You can be certain in art in a way that you can’t be in life. In fact, you have to be certain. The act of creating forces your hand. You must believe in what you’re doing—otherwise, why bother?—and now you’re on the grid, you gotta hustle to be the best. Do you know how much work it takes to look like you don’t give a fuck? That’s entertainment.

So there I was at the Stone Fox, again, marvelling at how such an oddly-placed venue could have won Nashville’s heart, and figuring it was sheer determination and force of will. The sparsely-dressed stage has a backdrop virtually identical to the much older Springwater Supper Club—sparkling red, a touch of glam, something I always found comforting—so maybe it was that tinge of familiarity that drew us all in.

I was there to see a killer show. I knew Charly Bliss (“Love Me” for goddamn ever!) from the year before when I saw them light up (le) poisson rouge in New York City, which I remember primarily because I had my first pickleback shot there—to date, the only thing I’ve consumed that could be classified as “nauseatingly delicious”. I knew Daddy Issues, because of course.

I didn’t know Ebony Eyes but I was more than willing to listen.


Turns out, they’re loud and gritty and fun to have around.

The rest of the show was stellar. Daddy Issues were good as ever—even better after learning that Emily was drumming through a broken toe.


Charly Bliss was everything they should have been, all sick riffs and headbanging.


And jumping.


They really have jumping down to a science.

A few $5 special shooters later and that was it. Pack up the gear and head out. I’m sure there will be plenty more reasons to ruminate sidestage under the spell of something that churns and roars and throttles the way a band is supposed to.


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