Doug is a good person. Doug is a good person and he fronts a good band called Bakula. There are two other good people in Bakula Naveed(sic) and Ross. And they did everybody else a favor on Sunday night and played first. Despite being sick and tired and responsible for the show, they went first, playing to a small but enthusiastic crowd. That could've been any one of the bands. They got us the show and easily could've shoved us in the first spot. But no. They did it themselves. That's class. That's poise. They played like machines that knew they were about to become obsolete, like they had one last chance to make good on their programming before breaking down. Doug's guitar looked as if it might fly right off his body as he spun and contorted and screamed. Naveed ran through the middle with a harrowing approach to drums and a 26" bass drum. Ross looked and sounded like he was the only thing keeping the stage from flipping over. It was something. I'd never seen Bakula before and now, I'm sorry to say, they have something to live up to.
Spheres went next and they are the nicest people I've ever met, the nice kind of lay their lives on the line for a friend people, but when you see them play they are possessed by something evil and hard that will eviscerate you if you look at it funny. Totally professional, totally cool and a pleasure to see even if you're not playing a show with them. We met them way back in the early Providence days and played some of our first shows with them. They have never sounded off. If you haven't seen them you are not doing your job.
Banana Hands was next, and, though I didn't catch all of their set, what I saw looked and sounded like it was going somewhere very cool. Kind of like the soundtrack to a movie made exclusively for and by the mentally ill.
Then, The Hound, but you already know The Hound and you are frightened of them. I had a hound once. Fletcher. Anyone who knew me before we left Denver knew Fletcher too and knew what he was like. He was a cute animal with nothing but love in his heart, well maybe some fear, and a lot of hunger, but mostly love, and yet, every once in a while, when the stars erupted in distant galaxies, when the wind blew a certain way, and the day ended in a "Y" he was a hellish beast. Gnashing teeth tearing couches to pieces and bellowing at the walls of his iron cage. His soft eyes would turn hard and yellow and he would emit sounds not unlike screams and smells not unlike sulphur and drool and shit and piss and terror and we would run and cower in the corners of our run down squat on the edge of town until his fury subsided. He was a mad creature not to be trifled with. The Hound was the same way.
Fletcher is now in the care of some family in Colorado with acres of land upon which to run wild, free to hunt and kill as he pleases, which is the correct state of being for such animals.
The Hound is done making music for now. Which is not correct, but is true.
The wise mourn the passing of such animals or they are destroyed. Be wise.
A.