Bohemian Like You

The Internet has informed me that I'm guilty of masturdating.

Masturdating (n.) going out to a movie or restaurant alone

I knew I was doing it, I just didn't know it had a name. And then for the second time in two days, I was misidentified. Thursday I was invited to an art opening as part of the tattoo community. Fact: there's not a speck of ink on my body.

Tonight I was invited to the premiere  of "Artists Die Best in Black" at the Firehouse Theater. Martha Mabey, who wrote the book the film is based on, began the evening by saying, "Everyone I invited are people I like."

We've never met. So now I've been mistaken for part of Boho Richmond.

But that's okay, because I am the kind of person who'd enjoy seeing the premiere of a low-budget film ($2 million) based on a novel set in Richmond about a gallery owner written by a former Carytown gallery owner.

Walking up to the Firehouse, I was spotted by one of the best music bookers in town who was looking quite dapper in a suit instead of his usual t-shirt and shorts. He was outside so as to avoid the overcrowded reception and the attendant schmoozing going on inside.

Once in, we hovered together before lights were dimmed and everyone took a seat, me in the sole seat in the second row not marked "reserved."  As a frequent masturdater, I find I often score a superb seat by being alone.

Martha introduced some of the people in tonight's audience who were represented in the book/film, including the artist Mayo Everett, who set one of his driftwood sculptures on the stage.

That's when it hit me. I'd seen a show of his work at Pine Camp back in January. This was the guy who'd find a piece of driftwood and let it tell him what it wanted to be. Seems he'd also shown up at Martha's gallery with a driftwood giraffe and she'd given him a solo show back in the day.

I found it very cool to be watching the film with some of the people who'd inspired characters. Afterwards, Martha was asked if she minded all the changes that had been made - the film was apparently much darker than the book - from her original story line.

"No, because I wrote it for fun," she said with a big smile. "I had Lewis next door and Cindy I would go to exercise class together and Mayo just showed up at my gallery one day. It was just a fun time."

A fun time I'd known nothing about until seeing this film.

And because we masturdaters tend to overdo what we do, when I left there, it was to abandon my car and walk over to Gallery 5. Alone.

A four-band bill had begun at 8, so I was hoping to catch the last two bands. It was Spandrel's last show (a member is moving) and it's always bittersweet to see a band's final performance together. They played a solid set of their distinctive '70s sound before waving, saying goodbye and meaning it.

Waiting for the next band to set up, I noticed for the first time some of the more repellent sounding offerings on the chalkboard over the bar. Great Buds of Fire combined Budweiser with Fireball. Horrible as that sounds, it wasn't even the most off-putting. That honor went to Vomit Comet, a melange of Genesee and tequila.

I only knew a couple of people at the show - the sound guy I'd recently met, the filmmaker, the restaurant manager - but I had a good spot for viewing the debut of Spooky Cool.

Fronted by Zac Hyrciak formerly of the Junglebeat, the new group delivered killer harmonies with three singers including a female singer and drummer, Lee. That's not so different than Junglebeat.

What was different was how much harder hitting their sound was with big guitars and loud drums. No violin. "We're pretty hard, you guys," Zac said stating the obvious after their first song. It was still interesting music with clever stops and starts and tempo changes, just way more rockin' than anything I saw Junglebeat do.

Midway through their 3-song set, a girl near me asked what band this was. When I told her, she thumbed it into her device, showed it to me and asked again if that was it. She was wasting the short time they were playing on her phone rather than watching them. Don't get me started.

When the crowd called for another song, Zac explained that that was all they knew right now. They're doing a show at Hardywood at the end of June and he promised a couple more songs by then. But I have to say their first show sounded impressive, making me wish I had someone to discuss it with.

Two firsts and a last tonight, all taken in through the eyes of a masturdater. I'm lucky I haven't gown hair on my palms given how often I do it.

French Horns and Precious Jewels

You'd think few things could impress after such a ridiculously beautiful March day (83 degrees, seriously?), but you'd be mistaken.

Last week I'd suggested to a girlfriend I hadn't seen in months that we meet tonight at Gallery 5 for the England in 1819 show.

