"The roots of the matter run miles deep. This is the era of eternal sleep. Please everybody, please be advised, nothing's going away just 'cause you're closing your eyes." The Devil Makes Three. The best band you've never listened to (but you damn well ought to) Looking mighty fine at The Hamilton in Washington DC. What a night........

Bobby discovered The Devil Makes Three while working on a farm in Humboldt County two years ago. His gracious host, a six and a half foot bearded mountain man, arrived for the week with only two CD's. So my little Italian husband sat, night after night, beside this gentle giant, in the glow of a wood stove, nothing for company but the buzz of busy scissors and the delightful sound of his new favorite band. Cutting through the night with a truth that shakes your core and a beat that moves yer feet. The Devil Makes Three is the sound for us.

We arrive an hour and half before they open the doors...nothing to be risked tonight. And we're not the first. Two people are standing in front of us, the fella says, "Didn't know 'em before today. Just listened to some stuff on You Tube at work....they're good." Yes, yes they are. The line starts to form alongside the glistening exterior of The Hamilton, Clyde's Restaurant Group's newest addition. Only blocks from The White House...a fact made abundantly clear as a fleet of black cars rush onto the street, only to stop immediately at the hotel across from us. Secret service agents flood out of the cars like a school of fish, moving their mystery woman through the revolving glass doors like a prize salmon. Once she's in, the men take their stations around the block, adding just a little bit of tension to the concert goers' hearts, before they ease back into their chatter. I look at the reflection of the people on the side of this impeccably clean building. What a mix! This trio seems to pull 'um from all corners of the earth.

A dedicated fan saunters up to the line, scratching his dreds in puzzlement at what he sees. I smell him before I see him, a true salt of the earth traveler. This guy's seen more bands than showers this year, and he's not going to miss The Devil Makes Three. "Is this show gonna sell out?" A tall, young black woman, armed with an iPad strapped to her wrist like an identification bracelet looks up at him. "Yes sir, there are a few tickets left. I mean, a few. Like single digits here." She smiles at the line, her audience for the past hour. He fumbles for his wallet, the jay on his lip hanging on for dear life, as he puts his thoughts together. Like many others who have been avidly following the band for years, this guy probably wasn't expecting the swanky digs. Or the crowd.

The Devil Makes Three has been touring and making records for quite some time. Playing till the cows come home. Rough and tumble music, whiskey and rabble-rousing. Dance till ya blow the roof off. The good stuff. And winning over fans every step of the way. A band for the people. Touring first, recording second. These are musicians who live for their craft. They hold their instruments like dear old friends, each night another opportunity to bond. The ragtag trio: Pete Bernhard, Cooper McBean, and the lovely Lucia Turino. I had high hopes.

"Ya know, it says the tickets are $15 on the website..." The Lebowski-esque traveler strikes a pose of peace, hoping for some love. "I'm sorry, they are $20...the $17 price referred to the advanced sale only. It says so on our website," she smiles back at him, hoping this doesn't become a confrontation. "Yeah...but the BAND's site says, $15....I mean, it's the baaaand. Right?" She laughs, albeit nervously, checking in with her audience to make sure no one is listening too closely. "I'm sorry sir ---" The traveler waves away the tension and shakes his head as he pulls out the payment. "I came all the way to D.C. for this...I'm not missing it." Seems it's not worth fighting the man tonight. We got a show to see.

OSM_4476 When the doors finally open, Bobby and I look at each other like Christmas morning. After two years of sunny afternoons singing out our car windows, rainy mornings dancing in the kitchen...missed festivals, too broke for tickets, working that night....no more road blocks. This is going to be epic. I sit on the edge of my seat...a fancy schmancy seat, front and center, looking at one of the prettiest damn stages I've ever seen. But wait??! The Devil Makes Three isn't pretty. They aren't fancy. I don't think I ever pictured seeing them this way. And suddenly, I'm not sure how I feel about that. This is my favorite band...besides The Beatles, which goes without saying....and I am about to put them up against the gauntlet of my creation. This is the band that I sing to so hard my eyes burst with tears of joy....stomp my foot dancing until I collapse on the floor. Shit. What have I done? Suddenly, I'm nervous for them.

