Friday, March 5, 2000 -- Right out of the box I cheat by conning my buddy Tubesock into driving me to the Prism Coffeehouse. In the car, Van Halen's Diver Down is playing, which may not mean much to you, but is hilarious to me. At the Prism I find the Old Crow Medicine Show, (band #1) already tearing up their first set. The crowd is small but terribly amused by the grungy old time string band of 20-something-year-olds from the Tennessee/Carolina border. Their slack off-beat country porch fiddling music and harmonies quickly reduce my face to a big dopey smile, and although I wonder if they're almost too hip (more alternative greasemonkeys!) to be taken seriously by the bluegrass establishment, their dedication to earnest old-time radio tunes is sure to attract loyal devotees... and their washboard player rules. After three tunes I crawl up Chancellor St. to Lord Vader's castle-- I mean Starbucks.

I never go to Starbucks due to an aggravated bias I have toward Mom and Pop coffee shops like Espresso Corner and Higher Grounds. Not only do I know who my money is going to in these places, but the coffee is always way better and usually cheaper. But, to be fair, Starbucks is really nice on the inside and Andrew McKnight (band #2) is playing there, an excellent Northern Virginia songwriter who has steadfastly promoted himself into a decent lifestyle of folk festival hopping and gig making. The dozen potential audience members upstairs at Starbucks are involved in their own activities but perk up for "Dear Diary," an exploration of the darkened inner workings of the impossible romance between Tommy Jefferson and Sally Hemmings.

I trek down to Espresso Corner where Bianca (band #3) is gigging with Laden Angel. Bianca is crooning low-key with her beautiful husky voice against the noise of the thronging coffeeshop. Silly stuff is happening. A punk kid with "the PIST" stencilled across his sweatshirt is nuking promo CD's in the microwave, causing them to sparkle and pop and come out all cracked and wierd looking. The atmospheric ionization this causes makes my feathers stand on end so I push on to Trax for a tune of Biscuit's (band #4) opening set. They jam and crack jokes about being a Phish cover-band and I boogie up Main St. to the Blue Moon Diner where street-grass pioneers, the Hackensaw Boys (band #5) are holding their Friday night swarree sans guitarist Dave Sickmen. At this point I start doing the math and realize I've already laid ears on 5 bands- and it's only 11:00. Cocky as hell, I commence to crawling the length of Main St., passing on the way two of Charlottesville's "Most-Wasted" sprawled on the concrete too drunk to sit up, engaged in a tragi-comic slap fight. If the police don't haul them in, this will be their bed for the evening. Torture and vomit and astronomical drunkeness. In high shool we'd refer to this scenario as a "buzz shave."

steady rollin' bob margolin

At Miller's Nickeltown (band #6) is just finishing up their first set with a super-kooky rendition of Taj Mahal's "Cakewalk" complete with chicken noises. Gary Greene is back at his post blowing energetic harmonica solos. I cakewalk outta there and up Preston Ave. to the Outback Lodge where steady rollin' Bob Margolin (band #7), the seasoned blues veteran and former Muddy Waters sideman, is laying down gritty R&B for a sparse sausage-hang. (No women.) I feel kinda bad (and like a sausage), so I begin the great migration up 10th St. to Trax for Deep Banana Blackout (band #8). At this point my arms grow tired from crawling and I begin to guzzle the gallons of cheap suds I feel to be my due for having gone "the distance." Deep Banana pump out their respectable street soul grooves, old school funk, extended sax and trombone solos and guitar riffery. I try to jive their merchandise guy into giving me a copy of the band's double live CD, but he doesn't buy the Duck bit. Can you believe that?

crawlmaster melkerson

Saturday March 5, 2000 -- My brother and partner-in-grime Barndoor got out of prison so we celebrated at Tokyo Rose with the Elderly and the Counselors. With those wacky punks in charge, there was little for us to do but party until we blurred slightly, slurred alot, and began requiring adult supervision. Hail the mighty barkeep Andrew whose convertible delivered us from the gurpy abyss of public drunkeness! I only mention this embarrassing fiasco so that we can print a photo of the Counselor's Jeff Melkerson demonstrating proper crawl technique. Very nice.
- C. D.

Have a day. cripsyduck@mindspring.com