The Leader is You

Of course it was the familiar faces, too, but you can't overlook how much I enjoy theatrical types.

As I discussed with three different friends at the National, tonight's Foxygen show was a no-brainer for multiple reasons besides it was a beautiful night to be out.

Let's see, to start with, the trio was being backed up by members of the Spacebomb Records house band aka some of the best jazz cats (don't look at me, that's what they call each other) in Richmond, from the 5-piece horn section to the well-known rhythm section of Pinson and Cameron to the incomparable Trey Pollard on guitar, the very same who'd done the arrangements for the new Foxygen record.

That alone would have gotten me there, but I'd also heard singer Sam refer to the duo as "just theater kids," and history shows I'm a  fan of onstage over-wrought millennial stage drama tunes (hello, how many times did I attend the Ghost Light afterparty just to hear such people belt out show tunes?).

A third reason that several of us also acknowledged was that it was only a $15 ticket and happening a Tuesday night where it was easily the most interesting thing going on in town tonight.

My favorite reason came from a fellow Yo La Tengo fan who said simply, "I love to dance." Enough said.

In any case, ding, ding, ding. We have a winner, folks.

The opener was Aussie Gabriella Cohen who came out alone, admitting she'd been worried she'd be late because she was still changing her blouse. She's apparently wearing a lot of blouses on this tour and tonight's was a stand-up collar, puffy-sleeved, cream colored one with lace trim, very Victorian and/or '70s, depending on your point of reference.

She tried to tell us she  just wanted to come along as Foxygen's roadie, but they insisted she get onstage. Since she used to be the singer for the Furrs, she's obviously got some experience, although one friend thought she came across as not quite ready for prime time.

This was an interesting comparison since just before the show, I'd heard a snippet from a 1994 interview with the Dave Matthews Band, not long after they'd gotten their first record deal. Besides sounding incredibly young and excited (and not ready for prime time, either), they'd played "Ants Marching" right there in the studio and the passion and freshness of it was evident compared to how it undoubtedly sounds live now.

Sometimes, not quite ready for the big league is exactly when you most enjoy a band.

After the first song solo and an acknowledgement she worshipped Johnny Cash, Gabriella was joined by her band whom she immediately introduced, a nice touch, I thought. The quartet's songs were a combination of neo-country/western and girl group with lots of effects on the voice  and guitars and a bit of underlying garage.

"Do you all live here?" she asked of the enthusiastic crowd. "Have you been to Australia? Do you want to?" When the crowd cheered, she laughed. "Do you think we all surf?" She rolls her eyes. "Not much."

Banter was minimal - "This is another song" and "Thank you" - and the other guitarist added her lovely vocals to Gabriella's, as did the bassist on occasion. "This is our last song which is a good thing because then you can hear Foxygen!" Maybe, but in the meantime, I was totally digging the screaming post-punk guitar behind lyrics like, "Why don't we get together?"

During the break, I heard from my musician friend about the satisfactions of teaching guitar (students noodling between lessons) and from a photographer friend about being smitten by someone who'd last significant other was an illustrator for the "New Yorker." Tough act to follow, man.

When he bemoaned the difficulties of a long distance relationship like the one on which he was embarking, I reminded him that if a long-distance one is better than none at all, he might want to keep his bellyaching to himself.

Then the lights went down and I lost my friend to the front rows so he could dance with the mob while I stayed directly in front of the sound board, shielded from behind and with a good view. Also, plenty of room to dance.

Foxygen came out, which meant three faces I didn't know and eight I did. When I think back to that first time I ever saw Trey Pollard at a Listening Room in 2010, I couldn't help but think how cool it was to see him as part of this.

Singer Sam, a theater kid if ever there was one, came out in a skinny white t-shirt and jeans with Todd Rundgren-like hair (short bangs, long hair), round sunglasses and all the moves. There was posturing, there was drama, there was showing off with kicks, mic stand manipulations and fists in the air.

