Of Cats and Catastrophes

What a day. I haven’t been out in three nights, and I feel hungover from not being hungover. It can happen.

But I’m still catching up on all the shows I saw last week.

First, then, cheers to Cat Simpson, who’s making good on her promise to help the Grand Emporium — that beloved son of the music scene who went flamboyantly gay at age 38, after a long marriage to the blues — get its local music cred back. Last Thursday, she brought Jon Yeager, Olympic Size and American Catastrophe to the Emporium stage and set them up with a cozy, curtained lounge in the back, with complimentary wine and snacks. She even tied a few black-raven American Catastrophe feathers to things. (What were those things, though? Condoms? Beheaded Barbie dolls? Memory fails me.)

Few bodies were in the club when Yeager fired up, but I noticed right away that the sound in the room was better than I’d heard it before. Especially when close to empty, the redesigned Emporium had been tormented by loud, muddled sound echoing off its slate floors. New partitions between the stage room and the bar may have been the answer. Yeager played a chunk of songs off his upcoming album, Foi (that’s French, boi), the first thing he’s recorded with his newish live band, which desperately needs a backup-band name. Maybe “Jon Yeager and the Mink-Coated Lovehammers” or “and the Leathermen” (which would require a costume change) or “and the Tuna Bumsteads,” which is a kind of hot sandwich my mom used to make. I’ll give �em the recipe. Or some chaps.

Next up (I’m moving fast here, sorry), Olympic Size set itself in motion, albeit slow-motion, like a frond wavering in a fishtank inside the apartment out by the airport where you’re about to die alone. The big news with this band is that Dave Gaume has stepped in on bass; erstwhile Belles frontman Chris Tolle has left to join — rumor has it — Blackpool Lights, where he would replace the recently departed Thommy Hoskins, who, I have heard, wants to return to his Buffalo Saints. If that made no sense, then pat yourself on the back: You’re not a scenester! Anyway, Olympic Size still sounds great, thanks mainly to its frontpeople — Kirsten Paludan and Billy Smith — not leaving the band and instead singing their hearts out and nailing harmonies without even looking at each other.

Last up, American Catastrophe had to play without its drummer, who had come down with something nasty and possibly flesh-eating. Instead, or perhaps just additionally (who knows why?), Laura Frank, matron of the Pistol Social Club, joined them on saw. Acoustic Catastrophe was no acoustic catastrophe, but I’m more a fan of its horse-whippin’, bounty-huntin’ sound, music that moves while it growls, so I didn’t stick around very late.

But the point was to be at the Emporium. The drinks were cheap, the lights were dim and the people were nice. There’s no reason not to welcome it back to the local scene — in fact, I demand reasons to go there at least twice a month. Get on it, Cat.