"I have no idea who that is but I will go because I want to see you! Also, I need live music, BAD!"

I can't ignore a friend's plea for live music, much less my company, so we planned to meet at 7:30 for some catch up time before the music started.

Walking in, the girl to whom I paid my cover wanted to know who I'd come to see, an unusual question in that in the scores of shows I've seen at G5, I'd never once been asked that.

Explaining that I'd seen Spandrel and Herro Sigar multiple times before, I was here on a mission to see England in 1819 after checking them out online.

Oddly, she seemed completely uninterested in my response.

Inside, I found my cute friend at the bar with a Magic Beaver, a beer she'd ordered sotto voice to avoid saying such a ridiculous beer name aloud.

With no time to waste, we got right down to the business of life, namely how she and her husband try to outdo each other sending dumb pictures back and forth, how desperately this town needs a mid-size venue, the birds she's been attracting to her backyard feeder and the bulbs bursting forth in our gardens.

When I told her my pink hyacinths were already perfuming my handkerchief of a front yard, she told me she'd considered getting a hyacinth tattoo back in December because of the line in T.S. Elliott's The Wasteland, "They called me the hyacinth girl."

I have to adore a friend who considers a tattoo because of poetry. As it turned out, she'd gotten a gramophone instead, an exquisite rendering (Amy Black, natch) which she proceeded to show me by taking down her red jacket sleeve.

Because she's as big a music fanatic as I am, discussion of what we were both currently listening to ensued, with her recommending Lydia Loveless and Angel Olsen. We also agreed that we need to get our tickets for Perfect Pussy sooner rather than later.

By then a smallish crowd had drifted in, although there wasn't a single person either of us knew, a rarity for us at shows.

Spandrel played first, bringing their brand of laid back '70s California rock with male and female vocalists, instrument trading and a mellow vibe. Several of the band's members had out of town family visiting, so there was some filming going on.

My friend and I discussed how if we were in bands (as if), we couldn't imagine wanting our families in attendance at a show, but maybe that's just us. The band certainly didn't seem to mind.

While England in 1819 set up, we watched intently, curious about a band who chooses the name of a Shelley poem for their band.

"They're so hot I want to take them home," my happily married friend observed apropos of nothing.

During their sound check of voices and synth, the bearded one said to the sound guy, "That sounds like a god damn angel up here." That it did.

"Hi, we're England in 1819 and we're from Baton Rouge," the bearded one said by way of introduction before picking up a French horn and causing my friend and I to go into paroxysms of joy at that distinctive sound.

Using keyboards, synth and occasional guitar, bass and that horn, the duo made atmospheric and melodic electronica that was so beautiful my friend and I found ourselves looking at each other in amazement.

Why weren't there more people here?

"Our Own God" had a delicate intensity and the poppy, exuberant "Sirens" went out to Austin, whoever he was. They said tonight's show was the second to last of their tour with tomorrow night's final stop in Atlanta.

Saying they were going to do a slow one, "Tree Cut Down" began with keyboard and French horn, with synth eventually chiming in for what had to be the most sublimely beautiful song of the night and that's saying something.

To me, it sounded like the song you'd hear near the end of a foreign film where two people are making their way toward each other, unaware of the other.

Their set was so good, so different than anything you hear in Richmond, that the two of us were positively beaming, not to mention yelling and clapping madly after each song.

The two musicians traded off instruments throughout, but it was the bearded one, not the lead singer (falsetto, no less) who danced along to almost every song when he wasn't making dramatic hand gestures to further the song's energy.

Hardly surprising given the band's name, most songs had poetic lyrics and a kind of sweeping soundscape that, to me anyway, leaned mightily toward post rock's grandeur.

I don't know which of us loved it more, but I do know we were both bowled over with the beauty, intensity and sheer electronic goodness of what we were hearing.

Their set ended all too soon for us.

Perhaps because the crowd was small, the bearded one, who turned out to be Daniel, came over to us to introduce himself and ask if we ever got to Louisiana (not often enough, clearly), chatting with us about their last time in Richmond at the unlikeliest of places, Emilio's.

