Do people seriously still go to the Christmas Parade? It certainly seems like they must, because traffic was one gnarly bitch as we tried to make our way to 12th & Porter Friday evening. We surprised everyone--even ourselves--by arriving right on time just before Caitlin Rose kicked off her Hammertorch-backed set.
Rose and the boys did their best to warm up a crowd that was pin-drop quiet. Like, Thanksgiving-just-after-your-brother-told-the-family-he's-gay quiet. Painful. As always, Little Miss Rose tried her heart out to fill the empty space with her trademark, charming and tangential banter. Rose sounded great, though the band most definitely could have been tighter. Regardless, steel player Steve Daly's playing was heavenly, and we've seen Rose deliver enough stellar performances that we'll excuse her a loose set or two.
After sound-checking their brains out, Glossary started in on a performance that, although it was kick-ass and tight, still didn't get the partially cowboy-hatted, heavily balding audience away from the corners of the room or anywhere near the stage. At least not initially; it took some Southern charm-imbued coaxing from the band to get folks to acknowledge that they were actually at a rock show.
Glossary were practiced in a manner that comes along with being a band for the better part of a decade, and, like a countrified Thin Lizzy, they exuded feel-good energy that was pretty disproportionate with that of the crowd. Honestly, we don't care how often we've heard "Little Caney" or "Almsgiver"--they're solid gold every time those heavily bearded Murfreesboroans play 'em, and we'll stand by that.
Now, have you ever wondered what it might have been like to see Better Than Ezra, The Gin Blossoms or Hootie and the Blowfish before they made it big? Well, friends, wonder no longer. For God's sake, Wess Floyd and the Daisycutters did enough stompin', struttin', monitor-foot-proppin', rock grimacin', amp climbin' and self indulgin' to last us a lifetime. Four leather-jacketed, cowboy-booted, "whoa-oh"-packed songs were enough to coat us in a layer of oblivious awkwardness that just wouldn't come off in the shower. Unless precisely in the middle of the road is what these dudes are aiming for (and it very well may be), six to eight months of hardcore self-examination are what the Spin Doctor prescribes. Nothing personal, it just wasn't our speed. We prefer something with a set of balls and its own identity.