In my family, we would call today a goof-off day.
I mean, come on, it's the first day of the shortened holiday week, it was 77 degrees and all I wanted to do was take advantage of it all.
The first thing I did on waking up was open every window in the house. Such a treat in late November.
Step one: a long, sunny walk down Colorado Avenue to Texas Beach (five people, five dogs, water cold but not freezing) and then back via the North Bank trail (surprisingly all but empty: two joggers, two bikers).
Soaking up sunshine on a rock at the beach and then again on Bubba's bench overlooking Belle Isle. Heavenly.
Step two: a saunter through Church Hill near Libbie Park with a stop at a 1904 house that's being renovated by a couple from Pittsburgh. The trunk room is becoming an office, old ceiling joists are becoming a dining room table and there are still raccoon hand prints on walls from the two years the house was uninhabited.
After the nickle tour and lots of conversation, I fell madly in love with this couple when she told me they weren't going to put in air conditioners, allowing the natural air flow to cool the house in warm weather. And here I thought I was the only one who turned my back on artificially frigid summers.
Step three: a seat on the patio at Conch Republic with a view of the river (even a couple of boats on it), happy hour Sauvignon Blanc and some steamed shrimp, ordered because my partner in crime said they couldn't mess it up. Wrong. All the spice was sprinkled on the shells after the fact while the shrimp had clearly been steamed without it. Duh.
Our server turned out to be a Charleston transplant studying environmental science at VCU so he can work at the Dismal Swamp when he graduates. A discussion of the summer the swamp was on fire ensued because we all remembered it.
His first concert was Kings of Leon (unless you count the Red Hot Chili Peppers show his Dad took him to which he doesn't remember), a band he went on to see 15 times since. I told him I'd seen the band in Chicago in 2007 and it had been the loudest show I'd ever seen. He grinned and agreed.
We watched as the sun set behind the trees, streaking the sky with peach and violet clouds and the thinnest sliver of a moon (2-3% visible, according to the meteorologist at the table) and vapor trails began appearing out of nowhere.
Step four: dinner at the bar of my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27 alongside an Ashland mother and son headed to the James Taylor concert at the Coliseum. She was beyond excited to finally get to see JT.
Her first show had been Chicago in 1978 and she recalled going with older friends who got stopped and searched for pot. Turns out she had the bag of weed on her person and no one bothered to check her. She shared this story out of the blue, saying it still gave her a laugh.
My dinner was French onion/mushroom soup followed by a petite crab cake while people continued to arrive for dinner before the big show. But by the time I was eating my double chocolate torte, the dining room had cleared out. Time for fire and rain, I suppose.
Step five: a show at Sound of Music studios, in yet another location from the last time I was at a SoM show. The place looked dead from outside but a small sign directed people to the alley behind the building.
There, a burly man stood guard and when asked if this was the place, responded, "It is to rock and roll." In we went.
Lady God, a fairly new band, was already playing their pastiche of garage, soul and pop to an attentive crowd. I was sorry I'd missed any of their set based on the sound.
I ran into the baker/DJ who reminded me that the last time we'd seen each other had been at Metzger when Mr. Fine Wine deejayed. He was kind enough to tell me I was a great dancer but then shared that when he'd taken off his jacket to dance (at my insistence) and tossed it aside, his phone had been a casualty.
He wanted to blame it on my aggressive dancing but was quite happy because now he has a much nicer phone to replace it. All's well that ends well.
Next up were the lo-fi Beat Awfuls from Kentucky, notable because they had a female drummer. "This place is cool," one of the Awfuls said. "Is that ceiling tin?" Sure was.
Twice while the band was playing, a stranger walked up to me and introduced himself (Hi, Tom! Hi, Adam!). Maybe I looked like I could use some conversation.
During the break, I geeked out with my favorite nerd, discussing his trip to Shirley Plantation today (showed me his ticket to prove it), mine to Menokin (a place he's been keen to visit) and Fort Brady.
The evening's headliner was Warren Hixson, the band that reliably delivers surf guitar, pop gems and tight performances. Tonight was no different and, as usual, I leave their shows wishing they'd play out more often. I'm especially fond of the shared male/female vocals (Nelly and Brent) that distinguish their sound.
Did I do any work today? Sure, I made an appointment to do an interview late Wednesday afternoon when most people will have left work behind.
