Friday night in Brooklyn, where Doors @ 8 means the show starts around 9, 9:30 or when the band's finished eating, whichever comes last. Downstairs at Union Hall is like being in your grandparents' cellar-the only thing that's missing besides a ping pong table is plastic sheets over the couches. It's a very down-home intimate space with a stage that's only about six inches off the floor.
Every time Mike plays, Chris sends his astral body out to listen to him. Because Mike rephrases his songs differently every night, it's like he's walking into a familiar room by a different door, or a new window, just to see what the room looks like now from this strange new vantage point.
The guys are definitely getting better and better. After last night's Midtown mob scene, tonight's small but receptive audience brings out a lot of confident co-playing and a relaxed sense that they've been playing together for months, not days. I just wish more people were here. (I bet Abe does too.)