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.

And a Past in Front of Me

I knew all the people would be in place tonight.

The Diamond Center was back after two years in Austin, playing a show at Black Iris. I'd have bet the farm I'd see certain people: the ferocious front woman, the best guitarist/grammarian I know, the red-lipped bass player, the bride-to-be, the hairdresser to the stars and I wasn't disappointed.

Big No were already playing when I got in, so I found a decent place to stand and watch their last couple songs. The show must have started on time and my tardiness had deprived me of their full set. Sounded like it was my loss.

A DJ friend and I got to talking about this weather and he labeled it as not good for much besides napping and cats. So what had he and his lovely curly-haired wife (her hair looking particularly fetching in this humidity tonight) done besides that today, I asked.

"We went grocery shopping, really grocery shopping," he told me, imbuing the words with genuine enthusiasm. Seems they'd taken their sweet time at the store, looking for new items, comparing prices, just taking every little detail in. Because they could and it was as enjoyable a way as any to spend the end of the wet afternoon.

"Then our friends came over for drinks and now we're here!" he said. "That's the whole day."

Well done, sir. His pleasure was still evident.

He got a pained look on his face when he realized he'd forgotten earplugs, so I was a hit when I reached in my bag and pulled out a fresh pair still in the wrapper. His eyes got big and he reached out and gave me a bear hug, I think before he even realized what he was doing.

Saving friends' hearing, two plugs at a time.

Another DJ replaced him for fresh conversation, this time about a person we had in common. He'd worked with this colorful character 20 years ago and I'd interviewed him last spring. My friend said he still remembered some of that guy's malapropisms, such as, "You got a helluva future behind you."

Come on, that's Yogi Berra-worthy, bless his heart.

Then the Diamond Center got started and things got groovy fast. They're touring behind their new album, "Crystals for the Brass Empire," and it was fantastic to hear them playing again.

Guitarist Kyle got the masses in the zone by saying, "Okay, everybody, at the same time, take a big breath," and you could hear a collective inhale, "and exhale saying "om."

When our room-sized "om" wasn't sufficient, he called out, "Louder!" and damned if we didn't get louder.

"Don't you feel better?' he grinned from stage. I don't know about the others, but I felt nothing but good vibes.

To my side, I spotted a friend paying more attention to social media than the show and suggested he live in the moment. He said, "I can't!" but it wasn't long before he finished trying to convince people to come out and just enjoyed the show himself.

Quaint, right?

I always heard the Diamond Center's music as psychedelic but listening to them tonight felt even trippier than it used to and several of the new songs were knockouts, Kyle's guitar chiming through the shifting soundscapes, Brandi's ethereal vocals nd Tim's distinctive drumming created an effect like every past Diamond Center show I recall on steroids.

During one section of a new song, the music was so winningly, optimistically '60s-sounding, you couldn't help but feel like all was right with the world and everything was possible. I let it wash over me.

Interestingly, later, chatting with the library worker,  he described an early Diamond Center show as having had a moment when, "I've never felt so hippie-like in my life." I knew precisely what he meant.

"Come see us at the merch table," Kyle said near the end of their set. "We have lots of stuff. We have records. We have jewelry." There was a moment's pause.

"That's about all we have," he concluded, as if that wasn't plenty.

My favorite shorty regaled me with tales of her upcoming trip to London and Barcelona, with a side trip to the desert, even showing off photos of the low-slung, modern digs they'll be staying in there, complete with outdoor bath tubs.

Because why not in the desert?

In spite of loads of familiar faces (and conversations with all kinds of favorite, interesting people I don't see enough of), there were some new ones, too, and I wondered how many of them might be experiencing the Diamond Center for the first time. If so, Black Iris was a fine place to do it.

Long-time blissed-out fans wouldn't have missed being in place tonight.

Maybe Next Year, Baby

Some nights it's good to be called "baby."

It was pouring down rain, I wanted some hot food and the first place that came to mind was Mama J's, four blocks away.

Walking in, I found a WRIR DJ and his son waiting for a table, but when I told the hostess all I needed was a bar stool, she responded, "Right this way, honey."

My DJ friend made fun of me for getting the rock star treatment, but it's all in where you're willing to sit. Pulling out the stool, she gestured, "Especially for you, baby."

With a Motown soundtrack (Supremes, Commodores,Isaac Hayes) blaring over the noise of a full restaurant, the bartender greeted me with, "How you doin' baby?"

Quite well, thank you.

She wanted me to know that I had five minutes until happy hour ended and the guy standing next to me looked at me and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm having a double Jack Daniels."

A single Patron was plenty when what I really wanted was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw and a corn muffin.

I was right by the corner where people come in to grab their to-go orders, so I met the first-timer in picking up food for his wife who worked nearby.

When I asked if he was taking her a piece of cake, he said no, he hadn't ordered any, unaware of the magic of Mama's cakes.

Next time, son, and she'll be yours for life. The woman next to me agreed loudly.

She was picking up and she ruefully shared that she'd just been in on Sunday and was already back.

No shame in being a regular, I told her, but had she gotten the same thing?

"I always get the catfish, but tonight I got the trout," she said, looking pretty pleased with herself.

Not long after my plate arrived, a group of four came in for their to-go order and stopped short when they saw my food.

"I'm gonna come back as a chicken in my next life," one girl claimed.

"I'm gonna eat you if you look like that," her friend said, pointing at my chicken.

Waiting for their order, they caught sight of the cake case and were smitten with the pink and yellow one, asking the bartender what it was.

"Strawberry lemon," she said matter of factly.

"Give. Me. That," on of the guys instructed her, grinning ear to ear.

"Are you gonna get that?" the girl asked incredulously.

"I'm gonna lay in it," he said and asked for a second slice. They left with their order plus four pieces of cake.

Before long, I had to get going ("Sure, baby") to my next stop, Studio 23, freeing up a prime stool for one of the many people lined up by the door.

Richmond's finest print collective was playing host to Music Video Meltdown, part of their monthly film and video series.

Waiting for it to start, I checked out Studio 23's new exhibit, "Sweaty Armpits and Swimming Pools," a summer-themed 'zine show.

The little 'zines ranged from beautifully illustrated books to actual stories with pictures and had post-modern names like "Why Can't the Internet Work Everywhere?" (a title that could only have been thought up by a millennial), "Maybe Next Year" and "Deep End."

Tonight's event had begun with a call for music videos, but the response had been insufficient for an entire evening's programming, so the host had supplemented with videos selected by an informal poll of his friends.

The Spring film and video series had raised enough money to buy a new projector and Bose speakers, and we were the first to experience the new equipment tonight, meaning naturally there were immediate technical difficulties.

They kicked things off with Michael Jackson's "Beat It," a good reminder of MJ pre-cleft chin and final pointy nose, but then went unfortunately to Nicki Minaj, someone whose video I never needed to see.

