The unbeatable bits of Missoula

Last night started like any other, I guess: A house party on the upscale western fringes of town, with Kyle and a host of folks I really didn't know. The event was part holiday office fest, part going away shindig for Kyle's old high school buddy Zack, now a Seattle-ite and one of the chiller Missoula natives I've met in recent years. Lots of Deschutes beer, a tilted pool table and several rounds of fiercely competitive foosball. Regardless of the presence of a few stunningly attractive local grad students, Zack pressed Kyle to hit the town for his last night of the holiday. So I drove the three of us to Charlie B's around midnight, under the assumption that we'd burn out relatively fast.

At some point after 1 a.m., Zack broke from our conversation on the varied and more successful ways to meet women to ask where we were headed next. Bit of an odd time to throw the idea of barhopping on the table. Last call does come early in these parts, usually a good twenty minute before the bars actually close at 2 a.m. But who am I to argue with the prospect of a drink, especially when a new friend insists on picking up the tab.

We found ourselves at the Top Hat just in time for last call. I took slow pulls off a bottle of MGD while watching an extremely talented line of musicians rollick through the sounds of old Appalachia. Curiously enough, the fiddler, Hillary, so happened to be an old college acquaintance of mine and a high school familiar for both Zack and Kyle. The performance wound to a quick close. But before I could get the words "Pillow, here I come" out of my mouth, Zack came back from the bar with an interesting pitch. His friend Ben knew the house in the lower Rattlesnake to which the band's entourage was heading for a post-show bash. More importantly, the three of us were invited.

Less than an hour later, I'm funk-dancing to Fat Freddy's Drop in a two-car garage packed with woodworking equipment. The mandolin player, who I'll just call Freaky Frets, moondanced through piles of sawdust, sidestepping belt sanders and automatic drills in a drug-and-Scapegoat-induced trance. My body conveniently forgot its previous state of exhaustion in the interests of grooving sprinkler-style. By the time I settled into a spot in the living room, I highly doubted the night could get much better.

That's when the guitars came out. Not just two acoustic guitars, but two acoustic guitars and a lap steel. The mandolin appeared in new hands, as did a banjo, flute and stand-up bass. Before anyone could shout out a request, the band was in tune and off on round two. Every song dripped with whiskey and woe, mournful fiddle and lighting-fast flute. In no time, a grizzled ginger with a thick beard and a fedora had scrounged a washboard from the garage. One of the house tenants picked up a snare drum. When the scene wrapped up around 4:30, I was begging for more.

We dropped some drunk dude off on the far end of the Higgins bridge, gave our new pal Roan a ride home, and popped "Superbad" into the DVD player the minute we got in the door. I could hardly stand and, hoping not to doom Sunday too soon, hit the sheets.

And that's how this town works, I guess. The job gets you down sometimes, socialization can be a drag, and you never know when shit will hit the fan. But there's always a bluegrass jam session somewhere, as long as you're looking in the right places.

Just too fucking bad I forgot my camera.