So, I’m at the airport, standing at Sbarro, clumsily tucking away the change from my water purchase when a Brit walks up and stands next to me. Have you heard this one? Well, the punch line is on me. So, the Brit hands the cashier a one hundred dollar bill. And, instead of thinking, “Hmmm, Phil Marshall is a Brit,” I’m thinking, “Hmm, wonder where a Brit got a one hundred dollar bill.” I know, right? Bank. Sheesh. A little while later I’m standing last in the boarding line when I see the Brit at the front of the line lugging a guitar case. On his way to Cleveland. Ding. Ding. Ding. You have epically failed the “Hey, I know you!” Test (the HIKY Test, as it were.) Sigh.

I drove by the House of Blues at 7:30, just as the doors were opening and the line stretched around the corner and all the way down the block. Can we say General Admission? I casually parked the car before strolling to the venue and arriving at the witching hour of 15 minutes after doors opened and walked right in. Can you say reserved seat? I wandered into the “Cambridge Room” lounge on my left. This, I believe is America’s attempt to recreate some sort of Edwardian era gentlemen’s smoking room. Let’s let the venue’s website do the heavy lifting for me and just quote them, “The Lounge is covered with wall-to-wall Persian Rugs and adorned with antique Indian wedding quilts. The room maintains an amber glow and displays a number of statues and icons imported from the ancient temples of India.” I believe they forgot to mention the forest of trees of dark, heavily carved and polished wood, bolts of velvet and miles of gold fringe. So, I’m standing near the end of the bar intrigued by the opulent overload when out of the ether floats that distinctive Bob Dylanish voice from right behind me. I, oh so casually turn (I’m a cat, you know, I’m stealthy) and there’s Andy sitting at the bar with Monty and Phil Marshall. Yes, I blew right by them when I first entered the room and I’m totally blaming it on that Phil Marshall dude. He obviously has the ability to make my Recogniter misfire. Yeah, it’s definitely his fault. Fortunately, my keenly attuned anything related to Dave-dar signaled the presence of known band mates in the vicinity so that I wouldn’t completely miss the opportunity to say, Hey, I know…yeah, I hightailed it right outta there and left them to their beer and girl talk. Interestingly, nobody else accosted them either. Don’t know if that means the HOB clientele were respectful, ignorant or too busy getting drunk. Say, did you know every HOB keeps a metal box of mud from the Delta Mississippi underneath its stage? Is that anything like a basement?

As a venue, the HOB gets my thumbs up for balcony assigned seating but I don’t think I’d want to be a General Admissioner down on the floor. The space was small and cramped. There was a lot of jockeying for prime positions and peeps were inevitably getting jiggy with one another. There wasn’t that desired elbow room that allows you to claim the square foot around you necessary for the side shuffle when Tall Guy in front of you decides to shift feet. Everyone had to plant to commit. Which meant when Tall Guy did decide to shift feet all you got was this lousy, impeded view (and possibly a tee shirt to go with it.) But, hey, what did I care? I had a seat! Nice second row, Andy side seat in the balcony. With a cup holder, ya’ll! You see, the benefit of a small GA floor for all us losers who like to show up when the doors actually open and have a guaranteed seat for our unimpeded viewing pleasure whenever we decide to get there, is that the balcony is really, really close to the stage. So, I guess, thanks, you standers, you.

That annoying Recogniter Buster Brit dude was up first. He did a really fun and enjoyable acoustic set that unfortunately many people didn’t bother to show up for and many of those who did chattered their way through. Rude people, do you hear me? Oh, wait, probably NOT, because you're talking! You’re there for the concert, the whole concert and nothing but the concert and that includes Mr. Phil Marshall and any other opening act Dave so graciously invites to join him. Why must they do that? Iz sad. (ETA: Thankfully, those who had the courtesy to listen immensely enjoyed.) I thought Dave and Phil could be cousins. They’re built alike, they dress alike, at times they even banter alike - You can lose your mind when cousins (sing it!) are two of a kind. The Cathy and Patty of rock and roll, you might say. I really did like Phil’s set and would love to hear him with his band. Unless, of course, that means Dave giving up Monty, in which case that’s a quandary. Maybe Joey could go be Phil’s bassman and the anthemic circle would be complete.

So, the lighting was outstanding. Lots of nice bright, spot lightly goodness on Dave which isn’t always the case (Spreckels, I’m looking at you). And this may be further evidence of my residency in Crazyville but I swear the triscuits are spelling out the word LOVE during LOTM. If I am, in fact, the only person witnessing this phenomenon I thank the dog (and so should you) that I don’t think it says KILL. Somebody please tell me they see this.

Dave. Ah, Dave. Well, he sang his heart out but I’m not sure he set his soul free. Maybe he accidentally locked it in the basement last time he was down there. I felt like we got professional Dave who knows how to always go out there and put on a great show. But, we didn’t get Playful Dave or Bossy Dave or Literal Dave or any of those other Dave’s who bring the nuance of uniqueness to the performance. You know, the one where Bossy Dave keeps us on our toes and makes us get on our feet and keeps the noise level amped up to the maximum decibel. The one where Playful Dave makes those funny faces and you just want to smish him. The one where Lyrical Dave gets so lost in the songs you fall right along with him. All those other Dave’s that don’t always know what they’re doing and they can be WTF and entertaining but always unexpected. It was a Hungry Like the Wolf night for me, dawg, and not a Billie Jean night. Ya always love him. But some times? Ya love him more.

