photo courtesy of Drake LeLane
October 4, 2006 at The Showbox
Stage left, there is a slightly overweight man holding a guitar, chest-hair creeping from his worn V-neck. He has an afro that’s at least a foot high and a voice that may be two octaves higher than my personal falsetto range. Stage right – often stepping back to the amp to hit some more feedback into his guitar – is a fellow with shortly cropped yellow hair, yellow Bono-ish glasses and a very form-fitting black shirt made out of something like Spandex. He doesn’t just “play” guitar; he strums it with methodical insanity, as if the fate of the world depends on it. The bassist/keyboardist is strangely cut-off from the stage, hanging out at the far back left, glancing off every so often in the direction of the drummer. I’m not so sure the band even knows he’s there.
Continue reading