This is not a long, meaningful post, filled with my adventures over the past month.
If you’re in search of insight, I was never really your stop anyway.
Instead, I offer this: you need to catch the Fruit Bats when they come to your town, even if that town is Hoboken and your bike breaks on the way to the entrance and you get on the wrong train and you switch, sweating, under the tunnel somewhere below Jersey and you emerge and share a cab with two (attractive) strangers along Washington St. because that’s what you do in Hoboken, you pay five dollars flat for a ride any old where, and you get to Maxwell’s early because you’re a huge geek but that’s okay because you are armed… with two hours of This American Life.
And the Fruit Bats themselves, awkward and eager to headline their own show for one night? Small and loud and full of their own kind of folk-tinged plaintive joy, they were phenomenal. Raucous yawps and singalongs, kids.
Afterward, the singer, Eric Johnson, chatted with me for a bit while he sold band t-shirts. We talked about album covers by Chicago illustrator Jay Ryan, of Andrew Bird and Calexico and Fugazi fame. Why do all singers have floppy hair? We’ll never know.
Have I mentioned recently I might never move? All the odd build to get to the show just made the show better.