We had entered the same venue that was home to the previous night's amazingly tight Shins concert, but time had not been frozen, and this was not the previous night. Being that our group consisted of a recently married couple, an unemployed college graduate, and a student intern who had yet to be paid for his 45 days of work, we only had the funds for one beer apiece. Sadly, twelve ounces of liquid hops and barley couldn't come close to inebriating the mind enough to enjoy the suckass acoustic stylings of Lloyd Cole, who somehow has a cult following of lobotomotized middle-aged Europeans. Fifty-eight and a half curdling minutes later, we faked applause and mocked our "entertainment"'s queasy song titles (who names a song Rattlesnakes?).
We were granted music salvation in the form of Ron Sexsmith, who choked me up during his song dedicated to the memory of Jeff Buckley. The four of us walk through the exits redeemed and uplifted after Sexsmith's performance. Before we could turn the corner, the recent bride stopped to glance at the poster advertising the concert we were leaving. On the poster were a few quotes from various reviews praising Sexsmith's latest release. To our astonishment, one of the chosen quotes came from my friend, her husband. With very little persuasion needed, a security guard unlocked the case securing the poster and gave it to us. We waited outside as the husband returned to the venue. He chatted for a while with Sexsmith, who thanked him for the wonderful review and promptly signed the soon-to-be framed commemorative.
But not before the picture of Lloyd Cole was sliced off.
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