It was indeed the winter of my discontent last night as I trudged out of my cozy hacienda for some live music. The wind was blowing sideways and wet, like a perpetual arctic sneeze, and the thermometer's balls had shriveled up into its body. It was cold, Jack.

Over the hill and through the woods I slid over to Smokin' Joe's on Lyell to see Smokin' Nightshadows and Me. (Not me, actually; that's what the band calls itself. I know, I know - who's on first?) I rolled up on the joint as the band was debating whether or not to play, as a few recent surgeries and the weather were taking their toll. After some arm twisting, the band loaded in.

Now, you can tell right off that Joe's is a joint run by a musician, as owner and drummer Joe Pizzo's kit is permanently set up on the stage. Also, there are hooks everywhere to hang guitars and basses correctly from their necks, as opposed to leaning them against something waiting for some drunk to kick them over.

Anyhow, I got two words for you: Dave Riccioni. This guy's playing is in direct contrast to his affability; it's angry and mean. Riccioni lets fly with a flurry that is classic call-and-response one minute, stream-of-conscious the next, and then goes on to screaming tantrums in the upper register. He is one of my favorite guitar players to watch anywhere. The band laid a tight groove beneath him, and before long the joint was boiling. I could finally feel my feet.

The Record Archive is becoming quite the venue; stage, lights, PA, the works. I've seen a number of artists here, yet this past Saturday was the first time they dimmed the lights for a show. Buffalo songstress Noa Bursie was on stage and I gotta tell ya, I was mesmerized. Bursie picked a kind of jazz/madrigal/Doc Watson style and sang creamy smooth. Bursie is more of a storyteller with a guitar, and her music reminded me of early Leonard Cohen or Nina Simone. It was soothing and wise and enchanting. It quieted things inside me.