5/23/03

Dear Diary,

It's my birthday, dear readers, and two amazing events augured in this natal feast: first, 82 Unlucky played an outstanding set in the friendly confines of Molly Malone's, and second, I received some electronic mail from a heretofore stranger promising me that if I simply take his regimen of herbs and supplements for thirty days, I will gain the ability to "BREAK WALLS WITH MY JOHNSON!" Oh, happy sin! Oh, necessary fault of Adam! That such rewards should be mine at the tender age of twenty-five!

What, pray, dear readers, is a Johnson?

I haven't the faintest idea, though I'll tell you what an Ellefson is: a frenetic, electric, silken-voiced bard from the North Country whose aching ballads have brought many a nineteen-year-old biscuit to her knees. The frontman for 82 Unlucky, Kyle Ellefson has the androgynous good looks that make women swoon and men think he's as queer as a Palm Springs cocktail party, but he's the perfect vehicle for the melodic, country-inflected rock this earnest quintet plays when they're not drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon out by the dumpster.

Longtime fan favorites such as "All That Much" and "Waiting For Mary" (surely the band's obligatory ode to marijuana consumption) showcase Ellefson's singing as well as his skills as a songwriter. Add to that a growing sense of stage presence, and you've got a tasty blend that almost compares to the six Dewars on the rocks I drank during the band's set. The way the ice slowly melts into the blended whisky and volatises the embers-I mean, there really are few tastes in these here everlasting hills more sublime. You lookin' at me?

Ellefson's not alone up there, of course, despite the solipsistic nature of his lyrics and the way he stares at the pert-breasted coed in the front row like they're sharing an intimate moment in the bathroom at Sharkeez. On lead guitar is F. Jason Sheppard, whose sweet licks cover up the fact that he needs a haircut and once stole my girlfriend. Sheppard's an old hand at the guitar game, but has made great strides in his technical performance since 82 Unlucky (nee The Diggs) first started squallin' twelve short months ago. He's no slouch with the harpoon, either, on the rare occasions he gets a chance to blow. I don't truck with Sheppard much, to tell you the truth, on account of that whole girlfriend-stealing thing, but the philandering little sneak's got some talent.

On bass is Dave Scales, who just gets tail. I never understood how bassists got laid so much; they don't do shit up there but bounce around on a few simple chords and look like they've found someone's Percodan script, but every time I turn around he's got some bethonged vixen giving him the come-hither. Anyway, maybe I'm missing the point, and maybe bassists are the unappreciated virtuosos of the musical world, but this Scales cat has a certain magnetism that defies explanation. He gets some vocals work, too, particularly on "For The Holidays," and shows off his professionally trained pipes.

On keyboard is Joey Aucoin, whose histrionics onstage remind the viewer more of a circus performer than your standard keyboardist. Between kicking over stools, snarling at lead singer Ellefson, or motioning to groupies to bring him another PBR, Aucoin adds a visual element to his ivory tickles throughout. To give him credit, Aucoin becomes immersed in the music during the live set--it's inspiring, and gives me a chance to spit some game at his old lady (now there's a chord progression I'd love to strum!) without him taking umbrage.

Rounding out the group is drummer Eric Wensman, who doesn't think twice about tossing in a bit of tympany to liven up the darkest dirge. Wensman's a pleasure to watch on stage, so engrossed is he in his work. Fans of Catcher In The Rye will recall with fondness how Holden Caulfield could sit for an entire show watching his favorite drummer, just to see the look of concentration on his face-the pursed lips, the focused eyes-and recognize his love for his craft. I felt the same way tonight about Wensman, like I could sit and watch him alone for hours, particularly after I went outside with some of his young female fans and smoked up a fat spliff that left me straight stupid. Damn!

The 82 Unlucky quintet does its best work when the kids don't try to get too fancy, and tonight's songs were a success on account of their catchy melodies and memorable vocals. Molly Malone's is a smaller venue, with an excellent back room that lends itself to a more intimate setting away from the clink and patter of the barflies, and the band made the most of it without burning the spot. "On Sunday," a name-dropping paean to the oft-crunk denizens of Playa del Rey, California, got the local crowd on its feet. The influence of the French Symbolist poets can be seen at its strongest in these lyrics; what's a listener to make of such unlikely phantasms as the grilling aficionado Big Jim, or the impossibly stoned General T? The song's hook delves even deeper into the multilayered imagery, with its plaintive cry for help to a creature of a bygone age, the all-knowing Irish priest: "Tell me, Father Keane/where do I go?"

Another highlight was "I Hope I Never See You Again," featuring guitarist Sheppard on vocals after a band-wide a capella intro. The lyrics spilled straight from Sheppard's poison pen, and there are influences worth sussing out. I catch a little bit of Ernest Tubb, "Thanks a Lot," and maybe a hint of Willie Nelson, "Ain't It Funny How Time Slips Away." The narrator's descent into besotted fatalism suggests Merle Haggard, "Just Stay Here and Drink." The fans treat the song as a singalong, and let's be honest, is there anything more inspiring than a crowd of fifty twentysomethings howling out their rage at a covenant-breakin' woman? "I started drinkin'," indeed.

It's been a quick year for the boys of 82 Unlucky, and their chops have improved to the extent that they're drawing a more diverse crowd; I counted four girls at the show with local lothario David Haley alone. Theirs is a bright future, and it stands to reason we'll be seeing them on bigger stages soon. I just hope they remember us hoi polloi, the faceless crowd who offered them adulation, adoration, and an occasional half-assed handjob in the parking lot, when they hit the big time. 82 Unlucky, we hardly knew ye...

Daddy Jums