In Which Ms. Potty Mouth Spends A Sunny Day With New German Friends

Ok, so I've turned into a trash talker, but I blame it on the fact that I've spent my youth in television.

J' accuse, Mutha Plucker.

At the tender age of 23, I walked through the doors of The Special K fresh-faced, innocent, naive, optimistic, unjaded. I wore skirts for Pete's sake! I was only 120 pounds then, had shapely gams and ginormous 80s hair. It was two years before I got married and became incredibly happy and fat in the process, but that's a different story. Dude, I was like balloon-face girl. Double chin, puffy cheeks, cheese curls attractively stuck in my toothy grin. No shit. People used to think I was preggers. Ignorant fucks.

But my point is this, I kind of tend to swear. A lot.

All. The. Fucking. Time.

It's a byproduct of working in television, much like sleeping disorders and twisted irreverence. It's a cursing disorder and it's real. Pinkie swear. Look it up on Wikipedia... as soon as I create that page, I mean.

Hello, my name is Murray and I have a Cursing Disorder.

I swear to God I was a man in a past life. Probably a dock worker. I can't help it, man. I just love to cuss. Love it. I love the way uttering vulgarities feels tripping off my tongue, especially the pressure of my teeth against my curled lower lip right before the explosion of air from deep in my diaphragm propels the f-bomb forth unto the world. Total physical and mental satisfaction wrapped up in one efficient move.

Wait. What was my point of all this lewd language love?

I don't know. Is there ever a point in these ramblings? (that's rhetorical, asshat. I'll get to the point eventually. probably. don't hold your breath.)

Anywho...

I met these two wonderful young ladies from Germany. The one, Christina, is in absolute love with all things Pittsburgh... The city, it's inhabitants and it's sports teams, especially the Penguins. We became imaginary friends via Twitter, electronic pen pals, if you will, through our mutual love of Pittsburgh Hockey.  She brought her architect friend, Gabi, a Burgher virgin.

Christina and Gabi
enjoying a not-so-rare sunny day

So my thinly veiled point is this: I realized two days after I'd met these lovely ladies, that OMG they probably think I am the biggest potty mouth in the world. Of course when you have a blog, you can say whatever you want because, you know, it's you're fucking blog, right? And this blog, well this blog allows my ID to run free. My ID's a profane, fucking asshole, yo.

Ooops. See, there I go again.

But omigosh, she's going to think I am just this crazy, cocktail-swilling, cigarette-smoking, foul-mouthed chick from the Burgh. Of course, when I met them, our conversation was so engaging and lovely, I didn't curse at all. I don't think so anyway. I don't know. I don't remember. Oh, shit, goddammit, did I? I don't remember.

Eeeeeeee.

Again, with the swearing thing. It just... happens. It's who I am. I blame the crap that goes down at the Special K. I can't help it. Anyway, job hazard. Sorry.

But enough of my rationalizing...

Gateway Center
site of my long-term indentured servitude

We met up at the Crazy Goat coffee shop so I could take them on a tour of our studios. I've been at the K for so long, I don't even see my surroundings anymore. I've lost the "wow" factor from toiling in broadcasting. It's just work to me. Seeing this all-too-familiar environment through their fresh eyes, unclouded my cynical ones.

The girls were so excited to be in the studio. They literally giggled to sit at the news desk. Christina was giddy pointing out the sets she has seen on her computer when she watches our broadcasts overseas.

the set of Pittsburgh Today Live

Their enthusiasm reminded me how lucky I am to have this cool job.

Do NOT tell my boss.

We took full advantage of the gorgeous, sunny April day by dining al fresco in Market Square. Christina, who I swear knows more about Pittsburgh hotspots living in Munich than I do living in the South Hills, picked a newer burger joint, Wingharts, for our lunchtime fare. Delicious!

two-fisted burgers

Big ass burger doesn't even begin to describe it. I made the mistake of ordering fries, too. We barely made a dent, but seriously, what mere mortal can pass up the enticing aroma of perfectly fried potatoes? Impossible.

