Nefesh Mountain: Live at Swallow Hill

Dusky light billowed through the pale yellow, stained-glass windows of Swallow Hill this past Saturday night. The historic venue, rich in folk music history, welcomed a full house. The undeniably tight-knit community reflected a palpable warmth as the sun set slowly over the Denver suburbs. Aisleway lamps draped the audience in a soft glow in the chapel style venue as Rabbi Joe Black neared their performance—opening for the lovely, free-spirited Nefesh Mountain.

The audience chatter ceases, a breath to a flame, as a gentle whisper of acoustic guitar rushes from Rabbi Joe Black and pools into the space. Like a caressing wind through grassy fields, this group’s soothing harmonies calm the weary heart with a twangy nod to bluegrass; soulful piano and bluesy keys add to the ambiance. Their set ends like a breezy highway cruise, the rhythmic rattle of tambourine stirring the crowd before Nefesh Mountain takes center stage for the evening.

Not leaving an adoring crowd waiting long, Nefesh Mountain floats onto stage adorned in Rocky Mountain fervor—boots, fringe, and ornate southwestern patterns embossed on button downs. New York power couple Eric Lindberg and Doni Zasloff greet the room gently before introducing the band. Soon after, an echo of hand claps entangles the crowd as Zasloff launches into their opening tune; a sound resembling a train rolling through the mountainside, brakes cut. Fiddle player Carson McHaney’s hands dance effortlessly upon the fingerboard, bow gliding feverishly. The night is aflame, guns a-blazin’ as drummer, David Berger, renders jazzy fills and Danny Fox creates a gospel-esque mood on keys.

The tone shifts as the band introduces a song called “Better Angels”, a song off their newest album “Beacons”. Syrupy upright bass notes ripple like stones tossed in a lake during a solo moment for Andrew Ryan. A toe tapping, head bobbing anthem follows suit. The lyrics hum with a powerful undertone—an aching desire for the unification of people. You close your eyes and envision the intertwining of hands; a deep, hopeful yearning for a better world. Rickety chimes stream from mandolin player Dylan McCarthy and the shaky strumming on Lindberg’s guitar pulls at our heartstrings. Piano notes frolic in the backdrop as the fiddle continues howling into the night.

Sinking further into the show, Lindberg’s warm vocals elicit the comfort of a campfire, while Zasloff’s passion climbs from her very core and graces the audience. A spiritual aura arising from the depths of despair, capturing the crowd’s soul. The mountainside ride continues, weaving through jagged rocks. Jazz piano flickers amidst the pitter-patter of drumsticks tapping away at the snare—a locomotive chugging along. Zasloff continues to express a common theme: hope for the future despite painful histories and uncertain roads ahead. She gestures as if cranking up the car radio and suggests we continue on with as much love and positivity as possible.

Bubbling bass gives way to the bone-rattling rumble of Lindberg’s electric strings as the band shows off a more rock n’ roll style—a song that nods to the relatable urge to run from deep-rooted societal pressures. Zasloff swishes her denim colored skirt, tan boots tapping along, as McCarthy sweetly plucks away at mandolin strings. There’s an air of easiness cascading in waves over everyone. Carefree percussive grooves naturally propel bodies into motion. Lindberg and Zasloff belt lyrics, their smooth voices harmoniously blending into a passionate serenade.

You’re once again confronting your bleeding, raw emotions as they introduce a song called “What Kind of World”, written for their three-year- old daughter. They explain the polarization between the innocence of a baby girl and the brutal nature of the world we live in. A slow trickle of piano notes, soft clasp of cymbals, dampened mallet percussion, and bittersweet sounds spilling from McHaney’s bow. This thought-provoking tune evokes a tension that pulls at us all. Powerhouse couple Lindberg and Zasloff unleash their aching hearts and leave room for us to feel it all.

Deep thought lifts into lighthearted joy as luscious jam band moments traverse the aisles of the venue. A euphonic wall of sound erupts, the calm-natured eye of the storm fading. The artfully precise plucking of guitar strings couples with heartfelt lyrics; tumbling percussion like rolling stones down a cliffside. A mystic element of the desert reveals itself as Lindberg breathes life into slide guitar riffs. A dream of Zasloff materializes as everyone rises to their feet, loosening burdensome shackles, and begins to dance. A blissful, weightless kind of love glides about as Nefesh Mountain closes out their set—cups overflowing.

In a special treat to end the evening, Nefesh Mountain welcomes Rabbi Joe Black back to the stage to perform one last song. A honeyed golden light radiates from the audience when they recognize the tune: “The Weight” by The Band. Looking around, there are endless smiles and people giddily singing along to the age-old classic.

As venue lights lift, there’s a patch over the once hole in your soul. You’re left feeling revitalized after an evening meant to inspire and create goodness in the world.