And that was just in the first song.

He introduced the girl singer as Julie and her job, it appeared, was to flip her hair, dance in syncopation with Sam and sing back-up or harmonize while looking cute. She nailed it. On the second song, he sang, "I left my heart in San Francisco" and she sang back, "That's okay, I live in L.A."

Three songs in and the band's influences were clear: Bowie, Queen and a lot of Mick Jagger's dance moves. A friend heard prog rock influences while I heard psychedelic.

Potatoes, potahtoes.

"A lot of local boys on stage tonight," Sam shouted enthusiastically, referring to a group of musicians mostly older than himself. Too funny. "Give it up for the Spacebomb crew!" he directed and the crowd did.

With each song, we got another massive dose of theater kid drama, whether guitarist/keyboard player Jonathan's screaming guitar solo, one foot on his bench, the other on top of the piano, or singer Sam acting as much as singing, helicoptering his arms and dropping and catching the mic.

We heard songs that were Queen-esque and others that invoked ABBA big time while the bubbly crowd bopped four colorful balloons (no doubt supplied by the band) into the air. There were costume changes, during which the band competed: Jonathan's exuberant piano playing versus a percussive onslaught in return.

Then we also had a song called "Where the Red Fern Grows," which I'm quite sure refers to an old children's book title, and wildly theatrical-sounding songs with multiple-part arrangements that allowed Sam to pull out his best deep voice for emphasis.

So. Much. Drama. It was fully fabulous.

My musician friend concluded at the end that he'd liked about 65% of the songs we'd heard. Personally, I'd liked 100% of the overwrought songs that winked at themselves and and reached for grandiosity while eight of the most talented musicians I know backed them up.

Not only did I want to give it up for the Spacebomb crew, but we Yo La Tengo fans love to dance.

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.

Big Love Comes Home

There's a lot to be said for delayed gratification.

When I bought my ticket back on October 10th for the Matt White show tonight at Strange Matter, I knew I'd be in for an impressive night of music.

Even expecting a knock-out, I wasn't prepared for what a memorable night it was.

I arrived promptly at 9  because the word was "Sounds at 9." Okay, not 9 per se, but not long after, either.

Making my way to the bar, I found myself next to a guy who said hello and introduced himself.

He'd come in to pay his tab from last night and now was curious about what was going on tonight.

I explained who the magnificently-maned Matt White was, about his Spacebomb studio and house band, then he explained that he was just back from Yogaville and had his dog in his car and was now really sorry he couldn't stay.

Not long after, with no introduction, Matt and his band -all very familiar faces since I've been seeing them play in myriad configurations for years now- plus the Rosebuds' Howard Ivans walked out of the kitchen and through the crowd to reach the stage.

Explaining that he'd been doing some songs with the Spacebomb guys, he began singing the new material over some of the funkiest R & B grooves being made by white boys today.

He even thanked the crowd for coming out early, although the pleasure was all ours and a guy I knew who didn't show up until just after 10 missed a simply superb set by coming late, a fact I may have pointed out.

It was all so retro-soul with Ivans' terrific voice and it was irresistibly danceable.

After several kick-ass original songs, Ivans said, "I'm going to do a Robert Palmer song, if that's okay."

Okay? I can't think of a more appropriate white boy to cover and "You Are in My System" benefited from the air tight rhythm and horn sections.

"You're listening to the best band in America," Ivans said, stating what Richmond music-lovers already know.

His set wound down far too quickly and suddenly we were at the last two songs.

One was a slow burner, the kind of song you want someone to slow- dance with to it and the last one, "Red Face Boy," was a barn-burner.

My dance party-loving friend looked at me, grinning ear to ear, "I feel like I should be doing the hustle," he enthused after the first few beats.

He was spot on; the silken groove was made to boogie to and there weren't many people resisting it, whether full-on dancing or grooving in place.