We noshed on the half-pounders oozing brie cheese and bacon while talking non-stop for hours about everything and nothing, as if we had been friends for decades. Before we knew it, it was 3:45 and time to part company. They are so delightful, I could easily have spent two more hours getting to know them more. But, alas, they had places to be, so we said our farewells and off they went to their next adventure.

the view from the bridge
or river bank, as it were

I had such a blast with Christina and Gabi. I can't express what a pleasure it was to have met them. We're no longer imaginary, but real life friends now. I miss them. They are terrific ambassadors to our watery hamlet. Next time they visit, I'm going to drag Geo along. He'd love them, too.

The world keeps getting smaller and smaller in a marvelous way.


You can catch up with Christina and Gabi's Pittsburgh tour on Christina's blog here. I have lots of great places to explore now thanks to her.


(all but the first photo taken by Gabi Obert)

Perambulating Around Manhattan On Our Way To The Winery
or washing off Satan's stench

Okay, so what better way to stave off PTSD (Post Traumatic Shuttle Disorder) than spending a beautiful day wandering around lower Manhattan with a good friend.

This lightning fast trip to the Big Apple was bittersweet. Sweet because it's always a blast to hang out with Steph, no matter what city we end up in together. Bitter because it was the last adventure we'll have together in long time. Steph's life is about to change in a magnificent way. She's expecting her first child in September.

Between buying a new house, nesting for the new nipper and wrapping her head around this whole birthing thang, she's going to have little time to venture past her own playground. I am so excited for her!! She is going to be a great Mom. She's bright, compassionate, and grounded. (don't roll your eyes, Steph. you are.) She has an amazing wit and humor that will keep her sane. She's a modern chippie who won't let a baby stop her from living life on her terms. I envision her hooking her progeny on her hip and whisking him off for his first foray into the wonders of Manhattan in no time. And her child will be all the better for it.

Still, I'm going to miss her.

But wait, this is about the sweet part of our trip.

First things first...BREAKFAST!

We walked off the nausea (Steph had a wild ride herself) over the course of our trek to NoHo Star. This funky bistro offers vegan friendly fare including the delicious goat cheese and egg bruschetta I gleefully shoveled down my gullet.

(Insert food mantra here: Yuuummmmmmmmmmmmm...)

Anywho, we headed downtown to the 9/11 memorial in another nausea-inducing cab ride. What the hell? Clearly Satan's minions had placed a tracking device in our purses. ACK! We stumbled out of the cab... and directly into a bar.

Now before you get all nuts about pregnant girls drinking, let me explain. One of the positives about palling around with a future momma is she has a frequent need to tinkle, but you can't just waltz into an establishment to use the facilities and leave. They kinda get pissy about that. Ergo, one must purchase something at said bar. That's where I come in to order a tall, cool cocktail to preserve our place, or stall as it might be. And Dude, this joint had Tito's as their house vodka. Winning.

make mine a double
i'm drinking for two

Let it be said, I'm always willing to take one for the team.

After our short pit stop, we ventured over to the memorial. After weaving through the long line at security, we were let out on the grounds.


Okay. I know. I'm weird, but the steady snake of this line fascinated me. So sue and/or bite me.


The two foot prints of the North and South towers are filled with deep pools of rushing water, whose roar blocks out all the city noise, allowing one to get lost in one's thoughts. The monuments are well thought out, listing the names of each of the fallen by category on an easy to locate grid: firefighters, policemen, passengers and employees. They even included the names of the victims from the initial bombing in 1993.

It was incredibly moving watching family members etch the names of loved ones with pencil on paper. A sobering tribute to those innocent people caught in the cross fire of irrational hatred. And yet there were people standing in front of the pools, smiling broadly for photos.

Really? Really people?

Geo and I encountered similarly inappropriate reactions in Dallas at the "X" in the street marking the fatal gunshot of President Kennedy's assassination.

I don't get it. People are totally clueless assholes.

Meanwhile, another potty break (and cocktail) later and we motored back to SoHo in a mercifully calmer cab ride. Lucifer must have been on his smoke break. It was after 3pm when we got back to the hotel, and did something really crazy...

