"I'm starting to cook more with beer," said Katie, a chef-in-training and one of the 40 or so people who came to The Retreat Friday for the resurrection of Beer Club.
"I find that I cook more with beer the more beer I've had to drink," I told her. "If I order pizza after a six pack, there's a good chance I'll pour beer on the pie, intentionally or otherwise."
I went on to give Katie a list of other dishes that can benefit from a healthy dose of beer: day-old nachos with three different types of congealed cheese, top-shelf ramen noodles and Cheerios. Of course, the thing that goes best with beer is more beer.
"Everyone keeps trying to get more than their share," said the Pepin pourer — dubbed "The Ticket Nazi" by a group of college kids who dubbed themselves "The Shizer boys."
The fact was that we wanted people to drink more than four samples of the Michelob Porter, Widmer Hefeweizen, Landshark Lager, and Shock Top, but we wanted them to be creative in earning their extra drink tickets. Next month we'll test out a rewards system for guys who bring more than two women a piece and hefty men willing to pull up their shirts and do the truffle-shuffle.
"Bastards," I said, renouncing the Shizer boys moments before begging for a full bottle of Michelob Porter. I was willing to lift my shirt and do the truffle-shuffle, but she wasn't interested. I had to explain that what I look for in a beer is not necessarily what more sophisticated drinkers look for. I judge beers based on smoothness, afterburn and belchiness after chugging an entire bottle, as this is the preferable way to drink beer.
"This is about as crowded as this place gets," said CL's music critic, Wade Tatangelo, of the music-goers huddled under the red neon glow of the New World Brewery sign Saturday. It was only 10 p.m., and the bands had yet to start playing at the CD release party of Will Quinlan & The Diviners' album Navasota. It was the biggest draw I've seen for a local act, and it wasn't because Quinlan is a hyper-networker who knows everyone. Quite the contrary; Quinlan is reserved, seemingly keeping everything hidden under his black cap and horn rimmed glasses. Most of the people I spoke to were not friends of one of the bands, as is so often the case at local shows. They were simply fans who had followed Quinlan since his days with the Pagan Saints or before.
Matt Butcher started the night with a voice somewhere between Ben Folds and Death Cab for Cutie, and a style reminiscent of Dylan.
Have Gun, Will Travel played just before Quinlan, as their alt-country, harmonica infused, acoustic, barroom poetics are in tune with Quinlan's stylistic sensibility. The two bands even shared slide guitarist Scott Anderson for the night.
"Great set," a fan congratulated me after Have Gun finished.
"That wasn't me playing," I said.
"The girl looked confused.
"It's the pearl snaps," I said, pointing to my shirt.
"I was just telling you it was a great set so you would write it in the paper."
However she meant it, pearl-snap Western shirts were about as ubiquitous that night as Converse All-Stars, snapped onto the likes of Have Gun's bassist, Anderson and Quinlan himself. It is hard to say why pearl snap shirts fit so well with acoustic troubadours. Perhaps it's a way of paying homage to the music's country roots, but I like to think the fashion is more utilitarian. It provides a quick way for drunks to escape the confines of their shirts without having to fool with the complicated mechanics of buttons — which is important in the few seconds one has before passing out or when you're falling into bed with a partner who may second-guess her decision at any moment.
Along with pearl snaps, drinking has a huge presence in alt-country. Quinlan will be the first to admit that alcohol has influenced his music, particularly with limiting the success of the Pagan Saints. But it is partly his struggle with drinking that makes his music, and performances, so compelling. At the handful of Quinlan shows I've seen, he usually plays seated, navigating through a largely unrehearsed set, ordering shots of Jameson and calling friends to the stage to sing with him during the long interludes between songs. This was the first time I'd seen him on his feet, attacking the mic like a younger rocker and challenging the deck-stomping, clap-along energy of Have Gun.
"I'm not good at this in-between shit," Quinlan said during a brief pause between songs. "Thank y'all for coming out."
He's not much for talking, but music pours out of him like whiskey over ice. His voice sounds like Counting Crows, though less whiny and with more accessible lyrics that seem to be written as much at the end of empty bottles as the worn end of plastic rosaries.
No matter where the inspiration comes from, his voice is irrefutable. It climbs through the open air over New World, following you into the loudmouthed party district of Ybor City. It casts a poetic light on girls in tube dresses with heels going clank-clank on broken sidewalks, drifters lingering under the neon beer signs burning through smoky windows, bright yellow street cars carrying single passengers, lines of the well-dressed youth standing in line, waiting: His music is a language for understanding the passing details of life.
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This article appears in Jun 18-24, 2008.