Bernie’s is dark, smelly, and full of morose gutter-punks arguing with one
another over who threw the cue ball into the sound booth. Strange venue in
which to see Jason Anderson (nee Wolf Colonel) perform.

Without band and fully unplugged, we gathered around him on the small carpeted
stage in the corner of the bar. So close, like 5th grade, like he was about to
tell us a secret. Like we’d formed out own intimate clique, one that could not
be disturbed or penetrated by the noisy, sweeping mob occupying the rest of the
club.

More like a lesson than a live set, more like a dialogue than a monologue, the
guitar played, we danced and he looked us straight in the eyes.

Like Mass, we stood, then kneeled, then sat, then stood again. We clapped and
we clapped along. We moved until we were a tight and sweaty indie-huddle. We
paid homage to the church of Bret Michaels and Digital Underground. We were
saved.