Mad. Mad World

Stop the world. I want to get off.

If one more thing happens before I try sleeping tonight, I think my brain will shut down. Are everyone's planets out of alignment at this moment in time or is it just mine?

Going to Sprout for dinner and a music show temporarily lulled me into thinking that the world was finally righting itself.

The chicken salad over mixed local greens with bacon vinaigrette was a savory marriage of flavors and full of greens I couldn't even identify (always a good thing). I thanked the two people who had recommended it to me.

And the music was strong tonight. Dogs on Main Street (really one dog named Mac) began with the folk classic "This Land is Your Land," a song I can remember singing in elementary school

Saying, "I felt like I lost a friend the past few weeks. This is for Clarence," he launched into a rousing cover of "Badlands."

He was clearly getting hot up there (as dogs do on steamy July nights) and cracked wise, "Is the air conditioning set on Mexico?" before wiping his face of accumulated sweat. Being hot, though, did not affect how good he sounded.

During the break, I saw a friend who a) told me that he and another musician are recording a Christmas album and b) asked me about Jane Goodall and her chimp for the sake of updating his status.

After a while, you don't ask why.

It was my second night in a row for The Great Unknown, so I got to hear a lot more songs as well as a full drum kit on the songs I'd heard last night.

At one point, the girl standing next to me turned to her friend and stage-whispered, "These guys are amazingly good. They're from Philly!" I couldn't tell if she thought the two were mutually exclusive.

Favorite lyric:
My window is half full of clouds and it's open
And I'm inviting the weather in

I totally get that. My windows are always open and the weather, like the sounds of train whistles and birds singing, come in unbidden, but not wholly unwelcome.

And the continuing weirdness I find awaiting me when I get home? That would be any number of e-mails from friends full of crazy content.

"Thumper's mother said if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

"I will stand semi-politely behind the youngsters that flock to you."

"You are looking at the latest job fatality. I am now a permanent woman of leisure."


"Just sitting here fantasizing about you in a pair of leather chaps. Wow, I must have one hell of an imagination to imagine that. Titillating nonetheless. "


[Sound of Head Exploding]

Repackaging My Inner Smartass

I wasn't the only one looking for some Monday night action.

The show at Sprout promised skygaze, shoegaze and shoewave, which was as good as a guarantee that I absolutely had to be there.

The surprise was how many other people were, too.

My main reason for going was Now Sleepyhead, a local ambient/shoegaze sounding band of whom I've been a fan for several years now.

The only problem is how rarely they play out.

You don't hear a lot of French horn in indie bands except with them and their combination of mournful lyrics over beautiful music sucks me in every time.

Introducing their last song, Michael said with a grin, "This is probably our happiest song and it's called 'Eternal Damnation."

They're also possibly the only band who claim to have pillowcases along with CDs among their merchandise.

During their set, a loud (drunk? poorly raised? oblivious?) girl right in the front began talking to her friend, getting ever-louder, trying to talk over the sound of an electrified band.

Of course I had no tolerance for her, but as I looked around, I saw steam coming out of several people's ears, so it wasn't just me being offended.

Just as I was about to do my civic/musical duty, a friend stepped up to her and took care of it.

She left in a huff with her girlfriend and later their male friend gave my friend a shove and a look of death.

I'm going to go with poorly raised.

Next up was Sleepy Vikings, a sextet all the way from Tampa ("It's even hot on Christmas in Tampa,") and one of those rare bands, a la Mermaid Skeletons, where everyone is seated.

Their shoegaze sound had moments of pure jangley folk pop, but it was the spacey electric guitar weaving its way through two acoustics that wormed its way into my ear and wouldn't let go.

I'm never one to argue with female vocals, and when a male voice took over, I heard shades of Modest Mouse.

The chill drumming (lots of brushes and mallets) also added a great deal to the overall sound, which benefited from frequent changes in tempo and dynamics.

Okay, so I really, really liked this band.

Humor came through when they mentioned that they had CDs for sale on a back table.

"It's a good time to steal one because no one's guarding them."

Finally we got to the rock portion of the evening, not that I was necessarily ready to let go of shoegaze, with Canary, oh, Canary.

A stripped down trio playing "shoewave" aka dream-gaze pop (think Cocteau Twins), they had some songs with no vocals and others with some dramatic ones (and expressive hand gestures). 


When they locked into a groove, they stayed there.


As I walked out, one of the musicians sitting outside asked if I was leaving. 


Yes, I explained, I was because the show was over.


I was accused of being a smartass, but as I pointed out, if I didn't pull out that card, he might suspect I'd been replaced with a body double.

And if that does happen, I want a much better body. Just FYI.

Surprise Me

Never count on things to unfold the way you think they're going to on a Saturday night.

Drinks with a friend at Avalon
Wine: Fuzelo Vino verdhe, new to me, but just as refreshing as the standards
The surprise: A gift  of Raphael Saadiq"s new CD "The Way I See It" and Patrick O'Brian's book "Master and Commander." Soul and the sea chosen especially for me. Let's see how ell they suit.

Dinner with a girlfriend at Bistro Bobette
Wine: A gift of a glass of the divine Boizel Brut (so beyond my pocketbook) followed by Mas la Dame Rose.
The food: Poached calamari with roasted red peppers, red onion and chick peas in olive oil. Tastes of rabbit stew, the mixed grill (pork, beef, quail) and mussels and lamb sausage were forced down my throat.
The surprise: A favorite couple sitting down on the other side of me, adding conversation, food and comic asides to the evening. Oh, and they insisted this non-ber drinker try a most unusual beer, La Mouska, made with muscat. And taste three desserts. I only did it for the friendship.

Music at Sprout
Wine: Are you kidding?
The show: NYC's Miwa Gemini played an odd kind of lounge swing but mostly her songs told stories in her Japanese-accented voice. She was followed by the Colloquial Orchestra playing tonight as a quintet (and for a brief period, a sextet) and featuring some of RVA's most talented musicians.
The surprise: How beautifully those guys improvised an entire set with mind-blowing soundscapes while periodically grinning at each other in acknowledgement. I grinned too seeing them enjoying themselves so much.

I am not getting up early tomorrow morning.

The (Not) Unhappy Hours

There are worse ways to start an evening than with an unhappy hour or two.

The Poe Museum was doing their monthly Unhappy Hours social coinciding with the opening of their new exhibit "Price and Poe: A Match Made in Hell." How could I not check that  out?

Arriving just as a friend did, we walked into the walled garden moments after a performance began. A costumed interpreter was speaking and singing as Poe's mother, the actress Eliza Poe.

She told her life story, sang some period songs and did two monologues, one from Romeo and Juliet and another written for Eliza Poe by a fan. Best line: "And female fortitude shall conquer pain." An enduring sentiment, for sure.

After the performance, a devil's food birthday cake (with a photograph of his face iced onto the cake) was cut in honor of tomorrow being the 100th anniversary of Vincent Price being born.

The "Match Made in Hell" exhibit is small, but illuminating. I don't think I realized that Price had starred in eleven adaptations of Poe's work. And I haven't seen a one of them.

And I had certainly never seen a life mask of Price, right down to his moustache hairs, done five years before his death.

A highlight of the evening was running onto one of the nude models from Gallery 5's recent Disrobed exhibit.

"Last time I saw you, you were naked," I said, sidling up to him. His laugh was so loud and hearty that it made heads turn so it was totally worth mentioning.

Leaving the formerly nude behind, I drove to Sprout to meet a friend for dinner to find the place packed. Luckily my friend had already secured a table because people kept coming in, too.

My friend already knew that he was going to get the sliders (and why not considering how amazing they are) but I succumbed to the pizetta of the day.

With Faith Farms Food sausage, Dave and Dee's mushrooms, bechamel sauce and feta/cheddar, it was mind-blowingly good. So good that when I gave another friend a taste, he ordered one for himself. Our server called it the meatzetta for its generous amount of spicy sausage.

Part of the reason for our early arrival was the "surprise" first performance of a new local band, the Blood Vows.

The inaugural set was short, only four songs, but full-on hard and energetic. Fronting the group was band photographer P.J. Sykes who turned out to have a whole different persona with a guitar in his hand rather than a camera.

I said it then and I'll say it now. He was a monster and I mean that in the best possible way. Go hard or go home doesn't begin to cover it.

The Cinnamon band followed and by then the room was packed and getting warm. I felt myself glowing but most of the guys had a full-on sweat going.

Every time I see this duo play again, I am more impressed with how melodic they are, what good songwriters they are and just how good they are at harmonizing, non-stop crashing drumming and shifting dynamics. Very compelling stuff, all.

Silversmiths were next and the crowd thinned noticeably, but it was 11:30 by then and a school night, so to speak, so perhaps it was understandable.

Last but by no means least were Snowy Owls, a group with somewhat hushed vocals but big fuzzy guitar, bass and drums.