We both, wait for it... took a NAP.

Woo Hoo! Call the Po Po coz we outta control, yo.

I woke up in an unattractive puddle of drool, but Lord Almighty, it. was. BLISSFUL. I was ecstatic when Steph confessed she needed a time out. I had been up since 3:30am and was running on some serious fumes, but I didn't want to seem like a lame old fart.

Question: Why did I ever want to quit taking naps as a kid? Seriously. What the hell was wrong with me? These things are awesome. AWESOME, I say! Naps need to be reincorporated into the work day much like the trolley cart of liquors, two hour lunches and an afternoon dance break.

Rejuvenated, we walked a block to the reason for this trip...a Rhett Miller solo show at the City Winery. I know. It's ridiculously redundant, but what can I say? His shows are worth the 400 mile journey. Something special always happens there.

This time the cherry atop this musical sundae was the opener, fellow Texan Salim Nourallah. Salim is a first rate producer who helmed the last three Old 97's CDs as well as Rhett's last solo effort. He is perhaps the sweetest, gentlest man on Earth. Unbelievably nice and approachable. He's also a talented singer/songwriter in his own right. His newest collection of works, Hit Parade, was fan-funded through PledgeMusic and it is stellar. More and more artists like Ian McCullouch of Echo and the Bunnymen, Luscious Jackson and Juliana Hatfield are utilizing this site to maintain complete control over their music. If you're a music fan, it's worth a look. You never know who is going to show up on there asking for your support.

Anywho, unlike Mr. Miller's commanding, full-throttle delivery, Salim has a quieter stage presence. Perhaps taking a cue from Rhett's stylebook, his latest songs are substantive, darker tales set to catchy pop rhythms. A formula that is seductive and satisfying for the listener.

It's too bad the crowd was so fucking ignorant to take the time to listen to him. Jesus H. Christmas! For once there was a terrific opener, and they would not SHUT THE FUCK UP. I had to check my GPS to make sure we hadn't accidentally transported to Dallas-land of the rude Mutha EFers. Because of their trivial chatter, clever imagery like this went completely over their heads.

And then the Fall gives way to Winter
You're standing in your favorite coat
The sleeve is ripped, it doesn't fit you anymore
Another thing you love outgrown...
I'm so in love with my
Goddamn Life 



Or this teriffic tune, Unstoppable, about his spirited five year-old son, Gavin. (The recorded version has an amazing drum line by John Dufilho.)




The only time they remotely paid attention was when Rhett joined his friend on stage for 1978.




It's great fun to see these old friends enjoying each other's company on stage doing what they love.

Side Note: Salim brought his lovely wife, Jayme with him. She an accomplished children's photographer and a blogger and hilarious. This witty mother of two is irreverent, calls her kids assholes because they can be and swears... a lot. She's right up my alley. As quiet and calm as Salim is, Jayme is boisterous and outgoing. I love her. She's delightful. It was a pleasure meeting her.

Moving on...

The lovely blue-eyed one finally took the stage and plowed through a 22-song master setlist with his signature verve, working up a drenching sweat by the fourth song. The sold out crowd was treated to an eclectic sampling of old classics, rarities, a couple of covers, a handful of new soon-to-be-favorites from his upcoming release in June and one lame joke about a Cadillac and pussy precipitated by a broken string.




Oh, and then there was this.




I had heard of women in past audiences stepping up to the plate to sing the girlie part of Fireflies, but I have never witness such a thing in person. Honestly, I'm okay with never seeing it again. I prefer him being both the babe and the boy.

This girl, Misty from the table next to us leapt at the chance to take a turn at the duet in front of God and everyone. She was pretty good. She actually knew all the lyrics. I give her a lot of credit for having the stones to share a mic inches away from that trademark mole. That alone would have wiped my memory clean. Even if I could carry a tune, I'm sure I would have inadvertently concussed him with a spazzy head-butt, let fly a big-ass loogie in his now blinded blue eye or at the very least, melted his face with my demonic, roadkill-fueled breath. Ack!

