{"id":34916,"date":"2011-03-10T15:51:12","date_gmt":"2011-03-10T20:51:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=34916"},"modified":"2011-03-10T20:01:56","modified_gmt":"2011-03-11T01:01:56","slug":"what-buffalo-tom-means-to-me-by-mike-omalley","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=34916","title":{"rendered":"What Buffalo Tom Means to Me, by Mike O’Malley"},"content":{"rendered":"

My cousin Mike is well-known by those who love him for his generosity, passion, and commitment – not only to his own talent and career, but to the talents of those he loves. He devotes himself to your greatness and potential. It can be quite startling, sometimes annoying (“Mike, today I just don’t feel like being as great as you think I am, get off my case”), and always inspirational. The other day, we were emailing about something else, and he mentioned that he had written an essay to be included in the liner notes for Buffalo Tom<\/a>‘s latest album Skins<\/strong> (iTunes link here<\/a>, or you can purchase it through Buffalo Tom’s website). It is the Boston band’s eighth studio album<\/a>. I read Mike’s essay, and promptly enjoyed a nice long leisurely crying jag about solace, art, lost loves, and happy memories. Mike asked if I wanted to promote, and I said Yes, I want that brilliance on my site. All photos below are by Mike O’Malley, except for the one in which Mike appears – that was taken by Lisa O’Malley (Mike’s wonderful wife); he sent the photos to me with a note: “In the winter of 2000, when the band Buffalo Tom went on tour, Mike and Lisa O’Malley tagged along.” <\/p>\n

But I will say no more about Buffalo Tom. I’ll let cousin Mike take it from here. <\/i><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nMike O’Malley the roadie with Drummer Tom Maginnis, Tour manager Tom Dube, Mike and bassist Chris Colbourn<\/i><\/p>\n

What Buffalo Tom Means to Me<\/big>
\nby Mike O’Malley<\/i><\/p>\n

\nIntroduction<\/strong><\/p>\n

\nWhenever I find myself driving a rental car, and I\u2019ve forgotten to bring my own music along, I will, in desperation, hit the \u201cseek\u201d button on the car radio. My hope is that an unfamiliar station will broadcast some new music that I\u2019m unaware I\u2019m about to love.<\/p>\n

Invariably, I will hit a red light and find myself distracted from this music seeking, until I\u2019ve listened all the way through to a song that is either A) one I\u2019ve heard countless times\u2014and could be retired from rotation so that a less-known great song might replace it\u2014or B) a modern song that I cannot distinguish from many numerous other modern songs. <\/p>\n

Yet I stick with the seeking because once-in-a-while, the search yields a band that brings forth the unique elation that great art bestows upon the committed: The ability to make you feel less alone, and more alive than you were before you encountered it.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s what I felt when I first heard Buffalo Tom almost two decades ago. I walked into the now-defunct and much-missed HMV at 72nd and Broadway in Manhattan and sampled a then-new thing called a listening station. Imagine, back in the early nineties, it was a novel idea to let people sample an album\u2019s tracks before they purchased it\u2026<\/p>\n

As my luck had it, Buffalo Tom\u2019s \u201cBig Red Letter Day\u201d was waiting for me to don some city-shared headphones and press play. <\/p>\n

I did so with no idea of how hard I would get walloped. As their songs swirled into my ears and took root, I was thumped with recognition, discovery, like-mindedness and familiarity. It was, to me, Rock and Roll at its evolutionary best, delivered via three men from Boston who, with their voices, hearts, hands and instruments, took the influences of what had come before them and transformed it into something so original, passionate, and relatable that I thought it had been crafted just for me.<\/p>\n