DCATA opened with a resounding version of Heroes as they have been doing of late. I think I would like to hear this song sung at the END of a set, just once, with all of them wailing (yes, Neal, even you), “I’m still standing!” Some how, this line doesn’t have quite the same kick when they come out all fresh face and rested and expect me to be swayed by their wail-y conviction. After all, I’m still standing too. It’s been what? A minute and a half? Get back to me in, say, twelve songs and see how we’re all doing then. Just sayin’.

Dave’s taken yet another approach to get the audience to shut the f$ck up during Lie. Let’s count ‘em. He’s tried the seemingly obvious overly long pause, the quiet down hand gesture and the shush finger. He’s tried taking a loooong step back from the mic and the OMG the lights just went out, everybody STFU so we can hear what’s going on route. All have been relative failures. Well, at HOB he got the naive idea to completely walk away from the mic and move to the front of the stage. Oh, Dave. Stepping towards the audience? Really? No! Just, no. It only encourages the eagle slaughterers to go on a killing spree. You see, stepping that close to the front of the stage (now see Bossy Dave would KNOW this) sends him through that invisible force field where shrieky girls actually think he will just keeping coming until he reaches them personally. Each of them and only them. And none of them is wearing something slutty! Needless to say, failure to launch a Capella and yet no eagles saved.

As always, love WOHWWS. The boys hit and held that lipstick red note like it was the last tube of Revlon Red in the showcase. Still a thing of beauty. And, best of all, Make Me. Do ya’ll remember that time that Idol guy got to sing along with ZZ Top and neither one would start singing the second verse? Well, it was kind of like that. Dave tipping his head to Andy. Andy smiling back. Dave tipping his head and making googly eyes (yay, Playful Dave peeking through). Andy, conceding. Yes, Andy, resistance is futile. Andy sang the first verse, they harmonized on the chorus and Dave sang the second verse. Loved it. And one more baby step closer to The Anthemic brand.

Still pondering the affinity Neal has for the neckerchief. Too much Howdy Doody as a child? He’s closely studied the stylings of Beau Brummel and admires his expertise with the cravat? He has a hankering to drive a chuck wagon? Or maybe it’s the pinnacle of badass rock star fashion and I am neither badass nor rock enough to know. Must say, he does a damn fine job of folding and fluffing and tying so that baby stands at attention through all of the riffing and shredding and banging. It’s almost like there’s one of those Bumpits! under there giving it height and form and instant volume and letting him enjoying feeling confident and beautiful…sorry, where was I? What ever the how to, what for and whys of it are, he certainly pulls it off with a fine sartorial, negligent elegance. And, no, I would not tell him otherwise.

Andy and Monty were romping like puppies happily and crazily the whole night. Lots of Montwirling like he was chasing his pesky tail. Andy was giddy and smiling a lot and totally unveiling his shroud of mystery. Best part was when they were leaning against each other’s backs pushing and shoving for position. Hey, kind of like those sorry a$$ General Admissioners having to get jiggy with their neighbors. Except, Andy and Monty were having fun. And they know each other. And they had plenty of elbow room to move around. They have a really fun and interesting dynamic that makes both of them shine. Somebody, please get Phil Marshall a bass player. STAT.

Kyle. Well, he bangs, he pounds, he raps, he beats, pretty much non-stop all night. I’m sure he has a lovely personality and must be a fairly relaxed and happy individual after getting his aggressions out for an hour every night. He handed out several drum sticks to the audience at the end of the show. No, he didn’t flick them (like one of those other Dave’s would probably ill advisedly do.)

I’ve noticed more and more that all of the guys regularly sing along with Dave. Andy, Kyle, Monty. Okay, maybe not Neal. But, I’m sure he’s singing along in his head! Don’t know why I notice or care, but I like it.

So, I survived concert number 10 and am now a happy resident of Crazyville. I don’t feel insane, but would I know? So far I’m liking it because the streets are clean, there’s very little traffic and I don’t have to wait in line. However, expect that gen pop will increase exponentially as the concert dates continue to roll in and then our happy little community will become overcrowded, Gueseppe will get irritated and the LOTM triscuits will definitely be whispering KILL. Now, that’s Crazyville.

Took a side trip to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. For those who may not know, there is a reason why the boys yelled out Cleveland is the home of rock and roll. The historical marker is right next to the museum. It’s a wonderful way to spend a day (the museum, not the marker. Unless you're a reeeally slow reader.) Make sure you take plenty of time on the lower level because that’s where the plethora of treasures are located. Yeah, they keep theirs in the basement too! Must be a rock thing. Loved seeing Timothy Schmidt’s huge canvas stash of stolen hotel keys, Jim Morrison’s adorable Cub Scout shirt (I’m sure he’s still somewhere trying to smite someone over that one) and John Lennon’s glasses (Am happy. And sad.) Oh, yeah, and David Ellison's gold kimono worn during his Royal Crescent Mob days (classe).

Gueseppe's impressions of the concert at House of Blues - Cleveland, OH, 9-17-09.