After the set ended, trumpeter Bob Miller walked by and said hello. Telling him how much I'd loved what they'd played, he expressed regret that they'd only had a half dozen chances to play with Ivans on tour.

"I'd love to play these songs more," he admitted, showing his true-blue soul side.

Strange Matter got more crowded during the break and by the time Matt, Cameron, Scott, Pinson, Gabe, Bob, Trey and Bryan returned, the feel-good energy in the room was palpable.

Hometown boy puts out record with local band, makes year-end best of lists, tours US and Europe (100-plus shows this year, Matt said) and finally comes back to play for long-time fans.

"It's good to be home," Matt said sounding quite sincere.

It was good to be hearing the band Paste, Pitchfork and practically every other musical tastemaker had raved as emerging fully formed.

Of note was that guitarist Trey Pollard was sometimes playing pedal steel, notable mainly because I'd seen him play it at the Listening Room back in April 2010 when he'd first been learning it.

Then, he'd told me it took every ounce of concentration he had to play it and tonight it appeared to be an extension of him, much the way his guitar is.

During one song, dapperly-hatted bassist Cameron and leader Matt showed off their best Motown-like dance moves, playing and turning in unison to face stage right and left, mirroring each other.

Title track "Big Love" got its rhythmic hand claps courtesy of the horn section, with Bryan and Bob using the instruments they were born with. Likewise, Cameron and Gabe did double duty singing back-up.

It's hard to convey just how tight these guys are and how full their soul-meets-Muscle-Shoals sound is, but their obvious pleasure in playing together was readily apparent.

"This show tonight is important," Matt said between songs. "This is a special music community and a great artistic community. You might miss it if you don't stop and appreciate it. This is a special place. We've done 122 shows this year and I talk up Richmond in every city we play, send love back here. That's because it's real. Special things happen here."

He said that since it was the end of the mini-tour with Howard, and they were at home, there was no reason not to play every song they had, including new material off the recent EP.

With percussionist Scott Clark double-fisting tambourines while grinning like he was having the time of his life, they did just that.

Matt explained that the next song was very quiet. "I'm just telling you that in other cities, I stare at people to make them shut up for this song. You can't do that in your home town, it's rude. But if you want to wrap up your conversations so you can hear it..."

I'm embarrassed to say that some people went right on blathering and shouting drunkenly while the rest of us shut up so we could hear the beautifully quiet song.

We got the two-song warning because, Matt said, it would be awkward to do an encore since there was no place to go or wait.

Not that this crowd wouldn't have willingly waited for more deep grooves and blaring horns.

But as he pointed out, when a seven-song record unexpectedly takes off and you start touring, it's a limited repertoire you have to pull from.

The beauty was that it's also a very satisfyingly danceable one and by the end of the show, the room-filling chorus made for the feeling of a tent revival.

Richmond-style, of course.

Best of all, these guys are representing us all over the globe, making this town look as good as some of us already know it is.

No delay in gratification there.

Blowing This Pop Stand

It was pretty entertaining what crawled out of the wreckage tonight.

Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story's theme this month was "wreckage," and who among us doesn't like to hear about the shambles of other people's lives?

I'll freely admit to being an audio voyeur of the highest order.

The evening began with a long-time friend, Glynn, telling her story of "Wreckage I" about her Dad, a star athlete who lettered in four sports.

She even brought one of his letters. How cool is that?

He went on to fly planes and in 1936, there was a crash into another plane (not his fault), a failed parachute, a crash landing, and eventually two strokes.

The beauty of the story came when she told of accompanying her Dad to his high school reunion years later when the stroke impaired his ability to speak.

His first order of business was to go up to some of his fellow Japanese students and with a nod to Glynn, say, "Tell them."

She understood and apologized to them for the interments and land grabbing done by the U.S. government.

His next "Tell them," had her explaining to fellow students what had happened to him to bring him from Big Man on Campus to the man he was now.