Did I make the best possible use of this gloriously unseasonable November day? Sure did. I didn't even go inside until a couple of hours after the sun set.
One more notch in my lipstick case for another stellar goof off day. Oh, I'm good at this.
Showing posts with label warren hixson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label warren hixson. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Anniversary Song
Four years ago, in an alcohol-free church basement, the Listening Room was born.
I know because I was there that night, here, and thrilled to have found a place where music trumped blather.
Tonight was the fourth anniversary Listening Room and the program ably demonstrated how far the series has come.
Curated by Shannon Cleary of WRIR's Commonwealth of Notions show, it featured three local bands, all of whom I've seen before and all of whom impressed me mightily.
Chatting with some fellow long-time regulars before the show, we talked about how the series has evolved, having begun as all acoustic with no drums and no electric instruments.
Tonight was all about the drums and the plugged-in instruments.
Way, Shape or Form had originally appealed to me with their jazzy guitars and unique time signatures, dancing right on that edge of math rock with just enough pop thrown in to be catchy.
Tonight was more of the same but the band sounded even tighter than when I'd seen them last winter.
Singer Troy apologized late into their set, saying, "Of course I picked this week to get sick and have to do a show where everyone is quiet and listening to my voice."
Honestly, his voice sounded fine, plus they did two songs, the first and the last, without vocals, always a pleasure to hear because they veer beautifully close to soaring post-rock soundscapes.
I did the seated mingling thing during the break, turning to talk to friends behind me and waiting for others to come sit in the row with me and catch up.
As a veteran of 42 of the 44 Listening Room shows, I think I've earned the right to play queen bee on occasion.
Next up was Warren Hixson and just before they started, a bearded friend leaned down and asked if anyone in the band was actually named Warren Hixson.
Is there an Echo in the Bunnymen? No, and there's no Warren here either.
Brent, the leader of the band, began by asking if the stage lights could be turned down a bit.
"They're fixed," sound man Dave called down to him. "Just like me," Brent joked (or maybe not).
Their sound is unlike anyone else's in Richmond at the moment, one part garage rock, a little grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards that wove the most interesting sounds plus male and female vocals (including the incomparable Nelly Kate).
A couple songs in and the listener has to acknowledge the sound as a pastiche with no discernible genre other than its own.
Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, those keyboards kick in and they start sounding surf-like and psychedelic and I find myself sucked back in.
Pausing to acknowledge the room, Brent said, "This is cool. We once played a show in an attic with four dudes dancing and unplugging our pedals, so this is very cool."
Because they didn't have dudes dancing or people talking, they decided to do "Cruel Whims," the last song on their record and one Brent characterized as a "bedroom song, one that's awkward to do in loud situations."
Such are the benefits of hearing a band when they can be heard.
When their set ended, a photographer friend slid into the seat next to me and said, "I wasn't ready for that to be over. They were amazing."
Since he's a big show-goer, too, I was sincerely surprised that he'd never seen them before but agreed with him about their set.
During the second break, I got up and moved around to mingle, ending up talking to some people about how electric the Listening Room had become.
In the old days, breaks between sets were extremely brief; one guy with a guitar walked offstage and another guy with a guitar walked on.
Now it's like a regular show with break down and set up times that approaches 20 minutes, an unheard of amount of time in the old days.
"Yea, in another four years, we'll have entire orchestras playing," one guy observed humorously.
Curator Shannon took the stage again, this time to talk about the local music scene and what a terrific point in time it is for it.
He thanked the people who document the scene, mentioning specific sites and blogs (including this one, she said proudly), at "this moment in Richmond's music history."
Last up was trio White Laces, a band who only has to begin playing to remind me how very much I love their dreampop sound and that it's always been too long since I heard them last.
Tonight they were here to play the songs that will be on their new album, which they start recording in a week.
"Most of these songs have been played out once or never," singer Landon told us before treating us to some absolutely brilliant new hook-filled songs.
Admitting that many of the songs never got past their working titles - "Skate or Die, "Janet," "Keith Sweats"- the audience sat entranced by melodic songs, kick ass drums and guitar hooks that surely must get them laid.
Of "New Jam 2," Landis said, "It still doesn't have a name beyond that. We've been calling it that for five months now, which doesn't bode well for it."
Named properly or not, the song was one more strong example of songwriting and execution.