Normally I record more of Mr. M's shows, especially the banter, but this night I just wanted to hang out, sing along loudly (and badly-sorry table mates) and absorb the evening. I did, however, have the foresight to capture his energetic performance of Tom Petty's Free Falling.




I know I'm biased, but he's one hell of an entertainer.

Rhett learned this song for a performance he was to do in Minneapolis for NPR called Wits at the Fitz. It's a show in which a comedian (SNL's Tim Meadows) is paired with a singer (RM) to verbally spar, field questions from the host and perform topical skits, this evening's bit being the reading of Republican candidates Twitter feeds. Hilarious.

We got to listen to half of the hysterical live stream which included a whole lot more than the final edited version found here. Upcoming shows feature Paul F. Tompkins with Amiee Mann and Amy Sedaris with They Might Be Giants.

Before I knew it, it was 5am and I was on another shuttle sent from the eleventh circle of Hell heading for home and husband with another memorable New York experience tucked under my belt.

Setlist for 3/23/12 

(for those who care about such things)

State of Texas 

My Valentine

The El

Buick City Complex

This Ain't Love (??- new song on upcoming CD)

No Baby I

Champaign, Il

You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome (Bob Dylan cover)

Marina (new song on upcoming CD)

Big Brown Eyes

Nobody Says I Love You

Melt Show

Let the Whiskey Take the Reins

Fireflies

Out of Love (new song)

Nineteen

Barrier Reef

Sleepwalking (new song)

Cryin' Drunk

No Simple Machine

Every Night Is Friday Night (without you)

Our Love

encore

Free Falling (Tom Petty cover)

Come Around 

Time Bomb     

The end  boo :( 

In Which Beelzebub Drives A Super Shuttle Van

Okay, you know the economy is in a serious down turn when the Dark Lord himself takes a part-time job driving an airport hack. And guess what...

He drives like a fucking KENNEDY!

No shit. Thank the baby Jesus we didn't go near any shallow slips of water.

No sooner had I plopped my posterior on the worn, over-occupied seat, he punched the gas and sent the Chariot of Fiery Death swerving into traffic, only to slam on the brakes 50 yards away to pick up another damned soul for transport into Manhattan. Good thing I still have cat-like reflexes because I nearly bounced off the door. I was never so glad to strap on a seat belt in all my wretched life.

I swear I saw Lucifer's eyes glow red with delight in the rearview mirror.

FYI-Satan is a demonic little shit with shaggy, dark hair and 70s porno mustache who refuses to drive in a straight line.

What should have taken one hour, became a grueling two hour journey rounding turns on two wheels, flying down narrow streets, braking at the last minute for crossing canines. (Apparently even the Prince of Darkness has a soft spot for the adorableness of dogs. Who knew.)

Blech!

Up next... MY BREAKFAST!!

As if this erratic ride couldn't get any worse, the van had a major funk all it's own. It was epic, Dude. A lethal combination of ass, crotch rot... and the irrefutable stench of lost hope.

And then he unwrapped another one of these sickeningly sweet bad boys.

yeah...that'll take care of the Zombie smell

Sorry BeBe. Taint no amount of yellow pine-shaped air freshener gonna mask the fetor of the decaying human spirit.

(I said "taint". hee hee)

By the time I fell out of the door onto the hotel foot path, I had lost my will to live. I felt both relief and guilt watching the despair in the hollow eyes of the remaining travelers trapped in Mr. Toad's Wild Ass Shuttle Ride. I swear I could hear the echo of demonic laughter as the van lurched forward, cutting off a cabbie. This is why the Pope kisses the tarmac.

There was nothing Super about that Shuttle except the stench, nausea and regret.

Of Lawnmowers, Blossoms and Flip Flops? 
or the bizarre case of March of 2012

Okay, so once upon a time I actually updated this piece of narcissistic shite on a regular basis, but clearly even I got bored with the incessant whining...er, ramblings, thus leaving this virtual journal to die on the virtual vine.

In my rationalized defense, I choose to ignore my accountability (much like the current Republican party) and place the blame on the most glorious March in the history of my post-fetal life. How could I possibly sit inside chronicling the minutiae of my mundane life when it has been consistently in the upper 70s and 80s during what is traditionally a schizophrenic, hot mess of a month?