That business over, he turned to her and said, "Now let's blow this pop stand."

Glynn is a consummate storyteller and her closer knocked the socks off the audience.

Next up was Les, telling about an attempt at a trip to NYC by him and two army buddies in 1960 for some R & R.

A failing generator caused their Hudson to die in Dawn, again in Washington and right at the start of the cherry blossom parade before an 18-hour trip home.

Not very restful or recreational.

Dave Brockie of GWAR went next and I'd heard from one of the organizers that he'd said he had a story to tell as far back as the very first Secretly Y'All and was just now getting on stage.

His tale of a misspent youth in the Zero Rat Race Messers gang involved setting baby dolls on fire.

When he admitted, "So we graduated to lighting a whole house on fire," he followed with, "I'm getting smiles and I'm getting frowns."

I guess it depends on whose house you're torching.

Wendy's story was "How I Lost My Fear of the Dark," and involved "doing the things unsupervised kids do," always a scary subject.

With a brother doing his best to scare her to death on a daily basis, she ended up being terrorized by her right arm.

Maybe you had to be there, but it was pretty funny.

We heard John's saga of "Me and the Canoe," which began at Pocahontas camp at father/son day.

"Dad's experience with canoes was riding the subway," he deadpanned. "And my Dad had an afro and none of the other dads had afros."

One of his funniest observations was, "EST is the way baby boomers rationalize being really self-absorbed."

When he ran out of time, he finished with, "Thank you. That's half of my canoe story."

But that's the way Secretly Y'All rolls.

You get five to seven minutes to tell a story and then the metaphorical hook comes out and pulls you offstage.

I also knew the next storyteller, Pinson, a talented drummer I've seen many times.

His story was "I Once was Lost but Now I'm Found" and told the story of his Cambodian father's (same name, too) time in the Cambodian navy.

When the Kmher Rouge began taking over, his father presciently converted most of his paychecks into gold sheets.

Laughing, Pinson said, "That's some weirdo Pinson Sr. shit," saying that it wouldn't have occurred to most people to do the same.

His father stored the gold in the cuff of his black jean jacket, wearing it non-stop from then on.

Pinson Sr. eventually escaped on a  Kmher Rouge boat, going non-stop for hours to make it to safety (he thought) in Thailand.

He told Pinson it was the most psychedelic moments of his life.

And that's why I go to Secretly Y'All, folks.

I could have gone my whole life without hearing a Kmher Rouge story from someone whose father lived it.

Now I don't have to.

During the intermission, eager storytellers put their names in a hat for their chance to share wreckage tales.

First up was Herschel and his memories of a corpse bride were tragic and heartfelt.

"She taught me a fear of pipes, alleys and grates," he said.

Truth is, not every one can tell a story about a friend dying.

Clay told of being raised on twelve acres in Beaverdam by a Baptist preacher who punished him by making him build things.

Things like stone walls and split rail fences.

It got funny when he told of forging his mother's name so he could go to Skateland after she said no.

Needless to say, she found out and he had to build a woodshed. At ten years old.

"By the way, it was totally worth it because I got to hold a girl's hand for the first time," he said.

Despite the hard lessons learned (and almost cutting off a few fingers sawing), he concluded by saying he was grateful for his childhood because, "I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in my circle of friends who can build anything besides a sculpture."

Now there's a positive take on a strict upbringing.

As he left the stage, organizer and emcee Colin joked, "You know, Jesus was a carpenter, Clay."

Laughs abounded tonight.

Karen began by saying, "This is when the drunk people get up and tell stories."

Hers was about an alcoholic father, a family vacation in Florida and her Dad deciding to pee in an orange juice bottle as they drove up I-95.

Being a tightwad, he first made his son drink the juice which the son took delight in doing very slowly.

Gayle began by saying, "Is Glynn still here? No? Good because it takes chutzpah to get up on this stage after her story."

Amen to that, brother.

