I met myself at a bar last Thursday. It was cold and wet and the wind pushed against the pub door like a tramp out of stash. I was drinking doubles but my dopple drinks 3.2, he grabs a round and I shout "me too." We two got down to the business and we shot the shit like a preach with no witness.
"Finn should have stuck with Lifter Puller," I holler over the out-of-whack juke. "They turned you inside out," I spout. It was a sour metaphor but he bit like a trout.
"It's just like you to like 'em out of context." Jamie throws back both his head and the PBR. The bar is dark but we can see where we are. Jenny from the Fisch Haus plays pool with the skaters. We like to hate 'em but they ain't so bad at the skating. "But let me tell you about The Hold Steady."
"Don't even start." I'm ordering bourbon now by fanning my fingers out. Only a couple down and we've already lost all our manners. "I think Finn got a bit lazy and settled for 4/4. And you can't compare the lyrics. Lifter Puller blows 'em out the door." I toss back the bourbon and check the place out. Kids are packing in and getting rowdy. The girl from the grill is dishin' pills and wishin' her thrills numbered as high as her ills. Jamie clears another beer and a new thought.
"I think you're missing the transition between bands," he says as he pops a new blue top, and with a pop an eight ball cracks against the thick of his skull. A couple of skaters want a fight so we decide to set the place alight. Jamie kicks the table out and grabs a couple of cues from the skinheads. We crack a few heads and head for the back. "Lifter Puller," he says, grabbing a couple cans as we ran, "sets the tempo. The Hold Steady picks it up. How can you argue with that?"
"Two words: cow bell. Besides, you're drunk," I holler. We're out the door and over the fence and hopping in once more with Spence. He's driving the van but the man can hardly stand anymore. He's been snorting for days and the ride is packed with some friends and some whores. "Lifter Puller surpasses The Hold Steady in the same way that Pavement will always surpass Malkmus, and Frank Black will never be as good alone as he was with The Pixies." Spence peels out of the lot and hangs out the door shouting We are the troubadors!
Jamie's a sardine between a hooker with an eye patch and our good friend Mag Pie. The van must be rocking 'cause nobody's knocking but our heads are knocked all over as Spence floors the pedal and takes to the Interstate. "It's the same Craig Finn," he begins, "in The Hold Steady. He's there in Killer Parties as much as he's there in Manpark."
"Two completely different bands," I scream. I know he can hear me, but I can't hear me. The drink is hitting hard. "How can you forget 'wake up in the grass with the ass-less chaps'? It's a line so real yet so poetic you barely have time to think about it because you have to wipe Finn's spit from your cheeks."
The van teeters and peels onto two wheels. Now the girls are screaming like we are, and we are screaming like girls. Spence cranks the wheel and the van flips over. After a few turns we're crawling over bodies. Jamie pulls me out the back doors. "The Hold Steady aren't some creepy evolution or a half-assed effort. Think of them as taking back a sound ruined by bands like Kings of Leon. Remember when rock knocked you in the gut? Well, The Hold Steady is swinging. They're not Lifter Puller. Nobody is. Now pull yourself together."
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