April 12th at Silent Partner
June 2, 2003 Oh, No, Blog! (A Blog)

Poor Richard's been getting a rep of late.  Starting with small sets (they began with limited material), they been building a following around town.  I hadn't caught on yet.  When people start getting all messianic about music I usually turn away.  It's the kind of thing that means someone's found something so unexpected and unique that they're going love it for fifteen minutes and no one else will.

So arrived at the club with some trepidation.  I mean, it wasn't for nothing that I'd avoided Silent Partner since my ex and I had essentially pulled knives on each other after he found me in the bathroom with his best friend.  Yeah.  I was wrong.  But it had kept me out of the club for a while.  Which meant --surprise, surprise -- entered to find a whole new decor.  It was like I'd never been there before!

The PR fans were all waiting up by the front, knees all turned toward the stage as they waited expectantly for the band to come out.  Yeeee-uch.  You know what I mean?  The rest of us sat back nursing drinks.  We all knew.  We all knew we were here to see the "hot" new band.  There was kind of a grudge energy going on.  Like, "Oh, yeah, you think these guys are so hot?  Well, we're going to pretend we don't even care."

The band started a little late.  Which gave me an excuse to go play "Hello, Sailor!" with a surfer dude up from L.A.  We were just in the midst of our conversation when I heard the crowd shuffling. "Godammit," I thought as my new friend turned his attention from me toward the stage.  I followed his gaze and the first thought I had was, "The lead singer is as hot as everyone says."  (Though, I gotta admit, Abigail Quincy, on keyboard, was prettier by my book.  I just think a little restraint in a girl is sexy.)

But it was Jeff Randolph who took my heart.  All lanky and shy and obviously only there to protect his lyrics from man-handler Adam Boylston.

And then they started to play.

You know how I'm really chatty and need to keep interrupting every fifteen seconds to make sure nothing of significance ever actually happens. (You people who know me -- you know what I mean!)  Well, I didn't have another thought in my pretty little head for the next thirty five minutes.  Not once did I want to get back into the conversation with the my hunky shark bait from L.A.

The music of Poor Richard is tricky.  It's raw and loud... beating itself into you with the force of a nail gun.  But at their core they're all love songs.  It's like the play we all had to read in high school... Spoon River Anthology, where every dead person who's ever lived in that town gets to come out and say what they most loved about life, or were sad about, or whatever.

You never realized how connected you were to every other person on the planet till you heard these people playing.  Because you're thinking, "yes, this is me."  And then you realize... Everyone in this room is thinking, "This is me," too!

The bridge for Arson for Beginners was especially astounding:  lifting us all at the last second, like an old fashioned balloon, all gently like, letting us all rise and see our lives from a whole new perspective... just before crashing and burning, plummeting us back down to earth without warning to a fiery death.

I swear, I wanted to call everyone I'd ever loved that night and remind them how much they meant to me.

See 'em soon if you can.  Good things never last long.  

May 3rd at Toole's
June 15, 2003 Paper Nailes (A Zine)

Caught 'em last week.  A new sound.  Sort of what I always thought rock and roll was supposed to be about but had never actually heard.  The drummer was especially out of control, eyes on fire whenever he looked up from his kit.  The lead singer's HOT.  But the main thing is this:  I just wanted to hear them.  They played together, not to each other, but to us, united.  It was like they knew had something to offer.  When they hit their third song we were all on our feet, the notes sinking into our chest and lifting us up like the bubble stuff out of Willie Wonka.

Their music sank into me like memories that I've never had, but as I was driving home, seemed like mine.

They don't have an album out yet.  But look for it.  I hear Lyn Folger's producing it -- she did Rat's Ass and Mocha Choca's albums last year and you know how they turned out.