Emily Jane White
not pictured here: singing cellist and singing violinist

Still hating yourself for abusing the ever available food-as-music trap in your journalism, Gus? Me too!

Have you ever had the Maple Pecan Granola from Trader Yo’s? She’s a good one, a really, really good one, let me tell you. And if I said to you on the bus or in line for the movies or at the ballpark eating franks, “Hey, you should try the Maple Pecan Granola” you might NOT just hurry off and go sample it right away just ’cause I said. Understandable; but, perhaps, then, a mental note be generated; and but see a brown box of Maple Pecan Granola from Trader’s Yo some time later and you may find yourself remembering how delicious you heard it was. And get some. Nnn.

This is how it was for me with Emily Jane White’s music. This name. Emily Jane White, like a shade on the milky lips of fashion’s favorite folksters; a crowd on a Monday night at Cafe Du Nord 7/20/09, young men and women of the Neo-Victorian Age saying, “Yes, Emily Jane White, she is good, isn’t she?” No, I expected nothing, save a grrrrrrreat goodness out of her. And behold, this was to be that uncommon Maple Pecan night–Emily Jane White–as she delivered roundly, from chopsy finger-picking to dynamic arrangements to taut, expectant lyricism and all the untapped potential for serial-toned ferocity in her careful comportment at the keys–a deep red-orange bobcat of a certain mellow stripe in black skirts, well, behaving, if I may. . . .

The only thing that could’ve made Emily Jane White’s a more satisfying and righteously validated i.e. delicious performance would have been a gross metamorphosis of herself and the members of her a band (a singing cellist, a singing violinist, a lead/lap guitar, a bassist, and a longhair at the tubs, am i missing anybody) from a stageful of musicians to a stageful of loose Maple Pecan Granola spilling all over your bare grillis, -is. Spilt, the metaphor has now served its purpose, (and as for any consumptive allegory which might serve as a moralizing declamation upon the Neo-Victorians and their apparent desire to devour everything they see in dreams to include the tasty image of themselves) so let us tastefully depart and talk not of neighbors, but briefly of the evening’s headiner, Miranda Lee Richards of Los Angeles.

Good tunes, a serene quarter-note vocal vibrato, good work on the Old Manichaean Cross (blues harp/rhythm guitar), Miranda Lee Richards tied up in an alluring presence and made quite extra-nice with the help of a guy named Chris on lead guitar, pictured here.

Miranda Lee Richards Guitarist

Back to neighborly appreciation: Miranda impressed me most in her willingness to share with the audience her redundant appreciation for her neighbor Mr. Chris. He was going off after all. I should mention, too, that he showed up on crutches. Gamer! This man is a gamer! Remember his face if you see him on the SFO–LA Chinatown bus!

Over to your neighborhood Trader Yo’s, pick you up some White vinyl, some Richards vinyl, and too bad they don’t sell Cheetosâ„¢ in the shape of mp3 access codes, either. I would have purchased all that at the show, only let me find my excuse in my pocket here where I’m short on change for fare.