st. patties 2010

Deefers,

What's the haps? How's the fam? Bad? Bad bad or Michael Jackson Bad?

Either way, bring them out to the D Note. If they are bad bad, then maybe they'll get a little better. And if they are Michael Jackson bad then the dance floor is open.

Tonight, Wednesday March 17, St. Patrick's Day 2010, the Clamdaddys are gonna cede the stage early for TP and the WAD, which features Thomas Picton from Wales singing traditional Irish music with members from Wonderlic jam. FREE.

Thursday night we have The Eric Sanders Band after Geeks Who Drink trivia. $5

Friday night we will carry over the holiday spirit, as we like to do, with our first annual Faux Patrick's Day. We start with Cellar Door at 7pm, beautiful harmonies, mostly traditional style Irish music. Then Indigent Row takes the stage at 8:30pm. Sexy Celtic fusion rock. $8. Closing out the night we have DJ Magically Delicious (our server Stef Logan) spinning Irish punk, The Pogues, Flogging Molly, etc. The green beer will be greener on this side of the fence. The snakes shall be driven out.

Saturday we have something for everyone, we are sure:

10:30am. Zumba, dance workout, too much fun, good exercize. $8

1pm. We have our friends from Music Lessons Of Westminster back for another rock recital. $3.

4pm. Music Train Family Concert Series presents the Irish music of Claddagh. Local Colorado band performing foot stompin’, hand clappin’, gotta get up & dance Irish tunes. $7 adults, $3 kids.

7pm Telling Stories presents Sounds of Silence. From the website, "Join us for a fresh take on classical music and readings -- we're bringing local composers Anne Guzzo and Conrad Kehn's work to the D Note's stage, and we'll have original readings from Jeanine Fritz, Brianna Doby, and Megan Quinn. Stories about toddlers taking over the world, the sounds of children's stories at bedtime, and songs of the West." This is one of our favorite series ever forever. $10

9pm Eric Baines, a singer/songwriter living in L.A. returns to Denver for a homecoming show. $5

10:30pm Batting clean up is Slopeside. Front range rock and roll. $5

Next Tuesday we have some indie bands: Stasis of Seasons and The Little Dead Things. Try it, you might like it.

Ever and out,

D plane

Extra Credit: In on our ongoing attempt to cover all great poetry in the extra credit section of this d-mail, we thought we should present Keat's Ode on a Grecian Urn. We often wonder what Keats really means by the last lines. But we have an idea.

Ode On A Grecian Urn

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.