Hey Jakey,

I'm hard pressed to say this, but this was probably the best show I've ever been to. I usually measure the impact of a show by what I listen to during the ride home. Tonight, all I heard during the hour-plus ride home was the slightly strained sound of my worn-out wheels meeting pavement.

The night didn't start out well. I arrived at the venue, only to find a hand-written sign on the door: Camper van Beethoven Sold Out. I stood around outside for a bit, hoping I would spot a band member or someone that I could cajole into getting me into the show. No such luck. I couldn't leave, though, without trying something, anything. I approached the security guy, a thoroughly pierced young man with a mohawk, and asked him if "sold out" really meant "sold out." Only 100 tickets, he said, and every one of them paid up and accounted for.

"Dude, I drove all the way from Gardnerville."

"Wow. That's a long way." Said sincerely, not snottily...

I could tell I was maybe getting somewhere. I lingered disconsolately, peering forlornly through the door at the band dispensing with their soundcheck. I pooched out my lower lip a little, let it tremble, glanced sideways at Mr. Pierced.

"They're like your favorite band, huh?" Nod. Tremble. "Okay... what's your name..." He took out a pen and wrote my name on his hand, told me to come back at 9, that he would put me on the guest list.

I came back at 9, he slapped a wristband on me and ushered me through the door. I told him that he had made me a very happy woman. So not only did I get into a sold-out show, I got in for free. Which freed up my cash for several Jim Beam and Diets.

The postage stamp-sized stage held three mikes, a plethora of guitars, and a bare-bones drum kit. I've been to tinier venues, but not many. I waited to see if this was going to be an intimate engagement, or just claustrophobically small and overly loud.

The band took the stage. David Lowery on guitar and vocals, Greg Lisher on lead guitar, Victor Krummenacher on bass, Jonathan Segel on violin and guitar and Frank Funaro on drums. I didn't know what to expect. Camper were playing in a Mexican restaurant in a strip mall, ferchrissakes. Across the parking lot from a Schlotzky's, next to a Payless Shoes, a Dollar Tree and an Albertson's grocery. Was the band pissed off to be here, playing in a tony 'burb on the north side of Reno? Would they deliver the sloppy seconds from their show the previous night in the Bay Area? Or worse, would they phone in an ennui- and boredom-inflected performance?

Neither. Tonight Camper played with an earnestness and drive that I've not witnessed onstage in a long time. The sound was tight, the setlist was thoughtfully prepared, the musicianship was impeccable. It was the sound of a band that's been playing together for many years, and if there was a time they weren't completely enamored of each other, they certainly were tonight. They opened with "Flowers," a dirge-like ode to decadence and rot, and it only got better from there.

It was as if the band was delivered to my own tiny living room, with instructions to play the soundtrack to my college career. The close proximity of the band members to each other was reminiscient of an old-time bluegrass show, where the performers rotate on a tiny stage, sharing the same mike. I watched up close as Greg delivered the Camper guitar melodies that have been woven into the fabric of my memories for many years now. Songs that I mindlessly hum and whistle along to more than almost any other songs in my music collection. I found myself tearing up just a little bit when they played "Sweethearts." Not because it's a sappy love epic, far from it, but because it's such a fucking beautiful song. I was mesmerized by Greg's guitar.

The music tonight transcended some of the brattier, 20-year-old lyrics. Lines like Wasted's "I was a punker, I had a mohawk, I was so gnarly and I drove my dad's car," and "I don't have to go to school for an entire week, I just want to go down to Newport Beach," from Club Med Sucks, were delivered without one bit of irony or sarcasm by a 40-something David. Here's an old song from back in the day, he seemed to say, but we're gonna play the fuck out of it for you now.

I've been to Camper shows before. I was there for the band's triumphant reunion several years ago in Santa Cruz, their birthplace, after a decade-long hiatus. I remember feeling cheated, pissed off. The show seemed tongue-in-cheek somehow. "How wanky and weird and obscure can we be?" seemed to be the question of the evening.

Not the case tonight. A great show. So these are the semi-drunken thoughts of one of their biggest fans. Hardly suitable for inclusion in the newspaper or on the reno site, huh? And the above photo. What a joke. I brought my camera, but was loathe to take it out to snap any pictures. I felt like I was nestled up underneath the band's chins all night. Haha, close enough to reach out and unzip Greg's fly, if I was so inclined. So I snapped a pic of the parking lot after the show with my camera phone.

Anyway... Can't wait till you're old enough to go to shows with me. THEN you'll understand. Love you!

Quick afterthoughts:
Seeing David without Johnny is like going out for coffee with a friend of a friend, and finding out that you get on like peas and carrots! But, looking back on it, David rocked my world long before Johnny ever did. If only Johnny didn't have that long curly black hair...

And another:
Gosh, Victor is cute. Sooooo cute. Kinda like Anderson Cooper, but with a soulful and world-weary edge. Yeah, I know he's gay, but those eyes... Sigh.... He can be my art director any day. (So hire me already, Victor!) Check this out!