Hearsay: Wednesday, August 6, 2003
Spoonfed Plays Lollapalooza

One of the redeeming aspects of partying into the wee hours of the morning on school nights is: You learn shit. About yourself and about others, but mainly about yourself. Dig it: HearSay was always a Spoonfed Tribe appreciator, not a fan, just an appreciator. To be able to make such an organized racket, a la Spoonfed, requires an assload of technical proficiency and an even bigger reservoir of spiritual inspiration. HearSay always, ceaselessly appreciated this. Did the music swing (like all “good” music should), to HearSay? Most of the time, but not always. The thought that maybe your trusty columnist wasn’t giving the music a chance, an unprejudiced listen, popped up last week during late-night revelry when talking to an avid fan of the band, who told HearSay that to really “get into” a Spoonfed song you got to resist it. Listen to it with a vengeance. Actually want to dislike it. Once that happens — once you distort your vision, so to speak — the music fights back. Things, riffs, beats that you may have never noticed before audaciously make themselves apparent. Before long, you’re won over. The truth is that his approach to adventures in Spoonfed listening is elegant. HearSay’s now — officially — a fan.

The big question now is: Will HearSay brave the Lollapalooza masses this Friday to see a beefed-up version of Spoonfed, doing their percussion stuff throughout the Smirnoff environs? Now, like a teen counting his chest hairs, HearSay’s all for learning new things about itself every school night, especially in West Seventh Street watering holes. One thing your writer is not crazy about is getting hammered and, consequently, lost in Big D. But that’s not the point. The point is that you should go, if only to see Spoonfed, who’s never played a bigger gig — they would love the hometown support. Call whoever’s selling tickets at 214-421-1111. Again, that’s Lollapalooza, Friday, August 8, at the Smirnoff, 1818 1st Avenue in Dallas. Spoonfed. Lollapalooza. And you.

Know Any Guy?

HearSay’s boss took vacation last week (nah, she didn’t leave HearSay with any extra work, nossir, and HearSay was happy to do it, too) and ended up one night in a little North Carolina town listening to an “acoustic party band” called the Refried Beans — five middle-aged, financially secure guys who were, praise be to the Almighty Dollar, able to cruise the coast for three nights, playing almost-free gigs (the Beans’ “First Intracoastal Waterway Tour”). On a break, one of the roadies asked if there were any requests. Do they know any Guy Clark, the boss inquired. Any Guy Clark? Why, hell, he’s our fave, except maybe for Jerry Jeff Walker and Robert Earl Keen. Robert Earl Keen? Why, hell, Boss’ husband went to college with Keen. (Gig ’em.) The upshot: the North Carolina boys played Guy and Robert Earl and Jerry Jeff and a bunch of other Texan stuff for the rest of the night. The moral of the story: Even when you try to get out, Texas apparently keeps pulling you back in. Yippie ki yay.

Contact HearSay at hearsay@fwweekly.com.

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