Glowing a Golden Haze of Sweat

It's a damn shame when you can't even find your way to a party.

A friend had provided directions, but after multiple trips up and down the street, his house was nowhere to be found.

In my own defense, I don't know southside very well.

So, we abandoned Plan A and moved on to Plan B, which involved barbecue at Alamo.

After ordering a pig and slaw sandwich and a sampler platter (brisket, barbecued chicken, cornbread, cowboy beans and collard greens), we headed up the hill to the park.

There was a lovely breeze blowing, a welcome contrast to the late afternoon sun and heat.

There, from our lofty perch atop Chimborazo, we poured Adega de Pegoes, a Portuguese blend made for barbecue.

It was a meal eaten with sporks and fingers and a couple of dog visitors, no doubt attracted by the mounds of meat.

We took our sticky fingers directly to Strange Matter, where the perennial latecomer greeted me as I got my wristband by making sure I knew he'd arrived first.

Since he's usually the late or later type, I ceded the victory to him. This time.

Super Vacations were already playing and it was barely 8:10 and still light outside.

Such is the nature of an all ages show. Get 'em in early and get 'em out to their parents early.

I'd seen Super Vacations before, so knew what to expect with their psych-surf, albeit a dark and sometimes aggressive sound.

As their energetic set progressed, I began to feel as hot and sweaty as they looked.

And the night was young.

White Laces played next and they continue to sound tighter with every show I hear them.

Their set was essentially a preview of their soon-to-be released album, "Moves," which promises to be a game-changer for them.

Since I first saw them play at Fridays in the Courtyard back in May 2010, I have watched in amazement as they have grown as a band and developed their distinctive sound.

I remember the drummer breaking a drumstick that breezy May night (and bandleader Landis imploring the crowd, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?" No one did) and tonight's set ended with the drummer sending a stick flying out into the crowd.

Afterwards, I grabbed some hot people and headed outside in search of oxygen and a chance to cool my core.

It was hot as hell inside Strange Matter, so you take your breaks where you can.

But I made sure to be back in my spot by the sound booth when Wild Nothing took the stage.

This is a band I was turned on to by a new friend last year.

Listening to his album of bedroom pop, I remember being awed at how one guy had created so much sound all by himself.

And now that he was touring, he'd necessarily had to assemble a band around him to recreate what he'd once done solo.

I wasn't even sure how many musicians it would take to do that.

The answer was five (all very young and earnest looking) and the sound was spot-on.

Jack, who was once all of Wild Nothing, acknowledged the show as like a homecoming, since he went to college at Tech and recorded the CD that won my heart there.

Did I mention it was called "Gemini," also this fan's astrological sign?

In fact, his parents were at the show along with other relatives, he said.

From the first guitar strains that proclaimed "I love the '80s" to the final sweaty song, I was thrilled to be as impressed with the sound live as I had been with the record.

My date, who knew nothing of the band, turned to me four songs in and said, "Well, he's certainly done his Cure homework."

And for those of us who loved the Cure the first time around, it was a real pleasure to hear it being reinterpreted by a younger generation.

Another WRIR DJ made his opinion known by pantomiming "83" to indicate the year of the sound we were hearing.

Frankly, I don't care how derivative a band is when they're delivering catchy choruses, longing dreamgaze and jangly guitars with an unabashed nod to their predecessors.

The crowd seemed to agree with me no matter the age, dancing in place and sometimes even singing along to lyrics no doubt learned in their own bedrooms.

By the final sweaty song (the one with the riff reminiscent of Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart"), Jack looked justifiably well pleased with himself and his band.

"You could start a Slip 'n Slide with my body," he joked.

By that point, every body in the room had that potential because all the oxygen in the room was long gone and sweat was running down everyone's neck, face and any other exposed body parts.

Perhaps my date put it best.

"You should call your post "Sweating to the Oldies," he cracked.

Considering my penchant for twenty somethings interpreting music I liked the first time around, I'd rather call it "When Bedroom Pop Goes Live."

No, no. Check that.

"When Young Man's Music Made Me Hot." That's it.

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.