Drummer Jimmy kept track of the set list, reminding the others what was upcoming and occasionally getting distracted by the joking onstage.
"Every time we start laughing, I forget what the next song is," he explained before a do-over.
"We don't have humor at practice," Landis deadpanned, "So when we do up here, it's weird."
We didn't used to have alcohol or drums at the Listening Room and now we do but it's not weird, it only makes things better.
I'd say that bodes very well for the next four years. But don't take my word for it, check it out for yourself. Just be quiet about it, will you?
Because some things about the Listening Room will never change. Lucky us.
I know because I was there that night, here, and thrilled to have found a place where music trumped blather.
Tonight was the fourth anniversary Listening Room and the program ably demonstrated how far the series has come.
Curated by Shannon Cleary of WRIR's Commonwealth of Notions show, it featured three local bands, all of whom I've seen before and all of whom impressed me mightily.
Chatting with some fellow long-time regulars before the show, we talked about how the series has evolved, having begun as all acoustic with no drums and no electric instruments.
Tonight was all about the drums and the plugged-in instruments.
Way, Shape or Form had originally appealed to me with their jazzy guitars and unique time signatures, dancing right on that edge of math rock with just enough pop thrown in to be catchy.
Tonight was more of the same but the band sounded even tighter than when I'd seen them last winter.
Singer Troy apologized late into their set, saying, "Of course I picked this week to get sick and have to do a show where everyone is quiet and listening to my voice."
Honestly, his voice sounded fine, plus they did two songs, the first and the last, without vocals, always a pleasure to hear because they veer beautifully close to soaring post-rock soundscapes.
I did the seated mingling thing during the break, turning to talk to friends behind me and waiting for others to come sit in the row with me and catch up.
As a veteran of 42 of the 44 Listening Room shows, I think I've earned the right to play queen bee on occasion.
Next up was Warren Hixson and just before they started, a bearded friend leaned down and asked if anyone in the band was actually named Warren Hixson.
Is there an Echo in the Bunnymen? No, and there's no Warren here either.
Brent, the leader of the band, began by asking if the stage lights could be turned down a bit.
"They're fixed," sound man Dave called down to him. "Just like me," Brent joked (or maybe not).
Their sound is unlike anyone else's in Richmond at the moment, one part garage rock, a little grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards that wove the most interesting sounds plus male and female vocals (including the incomparable Nelly Kate).
A couple songs in and the listener has to acknowledge the sound as a pastiche with no discernible genre other than its own.
Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, those keyboards kick in and they start sounding surf-like and psychedelic and I find myself sucked back in.
Pausing to acknowledge the room, Brent said, "This is cool. We once played a show in an attic with four dudes dancing and unplugging our pedals, so this is very cool."
Because they didn't have dudes dancing or people talking, they decided to do "Cruel Whims," the last song on their record and one Brent characterized as a "bedroom song, one that's awkward to do in loud situations."
Such are the benefits of hearing a band when they can be heard.
When their set ended, a photographer friend slid into the seat next to me and said, "I wasn't ready for that to be over. They were amazing."
Since he's a big show-goer, too, I was sincerely surprised that he'd never seen them before but agreed with him about their set.
During the second break, I got up and moved around to mingle, ending up talking to some people about how electric the Listening Room had become.
In the old days, breaks between sets were extremely brief; one guy with a guitar walked offstage and another guy with a guitar walked on.
Now it's like a regular show with break down and set up times that approaches 20 minutes, an unheard of amount of time in the old days.
"Yea, in another four years, we'll have entire orchestras playing," one guy observed humorously.
Curator Shannon took the stage again, this time to talk about the local music scene and what a terrific point in time it is for it.
He thanked the people who document the scene, mentioning specific sites and blogs (including this one, she said proudly), at "this moment in Richmond's music history."
Last up was trio White Laces, a band who only has to begin playing to remind me how very much I love their dreampop sound and that it's always been too long since I heard them last.
Tonight they were here to play the songs that will be on their new album, which they start recording in a week.
"Most of these songs have been played out once or never," singer Landon told us before treating us to some absolutely brilliant new hook-filled songs.
Admitting that many of the songs never got past their working titles - "Skate or Die, "Janet," "Keith Sweats"- the audience sat entranced by melodic songs, kick ass drums and guitar hooks that surely must get them laid.
