As a follow on to Joan's comment, I knew this was going to be an interesting night when the rather large but clearly uninitiated fellow manning the door informed me that, "there's a $5 cover tonight . . . you know, because of the band."
Ah yes, the band.
Then I went in and saw that, lo and behold, it was the Erin Express, with lots of kids who were barely standing up. Then, in a bar with 24 beers on tap I managed to score the only pint glass in the whole joint.
Next: where's Mario?
Next, Butchy walks in carrying a computer bag. I say to myself, "Self, what does he have in there?" We all know Butchy is known for bringing in interesting handmade objects for the stage, but what could this be? Turns out a notebook computer, complete with lyrics. Can a hand-tooled wooden computer desk for the stage be far behind? Starting to look like a Danish furniture showroom up there. So cool. A computer--as Raquel said, his Teleprompter. We're now in the 21st Century! What's next, tweets from band members between songs?
Then, Anders and I are discussing the room and the concrete, and the acoustics, and he mentions that we need a lot of people. Then tells me he's going to get a glass of wine. Well, when THAT happens you know this shit is ON.
And the place got packed pretty fast.
The show was amazing, even with the sound glitches at the start (which were actually more audible on the stage than in the audience, apparently).
The second set especially was tremendous though I missed the very end (anyone else have to get up for a 6 year old's birthday party? Anyone else get a 6 year old drunk by breathing on him?)
Very nice Splintered family showing, with a few notable absences. For those who bought me drinks, thank you. For those whom I offended--hmm, can there be any relation between these two things?--I really am sorry.
I hope we brought in enough people to get another gig, great venue.
Special thanks to Dashiki Joe for gettting the knot out of my back. I love you man. Not that way, however. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
It's an obsession but it's pleasin' . . .