The submitted videos were cool to see, although it soon became clear that today's young music video-makers are completely fixated on special effects, violence, constantly changing camera angles and blood.

But not all. One was a light show set to Radiohead's "Spinning Plates" and another had a young, red-headed guy singing a song in an empty white room.

One of my favorites began with a guy talking mock-seriously about the infinite cosmos and then shooting a cassette tape out into space and segued into him singing and playing a poppy song with another guy, which they ultimately recorded on (what else?) a cassette tape.

There was a video shot of an evening at Gallery 5, fire twirlers outside, art-hungry crowd inside and I recognized two friends in it. Hell, I was probably there that night.

But for every submission, there was a price to pay, whether M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls" or  a bad white rapper drinking a 40 with his homies, shouting, "Hold up, it's a dance party," at the break.

I had to sit through the Foo Fighters' cheesy, over-wrought video for "There Goes My Hero," but got payback when I saw Cold Cave's synth-laden "God Made the World."

It all evens out in the end.

The last time I spent an evening watching videos was in Italy last October and then they were all McCartney and Lennon videos from the '80s, a far cry from tonight's program.

Seems I need an annual music video dose.

Afterwards, I headed to the Well for a couple of notoriously loud bands.

Like any show there, they weren't even close to starting at 11:15, so I mingled among the PBR-swilling masses.

I got to discuss the terrific Shuggie Otis show with a friend who'd also gone, ran into not one but both of the friends I'd seen in the Gallery 5 video, talked to the guy who's curating an upcoming Listening Room and somehow managed to find a friend who'd never seen the Diamond Center at the Well before.

Considering I've probably seen the band at least a half dozen times there, I was surprised, but warned him that they've been known to come on as late as 12:15.

Nashville's Ttotals played first, all reverb and '90s-sounding and playing to a packed room.

I've seen them before and their exuberant energy is worth experiencing.

During the break after their set, I got into a chat with a scientist who informed me that all human life is descended from six humans.

There's not a lot I can do with that information, my friend.

He also pointed out what he considered to be a fascinating scientific fact: It's 60 degrees and people were wearing jackets and knit caps.

His point was that in six months it'll also be 60 degrees and people will have on shorts and flip-flops.

He's wise beyond his years and hipster haircut.

Another friend and guitarist asked if I'd held the newest restaurant baby (of course) and told me he'd heard from a reliable source that tonight's Diamond Center set was going to be very Phish-like.

Meandering jams sounded like just the ticket at this point.

Around 12:30, the Diamond Center took the floor, breaking their own record, and began their slow, psychedelic groove, made even groovier by Dave Watson's light projections overhead.

After a drawn-out first song, they reverted to some newish material and eventually a brand-new one.

"That's a song that'll be on our new CD," leader Kyle joked, "which should come out in about fifteen years."

I guess parenthood has slowed them down, too.

As many times as I've seen the Diamond Center, they never fail to impress as I was reminded when a friend walked up and assuredly said, "They're going to end up being the biggest band to ever come out of Richmond."

Entirely possible. That's why I'm willing to go see them start playing at 12:30 on a Thursday night.

My ears may be ringing, but baby, it was worth it.

Possessing All Women, All Music

Lesson 1: Editors don't know everything.

On my way into the VMFA with Prudence, I spotted my editor and had the pleasure of introducing him to the Boulevard entrance of the museum.

My work informing the world about my favorite museum door is never done.

He must have been grateful because he suggested we join him and two friends for happy hour.

Watching people do yoga in the sculpture garden while we sipped chilled wine inside made for a most enjoyable prelude to the evening.

Lesson 2: Artists make good romantics.

Prudence and I followed our impromptu happy hour with a screening of the 1936 film, "Rembrandt."

Successful painter loses beloved wife and alienates patrons before falling for maid he can't marry and finishing out life living in obscurity with her until she dies.

Introducing the film, curator Mitchell Merling showed his romantically artistic side when observing, "Not that people were really laughing at "The Nightwatch" like in the movie, but it kind of made my heart break when I saw that scene."

A linguist might have had a problem with everyone in Holland having clipped, English accents, but we overlooked that for the sake of a good story about a man who loved women.

And of a sudden he knew that when one woman gives herself to you, you possess all women. Women of every age and race and kind, and more than that, And of a sudden he knew that when one woman gives herself to you, you possess all women. Women of every age and race and kind, and more than that, the moon, the stars, all miracles and legends are yours.

Do they still make men like that anymore?

Lesson 3: All gnocchi is not created equal.

Prudence and I had a post-film tryst at Bistro 27 where I tried a new dish, the gnocchi with mushroom ragout, to accompany my Vinho Verde.

And while most gnocchi I've had has been potato, this was semolina and Ricotta cheese and shaped into little cakes rather than dumplings.

It so impressed a nearby barsitter that she leaned in, inquiring what it was and remarking on its delicious aroma.

Don't I know it, honey.

Properly sated, I deposited Prudence to her doorstep and headed out into the night for music alone.

Lesson 4: Sometimes taking a break is the best thing you can do.

As part of Shannon Cleary's four-day extravaganza, "WRIR and the Commonwealth of Notions presents Volume Three," tonight's installment was at Balliceaux.

Best of all, the hook was that it featured the first show by the Diamond Center in a year.

The band that got outsiders paying attention to Richmond's music scene were back after a baby hiatus.

Expecting it to be mobbed, I arrived early and found loads of friends.

The scooter queen welcomed me with open arms and her beloved graciously bought me a Cazadores.

The historian looking fetching in a maxi-dress with a maraca in her purse.

Of course Shannon, the ringmaster, looking very happy,

And so many musicians- the ones whose hair had noticeably grown (or been shaved off) since I last saw them, the one I'd seen just the other night, the one who loves to dance, the one doing the new al fresco music series I'm so enjoying - that the local music scene would have been devastated if Balliceaux had spontaneously combusted.

But it didn't, it just provided the expectant and celebratory atmosphere for The Diamond Center to knock our socks off.

Bassist Will was back with the band adding an essential element that had been missing for far more than a year and they had a third guitarist, a guy I see at shows frequently, for the first time.

He, in fact, walked up to me before their set to say hello, noting, "I thought sure I'd see you at S'Matter last night."

And he would have had I not had a prior commitment, for which he excused me when he heard the reason.

The band sounded full-on psychedelic good, running through new songs and old stalwarts that had people dancing, swaying and head-bopping.

From where I stood, there was no indication that they'd missed a beat after twelve months of not playing out.

But then, they always were damn good.

And, let's face it, sometimes stepping back makes stepping back in all the more pleasurable.

To paraphrase the Dutchman, when everything's that good, it's like the moon, the stars, all miracles and legends are yours.

Missionary Work

Look how sunshine is the punchline.

