Loam

Opening for Loam was the Truckee Brothers with Christopher Hoffee on guitar. Molly, another devoted fan and good friend of my family, recognized Christopher from Blacksmith Union, one of Faye’s favorite bands from the days of yore. She was ecstatic, and reminded me how we would listen to those tapes over and over. Back in high school, I would play them to friends, showing off like I was part of the scene (though truthfully, my knowledge of music consisted of whatever tapes and records I overheard my sisters playing).

The Truckee Brothers sound like countrified 60’s rock. Before performing a song with the words, “Vulcan grip,” they mentioned the single has been played on 91X. Though “the Ex,” as I like to call it, is pre-programmed Button #3 in my car, I must be spending too much time on Button #1 (NPR), because these guys did not sound familiar to me. Catchy and accessible, all of the songs had the same sound and feel to them. Yeah, that sounds like something one might hear on the Ex. Not my favorite, but I never pretended to be a record producer.

Giving into Friday, I had a drink between sets. When stuck in a bar that serves no vodka (hence no Barbarellas), what’s a diva to do? There is another acceptable drink that doesn’t taste like beer -- sometimes called a Snake Bite, sometimes called a Poor Man’s Black Velvet; to be safe, I spell it out: “Please give me a drink that is half Guinness and half Pear Cider, and keep the change.” As I was still marveling over my realization that Pear Cider was a clear liquid, my sister said that Clark, Loam’s bass player, was moving to Colorado because his wife was accepted into a PhD. program. Frank had also told me of Clark’s departure and suggested it was one of the reasons the band was getting back together (the other reasons being, “as a favor to each other,” and “because we all thought it would be fun”).

Prior to this show, Loam had rehearsed twice in the last seven years. Before they went on, Frank was in the back, memorizing chords like a college student cramming for finals. He was worried that once his set began, he would fumble. He didn’t. When the band finally coalesced in the corner, the pub erupted with cheers, hoots and hollers. Dozens of hard-core fans, including Faye and Molly, sang along to every song. I surprised myself when some of the words mystically emerged from my own lips. I’m not sure if I learned them from old tapes I pillaged or if they’d been sung to me via other bands with shared members, like the Hatchet Brothers.

Three songs into the set, Frank punked out and emptied his water bottle onto the first few rows of people. My left leg was wet, and while I wiped at it obsessively, annoyed with the unwelcome spray, I looked to Faye, so engrossed in the show that she hadn’t noticed her damp sleeve. To our left was a skinny kid with an interesting hair “don’t.” Short, black, spiky. On the back of his head there were shorter patches that made me question whether he had recently let some shaved pattern or written message grow out, or if he suffered from what my stylist Ronaldo would call, “a self-inflicted hairdo.” Either way, something was amiss. (Diva Tip -- Things to Never Attempt Alone at Home, as they are best left to qualified professionals: 1. Surgery of any kind; 2. Scrotal inflation -- at least not the first time; and 3. Any alteration of your hair requiring scissors.) His unfortunate appearance, however, was not why he caught my eye. At approximately 90 pounds, I imagined he couldn’t hold much liquor; after a few beers, he proved me correct by swaying, losing his balance, falling into people, and over-apologizing… repeatedly.

Usually, I’d be amused. But this slight drunk punk was swaying WAY to close to my very-pregnant sister, and I felt protective of both her and my defenseless nephew-to-be. I slowly inched my arm between them, eventually positioning my elbow against Mr. Bad Hair Day, silently urging him to just try falling so I could push him away. He was a toothpick, I could take him. I wondered what had made me so macho – must be the Guinness. Faye was unaware of the drama playing out in my head, too busy blurting out lyrics along with the rest of fans. She looked so happy.

Come to think of it, everyone looked content, as if a 7-year-itch was finally being scratched in the most satisfying way. If you want an official description of the music, you should go to www.loammusic.com. My description? Folky, rocky, sing-along-able, and energetic. They’re putting out a new CD, and I’m sure that my sister, along with an entire pub-full of adoring Loam lovers, will be at that release party with cash in hand. Seven years may be a long time to wait, but patience pays off, and true fans are obviously not lost to time.

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