We explained that Richmond has almost no electronica scene, unlike D.C. and NYC and he admitted Baton Rouge really didn't, either.

Friend and I only wish we could change that. "I could listen to that kind of music every night of the week," she lamented. Amen, sister. If only we could find it.

Basking in the glow of such an unexpectedly terrific set of music (if we'd been smokers, we'd have needed a post-set cigarette), we awaited the final band of the evening, Herro Sugar.

They had been part of the reason my friend had come, having heard about them but never seen them.

These guys are impossibly young (or perhaps they just look that way) and come across as more sure of themselves as musicians than as adults.

But, I tell you what, their sound is fully formed for ones so young and the sheer amount of energy they put out was invigorating. Channeling influences from the past twenty years, they manage to sound fresh and influenced at the same time.

The bass player, probably the youngest looking but also the most charismatic and personable, was a whirlwind, always doing something in addition to playing, whether executing air kicks, leaning his head into the lead singer's back as they played or mounting the drum kit, and his enjoyment of it all was contagious.

He told the crowd that tonight was their last show for a while as they hunkered down to record an album. "So keep your eyes, er, ears posted," he instructed.

My girlfriend looked at me, clearly doting on him, saying, "He's adorable. He's my precious jewel," the same thing she says about her beloved cat.

"We 're going to play one more and then you can go home to your Wednesdays," he said with a big smile.

As it turned out, the crowd insisted on one more still but due to technical difficulties, there was an unexpected break during that song before they restarted and finished it properly...and proudly.

These guys sure know what they're doing for being so tender of years and it'll be interesting to watch them develop.

Not as  exciting as it would be for the Magic Beaver drinker and I to watch an electronica scene develop in Richmond, but a good thing nonetheless.

For tonight, it was enough to be treated to the music of god damn angels with a favorite female too long absent from my life.

Now, I can assure you, we're ready to start our Wednesdays.

Art, Independence and Spirit

There were giveaways, there was art, there was metal.

Only another reader can appreciate how thrilled I was to hear about the main library's big book giveaway tonight, part of First Fridays artwalk.

The only requirement was that you bring your own bag and I brought a sturdy one, quite sure I'd find plenty that interested me. I like to think I have an advantage because my taste probably resides somewhat outside the mainstream.

It was a narrow hallway lined on both sides with boxes and boxes of books and the crowd moved slowly through it, each with their own reading agenda.

Many sections I gave only a cursory glance - romance, self-help, religion - while I lingered over others so as to not miss a hidden gem.

I spent about an hour and left with a baker's dozen books, everything from "Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley" to "The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Carvaggio Masterpiece" to "American Moderns: Bohemian New York and the Creation of a New Century."

There was no resisting a 1938 book called "If You Want to Write: A Book About Art, Independence and Spirit," which the poet Carl Sandberg called, "The best book ever written about how to write." We'll just see about that.

Lest I make it sound like I only chose non-fiction, I also snagged William Styron's "Sophie's Choice" for a good 515-page cry and Oscar Hijuelos' "A Simple Habana Melody," the latter chosen because I enjoyed his "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" so much.

I met a book dealer carefully checking titles against the inventory on his phone and he raised an eyebrow, asking how I was doing. Giving him a peek into my bag, he smiled and said I was not an easy-to-categorize reader. Duh.

Then I lugged my booty upstairs to see some art.

Jason Clark's white, carved wood panels reminded me of monochromatic maps and his colored rubbings on paper made abstractions of familiar things.

Jess Pruett's show of collage works, "Caustic Merges," blended the female form with typography and iconography in an almost Byzantine-looking way so that each small, framed work had the feel of a much older object.

Leaving the library, I made my way back to J-Ward for the first opening at New Normal Apparel, where Boris Bernard's prints entitled "Your Failure Iz My Happiness" were showing.

There were screen prints of athletes kissing trophies and celebrating victories but my favorite was a decidedly pink one of the famous image from the 1968 Olympics of two black athletes raising their fists while the national anthem played.

Somehow seeing it screened in pink and rustically framed made it even more powerful. If only they'd been giving away prints, I'd have taken it home in a heartbeat.