All images taken by Zachary Bair

Instagram: @zachbairphotography

Mallory Graham: Mishawaka Amphitheatre

Nestled between the grooves of the rust-colored rocks of Poudre Canyon, the Mishawaka Amphitheater shines brightly in an area otherwise immersed in complete darkness; here, you’re free from the shackles of city lights and cell phone connection. This past Saturday night, the mountain air carried Northern Colorado’s music community to a show that shook the log cabin-like foundation of the historic venue. So much love and adoration circled about in anticipation for Mallory Graham’s Album Release show. Three opening acts played, a mix of fresh faces and crowd favorites, all rallying behind the one and only Mallory who stole the show and closed out the night.

Kaelyn Mahoney opens the night, creating a light hearted atmosphere that replicates the ease of taking a full breath. Her velvety smooth vocals are deeply expansive, like submerging into an ocean without the capacity to harm you, only pull you in and calm your senses. Her range flows from melancholic melodies to tunes with jazzy, upbeat piano fills. The essence of Florence and The Machine subtly flits about as she nears the end of her set.

A quick changeup as up-and-coming group Leaf, Please! take center stage. This woman led indie punk band lets loose and unleash unbridled energy. Magnolia Mulqueen paves the way for a wildly topsy-turvy, off kilter ride with songs that knock air out of your lungs. Destin Charles provides punchy bass lines, like a finger jabbed in your direction while an Arctic Monkeys style ambiance ensues. Tropical drum beats pair with garage band fuzz leaking out of amplifiers, taking the audience and jostling them around; a growing flame only getting hotter as the night persists.

Following Leaf, Please! a gentle presence, local favorite, Blake Rouse starts a set. Blake pulls you through a rainbow jukebox time machine with a style allusive to the 70s. Sporting gold metal framed glasses, choppy tousled hair, and a jean jacket, his wavy vocals infiltrate the warm cabin air. A feeling like the little waves you make with your hand out the car window on a desert road trip. His rattly acoustic sound and clanging guitar strings provide the spirit of traditional folk with a unique twist. His sound is ragged and rustic, almost brittle in the most lovely stylistic kind of way; a bare bones, jangling skeleton dancing in the wind. As he’s playing, a stray guitar string whips about amidst passionate punching of his strings. You can’t help but catch the slight nod to Bob Dylan with his witty, charismatic nature and crowd banter. His onlookers' unwavering gazes are filled with admiration, the capability to capture hearts is palpable.

As the opening acts thoroughly escalate the energy of the night, Mallory Graham is soon to grace the stage. Concertgoers cozy up close and the low hum and buzzing of conversation is fractured by a roar of applause; Graham strides out from the back of the room in a paper mache duck head, a testimony to the adorably playful undertone her album takes on. With glamorous emerald green lipstick and matching corduroy shorts, she slings a glittery silver guitar over her shoulder—and just like that, the surf washes over you, pulling you toward the tides.

Each member of Graham’s band wears niche, brightly patterned tropical style button ups that enhance the surfy vibe that spills out into the crowd. The event kicks into full throttle, reverb twisting and turning through the air before colliding with your eardrums . Felix “Goose” Seifert renders chunky bass riffs that entwine with the band’s hazy sound.

Graham’s shimmery guitar glints off the disco ball slowly spinning overhead. Little reflective circles fill your vision and transform into bright sunbeams cascading and bursting over a beach vacation cast on 35mm film in your mind. You’re thoughtfully pulled back into reality as Graham makes a vital public service announcement about what to feed ducks in the park, greatly deviating from the old school ideology of bread slices. The sweet message garners a chuckle from everyone and the dial gets turned further as drummer Caleb Lunning juts forward with a speedy tempo and the metallic thrashing of cymbals; a frenzied hoppin’ and boppin’ in its wake.

The music sweeps you back into a carefree mentality, all worries and obligations checked at the door. Graham continues on with a murky, suave voice that feels like cruising on the horizon, sunset behind you. She possesses an effortlessly cool, undeniable slacker charm. Bobbing heads emerge in the pit, syncing up with the noise streaming out of Kai Tanaka’s guitar. A blend of indie surf with punk influences, all encased in garage band quality sound lingers in the air one last time; a scene one couldn’t grow tired of. A sea of smiles radiate off everyone’s face despite the evening coming to its end.

Driving through the ponderosa pines on your way back down the canyon, perhaps with a rubber duck as a souvenir, blissful contentment envelops you—grateful for a night spent with incredible people.

All images taken by Zachary Bair.

Instagram: @zachbairphotography

The Velveteers: Aggie Theatre

Three local Colorado bands sold out the legendary Aggie Theater in Fort Collins this past Friday night, providing a show that won’t soon be forgotten by those in attendance.