A clandestine dinner at an undisclosed location brings up the question of the evening. How much pig does any one person really need?

Music four ways followed at Gallery 5. Walking in, I asked the ticket taker how soon till music. "In a second," he said as the poet shushed me from the first row.

At that moment, David Shultz began singing. Timing is everything.

We had arrived too late for seats, though, so we found a table at the back and leaned in to hear his songs of "every once in a blue moon" and "spirits ain't too frozen."

As much as I enjoy David playing with his band The Skyline, it's always a pleasure to hear his heartfelt songs accompanied only by his guitar.

Athens, Georgia's Hope for agoldensummer was up next and, while I've seen them before, this time they were as much a comedy act as a musical one.

Don't get me wrong; the harmonizing of two sisters is a thing of beauty, but as someone who has five sisters can attest, sisters have a unique bond and language.

These two were hysterical,doing a sound check to a song about THC and LSD and talking about their long drive down I-95 today to reach Richmond.

Apparently they decided to learn a Robin song. "So we have this awesome three-part harmony," Claire explained. "But it looks like we forgot it."

Forging ahead anyway, they asked what the song's first note was, guessing F.

Their long-suffering male band mate looked over at them (no doubt after an endless afternoon hearing them practice this pop throwaway) and with just the slightest bit of condescension said, "It's an A!"

Only then did we hear any Robin.

They told of going to a corn maze ("We love corn mazes") and getting lost for four hours.

They'd seen a sign at the concession stand saying that if you created a song about the corn maze, you got a free candy bar.

Tonight we heard the song that won them the candy bar.

There was instrument trading, anecdote sharing and saw playing.

It may quite possibly have been the only saw playing going on in Richmond tonight.

But it should be noted that there was also vox saw courtesy of Jonathan Vassar and Speckled Bird, hot off their recent Obama rally performance, and playing next,

"I have to tell you, Michelle Obama's arms are even more impressive in person," Antonia shared. Damn.

During some technical difficulties with Josh's cello (how often do you hear that?), Antonia and Jonathan brought out the banter.

They also brought out the music, beginning with "Cold River Cold" and mentioning their upcoming CD release show.

Standing there hearing Jonathan's sad songs and Antonia's angelic singing with Paul's horn and Josh's cello or clarinet reminded me how far their sound has come since I first heard them.

It was always Americana but now there's a beautiful lushness to it.

Last up was the Diamond Center, a band I've seen scores of times and love for their fuzzy psychedelic big sound.

And yet the show poster had promised that they'd be playing "acoustic-ish."

That was way too alluring to pass up hearing.

Where was all that noise, tribal drumming and volume going to go?

They solved that by being a two-piece instead of a four-piece.

Guitarist Kyle led off with, "It's warm in here. I'm as sweaty as a whore in church," before launching into the most ethereal TDC sound ever.

Brandy's voice and acoustic guitar met Kyle's quieter guitar playing (it was still a Rickenbacker, after all) for a stripped down and yet still swirling sound.

She warned us that Kyle was going to sing a cover next and he even apologized in advance for it.

Turns out they did an excellent cover of Velvet Underground's "Candy Says" as well as some rarely performed older songs from their last record.

"We need to record a new album," Kyle admitted. Indeed they do.

A highlight arrived when the duo invited nine people up on stage and gave each a pitch pipe.

Up there was Matt from Snowy Owls, Allison from the Garbers, Dave Watkins and all of Hope for agoldensummer."

"If yours has an A, play A," Brandy instructed. "If not, play D and don't pass out."

Everyone followed instruction and the song had a special charm for the accompaniment.

The show ended abruptly when they realized how late it was getting, but I already had my satisfaction.

I may never hear them play that way again.

Leaving G5, it was an easy two-block stroll to Bistro 27 for late night cocktails and dessert.

Everyone I take to 27 lately is loving on the Simpatico, a riff on a Negroni, but I went simply with Cazadores on ice.

And a chocolate mousse because it seemed like the least difficult dessert to request at that hour.

Over drinks and a stellar soundtrack, we discussed evangelism, travel, overindulgence, five-year plans and organized religion.

Not bad considering the hour, but some credit must go to the barkeep who kept things lively.

In the words of someone else, "Just another Friday night."

Hey, as long as my night has a good punchline, it can be just another Anyday.

But sunshine's as good an analogy as any.

Love Life Luck

I only had to be back in town for an hour and a half to regain my Richmond footing.

Which meant scraping the crab bits, sand and dust off of me in order to clean up and be at Steady Sounds by 6:00.

The occasion was the Diamond Center's 7" release show but the evening was starting with an Athens band.

Casper and the Cookies were apparently old friends of THDC and their power pop was energetic and immediate.

I found them just plain fun but someone with a far better music vocabulary then me mentioned their poly-rhythms.

Favorite into: "This song is about a guy who finds his love life luck in dating villianesses."

Not ashamed to say that the first person who came to mind was Cruella DeVille.

There were assorted mentions of drugs, French immigrants and body odor, making for the best kind of self-deprecating humor.

You could also tell they'd been playing together for a while.

One of the two drummers (always a good thing) said that the keyboard player had won them no fans when he opened up a recent show by asking, "So you're the people who voted for Santorum?"

I love clever stage banter.

They closed with "The Boys are Back in Town," especially satisfying for the female bassist/vocalist, never mind that the song is 36 years old.

As in, practically middle-aged.

After a break where I chatted with a Blood Brother, re-met a guy I'd met at a Hitchcock event a while back and rubbed the cheek of TDC's Kyle to appreciate the stubble of a beard he'd shaved off only this morning when the band returned from tour at 5 a.m., it was time for the main event.

The guy I'd re-met had come because he'd read that TDC was one of the ten best RVA bands and I affirmed that for him before their set began.

It was only my humble opinion, of course.

But then they launched into their distinctive, in the words of someone who makes his living with music, "psychedelic tribal goth." and I felt sure that the first-timer now understood their deserved place on the list.

I will never get tired of Kyle and his Rickenbaker (although I will continue to hope for the day when he has a 12-string Rickenbaker) or not enjoy Tim, the standing drummer.

The fact that half the band is female only adds to what I love because Brandi's voice and stage presence and Lindsay's keyboards are so integral to the experience.

They closed with the two songs on the new 7" (with a very vintage Decca-like looking label), "California" and "Bells," showing everyone in the room why they needed to buy this record.

You have to appreciate a band that gets home from tour at the crack of dawn and is playing a show fourteen hours later for the locals.

Not to mention a touring band who does an early show on an off night, making a Sunday a whole lot better for it.

Likewise, you have to appreciate having a record store that hosts music shows three block from home.

Or a neighborhood bar on the next block where a special of Asian pork is cooked to medium perfection and melts in my mouth like (spicy) butter.