This has been the best winter EVAH!

That's my story anyway. Seriously. If this winter stood upright and had opposable thumbs, I'd marry it. That's how much I am in love with the last three months.

St. Pattrick's Day
80 degrees + rivers of green beer + three-man sling shot
= drunken merriment
and beads in the eye

Global warming or not, if our winters continue to be this pleasant, Geo and I won't have to become the stereotypical Snow Birds landing at the time share in Boca in our feeble old age, thus sparing future generations from the horrific sight of another leathery, old Northern broad's saggy knee caps, flapping triceps and unnatural flaming red hair bobbing in the pool.

warm enough to pull out the hogs...
motorcycles, you jack holes
(is it just me, or does this remind anyone else of
Pee Wee's Big Adventure and the cool-big shoes dance?)

For once all the daffodils actually burst forth in bloom on the first day of Spring. Unheard of in these northern parts. Besides the warm temps, full-on sunshine and longer days, everyone is just... so... happy. None of the usual, God-I-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-eye-if-this-GD-snow-doesn't-stop sentiment brought on by the relentless, abhorrent 31 days of January. Nosiree, Bob. It's all Cinderella-happy up in here with cartoon birds lacing up our skirts an' shit.

All week I've been wearing shorts, tees and flip flops. People are dining al fresco and busting out the grills.

people catching some rays and chewing on the
breakfast meats in Market Square
circa March 19, 2012

In March. In Pittsburgh. Ca-RAY-ZAY.

our plum trees bursting forth
and filling the air with the intoxicating, sweet scent of spring

The trees are in full bloom a full month and half ahead of schedule. For once the Magnolias didn't get burned up from a killing frost. Hell, even the crazy Carney ice cream man broke out the pedophile truck and made the rounds last weekend, blasting his insipid tunes to lure all the youngsters.

All week I've been wearing shorts, tees and flip flops. In March. In Pittsburgh.

Holla!!

And then today came the first true sound of spring... not one, not two, but three lawnmowers in cacophonic harmony making the first cuts of the season.

On March 22.

What. The. Eff?

I am NOT complaining. Not. At. All.

Okay, one complaint.
this tree smells like ASS, yo.
trust me. you don't want to scratch and sniff
this bad boy

If this year is the Mayan End-of-Days, at least we get to go out with a lovely taste in our mouths.

Kooking Around
or a little Brit Pop hits the spot

Okay, so I have been really lucky to see a ton of terrific bands perform live, but there is a short list of bands (domestic and foreign) still on my wish list: The Shins, Vampire Weekend, Phoenix, Pete Yorn and the Kooks just to name a few. Fortunately for me and my concert sidekick, Mary Ann-ski (MA), we can both scratch the last set of lads off our lists.

I've loved their particular innocuous form of Brit Pop ever since hearing the ridiculous catchy Naive play for the first time on the radio. It hearkens back to my love of all bands from British Isles like the Cure and The Smiths only more bouncy and lighthearted.

So on Tuesday, I just happened to be outside yakking to a friend of mine, when The Kooks (on tour in support of their latest effort, Junk of the Heart) rolled up to the South Side studios of WYEP in a non-descript panel van for a lunch time concert. The door slid open and four lanky English boys tumbled out, sleepily scratching their unruly mop-topped heads. Even though they were clearly travel-weary, these young men still took the time to say hello and chat briefly before heading inside.

OMG, so cute in their little hipster doofus, pegged-leg pants, mismatched shirts and English accents, especially bass thumper Pete who was the only one old enough to sprout facial hair. And a fine beard it was.

You had me at 'Allo.

Seriously, anything sounds more intelligent spoken in an English accent, a cereal box, a Black-Eyed Peas lyric, the nonsensical Republican political platform...

Okay, maybe not that last one. Nothing could make that ridiculous ideology sound remotely reasonable. But I digress...

