On bended knee
Will you marry me
And on November 16
Everything was buried down
Carissa’s Wierd are my favorite band that doesn’t include both Lennon and McCartney. Obviously, the largest part of that love is simply about the music itself. They wrote desperately sad, quiet, beautiful songs about heartbreak and hope and then offered them to the world like a series of secret gems glittering in the night.
But it’s not just the music. There’s also something specific about the band you discover when you’re nineteen years old, whose songs catch you wholly unguarded and etch themselves so deeply that they become part of you. For me, that was Carissa’s Wierd.
I saw them three times in Seattle while I was in college and they were deeply emotional experiences. This quiet little band that I adored with all my heart was standing there in front of me, awkwardly shuffling in between songs, obviously a little bit uncomfortable with the adulation pouring over them from the crowd. They whispered into their microphones, strummed their guitars, picked out ringing notes, and soared on a violin wave.
But all good things must come to an end, and so it was with this band. They recorded a few songs for the fourth album but never finished it. And so I was left scrounging for b-sides and live tracks, proudly wearing a shirt with their name on it, wishing there could have been just a little bit more.
I’ve been able to see several of the individuals from the band play in the years since—including a show where Jenn opened for Mat’s band. But the last time I heard them play these songs was that famous-for-those-who-love-them Valentine’s Day show back in 2003. When the band briefly reunited for a couple shows about ten years ago, I was distraught about not being able to go.
So this time, when they announced a brief three-city tour to play the old songs, I started making plans. It’s 2000 miles from Texas out to Seattle, but I still have family out here and this was as good a time as any to make the trip. And that’s how I ended up at the Fremont Abbey on Saturday night (November 16th, perfectly enough).
It was a strange experience to be in a room with a couple hundred other people who shared my love for this obscure indie band. And even stranger to see two people approaching middle age—with relatively stable, happy lives—playing these songs that are so specifically about being young and lost. But ultimately that’s what the show was actually about—a sort of reminiscence and shared appreciation of how much these songs meant to all of us then, and important they still remain even though we’ve all grown and moved on.
It hit me pretty hard. The performances weren’t flawless—as you might expect for a thrown-together three-city tour from two old friends who hadn’t played together in years. But I was pretty overwhelmed by energy in the room when those quiet chords rang out. Within the first three songs they had played two of my favorite songs in the entire world, and my eyes were moist. A few songs later I was legitimately crying as the guitars chimed and their voices soared. “My heart is gone” indeed.
They ended up playing back-to-back shows because the first one sold out so quickly. So naturally I got tickets for both. It was a unique experience seeing everything repeated, especially given how emotional the first show had been. The second time I had a little more distance and was just able to focus on my joy at hearing these songs I love so much, and appreciating the feeling of sharing a space with other fans of this quiet little band.
I know this band isn’t ‘the one’ for all that many people out there. But I hope that everyone has a chance for something like this kind of experience—to come back to something you love and miss and see it live again for one special night.