Especially when it's followed by chocolate espresso pudding with white chocolate shavings.

Unlike my recent time in Annapolis, I didn't see any bikes parked under big boats in dry dock.

Just pop, psychedelia, Tomaresca and all kinds of people I know.

You are very Richmond if...
you can fall back into everything you enjoy about Richmond within 90 minutes of walking in the door.

Pshaw. Easy as falling off a log, even for this non-native.

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.

It's a Small World in RVA

The best time to go out with a girlfriend is when her guy's away.

That way, she doesn't have to leave early to see him and we can eat, drink and gab for as long as we want without any guilt about him.

We did happy hour at Balliceaux, possibly my first time ever, but enjoyable for how peaceful it was. Usually when I'm in there, it's in full show mode and the crowds dominate.

She opted for Legend Brown and I went with Verdicchio di Castello di Jesi Classico, a soft white with hints of almond that suited me just fine.

Among the more interesting topics were men with lizard-size brains, barflies and reading between the lines. In other words, men. We might have also touched on beach reading and book swapping.

By our second glasses, we were craving munchies and ordered the smoked bluefish dip (a perennial winner there) and the cheese plate (the goat cheese brie being our favorite).

When we parted ways, her plan was to go home and read a book and crash. Mine was up in the air.

After a change of clothes and shoes, I opted to head over to Gallery 5 for the Girls Rock RVA show featuring three female-centric bands.

Upon arrival, it was clear that the first band was a ways from playing, so I headed down the street to Comfort to kill some pre-show time.

And here's the part where Richmond gets small. The last time I'd been in Comfort had also been just before a show and I'd met an engineer-type guy there who had been quite friendly. He'd insisted on giving me his number, not that I'd used it.

Taking the only open bar stool tonight placed me at his side again with one small difference. He had a female companion.

We said hello and I ordered a Hornitos. Ignoring his companion, he began wildly chatting me up. It was great to see me again, was I on my way to a show, how had I been kind of stuff.

I found it a bit awkward as he ignored his date and enthusiastically talked to me. Finally, in desperation probably, she leaned over him, extended her hand and introduced herself.

They were about to order food and he turned and asked if I was hungry. Would I consider joining them for dinner? I declined politely, hoping to finish my drink and go.

The moment she left for the ladies' room, he leaned over and said, "This isn't a date. She's an old friend I call sometimes for dinner."

What do I say to that? This is not a person who owes me any explanation. We had a conversation once and that's it.

When she returned, he insisted on buying me another drink , despite my insistence that I hadn't finished my first.

"Better to plan ahead," he warned. This was getting odder by the minute.

I got a respite when their food arrived and shortly thereafter a bartender I know from, of all places, Balliceaux.

He sat down next to me and I happily engaged in conversation with him to allow the happy couple their space.

After a few minutes talk of a daggering show at the Hat Factory, it seemed like a good time to leave and return to Gallery 5 for the show, so I said my farewells.

My new best friend grabbed my arm and told me how wonderful it had been to see me. His date looked on.

Over at Gallery 5, I learned that I'd entirely missed the first two bands. Disappointed, because I hadn't been gone that long, I asked someone if I'd missed some good ones.

"I'm taking the fifth," he said demurely. Now I felt better.

But I'd made it in time for the Diamond Center and a friend showed up with a companion to provide some rational company.

All was right with the world again.

As usual, the Diamond Center put on their psychedelic best and rocked the crowd magnificently. I think it was the first time that Kyle played the twelve-string for the entire set and not just the first three songs, pleasing me no end.

Launching into a crowd favorite, my friend noted, "I love this song."

"It sounds like sex," I pointed out.

"Ideally, yes," she said with a grin. Oh good, it's not just me then.

Unlike the Cous Cous shows where people are so jammed in that there is no view of the band and people talk throughout the set, tonight's audience was attentive and even dancing along at times, making for a most enjoyable show.

And unlike the low-slung Cous Cous, Gallery 5's high ceilings gave the Diamond Center's big sound somewhere to go instead of swallowing it.

Walking home after leaving my friends at their car, I ran into a neighbor who had left J-Ward last summer for Cumberland County. And here he was walking his dog on Marshall Street.

I was thrilled to see he was back and said so. He has, hands down, the best art collection in the Ward and his presence in the 'hood had been sorely missed.

We chatted for a while, updating each other about our lives, with me enthusing about his return.

I told him that I'd just left friends who had asked me where my car was; I'd explained I was two blocks from home.

"You should have said 'My sandals are my car,'" he quipped. "We should have bumper stickers made saying that. My sandals are my car. Jackson Ward."

Makes sense to me. As we hugged goodbye, he acknowledged, "This is what I missed. Running into friends and neighbors on the sidewalk at midnight."

Amen, brother. Welcome back to the Ward.

Wouldn't It Be Nice?

"Next time, bring a glass."

That's what the woman sitting near me at Dogwood Dell said to me at the end of the evening.  Earlier, when she'd tried to surreptitiously open a bottle of wine, I'd looked over and grinned at her.

All good Richmonders know alcohol is forbidden at the Dell. That said, I've never once been to a a performance there and not seen people drinking. Most people.

So at the end of the evening, she'd made sure to tell me that if I brought a glass in the future, it would be filled. Good to know and yet completely meaningless from a stranger.

A neighbor and I had gone for opening night to see the Upper East Side Big Band. As it turned out, we also got the Mills Family band as an opener.

Their set list ranged from "Little Liza Jane" to Paul Simon's "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover" to Sesame Street, all enhanced by Samson Trinh's unique bluegrass saxophone and nonstop leg gyrations..

We enjoyed our picnic supper of fried chicken, watermelon, grapes and German chocolate cake. We weren't going to starve; he also brought a  sandwich and I also ate a salad. Picnic of champions.

The night was beautiful, what with the temperature and humidity having dropped earlier despite no signs of the predicted thunderstorms.

As always at the Dell, dusk brought out the swooping bats over the trees and eventually the moon.

We had Jackson Ward neighbors sitting right in front of us ("We should have formed a caravan over from the Ward"), who only noticed us once my friend began lobbing grapes at them. Ah, the pleasures of thrown foodstuffs at outdoor activities.

The Upper East Side Big Band is big, with probably 18 or 19 musicians, including brass members from Bio Ritmo, Glows in the Dark and No BS Brass Band.

Their set led off with "Very Strange Night" from their first album and bandleader Trinh alternated vigorous musical directing with playing the flute. His multi-tasking was an indication of things to come.

A few songs later, out came five jazz vocalists. four women and one man, to augment the musicians on stage. "This is part one of blowing your mind," he told the audience.

They began with "Back in the USSR" with keyboard player Adrian Duke on lead vocal (the closet vocal comparison I could think of was David Clayton Thomas) and the other five on backup.

