Worth More Than a Passing Glance ...

"It was not your fault but mine ...
I really fucked it up this time
didn't I my dear?"
-Mumford and Sons, Little Lion Man




The decrepit building is something out of Amityville horror, hidden on Summit St. amongst slum lord apartments and minute marts. The dingy hardwoood floors, crumbling finish, and black mold infestation are probably grounds for foreclosure. I had even heard tales that it was haunted by some former residents. Despite this, the front patio is inviting and when passing through the heavy wooden front door the first thing you notice is a life-size stop light set up behind the bar alternating between go, yield and stop. Chotskies hang from the ceiling and walls, covered with a decades worth of dust. Ruby Tuesday is a health inspector's worst nightmare at best but I have a soft spot for anything with miles, and this dive had its' share. It's also cash only. My first trip there I was the asshole waving his card around wondering why the bar tender wouldn't make eye contact. No one had warned me. He pointed to the ATM and I got the message. Luckily I'd remembered cash this time ...

I was there to see my buddy Mike's band. They called themselves The Glance and he played banjo in the six man ensemble. A $5 cover got you a copy of their new EP Matchmaker. The sound is assorted, mixing in acoustic/electric guitar and mandolin as well. They had a Cold War Kids vibe layered with the string instruments, giving it a Bluegrass after taste.

As I ordered a cold beverage there was a comedian on stage doing a bit about tripping, part of the nights entertainment. He had two stand-up spots, in-between set up for the bands. I'd seen him around town but never realized he was an aspiring artist. Sipping my beer I stood at the bar giving him a listen.

"So I ate a handful of mushrooms the other day ," he said. "I walked out my front door (starts humming the Super Mario Brothers music), crossed the street to get some cigs and fell down a manhole, dooo, dooo, dooo, dooo," (imitating the video game character squatting into a giant green pipe). I chuckled. He wasn't bad.

After a few more jokes I went outside for a smoke, where I ran into my friend Brett. We'd gone to high school together (same one as Mike ) and we were both there to root on our friend. Brett is one of the funniest people I know, manly because we share a similar sense of humor and because he's Jewish ... funnier to me as a people than gentiles. Obviously I'm biased, being half Jew myself but who's keeping track. We were discussing the dating scene and the pressure our mothers were putting on us to "met a girl and settle down", ( a Jewish mom ragging on her son, imagine that).

"It's terrible out there I tell ya," Brett said exhaling tobacco smoke. "The last date I went on was so bad, I almost sent her a bill." I laughed out loud. Now that's fucking funny. We went in and toasted with the house shot called a Trailer Park. Don't ask me how they get away with calling Kentucky Tavern and an RC cola chaser a house shot. I was familiar with KT and didn't mind but Brett was not a fan, tears swelling in his eyes after swallowing. He cursed me under his breath, so I order him a Tall Pibber to make amends.

They came onto stage with a sparse but growing crowd. It was the official release show so they played the EP top to bottom. I loved the build-up in Preen and Mike's Banjo work on Quiet and Poor but Happiness in Pills struck the loudest chord with me, ("In an age of pain ... we're hurting everyday ... consume our happiness in pills"). It had a disturbing but relevant message sung eloquently. They also mixed in an excellent cover of Hang Me Out to Dry. Lead singer Travis Bunner sounded just like Nathan Willett of CW Kids. He pranced around, barely taller than me with the help of the stage, not just hitting the notes, but giving them presence ... CRUCIAL for any front-man. A bow, and much applause.

They closed with another cover, Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons, a fast paced romp, perfect for their eclectic sound. I had never heard the song before but I was enthralled. By the end Mike was on his knees raking his hand across the banjo strings so fast I thought I saw smoke. I spun a lady on the dance floor as the crowd got loose to the rhythm. A few days later, after I downloaded Mumford's whole album, I was amazed how dead on his solo was. With just over twelve months on the instrument, Mike was a regular savant.

Afterwards, we all had a few more and stayed for the last act, Matt Monta and The Hot Coal Band. Monta reminded me of a much larger Anton Newcombe from Brian Jonestown Massacre ... similar voice and look. The band had a twist though ... cello. The player was beautiful, blond with quite large and perky tits. She played maracas and sang back-up as well. With ever shake and wail her wonderfully perfect breasts giggled just right. Definitely not implants. She was my dream woman. I was in love, if only for the night. One line they sang really caught my attention ... "Every man has his price and we're always for sale." I wonder if she had a price as well. I finished off my Tallboy and made a trip to the basement bathroom.

Stifling odors of mildew and piss. Crypt-like; a very large, dimly lite room with junk piled up against one wall, and two red doors. The only signs of life were faint voices and footsteps from above. Ducking through the one with a little man, I realized I was the only person down there. The temperature seemed to instantly drop five degrees. Looking around at the aged wooden walls it began to feel like I was in the belly of a pirate ship, a slow trickle from the urinal sounding like seawater leaking through the hull. I was starting to believe the joint really was haunted. How many people had lived, drank, even died inside its' walls, possibly in this very room? If something happened, could anyone hear me scream? Zipping my fly, I hurried upstairs to join my friends, looking over my shoulder along the way, a feeling of someone watching raising the hair on the back of my neck.


-J.R.