Griffin House

Imagine butter.  Then imagine velvety chocolate.  Then imagine the soft feathers of a baby chick.  Then imagine a perfect summer night.  Then imagine a motorcycle ride down a country road.  Then imagine your grandpa telling you a joke.  Then imagine the perfect sized biceps.   

If you have imagined right, you should be thinking of this guy: Griffin House.

Imagine me and Kelly going to see Griffin House in concert at the RamsHead On Stage.  Imagine all the Cosby show episodes that have scenes in colorful, cozy jazz clubs.  Imagine that to be RamsHead Stage.  But imagine it a little drunker.

Imagine Kelly looking hot in her bar clothes.  Imagine Kelly ordering a lemonade that tastes like a sweettart.  Imagine me ordering a tropical sunrise.  Imagine the bartender reading the waitress' note tequila sunrise.  Imagine the nasty nasty nasty surprise.  Imagine the lesson learned.  Imagine the welcome relief of plain old orange juice mixed with sprite.



Now let's imagine the second act.  Imagine a guy named Charlie Mars.  Imagine nothing special, just something okay. 

But imagine the people in the audience starting to loosen up after all their drinks.  Imagine a very inebriated girl yelling loud nonsense words during quiet accoustic songs.  Imagine me trying to take mental notes of the awesome dance moves of two tall stalky black gay men.  Imagine the sixty year old couple across from us gently swaying and smiling and singing along to Charlie Mars' chorus "come and get high with me and we'll listen to the dark side of the moon."  After all that, imagine wanting desparately for Griffin House to come back on the stage.  Imagine him coming back on the stage and trying to take another picture of him.

Imagine someone walking by just as you were snapping the picture.  Imagine looking at your picture and discovering that you only got a picture of his arm.  Then imagine realizing that's probably all you really needed/wanted a picture of.  

Imagine Griffin and Charlie singing some songs together.  Imagine them singing songs that have all the right notes in all the right places with lyrics that fall and twist and hum in just the right way.  Imagine Griffin singing a "murder ballad."  Imagine being charmed by a murder ballad.  Imagine thinking, "What?!  Am I seriously charmed by a murder ballad!?"  Imagine answering, "Yes, you are."   

Imagine me and Kelly having a great time.  Imagine us singing our hearts out.  Well, imagine me singing my heart out.  Imagine Kelly silently singing in her heart because she refuses to sing at a place where she has paid someone else to sing.

Imagine leaving the concert with a happy glow (please imagine no jokes about the tropical sunrise).  Imagine waiting 20 minutes to get out of the parking garage.  Imagine Kelly's "I hate waiting to get out of parking garages" face.  Imagine no further, here is what it looks like:

Imagine a Saturday night well spent in little ol' Annapolis with Griffin House.