Good Morning, Irene

I am many kinds of nerd, but certainly one of my longest running is as a weather nerd.

For thirteen years, I kept a color chart of cloud formations taped inside my kitchen cabinet in case I needed a quick reference.

Cumulonimbus? Cirrus? Stratocumulus? I wanted to know my clouds.

So when I heard about a public screening and lecture called "Weather Mass Movement," I was determined to attend despite the 11 a.m. Saturday start time.

I have to admit that the allure of a pancake breakfast to accompany the weather didn't hurt, either.

So I was up by 10:25, and walking over to Sponge HQ at the Anderson Gallery by 10:40.

The smell of pancakes cooking lured me up the three flights of stairs where I found other sleepy looking people mainlining Lamplighter coffee.

As a non-coffee drinker, I need to be brought to life in other ways.

I was second in line for pancakes, slathering them with enough butter and real maple syrup to make my 10:25 wake-up call seem like a very good idea.

Sponge's mistress Hope wished us all a happy earth day, saying that it seemed like a good day to reflect on the weather (and accompanying drama) and introducing the SP Weather Station team of Nathalie and Heidi.

They talked about the evolution of their fascination with weather, installing weather stations on rooftops and collecting data.

Because you know, with weather it's all about observation and prediction and a lot of the observation in the weather world comes from non-experts.

Yes, I'm a non-expert.

The two made me grin when they talked about "cooperative observers" (which they are not) who help collect weather data for the experts.

Their purpose in coming to VCU had been to assist students in creating a time lapse video of the movements of Hurricane Irene last August.

Using wool tufts to simulate clouds on a map, the film showed the storm gathering force and eventually traveling up the east coast.

The arduous process required endless effort to shift the formations, photograph it and then do it all over again.

For six hours.

But the resulting stop motion film was beautiful and told the story of the storm that rained down hard on Richmond that day.

I remember well; part of my bedroom ceiling came crashing down that night because of Irene's wetness.

When the presentation ended, Hope was the first to stand up.

"I have a question," she said. "Are there going to be more pancakes?"

Riley, the student with pancake duties, immediately got up to turn on the burners under the pans.

With my head full of weather images and my belly full of buttery pancakes, I left Sponge to do my daily walk.

Almost immediately I heard, "Karen!" and looked up to see my favorite activist on the steps of a building across the street. "Haters gonna hate!" she called smiling, referring to the online trolls judging my latest review.

So true.

By the time I got over to Grace Street, one of my walking regulars spotted me and came charging out of the Village.

"A dress?" he shouted incredulously from across the street.

Yes, a dress. When one goes to a weather event with pancakes, one likes to wear a dress.

It makes it easier to feel the weather as you walk under the stratus clouds.

Just ask any cloud chart-posting weather nerd.

Of Dogs and Men

This ain't a scene, it's a lifestyle.

Actually, it's getting to be enough of a scene that a music lover has multiple options on a Tuesday night.

I took bees and fish over Shakespearean tragedy and loud estrogen, but that was just me.

Well, me and the friends who said they'd seen enough really loud shows lately to want something more ear-friendly tonight.

Actually, I started at the bar at Bistro 27 where a group immediately took me in, saying, "Welcome to the party."

When they departed for a table, I stayed put for Meiomi Pinot Noir and a satisfying dish of vegetables, cannellini beans and duck confit.

You can never go wrong with duck poached in its own fat.

Or with a dessert plate that featured chocolate hazelnut torte and chocolate mousse.

But you can go wrong with a nearby bar sitter with deplorable manners.

Unfortunately, my dearly departed party was replaced with a girl on a cell phone.

And by that I mean from the second she walked in she was talking on her phone.

She talked on it through wine, carpaccio and cheesecake. She talked on it while ordering.

And eating.

Didn't our mothers teach us that that was rude?

In fact, she talked so non-stop that she never took off her jacket, scarf or hat. She ate with her right hand and held her phone with the left.

Unfortunately, it made it easier to leave because I was tired of hearing her incessant chatter.

The fact that I had a great show to go to didn't hurt, either.

Sponge HQ, on the top floor of the Anderson Gallery, was playing host to a double bill of the Low Branches and Brown Bird.

And one of the benefits of going to Sponge is the beehive. Another is the burbling fish tank, the lights of which dimmed only once the music started.

You just can't get that kind of ambiance at most venues.

Mingling before the show, I asked a musician friend where his lovely wife was.

She was home with their dog, a rescue he said had lost her skittishness with the magic formula , according to him, of "love and parameters."

Like what men need, I asked. Grinning, he agreed.

The Low Branches started the show with their achingly beautiful songs, four of which were new to even us long-time fans.

After the first song, lead singer Christina apologized, "The first song is always rough, then it gets better. It's not getting better yet, though."

Truth be told, it was mesmerizing everyone in the room with lyrics of love and longing.

The spell was broken only when Christina decided to do a song not on the set list, throwing off guitarist Matt who was still going with the plan.

"I'm usually the one who screws up," Christina laughed.

