Joy & Release

Last night was the record release show for Leo Blais's Beethoven Never Heard This. The event at Bill's Bar was doubly wonderful. First, if I hadn't gone, it would have taken me an additional three days to discover that my car was missing. Second, the show itself cured me of all the demons poisoning me this week. Well, the ones that can be cured by a good show at least. There are topical treatments for the others.

The car problem is infuriating and I won't waste too many words on it other than to say that I realized when leaving for the show that my Altima wasn't in the neighborhood and easily could have been missing for days. I knew it was either stolen or towed, so we jumped in Cindy's car and drove to the show because we were going to be late.

We park Cindy's car on Newbury to walk over to Lansdowne Street and she and I are laughing hysterically because I forget the route. I lived in Kenmore Square for four years -- between Lansdowne and Newbury Street -- but it's all very confusing sober. Hand me a bottle of Jose Cuervo and I'm sure my feet would find it on their own, like a lost dog running home.

We get to the club around ten o'clock, and the place is so packed we can barely get in the door. The opening band is still on stage. Bill's is a decent sized venue. I haven't been there in years, since my friends' band came up from CT to play and we hung out in the dressing room sharing illicit substances with this trio of crazy UK rockers -- the lead singer of which was wearing a chartreuse rubber cat suit that he said his grandmother made for him. Anyway. Things have changed at Bill's a bit.

We are squished against the back, in the entrance by the merch booth. Cindy isn't havin it, so she tells me to follow her up toward the front, through the cheering and dancing throng. I don't maneuver well in small crowded spaces. I broke my ankle recently and my balance isn't ship shape. She is, literally, a foot shorter than I, so she slips unnoticed between everyone. At six feet tall, I am genetically predisposed to standing at the back of the room at shows, seeing happily over everyone's heads. But I follow her up. The sound is better at the front of the room anyway.

The band on stage is good, a Highly Marketable Rock Band, and we enjoy their last few songs. Often it's tough for me to pay attention to openers. It's awful, but sometimes I'm like, "hurry the fuck up and get off the stage," no matter how engaging they may be.

Once they clear out, I survey the stage in my ritualistic pre-show inventory, overwhelmed by the veritable playground of instruments lying around, being tuned, strung, sound checked. Electric Wurlitzer, xylophone, congas, electric violin, harmonica, chimes, bells, flute, trumpet, plus your traditional acoustic and electric guitar, bass, drums… and I stop stage right. That is not a theremin. That is not a theremin. Leo Blais is not going to play a theremin in his rock and roll.

He has a theremin.

I point to it in disbelief, hand quivering. My friend asks for clarification. A theremin is this weird instrument from the early 1900's that emits frequencies changed by hand motions. You play it without touching it. It's that wavering, trippy sound of sci-fi movies from the 50's. You dance with it and it sings to you.

I am both awed and jealous. Technical details like that make my head throb.

They are taking forever to set up, so we have plenty of time to check out the crowd. People are excited. There's a mad energy in the club. There are definitely a couple of parents in the house. "So proud of my boy!" That's one of the best parts of a record release -- it's not just a show. It's The Show. The one we've all been waiting for -- the one the artist dreams about. Like your birthday; the one day a year you get to be the center of attention. And Cindy and I keep turning around to marvel at the size of the crowd.

Leo and his band start playing without introduction or fanfare, and the cheering and dancing begin immediately. It's a freakin party, and they are playing very large rock. It fills me. It sounds very little like his subway performances and is bigger and harder than the record. I think it's the guitar in the forefront. And I've always been a fan of acoustic guitar played over loud electric and drums.

Leo's voice is incomparable and, I think, the strongest part of the performance. I've talked about this before, but I'm not a fan of those lazy writers who rely on "…like Band X meets Band Y" comparisons. Even using a shoddy analogy of that sort, I'd be hard pressed to find someone who sounds like him. His voice is at the same time joyous, warm and sorrowful, and his melodies are unique.

The band cycles through the huge supply of toys on stage, percussionist peeping his head above the congas and shaking little bells. There is both plaintive and prancing piano. The electric violin lends a sweetness to the edgy rock, and the violinist plays with the finger-plucked technique that sounds a bit like elegant banjo.

I love that the band encorporates so many instruments, carts them all the way there, sets them up, only to use them for 30 seconds during one song. But the details complete that song so you couldn't imagine hearing it without the nuance of flute, the half minute of pulsating theremin. I love it. I love it.

Through the whole thing, the audience is right there with the band. They are dancing, singing -- they know all the words. To be in the middle of it is something else. I've been to a stream of moody emo shows and sedated folk performances lately, and it's adrenaline-inducing to be bouncing around with a roomful of exuberant fans. After they play the hearty piano tune "Oh Girl," the applause is thunderous and for a minute the venue feels enormous. It's nuts. The shouts and stomping continue for several minutes after the last song, chants demanding "one more!", but the club has already turned on the house lights.

Endearingly, Leo looks completely blown away by the experience. Seeing all of us there, he is honestly amazed and filled with gratitude -- shaking his head, trying not to smile so excessively. That kind of reception at a record release must feel like more than just your birthday -- maybe like getting a car on your sixteenth. I can only imagine.

Still buzzing from the show, I remember my missing car thing. When I come out of the police station, Cindy is playing Leo's CD she just bought. We have violated the 24 Hour Rule twice in one day; I had listened to the album that morning. I insist, "No! You can't do that. You have to wait 24 hours before or after a show!" But neither one of us turns it off.

I found my car. Pat's Towing earned $150 last night.