For a lover of soundscapes like yours truly, their borderline shoegaze effects are the stuff of sonic dreams.

A good-sized crowd stayed for their set, confident that this was the best place to be for music in Richmond this Thursday night (okay, Friday morning by now).

A talented musician who had been up north for a while was happily back tonight, a friend cut loose and got uncharacteristically loopy on a school night, and just before the last song of the evening, a semi-drunk guy stepped down hard on my sandaled foot (and spent the rest of the show apologizing for it).

There are worse ways to end an evening than with throbbing toes. Fortunately I'd been lulled into a musical euphoria, so I barely felt it at all.

I can try beginning my night with unhappy hours all I want, but I never quite get the hang of not enjoying myself when friends and good music are involved.

And sausage. One can never underestimate the happiness quotient of a good pig product. Fact.

Slim Jims and Falling Men

What is the good of kissing a girl if she does not feel it? 


This and other pertinent questions about love were addressed in a movie I'd never even heard of but saw tonight at VMFA called "Stairway to Heaven" from 1946.


The film had an unusual disclaimer showing what I took to be the dry British wit:
This is the story of two worlds, the one we know and another which exists only in the mind...of a young airman whose life and imagination have been violently shaped by war.
Any resemblance to any other world, known or unknown, is purely coincidental.


It also had a credit for "Motor Bike Shots," apparently a distinct skill set in 1946.


Filmed in glorious Technicolor which practically made color one of the characters of this English film, it told the story of a WWII flyer who had to jump from his plane without a parachute to avoid being burned to death. 


He radios this information to the ground and it's received by a young American woman who is as taken with his voice as he is with hers ("I could love a man like you, Peter.").


And while he should have died, he didn't and coincidentally lands near where she lives. From their first meeting on a beach, they're in love, but Heaven isn't so quick to give him up. 


He was scheduled to die and cheating death isn't allowed, a good thing to know on the night before the end of the world.


Most of the movie was devoted to him making a case (and his eventual trial) for being allowed to live now that he's smitten ("I've fallen in love with her. Her accent is foreign, but it sounds sweet to me. We were born thousands of miles apart, but we were made for each other").


Not surprisingly, the movie attracted mostly couples (there were a lot of hands on each other's thighs), not that a single couldn't enjoy the sheer romance of it (when asked to prove his love, Peter responds, "Well, give me time, sir. Fifty years will do").


The hopeless romantic in me needed to come back to reality after that, so I went to Sprout for dinner and music. After a laughable recommendation from my server for the tofu salad, I got the steak salad instead and devoured it will chatting with the evening's headliner.


The topic du jour was the death of somebody I'd never heard of, but it had resulted in a shot called the Macho Man that purported to taste like a Slim Jim. 


Those brave enough were required to say, "Oh, yea!" before downing the dark brown shot. Of the three people I saw take one, to a man (no female was so foolish) they drank and then said, "That does taste like a Slim Jim."


The only thing I can attest to is one guy's breath, which reeked of Slim Jim.


All three bands played hard and fast, beginning with Precious Fluids, a fraternal duo, who covered Neil Young, the Beatles and Dylan in a nod to his 70th birthday on Tuesday (yes, he's a Gemini, too).


Who Are the Southern Baptists? played next and with their raspy-voiced singer, they covered the Grateful Dead, which got some girls dancing, and mercifully declined to cover "Free Bird."


Paul Ivey vs. Board of Education had a new guitarist tonight, but she admirably held her own and had a clutch of friends and fans cheering her on.


They covered "Both Sides Now" and the Clash and did a tribute to the Rapture but it was the song "Crushed Glass Pastry" about the difficulties of love that closed their energetic set.


As Paul had mentioned during our dinner chat earlier, despite years of experience, relationships are still tough to figure out at any age.


If only it were as easy as talking to a man on the phone and then having him fall out of the sky from a burning plane. I'm confident I could make the most of that.


I've got a birthday coming up and I'm not getting any younger, after all. I need to get started on that fifty-year plan as soon as I can.

Eating New Before Being Read and Sung To

It's not the sun, it's the wind.

After having been invited to the new Conch Republic Saturday night and declining, I did an about-face today, corralled a friend and went down for an early dinner. I wanted to go in the sunshine and see the latest addition to Rockett's Landing.

It has everything you'd expect from a place named after Key West (once it secedes from the Union, of course).

There's a tiki bar and a frozen drink menu, the servers wear shorts and polo shirts and the music is what the crowd wants to hear (Buffet, duh, James Taylor, Kansas, UB40), that is to say, old and familiar.

We took a bar table under the sliding garage door where the bar area meets the deck and were immediately greeted by a smiling guy face asking if we wanted something to drink.

Not sure yet, we asked for water. Moments later, a smiling girl face asked us about drinks and we told her that someone had already helped us.

Turns out he was treading on her territory, but she assured us she'd fix that. "He won't be back," she announced with finality (I laughed out loud at her deadpan delivery). And he wasn't.

After much consideration, we decided to try the gator wrap after our server recommended the gator bites so highly and it was made with the bites.

We also got the Southwest Point conch chowder, Bahamian style with a spicy tomato broth of fresh vegetables and herbs.

And if we had cooked conch, we had to try the conch salad with ceviche-style conch marinated in lime with bell peppers and red onions over mixed greens with grape tomatoes and cucumbers.

A mighty wind was blowing at the river today and all three of my menus took a turn being blown off the table. When the salad arrived, a lettuce leaf took flight. Eventually, the door was rolled down, although there's a smaller sliding door on the side of the building that remained open.

All that glass is for the view naturally. Boats are moored at slips at the base of steps leading from the restaurant; it's quite picaresque. As we watched a heron swoop down, a sculling boat went by full of rowers pulling in the late afternoon sun.

Our food arrived and we forgot about the water, enjoying the spiciness of the chowder and its plentiful conch. The salad's conch ceviche was limited and so finely chopped as to be difficult to get on a fork.

The gator bites in the wrap had just the right amount of seasoning in the breading, but my friend didn't think the Monterey Jack cheese worked. I just ate the bites, so I wouldn't know.

We were reminded about dessert several times, but nothing really grabbed us, so we opted out. Leaving, we decided that Conch Republic is going to make a lot of people very happy to have a new hangout for drinks and meeting up with friends in a beach-like environment.

And now we've been.

Outside, we stopped to admire a piece of sculpture near the restaurant. Charles Ponticello's "Deepwater Sponger" is a solid, yet whimsical piece of art for the waterfront, with a tablet of futuristic entries behind it.

Nearby, Ed Trask was busily working on Conch Republic's skyscape mural on the side of the building. It all made for a lovely afternoon landscape.

When I walked into the Akachic Books All-Star reading at Gallery 5, I was greeted with, "You're the first official attendee," and I was a few minutes late. How did that happen?

And while the crowd was small (mixed signals, crashed cars and stolen beer all conspiring to thwart the best-laid plans o' mice and men), those of us who were there had a treat in store.

Nina Revoyr's "Wingshooters," about a half-Japanese kid and his grandfather in 1974 dealt with bigotry, but she chose to read a section about baseball, mentioning that the group had just been discussing sports before the reading began. "Batting is about muscle memory," she read. As are so many things...

David L. Robbins read part of his story set in Sandston from "Richmond Noir," and it too dealt with baseball. Interestingly, he chose to read the ending of the story. Since I've read the book, it was fine by me but someone mentioned wanting to read the story now for the full impact. I would suggest reading the entire book.

Dublin-born Kevin Holohan read from "The Brothers' Lot" in a delightful Irish accent that enhanced the story of an all-boys' school run by pseudo-religious types. Figures became "figgers" and suits were described as "tatty." When one of the brothers beat a student, it was called a "leathering." We language geeks eat that stuff up.

Last but certainly not least was musician/composer Nathan Larson, who read from his first novel "The Dewey Decimal System," about a homeless man with PTSD and OCD and his adventures at the main NYC library.

Despite not having lived here, Larson spoke highly of Richmond, as had Revoyr, who said she'd fallen in love with rva since arriving at 2:00 this afternoon.

It's nice to know we can still dazzle on first impression, a skill set I've long tried to acquire. I'm still trying.

The evening wound up at Sprout for an amazing show by Lucinda Black Bear, a Brooklyn quartet (although the drummer is still a Jersey girl but they're trying to get her to move) headed north.

Their set began with leader Christian Gibbs thanking the local bands for letting them go first ("We have  regular jobs in New York in the morning"). So the headliner had become the opener.

And what an opener they were. With acoustic guitar, electric bass, cello and drums, LBB showed stellar musicianship throughout. I would guess they fall under the heading of folk rock but the lush arrangements and shifting dynamics made for so much more.

For the most part, the drummer used brushes like sticks and then mallets just once. The cello was plucked and bowed. Effects pedals augmented the often-tame folk guitar. The bass player made his rhythmic presence known.