But they weren't, so I headed down Clay to Gallery 5 to check out a group show, "Feels Good" and hear some music.

The place was freezing and I mean that not in a hyperbolic way but because the heat wasn't working and despite a few small heaters, it's impossible to warm ceilings two stories high with concrete floors and brick walls.

As a musician friend warned me on arrival, "Just leave your coat and gloves on." Oh, you can be sure I did.

First onstage was Spandrel, a band I'd seen just a few weeks ago at one of the Well's final shows before closing.

The quartet has a mellow sound (a DJ friend referred to it as "classic AM radio sounding) with three vocalists, all of whom traded instruments throughout their set.

Next came Half Bascule, named after the kind of bridge at Great Shiplock park, and made up of the uber-talented Dave Watkins and the equally impressive Nathaniel Rosenberry on drums.

They set up on the floor in front of the stage so the crowd was mere feet away.

The first thing Nathaniel did was peel off his jacket and hat before sitting down to play and then said, "If anyone here knows Dave, you know he's never played this instrument in public before."

True that and the instrument in question looked like a kid's bass with guitar strings.

With no more than that, the two of them took off on a sonic journey that knocked the crowd on their collective asses.

Part doom metal, part Appalachian folk and part spaghetti western (doom spaghetti, Dave later called it), the music was loud, fast and incredibly melodic.

The dance party king said to me at one point, "Now that part is pure southern rock. And that's pure Hendrix." I think I even heard some Led Zeppelin. Another guy heard Minus the Bear.

As they tore into this improvised music, each of them going at it with an intensity that only spurred the other on, the crowd stood in awe.

At one point, I saw a guy climb up onstage with his camera to shoot them playing from above. Another guy found his way to stand on a radiator behind Nathaniel and shoot over his shoulder. Others just stood inches away and shot pictures and video right in their faces.

Everyone in the room knew they were seeing something spectacular.

Now, I've seen Dave play dozens of times over the past almost five years, but never like that. Ditto for Nathaniel.

I had the feeling that their set ended only when Nathaniel was close to exhaustion.

A guy came up to me after their set, asking me if I'd been at the VMFA last night because he thought he recognized me.

Once I confirmed that, he stayed to talk, eager to know more about Dave and talk about the local scene.

Seems he'd graduated from VCU with a double major in sculpture and photography and then moved to San Francisco for 33 years and just returned.

He wanted suggestions for stuff to do now that he's back, so I made some, always happy to share my knowledge and get people out and enjoying the scene.

I shushed him when The Silent Type took the stage because I'd never heard them, despite a decade-long history here, although apparently they'd been on hiatus for years.

And while I say "they," we were also told that the guitarist Phil (from Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade) had stepped in and learned all the songs in two weeks.

The lead singer played acoustic guitar (tuning frequently because of how cold it was in there) and had a dramatic voice, reminding the DJ and me a bit of Morrissey's stagey delivery (which we both liked a lot), but it was the addition of the effect-laden electric guitar Phil was playing that made the sound for me.

His songs were very poetic - "Alarms," "Fools' Gold, Sinners' Blues," "The Year Since You Left Me" and decidedly downbeat, but as the former San Franciscan pointed out, "Upbeat gets old after a while. It's good to hear someone do downbeat well."

Agreed.

After some long-winded sound checking (and never really getting it right), Antiphons played, starting with a song called "Orchard Graves."

It was notable for how the band was dressed to play, namely as warmly as possible. The bass player wore his jacket and the guitarist wore an epic hat with flaps and blew on his hands to keep blood flowing in them.

Between the cold and the hour, their set was a casual one, with lots of asides to the audience. "Thanks again for being here. You guys are cute," singer Brian said.

They did a Built to Spill cover, "Twin Falls," a real crowd-pleaser and later said they were doing another cover, "But one we haven't done in a long time. That's a disclaimer."

When the bassist asked what the chords were, the lead singer laughed. "Just play it. What do we have to lose at this point?" before playing Weezer's "Only in Dreams."

"Thanks for humoring us," Brian finished to those of us still shivering and listening.