The first opener, The Crooked Rugs, pulls listeners in with their very much King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard appeal. You’re at the same time sipping a bold IPA while your brain takes a journey into dissociation nation. A much smaller, imaginary, version of yourself floats down the rippling sound waves resonating from their guitars on a pool floatie. Their modern twist on psychedelic rock takes you through a sonic landscape with warbly vocals and plenty of reverb. Explosions of vibrant colors frame the stage—purple, blue, and yellow—as you close your eyes. Songs begin to intensify, like a storm in the distance you can hear but can’t quite see. Soon, you’re engulfed in the tornado with rolling toms, heavy bass drum, and spiraling guitar licks. What once felt bright and groovy becomes a deeply gritty, earth excavating experience. Clearly, the versatility of this band spans a broad range while still remaining under the hypnotic charm of trippy rock. The Crooked Rugs rally the troops, bringing the crowd to a low boil—setting the stage for what’s sure to be a wild night.

Following a brief intermission, local favorites Bitchflower stalk onto the stage. The deep reds of the backstage lighting illuminate the devilish grin and wide eyes strewn across lead singer Brooke Van Buiten’s face; a look that reads pure evil. They take what was once a low-boiling tea kettle to the brink—whistling, water spilling over the edges. The sound they produce is like plunging your fingernails into the coarse skin of a citrus fruit, then ravaging it—tearing it to pieces; splaying its pulp, guts, and seeds as juice runs down your arms. Looking out into the crowd, there’s a sea of rhythmic head nods; people transfixed in hypnosis.

Bitchflower has them in a stranglehold. Things continue to spiral into madness as Van Buiten stomps about the stage, throbbing kick drum in the backdrop. Visceral growls bubble up and rip through the microphone as she’s purposefully entangled in its cord. Just when you think the roller coaster is about to come to a full stop, you’re launched back into the stratosphere. Metallic guitars clanging, reverberating off the walls with drippy bass lines while Van Buiten whipps her head around like a ragged doll. Just watching is enough to give you whiplash. Bitchflower’s menacing energy seeps into the crowd and abducts all bodily control in the pit; crowd surfing ensues, bodies contorting and twisting as the masses carry them along in waves. This band can truly bring out the animalistic nature in every one of us and can only be described as maniacally genius.

As Bitchflower’s set comes to an end, a thin veil of fog blankets the stage. The crowd is effectively rallied and buzzing in anticipation for the night’s main act, The Velveteers.

Production rolls out two drum kits and for a second, you swear you’re seeing double. Another team member hauls a large canvas to the corner stage, a tarp laid beneath. As the lights dim, the band emerges, revealing their unapologetically amorphous style. Shaggy hair, bold eyeshadows painted across lids, and sequins adorn drummer Baby Pottersmith while lead singer Demi Demitro struts out in full cheetah print glam. Without warning, the backing track's bass rattles the bones in your skull and you’ve just started to wonder what’s about to happen here tonight. The tab on the Cherry Coke™ has been tapped; pop, hiss, and the sickly-sweet, syrupy fizz erupts. The opening track to their new album starts and the guitar strapped to the lead singer cries in high frequencies while synchronized drum fills ricochet off the audience.

The on-stage artist paints vivid hues through broad brush strokes to the ruckus in full swing. Demitro’s eyes pierce the souls of anyone willing to snag a glance with a vocal range that scrapes cloud edges.

The drummers, Baby Pottersmith and Jonny Fig, exchange carnivorous grins before unleashing their unbridled energy through gritted teeth. With a white-knuckled grip on their drumsticks, they launch into a fury of noise. As Pottersmith’s blonde hair is tossed frivolously from pure kinetic energy, they bring a single drum into the crowd, thrashing about as someone obediently holds it overhead. Lights flicker, resembling the distorted fuzz radiating off amplifiers as spellbound fans shout lyrics up at the unstoppable force that is the Demitro. The crowd’s uncorked fervour spirals into a mosh pit filled with riled up maniacs. In an eye-of-the-storm moment, the Demitro drops down, twisted microphone cord in hand, and leads a call-and-response of “oh-oh-ohs”, rousing mass enthusiasm from the front rows. She climbs back on stage, their set nearing its end. They say their farewells with the guitar left mic’d and screeching into the void when desperate cries of “one more song” echo through the theater. They perform one last round of soul-shaking rock that even still can’t satisfy us, leaving you with a vacant hole—Velveteer shaped. The sound they give is engulfed in pure rock & roll, like drinking orange juice with the pulp—raw and unfiltered.

As you go to close out your tab, you’re left with the lifting of theater lights, ringing in your ears, and the fragmented memories of a sweetly sinister evening.