Weed Patch

O'Briens pub on Main Street, in an area of Santa Monica I like to refer to as "Venice Adjacent" was host last night to a sweet band called Weed Patch, whose folksy rhythms— think part Bob Dylan, a dash of Soggy Bottom Boys, and healthy dose of good ol' feedbacked rock 'n roll— got everyone's toes tappin' and hips shakin'. If you've never heard the band before you might assume, given the name, that it's a bunch of hippies, who kick a knit ball around, forget what they were just laughing about a minute later and are followed by a cloud of pungent smoke like Charlie Brown's Pigpen is followed by dirt. But you'd be wrong. Think "weed patch," as in the unruly things that pop up unabated in flower beds and in cracks of sidewalk cement. Singer Neil Weiss has called the sound "fucked-up folk" and that sounds about right, but fucked up in the most beautiful way, like a really pretty girl who stumbles around drunk. I sat next to stylist Charon Nogues (check out her work in this week's LA Weekly and look for Weed Patch bassist Robinson!). Charon has big plans to make over the band, including Brad Richard—lead guitar and keyboard, who was intensely into his craft, at times his focus on his instruments was almost masturbatory— and Robinson—who thumped it out on bass, his solo drawing cheers from the crowd and his voice is smooth and sugary like Italian ice cream.  Drummer Marty Rosamond smiled and grimaced through the set reminding us of the pleasure and pain of good music. If you get a chance, check 'em out. They'll grow on you...

 


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