A scrubbed-clean couple walked through the door carrying a still-warm vegan chocolate cake in the shape of a heart. In the kitchen a thoughtful man spoke with sincere concern about gluten sensitivities and behavioral issues with the autistic children he works with. Girls in cute spring dresses and fresh wedge sandals chatted amicably, and young men respectfully complimented their beauty. A kitty rolled on the sidewalk outside; another cat scampered up and down the stairs inside. People were holding hands, talking quietly, excusing themselves as they brushed past one another. This was not Stepford. This was a sleepy show two Wednesdays ago in the northeast Vegas home where siblings Chris and Mary Curler run indie folk label Cloud Hidden Records.
I showed up just in time to see Winter Starlight Band, an earnest quintet of pink-cheeked fellas who play happy/sad Holden Caulfield indie rock. The small, warm, red-walled basement with tasseled heavy drapes bearing actual ties was already full with polite young adults seated on the floor, beaming up at the band, so folks gathered chairs ’round the top of the short flight of stairs. It was like watching from a little balcony.
You know when in the movies the guy realizes he’s about to lose the girl and runs through a field of snow to get to the airport before she gets on a plane to the big city? The music in the background is the kind Winter Starlight plays. A smorgasbord of three bands, all permutations of one another, and a couple of solo acts—notably Jacob Smigel—rolled into one, they’re music lovers with a high-level actual skill that they must’ve logged several hours in a practice space to achieve. And it was not at all my thing.
This was so nice it gave me the willies. I felt like I would’ve been more comfortable rolling joints with the shady folk down the street.
I had to escape and go do something gnarly to shake this wholesome vibe. So off to Gilley’s it was for porn star and stripper mud wrestling, where a white-haired woman dripping in pawn-shop jewelry using a cane to prop her on a stool kept pushing mounds of empty beer bottles into my lap. She slapped the edge of the ring, getting angry for no apparent reason, yelling, “Come on!” like it was a horse race. When some scantily clad ladies came around with bags full of porn DVDs, the woman grabbed as much as she could. All around men were shouting, “Kiss her!” at the slippery little piggies in the ring. And finally, I could relax.