Tonight it's Fred Boyce doing an early show. For those of you who don't know him, Fred is kind of an important dude around Charlottesville. He was a D.J. at WTJU for umpteen years and is THE MAN at the Prism Coffeehouse, the place where acoustic history happens around here. Anything traditional, from blues to Balinese, goes to the Prism, and if it's respected in the acoustic world, it talks to (or jams with) Fred when it comes through town.

All this aside, Fred is a banjo genius; a contradiction in terms according to folklore. His shows are a lesson in music history. A master of many styles including Irish, baroque, classical, old time, bluegrass and blues, he also does his own thing: a drumming and strumming technique on the head of the instrument and the fretboard, slapping chords on the neck while he keeps a shuffling rhythm. He has a sweet, earnest, hickory smoke and lamp light voice which is primarily employed to bring poetry to his own songs or exhibit some traditional Gaelic mouth music. Between numbers ranging from Bach to Bensusan the audience is treated to tales of musical lore and banjo history. Tales are told of the late Courtney Johnson of the New Grass Revival and Joe Ayers, Virginia's own banjo archivist who pursued the link between the African goni and the modern banjo. It's quite a tale, lovingly and respectfully told. The audience is not only entertained, they're EDUCATED. Everyone leaves smiling. Fred will be back with other buddies on future Wednesdays. But the Duck has got to go. I promised myself I'd check out a few bands tonight.

So it's up to the Corner, where Devon and Dr. Bindu are playing Orbit Billiards. Now, I'm sorry, I've seen a lot of shows on the Corner - some good ones, too - but there aren't any REAL music venues down there. Not a stage in the place. Bands are always plunked in some corner of a room (usually a traffic zone) on an off night (preferably Sunday through Wednesday) and forced to struggle against the noise of Wahoos getting an early week fuzzy. Orbit's almost a little better. Except there's a pool table in the middle of the dance floor (one of those king-size jobbies) and the crowd enters and exits right next to the band. I guess that's so you can thank people over the P.A. as they're leaving in the middle of your set. Don't get me wrong, I like Orbit. It has VIBE, and that goes a long way in this little burg.

Devon opened her own show. She does a set, Bindu does one, and then they all ho-down. She's good. For a kid. Better than I was at that age, for certain. But she's got an entourage for chrissakes. There's guys flashing pictures, sound guys, guys tuning instruments. It's kind of funny, really. Her strap is all messed up and she does a good job of making light of it. She's cute as hell. Gotta hand it to her. I know thirteen dozen qualified musicians who wish they'd had the opportunity. I wanted to stick around and check out Dr. Bindu, because I've heard good things, but Cripsy's got a job to do, and so...

It's off to the Outback Lodge, but first I decide to stick my head up into Michael's Bistro and survey the carnage that follows Walker's Run, Charlottesville's rising bluegrass phenom. I am thwarted by a line down the stairs and out to the street. Damn. An obstacle I can't overcome even with my powers of celebrity persuasion. They're not letting anyone in, so I head to the Duckmobile. As I walk away, I can hear Walker's ripping into a fresh tune. And I mean RIPPING. Sounds like these boys aren't messing around.

The Outback Lodge is a little mellow for a Wednesday. The place is usually PACKED with people who know what they want and know where to get it: a Secret show at the Ouback. But when the students come back from summer vacation a vacuum builds around the Outback and all the people are sucked out, leaving the die-hards. God Bless 'Em. The Secret are undaunted. They play like it's Madison Square, squinching every sweaty-muscled funky note out like IT REALLY COUNTS. And it does. The people can't help themselves, and before long it looks like a normal Wednesday, the dance floor full of writhing revelers. I'm caught up in the groove after a couple milks (I'm lactose intolerant), and having a darn good time. These guys are really good. More than ready for the big time, I'd say. Rockin' funk tunes, cunningly crafted and deftly delivered with virtuosic over-the-top-manship. Lessons of love and oneness in a street-wise slang that's brotherly, motherly, and somewhat otherly. I'm impressed. I fly south for the night and dream a sceret dream....

I'm in India somewhere. There are thousands of holy people scattered over the landscape surrounding a massive temple. I've been chosen to see the master. I'm bathed and dressed by devotees and led to an inner sanctum. Am I about to meet God? What is this, Farm Aid? The curtains are pulled aside and there is Devon, making jokes about her guitar strap. I wake in a cold sweat.

Cripsy Duck likes ALL music. If you're having an event you'd like me to check out, you can e-mail me at cripsyduck@mindspring.com.