Continued from Part 1 amd Part 2.

Sitting on the plane for my connecting flight in Dallas, bound for Newark, NJ, I hear the pilot announce that we are briefly delayed. Little do I realize what this bodes for my return trip. We end up departing for Newark 45 minutes late, and arrive about 30 minutes late. On the plane I am finishing up the novelization of The Adventures Of Buckaroo Banzai, and I'm thinking of how much it reminds me of Kyle Fischer.

Buckaroo Banzai is the kind of man we don't have anymore in the modern age, a true Renaissance man, a brilliant mind who also plays a mean guitar. He also saves the world on a regular basis, about the only aspect in which Kyle might fall short of his fictional counterpart.

He may not save the world on a regular basis, but he and the band can assuredly rock.

On arrival in Newark, I still have plenty of time to pick up my luggage and rental car, check into the Princeton Hyatt, call the New Jersey Transit hotline, and drive to Princeton Junction to catch the 7:40 to Penn Station.

I have a pre-purchased ticket to Rainer Maria's show at Brownie's NYC, a tiny East Village bar that is closing at the end of the month. In preparation of the upcoming trip to Princeton, I had surfed over to the band website, hoping to find Kyle's e-mail address again and attempt to arrange some time to meet up and hang out. Instead, I found out they were playing a 3-week residency at Brownie's for the club's swan song, so I booked the advance ticket and decided to surprise Kyle at the show.

On the train, I start thinking about all the tiny ways people influenced me back then, and I am quietly sending my thank yous to the universe for all the Katie Daniels and Kyle Fischers and Leslies of my youth, the people who made it all bearable for a hypersensitive kid without even realizing it. The people I secretly admired and sometimes emulated.

Somehow I navigate through Penn Station and find the subway station. After repeated second-guessing of whether I am on the local or express platform, I simply give up and take the next A train that comes along. A switch to the L train and a short ride later, I am making my way into the tiny, tiny club.

It is packed from wall to wall with people. The opening band is on, and I completely forget their name. They are decent, though.

I squeeze my way to the bar and buy a beer. When the changeover starts for Rye Coalition, second on the bill, I throw auditory caution to the wind and push my way to the second row up front.

Rye Coalition are loud. Loud and funky and dripping in sweat. They give an incredible show at an energy level I am completely incapable of returning after travelling all day. I do my best to at least bop along to the beat and smile.

The band makes a joking comment about how all the Rainer Maria fans were probably not expecting them. Nods and murmurs of assent from almost everyone, but we are all enjoying it anyway, except when the hardcore RC fans down front get overzealously physical in their joyous self-expression.

Finally, Rainer Maria takes the stage.

Kyle is on guitar and vocals, Caithlin on vocals and bass, William on the drums.

The audience is restless during the sound check, and then silence falls. Kyle and Caithlin look briefly at each other. Smiles spread on their faces, and a silent momentum swells.

From the first note, it is obvious these three souls are meant to be together musically. Kyle and Caithlin have been boyfriend/girlfriend, and probably still are, but it doesn't really matter. They were understandably coy about it in the one interview with them I've read, and I can see why. It's clear that the destiny of all three of these people is tied up in an enduring friendship which renders such concerns meaningless.

I've never seen them on their home turf, where instead of the weariness of a long tour they have only a brief journey from Brooklyn to burden them. They've rocked the house in Austin, but this East Village show takes off like a rocket.

Kyle is explosive from the very first song, Caithlin bouncing and kicking and smiling along, half-dancing to the music as William intensely pounds out the beats from the back row, drenching himself in sweat only two songs in. The joy of living and making music shines from them. In the tiny, dark club, they are lit up like stars.

In the second row, I close my eyes and just drift on the sound for a while.

They are such a gift to the fans in live performance, a physical manifestation of the attributes of their music: acrobatic and energetic as Kyle throws himself through the air and across the stage, expansive and expressive as Caithlin sings with mouth open wide and eyes sparkling in the stage lights, rhythmic and strong and unpredictable as William beats the drums and throws his head back. You don't just hear the music, you see and feel it.

The audience is in ecstasy—the slightly more animated than arm-folding and head-nodding sort of indie-fan ecstasy, anyway—the band in a state of utter musical beatitude.

The band tears through a set of hard-edged songs from their entire repertoire, early releases to unreleased new material. The new material has a gritty, earnest, barely-contained verve to it that I really love. Heads nod appreciatively to the new tunes, and cheers erupt loudly at their completion.

Mid-show, Kyle spots me in the second row. (That's me with the camera.)

"Jon Van Matre," he interjects suddenly, in the middle of announcing the next song. "I went to high school with him. All the way from Temple, Texas. Somebody buy him a beer—hey, do you drink?"

"Yes, of course."

"—Good. Buy him two or three beers."

And then the band is off again. I am just a blip in the momentum of their perfect night.

No one buys me a beer, of course, but that's not the point. There is plenty of intoxication to go around in the music.

The show ends, and we insist on an encore. There are a lot of shows where most of the audience is just going along with the encore applause out of a sense of duty, but I am sure this isn't one of them. Rainer Maria have earned it, as much as one can "earn" the right to give even more after already giving all you've got.

They still have something left, though, and they send us off in style before retiring to the merch table at the back of the room.

I knock around the club for a little while as the crowd thins out. Eventually I make my way to the back of the club. I chat with Kyle for a while, as much as one can when there are other fans pressing in and merchandise to be sold. He gives me his number and we tentatively plan a possible meeting later in the week.

I talk to Caithlin for a little while after that. I tell her I'm staying in Princeton, and she relates an anecdote about playing at one of their "supper clubs". Apparently, these are their equivalent of fraternities. According to Caithlin, it was a very strange gig.

"Imagine," she says, "those movies where when the party gets really wild, one of the guys takes his tie off and ties it around his head.

"They don't even get that wild."

I haven't seen much of Princeton yet, but this sounds like a fair characterization to me.

It's late, and I have to go if I am going to catch the last train to Princeton, so I say my goodbyes and take the subway back to Penn Station.

As the week goes on, I never do find a chance to meet up with Kyle under less pressured circumstances, which is a real disappointment. But maybe next visit.

I do want the chance to tell him about all of this, the tiny and not-so-tiny ways we all are constantly touching each other without realizing it. I want to thank him for indirectly getting me into Bauhaus, for being who he was when we were in school together (even if it was more properly what you might call "untogether"), for being part of the circle of friends that made my brother the exceedingly cool person he is today, and for making music like this that never ceases to knock me over and say "wake up!" every time I hear it. For giving me all those gifts.

On the train ride home, my ears still ringing from the show, I am completely happy where I am. At home, I'm full of doubt and concern about my working situation, my social life, and all the tiny annoyances of a modern life. But here on the train, hearing its soothing clack as we coast through sleeping towns, I'm a happier, better version of me, for at least a little while.

Note: photos in this article are by Jasper Coolidge, and borrowed from here without permission, because I am a lazy arse and have yet to scan my own photos. Next time I'll have the digital camera, and you'll get instant gratification. Jasper has a great eye, so please visit these sites and tell them how much the photos rock!