As usual, the Choices were loud, but all the singer’s glaring in the first set gave it away that no one really wanted to be there. The bass player had gone home and come back; the guitar man had eaten too many cheeseburgers. A four song delay before getting their shots of bourbon didn’t help either. Sitting off to the side with a lonely bit of extra Beam, it was clear that giving only one shot to the band would start a fight on stage, it was the kind of night for clawing and bashing in the demand for alcohol.
And a stage fight might have distracted from Starsky and Hutch’s routine. We’d first seen them outside, telling wild stallions to be safe. In the bar they were macking on chicks in a way you couldn’t quite believe. The tall one had an afro to go with his aviators and moustache. He was the visual attractor so the little guy in the sweater jacket could make all the people laugh. They were undercover, letting everybody know it, propelled by sheer ridiculousness. I don’t remember who they left with.
All of this, of course was witnessed by an alpineer who grew less and less plussed by the display of local colour. When he donned his felt hat and grabbed his rucksack I think now about stopping him and saying that it was going to be better, that he should watch how the singer was split in half by the lights on stage, and that would make up for our provincial silliness. But he left too quick and at the time I was happy enough to let him be gone.poor choices winnipeg