Last Night: New Year's Eve Cataclysm at Fitzgerald's
Devil, your name be "Michelada." Who else could I blame for a New Year's Eve that seems to exist only as flashes and sounds and 11 pages of barely legible notes? Let's piece together the night that was from the memories that remain...
Page 1 finds me finally inside Fitzgerald's, watching Buxton from just above the sound booth. The first thing that I've noted is that there are a ton of people here who were also at Teotihuacan, the source of these mind-erasing cerveza preparadas.
Is this a clue that the night was just a fabricated experience? A "Torta Recall," as I see indicated in my scrawled-stylus hand?
Buxton, a band who I have not seen since I shared a stage with them many years ago, has in that time become one of those "important" bands. And it's no surprise. They have taken the alt-country/Americana sound and wrapped it in an emo-indie flour tortilla... like the quesadillas that I now remember having with my micheladas.
Here and there lines typically reserved for the steel guitar cut through with the full force of guitarist Jason Willis's fretwork, creating something that falls west of early-2000s Wilco but east of The Avett Brothers. And Sergio Trevino just has such an affable delivery that sells every story he sings. I would hire him to sing me the news, if I were a crazy millionaire who needed the news sung to her.
Failing that, I'm gonna check my hard drive for some old Cedar Boy Bailey tracks.
Halfway down page two, I had run downstairs for Infinite Apaches. I was eager to see these guys again. I had only seen them once, in what was in words Ramon Medina once used to describe an ill-practiced first show by an old band of mine, "a train wreck of missed chord changes and forgotten lyrics."
But just like Ramon became an ¡Alarma! fan for life, I was totally turned on by what these dudes had going on. The band I encountered last night was hardly recognizable... you know, aside from the fact that every member looks like Mitch from Dazed & Confused but with a mustache; something that you can't unsee.
I see that I've recorded "new wave goth Doors" (complete with the lines through the "o"'s). I'm finding that a bulk of these notes are complaints on the Doors, a band that I apparently reviled greatly in 2012, but now in the soggy gray morning of 2013 I bear no ill will.
(Was it my bass player's indignation? Was it Morrison's snakey hips? Was it PTSD from Corey Haim's death? They should put a trigger warning at the beginning of The Lost Boys if they're going to show it every day during Halloween.)