Took a little road trip to Nashville to see French Kicks live and in concert. They were really good, except for the fact that the lead singer couldn't quite hit the high notes that he pulls off with ease on CD. But hey, that's live music for you.
We noticed several older ladies -- like, 70 and up -- at the venue and wondered what the hell was going on, as the senior set is not known for frequenting weeknight shows in smoky rock clubs, but it turned out that one of the ladies was the singer's grandmother. Even a cold, unfeeling robot like me found that tidbit to be almost impossibly adorable.
In other family news, the girl running the merch booth was a cousin and she cut me a deal on all three of the French Kicks discs. Thanks, girlie!
The opening band, the Little Ones, were not nearly as atrocious as I feared they might be -- honestly, I kinda liked them, especially their keyboard sound -- but with their name and their fusion of indie rock with '60s pop, they run the risk of regular ass kickings.
On the way home, we saw an 18-wheeler parked on the shoulder with its cab fully engulfed in flames. It made a striking post-apocalyptic image, but regrettably, I did not have a camera with me to record the inferno for posterity.
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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats." --H.L. Mencken
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