Si, se puede.
Before last Friday the last punk show I went to was Gogol Bordello with Jill and Zach in Dallas, in March, five days before Mike died. I didn't realize until I said it out loud that night at the third bar while a very loud metal band played inside, but for a long time I didn't want it to get better. I wanted, for a few months, to stay in mourning forever. And it is getting better. I don't even cry every day anymore. But I am cognizant of the fact that at least once a day, and I would imagine for several years down the road, I will think of him, and miss him. There are going to be many occasions for me to wish that my non-genetic twin brother were here. Nothing and no one can ever replace him. And while that one tiny, malignantly self-destructive nucleus in my brain (the same one that let me drink my way to academic probation and kept me from getting off my ass and exercising for so long) wants me to keep my nighted color on, I am resilient and my girlfriends are, thankfully, patient and persistent. No one has said anything, but I have noticed a more concentrated effort on their part to get me out of the house more.
All that aside, Mr. Lewis and the Funeral Five kick so much ass that I don't quite know where to begin. Sonically, it's like Gogol Bordello and Tom Waits had a baby who really loves Nick Cave, Valium and Frank Sinatra. The music is so effortlessly cool and stylish. What's more, the men themselves are gracious, funny and verbally appreciative of the time, effort and money people spend to see them play.
All that aside, Mr. Lewis and the Funeral Five kick so much ass that I don't quite know where to begin. Sonically, it's like Gogol Bordello and Tom Waits had a baby who really loves Nick Cave, Valium and Frank Sinatra. The music is so effortlessly cool and stylish. What's more, the men themselves are gracious, funny and verbally appreciative of the time, effort and money people spend to see them play.