Babes

There was something ironic but also fitting about attending a show by a band with “summer” in their name on what was arguably the first real day of winter weather (although the calendar still reads fall) and so, for a while, at least, we got to feel those feelings of endless evenings, sweat-soaked clothing, and lager beer for one more time before the gray and wet descends to envelope us in its sodden embrace until next June at the earliest, probably.

Jen and I rode the tandem through a downpour to catch a performance by the Summer Babes at the Wildrose, a bar I haven’t been in since the birthday party of a former colleague almost a decade ago now and although it took us an early exit before an eventual return to find our place there, once we located a spot to stand and observe, I felt right at home.

Part of that, of course, were the strangely familiar (since I’ve never heard them before) songs the band charged, swayed, and cavorted through; they reminded me a little bit of Fountains of Wayne what with their catchy melodies and witty lyrics: pop songs, yes, of the sort you find yourself singing along with even the first time around.

Additionally, you had to love the nod to the Flaming Lips in their set as, after of couple tunes, the band released scads of balloons into the audience that—in what turned out seeming lie a piece of Laurie Anderson-inspired performance art—pretty much lasted just through their final encore before being all popped.

My feet got moving just in time for the last few numbers; the right combination of intoxicants and intoxicating rhythms came together and my cowboy boots began kicking it out and working me into a lather.

By the time the show was finished, my shirt was wet enough that it didn’t get any wetter on the way home, despite the monsoon we rode through.