Segueing into "Dear Prudence," Trinh became a rubber-legged wonder, all but moon walking across the stage.

Raving about his love for the Beach Boys' masterpiece "Pet Sounds," Trinh said that, "This will be the first time in Richmond that the Beach Boys are done right."

The crowd lapped up "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows" before  a guest guitarist was brought onstage for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."

Given Trinh's love of the Beatles, finishing with "Rocky Raccoon" was no surprise. Many people packed up and made for the parking lot at that point, only to miss the barn-burner of the evening, "Helter Skelter." It got the baby boomers dancing, that's for sure.

Clearly pumped at the audience's reaction, Trinh shouted, "Maybe next year we can be on Style's Best Bands list. Five years and nothing!"

Had it been up to the crowd tonight, they'd have been a write-in vote.

After so much retro music, neighbor and I headed to Cous Cous for something much more au courant. The Diamond Center, those recent veterans of South by Southwest and Austin's Psychfest, were playing a free show.

I'm always torn about shows at Cous Cous; it's an ill-configured place to see a band perform and the crowd can be obnoxious.

It's impossible to have a conversation without endlessly repeating yourself and a pain in the neck to get a drink from the overcrowded bar.

But the show was free and the Diamond Center were playing. I always see scads of people I know, always the music lovers. It's a trade-off, she said diplomatically.

Visual projections were by Cosmic Hum and were they ever groovy. Amoeba-like forms morphed and moved over the screen behind the band and the ceiling.

At one point, the red blobs showing on the ductwork looked like blood spatters. Groovy and gruesome.

And then there's the music, with its hazy guitar (including  a twelve-string), haunting melodies and a sense of urgency that has bodies moving and heads bobbing.

There is a reason so many of us show up whenever they play. I ran into a musician friend who, like neighbor and I, had begun the evening at the Dell and moved on to something completely different sans his neighbor.

I saw the big-voiced singer and ukulele player I'd seen busking in Charlottesville before the Arcade Fire show. She'd been smart and watched the show from outside, saving herself from group sweat-in I endured.

And I saw the comedian/ukulele player/man-about-town who perennially suggests that I join his group after the show for some late night munchies and chatter at McLean's.

I declined; the picnic had more than scratched that itch. Even my insatiable need for music and conversation had been well-satisfied.

If I didn't know better, I'd say I had everything I need on this Friday night.

But next time, I'll bring a glass and see who's willing to fill it. There's just no telling.

Sure, I'll Pay for Seven Inches

It's all in how you look at it.

It was a free show at Gallery 5 with four talented bands of wildly varying genres.

Standing on a concrete floor for four and a half hours gets old after the first three.

The bill had been chosen by the Diamond Center, who were celebrating their 7" record release, a steal at five bucks.

There were a host of sound issues for some reason.

When there's no cover charge, more people will buy merchandise, helping to support local music.

Band etiquette 101: never play longer than the headlining band intends to.

Nervous Ticks, a high-energy band that evokes an early '80s post-punk sound, was most compelling on their last song, which was acknowledged as "showing our sensitive side."

The unfulfilled tension of the song was terrific.

Canary, oh, Canary, the only band I hadn't heard before, was a stripped down trio playing dream-gaze pop (think Cocteau Twins) with some dramatic vocals (and hand gestures) in parts.

When they locked into a groove, they didn't let go.

Black Girls had played the Earth Day Festival today but showed no signs of weariness; we'll chalk that up to youth.

As a friend told me, he wanted to go up to them and say, "Great set, guys. Now show me your IDs."

After their set, a restaurant acquaintance said he couldn't describe their sound.

When I offered "KC and the Sunshine Band meets Modest Mouse with some Queen thrown in," his face lit up.

"That's it! I heard all that but I couldn't put it into words." 

Friend, I always have words to spare. Just ask.

The Diamond Center  played a full-on stellar set, complete with confetti thrown onto the audience toward the end.

Lead singer Brandi had on the most amazing silver leggings seen since the '80s.

I only wish Kyle's twelve-string guitar got used for more than three songs.

But I am happy to hear a twelve-string for however long or short someone is willing to play it.

I look at it as a great evening of free music in a city that continues to turn out bands worth hearing.

It can be our new slogan: Keep Richmond musical.

Yea, right.

As if I'm the right person to label this city.

Heart of Darkness

"I hope you have a very dark Black Valentine's Day!"
~Peter (smiling, but practically a stranger)

Thanks to Cous Cous for their sixth annual Black Valentine's show, performing everyone's favorite songs of love gone bad. You know, on those rare occasions that it goes bad.

I got there around 10, ordered several V-Day Don Julios over the course of the evening, enjoyed the company of a few good friends, all musicians, and heard some inspired performances. What more could a single hope for on Valentine's night (hold that thought)?

Well, according to the end-of-evening announcement, "Hope you fond someone to go home with." I wasn't quite that lucky, but maybe I was too into the music. It's been known to happen with me.

Josh Small played first and unfortunately, the crowd acted as if he were mute, talking loudly throughout his set. Too bad, because the guy is really talented. Introducing his first song, he said, "This is a love song. It's an angry song." Well, sometimes love is angry, from what I've been told.

The Diamond Center played next, but not their usual reverb-drenched set. Instead, the crowd was treated to a selection of songs by the Zombies, including classics like "She's Not There" and "Tell Her No."

Background vocals were courtesy of the very talented Lindsey Spurrier and Allison Apperson, both impossibly cool in sunglasses. They even slipped in a Cramps cover, much to the delight of certain members of the audience. Their set was later referred to as epic, an apt description.

Baby Help Me Forget was the final act, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with their high-energy set. Front man Jamie Lay is a whirling dervish of dancing, singing, tambourine playing and in general awesome showmanship. You know as soon as he takes his glasses off that he will be jumping off of things (chairs and room dividers tonight). Steer clear.

Although several people wished me a happy Valentine's Day tonight (and today; thank you, Danny), it was a guy I was randomly introduced to tonight, Peter, who provided the unexpected and inexplicable wish for darkness.

All things considered, I had a most delightful black Valentine's Day. Looking forward to a very different sort next year, but no less enjoyable.

Thoughts of romance die hard.

From Bubbles to Barbera

If I'd known how many great things were going to be said to me at the party, I'd have gone the minute the doors opened.

Instead, I began my evening at the VMFA for their sparkler tasting in the Best Cafe.

Me and about a zillion other people, that is.

Nonetheless, I waited patiently for my turn at the tasting table behind a mild-mannered couple who were nice enough to snag me a glass and a spot when they finally achieved front-row status.

Amuse's manager had chosen four favorite bubblies for us to sample.

We started local with the Barboursville Brut and then the Domaine Ste. Michelle from Washington.

Next was the Kenwood Yulupa, my favorite of the quartet and finally the Simonet Vin Mousseux Blanc de Blancs.