His tale of working at an ad agency and trying to save a client was a lesson in doing your homework first.

Kids in Germany and Holland are not raised seeing "The Wizard of Oz," he learned the hard way,

I also knew the last storyteller Steven, a filmmaker, from his days with Project Resolution.

Tonight's story was about growing his career while his parents' marriage disintegrated and his family home was sold.

All the while, he kept telling himself that his film work, which was significant, was what was important.

He worked with Daniel Day Lewis and James Woods, after all.

"I'm being called the wrong name by the someone on 'Arrested Development,'" he said as proof of how his career was on track.

But it was when, "I'm being tickled by a two-time Oscar winner because he liked to hear me laugh," he said, that he realized, "I wanna go home now."

Something about having no real home had finally gotten to him.

"Where do I go when I don't want fingers in my chest hair?" he pondered.

Where, indeed?

Wreckage is as wreckage does, I always say.

At least, that's what I say after a thoroughly fascinating night of hearing bits of other people's lives.

Secretly, y'all, I'm all ears.

Once is Never Enough

If you're going to repeat yourself, at least repeat good things.

To start it was random compliments and heartfelt gratitude and isn't that why any girl goes to her local art museum?

Walking in the VMFA's Boulevard (and my favorite) entrance, the guard greets us.

I do the same, adding in questions about the museum's attendance today.

"We had a lot of people here earlier today, but they've gone home. We sent them out into the night," he explained.

I made a crack about visiting relatives and the desire to escape and he agreed and as I make for the hallway to leave, he casually observes apropos of nothing, "Those are nifty tights, by the way."

It may very well be my first time I was complimented as "nifty."

After scoring our Chihuly tickets, we head downstairs for some glass.

I've already seen the show, here,  but I was a willing second-timer here with a Chihuly virgin.

We began with those glorious Venetian balls in a rowboat before moving on to the "Persian Ceiling."

Waling in to the gallery, my jaw dropped as we watched three women walk into the gallery, never so much as look up, and pass right through as if a suspended ceiling holding 1,000 (yes, one thousand!) glass objects wasn't directly over their heads.

Maybe they missed the signage and maybe not.

Still, whoa.

It was then that I remembered the artist's recommendation for the best way to see the "Persian Ceiling."

You got it; I stretched out on the floor so as to have an optimum vantage point for the assemblage of Chihuly glass overhead.

Then a funny thing happened.

My date laid down.

Then another couple. And a young guy. And...

Before all was said and done, seven other people followed my lead and got horizontal with the floor, just like I had.

From somewhere near the front of the gallery, a voice called out, "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," I answered, not the least bit afraid I wasn't the intended complimentee.

Moments later, a VMFA guard walked into the room and announced, "You have to get up. I can't let you lay on the floor."

Oh, can't you? Are we really a threat stretched out on the floor?

To our rescue came a man who'd declined to get down for fear he couldn't get up.

"Just let me take a picture," he said commandingly and the very young guard ceded power to him.

None of us hurried to get up (what was the guard going to do, after all?) but eventually we unwound our supine bodies and rejoined the vertical.

Moving through the exhibit, an occasional stranger would smile or nod at me and I had to presume it was someone who had joined me on the floor.

After our encounter of the Chihuly kind, we did the logical thing and walked upstairs to Amuse for a glass.

We'd timed it perfectly.

There was plenty of room at the bar and the dining room was just beginning to fill up.

The bartender confirmed what I already suspected; Amuse had been a madhouse today.

"It was crazy, our busiest day other than Mother's Day," she said wearily, but with a smile on her face.

Whoa. Glad we'd missed the masses.

With a bottle of Portuguese Tinto Rioja, we sampled the amuse bouche, a white bean puree with micro-greens on a flat bread.

It was one perfect bite, just as it should be.

From there we went to Rappahannock curry-fried oysters with a cucumber and mint raita and pickled veggies.

