I really wanted to like Golden Bloom. They were gracious, spoke nicely of my fair city, drank from a Kleen Kanteen, and publicized their anti–Rachel Ray sentiments . . . hell, they even had silk screened tote bags.
But, sadly, something just didn't do it for me, musically. It all just felt a bit mechanical—the imbalanced energy between lead and base, the reserved nature of the drummer (in his defense, he may have been recovering from a cold as he kept wiping his nose), the perhaps over-eagerness to please. Try as I might, I just couldn't connect with the music (and really I tried!). The piece I most enjoyed turned out to be a cover of someone else: it was darker and gritty, slow and awfully pretty with lyrics about angels keeping watch. And I must admit I was pleased to see the drummer emote, if slightly, through closed eyes and pursed lips during the final harmonica movement. But by this point in the set my ears hurt and I just wanted to get home.
