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?). Anyway, 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 armtwisting, the band loaded in to play.

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 everwhere to hang guitars and basses correctly from thier 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 flury that is classic call-and-response one minute, stream-of-concious the next, and then goes on to screaming uppper register tantrums. 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.