Damn Fine Playin’, Folks: The Punch Brothers and Aoife O’Donovan

In an attempt to reign in my sheer excitement at discovering not one but two absolutely amazing new artists in the last 12, 13 hours, here I am. Maybe by putting these emotions into words, to the best of my ability, I’ll be able to get the brilliance of these groups across to all of you.

Last night, a few friends and I ventured to a pretty small venue, Petit Campus, to check out The Punch Brothers. Before I continue, a word about Petit Campus: considering it’s downwind and literally down the stairs from the notorious froshie hangout Café Campus, I never thought much of this venue. And I never would have dreamed that they would have any kind of musicians playing there that could genuinely rouse my interest. At best, I thought it was a unexciting space to handle overflow from the top-40s-blasting club. All this said without ever having set foot inside the petit space. Well, they showed me. Some of the best folk shows I’ve been to in Montreal have been in this little but precious space, last night’s included.

I heard about the Punch Brothers on my own doing. The main mandoliner (mandolinist?) is the relatively famous Chris Thile (pronounced Thee-lee and not Tile, as I had guessed). Now, Chris and I go way back. Of course, he doesn’t know this, and I only just recently figured out how to pronounce his name, but all the same, I first heard his virtuosic mandolin-ing when he was one-third of the group Nickel Creek, an acoustic folk trio that I’ve loved for years now. Just beautiful playing. But anyway, having been re-introduced to him recently, I became slightly obsessive and looked up to see when and if he’d be in Montreal any time soon. As luck would have it, not 3 weeks away, the Punch Brothers starring you-know-who were to have their first Montreal show.

Before they took the stage, little Aoife (Ee-fah) O’Donovan came up with her acoustic guitar. Within 20, maybe 25 seconds, she dispelled any and all doubts I had about her brought on by a relatively small presence on a large stage. Pfft. Her voice could fill 5 stages. Not with power but with soul. While I have no doubt that if she wanted to, she could have belted the roof off of any Campus, petit or grand, she just didn’t need to. Such control in her voice, such vibrance. It was just heartbreakingly beautiful. She captivated by far the most excited and energetic crowd I’ve ever been a part of, in Montreal or elsewhere. (Except for perhaps a Girl Talk show a couple years ago, but I’m a bit suspicious that some of the audience members at that show didn’t really know where they were or why. Granted, they were having a hell of a time, but I think the value of music appreciation outweighs hype.) The house was silent for her. She brought out her sister to sing harmony as well as a cellist for her final song. Like we needed any more persuasion to buy her EP.

Then came the boys. 5 in total, all dressed to the nines – one on the stand-up bass, another on the banjo, then the acoustic guitar, the fiddle, and the Chris Thile, his mandolin evidently valued at $200,000. Pretty standard set-up for a folk group, but a far from standard show. Chris Thile is by far the most energetic entertainer I’ve ever seen. With his contortionist-like dance moves and genuine smile, he’s just having fun. Plain and simple. And the crowd ate it up. Throughout the show, Chris expressed his surprise at the roaring applause and sold-out crowd, especially considering this was their Montreal debut. By the end of their set, not only was he asking the whole crowd to join them for the rest of the tour, but he assured us all they’d never have a tour and not come to Montreal again. Which was obviously well-received news. Please, do yourself a favor and check out one of my favorite instrumentals of theirs right here. The Parisian crowd is definitely not as into it as we were. We were basically the best crowd ever. Chris’s words. More or less.

Walked away with 4 albums and a t-shirt between the 4 of us. Would have walked away with a Chris Thile, too, but I imagine that would have been frowned upon. But seriously, a bargain at any price. If either Aoife O’Donovan or the Punch Brothers are ever anywhere near you, just go. Trust me.

Indian Food and Inexplicable Bliss

Thanks to a wonderful upbringing, I was introduced to the phenomenon of exotic spices and un-American cuisine when I was very young. Sekisui, a Japanese restaurant that I’ve raved about in the past, was one of the first restaurants I was taken to when I was itty bitty. Obviously, it stuck. Another genre of food I came to love and savor from an early, early age was Indian food. When I was still in my purple velvet church dress complete with lace collar, white opaque stockings and kids size 13 patent leather pseudo-pumps, I remember sitting on my feet at Delhi Palace, reaching over the table for as much naan and as many veggie pakoras as my little hands could handle. Every Sunday after church we ventured out to this little hole-in-the-wall family-run Indian restaurant. And I can still taste that cucumber and yogurt dressing, which I have since learned is called raita. But back then, I didn’t care what it was called – all I knew is that anything and everything tasted better smothered in the stuff. A mantra I still believe to be true.

All this reminiscing can largely be blamed on a good friend of mine, Alex, and his wonderful find of a restaurant. Yesterday, Vic and I ventured out to Little India here in Montreal and, after getting the first whiff of cumin that hung in the air, decided to indulge ourselves. On Alex’s recommendation, we made a bee line to Delhi Bombay Curry and Naan, a tiny place tucked in among several other equally well-named restaurants of the same fashion.

Now. Before I continue with the actual meal, I must say the following: there is something about Indian food. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s just that it’s been ingrained in my sensory memory from a young age or maybe there’s actually something magical in the combination of these ingredients, but my goodness. There is nothing like good Indian food. The spices, the smells, the infinite combination of flavors when all those lovely, complex sauces begin to drift together in the center of the plate. To put it simply: it’s comfort food like no other. But, as simplifying statements usually do, to chalk it up to comfort food seriously understates the actually “wow”ness of it all. As Vicky stated it last night, the flavors just don’t get old. No matter what ridiculously massive serving of curry you have in front of you, by the time you get to that last bite, it still tastes just as good as the first. Infinite newness. Constantly relearning. Please forgive my ramblings. It’s just that good. It brings it out in me.

On a normal day, Vic and I are what you would call light eaters. It doesn’t take much to fill us up. But put a mountainous pile of Butter Chicken and Lamb Curry and rice and naan in front of us and we’d come across like heavyweight champs loading up before a fight. What would normally take us a good two, maybe three sittings to finish we were able to put away in a matter of hours. Not even. Our whole time clocked at Curry and Naan was probably only an hour or an hour and a half. We were eating like our lives depended on it, only stopping to breathe occasionally and, of course, go on and on to each other about how life was good and how food with such flavor shouldn’t be legal, all the while struggling to stifle our inappropriate moans of delight. We were a sight to see, that’s for sure. We both had a thali, which is a large plate consisting of usually three or four portions different entrees. In other words, we both had a little slice of heaven. Topped off with a single gulab jamun, a South Indian dessert, which, needless to say, pushed me over the limit of excessively full (comfortably full was left behind loooong ago) into borderline food coma. But even though I felt about 10 pounds heavier when we finally were able to pull ourselves away, I was never too full. It wasn’t like the kind of full you feel after poutine. It’s such a happy full. A very, very sleepy full, mind you, but never uncomfortable. You just can’t be anything but happy after a meal like that, no matter how much you’ve forced your stomach to expand.

To sum up: It. Was. Astounding. New haunt added to the ever-growing list of favorites in this city. Thanks again to Alex for the tip! Clearly, we appreciate it.