Push Me, Pullman

There was a time when I was most involved in the managing and promoting of my best friend’s band that it wasn’t uncommon for me to go to upwards of ten shows a month. It was a job necessity. To break into any scene you have to be seen. Want to play a place you have to go to shows there. Get to know the bouncer. Get to know the sound guy. Get to know the bartender and always tip well. Eventually you’ll get to know the booker if he happens not to be one of the aforementioned individuals. If all else fails ask the band playing. For the price of a beer or their latest CD you’ll probably get the name and number of the person you seek. Plus having a band to swap shows with will lead to even more booker’s digits and connections. But you’re not paying me to manage you so bugger off struggling musicians and let me get to the point of my post.

Pullman is anything but a Mecca for local music. A few of the bars have live bands on the weekend, but they’re usually nothing more than a living jukebox. So we were thrilled to discover a place offering original live talent. Well the talent part is questionable, but original. Except for all the Dave Matthews bluegrass shite, but live, most definitely live. John’s Alley is “Moscow’s Home of Live Music” or at least that’s what the header on their web site trumpets them as being. Have you heard of anyone who’s played there? Probably not, but that makes it even more of a hot spot for locals looking to find that awesome band no one has ever heard but themselves. Alcohol prices ain’t too shabby, but I always cringe at having to pay a ten dollar cover for a band I never have and never will hear from again.

Saturday night was unfortunately D.M. bluegrass defecation from the asses of The Clumsy Lovers. By no means is bluegrass my bag let alone freaking pop bluegrass, but that’s not to say I hate all of it. I’ve been known to tap my foot to a the closing credit ditties of Deadwood from time to time. I suppose I’ve been to too many small town fairs with nasty ole bearded fatties hooting and hollering as they strum away on banjos and one string stand up bass. One thing I could never stand was to see a filthy, dirty old drunkie, howling away at the filthy songs of his fathers and going blerp, blerp in between, as it might be a filthy old orchestra in his stinking rotten guts (20 cool points for being able to place the origin of this run on sentence...ah ah ah, without using Google). Amanda loved it however. This led our friend Heather and I to conclude she was a little judgment impaired and that it was time to go home.