Gibbs' voice was terrific, strong and beautifully enhanced when the others chimed in.  "This is the only song we didn't write," he said before playing "Born to Run," arranged so completely differently than Springsteen's version as to bewilder most of the audience for the first half of the song. It was an outstanding cover by a group who clearly knows what they're doing.

When their set began, there were six of us in the room and by the time they finished, the room was full of people eating out of the band's hands.

How lucky for us to have seen them in the limited confines of Sprout because I feel sure that their next trip to rva will be to a much bigger venue. How unlucky for those who showed up late hoping/willing to miss the openers.

It's not the intent, it's the timing. Okay, sometimes it's both. See above.

Goat Cheese Trumps Southern Rock

"Technically, it's illegal."

But what's a little raw milk between cheese-lovers?

Tonight's Curds and Wines event at Sprout was all about creating the perfect Virginia cheese plate, enhanced by a selection of Barboursville wines.

The raw milk cheeses were from Bonnyclabber Cheese Company on Sullivan Pond, out on the middle peninsula. I think that means due east.

And the cheeses we were eating weren't really illegal; they were just younger than what can be sold in stores.

But since we were all consenting adults, we mutually agreed to eat young goat cheeses. That turned out to be an outstanding decision on all our parts.

I ended up at a table with an enjoyable couple who were practically experts on Bonnyclabber cheeses, having bought them many times at the South of the James Market.

There were two cheese boards, each with five cheeses, plus plum/garlic, peach and cranberry chutneys, apple butter and dried apple slices, on the table.

They took one and I took the other. Somehow the two of them managed to eat the same amount of cheese off their plate as I ate all by myself.

I wasn't sure whether to question their appetites or be mortified by my own.

We began with their mild bleu cheese, paired with Barboursville's Brut (the house bubbly at the Inn at Little Washington, don't you know) and, for the condiment, the plum/garlic chutney.

Having never had a goat bleu cheese, I was wowed by its delicacy of flavor while maintaining its flavorful bleuness.

When enjoyed with the Brut, it was sublime.

I thought it was an impressive pairing right off the bat, but it was our first, so it was too early to make comparisons.

Next up was the Moonshine, a plain goat cheese with a corn whiskey-soaked corn husk wrapping.

With it we had the Sauvignon Blanc, now made with a small amount of Viognier after the winemaker's visit to New Zealand to learn how to up his Sauvignon Blanc game.

The grassiness of the fragrant wine was beautiful with the unbelievably fresh-tasting cheese.

When a spread of apple butter was added, it gained a new dimension, but wasn't quite as overtly fresh tasting, although still delicious.

Called Song, the grapevine and charcoal-ash rind cheese was served with the Barboursville Viognier.

The edible ash (touted as good for the stomach) was so fine that it offered only taste, not texture.

I ate an enormous amount of this cheese, mostly for that rind.

My new friends are considering moving to Jackson Ward and asked me what I thought of the neighborhood.

Could they have asked a more devoted lover of  this place?

I raved, I gave specifics, I heartily endorsed.

The Sandy Bottom cheese was a big hit with everyone, as was the Cabernet Sauvignon it was served with, Murmurs of approval came from every table.

The cranberry chutney set off the peppery rind in a Thanksgiving dinner-sort of way, while the Cab was juicy and earthy,

We finished with Barboursville Malvaxia and the Rocky Mount, which had a rind of rosemary, chopped jalapenos and seeds (and when you got a seed, you knew it!) wrapped in white lightenin'-macerated corn husks.

I was noticing a pattern here when it came to husks, but no mention was made of tequila-soaked husks, so I didn't ask.

My new cheese friends said they love to use rounds of this cheese on pizza for spice and heat and I could easily see why.

The Malvaxia's sweetness was a great foil for the cheese's hot peppery goodness, not that it would have been the right wine for pizza.

But we weren't having pizza.

When all was said and done, the five courses of cheese and wine had provided a stellar meal and I was stuffed.

My tablemates were taking the rest of their cheese home and I offered them my trifling leftovers as well.

At least that way I could say I hadn't eaten the entire plate.

Verdict: my favorite pairing remained the very first one, although I found a lot to like about the other four, too.

Maybe I'm just a sucker for bubbles and bleu.

Music at the Camel followed and there was a good crowd for a Monday night.

Members of Marionette greeted me when I got there and then they were immediately off to open the show.

Sound can be problematic at the Camel sometimes, but tonight it was good.

With room to move onstage, guitarist Adam was more energetic than usual and hearing them play a new song was an unexpected pleasure.

As usual, I enjoyed watching first-timers get sucked in by their unique sound and stop talking to listen.

Lorem Ipsum was next, followed by headliners, J. Roddy Walston and the Business. This was the band most people had come to hear. And, by most people, I mean dozens of plaid flannel-shirted guys who knew every word to every song. Not that there's anything wrong with plaid, but testosterone was rampant and I was clearly in the minority.

Fortunately, I had a few musician and a DJ friends there, so I didn't feel completely out of place. They were my salvation when it came time to discuss what we were seeing in between songs.

The media has described JRW & TB as Jerry Lee Lewis fronting Lynyrd Skynrd and that's not far off.

They certainly look like Skynrd and their musical inspiration is clearly 70s Southern rock.

It's the addition of JRW's piano that saves it from being a straight-line derivation, but I don't think the plaid set cared (if they even were aware).

So I stood on the banquette and watched some ferocious piano-playing and song-screaming while the crowd waved their fists and shouted the words to "Don't Break the Needle" and a half dozen other songs.

By then my Southern rock fix had been satisfied for the next, oh, thirty years and I was free to go.

But I can't drink sweet tea, either, so what do I know?

Eating It Up: Phil D. and the Funky Brunch

Let's be honest here. I went to Sprout's Funky Brunch, not to dip my hip or glide my stride, but to see what soul food goodies might be on the menu and listen to Phil D. spinning late '60s and '70s funk.

After the last themed brunch at Sprout, a British Invasion one I'd raved about here, there was no way I was going to miss their take on funky jams and food.

Dressed in my best 70s funk look, I arrived at Sprout to find it being painted a lovely shade of blue in the afternoon sunshine. Inside, the music was fine, the tables filling up and the bar empty. I sat down, pulled out my Post and was greeted with, "Would you like a drink?"

Nope, I was here for food and the menu offered some soulfully appetizing options, but I was blind to anything but the country-fried steak with eggs, hashed browns and (wait for it) sweet potato biscuit (or toast but who would be so lame?).

My only concern was that it might be more food than I could eat, but my server, who has served me on more than a few occasions, assured me that I could handle it, insisting that it was the perfect way to lay down a base before starting my Saturday night activities. Hmm, how well do these people know me anyway?

Phil D. was spinning madly and although I couldn't identify by name a single song I heard, I could definitely appreciate the great bass lines and intense grooves that filled the room, practically calling out for people to dance (don't look at me).

Instead they were eating, as did I the moment my plate hit the bar. My steak was from Mount Vernon Farms and easily the tastiest piece of beef battered and fried up country-style I could have hoped for. And, oh, that gravy...

The eggs were nicely cooked and seasoned with the hashed browns crispy and full of onions. But let's take a moment for a reverie on that sweet potato biscuit. Pale orange with a traditional biscuit crumb, it was as well executed as the music I was so enjoying.

I asked for butter although the biscuit didn't need it, but then I never claimed to know my limits. When my server asked how I liked everything, I swooned and pointed at the orange gem in my hand and mouth.

"I know," he laughed. "They did a test batch yesterday and I ate, like, five when they came out of the oven." Oh, to have had access to five of those beauties!

A friend arrived and I gave him a bite of my steak and eggs just to enjoy his reaction. Foolish man that he was, he'd already had breakfast at home with his girlfriend, but I convinced him that he needed to have one of those biscuits and some Polyface Farm sausage links at the very least. Oh, he thanked me alright.

Apparently my server did know me way too well, because he'd been right and I'd finished every single bite on my plate. Handing it back all but licked clean, he just grinned at me. "I knew you could."

Just like I knew Sprout could deliver on funky food and grooves for brunch. Bass and biscuits; that's my idea of a righteous way to start a Saturday.

Live and Let Die

Driving down Main Street into the Bottom just before 6:00, I realized the error of my ways.

I had been asked to choose the dining destination for a symphony-bound group and I had not taken into account Shamrock the Block when I suggested Aziza's on Main.

As far as the eye could see, the sidewalks were overrun by people in green shirts staggering, stumbling and in some cases heaving.

It was, to sound like the Byrd Theater's public service announcement, pretty gross.

Slowly I made my way through the masses and found a parking space amongst scads of poorly parked cars, a testament to all the non-city drivers clearly in the immediate area.

The man in front of Aziza talking on his phone looked at my legs and asked his caller, "Does she have dark brown hair?"

Closing the phone, he extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Tom."

