Walk a little farther and you almost hear not only the voices of the luminaries of the past, but those of their neighbors: People going out for a night on the town. People dancing in the apartment next door. People just trying to make rent, any way they can.
Halfway through Grit Rhythm’s set at Three Sheets, singer Matt Rhone introduced the next song as “a cover of a cover” and was answered by laughs, cheers, and an audience member shouting back “covers on covers on covers” — which was also answered by laughter. It was a rare moment of speaking on a cold snowy night dedicated to creative endeavors, in the week before the spring semester begins and before the president elect becomes the president in charge, and the weather once again gifted us with a reason to hide away from it all.
However, it was the second Saturday of the month, which means it was time for Three Sheets’s monthly series, “Art in the Back, Music in the Front,” which features the work of one, two, or several local visual artists in the back room of the bar — which also houses the pool table — and music from bands in the front stage area.
Zohra Rawling was racking her brain, trying to explain all of the things that a recent beau had been doing to make her feel that special, warm tingly feeling from her nose to her toes, that flutter within her chest and stomach.
“I could say bella bella even / say wunderbar,” she sang. “Each language only helps me tell you/ how grand you are!”
Midway through his set on Sunday evening, songwriter and celebrated blues singer Greg Sherrod told the house at Cafe Nine that the last trip he’d made to Europe to perform was right after the terrorist attacks in Paris. “People said, ‘Don’t go,’” he said. “I said, ‘If I don’t go, then hate wins.’ What can I say? Love wins. I went and I had a ball.”
When Anna Osinaike woke up to see large, swirling snowflakes outside her window Saturday morning, she had a moment of calm. This — the first snow of the new year, crisp and still bright white — would be the perfect reason for a quiet day.
But then she remembered: She and her 4-year-old daughter Kristen had a date to travel halfway around the world, and be back in New Haven by 3 p.m. Despite the winter weather, they couldn’t be late.
Alex Burnet was dancing hard atop his amp. His electric blue guitar shuddered slightly between both hands. His feet bounced back and forth with no particular attention to the seething, sure drumbeat Alexa Ambrose was pushing out behind him. His head bobbed triumphantly before he jumped back to the ground, looked up at the swelling crowd before him, and dropped his guitar with a thud.
It starts with a wheezing shudder, a note, another note. A fragment of melody. A roll from the drums. A guitar that sounds like sonar. This lurching improvisation rises in intensity with a long, arcing squall of white noise from the cornet. The drums fall into a rhythm that fades away. A clarinet unleashes a flurry of notes like the call of a dinosaur. A rhythm emerges, a melody, forlorn but not entirely sad. And the thrill of the improvisation never goes away.