Eric J. Lubbers Sings His Hits

Author’s note: This happened in March and I’ve been forgetting to write about it for more than a month now. But I must persevere. For the children!

It was the worst week of my adult life. Then I bumped into Jonathan Richman.

Richman, the cocksure godfather of neurotic nerd rock (but that description is unfairly limiting) was coming to my second-favorite tiny venue and probably the most organically cool spot on Colfax, the Lion’s Lair.

We knew about the show months in advance, but a series of errors and procrastinations kept us from trying to buy tickets until about a week before. And, considering the Lion’s Lair can only legally hold four and a half people without breaking fire code (slight exaggeration), they were of course sold out.

Thus started the lowest point in my life… … in which I begged everyone I knew that had any kind of tertiary connection to local music to see if there was a chance in hell we could score two tickets. I called the Lion’s Lair, looking for a mythical trove of reserved tickets, and failed miserably. The closest thing to hope I got was a tip to “maybe come by at 8:30 and see if anyone didn’t show.”

I spent the two days before the show seriously-but-not-seriously-but-really-actually-seriously concocting a plan to drive Sarah and myself to Salt Lake City, the site of the Baritone Bostonian’s next show.

The day came, and it happened to be the birthday of our roommate and friend from way back (like pre-junior high), Saige, and she invited us to go to Casa Bonita to celebrate. We decided, “Hell, if we can’t go to the show, let’s at least have a Mexicheesy good time.”

Casa Bonita was exactly as weird-smelling (like a public pool, if one of the kiddie pools was full of refried beans), entertaining (the cliff divers are getting into some wicked dangerous tandem dives now) and generally unique and Colorado-y as you remember it or imagine it. We were starving, so the food (at first) didn’t taste half bad.

We split early and after a long cruise east on Colfax, I decided to throw caution to the wind, find a parking space about a block from the Lion’s Lair and go talk to the bouncer.

I jogged over and just happened to catch the bouncer outside having a smoke, and I bumblingly asked him if he had room for two more. He shot me a skeptical look, then said my favorite eight words ever: “Yeah, I think I could fit you in.”

I wheezed something about having to go get my girlfriend and awkwardly sprinted around the corner to get Sarah.

I yanked her out of the car and we sprinted to the door and into the crowded bar just in time to see the last 25 seconds of Ian Cooke’s set, leaving us plenty of time to set ourselves up.

The Casa Bonita margaritas caught up with us a few minutes after we got there and while Sarah was using the facilities, a man in a nice wool sweater bumped into me on his way to the back office. It was Rich Man himself and he looked totally apologetic and even said, “Excuse me, pal.”

I don’t think Sarah believed me when I described the situation afterwards.

The show was spectacular and probably the best show of my life, previously held by The Brian Jonestown Massacre at the Larimer Lounge, in which I had to physically prop up a strung-out Anton Newcombe after he tripped over his amp.

We left feeling all bubbly and childlike and like someone stole Christmas, then at 11:59 p.m. Dec. 24 decided to give it back. Because, really, how many people can say they went through Black Bart’s cave and saw Jonathan Richman on the same night? No one, that’s fucking who.

That’s the whole story. Just go listen to this and be happy: