one who wished they'd played a while longer.

Nobody made a move to leave, including Alondra, who accommodatingly sold albums and signed them for adoring fans while the rest of the crowd milled about socializing on a Monday night high after an amazing (free) show had dropped in our laps.

I heard about a friend's upcoming trip to D.C. to see the Reverend Horton Heat, while another told me about his new restaurant obsession before finally heading out through the clutch of people getting their drink on in the front room. It had been a stellar night of music and conversation.

Doesn't matter how long it's been. Soho or Richmond, certain things you fall back into as naturally as breathing.

For some of us, this is one of them.