Tom was the brother of a friend with whom I had a couple date plus five.

Inside Aziza's, our table for eight was awaiting us and I met Tom's family, who live in Philly (oddly enough, my second Philly connection of the day).

The staff was welcoming but obviously harried from dealing with Shamrockers seeking sustenance since the moment they'd opened.

Since no one but me had ever been to Aziza's, I recommended the pizzas and the Perfect Egg and the group took me at my word, with the exception of the lactose-intolerant Tom who got the bouillabaisse (and the egg, which he loved).

Multiple bottles of Olegano Albarino were shared by my couple date and me.

I couldn't resist the Quinalt River steelhead trout tartare with capers, herbs and citrus with a side of Manakintowne greens.

I've had a lot of terrific food at Aziza's and this one definitely goes on the list.

The distinctive flavor of the trout was beautifully enhanced by the salt of the capers and savory herbs.

Continuing my role as food advisor, I suggested that anyone seeking dessert try the cream puff with chocolate ganache.

To my surprise, they now offer a variation, a chocolate mousse-filled cream puff with ganache.

When my friend's girlfriend suggested getting two of the chocolate puffs to share, I explained that she needed to taste the original first, so instead we got one of each for the three of us.

She never even tried the chocolate version, being completely smitten with the original.

I was able to rest my case after her second bite.

As we left the restaurant, a truck loaded with eight porta-potties was chugging up the hill, indicating that the debauchery was over.

And it's not even St. Patrick's Day until Thursday.

The O'Donnell in me cringes at the thought.

We made it to CenterStage with five minutes to spare before the symphony began its program of "The Music of James Bond."

I took my seat in the nosebleed section, although I was dead center with a fine view.

Guest conductor Carl Davis came out in a sweeping copper-colored metallic coat , took the podium and shouted, "One, two, three, four!"

It was not the typical start to an evening of symphonic music.

He explained, "You realize that tonight is a course. Bond 101. I'm expecting great things from my students."

It was just what I needed because I've seen so few Bond movies and could use a little cultural literacy on the subject.

They orchestra began with "Dr. No," the most instantly recognizable Bond theme.

Before "Goldfinger" could be performed, he brought out guest vocalist Mary Carewe, who arrived in a sweeping red evening gown.

Her big cabaret-style voice was perfect for that song as well as the Burt Bacharach gem, "The Look of Love," which followed.

To demonstrate my Bond ignorance, I hadn't even known that ubiquitous song came from a Bond film. Duh.

Hearing Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die' was a bombastic treat, both for the audience and the symphony's guitar players, but this song got no vocals for some reason.

When Davis spoke of the shift to Roger Moore as Bond, he mentioned Moore's stint on TV's "The Saint," which got applause from those who remembered the show.

"Your marks are rising," the conductor noted to laughter.

Not to be outdone by Carewe who had worn two different gowns in the first half, after intermission Davis returned in a long peacock blue coat and began with Duran Duran's "A View to a Kill."

After that rousing 1985 pop theme, he turned to us as if ready to light a cigarette and said, "Well, I enjoyed that!"

So had we.

He took us through Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig, with accompanying music by Bill Conti, Norwegian pop band aHa and U2, each representing the sound of the era in which it was created. I was learning all kinds of things tonight.

And then we graduated with Bond honors, the show was over and I moved on to Sprout to hear a Charlottesville band that had piqued my interest, Manorlady.

There was no question, this was my kind of music: guitars with lots of reverb, dreamy harmonies, and a generally dense sound that, for whatever reason, speaks to me. I was just sorry there weren't more people there to hear them.

When their set began, the lead singer noted that there were only four of us in the room, but he thanked us for being there.

By about three songs in, the crowd had grown to over twenty, including enough musicians and serious music geeks to convince me that I wasn't the only one who knew these guys were worth checking out.

More than satisfied with my new-found Bond knowledge followed by an excellent set of moody music, I could call it a night after their stellar set, with no regrets.

I'd barely gotten online when I got home when a friend messaged me, "Since when are you and me home at midnight on a Saturday night?"

Not very often, I told him, but by then I was six hours in and completely satisfied with my evening.

As it is, we lose an hour tonight and I honestly don't have any extra hours to spare.

Fortunately you only live twice.

Guerrilla Antics

I've seen a host of colorful things at the First Friday artwalks, but tonight I saw my first guerrilla fashion show.

I walked into one of the unnamed galleries near Art6 and all kinds of fashionably-dressed models were perched around the room or making their way through the crowd.

I heard that the clothing came from Rumors Boutique over on Harrison Street, but saw nothing to indicate that officially. But of course, there would be nothing official about a guerrilla event.

Seeing the art on the walls was a bit problematic because there were so many fashionable young men having earnest conversations (and taking photographs of each other) against the walls that it was impossible to see most of the art. On the other hand, the human scenery was quite decorative.

"Throwback: Art of the 60s and 70s" at Art6 drew a big crowd with its visual references to the pop artists of those decades. A guitarist sat in a corner of the gallery strumming and singing songs like "Imagine" to create the proper vibe. Low-key groovy.

Over at Gallery 5 I ran into a bazillion people I knew before I even got to see the shows. "Fleeting Terrain" with its large scale works of unrecognizable landscapes required two trips around the room to absorb it all.

In the GallowLily's space, Henry Winfiele's show of colorful wall-hung sculptures was the best kind of eye candy: bright, distinctive and creative. The artist was surrounded by a group of fans the entire time I was there. Of course we would have art groupies in RVA.

Gallery 5 was also having music (Capstan Shafts and the Diamond Center), but then who wasn't tonight? Sound of Music, Balliceaux and Sprout all had excellent bills planned. I opted for hushed folk and dreamy pop at Sprout.

With all the First Friday madness going on, it was still relatively civilized at Sprout when I arrived, allowing me to have a nice dinner before the rest of the music-seekers began to wander in.

Owner Jamie took the stool beside me, so I had built-in bad jokes throughout my meal ("absinthe-minded professor"...groan) of sliced steak salad (feta, mixed greens, roasted root veggies and mustard vinaigrette), Searidge Syrah and red velvet cake (the darkest and most chocolatey I've ever had). It was a simple and satisfying meal with great company.

Savannah's Lady Lazarus played to a room not nearly as full as it should have been considering her minimalist style comprised of an ethereal voice and accompanying piano. But those of us in the room enjoyed what we heard immensely.

Her songs were poems pulled from a deep emotional place; "Midnight Music for the Broken-Hearted Condition" said it all. She apologized for the bad grammar of "I Couldn't Find Me in Anything" and delivered another heartfelt ode to love and change.

Mid-set two guys walked into the room and had a top-volume conversation that almost drowned out her music completely. It was almost comical how loudly they were talking in a hushed room full of people clearly listening to music. Some would say oblivious, others would use stronger language.

The Low Branches had a slightly bigger crowd as people began to trickle in from earlier shows and catch their set of haunting folk music with guitar(s) and drums. People instinctively quiet down when they play so as not to miss a hushed note.

When one of the oblivious ones re-entered the room during their set, everyone held their breath but he didn't speak...until he came out of the ladies' room to find a girl waiting to use it.

"Oh, sorry," he shouted at her over Christina's song before noticing that he'd left the seat up. "The least I can do is put that down for you." Considering he'd bypassed the open men's room for the ladies' loo, yea, it didn't seem like too much to ask.

It would have been the perfect time for a visit from the guerrilla music police, though. Shouting during a quiet show and leaving the seat up are offenses punishable by immediate expulsion.

In a perfect world, that is.

No Blushing Here

"You know who in here I wouldn't want to see naked?" I asked my server at Rowland tonight.

The laugh attack I caused him almost made him choke. "No one has ever asked me that before," he gasped, trying to put his best professional hat back on as he leaned down for the answer. "Who?"

Despite every single table being full when I arrived around 8:30, the bar was a little sparse and while a couple eventually settled on the other end, it remained that way. It worked out fine because the three servers gave me more than enough conversation throughout the evening.

I know you're not supposed to drink alone but with no nearby barsitters, what's a girl to do but order some Anton Bauer Gruner Veltliner and make the best of the situation? My server told me that he can only drink one glass of this grape before the green berry fruits start to wear on him. I don't have that problem and enjoyed a glass before even considering my food choices.

Although the unique butterbean cake is a given at Rowland, I listened to the specials just in case something grabbed me, as it turned out, a wise decision because I was completely taken with the description of one of them. Seared scallops and grilled lobster chunks over savory corn pudding laced with thyme butter sounded too good to pass up, so I didn't.

I was enjoying a piece of crusty bread dipped in their signature garlic-infused olive oil with roasted garlic (presuming that I wasn't likely to be kissing anyone tonight, drat the luck) when the main event arrived. I had so made the right choice.

