Blind Pilot

In the land of the sightless, the four-eyed man, the one eating shortbread space cookies, is—not king, but can at least unlock his bike, untangle its spokes from the other bike’s SPDs and make it home, wet, but none too worse for wear, all told.

The band we went to see was called Blind Pilot; the theme on this rainy late-summer Tuesday was blind drunk.

Problem—or make that opportunity—was: there were at least 45 minutes between the time we arrived at the High Dive in Fremont to meet up with the band, (whose claim to fame, apart from their musicianship, is that some of them—the bass player with his custom trailer for sure, the guitarist, and I think either the banjo and dulcimer-strumming female vocalist or the drummer or both—tour via bicycle), and when they were to start playing.

Meanwhile, by this time, our little August monsoon was in full swing and so the reasonable course of action seemed to hit the nearby Nickerson Street Saloon for their five dollar “dirty birds,” a shot of Wild Turkey with a PBR chaser.

I myself did not indulge, (already being adequately taken care of by the aforementioned baked goods) but I marveled at the alacrity with which my colleagues, Derek and Ben, went through a trio each.

And so, it was a swift half-mile ride back across the bridge to the venue, and another two-drink wait for the band to go on

I’d say it was worth it, Blind Pilot, led by their really quite good singer/guitarist, Israel, sounding to my ears very reminiscent of fellow-Portlanders, The Decemberists, winning over the crowd and casting a musical spell that kept drunken hijinks to a minimum during their set.

I left soon after they finished playing and so, in all likelihood, missed the inevitable storm a’ brewin; instead, I took on the steady deluge outside, which fortunately, was warm enough so the ride home while sodden, was fine.