This was a genteel little neighborhood party, the kind where a woman could remark how God had provided such a wonderful day for a party and not mean it ironically. And the musical entertainment was what you might expect in such a venue: a strolling guitarist, a woman singing show tunes a capella (for those of you who don't speak Italian, that means singing with a mouthful of capers. It creates a kind of warbly tone while at the same time encouraging guests not to sit too close to the stage.) With the exception of a band which may have been playing together for the very first time, but their eccentric musicianship is not what captures the forefront here, even though the harmonica player has achieved a tone that causes in the listener a desire to convert all his or her assets to cash and buy a plane ticket to Nepal, hire a handful of Sherpas, climb the highest mountain, and enter the monastery that perches on top of said mountain, never again to descend to altitudes which might nurture similar sounds as emitted by that harmonica player. No, it was the songwriting prowess of the lead singer, who uttered the above lyrics repeatedly and loudly while the ladies present fanned their bosoms and pretended to examine the magnolia trees surrounding them. It was a memorable performance, and I was moved to hold up my lighter toward the end of the set. Aside from that slight dissonance, it was a genteel and neighborly evening, the kind you still encounter in southern towns. I hope such gatherings continue to thrive, and I don't even mean that ironically.