Dickel Brothers example essay topic

An Evening with the Dickel Brothers It was 9: 30 on a chilly Thursday night when our little trio finally found a parking space in the Richmond District. Already drunk, we wove quickly through the neighborhoods by foot. Finally we arrived at the Last Day Saloon, uneasy that we had not purchased tickets in advance for what was sure to be one of the highlights of this years San Francisco Blue Grass and Old Time Festival - the fabulous Dickel Brothers. Our fears of a sellout were quickly allayed, as was the sense of unease that having four quarts of Irish whiskey strapped to ones person tends to instill. We were home free, for now, anyway. After purchasing our tickets, we proceeded upstairs to catch the opening act, which, to our delight, turned out to be five perfectly agreeable old geezers calling themselves the Road oilers.

Their sound was pure old-school bluegrass, heavy on melody, light on lyrics. Their artful rendering of the Bill Monroe standard Uncle Penn, made for a memorable encore. Next up, we were subjected to the shrill vocal styling of The Stairwell Sisters. Don't get the wrong idea, I am certain that the particular brand of old-time mountain music that the sisters are peddling is faithfully rendered. The problem for me was simply that the clog-happy cutsieness of their presentation was enough to make even the most dyed in the wool harmony junkie run gasping for the nearest fire exit. And that is exactly what we did.

We figured the most sensible course of action was to hole up in the alleyway outside the club and wait for the fervent toe tapping to subside. I had barely finished my first cigarette when a lanky figure dressed something akin to Tom Joan on his way to church approached our little assemblage. I recognized him at once as Stephen Dickel, banjo player of the headlining band. "Anyone know where a fellah can get a bottle of whiskey in this neighborhood?" , he asked plaintively. Jill shrugged, explaining that we were from the East Bay, and thus, had little idea where he might try. Jill, apparently sensing the desperation in his face, thrust a small flask of Bush mills into his hand.

After a great deep swallow, he proceeded to explain his sad situation. "This goddamn hippy club issued only two drink tickets to each of us. How, for the love of Mary, do they expect us to play in this condition?" . His condition was clearly critical. With a sudden burst of logic, Kathleen put forth that it might make sense to talk up the quintet of cheerful lassies onstage. "Those tablecloth clad wenches are never going to use them anyway" she said.

"Hardly seems worth it at this point". he mumbled while ambling out onto the street to continue his somber quest. Around eleven o'clock, the temperature had dropped another 10 degrees, so we decided to head back into the club, and take our chances with the final few Stairwell Sisters tunes. Lo and behold, with enough booze in our bloodstream, they actually started to sound good. This is a phenomena that I like to refer to as beer headphones. The sisters had fled nearly half an hour earlier, and the drunken crowd was starting to get restless and violent when The Dickel Brothers finally took the stage.

With a single resounding bass thud, the Brothers launched into their searing and original tune - Milwaukee Blues. All at once, the club was swept up with the kind of feverish dancing mayhem rarely seen at serious old-time festivals. This had to be the most spectacular live act I had ever seen. Playing a near even mixture of dust bowl standards, hillbilly and their own hectic compositions, the boys blew the house apart. With childlike abandon, they paraded throughout the crowded hall, a path clearing before them, never once losing track of the tune at hand. The tweed-set academic listeners, who had been thoughtfully listening on folding chairs in the front row, were swept aside as chaos and playful debauchery filled every inch of the dance floor.

Long before the final notes of their third encore, the stage was teeming with drunken audience members, who, after having stormed the stage, formed an impromptu conga-line that cha-cha'd circles around the musicians. This was it, my friend. This is what live music is supposed to be, but seldom is. This was the sort of show that serves as both a tonic to the radio jaded ear, and as a validation of boyhood ideas about the way a live show should make you feel. This was indeed it.