Yielding my prime spot once I had my last glass, I heard, "Well, you can't stand around drinking free champagne all night."

This came from a guy I know who's in the business of business, so I'm sure he was thinking about the bottom line.

He had given up on waiting for the tasting and bought a glass in order to cut to the chase sooner.

Like me, he was sparkler sipping before heading over to First Fridays.

I was fortunate enough to walk in the door of Gallery 5 and be greeted by a man who dropped to his knees and kissed my hand.

Talk about a warm welcome!

At the front table was the February fundraiser, four custom-designed Valentine's Day postcards, inspired by famous artists and movements.

Although I haven't got anyone in mind to send a Valentine to, I bought the Roy Lichtenstein and Piet Mondrian-inspired cards.

You know, just in case I get lucky in the next nine days.

Okay, to support the gallery.

Upstairs at GallowLily's was "Bikewords: Recycled Sculptures" by Eric Venditti, a show of such reasonably-priced art that seven pieces had already sold by 7:30.

The unique rose sculptures mounted on wood, some painted and some varnished, were unrecognizable as former bike parts.

Did I mention that Eric is co-owner of the bike shop Recycles?

Leaving Gallery 5, I couldn't resist a stop at Captain Slappy's hot dog cart just outside the door for a bacon-wrapped dog slathered in mustard and onions.

I was only the second customer behind two of the comedy improv performers I'd seen just a few weeks ago inside G5; tonight they seemed to be more hungry than funny, although plenty friendly.

Clutching my foil, I ate my dog as I made my way to the Renaissance for the WRIR Party for the Rest of Us.

As soon as I walked in, a friend spotted me and we made our way to the coat check room.

I'd just hung up my coat and turned to leave when a girl walked in and asked me to check her coat.

She was a little surprised and a lot mortified to learn that I wasn't the coat check girl.

Somehow, I wouldn't have thought I looked like a coat check girl.

Maybe I just looked like the volunteer type.

Yea, that must be it.

From there we went directly to the ballroom for Marionette's set, which I did not want to miss.

I've been going to their shows for over three years now and continue to hear something new every time.

Immediately I ran into guitarist Adam who told me that he'd be playing his grandfather's guitar tonight, which I thought was really kind of cool.

He explained that when his grandfather had originally given it to him, he'd been a teenager who was into metal and he was underwhelmed.

Now finally he appreciated the beauty of the gift.

Marionette played a strong set, at first for the devoted, but gradually for the converted (I saw the same thing happen when they opened for The National last summer).

The huge screen behind them gave plenty of room for their video projections as they sucked in the audience with their soundscapes.

Afterwards, I moved back out into the main area to look for friends who arrived just as the masses did.

Moving around the room, I chatted with all kinds of people.

One guy introduced to me asked me if I wrote ICGOAO, much to my surprise.

I had to know how he knew that.

"Oh, Enzo told me about your blog," he said.

Enzo is a WRIR DJ and old friend.

This guy complimented me for doing so much and sharing it, saying that his introversion kept him from doing quite as much.

When the birthday cake, always a highlight, was rolled out, my friends and I helped ourselves, not realizing the ramifications of doing so.

The black trim on the icing quickly turned our teeth and tongues a horrific shade of blue.

You can be sure when I got my second piece (don't judge), I got one with all white icing.

We were smart to stand in a central location near the food table where everyone eventually made their way past us and said hello.

A beautiful girl spoke to my friends, one of whom went to introduce her to me.

"Oh, we've met," she corrected him and then spoke to me.

"In fact, a friend asked me to vote for her blog on RVA News but when I saw your blog listed, I voted for you instead because your blog is better, even if she is a friend."

Now that's high praise indeed and from someone I didn't even know read me.

Apologies to the friend.

We made our way back inside for The Diamond Center's set (once again enhanced with liquid projections by the talented duo of Greg and Sara...so groovy).

It was truly the first time I'd heard them play in a room big enough for their shoegazing sound.

From the first few reverb-drenched notes, I was in my element, turning to my friend and telling him, "Music from a cave. You know how I love this."

He nodded because he knows that all too well after all these years of music companionship.

One of his friends leaned in during the set to tell me how much he liked the band, whom he was hearing for the first time.

I told him how lucky he was to be hearing them in such a large space.

He also told me he loved my tights, a compliment I was surprised to hear from him.

Apparently so was his partner, who said to me, "I don't know if I should be concerned..."

"Why? Because he's not supposed to notice?" I teased.

"Exactly," he said, laughing.

I like to think that it's okay for everyone to notice everything, regardless of sex.

Sometimes it's just about the tights.

Near the end of the set, my friends were ready to go so I retrieved my coat without being asked to do so for anyone else.

We got as far as the front steps before running into fellow music lovers who'd just come from the Gallery 5 show.

We compared notes with them and headed in different directions.

I made a final stop at Bistro 27 because I'd promised a friend I would, but he'd already left, leaving word that I would be by.

As long as I was there, I enjoyed a glass of Barbera, chatted with those I knew, was prodded to share a funny story about a mutual acquaintance and decided to head home with my art-inspired Valentines and blue tongue.

Perhaps I should send them to the people who said such great things to me tonight.

The blue tongue I'm hoping will just fade away.

On Not Turning into a Pumpkin

For whatever it's worth, it seems I've become a regular at more than just my favorite restaurants.

As I often do, I began my Friday night at the VMFA for their Friday film. When I arrived, the event's organizer, Trent Nichols, greeted me with, "Welcome back!" as he tore my ticket (badly, but he said he doesn't practice between Fridays and it showed).

This week's film was An Unlikely Weapon: The Eddie Adams Story." Although you may not recognize the name, you'd know his photograph. It's the Pulitzer Prize-winning one of the Chief of Saigon Police shooting the Viet Cong prisoner in the head on the street in 1968.

Adams deserves more name recognition than he probably has. He shot thirteen wars, six presidents, untold celebrities and countless Penthouse cuties. But it was his Vietnam-era photos that got him noticed.

The documentary was fascinating, having been shot before Adams died in 2004, so it gave a true sense of the man in his own words.

He was not impressed with the prize-winning photo credited with changing public opinion about the war; he said the light wasn't right and the composition was terrible. Like any true artist, he was his own harshest critic.

Tonight's audience was full of photographers, eager to ask questions of producer Cindy Lou Adkins after the film. Unfortunately, I couldn't stay for it because of a must-see show at the Firehouse.

It was the Low Branches EP release show and, yes, they're friends, but they're also incredibly talented and I wanted to see and hear this first show at the Firehouse, where the Listening Room will soon take up residence.

The doors had opened 45 minutes before I got there, so I wasn't surprised when the Richmond Scene's Chris, acting as door guy, said he'd been wondering where I was (he might as well have tapped his watch).