The dish was decadently rich, from the sweetness of the abundant scallops and lobster to the creamy, butter-drenched corn pudding and the nice acidity of the wine paired beautifully with it. Luckily, the wine police were not watching my consumption tonight, unlike last night.

My check arrived five minutes before the show I was going to see was to start ("Well, it's just not that far," my server grinned by way of explanation) but that's what happens when you tell people what your plans involve.

Over at Sprout, the crowd was forming for the Allison Self and Jail Swerves show. I've seen Allison enough to know not to miss her infrequent performances because she has a huge voice unlike any female singer in Richmond and a knack for choosing the ideal vintage material to showcase it.

She did some standards like "Good Night, Irene" and "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," utilizing harmonica player Andrew Ali, as talented a player as any who only took up the instrument a year and a half ago. When we spoke during the break, he explained, "I want to be the old guy playing harmonica on the porch."

He's got a long way to go to old, but his talent is as evident as his passion. Allison explained her affection for old music, saying that her grandmother always told her, "The deader they are, the more you like 'em." She admitted as much.

After her well-done set, seriously enhanced by Andrew's accompaniment, they were joined onstage by the Jail Swerves for a song. Covering Lucille Bogen, Allison belted out what she called a dirty song, the classic, "Shave 'Em Dry," originally recorded in 1935.

The extremely X-rated lyrics are more graphic than you can imagine and probably way more so than most of the listeners in the room with the big black X on their hands could have fathomed.  Some of their faces were priceless in reaction; many looked stunned.

After a huge ovation, Allison left the stage and the punk hootenanny Jail Swerves kicked into the Clash's "London Calling." It was a major cultural shift.

No voice could have wowed after Allison's raucous, big-voiced set, but the quartet of banjo, fiddle, guitar and upright bass (and occasional accordion) was fun and energetic and also employed Andrew's talent. Periodically throughout their set, they would pass out tambourines to the crowd, always carefully collecting them in a laundry basket after each song.

Minor threats also aided the collection efforts. "If you keep these instruments, you are going to hell," the lead singer told the crowd.

After a rousing cover of "Tainted Love," the band insisted on leading the crowd into the other room to try to engage the bar crowd. Like the Pied Piper, people fell in line and followed for the one-song set near the bar before dutifully returning to the back room.

Proof positive that for some people, it's easier to play "follow the leader" than hear seriously raunchy lyrics. With any luck, they'll grow out of that.

Now if f*ckin' was the thing, that would take me to heaven
I'd be f*ckin' in the studio till the clock strike eleven

And that was by far the least objectionable part of the song. Kudos to Allison for sharing this vintage listener favorite with Richmond on a Saturday night.

It was truly an amazing thing to hear, naughty bits and all. Made me sorry I wasn't getting kissed...or more tonight.

Woody's Inn and Black Girls

It's because of David Lowery that I drank the one and only beer of my life.

Think mid-90s at the Flood Zone, my date was late meeting me at the Cracker show and the only thing they served was beer. But I was going to wait for the band whether he showed or not, so I killed time with a beer, cementing a life-long distaste for it. But I digress.

Tonight I went to Plan 9 to hear that very same David Lowery do an in-store performance to promote his new CD, "The Palace Guards." Before he sang the title song, he explained that it began as a kid's song about superheroes and became something quite sinister.

"It's not the Cartoon Network kind of superheroes, more like the adult swim kind of superheroes," he clarified perfectly.

He was in fine voice and the crowd was made up of what looked to be long-time fans, including several women I heard commenting on how different and/or great he looked. Old groupies die hard, it would seem.

The music continued at Sprout, where band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes was spinning tonight. When I walked in, he was alone in the back room, working the vinyl hard and obviously enjoying himself.

Although I'd come to hear him DJ, I'd also come to eat, so I found a stool at the bar, opened my Moody Blues album menu cover and decided on the house salad and the Sprout free-range beef sliders with cheddar.

Local greens made for an incredibly fresh-tasting salad and the sliders are already legendary for a reason. Free-range beef is so noticeably better tasting that one friend swears that Sprout's sliders qualify as the best burger in town. Savoring mine, I'm inclined to agree.

Next I ordered a glass of Seaview Syrah and was forced to listen to the dessert choices. And while I wasn't the least bit hungry after the salad and sliders, I also wasn't the least inclined to ignore the chocolate truffle cake.

"Mmm, with a glass of red wine that sounds like heaven," my server opined. Don't I know it. Meanwhile, I was loving PJ's record choices, although I recognized very few artists. In a perfect world, I'd have had a set list so I could find out who I was hearing for future musical researching.

But my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so I ended up eating only part of the cake (that would be the parts with the icing attached), causing her to chide me when she took the plate away. "You didn't eat very much of it," she said. "All the good parts," I countered.

Too full to move, naturally that was the moment a friend came over and suggested I join their table and since I'm constitutionally unable to resist the offer of conversation, I moved.

There were four of them, so I got to chat with one about the power of dimples ( a friend of hers was told by a guy, "I want to f*ck your dimples" because they were so impressive) and with another about the rhythms of vacationing at the beach ("And when you want to take a nap, you just lay down and do it," he marveled).

I had to excuse myself around 10:30 (my friend Dave saying, "You always over-commit." Too true that) to check out a show at a venue new to me, Woody's Inn on Cary Street. I knew the place, having driven by it hundreds of times, but it was to be my first time inside.

It was every bit as old-school as I expected it to be. Low ceilings, a bar that looked straight out of a 70s rec-room and patterned carpet everywhere. But the crowd was enthusiastic, the staff welcoming and the music just beginning and that's what really mattered.

Precious Fluids, a duo of very young brothers played first, surprising me by covering the Misfits (and even did a brief snatch of Ratt for a friend in the audience) but also playing original material.

Their self-proclaimed surf song "Aloha" had the fast drumming and surf guitar sound you'd expect from a song with that title. I have to guess that they started writing songs in middle school.

Playing second was the Nervous Ticks, tonight a duo rather than a trio because their tambourine player had been in a moped accident. No jokes, please. They carried on without him, but he was there in spirit, perhaps in the tambourine resting on an upturned metal bucket used by the drummer.

As you might guess by their name, the music was hard and fast, with few songs lasting more than two minutes. A lot of the vocals bordered on scream-o but were still fairly melodic. I'm betting it was the first time they'd played a room with acoustic ceiling tile and carpeting to soften their sound.

From Woody's retro but fun vibe (you should have seen the over-the-knee gold boots on the girl coming in as I left) , it was back to Sprout because I wanted to catch the Black Girls' show, as did an awful lot of other people, all of who were crammed into the restaurant when I returned. Best of all, Dave was still there, so I had excellent conversational and musical company for the evening.

And then there were the Black Girls, a group of white boys (I wouldn't make that up) playing 70s-influenced glammy campy music. The crowd was into it from the first notes, standing on chairs, dancing, swaying and, yes, doing the bump. I know because I saw it with my own eyes.

Dave, the musician, described their music as fun; I found it fun and intensely campy. They pulled from vintage 70s stuff as disparate as Queen and KC & the Sunshine Band, but they also borrowed from current sounds like Scissor Sisters and the indie dance beats of Modest Mouse. The girl with the gold boots would have fit in perfectly for this show.

Can you tell I enjoyed it? Dave was right, it was fun music (good music to be drunk and listening to, he also said), even if everything I heard could be traced back to somebody else (which is exactly what I love about current bands). And you've got to love a lead singer who can do a falsetto.

The last song was about being dumped, with a refrain of "You are going to be so sorry for what you did to me." After singing it a few times, the lead singer shouted to the audience, "Let me hear your singing voices" and Dave belted it out beautifully next to me.

It's great to hang out with talent when you're at a show.

Seeking Clarity in a Cloud of Perfume

Which is tougher, putting up with an obnoxious crowd or saying farewell for now to good friends? My evening involved both.

Months ago I'd bought a ticket for Jimmy Eat World at The National, presuming that not much would be happening on a Tuesday night in February. Although they started out as a punk band, they evolved into what was labeled emo, which I never quite got; to me they're just power pop.

Arriving at the National, the wristband guy greeted me with, "Long time no see! Where you been? Hey, nice leg work," referring to my tights. "I got a pair just like those but I thought it was too cold to wear them." This guy never fails to crack wise with me.

I arrived just in time to score a drink from my favorite musician/bartender and find my spot before David Bazan and band came on stage; Bazan was the creative force behind Pedro the Lion.

It took a few songs to warm up to his voice, but once he mentioned PtL, people paid more attention. He brought out a special guest (Jim Adkins of JEW) for one song, but most of the audience seemed oblivious to who he was.

I laughed out loud when he asked the crowd, "Do you guys have any questions up to this point in the show?" He said that his last stop in RVA had been playing Alley Katz, which he remembered as very dark.

Between sets the masses arrived which turned out to be unpleasant due to their nature. Fortunately, my favorite music buddy also showed up (he'd been looking for me in the wrong place) to provide moral support for dealing with our newly arrived neighbors.

