SIlver Moon: Larry and His Flask

"I do not want to tell an untruth and feel compelled, therefore, to note that at this moment, the reporter was aware that the circumstances surrounding his story had become intrusive and significant and that, if unacknowledged, his account of the events that follow would be grossly incomplete. And his circumstances were these: the reporter was very, very drunk."
-Bill Buford (in his article Among The Thugs which can be found in nonfiction anthology New Kings of Nonfiction compiled by Ira Glass)

Such were the circumstances in which I approached my subject-matter last evening at the Silver Moon Brewery where I watched Larry and His Flask chew up the crowd and spit them out less beautiful but happier than when they came. It would be an misleading untruth to not admit the non-objectivity of the author; to claim myself as a composed journalist would be lying. A pitcher of beer (at least) into the half of the set I was doing more than taking notes, I was a part of an all out mass exorcism at the Church of Larry.
The set starts out with Jamin inciting the crowd to cheer. People mainly sat back, hooted a bit and paid attention to their beers. "We're going to work on that..." Jamin swore whipping the band into the first song of the night. By the second song you couldn't remain seated lest you be ousted by the crowd or the compelling enthusiasm of our own rapturous soul.
Standing on a chair the band was quieted as Jamin told a story of getting arrested in Newport Beach, California when playing a sidewalk show. The cops coerced Jamin to stop playing in the middle of a song. "Let's me just finish this one," he had replied still keeping rhythm on the snare and bass drum. Thinking otherwise the cops unplugged the amp and demanded again they stop playing. Suddenly confronted Jamin stepped forward to negotiate and was turned around and handcuffed. Dall rushed forward in aid and was dropped to the curb while Jessie had a similar experience when trying to deal with the situation. A confused crowd tried to step in until they were dispersed by a cop weilding a billy club like a pair of nun chucks. Jessie and Dall arrested and everyone morally crushed by the unnecessary viciousness of Newport's finest meant the show that night was over.
It's just sick when justice becomes the entitlement of weapon wielding and state sanctioned pricks with a heavy hand of anger rather than understanding. Police officers become unknowable, more punishers than distributors of justice- inspiring fear sponsored respect. A police force that enforces meaningless laws based on preemptively surrendered, uncelebrated freedoms of expression of a resigned, tranquilized population of upper class consumers. Why? Who was being hurt when Larry and His Flask played outside of the bars in Newport Beach?
For their credit Bend police tend to watch respectfully and compliment the band during sidewalk performances. Perhaps this is because spontaneity is more common in Bend than in Newport. Perhaps the cops in Newport were just so confused by the outpouring of artistic expression they could only react with a kind of flailing of violence, similar to way I react when someone tells me I have a spider in my hair.
The song devoted to that night and the police of Newport Beach, California went something like this; "Dooooown with the party killers! Dooooown with Newport Beach!" and by the last chorus everyone was singing (shouting) along.
"I have no sense of rhythm" I garbled to Michael, my dancing friend I had met that night, "I used to play the tambourine, now they hide it from me." I demonstrate by my inability to simultaneously dance and clap. "See."
As Jessie steps on the table Michael and I grab the corners grinning at one another. Pitchers of beer sway and Jessie blows into a trumpet - not bad for a kid who never took Band in High School. "Did you know Jessie burns 2500 calories in one night?" I shout to Lia who is standing, holding her beer comfortably. Jessie steps onto another table patrons are sitting at clapping, they clutch onto their swaying beers as he steps off, deeper, into the back crowd who are missing out on the intensity of the front. Three women are back there clapping and hooting wildly, they are recruited to the front where they bob and jive in practical similitude, as if members of the LAHF dance crew.
"Are we warmed up enough to get a "yee-hah?!" Jamin yells. "YEE-HAH!" the crowd replies.
My favorite, old blues cover by Blind Willie Johnson "Jesus Make Up my Dying Bed," is played with the help of the audience bellowing out strongest line, "well well well."
Larry and His Flask sing about "weakness", their commitment to friendship and not women, cancer, cops, drinking, and traveling.
Michael, the three women, and I are in the very front by the last set of songs feeling closer to each other, god, hell, life, and death than we have in awhile (since the last show I suppose). We're laughing, dancing and making up lyrics to the songs we don't know the words to. All that's missing is a sweaty hand on our foreheads screaming, "In the name of Jesus!"
I mean, have you ever had a harmonica played directly into your face, I mean so close you can feel the wind blowing through the reeds against your cheek? Have you ever had the head of an upright bass in your skull or a dress shoe on your pizza? You don't have to be angry to be loud and you don't have to drop someone to the curb to have them respect you. The church of Larry wants nothing more than to rid the devil of you: to make you less boring, to take the stick out of your ass and make you sweat, dance, sing, clap, and beat on something that resonates.