On my way to the bathroom during the short break, a guy looked at me and inquired, "Were you in Charlottesville recently?"

Why, yes, I was at the Other Lives show, I told him.

"I thought I saw you there!" he said before we discussed what an excellent show that had been.

I have no idea who he was or how he recognized me.

Break over, Rhode Island's Brown Bird took command of the room.

It wasn't my first time seeing them, although the last iteration had been as a trio and tonight they were a duo.

The friends sitting next to me hadn't seen them before, but knowing their taste, I was certain they'd love Brown Birds' genre-bending sound.

Part folk, part gypsy music, part bluegrass, part blues, the music benefits from two strong vocalists and more instruments than any two people should be able to play.

Upright bass, guitar, violin, cello, drum, percussion and banjo. The only thing I could think of that was missing was dobro which they'd had when they were a trio.

Leader Dave, who could apparently do at least three or four things at any point in any song, wore a most handsome black beard that got noticed in a room city full of great beards.

After a couple of songs, he commented, "The percussion is rally loud in this room. I wish I could turn it down."

His band mate, MorganEve, looked at him wryly and said, "So do I."

But that percussion was central to their sound, at times as key to their eastern European-influenced sound as the string instruments.

Tonight was the first night of a three-month tour and before one song, Dave apologized, saying they'd only played this song out once or twice before and never with a violin.

I'd wager that not a person in the room would have known that had we not been told.

When their set ended, people made a beeline for their merch table, always a gratifying thing to see. I'd done the same after the first time I saw them.

A small group was going to Cous Cous afterwards, so I agreed to go along even though I usually limit my presence there to worthy shows.

In yet another unlikely twist, a couple of us celebrated our fine evening of music with Cokes.

Without a music crowd, the place was practically dead, but our little group made the best of it with any number of unlikely conversations.

Nutrition? Check. Living your passion? Check. Soccer branding? Check.Shoegaze gods in sunglasses? Check. Drawn-out birthday celebrations? Check.

But when it came time to go on the hunt for some pie, I bowed out.

I honestly didn't need another pleasure to close the book on tonight's chapter of lifestyles of the poor but passionate.

Besides, the pie will be there for me.

It's just another part of the scene.

This Must Be the Place

As much as I enjoy seeing an intimate show, a part of me always wishes that more people were there.

Such was the case tonight at Sponge HQ in the Anderson Gallery for the Small Houses CD Release show.

A lack of attention had me there when the doors opened instead of closer to music time, but it worked out well anyway.

I ran into a friend who wanted to go across the street to Cous Cous for take out so I joined her for a drink.

Her Campari and soda seemed much more sophisticated than my Malbec, but I needed something to thicken my blood after Old Man Winter arrived unexpectedly today.

How is it I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt yesterday and it was sleeting today?

But never mind. If I understood science, I wouldn't be a writer.

We fell into a terrific discussion of our memories of elementary school, mine of singing folk music and hers of learning about people like Stephen Foster.

We agreed it was unlikely that children get any exposure to either in these days of SOLs and what a pity that is.

Returning to Sponge for the show, I put out a batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies I'd made for the attendees.

No, I don't usually bake for shows, but Sponge shows are always so intimate and it seems like both musicians and music lovers are always hungry.

The three members of Michigan's Small Houses were performing on a raised platform that barely contained them.

Actually, last time I'd seen them, it had been just the singer Jeremy and I'd been blown away. Tonight he had keyboards and backing vocals for a much lusher sound.

Introducing "Tired in 20 Cities," he said, "Which we are now, but that's okay because this is what we want to do."

They played several songs from their new CD and mentioned it was for sale.

"All the money we make selling CDs goes into the Waffle House fund. They're so awesome! We don't have them in Michigan. We went twice in one day!"

Jeremy took a moment to tune before their final song and keyboard player Adam noted, "The guy gets one Nick Drake album and now all his tunes are weird tunings."

"I have three," Jeremy corrected him with a grin before launching into a song from the new CD.

After a break to mill about and admire the beehive, the aquarium and see what everyone is doing for the rest of the weekend, Psalmships took the stage.

Psalmships is Joshua from Philly and I had also seen him before at the Listening Room; I recalled his distinctive four-string guitar playing and emotive voice.

After playing a few songs, he invited keyboard player Adam up to join him, clarifying that they'd never played together before.

"I don't know Adam from Adam," he joked.

But with direction ("A minor, G, A minor") from Joshua before each song, Adam complemented his songs beautifully.

It became clear from those instructions that it was mostly minor chords, so I leaned over to a musician friend and asked a dumb non-musician question.

"Minor chords because he sings sad songs, right?"

"Dark," she clarified for me. she whose favorite bands make her cry. She knows from dark.

In fact, she and I were the only females at the show. When I mentioned it to my seatmate, he said, "Guys are dumb. Guys forget things."

Too bad for guys. They missed a couple of excellent touring bands and homemade cookies.

All except for the smart ones and they're the only ones who matter anyhow.