It’s a good thing James and Lily shipped Grace to Vermont before he-who-must-not-be-named swung by. Luckily for us, Potter found her magic with a Gibson Flying V guitar.
The event is loaded with muggles. Mud-bloods are jam-packed o’er the balcony. A ceiling coated with twinkling stars sets the mood for what’s to come: a hell-breaking fireball of rock ‘n’ roll. And country. And blues. And sexiness.
“We play rock ‘n’ roll,” shout The Nocturnals. I forcefully reply, “Yeah, you do.”
From then on, Grace Potter leads a high-speed car chase with her thighs. With that rob-a-bank voice and steal-from-elderly fingerpicking, there’s no doubt the devil sold its soul to her. Until she backs off the mic, I fail to notice a band.
But there is. A fluffy dog that I’ll call Matt Burr is up on the drums, smiling and drooling and being awesome in general. He seems like the type of guy who would spark Potter’s magic by showing her Scorsese’s The Last Waltz. The moment a harmonica spits out The Band’s bluesy tune “Mystery Train,” I know it was a choo story.
Unpretentious and sophisticated on the guitar, Scott Tournet adds depth to tracks already filled with emotion. In silent gaps, he erupts in harmony and makes the instrument sing. Even better, Tournet flings and flips his harmonica prior to playing. He deserves kudos (the delicious chocolate bar) and credit for his inter and outer music coordination.
Since Catharine Popper’s departure from the group in 2011, Michael Libramento has filled the spot on bass guitar. Playing lefty bass and sporting a mega-fro will benefit a band even if the character is hoola-hooping — though he is, in fact, playing the guitar and does a killer job unearthing a pungent pop within the song’s rhythm.
Paul Rudd with long hair, who I’ll call Benny Yurco, is the deal sealer. His smooth riffs and hair make Grace Potter & the Nocturnals the coolest five musicians who can fit in a room and not have their heads pop through the ceiling. Healthy egos.
At this point in the show, I’ve forgotten my first name and what country I’m in. Luckily, I’m wearing a timepiece on my wrist and identify the numbers on the hands as 11 and 12. It’s 11 PM and they’re out of time. The crowd goes ballistic.
Encore… The stage turns black. Dim red lights protrude through the underworld, revealing hair. Grace Potter’s hair. Face hidden, holding a slick Flying V six-string, she turns her guitar on baptize-a-baby-boy mode and plays “Nothing But the Water.”
I turn to my friend and say, “Get me a beer.” Then I turn to my better friend and say, “If there wasn’t a brass slide on her ring finger, I’d slap a fat diamond on her digitus quartus — if you know what I mean.”
The group steps forward together and bow in bewilderment. Being that they’re nocturnal, Grace’s gang keeps the night going with one more song to match the crowd’s energy. “Stars” it would be [cue piano, gorgeous singing, turtledoves fading to silence… eyes gaze up to theatre’s twinkling stars].
Wednesday at the Barrymore Theatre was a sold out show for a reason. A girl fainted due to “heat exhaustion,” but we all know the reason: Grace Potter is as hot as hell.