Last night, we visited The Forge and listened to Jo Rose and Samantha Crain. The Forge, with its precision arrangement of pale wood, resembles everything you generally expect from a classy, jazzy, sort of place. With the addition of, this being England, some cider on tap. So far as I know, cider on tap is not a phrase familiar to most Americans, particularly, the classy, jazzy ones.
Jo Rose rode the train down from Manchester. He wore a jumper and slacks. He played a wise guitar. His banter was gentle, and low-key, and his songs full of bright, echoing sadness accompanied by the occasional dark tremble from that carefully strummed and very wise guitar. He remarked, on more than one occasion, that this crowd filled the space with the sort of classy silence that renders it very difficult to discern whether one’s show is going well or poorly. If Jo is reading this, I can help with that. It went well.
Samantha Crain did not, so far as I know, ride the train down from Manchester. My sister saw her in Nashville and told us that we should see her. She wore purple tights and a subdued sort of cosmic jumper. On stage, she was joined by a fellow with a guitar and a drummer with, well, drums. Her songs rocked with heartache and care and want. I loved it.
Tomorrow, I will attempt to buy Beirut tickets.
Wish me luck, readers.