Bitter Tears

You know how most great bands can hit a crescendo somewhere about half to two-thirds of the way into their set, and then they spend the last third and their encore driving right along the edge but just managing to keep the set from going off the road and into the ravine? From the opening gun, The Bitter Tears drive right the fuck down the cliff, over the creek at the bottom, and head out into uncharted territory before you've even had a chance to taste your beer.

Sure, you'll see some bodies on the way: Weill+Brecht eating latkes together on an old wooden bench, and of course Tom Waits, and err, Caroliner Rainbow, Arthur Brown and Frank Zappa's 200 Motels, but these boys ride on their own two wheels the entire time.

Not for the faint of heart, weak of soul, humorless, or easily offended, but if you are, then you probably shouldn't be out on a weekend night in Chicago anyway. And last night was the exception that proves the rule. Very bright handheld lights, poorly but liberally applied pancake makup, ill-fitting dresses—five of 'em, new new songs, underwear thank god, falsetto, wigs, chants, singalongs, slide keepaway, trombone amp balancing, emotion, exit stage right.

The record release spectacular for Jam Tarts in the Jakehouse

is March 7 at The Hideout with Southeast Engine (Misra). Come check it out and bring your senses of humor and wonder. Both of 'em.

I promise to take a proper camera to the next show.

Oh my.