Fetus in a Bottle

My Saturday night...

Underneath the bocce ball courts in Brooklyn's Union Hall is a peculiar little basement with purple walls, black and white antique photographs, and a little elephant prancing on top of a wet bar. But behind the heating pipes and bookcases lied a modest stage set for a modest man. Unsure in his step, Chris Garneau crept behind a small keyboard nestled in the right corner of the stage and began to play. Looking like a timid boy sneaking around his grandparent's stately home, he played softly to avoid trouble. Accompanied by a cello and stand-up bass, Chris's almost inaudible voice lulled everyone into a contemplative silence. And we just stood and watched. No one talked; no one moved. All ears and eyes were captured by this little man's quavering whisper.

Chris's innocence and childlike persona makes him a more sensitive Elliott Smith. Both equally comfortable in their sadness, Chris lacks Elliott's maturity by residing in a state of drunken childhood memories. Playing a mix of songs from his current album, Music for Tourists, along with others, Chris delivered a solid, albeit quiet, performance. But his silence was heard, and that made all the difference. Although a few members of the crowd snickered about the exceptionally somber tone of the songs, Chris never seemed embarrassed about his overt display of sensitivity, even inviting the crowd to "cry about it." As if in response, Chris smartly ended his set with his song "Not Nice." Declaring "when you're not nice, I'd rather leave you alone," Chris quietly left the stage to take his place at the bar.