The bleary-eyed trio sang three of their best songs including Ooh La, then a funny thing happened during their interview. The lead singer, Luke Pritchard, lost his ability to enunciate. Or perhaps he was being possessed by the not-dead-yet spirit of Bob Dylan. I could not understand a word he uttered. Seriously. Not. One. Word. He totally needed subtitles. At first I thought it was my dinosaur ears grinding to a halt, but then both MA and Geo made the same complaint.

Standing amongst the toddlers at Mr. Small's that night, MA and I did a mental high five when the surrounding diaper-clad tykes sported cartoon question marks around their heads when Luke took to the stage and spoke in mumbled tongues.

Luke: MURMERMURMERmumblemumbleharumphhmumble, PITTSBURGH! Mrmsufajfhgas!!
Crowd: Yay?

Okay, that's kind of misleading considering the cacophony of ear-piercing, girlie squeals emanating from the crowd every time Lukey boy spoke, gestured or strut across the stage. The din was reminiscent of the original mop-topped fab four's American debut.

Note: It's weird being the geriatric in the crowd. Weird and unsettling. Like being a chaperon at your imp's school crepe paper, bump-and-grind dance, only with an unlimited supply of liquor, which, when you think of it, is the only way to survive chaperoning a hideous high school gym soiree.

Arms length, Mother F**ker. *hiccup*

But I digress, yet again...

As sleepy and subdued as they were at the radio station, they were wide awake and Red-Bulled up on stage. There was a foot-high platform at the front of the stage on which the lanky lead singer would leap and strut his thin frame about like Mick Jagger, inciting raucous squeals with every chicken-arm pump.

(Clearly I am the Queen of the almighty hyphen today. What of it, beeyatch.)

Behold the chicken-arm strut:



PS: the acoustics kinda blow at Mr. Small's. FYI

PPS: what's going on in those pants, junior?

Schwing!

The investigative skills of MA uncovered the 27 year-old singer dated Mick's daughter, Georgia and lists Dylan as one of his biggest influences. And so it all makes sense now.



Anywho... The concert did not disappoint. They paraded out nearly all of the best of their catalog, Mr. Maker, Always Where I Need To Be, Love it All, Shine On, Ooh La, She Moves In Her Own Way, a lovely solo rendition of Seaside, Junk of the Heart (Happy) and ending with a rousing Naive.



Check another band off of the list. It was definitely worth the wait for this Brit Pop sensation to roll through town. Big fun had by all, even if our T-Rex dino arms were too short to sip our cocktails. That's what long straws are for, yo.

On Being a Guy's Girl 

or you can call me Elaine Benes 

Okay, so I am not your typical frou frou, fancy-schmancy, delicate flower of girl. 

Not. In. The. Least.

I know. You're surprised, right?

By now you realize I'm more of a jeans-wearing, hockey-loving, potty-mouthed, loud-talking, cocktail-swilling, non-athletic-spazzy tomboy who enjoys belching, bawdy jokes and the company of boyish men. 

You know, a guy's girl, just like Elaine Benes from Seinfeld only, unlike Elaine, I DO have girlfriends...

who like to burp and curse and make off-colored remarks.

If it wasn't for me wee boobies and va-jay you'd think I was a dude. Thank Jehovah I don't have man-hands to go with the yeti beard, because THAT would just be sick, yo. 

Case in point, when someone in the control room at the Special K utters an unintentional double entendre like "how long is Ralph's package?", "Just stick it in, Slie", or "insert Johnson",  the Technical Director screams MURRAY!! knowing full well I'll exclaim the obligatory "that's what she said" with the proper verve. Twelve-year-old boy humor abounds with prevalent banter about banana hammocks, absolute ball room and getting punched in the baby maker. 

Wow. When I write it down on virtual paper, we kinda sound like a bunch of a-holes. 

But back to me...

I get sent all manner of hysterical, questionable material from my peeps. Stuff like...

nothing says  I Love You like some free porn
and carbs

excessive liquor CAN lead to bungholes
(the more you know)

Oh Anthony. How I've missed your headlines

can you say Viagra?

how unfortunate

braggart

And perhaps my favorite:

Is it wrong I love that they think of me first when they spot gems like these?

