Anywhoo, I rolled out to Trax for Ladies' Night, chanting the melody to Kool and the Gang's seminal hit of the same name, which continues to haunt me even as I write this. ( "...oh, what a night." If I concentrate hard enough I can almost remember what it was like having braces. ) Upon arrival I was greeted by a line at the door wrapping around the building and down the street. Normally I might be excited to see local talent drawing a good hometown crowd, but right then I was freezing my tail feathers off, so I decided to use the dark side of the Force and cut in line. (Note: Cripsy Duck is an untrained semi-professional freelance journalist. Do not attempt this at home.)

Inside, the crowd lounged around at tables and on the floor as Joia and her trio played a few of her bluesy soul/folk numbers. I've long admired Joia for her beautiful voice and silky soulful original tunes, and her partnership with drummer Paul Rossner has produced a nice vehicle for her stuff, but the bass player with them Friday night was struggling and kind of threw off an otherwise lovely performance.

Shannon Worrell, the godmother of Charlottesville alternative rock, followed with her big yellow jazz guitar and laid down some dream pop. As she played I couldn't keep from straining to sing the harmonies to her tunes-- they're etched in my consciousness. I ran into Brady Earnhart in the crowd and told him he'd have to fight Shannon in a cage match to determine who was the best Charlottesville songwriter.

Next came Karmen and her all-star Fridgean Mode with Lauren Hoffman on bass, Raphael Wintersberger (Supertanker) on guitar, and Stuart Gunter (Dumm-Dumms, Claire Quilty) on drums. Unfortunately, the sound was terrible. The soundman couldn't get the violins into the mix, so the set went by without them-- kind of a bummer since the string arrangements are the bonus part of the Fridgean Mode's repretoire.

When at last devon took the stage, the room transformed from a mellow coffee-house scene into a rock show and the swollen crowd began to dance and frolic. I was pleasantly suprised to hear her band, Dr. Bindu, sounding good and pumped up. Andy Rowland has recently joined them on alto sax, and wherever Andy goes, tight jams follow, so they rocked out a full set of devon's DiFranco-nized rock.

Saturday, February 5, 2000 -- When I spoke to Tubesock Pachinko on the phone about going to the Screaming Cheetah Wheelies show at Trax, he told me to expect a poor man's Black Crows, and to plan to drink lots of beer. Well, the medication I was taking for the flu precluded my using alchohol, but I decided to put on my rock and roll face and go check it out anyway.

Lucid Lucy

My Dog Lucy was on stage when I arrived, burning up a nice set of alternative pop/rock. As I drew closer I recognized the manager of Trax behind the drumkit and, to my suprise, one of the Stacy boys (of Stacy's Music out in Rio Hill shopping center) at the helm. My Dog Lucy proved themselves to be a modern-rock-radio-ready heavy pop band cut from the same cloth as Earth to Andy, with lots of hook-laden tunes and catchy choruses. The rock and roll crowd was warming to them nicely as I began to develop an alchemical desire to find out what happens when you mix hydrocodone and Pabts Blue Ribbon. (It says on the bottle: "Alchohol may intensify effects. Use care using machines." That rules out going bowhunting after the show.)

By the time the Screaming Cheetah Wheelies took the stage I was delirious and drooling, stumbling around in a cold sweat, mumbling about the water in Olympia. "Have you seen my cat?" I asked a man who suddenly burst into flames and began to recite from the Bhagavad Gita. "This is too weird," I heard my own voice echoing down a long corridor, "I gotta get out of here, here, here, here." I convinced a wandering Iriquois mercenary to command my vessel to where the villagers weren't so menacingly cryptic and rolled to Miller's where we caught about 14 seconds of Raphael Wintersberger and Ben Jacobs before the flying rats caught up with us, forcing us to flee to the Tokyo Rose where, due to the presence of the Dawning, forces were in place to keep airborne rodents and other unsavory minor deities safely at bay. As smooth as James Bond on holiday, I sidled up to the bar. "Fill my glass or kiss my ass." I believe I owe the barkeep a debt of gratitude for not hitting me in the face with a bottle. Always read the label.
-Cripsy Duck

Lather, rinse, repeat. cripsyduck@mindspring.com