Of "New Jam 2," Landis said, "It still doesn't have a name beyond that. We've been calling it that for five months now, which doesn't bode well for it."
Named properly or not, the song was one more strong example of songwriting and execution.
Drummer Jimmy kept track of the set list, reminding the others what was upcoming and occasionally getting distracted by the joking onstage.
"Every time we start laughing, I forget what the next song is," he explained before a do-over.
"We don't have humor at practice," Landis deadpanned, "So when we do up here, it's weird."
We didn't used to have alcohol or drums at the Listening Room and now we do but it's not weird, it only makes things better.
I'd say that bodes very well for the next four years. But don't take my word for it, check it out for yourself. Just be quiet about it, will you?
Because some things about the Listening Room will never change. Lucky us.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Saturday, So What?
Sometimes all I want is a simple Saturday night.
No high culture, no trendy foodstuffs, no company required.
Chalk it up to yet another of my eccentricities, but I just don't see the last day of the week as the highlight.
So instead of trying to think of what fabulous things I might enjoy tonight, I considered how to have a low-key evening alone.
Step one: dinner at Garnett's.
After claiming a counter stool, I went to the window and rifled through the newspaper box, extracting all the New York Times arts sections.
Back at the counter, I ordered a grilled Gouda with tomato and bacon, the pig-sporting cousin of my favorite sandwich at Ipanema.
Sans company, I was able to read and eat without conversational responsibility.
I read a review of "Lovelace," since I'd just seen the preview at Bowtie two days ago.
I read a piece called "Marriage is Yard Work" about a San Diego couple who have spent four years turning the backyard of the house they rent into an outdoor room, building most of the furniture themselves.
And then a couple sat down at the counter, having just come from the Sound City festival down at Tredegar.
Okay, so I hadn't gone out for conversation, but when it drops in my lap, what's a poor girl to do?
So I inquired. They liked that it wasn't particularly crowded. They were there early enough that the beer-pouring staff didn't yet know to pour half-full cups, so they got two full beers before someone caught on.
They thought the James Badfellows used too many cuss words (her term) for 2:00 in the afternoon. They wondered if El Vez really had an accent. They enjoyed Leagues.
And they didn't stay for the Breeders.
I knew everything I needed to and I could continue with my reading.
After finishing my deliciously gooey sandwich, I returned the newspaper to the box, thanked my server and headed home.
Step two: Warren Hixson.
Keeping it simple, I then walked three blocks to Black Iris Gallery for music.
It's the space that used to be Sound of Music and although I'd been to shows when it was SoM, I'd never gone beyond the front room.
Tonight the girl who took my money told me to head to the back "because there's beer there," and while I don't drink beer, I was curious about the unknown parts.
It was nothing like what I expected.
The room with the bar had beautiful wood wainscoting all the way around and it made me think of those walls where you touch a hidden button and the wall opens and allows you into a secret passage.
A mounted deer head over the bar, which in some ways resembled a rec room set-up.
Tall, narrow staircases continued up a few flights and this is apparently where the recording studios were.
So now I knew.
People continued to arrive, get beer and mingle until finally it was decided that we'd reached critical mass and the show could begin.
Frequenters of music shows knowingly refer to this as "Richmond time."
Nelly Kate, one of the organizers, made the point that Richmond needs to start shows when they say they will or else it's not fair to punctual arrivees.
My friend Dave Watkins often makes the same point.
So they didn't start on time, but it wasn't all that long before Warren Hixson took the stage in the front room.
As they began to play, I heard an annoying sound behind me and turned to find someone's iPod plugged into a small speaker and still playing.
Unnecessary, I deemed, and pulled the plug as if I were in charge.
It's so easy to take control sometimes.
Every time I see these guys (and girl, since Nelly's in the band), I hear how their sound has evolved even further.
Take one part garage rock, add in some almost grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards and before you know it, it's a pastiche with no discernible genre beyond their own.
Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, they start sounding groovier, a tad psychedelic and I am sucked in again.
And it wasn't just me; everyone I could see was dancing in place or bopping along to the sonic delights.
During one extended jam, a girl near me broke free of the crowd, went to the back of the room and began doing the hippie dance, catching non-existent butterflies with her eyes closed.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Maybe she was just looking to steer clear of company.
Sometimes that's a perfect Saturday night.
