Photo courtesy of True Loves

On Saturday, September 15th, Tractor Tavern was a casual bar with droning chatter rising and falling from various cliques throughout the venue. Thirty minutes to showtime: no lines, clean bathroom, general composure. People were irregularly stippled along the perimeter of the floor, forming loose collections that were ultimately out of the way.

Then, eight guys took the stage — a shorthanded night for a group that usually plays ten — and a chill coursed through the crowd during the purgatorial period between house music and live music. High Pulp struck with a thunderous clap that shattered the silence; in an instant, purgatory became paradise. These guys sailed a tight ship on top of crisp, engaging beats from drummer Rob Granfelt. Bass lines from Scott Rixon cast waves to ride on, and an entourage of guitar, trumpet, saxophones, and keyboards set sail for an electrifying journey. In demonstration, Rixon became the most animated person on Earth for forty-five minutes, bobbing his head like a paddle ball attached to his spine.

Most interesting, though, were the two keyboardists on stage: Antoine Martell and Rob Homan. Between the range of roles and sounds from these two, they delivered a synthesized Phil-Spector trademark “Wall of Sound.” After the show, Martell reflected that playing alongside another keyboardist makes him more aware of his own part and how it interlocks with the parts from the rest of the band. This component was a strong representation of the band’s sound and disposition as a whole.

Stemming from core members Granfelt, Rixon, Martell, and guitarist Gehrig Uhles, each member of the band was woven into multiple synergies of the other members on stage. Solos and fills came and went from everybody.

There was a marked difference when The Black Tones stepped up. The three-piece punk rock band was led by frontwoman Eva Walker, whose dazzling presence and sincerity commanded attention and echoed the name “Hendrix.” The band’s sound and demeanor were particularly raw, making the group immediately relatable and the crowd insatiable for more.

During “Welcome Mr. Pink,” it was understood that the crowd was responsible for vocals on the repeated swooping refrain “craaaaazyyyyyy,” at which point the room would fall still, resting on the upheld sticks of drummer Cedric Walker (Eva’s twin brother) before he signaled the thrashing resume. Our participation sparked a camaraderie that synchronized us for life. Or at least for the night.

During the rampage, Eva ran back to the drum kit, hiked her foot up on the bass drum, and she and Cedric dotingly screamed at each other while they wailed on their instruments. The Black Tones proved a big sound doesn’t require a big band.

Before the end of the set, Eva took a sentimental moment to reveal that the show’s headlining frontman — True Loves’ guitarist Jimmy James — had been a long-time inspiration. Eva spilled the comment in passing, “I thought I was a Jimmy James reincarnate; I’m an Alfred Hitchcock reincarnate.”

As she called James out, he listened from stage left wearing an endearing smile. He joined her on stage for a brief encounter, and, without skipping a beat, the gentle moment evaporated in the heat of The Black Tones’ home stretch.

It wasn’t long before James returned to the stage with the True Loves, met with a boiling pot of people anxious to hear them make a sound — literally any sound. One of those bubbles was a dude named Red: equal parts impassioned, earthy, everybody’s chill uncle, and amateur dancer with professional skill. He was at the edge of the torturous silence, and as the rhythm kicked into gear, he did what any normal doggo would do in the face of a heaping pile of bacon: he fucking jumped on it. The rhythmic collage of percussion rooted itself in people’s cores, causing them to involuntarily jump, jive, wail — you name it. And when the searing horn section smacked them, the recoil turned everything into heaping piles of bacon and everyone into heaping piles of dogs.

Members of the band closed their eyes, shook their heads, and pursed their lips while they played. They took their moments to step away from life, and they helped the rest of us come with them. Be it a smooth saxophone lead, a runaway conga solo, or a Jimmy James disco funk guitar lick, these guys pushed and pulled energized tension seamlessly.

As the night wore on, I scanned the place and saw more scenes from a hat than from daily life: a gray-haired man with a Tecate in an inflatable flamingo koozie; an unimposing, stationary gentleman in the front row confidently clapping on one and three; a fire-headed woman wildly dancing and singing along to instrumental music. This was the euphoric atmosphere playfully drifting in the musical wake of The True Loves.

The eclectic mix of bubbles in the pot — age, race, sexuality, gender — stood no chance in restraining the affectionate embraces between would-be strangers in the face of the True Loves.

By Dave Sheridan