As I sip on my second Jack and Coke and the pizza starts to settle in my stomach, I am feeling more grounded. The rich sounds of Brown Bird are vibrating in my brain. On the stage, a two man band (one of whom is very pretty, with short black hair that covers her eye) is making beautiful music. I am rushed back to reality. Wow, these guys are great. Such voices. The room is filling up with life...the buzz is hitting me, as I realize how perfect it all is. This stage, this food, this ambiance. While I know we'll see this band countless more times... drunk and dirty, sweaty and crowded....or relaxing in the grass at some killer festival...tonight they will be as beautiful as I have always imagined them. And they will bring some life back to the pulse of D.C.

What I really love is the quiet confidence with which they take the stage. These are not your typical rock stars. Pete, the most unassuming frontman you'll ever meet, is neat and tidy, apart from a smattering of tattoos on his forearms. His silver hair glints in the light as his steps to center and readies his guitar. It is evident he is the anchor, but a modest one. After a brief nod to the comrades, the ship pulls out, and we're off. Cooper McBean stands to his right. Looking oh soooo cool with a feather in his cap, two braids cascading down the sides of his gaunt and cheery face, and a beard to right home about. His guitar looks as though it's been in a bar brawl...maybe it has, although this guy looks like he's all about having a good time. Not to be forgotten, the dark horse, Lucia Turino, a half-pint stunner, stands with a gentle pride beside her upright bass. She throws her head back in gleeful delight as she rides the waves of this sound. Rich and full. Folk. Rockabilly. Ragtime. Country. No drums...gobs of rhythm. Honest and funny. Full of life. Full of livin'.

The show unfolds like an accordion. Once it starts I am already sad for its imminent finish. I fall into the eyes of these three people, having the god damn time of their life up there. Cooper jumping around until his hat flies off....can you rock a banjo that hard? The answer is yes, yes you can. Pete looks at the crowd as he pours a stream of consciousness onto the people below. Tales of drunken adventures, humbles beginnings, tough lessons, glorious victories. "It was a low level existence, that what you proper people'd say. But I wrote songs in that attic that I now get paid to play. So if you don't like people who live in attics, now might be the time to say. Cuz' everybody who's anybody, in my opinion, at one time lived in somebody's hallway."

Bobby and I shake our heads in delighted wonderment. The anti-rock band. Making it without conforming. And holy shit do they rock out. This ain't all preaching and storytelling. This is one hell of a show. A smattering of classics, new ones, and covers like "Walk on Boy" and "Statesboro Blues." The Devil Makes Three doing what they do. Playing for the people. And having a blast. The flurry of instruments continues as the stage hand brings out the beauties. Pete's black guitar with a faded rose and duct tape across the front. Cooper's dirty banjo, brandishing the words "This Machine Annoys Facists." Lucia's impressive bass, the light bouncing off its surface. I'm like a kid in a candy store.

The set comes to an end with Bobby's favorite song, "Do Wrong Right," followed by my favorite, "Help Yourself." It seems too good to be true. Pete coaxes the seated crowd in the back, not quite ready to commit, "You guys should all get up and dance for this one. Don't worry, it's pretty dark back there, no one can see ya." And do we ever. The crescendo of the finales shakes The Hamilton. Bobby is switching back and forth from clicking furiously and singing his anthem at the top of his lungs, "Well most things that I know I didn't learn in class. The road don't go forever, so ride it while it lasts. If you're gonna raise a ruckus, one word of advice. If you're gonna do wrong buddy do wrong right." I can't stop smiling.

Until we meet again Pete, Cooper, and Lucia...thank you.

~ Kolleen Kintz

See the album: http://www.second-glance-photography.com/p350324390

http://www.thedevilmakesthree.com

http://www.thehamiltondc.com

http://www.brownbird.net