Take Friday, November 3, for instance. At 9:00 p.m. my friend Kim and I left the Hill and drove out to Yee Oldee Townee to check out Sushi Robo and Sunset Valley, a favorite band of mine from Portland. They were playing at the Tractor, whose doorman was a delight and whose bartender should win some kind of an award for thoughtfulness. Seated at the bar, and not too jazzed on the openers, Kim and I informed the bartender we'd be back later and left our nearly finished beverages on the bar. We went to Hattie's for a bite, then returned to the Tractor and back to the bartender to order some more beverages. Do you know what that lovely man did when he saw our familiar faces? He opened the refrigerator and handed us the unfinished bevs we had left behind! Who does that? Most bartenders are happy to rip the drinks right out of your hand before you've even finished, but this angel actually saved them. "This night is sprinkled in pixie dust," I said to Kim. She agreed.
Sushi Robo is fronted by a former member of the Posies who always wanted to play guitar and now not only gets to, but is the frontman as well. They play shimmer rock for effects geeks, and I think I counted over 20 pedals on the stage during their set. Near the end, the crowd was beginning to get boisterous, and I was reminded that the Tractor is one of the few rock clubs in town where the audience is prone to spontaneous fits of dancing.
Next up was Sunset Valley, fronted by the talented Herman Jolly, who must shower daily in pixie dust because he's just the nicest, sexiest, most sparkling guy around. Jolly was anything but, however, when he left the stage--with four songs left on the set list--because the crowd was yakking so loudly he couldn't even hear himself sing. I saw him turn his monitor and amp up three times trying to drown out the noise, but finally he just gave up, swearing to never play the club again. Pixie dust be damned.
The next night at the Sunset wasn't much better. Stubble, fronted by Stranger music editor Jeff DeRoche (I know: toot-toot), played their first show that night, and while even I wasn't expecting them to be any good (actually, it was one of the better debuts I've seen), that didn't mean everyone had to stand 50 feet back from the stage and play cruise-o-rama during the entire set. I know my date was a hottie, but Jesus! Would you shut up about it already? There's a band on the stage, for God's sake. Poor Muy Triste, one of my new favorite bands... you could barely hear them either. Here's what I have to say to you, Ballard: SHUT YOUR BIG, FLAPPING MOUTHS.
