Album Of The Week: Cass McCombs Humor Risk

In the early '00s, when Cass McCombs and I were both living in Baltimore, we knew each other a little bit. We weren't friends or anything; I doubt he'd remember me. But we had mutual friends and we'd see each other at parties and stuff. At one point, he toured with a backing band comprised entirely of guys I knew from around town; I think most of them are in Arbouretum now. One Halloween, when his hair was just sproingy and not yet scraggly, he dressed as Robert Smith from the Cure and pulled it off admirably. Most of the girls I knew had crushes on him, and he was an absolutely pleasant dude. But even then, everyone around the small city's small scene regarded him with a sort of hushed reverence. The first time I saw him, he was opening for the Oranges Band, playing first on a four-band bill, and it might've been one of his first shows. The small early-arrival crowd knew it was seeing something special. When the Oranges Band, scene elders at the time, took the stage a few hours later, they admitted to being impressed. Cowed, even.