The Short Pockets
Riding on a time-traveling cloud comprised of booze, loose women, and broken dreams, The Short Pockets fell from the sky one afternoon in 2010, onto the rain-drizzled streets of Portland, OR. Faced with the fact that they could not return to their rightful era from many decades ago, where old-time jazz ruled the night owls, illegal liquor ruled the politicians, and cabaret conquered all–the duo turned to a life of rants and rambles.
Only the streets were their solace; Emma Stanford (the most fiery of firecrackers) mournfully moaning over her accordion melodies, and her beau Topher Sappington (No. 1 breaker of hearts in the lower 48) picking banjos, strumming washboards, and making saws sing. The pair were known to play on curbs all over town, even spotted up and down the Californian and Oregon coasts, offering up their musical talents in exchange for a few dollar bills to pay the barkeep.
2011 shined down brightly on the pair, thanks to long-time friend Mr. Tommy Couling and his bedroom recording studio. In a three-day whirlwind of pizza, whiskey, and PBR, Mr. Couling and The Short Pockets recorded their first album, cleverly titled (or so they thought anyway) “The Short Pockets Play ‘Low Standards'”. Copies of the album have migrated across the expansive bioregion of Cascadia, traveling safely in their environmentally-friendly paper bag CD cases.
In 2012, the band adopted the Reverend Drunk Tank John Knutsen (John Michael to his friends) after a lengthy affair involving–you guessed it–drinks, as well as philosophy and political activism. John Michael brought his fine sense of harmony and rhythm to the trio, expressing these talents through the guitar, washboard, vocals, and a charming pair of dark brown eyes.
Now here to stay in the 21st century, The Short Pockets regale audiences with stories of woe, hangovers, dreams, and a free and wild Cascadia. A little gypsy jazz, a touch of Cascadian folk, and a whole lot of fire is what you’ll find if you can track them down. They play for the earth, for the moon, and they’ll play for you if you buy ’em a stiff drink. Dream on, and free Cascadia!