Days since the new law requiring bars in the city of Atlanta to close at 3 am went into effect: 18. Fatal shootings in Buckhead: 0. This program has been a resounding success, I motion that we shut down the entire city at 5 pm. Based on the spectacular results achieved by closing the bars only one hour earlier, this new policy will eliminate virtually all crime in the City of Atlanta.
Recurring Propeller Skies character The Beaver and I caught the Copper show at Ten High last night. The first couple of songs started out slow, but by the third song the band had warmed up and were starting to rock. On the fourth song, the ever-popular “Miss December”, the band was in full effect, not that the yuppie couple groping each other in front of us noticed. Obviously, they had meant to go to the Dorkhouse but had accidentally stumbled downstairs into Ten High. Anyway, Shane Bragg’s combustible guitar solo focused my attention back on the stage. A bit later, Mr. Bragg broke a guitar string and the rest of the band played a stirring rendition of “Sunday, Bloody Sunday”, which kept the crowd* occupied until the guitar was restrung. As a bonus, the cover also answered the burning question, “what would U2 have sounded like if they were from Nashville and had a funkier rhythm section?” After the technical difficulties, Copper finished their set in fine style. This was the third time I’ve seen Copper play and the first time I went to see them specifically. They’ve gotten better every time. Recommendation: spend your hard-earned ducats to see Copper.
To preserve the balance of the cosmic order, we had to suffer through the obligatory Opening Band That Sucks™. Of course, every once in a while the cosmic order fucks up and I catch a fantastic opening band that blows me away, like when Sunday Munich, opened for Film. Such was not the case tonight. The opening band was The Taste, who apparently did not get the memo that 1987 is over. I guess someone forgot to put the cover sheet on the TPS report and it got lost in the mail. Anyhow, they are an imitation of a bad late 80s hair band, complete with a hair flinging lead guitarist performing an excessive number of gratuitous windmills. Rating: Sucks.
Since sucky opening bands are starting to become a trend around here, I have developed the following three tiered ordinal rating scheme to quantify the exact amount of sucking a given band does. The ratings are, in order of ascending suckiness:
Just got in from the monthly Atlanta Outdoor Club social hour. Always a good time, although the parking situation at Summit’s Wayside Tavern is starting to get intolerable.
Previous to that, I was at the Friends Junior Committee Social at Rock Bottom in Buckhead. Photos will, as per usual, be posted on AtlantaBuzz next week. Do not miss the Friends Junior Committee’s upcoming Blue Healer charity event, as the Park Tavern will be crawling with beautiful babies. There will also be plenty of free booze and appetizers.
Why is there no place to eat in Atlanta at 4 am besides The Majestic and R. Thomas and Sons? The Majestic is appropriately greasy, but inconveniently located. As for R. Thomas, free range organic tree-hugging hippie chicken is just not a proper close to a night of binge drinking.
I went to the envie show last night at The Earl. Envie fucking rules. Even The Beaver managed to stay awake for the whole show.
Of course, in order to preserve the balance of the cosmic order, we had to suffer though an opening band that played cabaret music. In fucking German even. Sheer torture. Not that I’m opposed to cabaret style music. Or Germans. Really. For example, I happen to like The Dresden Dolls, who I first heard on Album 88.
Last night, The Beaver and I stopped for drinks at the worst bar in Atlanta. After reading a glowing review of Pura Vida in Creative Loafing, I went in with high expectations. The Loaf mentioned Pura Vida served obscure South American cocktails, such as Pisco Sours and Caipirinhas made in the proper way with fresh lemon juice and limes. The Loaf failed to mention the poor execution of the bartenders.
I started with the Pisco Sour, which was at least drinkable. A heavy hand with the lemon juice and simple syrup completely overwhelmed the Pisco (an unaged, high-proof brandy distilled from muscatel grapes in Chile and Peru, similar to Grappa), resulting in a drink that tasted like a lemon drop. I assume the overzealous use of juice and syrup was encouraged by a management afraid of candy-ass Atlantans complaining about the unrefined fieriness of the South American brandy.
Next, after noticing that the bartender had the appropriate tool (a muddler) to make a Caipirinha and actual Cachaca (an unaged Brazilian brandy made from sugar cane), I sampled one. Bad idea. The bartender only used two lime wheels instead of a whole lime and did not stir the drink. The result was basically straight Cachaca, which tastes like lighter fluid. Not being a quick learner, I then ordered a Mojito. Surprisingly, this drink was actually passable, but mediocre. Stick to beer at Pura Vida, they can’t mess that up.