Mix Together One Part Rhett With One Part Francis And Add A Sprinkling Of Friends To Taste
or the recipe for the perfect road-trip birthday celebration (part one)


Okay, so I have the best husband. Period.


This year my darlin' Geo took me on a Rhett/Francis weekend trip for my birthday. It is so uncanny how many times both of my musical loves are performing back-to-back in close proximity of each other. It's like the Universe cracks open his favorite fire water, gropes a few babes, gets all "I love, man"-ish and gives us a big bear hug of love in the form of musical musings.


Once again, Rhett was playing a hop, skip and jump away in New York City at the City Winery. We've been here so often over the last year, the kind folks at the Sheraton recognize us. I don't know if that's a cool thing or just, you know ... pathetic.


Anywho, we sat with our lovely Manhattan mavens, sipping on an amazing Malbec whilst being crooned to by the lovely blue-eyed one. Marcy's so sweet. She forced at gunpoint got Rhett to sign a copy of the Old 97's latest, The Grand Theatre (pronounced The-A-ter) with his trademark birthday message.

Hey, it's a nice sentiment, right?


And she found Steelers gingerbread men.

Zombie Mwelde Moore chases after Ben Asshat
while loco Tequila Toast Man hungrily eyes that loose leg  

Okay. She didn't break Mwelde's leg. That was an unfortunate accident occurring in transport on my watch. In hindsight, I should have taken that as an omen for the outcome of the Super Bowl. Blerg!


Newsflash! I LOVE Rhett solo shows. L.O.V.E.!!!


I know. You're surprised, right, but I just had to say that out loud. I enjoy the band a lot, but I think, gun to head, I prefer his solo gigs. They are so much fun, mainly because Rhett is more chatty, playful and witty alone. He's a skillful showman who really connects with and engages his audience to come along for the ride. He sincerely seems to enjoy himself up there entertaining the crowd. His banter is my favorite part. Just the right amount of humor and irreverence to fill the spaces in between his humongous 26-song set list. 


And the energy... my God the energy is through the roof. 


Turns out I wasn't the only person celebrating an anniversary of birthing during his self-proclaimed Chuckie Cheese night at the Winery. Two other Aquarians got a shout out and song dedication of Singular Girl (with the requisite Hydra refrain) and the standard Happy Birthday, Don't Die.


Eventually it was my turn. Now keep in mind this was the Friday before the Super Bowl and he had already been caught on tape saying how much he despised the Steelers and hoped they'd lose in this interview from Dallas.


I'm still a little bruised. I swear, Miller, if you weren't so damned cute and sweet and talented and smart and funny and and and ...


Anywho, so he doles out the b-day wish and dedicates the following song not to me, but to "her Steelers". Listen for the chorus.




Nice. Very funny, Miller. Poopy head.


Mixed amongst the many favorites, Mr. M treated us all to two new songs. The wonderfully Kinks-ish Perfume from The Grand Theater, Volume 2 slated to arrive in stores in July and a fresh-from-his-three-puppy notebook tune titled Only Home Away From Home perhaps? Sure, let's call it that. 

"Three f**king puppies!!"
(oh mi dio! el esta muy bonito.)

Then he brought out the big gun. Nicole Atkins entered the stage with her big gorgeous hair and bigger voice to belt out the best version of the girl part of Firefly that I have ever heard, outside of Rhett's delightful schizo self duo, of course.




He loves him some Nicole duet.


The two of them together were fabulous, finishing off the master set with a memorable version of Four Leaf Clover.




Even with all her long locks, she's no match for Rhett's flying hair head shake. He remains the master of that domain. I cannot speak for the other "domain". (a tee... a hee)


The evening's music ended in bad-ass fashion with Rhett, clearly channeling the rock 'n roller within his soul, up and kicked the shit out of the music stand sending those adorable three fucking puppies and the notes within flying through the air in a brilliant scatter. In the final chaotic chords of Time Bomb, he knocked into the mic stand and watched as the metal rod toppled into the audience, coming to rest on our friend George's head, before dropping his guitar, punk style, and marching off stage to the howls of another satisfied crowd. 


Rock 'n Roll, BABY!! 


The only thing missing was a full-on hooligan Pete Townsend guitar smash up.


Once George recovered from his head wound, he and Maria were front and center to liberate the set list. They were so kind to send it to me. Heaps of thanks goes out to them.

Why who's that noted on the list?
Holla!! 

The one disappointment of the evening was his absence at a meet and greet, or as John Wesley Harding likes to put it "grin and bare it", depriving us the opportunity to give him a hefty dose of royal shite about that dedication. All in good fun, of course, because truly I could never be mad at him. 


What a terrific way to start the party bus rolling. Next stop. New Jersey.