dayton, oh!

Last Saturday night, my friend Jeff and I went and saw Over The Rhine perform at the Canal Street Tavern in Dayton, Ohio.

I have done this several times before, though with different groups of people, and even once by myself. I will always go back to Canal Street to see them; there is something womblike and inviting about that place that makes the OTR experience that much more alive and meaningful. And I certainly felt both that night.

Jeff and I discovered when we were more than halfway there, filling up his empty tank, that he had left his wallet at home. So, plastic magic left my pocket and stayed out the remainder of the night. Heh. Thank goodness for Wells Fargo overdraft protection. :( But anyway, it's just money, and not all that important. I'll be walking on it someday. We had some McDonalds, and continued on our way to Dayton, trekking east across the same 70 that I have been easting on now for months.

After our arrival, which I daresay was at just the right moment to put us about halfway back in the standing line that would form around us, we used the bathroom many times in the bar next door to the CST. If I was them, I would hate hundreds of people tramping in to use the facilities, gliding past my handful of customers. But I felt no hate, and peed thrice, and I was glad for them. It was the sort of place with western memorabilia nailed to the walls, and Johnny Cash playing on the jukebox. I wonder why it is in Dayton.

And then the show. We picked up our tickets from will call, and 32 year old Jeff had to wear a bracelet because he looks like he's 18 and didn't have a scrap of ID on him, what with the missing wallet and all. And we sat next to DQ, this kid that I had started calling "disqualified" out on the sidewalk because his collar on his polo shirt was flipped up, which is like an instant disqualification. Or maybe a false start. So anyway Jeff and I were sitting next to him in the very front, I mean like our feet were resting on the stage and everything, along with DQ's friends Dave and some girl I can't remember, Dana maybe. And I found out that DQ was named Nick, and they're all from Indy, and they were actually really incredible people, and maybe someday we'll all be real friends and I can tell him about DQ and we can have a good laugh about it.

So this woman, Amy Rigby, opened for the loveliest of all lovelies. She was an olda girl, and funny, and had good lyrics and a kind of wild nervous intensity coupled with bad jokes that made her immensely likeable. She sang songs about sex and being too poor to buy anything but goodwill or bargain-rack clothing, and also about how she hates men in sandals. And Karin and Linford sat over in the back corner, like they do, and I could see them laughing. Amy played for a goodly amount of time, and then there was a short break, where I used the bathroom some more and then the sounds of gloriousness were made available to me.

All I have to say is, damn. These people don't fool around, and they don't look like they plan to anytime soon. Devon Ashley, their collaborative percussionist for several years now, was along for the evening, and the three of them were on. I mean, ON. They started out with Long Lost Brother, the opening track on the 2nd disc of Ohio (or the 11th track of the release, if you prefer). And let me tell you, folks, if there was any doubt, Karin Berquist knows how to sing. And thankfully, I know how to listen.

There is something rare in their music which makes me sad and happy and clear and alive and dying and mourning and rejoicing all at once. I make more sense to myself when they are the accompaniment. Their sound tangles together in a pleasant way in my mind, and I am content. That lanquid voice scratches my itch, that smooth rhythm and punchy piano that can fade off into a dream holds me still. I know God in this sound. Karin holds her shaker aloft in front of the microphone, dark, purple, and plum shaped- it becomes the forbidden fruit for us all.

And we take, and eat, and know that it is good. And joy rains down on us; the clock strikes midnight and that beautiful, achingly slow voice sounds out over the silence of hundreds of happy heads, "Happy Easter, y'all." I would stand a thousand hours for this. I would overdraft a thousand bank accounts for this. I would hold my breath a thousand minutes for this. And here I am, staring down the barrel of this loving gun, warm in my hands, and I know happiness.

This sound just gets better with time. There were new songs, and I liked them just as much as old ones long loved; unreal. They write good songs, and no other kind, except maybe for great.

We rode home in blissfull, saturated silence, exhausted in every way from auditorally to emotionally, having both cried during the performance. You can't help it. And there was steak and shake, and flatulence, and small contented bouts of laughter, and sleeping - at least on my end. And we knew happiness.