Bells Toll on Rock & Roll

The following words were written for Ryan Adams and H-heads everywhere. These are letters—confessions?—to each from the seventh row of Ryan’s show at Claremont’s Bridges Auditorium, penned by yours truly, the Sister’s Bell . . . 

Dear Ryan,

Well, we finally got the time, so we’re sitting down to write you a letter. After worshipping your golden hand (yep, you’ve got the Midas touch) we can now cross that Penny Lane fantasy off our lengthy list of rock-dos-and-don’ts. Do view Ryan from seventh row center, if not stage left. Do lose voices from loud woo-hooing-bouts-of-Ryan-joy (when we say l-u-v, you better believe us, L-U-V). Don’t smash-dance in aisle, blocking the collective H-head view while repeat-requesting “Come Pick Me Up”—some know nothing of concert etiquette and these people are called rubberneckers, according to your dotcom dictionary.  

That’s right, we caught the prom at Claremont’s Bridges Auditorium last Tuesday and have to say the whole she-bang was a real ryder (C-speak: class gig). Not too many things can put a damper on a night with your Cardinals, and, if those walls in Bridges could talk, we wonder to ourselves if they’d be too choked up—with tears of gold, of course. ‘Cause—oh our souls—you were just that good. And there it is. 

Two hearts,

Your sweet lil’ gals  

Dear H-heads,

So when all the lights turned after burn, exposing five Cardinals and a backdrop straight from Cold Roses’ liner notes, we knew this was it—Ryan-time. Hallelujah, mockingbirds sing. We’d counted the seconds-till-him for nearly thirty days (2,592,000 ticks) and, after settling his Red Bull and ashtray, he finally spooned us a much-needed dose of Jacksonville city nights and it went down like sweet rock & roll elixir. He was chesty and chatty but still full-force, bending-backwards with the right notes on opener “Goodnight Rose.” 

Perhaps the master of hard times is done with all those nerve-riddled games; at least there were none that night, no dancing in a coma of recently consumed drinks, no facing the band-boys rather than fan-boys—though he did sing “Games ” and was quick with the self-deprecating banter, always feeling the need to rescue us from feeling his blues. We H-heads know plenty of Ryan’s songwriting tendencies, and it’s just fine that all ditties are drawn in the color of the blues—real songs from real Jacksonville people are always appreciated. Still, ever conscientious, he’d even chopped his bangs to stare-down his own stage fright. He’s 33 now and, apparently, getting too old for such neurosis. As rumor has it, he’s all Cardinals-business from here on in. 

Anyway, Ryan jukeboxed things up with a set list covering most album-sides, performing smoothed-out, molasses-slow takes of heavy-strange tunes like “Halloweenhead” (aptly dedicated to Michelle Williams) on a brightly-speckled piano, and “Cold Roses,” “Easy Plateau” and “Peaceful Valley” in much the same way. He even crooned “This House is Not for Sale” with an intensity that belied chestiness—a favorite only topped by “In My Time of Need,” sung like a drag from one of several chain-smoked American Spirits. We built a wishing-well with hopes for more Cold Roses and Rock & Roll dimes, maybe the “Down in a Hole” remake, but were reasonably pleased with the musical outcome. 

Despite being sick, our faithful leader shredded.

We’ve definitely, maybe, placed them on a pedestal but, listen H-heads, nothing googled (C-speak: messed with) the Cardinals’ sound; Ryan strummed along on his Barbara Gordon guitar, a.k.a. his Oracle, gripping that microphone and conducting the birds through songs executed a million times quicker than usual. It was a soul-kissing experience. But these two hearts were taken at the beginning of the night, when Ryan said he sat unnoticed, somewhere among arriving fans in an anticipatory pre-show haze, just sight-seeing (his favorite part is before it starts, too). Afterward, when Ryan’s set was all said and done, we stood in line to get autographs, but got shunned in the H-head mob. We’re looking forward to the Ming Dynasty (C-speak: when the shit hits the fan, not the fans). 

Word to our people,

H-head²

Dearest Ryan, 

It’s your sweet lil’ gals again. Eddie Vedder’s words, “worship the music, not the artist” have been stuck-fast in our H-heads since the prom ended. See, we left without shaking your Midas hand—minus an autograph or even a burning photograph—but at least the music is always ours to keep when you’re gone. We guess these girls are better off in your head, and you’re better off in their CD player. Till next prom, we’re building another wishing-well—hoping you lose the chestiness (all that money buys you medicine but not time, as you’d say). Oh, snap—and maybe that box set?

Take it easy, tiger. 

If you're an IE-based band and would like the Bell Sisters to hear your music, email Kady and Jessica at kmbell311@aol.com or jnbell311@aol.com.