Over the Rhine is playing here in St. Louis at Blueberry Hill this Friday. I would describe Over the Rhine as the result you get when you take the Angel with the sexiest voice in Heaven, put her in front of a talented rock band, and then give her pure poetry to sing.
Considering how long it’s taken me to get here, you’d think things would be much more thought out. Not so. It’s a Friday night: a screwdriver and an Over the Rhine bootleg show on the stereo. Snow covering most inanimate objects, and the moon and stars as witness to another hour’s vigil on this God-hidden earth.
Karin is about to launch into “Drunkard’s Prayer” (”sort of a little hymn,” she says). I am ready to be split in two, crosswise.
“You’re my water
You’re my wine
You’re my whiskey from time to time”
“Whether or not your lips move,
you speak to me.”
Sitting on my floor in the dark with the music pouring over my head and into my ears like heavy, holy oil… I suddenly know that it’s ok to be alone (to be the only one in this very moment experiencing this and understanding).