Put as bluntly as possible, the problem was perfume and purses. The clutch of girls around us reeked so strongly of scent that we both were gasping for breath within seconds.

And once the band came on stage, their drunken and incessant dancing pushed their large Louis Vuitton bags into us repeatedly. Obvious amateurs; who needs a big purse at a show?

At one point, a guy behind me placed his hand squarely on my back and pushed me out of his way so he could get by. A simple "excuse me" would have accomplished the same thing. When I turned around in consternation, his buddy shrugged his shoulders and said, "Sorry, he's an ox."

Jimmy Eat World, on the other hand, were tight and terrific, playing a variety of material going back to 2001. Jim mentioned that they'd played Twisters here on his twenty-second birthday. although it seemed unlikely that many in the audience remembered Twisters.

He said he'd gone by there today and found it was now Strange Matter and marveled at how unchanged the interior is. It's true; only the name changes on the outside. That's Grace Street for you, like a walk down Memory Lane.

From the National I high-tailed it over to Sprout for the Lobo Marino farewell show, arriving just in time to catch the last of it, although with no view because of the punctual people in front of me.

Which was fine because I've seen Laney, Jameson and Nathaniel perform many, many times so it's not hard to conjure up their smiling faces in my head. Besides, I was mainly there for the farewell portion of the evening that would follow the show.

The band leaves for 6 months on the West Coast tomorrow and they'd announced that anyone who brought them a mix tape/CD for the trip would get a copy of their latest, "Keep Your Head Up."

Naturally I'd put a little something together to remind them of me on the road. And if they hated it, they'd have to wait six months to let me know in person.

And since I already had their latest on CD, I was rewarded with a cassette copy of it, and a yellow cassette at that. It just doesn't get any more retro than a yellow cassette tape.

Last time they left RVA, it was for a stint in South America and Jameson and I kept in cyber touch. He'd share their adventures and I'd fill him in on the latest goings-on around here in terms of music, films and friends. I asked him if we'd be doing that again this time.

"Yea, but I don't need the gossip," he assured me. "Just tell me what's happening." Pause. "Okay, and the gossip," he grinned.

That was our cue to hug for the third and final time so we did. It's tough saying farewell to people you really like, even if they're supposedly coming back.

But it's a (bitter)sweeter kind of tough than having an ox bulldoze you from behind.

Wishing for Music and Sausage

Here's my restaurant wish for Richmond: more places near Center Stage where people can park once and party twice.

I had a couple date to go to the symphony and we made a reservation for 9 North Fourth beforehand. Perfect plan, right? Well, it was until they called and said they'd be closed tonight for "mechanical problems." Rats.

That left us with exactly one choice, Capital Ale House, which was fine because they're beer fans and all three of us are fans of food in casings. Done and done, as my friend Scott is fond of saying.

And while the two of them stuck to the menu, he with kielbasa and pierogies and she with knockwurst and bratwurst, I was special of the day all the way.

There was no resisting the pork belly sausage banh mi with pickled carrots, onions, cilantro, spicy aioli and fries. Or if there was, I didn't know how to do it. And might I mention that the star of the dish was courtesy of Sausagecraft? Enough said.

Oh, was it good. A baguette barely contained the sausage (which our server described as "pork belly in skin"), cut into fat slices.

The fatty richness of the sausage married beautifully with the crunch of the pickled toppings and heat of the sauce; it was banh mi heaven (Kevin, eat your heart out). I was so glad I'd suggested Cap Ale as Plan B.

After an enormous and shared piece of chocolate cake a la mode, we moseyed up to Center Stage for some Weber, Schuman and Brahms.

Guest conducting tonight was Victor Yampolsky, impressive with his mane of white hair and dapper in his tails. I remarked to my friend that he had a certain Leonard Bernstein-quality, only to later read in the program that he worked under Bernstein.

I especially loved his dramatic bowing style, which involved throwing his head back before dipping forward into a bow. Perhaps it was to better showcase that shock of thick hair.

After intermission came the highlight of the evening, the guest artist Awadagin Pratt, originally from Pittsburgh.

He took the stage in black shirt and pants and I think I'm safe in saying that it was undoubtedly the first time a man with mid-back-length dreadlocks had sat down at the grand piano with the RSO. And who better to play Brahms' Concerto No. 1 in D Minor for Piano, Opus 15?

I loved the way he wiped the sweat from his face between movements, undoubtedly caused by his enthusiastic playing style which often brought him up off his stool. I was also taken by the way his left foot kept time so hard that it could be heard in between piano notes.

Brahms was followed by Live at Ipanema, switched from its usual Sunday slot because of the Superbowl. That turned out to be an error in judgment for all of us.

Playing was French-born Blasco, a talented singer-songwriter, but a man with a quiet sound unable to compete with the raucous Saturday night crowd.

He began his set by saying, "This is going to be quiet, so if you're going to keep talking, you'll have to whisper. But everything sounds more important when you whisper." The problem was people talked over him saying that.

Accompanied only by his auto harp and crystal-clear whistling, he put on a beautiful performance for the few of us actually listening.

The others tried shouting and making disparaging remarks ("He sounds like Rufus Wainwright and that's a good thing. But not tonight and not here," one idiot said) before eventually leaving.

One very drunk guy said he wanted to leave for the Village. "You either want a milkshake or a nineteen-year old," his friend smirked. "Actually, both," he slurred. Gross. By about half an hour into Blasco's set, most of the truly obnoxious and drunk crowd had left.

Only then did it start to feel like the cozy and intimate affair Live at Ipanema usually is for music lovers who regularly attend.

Better late than never, those of us who stayed till the end agreed. All of us felt fortunate to have heard a rare evening of song accompanied by auto harp playing and whistling.

My last stop was Sprout for their show, which I knew would continue right up until closing.

I arrived in time to hear Charlie Glen of the Trillions play keys and sing his hooky pop songs to an enthusiastic crowd. He finished with the crowd favorite "Bad Potato," attributed to his geeky father and played standing up.

Paul Ivy vs. the Board of Education unexpectedly took the stage next, although they had been slated as the headliner. From the first note, the crowd was into them.

These guys had a garage rock sound (although I'm sure Paul will correct me on that if I mislabeled) led by Paul's excellent guitar playing.

Their set began with a kick-ass version of "Both Sides Now," hardly your typical garage rock band song choice. I was impressed, even as I wondered how many in the crowd knew the song's origins.

The show ended with singer-songwriter Ben Shepherd singing his cryptic and heartfelt lyrics. A heckler marred the vibe in the room, not once, but twice before mercifully disappearing. Ben, a local favorite, ended his set with a song he said had no music: a poem.

After a night like tonight, unlike with the restaurant issue, I can't say I have any music wishes for Richmond.

Just keep it coming.

Shiny, Deep and Ears Ringing

A friend had invited me to meet her for drinks and then join her for "The Color Purple" at the Landmark Theater.

That wasn't going to work because I had plans to see a music show at 9:00, but we decided to meet for drinks anyway.

Conveniently for me, she chose the Belvidere at Broad at 5:45. Foolishly, neither of us had considered the number of people who would be there at 5:30 for a pre-theater meal.

It's not like we had a tough time getting bar stools because we didn't, but the hustle and bustle around us was non-stop for the harried staff. On the plus side, they knew it would mostly go away by 7:45.

Except that it didn't. Oh, sure, plenty of people left to make the curtain, including my friend, but even more showed up looking for food and drink on a Saturday night. No one had any idea what the craziness was about.

My friend and I enjoyed the Hahn Cabernet Sauvignon as we chatted about our upcoming trips. In the blink of an eye, it was time for her to leave and I was left with half a glass of wine and no one to talk to. Luckily that didn't last long.

Friends of a friend came in, and took the table behind me, so with a swivel of the hips, I had two friendly faces and eager conversationalists while they ate their burgers and downed their beer flight.

To taunt our mutual friend, we took a picture of me and one of the guys and sent it off to him, saying we were on the way to the Girl Talk show at the National (he detests Girl Talk and would undoubtedly wonder how in the world we ended up together). Simple pleasures.

I enjoyed the Belvidere's house applewood-smoked salmon (they do it so well) after their departure and tried to keep up with the rotating cast of characters in the stools nearest me. They seemed to be the staging area for the next available table.

I was soon joined at the bar by a West End foursome waiting for a table. They asked me if I'd eaten there before, launching a 20-minute discussion of where else in the city they should try.

They apologized for living in Short Pump, but now that they're empty-nesters, they're committed to doing all their dining in the city and broadening their horizons. But they needed help.

They eagerly asked for some of my favorite places and dishes and I happily shared my opinions. "Boy, did we talk to the right person," one of the husbands gushed to his wife. "You're a goldmine of information!" he told me. That's me, shiny and deep.

