I came to the Living Room at around 7.45 or eight o'clock, and realized the Microminiature Music Festival was playing somewhere where shows actually got started on time. Goddammit, I thought. Dan Smith was already halfway through his set.

Less surprising was the crowd that had shown up (on time, apparently, and despite the World Series): just about all the tables were full, the bar was packed, and all heads were turned towards the stage.

Dan Smith led his Guests on lead guitar, and resonated the room with an ebullient voice and strong lyrics that matched statements to their equivocations, and jokes to their darker counterparts. Jacob Blickenstaff provided melodic/meditative bass lines in the first of two performances that night, along with Noam Levy, guitarist for American Altitude, who supported Dan with back-up guitar, vocals, and an occasional slide. Martin Olson (former Drive On, see-him-every-now-and-then-with-Fourth-Rome) accompanied all with a loose, improv-like styled set on drums.

Not long ago on a train coming out of Williamsburg, I sat across from someone who complained the whole ride to his friend about how people didn't go to Warsaw, Polish National Home, to see real music, all they went to see were "guys who just dumped their hearts out on stage, couldn't play the guitar and hypnotized people by whining about how much everything hurts." If this was his description of the Bonnie Prince Billy show a few months back -- he mentioned someone from Bruce Springsteen's band "hating [the show at Warsaw]"-- then that man would've found a budding compliment to it in Dan Smith and Guests, and probably would've walked out. Good riddance from us. Appropriately enough, Dan played with Will Oldham that night at the Warsaw and toured with him during the last half of the summer.

A twenty-minute break between Dan Smith and the next set had just about everyone who owned hockey sticks in the Living Room--there were a lot of them--flying to Essex and Rivington, to Welcome to the Johnson's to watch the Yankees vs. the Arizona Diamondbacks. I went along with them just in case they would try and mistake anyone in the street for loose hockey pucks. We made it. No trouble. And as I sat down to rest my feet, I noticed Roger Clemens wasn't having the greatest of nights. Kurt Schilling looked edgy, too, and, I thought, well, there are twenty minutes.

No score in the fourth inning. Paul Banks finished his set. I hoped to pass a time warp on the way back to the Living Room, but nothing doing. I'll apologize here to Paul; someone sitting near me at the Johnson1s mentioned babysitting Scott Finley's (3rd base, A-Diamondbacks) kids and was telling me stories. To Interpol's frontman's credit, I came back to hear friends and other people who didn't know him talk about what they thought of the set, how they liked the guy's voice, and the crowd in general seemed impressed and talkative. I remembered a show he played at Tobacco Road a few months back where Paul made his set a sum larger than its parts -- the parts being himself and his guitar. That's not an easy thing to accomplish and I don't think it's something that can be taught, learned, or practiced.

Things were winding up there at the Living Room. Beneath the wooden sign hanging from the ceiling (that doesn't make the place seem much like a living room, not like the World Series does and the couches and the Pabst Blue Ribbon at -- well, never mind), Brad Lauretti intoned "I don't want to fight no war no more/I don't wanna fight no war" like a kid brother who knew his role well. You begin to get annoyed, but there he is, smiling, and you can't get angry at him for it. He takes you through covers of House of the Rising Sun and the Lion Sleeps Tonite, along with his own songs--Lonely Swedish Girl, My Front Porch, Fishing Line--which let you appreciate them for what they are -- good (I know the answer didn't suffice English courts in Breaking the Waves, but it'll have to here), they're just good. Brad Lauretti has an edge Eric Burdon could have used in covering House: bringing the lyrics with you on stage, and forgetting them every now and then.

Onwards and upwards to American Altitude(s). Their local crowd (which apparently follows them around everywhere in huge groups, I've seen this for myself) describes them (I've heard this second-hand) as "well--they're like the Dead, but without the jam." I don't know how much justice this does to their sound, but if you ever feel the need to see four (five?) guys really focus on stage, play their instruments well, use a minimum of vocals and create as powerful a sound as you can get in forty minutes using an array of acoustic instruments (including mandolin, guitar, drums, slide, etc.) then look for more upcoming American Altitude dates (like the Beekiller Bash on January 19th), or get your hands on their cd (or the MP3s on this site).

Up next was Mike Wexler. Back at the Johnson's: it was 2-1 Yankees. Mariano Riviera was called in the 8th to shut the Diamondbacks down, cap off the series, reach for the champagne in the locker room and then fly back to New York for the ticker-tape parade. As my friend had it: (who also should have been in the Living Room, watching Mike's set): "You can't fuck with him! [Mariano]" after the TV reminded us of Rivera's all-time low .70 post-season ERA, which beats Sandy Koufax's .90 for the Brooklyn Dodgers (but wasn't Koufax a starter? meaning he pitched entire games and kept his ERA that low, instead of just flinging fast balls for two innings or less at a time? Someone's invited to answer this). You can't fuck with him. All the National Leaguers and Mets' Fans in the bar (there were three, I think) prayed somebody would. And somebody did: Mark Grace. A single. Two bunts later (one failed, one good) and the Diamondbacks were at one out. Runners on first and second. Tension mounted. Craig Counsell is hit by a pitch. Would they crumble? Could they crumble? Weren't they crumbling? Bases loaded. Luis Gonzalez (57 homeruns, .342 Avg) gets up. Still one out. This is about as close you can get to a baseball player or fan's dream scenario. World Series on the line. The count reaches 2 balls and 2 strikes. Mariano pitches from the stretch. We all hold our breaths. Yankee fans everywhere are beginning to look for rocks to climb under if he misses. Fastball. A bloop into center. It drops. Arizona wins. They're rushing out of the dugout. The Yankees are --

And at the Living Room Mike Wexler's halfway through his set with the Fourth Rome.
Saxophonist Matt Douglass, bassist Jacob Blickenstaff, drummer Liam Hurley, guitarist Brad Bennett, pianist Tim Davis and singer/lead guitarist Mike Wexler are comfortable, casual with each other in the familiar setting of the Living Room. In order to get a handle on what these guys sound like, you should think in reverse terms of the American Altitude's fans' description: Mike Wexler is the jamming, but without the Dead.

It's as if six guys were thrown into a room together and only one out of the six is a mutual friend to everyone else. But he's a good enough reason for them all to start talking and eventually, after a few minutes or so, they're comfortable, laughing and sharing stories. "Dolly Bell," "Thoughts of a Wee Despot," "I Feel Like Singing"and "Run-On Man" a new addition, which sounds more arranged than the earlier songs (a newer direction, Mike?), were included along with other Fourth Rome staples that night.

It was a good night. The Living Room was packed. At the end of the Fourth Rome's set, someone near the front of the stage had passed out. Somewhere down the line the police appeared. On this phenomenon, which seemed to take place literally half a second before the show would1ve ended, 4th Rome pianist Tim Davis shrugged his shoulders and said, "I hope that poor girl's okay." Drummer Liam Hurley offered, "You get applause all of the time. It's almost overrated. I'll take this."