Lest the year turn entirely into banjo-filled wonderment that seems to reflect an America turning inward towards a comforting past image (the genre known as alt.country does feel like it carries strains of populism, doesn’t it?), I managed to make it down to DC9 to catch Pomegranates.  It was a short set, lasting no more than 30 minutes, but a refreshing reminder of what I enjoy about small venues and small bands.  They sounded better live than on mp3 — and at the risk of dating myself reminded me at moments of the Kitchens of Distinction — but what was truly pleasurable was being able to sip a beer or two, listen closely, jostle with nobody, and buy a record (yes, a record) at the end of the show.  Red vinyl, or as they might say, pomegranate vinyl.


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