When I went to buy the EP, Low Branches singer Christina was doing the selling. "If you hadn't shown up, I would have found out your phone number and called to make sure you were okay," she told me.

The show began with some of RVA's best singer/songwriters: Jonathan Vassar, Nick Coward, Chad Ebel and Will Loyal, alternating turns and each singing a song before beginning the cycle again.

They ended with all of them doing a song of Christina's, a marvelous collaboration of voices and small guitars (they say only very secure guys play small guitars).

The stage was a cozy and eclectic setting for this talented bunch. There were seven lamps, one bird cage, one stuffed deer's head and multiple instrument cases and amps placed artfully around wooden risers. Very homey, assuming the homeowner had slightly odd taste.

The Low Branches put on a magical performance, augmenting their sound with some of the musicians who had played on their record.

Josh of the Speckled Bird and Adam of the Last Battle played cello and lap steel respectively, adding an additional lushness to Matt and Christina's already-beautiful sound.

Her unique voice and Matt's ability to provide just the right instrumentation to enhance it (not to mention when we occasionally get to hear him sing, too) are the hallmarks of their music.Their set was over way too soon.

What could be better after a show of low-key folk than some fuzzy guitars and loads of reverb? I met a friend at Cous Cous as the bar was filling up (many of the arrivals had come from the show I had just attended).

He was not happy to hear that the Diamond Center wasn't starting until midnight, but I cajoled and he stayed; we did some people-watching and age-guessing in the interim.

At one point, the girl next to me turned and said, "You have the most beautiful nose." From there, she praised it every which way, talking about its delicacy, my profile, bad noses and worse. When she left, my friend quickly leaned down and asked, "Did she say what I think she said?"

Nodding, I told him, "And that's exactly why I blog. I get the most random comments in the world made to me and I have no idea why." Who raves about a stranger's nose to them in a bar?

Not long after, I thought the band was close to starting when they turned on their smoke machine and began stinking up the place with a rank smell.

But no, they weren't and my friend got tired of inhaling that mess and waiting,and headed out. "I'll read about what I missed in your blog tomorrow," he said, after asking if I'd hate him if he left (of course not - his loss).

He hadn't been gone three minutes when the Diamond Center cranked it up with the unmistakable sound of a twelve string. From there it was one reverb-drenched psychedelic song after another filling the packed room.

As if that wasn't soul-satisfying enough, DJs Greg and Sara were doing a psychedelic light show on a screen behind the band. It was too groovy for words and I mean that sincerely; I've heard them spin 60s vinyl and it was amazing, but now I know that their talents also extend to light shows.

I wasn't the only Diamond Center fanatic in the crowd, so there was a lot of dancing and booty-shaking going on throughout their set. I heard more than one person tell a friend, "This band is so good!"

When the final ribbon-bedecked tambourine-shaking song ended in a cloud of smoke, the crowd clapped and whistled in appreciation.

Because I'm such a fan of their sound, it was my fifth or sixth Diamond Center show. You could almost say I'm a regular with them, too.

But let's not. I'd rather just be thought of as a music lover who was lucky enough to see two amazing shows on a Friday night. Even a non-regular could have done that...if they're willing to stay out past midnight.

I got that one covered.

Prabir Walks Stupid Girl Home

What kind of an idiot does something stupid and then beats herself up for her stupidity?

The kind who meets a friend for dinner at Lulu's and listens to tales of her friend's recent dating exploits while enjoying a hearty lentil soup followed by ham and parsley terrine (house-smoked ham hocks, carrots cooked with the ham and parsley), picililli and grilled sourdough.

I loved the huge chunks of hocks in the terrine; they reminded me of all the tastiest bits left around the bone after carving (my family ate a ton of ham growing up).

The kind who goes to Strange Matter to see an outstanding indie triple-bill with a room full of like-minded fans. Marionette opened strong, Long Division post-rocked out and the Diamond Center gazed shoeward.

I met a musician's charming dad (about Long Division, he said, "I like the music, but are they going to sing?" Uh, no, that's why it's post-rock, sir) who thanked me for being a fan of his son's band (and then asked if I was married!).

The kind who came out to find her car vanished, towed away with her bag and cute shoes inside. The kind who could have smacked her forehead realizing her stupidity.

But all was not lost. Strange Matter is barely 3/4 of a mile from home, it was only 52 degrees outside and the bars hadn't closed so there were still plenty of people out and about. A little walk after an enjoyable evening would surely salvage a sorry situation.

I got barely two blocks before running into Prabir, the man who last year coached me on his sure-fire method for mending a broken heart, here. I told him of my stupidity and, since he also lives in J-Ward, he offered to walk home with me. I mean, he was going there anyway, but it was still a nice gesture.

I told him about the stellar show I'd just seen and he told me about the equally good one he'd been to at the Camel. Periodically, I would say something like, "I can't believe how stupid I was!" just so I could live with myself.

Thanking him for the company when we got to my house, I couldn't resist one last moment of self-flagellation. His response?

"Don't sweat it; it'll make a great blog post."

I wouldn't say great.

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.

Enjoying the Subtext

After weeks of schedule incompatibility, a girlfriend and I finally made plans for tonight. Just to be sure, she sent me an e-mail yesterday, "Hey! Do we have a date for tomorrow? A patio somewhere?" I just knew it was my delightful lunch on Ettamae's balcony that had her pining for outdoor conversation.

So I suggested Amuse, knowing that she hadn't been there and that they had an outdoor space. But upon arrival, we were told it was a "serving area," which sounded vaguely unwelcoming and we compromised at the bar where I knew from past experience that bartender Tommie would welcome us with open arms.

Beginning with his enthusiastic greeting (I was flattered that he remembered me) right through his attentive service, we wound up happy to have chosen him over the outdoor seating, despite the beautiful day. Even when he was absolutely slammed with drink orders, he managed to be charming and attentive.

We drank local, she with the Barboursville Cab Franc and me with the White Hall Viognier. With almost a month's worth to catch up on, we almost had too much to talk about.

She shared near-fires, ER visits and guerrilla drawing classes. I had nothing half so exciting, but shared tales of publishers, birthdays, and some of the undeniably interesting comments the blog has gotten lately.

As always the VMFA crowd was as good as entertainment. Tonight they were hosting a lecture on Faberge, a topic of minimal interest to me, but the crowd of lecture-goers proved that I am in the minority.

Bejeweled women and bow-tied men were everywhere and many, many old fashioneds were sent out to tables. I wanted to think that they were all having a good time, but nothing about their collective demeanor indicated that.

When we got peckish, my friend couldn't resist the mussels and Surry ham in a rich garlic broth and although I'd had the dish before, I was happy to pig out (pun intended) and sop until that buttery goodness was gone.

