It happened twice this summer, I ran into Manhattan Murder Mystery’s frontman Matthew Teardrop, walking the streets of Silver Lake under the hot sun.
It happened again on Wednesday morning, he was wearing a black and red Manhattan Murder Mystery t-shirt, and he was carrying his back pack, that he never leaves, even when he plays a show! He looked like he had just woken up, totally out of place by this bright day, and functioning at slow pace. It is true that I always see him during the darkest hours, after midnight in the most opaque ambiance of the Echo, his head covered by a bandana, wearing a heavy hoodie, surrounded by friends and fueled by whiskey and beers. I am used to see him singing with his raucous growl his depressing gut-wrenching drunk anthems, which are always talking how drunk he is or how he wants to be buried. This guy simply cannot exist during daytime, he is a night howler, a dangerous-hour-party-drinker, a dark poet who shouts tales of despair and misfortune while drowning his pain in alcohol, and encouraging the most furious mosh-dancing in the crowd.
I crossed his path this morning and didn’t say anything, I should have said hello, and how much his visceral music gets me each time. May be next time.
Comments are closed.