I found it a few weeks ago, in the Branford Puppet Theatre, of all places. I was an invited guest of a good friend, who happens to be a musician. That night, before a decent sized audience made up of family members, friends and the curious on a hot summer night, he was debuting his new group, called October Moon.

Now, when you are a music writer and involved in the community, as I am, there are frequent requests to "come down and here us play." Usually, I meet those requests with a friendly nod and, frankly, plan to be someone else that night and make my amends later. And, this offer from my friend could have been one of those numerous, passing events that mean very little.

Still, I have known Mark (his name, too) for a few years, and we have very similar musical tastes. Interestingly, and tellingly for what ultimately occurred, he is normally very soft spoken, almost to the point of being shy, about talking about his musicianship, which, I was able to gleam over several conversations, included playing the guitar and keyboards, writing, and singing. There was, however, something about the way he talked about his music, in his soft-spoken yet confident way, that told me something, although I was not yet sure what it was. So, since he is a good friend, I told him that I would come to the Puppet House and watch him sing in his new group, along with his partner, Jim Paradis.

The night was very hot, the salt air off the Branford water very muggy, and there was little ventilation in the theatre. Simply put, it was annoyingly hot. I arrived about 30 minutes before the show, hoping to wish Mark & Jim good luck. I found them milling about with friends, family, spouses, and children. Nobody seemed very nervous; in fact everything seemed very matter of fact and professional.

Just before showtime, I excused myself and took a seat near the rear of the room. Call it musical paranoia, but it would give me a quick "out" if the music was too much to bear and I didn’t want my good friend to see my cringing. It would also give me a good vantagepoint to observe the reaction of the rest of the crowd and to get a good read on the sound.

Still, I was a bit skeptical. That is, until Mark and Jim opened their mouths and sang together. It was magic. Suddenly, it was cool, not hot; suddenly, the air was fresh, not heavy and hanging. I sat up as if jolted in my chair. Somehow, I felt I knew how the listeners must have felt at Cass Elliott’s house back in 1968 when David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash sang together for the first time. Mark and Jim sounded perfect together. They sang alone, they sang together, they sang harmony back at one another (Mark later told me the fancy, musical term for this, but it would just gum up the works to use it here). Every song they did was an original, several from their first record together (reviewed elsewhere in this issue), and it was, and remains, virtually impossible to pick out a favorite.