Hey, once a bohemian's gotten free books and heard doom spaghetti, she's pretty much agreeable to anything.

Feel free to test me on that.

Ending Properly

To paraphrase Tiny Tim, god bless us, every one in Richmond.

I say that because after a day that included driving to southside (thrifting and I got the cutest $1 dress), walking to Broad (interviewing a curator), hearing my name called in the middle of Broad Street (and being unexpectedly handed a gift) and taking my hired mouth out to eat, I wanted something more.

And, god bless this town, I didn't have to look far to find it. The catch was the finality of it.

The Well, the reincarnation of the restaurant Cous Cous smack in the middle of VCU's campus, will soon be no more. But tonight they were holding their last/one of their last music shows and the lineup looked good enough to get me over there.

That, and I wanted to add to my list of doomed restaurants holding final shows I attend (see: Sprout, Cellar Door). As added incentive, the Well is where I fainted last Valentine's Day, so it holds a unique place in my heart.

The night got off to a fine start when I had to claim to be having an affair with a girlfriend in order to placate a male friend who hadn't seen either of us in a while. Don't ask.

Before things got overly revealing, the music began with Spacemonster, a lo-fi, bedroom pop one-man project with plenty of looping and catchy songs, most of which had abrupt endings. While he was playing, I noticed the strangest smell in the room and the only thing I could think of was that it smelled like skunk, which seemed like an unlikely possibility.

That said, toward the end of Spacemonster's set, I heard a guy ask a girl why it smelled like skunk in there. Good question.

The show had been set up so that as bands were breaking down/setting up, you could go up into the lounge area where Lobo Marino would be playing their world music. I did just that, joining a few other people to watch their percussion and harmonium-accompanied music being played tucked away in a corner as people joined us one by one. Percussionist Jameson got so into it in the small space that he was soon shedding his sweater and hat to cool down.

What was interesting was that because of the talking in the other room and the fact that they were up a few stairs and tucked away, you'd never know they were playing unless you came all the way up and could hear their un-amplified sound.

Hidden music, an unexpected treat. Then just as one of their songs ended, music began in the main room.

Quartet Antiphons played a sort of experimental folk, notable for singer Brian's high warble. Midway through their set, he said, "Uh-oh, I dropped a semi-translucent pick on the floor," a problem given the white tile floor.

A fan soon found it, allowing them to do a Built to Spill cover that had the drummer wailing but his white cardigan never came off. Cool is as cool does.

After playing the original "Billowing/Bellowing," Brian dismissed the band. "Give a hand to these guys," he instructed, "Cause they make me sound way better than I do by myself and now I'm gonna play by myself."

When he finished, I went back up to catch another Lobo Marino set and found a couple of friends there, one with gossip to share.

This was their Christmas set, with "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "O Holy Night," both rolled into non-holiday songs for some clever mash-ups. This time, there were more people listening since it had been announced from the stage that they'd be playing in the lounge.

The secret was out.

By the time Spandrel began playing, some of the earlier crowd had been replaced by newcomers. Given how close we are to the holiday week, I had no doubt that the people who are left in town would continue to arrive, looking for something to do.

What Spandrel had going for them was male/female vocalists, nice harmonies and a lush sound that should have been mic'd better.

A friend came over to stand next to me, complaining that she was trying to find a place in the room where she could best hear the vocals. I told her I thought the vocals were way too low in the mix and that was the problem, not her position.

It's not like I know anything, just that I couldn't hear them well enough, either.

On their last song, another melodic gem perfect for driving music, the ending was abrupt and a bit rough before singer Kylie said goodnight. Guitarist Timmy was having none of it.

"I can fix this," he said, starting a do-over. "We're gonna end this song properly."

And did they ever. With lots of pedals and effects, they delivered a glorious music-from-a-cave (my favorite, you know) sound that ended with knob turning and feedback. Now that's what I'm talking about.

After a busy day focused on all the things I had to get done, how perfect to end my evening with friends to talk to and new music to listen to.

It's a shame the Well is almost gone. Tonight was a reminder of how much good music I've seen there.

Hopefully something new will arise from its ashes...with any luck, sans the skunk smell.