I lost the post-it note. It was stuck to a banana peel I cast on my desk when hastily emptying my bag on the way out the door earlier in the day. Had I relied on the Note to Self, my evening wouldn't have included the bonus of an impromptu Club Passim attendance. So I'm grateful for the fruit.
I go to shows by myself when no one will come play with me. I actually prefer it sometimes. Though I do love company, there's something liberating in going just for the music. Not worrying about someone else being tired or bored or not GETTING IT -- or even worse, itching to leave because they have work in the morning and don't understand the necessity of sacrificing sleep in the wake of an indulgent encore. I also don't have to try and make conversation over the chaos of the joint, so I can slip into my predatory role as People Watcher.
So last night I'm especially glad I took to the streets alone, since I lost the post-it note, and I didn't have to drag anyone else into my brainfart. I left work gaily in search of Josh Ritter at Club Passim in the Hav'd Squizz, and settled myself comfortably stage left. I quickly realized through the on-stage banter that Passim had no intention of hosting Josh Ritter last night, and an epiphany dawned, and I trotted over to the calendar on the wall and saw that Josh was actually playing later in the month. I simultaneously realized that the show was actually at T.T. the Bear's. I called to confirm, and since Josh wasn't going on until 11:30, I figured I'd stick around Passim and see what transpired.
Club Passim is the Cadillac of listening rooms. Impeccable sound, gentle lighting, smoke and alcohol-free, not a bad seat in the house, and the whole place smells like pesto. The aroma alone is worth the $12 cover. The first performer was a singer/songwriter named Michael Troy. At first I was put off by his vocal style which I found slightly unnerving, but then I realized it was comfortingly familiar. When I drew the line between him and Jeremy Enigk of Sunny Day Real Estate, I was filled with sudden fondness. This guy was obviously unlike Jeremy in every other way except this distinct phrasing and attack that no one else but me probably would have related; he's a 60-year-old folk singer. But his trembling and passionate voice won me over after two songs.
There are no distractions at Passim (if you so much as sneeze, everyone turns to glare), and I was able to just let go and listen. He grew on me with each song. By the time I got really into his set, it was over, and then I realized I liked him enough to want more so I bought a CD. The second performer was nothing to write home about; although he had miraculous guitar skills, his voice was grating and I get irritated when I can complete the lyrics based on the first three words. So I evacuated Passim and headed to T.T. the Bear's Place, nestled in the crack den of Cambridge that is Central Square.
I won't bitch about T.T.'s because I bitch enough about venues. It's fucking hot. It's filthy. It's loud. The sound sucks. But come on, Josh Ritter was there. So, Josh. *Sigh.*
Josh always looks like he's got the world's biggest secret, and he's about to tell you. I never know what to do with myself. He comes out on stage, looking at the audience like a kid on Christmas. "Gee, thanks all of you for coming." He seems genuinely surprised to see us standing there, packed house, beer bottles raised in salute. Everyone in the audience adores him. He's almost blushing with gratitude. He plays his beat-up six string and sings the country songs I never thought I'd be caught dead listening to. As a matter of fact, I thought my dad would have a heart attack when I gave him Josh's new CD for Father's Day, and told him that he was one of my favorite local musicians. All my dad remembered was me at age 15, angry-goth and sulking over his musical selection in the pick-up truck, fuming to the Cure under my headphones. I'm grateful my taste has expanded and that I can approach music open-mindedly because I'm liking a lot of sounds I never would have thought I'd enjoy. Particularly the ones that remind me of waitressing at the 76 Truck Stop in Branford when I was seventeen.
Josh was playing with a full band, which is an occasional treat because I've seen him playing solo a lot. The last show at Lilli's was a real tease since he was opening up for a big name singer, and only got 45 minutes, and no one there knew who he was or that they should shut up during Chelsea Hotel #2. I lose it every time he plays that song. I stand helplessly enthralled, arms limp at my sides, weeping like a child. I am wary of musicians who cover Radiohead or Leonard Cohen, because there are just some songs that should be left reverently alone. But Josh cradles Chelsea Hotel like he's holding some brilliant and delicate bird, off in his head, eyes closed and smiling with respect like he's singing to Leonard himself.
I was trying to pay attention while the boys were setting up on stage because I watched incredulously as an organ was folded out of a suitcase, but I couldn't make head nor tail of it. It was opened from a box, and the box folded under, and keys and a little wind hatch, and the distinct sound that I'd heard on his recent album. I'm definitely going to have to do some research on the topic because I'd be psyched if I could get my hands on an organ that fits in the overhead compartment.
Needless to say, the show was great. The whole atmosphere was priceless and in stark contrast to the aloof Lilli's show -- and even the cool respect of his last two Passim shows; everyone was drunk and dancing and singing and proclaiming their undying devotion to the cherub-faced blond boy singing songs about trains. He played all my favorites and then some, and then everything else too. It was a long set. At the encore, he returned to the stage, amazed and thoroughly entertained by the audience. Sometimes it seems like he only comes to the shows to see us. "Hey you guys. Jeez. Thanks so much. This is so much fun." I just want to make him breakfast, you know?
Josh Ritter is playing out again soon, but I won't plug his upcoming show because it creates a conflict of interest with one of my other favorite local bands who is playing a long-awaited show the same night. So instead I will recommend that you pick up a copy of The Golden Age of Radio, have a seat on the porch swing, take off your cowboy hat, and watch the fireflies remember to do exactly what they're supposed to do.
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