We followed that with the chocolate hazelnut torte with fresh berries and with the copious amounts of wine we enjoyed, were satisfied on every level.

Because this is the one local girlfriend who knows where all the bodies are buried, I had as-yet unshared stories she needed to hear. Likewise, her recent "big talk" with the boyfriend yielded all kinds of conversational fodder. As much as I enjoy my guy friends, I know that they don't want to hear this kind of stuff.

Three and a half hours later, we decided to stroll the museum and get our blood moving again. Although we've both seen the Chuck Close show, we headed directly there. Coincidentally I ran into my friend Andrew (note mention by name, friend) and his main squeeze viewing the show for the first time. Richmond truly is a small town.

On our way out, we stopped by the German Expressionist exhibit, a show I'd seen but she hadn't. You have to love German art; such angst, such thickness of paint, such tortured woodcuts! It was fun interpreting the show together, especially since she's an illustrator/painter and as big an art geek as I am.

After parting on the Boulevard, I headed over to Sprout for music. I guiltily took a four top because it was all that was available but told owner Laura to feel free to seat others at my table if necessary, community-style.

I then ordered a glass of the Horton Stony Blush (why leave the state after all that earlier Virginia wine?) and the stuffed onion with pesto and bacon.

Moments later a girl I'd met at last night's Tortoise show spotted me and joined me at my lonesome table. Next thing I knew, the guys at the next table, only one of whom I knew, were asking me about the Tortoise show and I was trying to explain the very male-ness of it. They understood immediately, nodding as if the shortage of girls and abundance of testosterone were of no surprise to them.

My stuffed onion was as tasty as it was unusual, but right up the alley of an onion and bacon lover like me. My friend got the Parisienne gnocchi and raved about it.

She finished with the raisin bread pudding which she insisted I try because "it tastes like a warm donut." In fact, it did and a warm donut is a tough thing to resist. I may have taken more bites than were offered, but she was generous. Or polite.

Music followed, beginning with owner Jamie's band, Baby Help Me Forget. He was an amazing front man, singing, shimmying, and dropping to his knees; his feet never stopped sliding around the floor James Brown-style. The audience never stopped smiling throughout their entire set.

The Visitations was one guy with a guitar, a computer and pedals, playing a fun set that the crowd loved. And the talented Diamond Center are my favorite local shoegazers.

So I spent the beautiful evening indoors. What of it? There'll be plenty of other nights I can be outside when there's no wine, , food, art, conversation or music calling to me.

I'd go sit on my porch right now and finally enjoy a bit of the cool night air, but I think I'd prefer to reread some of the delightful comments that have been coming my way of late before I go to bed.

Comments as compliments, don't you know. Or at least that's how I choose to read them.

Street Art, Shoegaze and Strangers

Every now and then, a girl's got to cross the river...always, mind you, for a good reason. Tonight's incentive was Strassen Kunst, an exhibit at Artspace of ten graffiti artists whose work was painted, stenciled and projected on the walls, along with additional photographs of graffiti art from Berlin.

There was even a model of a graffiti artist in process, clad in a black hoodie and jeans, holding a can of spray paint (which fell mid-opening, amusing the artists in the room. "His hand went dead," one explained. "You know that feeling?").

Because so many of the images were from Germany, it was only natural that the occasional tag in English caught my eye. Among my favorites; "Smiling makes me thin" (great concept), "Catalonia is NOT Spain" (but what do you really think?) and "Too. Much. Thought." (a sin I am often guilty of). Some of the canvasses were floor to ceiling, impressive for their presence in the room, but even so, scaled back compared to buildings and walls as canvasses.

Seeing the proliferation of street art in Berlin, a city which would have been a blank canvas after the wall came down, was a thoughtful reminder that sometimes the best use of derelict and deteriorating buildings may be sanctioned public art. It's something I'd like to see addressed in RVA.

Heading back to the city, traffic was halted at the south end of the Mayo bridge for a flock of geese crossing. They took their sweet time about it and I could see drivers around me getting impatient. I just sat back and enjoyed watching their leisurely saunter and nipping antics with each other. It was still about 97 degrees so I understood them not being in a hurry.

Further up and waiting at a light, I saw a group of skateboarders practicing tricks over the canal walk. From the back, one looked awfully familiar and when he turned in profile, I saw it was one of Ipanema's low-key bartenders whom I know well. He must have felt my eyes boring into his back 'cause he turned and waved hello. And speaking of heat, skateboarding today? That's dedication, man.

I deposited the car in the Ward and walked over to Gallery 5 for music, eager to hear the Diamond Center again. I love their shimmery shoegaze sound (with two standing drummers even!) but they were having sound issues due to sweat. Taking a moment to fix it, the lead singer said, "This is the part of the show where I should probably entertain you, but I'm so awkward at it. Like now."

After their set I ran into Prabir (he and the Goldrush were playing later) and he showed me his current reading material. It was a thin red booklet called The Art of Kissing and published in 1936 with illustrations. Prabir said he'd taken it from a girl's nightstand in order to study it. He seemed to think I'd be interested and, okay, I was.

With chapters on French kissing, electric shock parties and lip size, there was a lot of information in this handy guide. I read it cover to cover during a set break and it generated a lot of conversation for me, as you might imagine. Here's a tip, guys: arrange it so that the girl is up against the arm of the couch for easiest kissing maneuvering.

Matt, bass player for the Goldrush, had earlier promised me a better sound mix for their set (in past shows his bass has been inaudible behind the drums, something he and I detest) and it wasn't an empty promise. When he waled on his giant bass I could hear it in the back of the room near the bar (where I'd taken up residence since it was the only place in the room where the air conditioning could be felt). If you're going to be a four-piece, all four instruments should be heard. Finally they were.

Walking home past Crossroads, a neighborhood place that must have been a nip joint in a previous incarnation, men were milling about everywhere. One guy said to me, "You're not done for the night are you?" and another, calling down from the stairs that lead to the second floor, said, "Are you coming up to join us?" I declined both offers, but appreciated the thoughts.

I was within a block of home when my former Whiskey Wednesday neighbor appeared on the sidewalk. After having moved to the Fan a while back, he missed the Ward so much that he's moved back. I'd told him that that would happen; once Jackson Ward is in your blood, nothing else will do.

Personal validation aside, it was still good to see him and hear about his latest antics, including a trip to West Virginia for the All Good Festival. Endless jam band performances and a cornucopia of drugs available (LSD and pink mushrooms seemed to be the crowd favorites, he told me) seemed to be the hallmarks of this obscure festival. Or perhaps it's just obscure to me because I'm not a jam band fan.

When I finally made it home, it was to find a message from a stranger complimenting my Facebook picture (it has a lot in common with my blog profile picture) which he'd found through random surfing. "Do I know you?" I wrote back challenging his nerve.

But just look at my blog posts...or my life. Random could be my middle name.