Once they'd moved tableside, I ordered the dark chocolate brownie with vanilla bean gelato, Bailey's dark chocolate whipped cream and a dark chocolate ganache sauce.

When it arrived, a nearby girl grabbed her husband's arm and asked, "What's that? I need that!" They had just arrived. Down, girl. She watched me eat until I pushed the rest away; you could almost see her wondering why I hadn't finished.

When I left, there were close to ten people waiting for tables at the front and it was going on 9:00. I wished owner Julie luck with that (she was as perplexed by it as I was) and walked home to get my car and head to Gibson's.

Tonight's show there was further complicated because of the Girl Talk show at the National. Walking by to get in Gibson's, I passed a lot of kids in shiny clothes, their underage hands marked with a big "X," all ready for a dance party, which Girl Talk would no doubt deliver.

Down in the bowels of Gibson's it was much more civilized. The show began with Dave Watkins on dulcitar, looping himself for layers of sound. At one point, a friend acknowledged, "Ah, the ever-capable Dave Watkins. He's got three loops going at once!"

Before one song in which he'd also be playing drums, he told the crowd, "I'm going to lose my glasses on this one." Before long, they were sliding down his nose and he finally pulled them off and tossed them to the floor. It was an excellent set.

Lobo Mario played next, putting on their best mic'd show ever (since they frequently play without mics) and infusing their folky songs with an enthusiastic energy that engaged the diverse crowd.

At one point Jameson introduced "Laney on accordion" after a particularly robust accordion piece. "Yea, that was me shredding," she said self-deprecatingly. Their down-tempo cover of Elvis' "Can't Help Falling in Love" brought the house down.

DC's The Orchid headlined and, as a big fan of post-rock, I was thrilled to hear these guys perform. Like all post-rock groups, there was the serious wall of guitar sound (three) plus a drummer, with no vocals playing big, beautiful soundscapes alternately loud and quiet.

Unlike most post-rock groups, however, they had an amplified violin player (he doubled on keyboards), making for quite an interesting addition to their sound.

Unfortunately, during his solos (and between songs) the thumping bass of the Girl Talk show rattled the ceiling of the room. Fortunately, when they were all playing, their bold sound pushed right back.

When their stellar set was over, I said my farewells to my friends and headed over to Sprout, hoping to catch some of the show going on there.

Owner Laurie's band Catnip Dreams was playing and I hadn't seen them since last summer's Jonny Z Fest show where they absolutely shone on Shields Street.

As soon as I walked in the door, a friend came up to tell me I'd miss their terrific set. Drat the luck.

I headed to the back room for Green Hearts to find the room was packed. Finally a guy took pity on my abbreviated stature and gave me his step, where I could at least see lead singer (and WRIR DJ) Paul Ginder and some of the other band members rocking out.

Their sound was pure 60s/70s and most of the band had on skinny ties. They played tambourine, maracas and cowbell in addition to the usual suspects.

Songs were short and high energy and the crowd was moving non-stop during every 3-minute burst. Sadly, I also saw no less than four people with their fingers in their ears. Tragic, kids, absolutely tragic.

When they finished, the audience clamored for one more and Paul begged off, saying "We can't. We're old." The crowd refused to accept such an un-rock and roll sentiment and they played one more.

Afterwards, I went up to Sprout owner Jamie just before he began DJ'ing vintage vinyl, saying, "Sprout, always reliable for revisiting the past."

"Not a problem, is it?" he grinned.

Would I have been there again if it was? Not to mention that there's always the hope of meeting a like-minded soul over a sixties or seventies groove.

And the Award Goes To...

A Monday evening as full of surprises and delights as this one was deserves to be recognized. And the nominees are:

Best use of pig: A tie between Bistro 27 and Sausagecraft. B27 for their fried pork and Pecorino cheese sausage with a frisee salad and balsamic vinaigrette with french fries. The earthy pig and salty cheese combination did a happy dance in my mouth, convincing me that this had to be a Sausagcraft creation and it was indeed; hence the tie.

The large salad and its tangy dressing assuaged any remorse about eating so much succulent fried sausage and the fries made up for being so virtuous by having a salad. Full satisfaction, zero guilt.

Best cameo in a bar: The random girl who walked in to Bistro 27, ordered a glass of white wine and told the bartender she needed a place to sleep for the night and asked if could she go home with him. He demurred and offered to check nearby hotels for availability, securing one quickly and asking them to send a van to pick up their new guest at once.

When he told her that the van was on its way, she immediately ordered another glass of wine on top of the half glass she still had. The van pulled up a minute later, she literally poured the wine down her throat and wandered out. Glancing over, one of the servers sniffed, "Rough trade."

Best use of a product from the Center of the Universe: Stuffed squid full of baby shrimp and scallops braised in basil tomato sauce over Byrd Mill grits from Ashland. This new dish on 27's menu sings with flavor and texture and could make a calamari lover out of anyone.

Best way to alienate staff at a restaurant: The woman in the hat who snapped her fingers at the chef to get him to run her credit card that very second. His question? "How would she feel if I did that to her?" Fair enough. Is there ever really a time when snapping at someone is appropriate?

Best outfit for a lead singer in a classic rock revival band: A red Halliburton jumpsuit worn by lead singer Carlos of Du Brut, playing at Sprout tonight. The band cited the Who, Guns and Roses and AC/DC as influences. Carlos' hair was pure Slash, thick, dark, curly and below his shoulders.

He used his head to swing his hair for maximum effect while on stage. Note: it was impressive (full disclosure: he gave me their CD on my way out but I'd liked his hair when we'd talked music two hours earlier).

Best musical talent displayed by a restaurant owner: Jamie Lay, co-owner of Sprout and lead singer (and masterful dancer) of the high-energy 60s-influenced band Baby Help Me Forget.

His talent is too big for the stage where his bandmates (drummer, two guitarists and bass player) perform, so he gyrates, drops to his knees and wails from the center of the room as the crowd dances wildly around him. Occasionally, he jumps from the 8" stage to maximum effect. Name another restaurant owner with that kind of talent.

Best band to cover tonight: The Beatles. Du Brut covered "Helter Skelter" and BHMF covered "Birthday" and both renditions got enthusiastic responses from the audience. If you're going to cover, cover from the originators, I guess.

Best way to end a show: Destroying a guitar and writhing on the floor. As BHMF's last song wound down, Jamie was singing and dancing horizontally on the floor with the microphone stand laying beside him in sections.

Meanwhile, one of the guitarists started hitting the neck of his instrument until it snapped and then threw the body on the floor until it shattered. I have no doubt that it was the first time most of the audience had seen a guitar destroyed at the end of a performance and they were ecstatic.

So maybe I personally wasn't in full ecstasy mode, but after such stellar food and interesting entertainment, I wasn't far behind.

Monday. It's not just for boredom anymore.

Easy as 1,2,3

I teared up over an imaginary beagle, I laughed my ass off as a friend shared his early dating adventures on stage and I did my best to keep up as a trombonist played both the melody and bass line concurrently. It was a really fun evening.

Beginning at the Empire Theater for the Acts of Faith Theatre Festival Preview, I snagged an aisle seat in a rapidly-filling theater.

The festival is a collaborative effort between the faith and theater communities and even a heathen like me usually finds productions worth checking out at the preview.

Not all the plays done during the festival are overtly religious (Romeo and Juliet) while some clearly have that bent (Godspell). The brief scenes we saw tonight gave a peek into what can be expected from this year's offerings.

Swift Creek Mill Theater is doing Once on This Island, which the emcee noted she had once performed in as part of an all-white Canadian cast. "Hey, we work with what we have up there."

Richmond Triangle Players are doing This Beautiful City, a play about an evangelical group that explores the separation of church and state, a subject on which I feel strongly.

Firehouse Theater is doing Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead about the Peanuts gang a few years on. The scene we saw involved CB discovering that Snoopy has become rabid and eaten Woodstock, an indication that he has to have his old beagle put down.

I got way more emotional than I should have when CB said that he just knew when Snoopy "didn't come bounding out of his red doghouse" that things were bad. Don't remind me.

Some moments were unintentionally comedic, like when the lead actor of The Choices of a Traveler walked on stage, and a gleeful voice in the audience squealed "Daddy!" to the delight of the crowd.

All in all, the festival looks to be presenting some provocative theater this spring and all the productions will offer an audience discussion after one of the performances. I, for one, like to talk back after seeing a play.

Conveniently, my second stop was just around the corner form the Empire and as I rounded the corner, I ran into friends leaving Comfort for the same show ("Look at you, switching those hips," I was told. No, I'm just walking fast because it's fricking freezing out here).

Gallery 5 was hosting the Comedy Coalition's Richmond Famous event. This is an evening where a local personality shares some true stories from their life and then the improv group goes for the soft underbelly of the story and improvises with scenes and characters stolen from the guest's stories.

