It's Alive

Pink is the color of love and happiness.

I gleaned this, not by spending close to two hours in the love and happiness room at Quirk Hotel, but by listening to a Ted talk (as in Ted Ukrop was talking) about the hotel's restoration and renovation, a talk punctuated by the clinking glasses of the cocktail party vibe in the room and a fire alarm.

Given the blase age we live in, it was hardly surprising that, mid-talk, when the excruciatingly loud alarm began sounding, not a soul moved. In fact, a well-dressed guy turned and said to no one in particular, "Funny how no one's making a move to leave."

Funny? It took some time for the Modern Richmond crowd to begrudgingly accept that there was the possibility that the hotel above us was in dire straits and begin shuffling up the stairs, through the smoky lobby and outside.

We never got any explanation, but the moment the alarm ceased, we dutifully filed back in to hear more about how Quirk came to be from Ted and the architect. Like how they researched old photos at the Valentine to see what the lobby originally looked like back when the Italianate building was a toney department store.

How the second floor windows on the east side are original and high up on the walls, in the Italian style, so steps were added to access the views. How flooring from the building next door was used to fashion cabinets, closets and counters. How you can see the racetrack and the Diamond from the rooftop bar because it's the tallest building in the area.

Our ultimate goal was going upstairs to see a room and a loft suite, both with fabulous windows, local artisan-made ice buckets and Virginia art in every room and hallway. Since the rooms cost $200 and $400 a night respectively, it'll likely be my last look at them.

Chatting with a stranger about where I lived and how I liked it (J-Ward, love it) because she's considering a move to the city, she asks, apropos of nothing, "Do you work?"

I think this is about the oddest question you could ask an able-bodied person over 18 and under 65. Do I work? Do I need to pay for shelter and transportation? Do I have living expenses? What the hell?

Yes, I work.

I also eat, both for hire, for pleasure and for sustenance, meaning my next stop was dinner at Lucy's with my favorite walker.

Ensconced at the bar with "On the Town" playing silently on the screen, I licked a bowl of bacon and lentil soup clean and followed it with a fried Brussels sprout and mesclun salad jazzed up with goat cheese and red onions while my companion found religion with Lucy's incomparable cheeseburger.

Shortly, in came the chef and barkeep of Metzger, waiting to meet friends, but happy to share the plans for their new Scott's Addition restaurant in the meantime. While it certainly sounds like it's going to be fun, I can't help but wonder about the wisdom of this mass stampede to such a small and impossibly trendy neighborhood.

Or perhaps I'm secretly envious that more business owners don't consider some of the empty buildings in Jackson Ward when looking for real estate.

But no matter. In front of us was flourless chocolate cake dripping with real whipped cream on a plate squiggled with caramel sauce, so my attention was diverted to more important things like maintaining my daily chocolate quota.

That quota, in fact, had been the subject of discussion earlier today while I was out on my walkabout.

"I see you're still out here strutting every day," says the business owner whose shop I'd passed for years, at least until construction fences forced me to the opposite side of the street.

He felt comfortable giving me a hard time because we'd officially met and chatted at a nearby restaurant I was reviewing when he'd spotted me in non-walking attire. I reminded him that I strut so I can abuse chocolate and put off looking my age.

"I need to get back to the gym more often,:" he said, picking up the gauntlet and running with it before tossing me a delightful compliment (coincidentally, the third reason I walk).

Chocolate needs met for the time, I bade my companion farewell and set out for UR and the annual Musicircus,a tribute to composer John Cage. Since the first one I attended back at the old Chop Suey Books in 2007, I've been devoted to the one-hour cacophony of sound.

Wandering through the concert hall, I was a bit surprised at the small crowd, but there hadn't been much press or even social media about it, so it wasn't entirely surprising. In hallways and practice rooms, the crowd happened on all kinds of music and musicians.

A four-piece fado group, the singer's lovely voice shaping the words of Portuguese longing. A guy playing acoustic guitar and singing the stirring "This Land is Your Land." A piano and drum combo perfectly in sync. Gamelan musicians. A killer guitarist playing lap steel. A familiar sax player, eyes closed, wailing alone in a room.

One of the most unique sound contributors was The Hat, reading from his unfinished novel, using his best actorly voices and hand gestures for dramatic effect.

My only complaint was that the whole point of the Musicircus is the blending of all the disparate music being made, but with such a large building, even the sound of 50+ musicians didn't always reach to the next performer.

It was only when I ran into the jazz critic that I was clued in to the additional musicians playing their hearts out in the basement. Down I went, only to be rewarded with the best bleeding of sound by far.

