I was ready to forget a week's worth of weird antics. Richmond Fontaine cured my disrepair. It was sunset and I was sitting outside of the Bluebird Theater. A few minutes passed and I saw Jeff walking toward me on the opposite side of the street with Richmond Fontaine. When they got near I stood up, said hi and we talked for a few minutes. Willy asked me if I needed a way into the show. I did. He went to the booth and put me on the list.

We all went in. The air conditioning felt good. I headed for the bar. Jim Beam and cola seemed right, then I walked to the stage and watched the equipment and instruments get all wired up and dialed in. Somehow the knobs and pedals were positioned just as they had been in Salt Lake City the previous nite.

Went to look over the merchandise and picked up RF's latest, Thirteen Cities, and Willy Vlautin's book, The Motel Life. I was familiar with each, but needed to have them for sentimental reasons. The first time I heard the demo of Thirteen Cities was last September in the middle of an Idaho night during a road trip to Seattle. Cool moist hay field air blasted through the truck speeding along I-84. RF was turned up, adding to and mixing with my atmosphere. I'll never forget how good it all was.

Got my stuff autographed and headed to a nearby bar for a drink with Ed and Conor. Conversation about the future of independent music and travels in Ecuador went well with beer, shots and boxing on the television. A little after 10 pm we drank down our medicine and returned to the Bluebird. RF was in sound check and within a few minutes began their set. I got in close to see/hear the details.

Willy sang despairing lyrics and I couldn't help but feel good. The band is running tight to nite, maybe because they will have a bit of a break before playing in LA on 7/19. I positioned stage right with a perfect view of all activities. Dan Eccles, eyes closed, zoned in on his Telecaster smoothly storming twangy riffs. Willy was comfortable and confident, his sparkling eyes glancing out to the crowd and often to bassist Dave Harding on his left. Obviously the band was enjoying the show, each casting approval back and forth as they played.

RF played a nice long set, unusual for the warm up slot. Too soon it was over. I especially enjoyed , "$87 And A Guilty Conscience That Gets Worse The Longer I Go" and "Post To Wire." A few new tunes were in the performance. They're, no doubt, for the next CD.

Slim Cessna's Auto Club was the headliner. Didn't know what to expect since I'd never seen these guys. Distorted banjos hypnotized the crowd into a jiving cult of reverse religion. I got caught up in a human bumper-ball game and momentarily lost my eyeglasses. Found them under the foot of a smiling tattooed lady. Quick repairs and I was able to see well enough to find my car and drive home.

A few hours of sleep gave way to the sunny heat of a new day. Drove out to the highway past symmetrical urban light poles following the repetitious white stripes leading to the Republic of Boulder. Caffeine in hand and Nirvana in my head. I was feeling good and wondering where old Jefferson had ended up.

Jeff had crashed on Amy's porch... somewhere in East Denver. He never said so but me thinks this show was for Richmond Fontaine. It's concept was fueled by a bottle in his pocket and cool pre-morning urban breezes. Uncle Jeff's goodbye, good luck, hope to see you again saga to a great Portland band and most importantly good friends.

A must download for hardcore 78ers. Adios.