After copious amounts of raw Rappahannock River oysters to start my Thanksgiving day meal yesterday, I  was eager for something different.

The trifecta of curry, cucumber and mint hit a home run in my mouth.

Next up, we did the crispy pork belly with Romesco sauce and fried spinach and were just as delighted.

The fatty belly, sweet Romesco and delightfully crispy spinach made for a an impressive flavor and texture combination.

By this time, the dining room was completely full and we had just enough wine left for dessert.

I used my influence to choose the chocolate pot de creme with amaretto macaroons, for which I was immediately grateful.

The dense pudding begged to be spread on the rich cookies tasting of almonds and coconut.

And, just so you know, chocolate and coconut top my dessert hit parade.

Together, they were sublime. Samoas, anyone?

Sitting at the bar glowing with pleasure after so many stellar tastes, I felt a hand on my back.

"I'm grateful," a woman said, looking directly in my eyes. "That was an amazing experience. I'll always remember that. Thank you."

I seemed to remember her feet near mine when I'd taken to the floor.

Still, I felt pretty full of myself for having created a "happening," not that I had intended for anyone other than me to do it.

And yet they had.

Sometimes it's just about doing what you want and anyone else following is pure gravy.

But then museums close and you have to find new places to do your thing.

Hello, Hi-Steps.

For my second evening with this group of talented local jazz musicians, I made sure to arrive in time to get a good vantage point.

I was happy to find a diverse crowd spanning 20-somethings to probably 50-somethings, all clearly fans of soul music.

Hats were everywhere - a tweed one on bassist Cameron, another on trumpeter Bob and a newsboy cap on trombonist Toby.

Leader Jason in a leather blazer.

Very dapper, indeed.

Lead singer Brittany took it back to the appropriate era with a taupe maxi sweater dress with a yellow ribbon tied at the waist.

Groovy with a capital "G."

There was a new guitarist/male vocalist tonight, doing a fine job trading vocals with Brittany.

It only took the first few notes to remind me how much I enjoy how hard drummer Pinson Chanselle hits the drums.

After the first two songs, bandleader Jason told the crowd, "This is not a spectator sport. I mean, you can watch us if you want, but we'd rather watch you dance."

He was right, of course.

Few spectator sports are as enjoyable as Friday night dancing.

"Ain't Too Proud to Beg" got the room dancing until the break.

A girl I know spotted me and came over to say hello, mentioning that it was her first time at Balliceaux.

Oh honey.

Soon after, a guy walked up to me and started a surprising conversation about flooring.

Seems Balliceaux has glow-in-the-dark floors, the same ones he'd put in his basement around his hot tub.

Then there were the black lights he'd installed down there, he said.

"Pretty '70s, huh?" he snorted, laughing loudly.

Who'd have thought that was a goal?

During "Tired of Being Alone," singer Brittany wasn't needed so she danced along with the the crowd (or her mother, depending on who you listened to).

Nearby, two guys grooved. "I could listen to this song all day," he told his buddy enthusiastically. "On repeat."

Is there any other way?

While the set list had a lot of similarities to the first show I'd seen, all I could focus on was how tight these guys sounded considering they've only played out twice.

Pros. It's that simple.

After "Try a Little Tenderness," guitarist Elliott cracked wise, noting, "And that turkey I had last night, that was tenderness."

Standing nearby me was DJ Mike Murphy, who was playing soul music before, during and after the Hi-Steps.

With the band doing a handful of classics ("Tell Me Something Good," "It's Your Thing," "Chain of Fools") and the crowd singing along, it occurred to me that those were exactly the songs Mike wouldn't play.

Songs like the closer, "Signed, Sealed and Delivered."

Which means both he and the Hi-Steps have the right idea.

If we're going to dance to soul music, let it be to deep cuts on vinyl or else played live.

And, remember, kids, this is not a spectator sport.

But it sure is fun. So fun I put it on repeat.