Shut Up 'n' Play Yer Guitar

There's a fellow I know named Matt Rae, a regular guy living in an ordinary house on one of those quiet Connecticut streets, but he's a guy's who's worth introducing to anyone who hasn't already met him. In addition to being a pleasant fellow who likes B movies and who is kind to dogs and children, Matt is a guy who can, at any moment he pleases, wring some lightning and thunder out of a guitar neck and knock the listener out of his chair and into the street. He is, in a way, the most genuine kind of musician there is: one whose aspirations coincide with the immediacy of second-to-second communication, who plays without the cop-out of irony, and whose only goal is to bust out some notes and tear the universe a new one right when it least expects it. C'mon, let's go now, down to his basement; let him pick one of the guitars off the wall and lay down some funky shit that Homer and Cervantes would have been down with, lookout jangles for holy prophets and colliding suns. Hell, I've heard him tear the blues out of a $3.95 Toys 'R' Us kiddie ukulele, and he makes it sound good. Incredibly rare it is to find musicians who possess this kind of astounding technical ability and that elusive quality the old-timers call "soul," and Matt Rae has both, in spades.

For those of you who aren't able to catch him on one of his club dates, you could probably do a lot worse than to visit his website, mattrae.com, and preview some of the tracks from his latest CD, "Twang!" Check out the savage hillbilly assault of "Road Rage" and the down-home cockeyed grin of "Tele Savalas", get back to the oceanic with "Floatin'" or "Sonic Blue", or just wrap your mind around the million-dollar solos that pepper the whole crazy porridge, and you've got a rocket in your brain like Buzz Aldrin only dreamed of. Get on board, cosmonauts, 'cause the crummy planet we're on is old news and the cool kids are outta here.

The true joy, however, is seeing him play live, as this is an experience all to itself. With ultra sangfroid bassman Mark Bridgman and escaped mental patient and drum abuser Stuart Stahr, the Matt Rae trio has been raising insurance rates across the state by tearing the roof off of joint after joint and exposing unwary barflies to stars and rain. When the crowd is ready and jumping, when Matt sinks his teeth into a groove and his left hand goes all crazy and boneless across the frets, your soul is amazed awake and ringing, you feel the shock unto your mind and the throne upon your lungs; 100 bullets are flying every which way, and Matt has fired them all, buzzing and tickling into beer glasses and wall joists until rhythm and time are ping-ponging brainwise like a last revelation or first arrest. Then all the lonely barmaids say "hey, this cat can really swing, gimme some more of that head-over-heels, guitar man!"

Yeah, baby. Matt is only happy to oblige.