Just outside a stairwell were three members of No BS - Lance using nothing but a mic'd cymbal and a xylophone, Marcus and Reggie blowing horns - making a disproportionately large sound for three people.

Two favorites - Scott and Cameron - whom I'd seen recently in separate outfits were reunited (and it feels so good) and playing with trumpeter Bob. A noise group turned knobs and produced sound so loud it scared some people off. A guy playing a keyboard with earbuds in seemed to be in his own world.

Walking in on Brian and Pinson, both drummers except tonight Brian - the event's organizer all these years - was playing piano (what?), a favorite gallerist arched an eyebrow and leaned in, saying, "I see your blog is back alive."

Now there was an unexpected compliment. You just never know what instruments people play or who might be paying attention to your blog, do you?

Fittingly, my final stop was a large room with an eight-piece (guitar, bass, drums, congas, trumpet, piano, two saxes) rocking out to the point that the two guys listening were head banging while the grooviest of light shows swirled red, green and yellow on the ceiling and walls.

Needless to say, their raucous sound was bleeding out and down hallways in a manner that had to have had John Cage smiling, wherever he and partner Merce are right now.

With any luck, they're in a place with walls painted in Benjamin Moore's "Love and Happiness Pink," coincidentally, the color of half the rooms at Quirk Hotel.

If only painting it made it so. We strutting types figure that love and happiness are where you find them.

Wings and Fables

Some places you fit in, some places you don't.

I thought I'd try the revamped Mint Gastropub to see what it had to offer on a Monday evening.

Three children spread over two tables and a smattering of other occupied tables, it seemed.

Arriving just moments after happy hour was ending, the bartender graciously agreed to give me my Tiamo Pinot Grigio at the discounted rate.

Truth be told, it was only $1 off and it was only two minutes past happy hour, but it was a nice gesture.

It was pretty obvious that the couple next to me had arrived in plenty of time to avail themselves of cheap drinks.

He looked moderately loopy but she was over the top, leaning against the bar with her head in her hands, eyes closed and trying hard to listen to what he was saying.

I think he was putting on the full-court press, so I tried not to look.

Instead I switched my attention to the menu, looking to see what the new chef had come up with.

Since he's apparently a famous TV chef, not that I'd know since I have no TV, I was curious.

That and the fact that painted big on the outside of the restaurant was, "Mint Gastropub by Malcolm Mitchell."

No ego there.

I decided on the Mexican barbecue chicken wings with chipotle dipping sauce, checking first with the bartender to see if he recommended them.

"It's just the fat part of the drumstick, not the wing part," he explained. "But they're really good."

He was right, the drumettes were tasty- fat, smoky and medium-hot with green onion shavings over them.

As I was sucking my chicken bones, I found myself enjoying the music, a mix of indie artists like Grizzly Bear, Walk the Moon and Empire of the Sun.

It had to be Pandora, but I also had to know the starting point, so I asked.

Foster the People. Ouch.

Thankfully, the end results surpassed the starting point.

Wings and wine consumed, I left the children and drunks behind for greener pastures.

Tonight was the second installment of the Mingus Awareness Project and I knew I'd be right at home there.

Walking into Balliceaux, I was happy to see guest mixologist Bobby Kruger behind the front bar and stopped for a hug and a hello.

Paying the cover to support those with ALS, the whole point of the project, I got as far as the back stairs before the mass of humanity stopped me cold.

The Brian Jones quartet had just started playing and the joint was packed.

It turned out to be an excellent perch because I was four feet from drummer Brian Jones, as authoritative a drummer as this town has ever seen and a blast to watch.

Before long, Reggie of No BS Brass band, who'd performed last night, was standing next to me and pointed out that Jamal Millner was playing guitar and, as he said, "killin' it!"

He made his way down closer, next the drum kit and his own drummer, Lance, while I stayed put.

It was true about Jamal but the other guitarist, Adam Larrabee, whom I'd seen before, was doing his usual fret magic, too.

This was some serious guitar talent, not to mention the stellar Russell Pharr on upright bass.

The evocative "African Flower" was hands-down my favorite of what they played, moving and sensual at the same time.

Between songs, Brian, who'd organized the two-night event, said, "Thanks to No BS for playing last night," and gestured to Reggie and lance standing a couple of feet away. "They're the vultures over my shoulder."

After asking if anyone "has the chart for "Canon," the group launched into "Canon," for their last song, with Brian wryly observing, "It'll become apparent why this is called that."

Oh, it did.

When their all-too-short set ended, a lot of people headed outside, whether for smokes or air, I don't know, but I used the opportunity to get off the stairs and find a place to hang for the RVA Big band's upcoming set.

I immediately ran into a jazz lover, followed by a big band fan, followed by a friend I'd last seen coming out of a bathroom stall in Wanchese, North Carolina.