It's my absolute favorite thing about being an anti-femme. I'm constantly getting the most HILARIOUS photos and shit from my favorite pinheads. I choose to believe my Momma, Big Mar is proud of her youngest who inspires such juvenile behavior frivolity...as she shakes her head and wonders where she went wrong.

Even Geo has picked up the gauntlet.

that's some talented taint

God, I love him. Are we meant for each other, or what? He suffers my mannishness with grace and aplomb... and Bloody Marys.

Vodka. holding marriages together for over 25 years

Yep. It's all fun and games until some

goes and sends me this...

that's gonna add a few years of therapy to the tally

the creepiest of creepy shit to scare ten years off my life, which in turn makes

And you don't want to piss off the pasta, man. Trust me. He's one baaaaaad Mutha.

Piloting Blind On A School Night
or Friday night music club

Okay, so it seems I'm always searching for new bands to add to my arsenal of iTunes. I'm generally a lyrics lover, but sometimes a band's sound strikes me, it's feel touching a part of my psyche. Fortunately for me, Pittsburgh has one of the finest public radio stations (WYEP) whose staff are adept at finding up and coming indie acts.

Several years ago, they started playing an ethereal band out of Oregon named Blind Pilot whose melodic nature struck a chord with me. They came into some notoriety for their 2008 bicycle tour in which they literally rode bikes to their gigs from Bellingham, Washington to San Diego, California, carting their gear in special bike trailers they fashioned themselves. I was excited to see them at Mr. Small's. Their music is light and rhythmic...and, as it turns out, not very varied. In fact, outside of the handful of semi-hits, it was downright monotonous. So much so, that we actually left early.

No shit.

In hindsight, the painfully looooooong set up break should have been a tip off. The delay went on for days. I am not even kidding. Hey, I'm old now. I don't have enough years left to waste that kind of time waiting for young hipsters to get their shit together backstage only to bore me to tears for forty minutes. All I can say is someone better have been puking his guts out or had explosive diarrhea to justify that wait.

The array of instruments on stage added an element of interest (banjo, harmonium, xylophone, stand-up bass, trumpet), but aside from a couple of energetic songs, the eclectic grouping of musical gadgetry did nothing to make this school night adventure sleep-deprivation worthy.

I realize by leaving early, we probably missed their best stuff, but c'mon! You gotta throw us a bone or two at the beginning, man! They weren't awful. They were just... boring, tedious, spiritless (insert your favorite adjective here). Even their stage presence was a flat line.

Meh.

Then to top it off, their cover was of Gillian Welsh's wretched Miss Ohio. ACK!!

This is one of the better songs. At least I got the opportunity to play with my 8 MM app on Xpro setting.



The pleasant surprise of the evening was the opening act, The Barr Brothers, a side project of the band The Slip. A fact learned from the very enthusiastic fan standing next to us. I LOVE when fans evangelize for their favorite bands. The kid next to us could not wait to tell us all about them and his devotion to them. His entire face lit up when he spoke of the greatness of the "best drummer EVER". He kept insisting my concert cohort, Mary Ann (who is diminutive) stand in front of him so she wouldn't miss any of the performance.

So cute. I totally get his desire to witness. Um... hello. How many posts on here are devoted to all things Old 97's/Rhett Miller?

Besides a harp and mandolin, the drummer had an peculiar assortment of percussion instruments: metal smoker, Indonesian wood chime... But the oddest thing of the evening was the lead brother running his finger along a deliberately loose guitar string which I neglected to film, natch.

By the way, for anyone attending, The Barr Brothers will be at SXSW this year. They'd be worth an afternoon listen.

Again, got to play with my new app, this time on 70s setting.



Oh well. Not the most riveting musical evening I've ever spent, but still a welcomed night out with a good friend just the same. Plus there was liquor, so there's that. There are three more shows on the horizon: The Kooks, Rhett Miller solo and Ingrid Michaelson. I KNOW the middle one will go way beyond expectation. I have high hopes for the other two. Now if we could schedule a Francis fix, life would be golden.