Any time spent on 3rd and Main includes a few strange observations of sexual behavior by those “who do not belong to the scene,” some local, beer-soaked, working class men and women who frequent the bar WE have invaded with rock and roll. This tends to happen at one of the little Mexican haunts around the corner from the Smell with a jukebox, where couples dance close and fast, where we learn to put coasters and napkins on top of our beers to reserve them, where you see men touch each other’s penis sometimes through their pants. The Five Star Bar had one very small lady who kept trying to dance with the girls there to see lo-fi rockers the Fresh and Onlys. I think the lady did some major drugs in the bathroom, but she danced the crap out of the music between throwing herself upon her silent but affectionate lover at the bar. The Fresh and Onlys, who carry a message of light and gentility, seemed to glow more angelically in the potentially lewd atmospheric background. Like a beacon, the band’s music rose and fell in calm swells, jangled by the tambourine, hinged on philosophies that describe a moment much like the one we were experiencing–“Love And Kindness” felt especially right, “Why are we here?/Are we here? Why are we there?/Are we there?” Singer Tim Cohen’s hand was in a cast so he beat his tambourine against his chest for the sake of our souls. It really felt that way. He has the great presence of a cult leader, a sort of goofy charm that offsets his lumberjack appearance. The Fresh and Onlys plays in the garage, bouncing romantics and subtle wisdom against the four, hot walls that warm the sounds they’re making like an easy-bake oven. The sunshine begins from within.

—Daiana Feuer (words and photo)

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