No high culture, no trendy foodstuffs, no company required.
Chalk it up to yet another of my eccentricities, but I just don't see the last day of the week as the highlight.
So instead of trying to think of what fabulous things I might enjoy tonight, I considered how to have a low-key evening alone.
Step one: dinner at Garnett's.
After claiming a counter stool, I went to the window and rifled through the newspaper box, extracting all the New York Times arts sections.
Back at the counter, I ordered a grilled Gouda with tomato and bacon, the pig-sporting cousin of my favorite sandwich at Ipanema.
Sans company, I was able to read and eat without conversational responsibility.
I read a review of "Lovelace," since I'd just seen the preview at Bowtie two days ago.
I read a piece called "Marriage is Yard Work" about a San Diego couple who have spent four years turning the backyard of the house they rent into an outdoor room, building most of the furniture themselves.
And then a couple sat down at the counter, having just come from the Sound City festival down at Tredegar.
Okay, so I hadn't gone out for conversation, but when it drops in my lap, what's a poor girl to do?
So I inquired. They liked that it wasn't particularly crowded. They were there early enough that the beer-pouring staff didn't yet know to pour half-full cups, so they got two full beers before someone caught on.
They thought the James Badfellows used too many cuss words (her term) for 2:00 in the afternoon. They wondered if El Vez really had an accent. They enjoyed Leagues.
And they didn't stay for the Breeders.
I knew everything I needed to and I could continue with my reading.
After finishing my deliciously gooey sandwich, I returned the newspaper to the box, thanked my server and headed home.
Step two: Warren Hixson.
Keeping it simple, I then walked three blocks to Black Iris Gallery for music.
It's the space that used to be Sound of Music and although I'd been to shows when it was SoM, I'd never gone beyond the front room.
Tonight the girl who took my money told me to head to the back "because there's beer there," and while I don't drink beer, I was curious about the unknown parts.
It was nothing like what I expected.
The room with the bar had beautiful wood wainscoting all the way around and it made me think of those walls where you touch a hidden button and the wall opens and allows you into a secret passage.
A mounted deer head over the bar, which in some ways resembled a rec room set-up.
Tall, narrow staircases continued up a few flights and this is apparently where the recording studios were.
So now I knew.
People continued to arrive, get beer and mingle until finally it was decided that we'd reached critical mass and the show could begin.
Frequenters of music shows knowingly refer to this as "Richmond time."
Nelly Kate, one of the organizers, made the point that Richmond needs to start shows when they say they will or else it's not fair to punctual arrivees.
My friend Dave Watkins often makes the same point.
So they didn't start on time, but it wasn't all that long before Warren Hixson took the stage in the front room.
As they began to play, I heard an annoying sound behind me and turned to find someone's iPod plugged into a small speaker and still playing.
Unnecessary, I deemed, and pulled the plug as if I were in charge.
It's so easy to take control sometimes.
Every time I see these guys (and girl, since Nelly's in the band), I hear how their sound has evolved even further.
Take one part garage rock, add in some almost grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards and before you know it, it's a pastiche with no discernible genre beyond their own.
Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, they start sounding groovier, a tad psychedelic and I am sucked in again.
And it wasn't just me; everyone I could see was dancing in place or bopping along to the sonic delights.
During one extended jam, a girl near me broke free of the crowd, went to the back of the room and began doing the hippie dance, catching non-existent butterflies with her eyes closed.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Maybe she was just looking to steer clear of company.
Sometimes that's a perfect Saturday night.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Shannon's Steppin' Stone
The music just kept on coming.
Today's seven-hour musical extravaganza, WRIR and the Commonwealth of Notions present Volume 3 (part 3), was conveniently (for me) located at Gallery 5, meaning I could stroll over at 4.
I'd been instructed not to be a minute later by the show's first performer, Dave Watkins.
Unlike the park show where I'd recently seen him, tonight he had his full array of instruments, layering dulcitar, drums, keyboards and percussion to craft "songs."
With many new faces in the crowd, I just leaned back and watched their awed faces as they tried to wrap their mind around the textured sounds Dave was creating.
It was during his second song that the members of Dumb Waiter, an instrumental math rock/improvisational quartet (with sax!), joined Dave and that's when the epic factor went off the charts.
Seriously, these are musicians to watch and Dave complemented them magnificently.
