It has been a hot minute since I whittled together a ridiculous costume for the purpose of festival. Alas, the dawn of Spring has alighted within me a need to puff paint tiny outfits and fanny off in the way of live music. My compass twirled in the direction of my first North Texas Irish Festival, upon which I acted a fool in Fair Park alongside giant dogs and many a kilt. The delight of the day increased under my mounting anticipation to see Hares on the Mountain — yet another first of Spring. As suspected, the band awoke me to a new world of gothic beauty.
By and by it was discovered that no one was around to run the Hares’ merch table. I just so happened to be milling about the records — resplendent in gold and green glitter as if I were shooting an Irish rap video. Before the band could say “so our Merch Girl isn’t here,” I hopped behind the table and began visual merchandising like a drunken raccoon. Suddenly my teeny top hat and inappropriate/adorable booty shorts had purpose: sell the shit out of some records. Meanwhile the band tore the festival to gorgeous dark ribbons. Aurally speaking, I suppose.
The moment the Hares burst into “Thorneymoor Woods,” folks were stomping up to the table for CDs. It was a delightful response to the raw, deserving talent on stage. The combined energies of George Neal’s motley crew took no prisoners on the remaining dregs of inebriated LARP enthusiasts. The whole lot is charming as can be. It is delightful to watch these Denton friends play together. I am certain Ryan Becker made at least four Leprechauns weep. Everyone fell in love with Petra Kelly and her bewitching violin. One gentleman was deeply moved by Justin Collins and went on about the drummer for a solid seven (I made no argument whatsoever). I am a fan.
I highly suggest you let the Hares under your skin.