Watch: Willard Grant Conspiracy

A few years ago I saw Robert Fisher play an acoustic show on K Road. I went with a good friend of mine who is a Poet, a proper Poet with ink stains on his fingers and holes in his shoes and a heart so big that it's liable to burst at any moment. We got drunk on expensive whiskey and turned up at the venue with our dignity barely intact. 

About half way through the show the Poet disappeared - I think he was called elsewhere by his muse, or perhaps a woman in the crowd, I can't quite remember and it's much the same thing anyway.  I was left alone, swaying to the music, or maybe just swaying to keep from falling over, loudly applauding every song Robert played. Because I had loved Willard Grant Conspiracy since I was eighteen when I'd first heard Robert's ragged vocal sing about working menial jobs & sitting on the front porch of a house staring at the moon and thinking about past lovers and marveling at how he could turn these regular, seemingly banal events into almost mythical occurrences worthy of a shot at eternity through song. 

From the stage he noticed my inebriated enthusiasm and shot a gentle barb in my direction, which stung a little, mainly because I couldn't fire one back but also because I'd never had a room full of people laugh at my expense before and I shrunk back into the safety of a dark corner. 

After the final song Robert walked straight off stage and over to where I was standing, put his arm on my shoulder and apologized profusely with a shy and gentle southern Californian twang. We talked for the next fifteen minutes - or was it half the night? - about folk music and mythology and the pros and cons of getting a positive pitchfork review before I faded back into my self wrought oblivion and stumbled out into the street. A heavy mist had shrouded every street light in a ghostly, luminous glow and when I got back to my apartment I lay down on the couch, lit a cigarette, and played this song over and over until the sun came up.

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