Tonight's victim/guest was Kevin Clay, the tireless guy behind the GayRVA website and events and also a friend of mine. Kevin had bravely brought his college dating journal to share with the audience and it was a touchingly hilarious.

He told of trying to impress a date with a meticulously-assembled Easter basket, only to discover that the guy was Jewish. Oops.

He planned to reveal his heart's desire to another crush on top of the Empire State Building and when that didn't work out, he made a flow chart in his journal explaining why not.

You can imagine what ripe material this was for the lightening quick improvisational skills of RCC; two of them denied their love to each other using not only flow charts, but Venn diagrams, bar graphs and all kinds of geeky visual aids while the audience roared.

It was especially fun because I was in the front row, as were Kevin's boyfriend and best friend, both of whom laughed the loudest at Kevin's tales of being a 12-year old girl in a college guy's body.

By the time the comedy was over, I was starving and music-starved, so I went to Sprout to satisfy both needs. I love how they continue to keep the kitchen open for show-goers.

There was no way I was passing up the Blue Point oyster and mushroom quiche over mixed local greens with a balsamic reduction, a new item on the menu.

Even the bartender looked at it and said, "I haven't had that but it looks really, really good." It was and the peppery greens and dense, sweet balsamic were a nice contrast to the rich creaminess of the quiche.

I ran into a couple of musician friends (Sprout's shows are always full of them), providing the resources to answer any musical questions I might have during the evening, not to mention satisfying my conversational needs.

Tonight's show was billed as dueling soloists and performing first was Bryan Hooten (No BS Brass band, Ombak, Fight the Big Bull) on trombone and and then Chris Farmer on drums (with keyboards and loop), with a vague promise of something collaborative after that.

Bryan worked hard tonight, getting red-faced and sweaty and playing so fast and hard that you could hear the spit collecting in his instrument. Periodically he spit it out because he didn't have time to swallow it.

He improvised to a couple of pieces, did a most creative version of Ellington's "In a Sentimental Mood" and tore it up with a take on Herbie Hancock's "Chameleon."

Mid-song, I looked over at my multi-instrumentalist friend (who plays sax) to find him laughing. "I can't believe he's playing he melody and the bass line at the same time," he said by way of explaining his chuckling. It was quite a unique sound, that's for sure.

Between sets I got a piece of chocolate truffle cake and chatted with my friends. They were both getting antsy waiting to hear Chris do his magic on the drums.

And he was impressive, wrapping energetic drumming around those robot keys of his. My drummer friend told me that Chris is a big Brian Eno fan and I could almost hear that.

He also said he's a pocket rhythm drummer as if I understood that, but there wasn't time to have it explained during the performance, so that'll be another of my dumb non-musician questions next time we talk.

The crowd was full of serious head-bobbing Farmer lovers, including one annoying and tall guy who positioned himself in the very front, blocking everyone's view and taking endless pictures ("He's my main man!").

At one point, he even stepped up on the stage and then did a "stage dive," jumping five inches to the floor and bumping into people. Another oldster kept yelling for the Kinks. Spare me, both of you.

After the final collaboration with Bryan augmented by a friend of Chris' named Clint on keys and knob-turning, I went to pay my bill (the bartender: "I'm going to try that oyster quiche you had!" You should do that, my friend). Another excellent show and meal at Sprout.

I ran into one of the guys from Fight the Big Bull at the bar and we fell into a discussion of Keith Richards' autobiography (which he's reading and I've read excerpts from) and the British emphasis on the blues.

He was particularly disgusted that a much younger fellow sax player who had just left had confused Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. "But he's only 24, so what does he know?" Unlike me, he probably knows what pocket rhythm drumming is.

In my defense, though, I've never once confused Zeppelin and Floyd. Or, like the guy in tonight's crowd who compared a piece to Emerson, Lake and Palmer and then corrected himself to say Radiohead, confused those two.

So I've got that going for me. Which begs the question, is there anyone out there who will think that's enough?

Of course there is.

Musical Treats at Sprout

I am so glad the holidays are over and things are starting to pick back up again. I was going crazy with so little happening (other than parties) for the past two weeks.

Happily, tonight was a satisfying kick-off to a new year. I started at the Empress to meet a friend for their Tuesday tasting, which, due to it being the first week back, had been scaled back. Not to worry, it was still superb.

Friend arrived first and had already ordered a bottle of the Ferrande Sauvignon Blanc, a surprise upon my first taste because she never goes French (and ended up none too fond of it, but manged to drink it anyway). She'd spent the day addressing body part needs and I heard the stories to prove it.

We were one of only two tables there for the tasting, which offered three pairings instead of the usual four (reducing the price form a very reasonable $15 to a mere $10).

On the menu: crabcake with Granny Smith apple slaw paired with Dry Creek Chenin Blanc, Manchego and English pea risotto served with Lunetta Prosecco and finally sweet potatoes with a garlic zucchini saute and the Hob Nob Pinot Noir.

When I got there, the music was absent and there was no way I could deal with that, so I asked our server about it. Technical difficulties, she assured me, but they were working on it. At last, David Bowie's "Young Americans" became audible (and later "Rebel, Rebel") but when the CD finished, it came on a second time and a third. Oops. Vintage if you must, but variety essential.

Friend also ordered the decadent white truffle potato soup, a side of English peas (her first ever; she was overcome with the wonder of them), and the dessert trio with a side of English peas to go. I had chocolate/chili pate, always a delightfully spicy way to end a meal there.

Peas became the emblem of the evening when Chef Carly told our server that there was pea in the ladies' room and that she needed to clean it up. She disgustedly walked in to find a single English pea on the floor. That's chef humor for you (full disclosure: we laughed).

After a three-hour meal, we parted ways so I could go to Sprout for a show and she could go home to rest up before returning to work tomorrow after a long break; her dread was palpable.

At Sprout, owner Laurie told me that Victory farms is taking over the market portion of the restaurant, a situation sure to be a win/win for both. It'll begin next month with full market goodness by May.

In the back room, the bands were setting up and the guy responsible for their label, Crafty Records, was designing his merch table. I chatted with some of the musicians while everything got fully formed.

I must have shown my true colors because later Crafty guy asked me, "Want a bookmark?" to which I responded, "What makes you think I read?"

"Cause you're wordy," he said, nailing this stranger. Let's call a spade a spade, shall we?

Crazy and the Brains, from Jersey, got the ball rolling with their high-energy odes to the Ramones and the Clash. Songs were short, hard and full-on (some kid said to his friend, "This is really loud," and I just looked at him in pity).

I was really impressed with the fact that they had a xylophone player, Jeffrey, whose percussion added such an interesting sound to their music, which included a cover of Bow Wow Wow's 1982 cover "I Want Candy." Now when's the last time you heard that gem?

After the volume and energy of C&TB, up came folkie Gabriel Gall of Relatives, but minus his band for the first time tonight. He had a hushed and appealing voice and was accompanied by his brother Jacob on percussion for a few songs.

During one, he said, "In my head, this is where I hear everybody singing along." Measured beat. "Please don't do that." Most interesting lyric: "I am dying to say what's on my mind. I will make a lampshade of my love."

Isaac Gillespie and his improvised band came next and since he'd been one of the musicians I'd talked to before the show, I knew that his sound had been compared to that of the Band, which was right on.

It had a raw-edged Americana feel to it and this time Jeffrey the xylophone player was on drums. Turns out he was a drummer before going to school for percussion, so now he hits anything (well, I might add).

Isaac began by acknowledging, "There's nothing more pathetic than the sound of guitars tuning." A tuner was brought in. He encouraged a singalong for the title track of their new CD, "I Will Wreck Your Life," promising that the wrecking wouldn't be as bad as heroin, but more like booze. Forewarned is forearmed.

They finally got some (limited) dancing going when Isaac said, "We'd like to play a song by the godfather of soul, Steve Miller" and then did a cover of 1976's "Rockin' Me." We were covering some vintage ground tonight, kids.

Headlining was local favorite Ben Shepherd, one of the many who left RVA for NYC and (fortunately) returned. All of the musicians who preceded him acknowledged their respect for his amazing songwriting skills.

He took the stage simply with an acoustic guitar and launched into a song about being mugged. From there, his songs meandered all over the place, always with a compelling storyline. Example: "What I can't fathom or really understand is the world that existed before I was born."

It was unfortunate that so many people didn't stay for the entire show. The first three bands, with their changing players, were a huge treat for the Tuesday night audience that stayed put. Add in that it was a free show and it's even tougher to understand why more music-lovers didn't show up for an excellent show.

Oh, well, their loss, not mine. Of course, as I was discussing with a few of the musicians just before I left, considering that the top-grossing tour of 2010 was Bon Jovi, one has to wonder what's going on in the music appreciation world anyway.

Living on a prayer, indeed. My prayer would be that we continue to be lucky enough to host talent, both traveling and local, for low and no cost in Richmond.

That would keep on rockin' my world.