Monday night, at a smallish, dark, Brooklyn bar called Spike Hill, I was reminded why I never listen to the radio anymore (see the video below for footage from this show).

Look, it’s no secret that I fucking hate the likes of My Chemical Jerkwads and Fallout Turd. The glut of crap that populates the airwaves of this fairly decent nation, while maybe not at an all-time high (that was most likely during the Beach Boys era), has at the very least been dense enough to drive me to absolute distraction. If it weren’t for bands like C Phineas replenishing the hope in mankind that Daughtry has so greedily sucked out of my marrow, I would gladly take up an ice pick and spend the rest of my days in deaf bliss (more below).

C Phineas is probably not going to be playing on my radio anytime soon, not only because I never turn it on, but also because their kind of sound thrives on word of mouth, on copies of EPs being passed around, on sitting in small venues with other like-minded people—all of whom have forgotten everything else that happened that day because C Phineas took advantage of a chance to grab their attention completely. The show at Spike Hill was arresting. The sight of the band filled your line of vision and the tight musicianship kept your attention rapt. The funk-infused soul music created by the three saxophones, stand-up bass, keys, and drums was, for a lack of a better word, dazzling (I hate even typing the word, but truly, it was), and proved to be the perfect backdrop for the two vocalists—emcee and singer—whose engrossing tales of youth and warnings of modern pitfalls made the audience feel as though they were taking part in a lively conversation with a couple of guys far more cool than their other friends.

To call the show lively is to not give it full credit. It was lively, yes, but you got the idea that all the guys in the group believe in what they are doing, and that is rare indeed. They certainly gave me a reason to believe. These funky fucks can play. It felt as times like I was taking a crash course in a class called Beatology in the Age of Funkism 101 at some crazy liberal college that served beer (if only). It’s good to know you can find some of their lessons online, and I highly suggest picking up the primer by CLICKING HERE.

I’d like to personally thank C Phineas for giving me a marrow transplant. When the time comes for them to be on the radio, I’ll dig it out of the closet and blow the dust off. Who knows, maybe I’ll even turn it on.

If you live in the NYC area, CLICK HERE, bookmark the page, and catch these guys while they’re still playing the small shows.