My love for the Silver Jews started on a math club field trip (really) when a days-old love put headphones on me and piped American Water into my sixteen-year-old ears, frames of the Blue Ridge Mountains suspended by the charter bus windows as we passed. Years later, my best friend, Leslie and I counted on Bright Flight and The Natural Bridge to last us all along the highway til we got to Graceland. I'm that awful sort of nostalgic, unconditional fan. It's all I can do to not close my eyes like a jackass at their shows.
Tonight I saw them play at Milo Arts, a startup venue that will hopefully come to book the sort of bands that the fallen Little Brother's boasted. The building was a Victorian elementary school, the women's bathroom still houses tiny gym lockers and a couple cobwebbed shower stalls. The show space itself reminds me eerily of my own (and really, probably everyone else's) grade school's multi-purpose room, right down to the metal-caged lights on the ceiling and the cinder-block walls coated in white. I couldn't shake the feeling that any moment I was going to get caught drinking a beer and have my recess privileges revoked.
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