chris garneau
Some december night, when everything was frozen, my friend, in a way that only she could, convinced me to wander out to the Bell House. Slipping in my inappropriate shoes, through the nowhere that is Gowanus, we arrived to find a surprisingly warm bar that would become our winter hideaway.
I’d never heard of Chris Garneau, though that’s who I’d agreed to go see as part of a Christmas Indie/Folk/Rock Spectacular (that may or may not have been the events title). The show as a whole was mediocre at best, an uneven mash of acts that had no correlation between them. But Chris Garneau, rocking forward on his piano stool, hammering out his slightly uneven notes, his voice soft and small yet still somehow carrying over the crowd, he shined and we quieted down. He had one of those voices that defies logic. Crackly and imperfect. Too loud and too quiet at times, it was hard to distinguish some of the lyrics. But everyone swayed none-the-less. He had that intangable thing, like Joanna Newsom, something spritely, like he’d wandered into the bar from a nearby forest, magic still clinging to his flannel shirt.
It took me only five months to look up his music, slowed down by the lack of home internet connection and my faltering memory. But today while looking for some new sound to revel in, his voice popped in my head and it seemed like the only good way to let Monday night fade into a Tuesday morning.
Castle-Time
Relief
DD,
ob, 
, 
o)8(,
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