A former drummer and former roommate had turned me on to the indie power pop of Wolf Colonel, in 2004 he phoned me up to let me know that the main guy from that band was doing a solo show at a coffee house downtown. There was only a few of us at that show. All musicians and fanzine editors. #jasonanderson was a thin, affable dude. He was appreciative of our presence and we talked about our city and his travels. At some point his guitar appeared in his hands and he started playing, strolling around the room. His reedy voice and dynamic strumming silenced us all.
The songs on this album are very diary - like and would sound at home on a Wes Anderson soundtrack (maybe it's the shared moniker, some alchemy of dna) that night he played a track off this record called "pen pals", I know I sound melodramatic as I write this but he didn't leave any of our eyes dry with that song. Now I know making a bunch of arty indie rock kids cry in a coffee house is like shooting fish in a barrel, but there was a shared naked honesty with the lyrics. Jason managed to pull a heart string possessed by us all: being acutely aware that your salad days are happening and inevitably ending. Bands end, parents die and pen pals meet and are disappointed. It was the heaviest moment I've ever felt at a performance. It was like a wake with friends. In the years since the show I've brought it up with my few friends who were there and every time the response is a heavy exhale and they'll glance at their shoes. A moment that changed the lot of us.
A little while later that coffee house caught fire and burned down. I wondered if maybe it just never recovered from the disappointment laid bare.
Emo moment: I cried hearing that song again while writing this.
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