The good news is I heard they've already scheduled an upcoming show together.
The only one I knew was Nathaniel, who used to be in Lobo Marino and who was in his element on drums here.
Speaking of, next, we all trooped upstairs for Lobo Marino, playing in the same room where they'd recorded their album a while back.
I'm proud to say that you can hear my laugh on that album.
Lobo Marino has been on tour a lot lately, so it was great to have Laney and Jameson back in RVA to play for long-time (and new) fans.
They did material from all their albums old and new, including inviting the audience to follow along with the hand gestures on "Animal Hands," the ecstatic "Celebrate," and the evocative "Stay with Me."
Calling up Nathaniel to join them onstage for the first time in over a year, Laney said they'd do the only song they sing in Spanish, one that they hadn't done in ages because it was "dependent on Nathaniel."
It's true; his trumpet and mandolin on that song make it even more beautiful and it was a real treat to hear it again after so long.
Back downstairs we went for Herro Sugar, a band whose singer wore their collective heart on his t-shirt, which said Wilco.
They began by sound-checking their mics, with each member stating that his mic should be the loudest because he was the most important member of the band.
I do like it when musicians have a sense of humor.
Their tightly written, indie pop songs were short blasts of energy and hooks and the crowd bopped right along with them.
Way, Shape or Form followed, sans one of their guitarists, who was away, but with a worthy replacement.
Their sound is more polished, with jazz and pop elements, demonstrating the range of the show's bands and yet the overlap of fans who enjoyed them just as much.
After their set, I bade my music buddy farewell for a bit, as I headed home to eat and get a little work done before returning.
When I got back, Warren Hixson was just starting and Friend and I picked up where we'd left off, with water in hand and attention to the band.
I'd seen them back in April, so it was no surprise that their catchy psychedelic surf rock was easy enough to enjoy from the first notes.
But I had to laugh when I overheard a guy say to a girl, "They're so new and different, I find them interesting."
Clearly his musical history knowledge was surface deep as the band's influences were all over the music, but I didn't correct him.
I did repeat his quote to some musicians who laughed at his naivete, but that's another story.
After their set, I mingled for a bit, only to have someone come up and exclaim, "You left and I couldn't find you! I was so upset I threw up!"
You have to love the high drama of friends after they've been drinking at a show since 4:00.
Even if they mean it.
Tonight's piece de resistance was Baby Help Me Forget's reunion show a year and a half after they'd played their last at the 2012 WRIR birthday party.
I wouldn't have missed their set for anything.
Personally, I think singer Jamie is the best showman in town, whether singing, dancing, gesturing or flinging his hair.
Until you've seen him bound onstage or leap off it, you can't imagine how he abuses his body in the service of rock and roll.
He leaped onstage in a jacket, vest and shirt and I knew right away that he'd be losing layers as the set progressed.
Unlike at past shows, sadly, we never got down to bare chest.
The band kicked into high-energy mode from the first song and the remaining crowd danced and cheered them along.
At one point, Jamie dedicate a song to the event's organizer, Shannon and it was a doozy.
"(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone" whipped the band and the audience into a '60s pop frenzy, with people doing everything from the pony to pogoing.
From there, you'd have thought they couldn't possibly take things any higher, but they did.
They sure did.
Jamie came down off the stage and placed what looked like a candle on the floor in front of the stage.
Returning to the stage, the band began another kick-ass song just as the "candle" showed itself to be fireworks of some kind, sending up a stream of colored sparks and plumes that lasted almost as long as the song.
Meanwhile, Jamie sang, ending up writhing on the floor, as is his long-standing tradition at shows.
It was the most epic ending to the show that could have been imagined, short of burning down Gallery 5.
And we wouldn't want that anyway.
Strolling home under a nearly-full moon, I had to think what a fantastic day in the neighborhood it is when I can support my local independent radio station by watching local talent strut their stuff all day and night.
Plus fireworks.
My only regret is making someone throw up for missing me.
Today's seven-hour musical extravaganza, WRIR and the Commonwealth of Notions present Volume 3 (part 3), was conveniently (for me) located at Gallery 5, meaning I could stroll over at 4.
I'd been instructed not to be a minute later by the show's first performer, Dave Watkins.
Unlike the park show where I'd recently seen him, tonight he had his full array of instruments, layering dulcitar, drums, keyboards and percussion to craft "songs."
