Last night I went to The Eagle Tavern to see Cash Hollow, featuring that freakishly cute Armon and my purdy friend Gayle, who, suckily enough, is moving to Rhode Island … I hate change!
They were playing back in the beer garden, which is arguably the best of its kind in the city, all prettied up with archetypal trees and wooden, tooth-shaped stools. As I basked there under the heat lamps and soaked up that amazing Cash Hollow sound (amplified acoustic guitar and beautiful lady voice), I felt as though I was in the middle of some warm, Southern state of mind (minus the fireflies, which admittedly is like hamburger without a bun, but whatever). Or maybe Knott’s Berry Farm back before it got depressing.
For one of the encores, Gayle’s sister got up there and they sang a Richard Thompson song together. The two of them just blew things up with that “eerie sister harmony” thing. If you’ve ever listened to the Andrew Sisters, and you should if only for their crazy song “I Want Some Seafood, Mama” (“When I get home late at night, I get my favorite dish … FISH!”), you know what I mean. The similarity of sibling vocal chords makes for an alarmingly rich and unified sound that just drills straight into the happy quadrant of your brain. Insane!
The opening act, The Hall Flowers, had that sister thing going on, too, only they also had a mom thing. A mom in a Harley-Davidson tee-shirt thing. So yeah, the cuteness was so thick, you could spread it on cake.
The Hall Flowers did some of their own tunes (the buck-toothed ode to the ice cream man was my favorite), plus some old standards, and even a Magnetic Fields number (which sounded better than original — yes, you heard it here). Of course I bought the shit out of their CD. Cash Hollow’s, too. And so should you!
The only thing that marred the evening was the Apple Pucker shot I got talked into at the bar (yes, Apple Pucker shot). We also had some trouble with a series of perimeter breaches. There was Patchouli Man, who perched himself right next to us (and you know how much I hate patchouli). He was the olfactory equivalent of the terrible woman who sat one table over at dinner. She had the most piercing, voluminous mom voice, and she used it to tear up the air with gems like, “You! Are! An! ANIMAL!” and “NOT!” So bad! And then there was the delicious and villainous piece of chocolate cream pie, which went down so smooth but, sadly, went out in a real blaze of glory. Why did you have to be that way? Why?
All in all, though, a lovely, foxed up evening, I tell you what.