I’ve been friends with Charles for a long time now. There’s no use trying to fool anyone, so I’ll fess up: I’d support his musical endeavors even if they were terrible.
But it’s awfully nice that they’re not. I’m not sure when it happened, exactly — the frenzy of the Iota show and the vastness of Fort Reno may have concealed the exact moment — but last night at the Black Cat it was clear that the City Veins’ live show has passed a new threshhold. God damn but they killed it. Maybe it’s just Stockholm Syndrome; if it is, I’m prepared to embrace it.
Watching them play, I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy: it’s tough to see such wholehearted commitment to the moment without wanting more of it for yourself. Fortunately it was easy to drown that wistfulness in joy, and pride, at watching your friends throw themselves so completely into something they clearly love.
It looks like it’s easy now, like the songs have been worked and reworked until they’re so pliable that they can be twisted into whatever shape the band imagines during the count-off. I’m sure that’s just an illusion. But it’s a convincing one, and a testament to how good these guys have gotten at playing together.
I’m sorry I didn’t mercilessly promote last night’s show; if you weren’t there, I wish you had been. I’ll do my best to step up my harassment when their next DC gig rolls around.