With many new faces in the crowd, I just leaned back and watched their awed faces as they tried to wrap their mind around the textured sounds Dave was creating.
It was during his second song that the members of Dumb Waiter, an instrumental math rock/improvisational quartet (with sax!), joined Dave and that's when the epic factor went off the charts.
Seriously, these are musicians to watch and Dave complemented them magnificently.
The good news is I heard they've already scheduled an upcoming show together.
The only one I knew was Nathaniel, who used to be in Lobo Marino and who was in his element on drums here.
Speaking of, next, we all trooped upstairs for Lobo Marino, playing in the same room where they'd recorded their album a while back.
I'm proud to say that you can hear my laugh on that album.
Lobo Marino has been on tour a lot lately, so it was great to have Laney and Jameson back in RVA to play for long-time (and new) fans.
They did material from all their albums old and new, including inviting the audience to follow along with the hand gestures on "Animal Hands," the ecstatic "Celebrate," and the evocative "Stay with Me."
Calling up Nathaniel to join them onstage for the first time in over a year, Laney said they'd do the only song they sing in Spanish, one that they hadn't done in ages because it was "dependent on Nathaniel."
It's true; his trumpet and mandolin on that song make it even more beautiful and it was a real treat to hear it again after so long.
Back downstairs we went for Herro Sugar, a band whose singer wore their collective heart on his t-shirt, which said Wilco.
They began by sound-checking their mics, with each member stating that his mic should be the loudest because he was the most important member of the band.
I do like it when musicians have a sense of humor.
Their tightly written, indie pop songs were short blasts of energy and hooks and the crowd bopped right along with them.
Way, Shape or Form followed, sans one of their guitarists, who was away, but with a worthy replacement.
Their sound is more polished, with jazz and pop elements, demonstrating the range of the show's bands and yet the overlap of fans who enjoyed them just as much.
After their set, I bade my music buddy farewell for a bit, as I headed home to eat and get a little work done before returning.
When I got back, Warren Hixson was just starting and Friend and I picked up where we'd left off, with water in hand and attention to the band.
I'd seen them back in April, so it was no surprise that their catchy psychedelic surf rock was easy enough to enjoy from the first notes.
But I had to laugh when I overheard a guy say to a girl, "They're so new and different, I find them interesting."
Clearly his musical history knowledge was surface deep as the band's influences were all over the music, but I didn't correct him.
I did repeat his quote to some musicians who laughed at his naivete, but that's another story.
After their set, I mingled for a bit, only to have someone come up and exclaim, "You left and I couldn't find you! I was so upset I threw up!"
You have to love the high drama of friends after they've been drinking at a show since 4:00.
Even if they mean it.
Tonight's piece de resistance was Baby Help Me Forget's reunion show a year and a half after they'd played their last at the 2012 WRIR birthday party.
I wouldn't have missed their set for anything.
Personally, I think singer Jamie is the best showman in town, whether singing, dancing, gesturing or flinging his hair.
Until you've seen him bound onstage or leap off it, you can't imagine how he abuses his body in the service of rock and roll.
He leaped onstage in a jacket, vest and shirt and I knew right away that he'd be losing layers as the set progressed.
Unlike at past shows, sadly, we never got down to bare chest.
The band kicked into high-energy mode from the first song and the remaining crowd danced and cheered them along.
At one point, Jamie dedicate a song to the event's organizer, Shannon and it was a doozy.
"(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone" whipped the band and the audience into a '60s pop frenzy, with people doing everything from the pony to pogoing.
From there, you'd have thought they couldn't possibly take things any higher, but they did.
They sure did.
Jamie came down off the stage and placed what looked like a candle on the floor in front of the stage.
Returning to the stage, the band began another kick-ass song just as the "candle" showed itself to be fireworks of some kind, sending up a stream of colored sparks and plumes that lasted almost as long as the song.
Meanwhile, Jamie sang, ending up writhing on the floor, as is his long-standing tradition at shows.
It was the most epic ending to the show that could have been imagined, short of burning down Gallery 5.
And we wouldn't want that anyway.
Strolling home under a nearly-full moon, I had to think what a fantastic day in the neighborhood it is when I can support my local independent radio station by watching local talent strut their stuff all day and night.
Plus fireworks.
My only regret is making someone throw up for missing me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
