Cave Singers (photo: Ian Young)
Dead car. Forced converse regarding new lazy foodie apps. Ambulance called for a biker’s wheel caught in the trolley tracks. Lyft driver proclaiming Ed Lee’s money-sucking toad-nature and disdain for Valencia Street. Ah yes, you know it’s going to be a good show when all these things happen on the way — spawning a hungry soul with an appetite for rock. And beer.
Jacob Golden: The indie singer/songwriter left his folk-filled heart on the stage one ’60s-style croon at a time. His pure vocals, unexpected melodies and genuine words engaged listeners to the point of silence as they fully took in the uniqueness of this golden man.
Foxtails Brigade: This eccentric, sub-cultural, prog-rock-meets-noir theatre group is unlike anything you’ve heard. I promise. Perhaps my favorite of the night. I couldn’t tell what I was more intrigued by — the sick Spanish guitar licks by tiny frontwoman Laura Weinbach, whose alter ego may or may not be a frightening coin-operated girl, or an aggressive gay man or maybe the unconventional drum set or the horrifying shrieks dispersed into electric violin (teeth possibly involved). It’s no wonder when chatting with Laura after the show she explained “not everyone gets this music, but when it gels, it gels.” The production was not only experimental and unique — it was tight, with each musician perfectly fitting their part.
Current Swell: I wasn’t sure if they could pull it off, but this Canadian feel-good roots-rock group turned a crowd of urban city slickas a little bit country. Although a lot of their sounds felt borrowed, they came out swinging hard and kept that energy throughout with G-Love-esque groove, Tom Petty-esque bluesy vocals and impressive solos by a man-bunned harmonica player. Out of all of the bands, Current Swell moved people the most to care free dancing. Super-fun band worth seeing twice!
The Cave Singers: This three-piece band from Seattle fascinated me for a lot of reasons — the high-registered, gritty vocals of front man Peter Quirk mixed with carefree, at times shimmying, tambourine intermissions, and the wildly skillful ripping of electric player Derek Fudesco, arguably the core of the band, who sat hunched over his craft, sporting high-tops with holes in his sock, to name a few. Energy was high and so were the people (on marijuana cigarettes). The songs were raw enough, with a certain sense of anguish to balance that energy, leaving listeners moving yet introspective.