Light Bulb Guitars

I want to write about this now, while the illumination is still there.

I want to tell you about Alex Dupree and the Trapdoor Band.

But I can't, because I am not a writer. I guess I have recently become a blogger, for lack of anything else to do, but I am not a writer. I know that there is absolutely no way that my words will live up to the beauty of tonight's performance, at least not to a point where I would be satisfied with them. But I can't hold it in, and besides, I think a show as unique as tonight's show can't help but inspire creativity. Even in uninspired people like myself.

To start with...it was intimate. The Peacock Bar's emerald green main room was lit up with candles, and the overall Victorian decor caused me to continually question which century I was in. The fact that the Beard is making a huge comeback these days, especially amongst members and followers of the Trapdoor Band, added to this timeless feeling.

Even now as I grasp for details, I can tell that the impression is fading. It started the moment I got in my car and some shitty alternative rock song yelled at me from the speakers. So I'll have to hurry up.














Well...there was a guitar with a light inside of it. And another light bulb attached to the head by the tuning knobs. The light inside the guitar made the body glow this really beautiful amber hue. I thought it resembled an egg shell. The light on the outside was extremely bright, and because it was the only source of light on stage it cast stark, animated shadows all over the intense green walls. Probably something that you have to see to really appreciate.

I guess I should back up a little bit. The stage was a tiny little raised platform on the right side of the room, and on this stage, for what seemed like two hours although I can't really be sure, crammed nine (or was it ten? eleven? eight?) individuals playing various instruments; a half dozen guitars, a violin, a ukelele, a bass drum, xylophone, and many voices.

Okay, I'm going to stop here. It strikes me that turning an epic, revivalist, old-fashioned explosion of human emotion and chords and skin and love and pain into a handful of trite sentences is not going to do anybody any good. Especially not by my hands. I'll leave that responsibility to somebody else; and eventually some real writer will do this group of individuals justice, because if there is anything right in this world, this band will be heard.





Okay, fine, if you really want to know it was like the Arcade Fire making love to Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen. With a chorus of jilted coal miners singing backup. In a brokedown shack with one bare, flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

And they covered Bjork's All is Full of Love. And it was awesome.