So everybody was there.

I was thrilled to see that Brian Jones was going to drum for the big band, a first, and that C-ville trumpeter John D'Earth was looming large in the back row.

Bandleader Ricky did his usual plug, reminding people, "I want you guys to clap or dance or whatever you want. You don't have to just watch."

Taking the 17-piece through Mingus classics like "Go Train," the band rose to the occasion, imbuing every song with an energy that would have made Mingus proud.

When they did "Fables of Taurus," at one point the band began doing a chorus of "ahs" and after "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," an audience member shouted out, "That shit is sick!"

Quite the jazz compliment.

When they got to "Moanin'" the crowd started interjecting "uhs," then people started clapping and before long, No BS drummer Lance was full on dancing as he continued to hover over drummer Brian's shoulder.

I don't think Lance could stop his feet.

Nor would Mingus or Ricky have wanted him to.

The rest of us were just bopping and swaying in place.

Oh,yea, I fit in much better here.

Take on Me (and the Heat)

"So glad it's summer, but damn! It's hot up here," drummer Lance Koehler told the crowd at the Camel tonight, not that it was news to anyone in the crowded, overheated room. There were so many sweaty bodies jammed in there tonight, but poor Lance was trapped on a three-sided stage behind eight other musicians, all blowing hard, so I have to assume that it was even worse for him than the rest of us. And, let me tell you, the rest of us were hot.

But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.

From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.

Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.

I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.

But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.

Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.

And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.

It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."

And by all means, take me on.

One Fine Day: Dishing, Fishing and Hotel X

I sold out again, only this time for a different reason (does that make it any better?).

A good friend wanted to meet for drinks at Can Can, but I'd just had lunch there yesterday.

Before I could even protest, though, she enticed me by saying she wanted me to meet a friend of hers whom she described as a "foodie" and who also happens to be a dining critic.

Okay, maybe I can repeat a location just this one last time.

It was a beautiful Friday, all the doors and windows were open and people just kept arriving.

Meanwhile we ordered carafes of Corbieres and a cheese plate (a triple creme, a mild bleu and a goat) and started telling each other what we knew.

It worked out well because we knew a lot of the same restaurant people and each of us had different details about them.

She told me a delicious story about a place she had intended to review but the experience was so off-putting that she told her editor, "You don't want me to do this review."

We discussed which restaurants consistently do things right and which have a habit of inconsistency.

The importance of quality front-of-the house management drew anecdotes from us both.

Only other commitments prevented us from doing this kind of talking all night.

Naturally, wine god Bob Talcott came over to say hello (and told me how great my magenta tights were; he mentioned something about blushing if he said more) and discuss the weather.

"This is going to turn out to be the finest day of the year," he proclaimed. It certainly ought to be in the running we agreed.

Afterwards, I went to Plant Zero to be part of the 17th Annual James River Film Fest and experience "Georges Melies Meets Hotel X."

It was a lot like the Silent Music Revival events, with a band accompanying a silent film.

I've seen some of Melies' films before (he made over 500) and he's known as the father of special effects.

Originally a magician, he was one of the first to use time-lapse, dissolves and multiple exposures, thereby translating his magic tricks onto the screen.

We saw three shorts tonight and one longer feature, The Impossible Voyage.

Besides its length, it stood out for the hand tinting, which must have been a laborious process back at the turn of the 20th century...cell by cell by cell.

Hotel X did a superior job at intently watching the film and reacting to it musically. I've seen a lot of these silent film/live music shows and this were easily one of the very best I've seen.

It helped that the band had multiple percussionists given all the clamorous goings-on in the films. Later, when asked why the band had chosen these in particular, they said it was because three were short and only one was long; I don't doubt that live musical improv to a film would be challenging.

After the screening, James River Film Fest t-shirts were distributed to the band as a thank-you for their superlative performance.

One of the drummers and a personal favorite of mine, Lance Koehler (also of No BS Brass Band) draped his over his snare drum and played it that way for the two songs the band did after the films.

Eventually Hotel X's groove became too much for some members of the audience, who began to dance in the areas around the movie screen, totally into it.

Driving back into the city across the Mayo Bridge, I think I got confirmation about Bob's assessment of the weather today.

There were a couple of guys, one leaning over the bridge and one comfortably seated in a folding chair, fishing off the bridge.

They had their bait buckets, they had their coolers, they had their back-up rods and at 10:30 on a March evening, they were still out there enjoying this weather.

The wine god may have been right about this fine day, but these gentlemen seemed to be putting in their vote for it as a fine night, too.

I'm willing to bet that the sliver of a moon in the clear sky wasn't hurting the mood any either.