Crammed in between roughly 1800 twenty something's, I take notice to the fashion of the day. Flannel is definitely making a come back this year and I am painfully aware of the nineties grunge era that gave us the late Kurt Cobain. I check myself as I am wearing a mammoth down North Face winter jacket and a herringbone hat reminiscent of my mother's era. Oh the irony.

It's Ohio night at the EFC. All three bands on the bill hail from the little state. The first band, Patrick Sweany, which houses a lead singer who has the magic but is accompanied by two lackluster and timid band members who will eventually hold back his budding talent, have finished their set. The revolving cast of Heartless Bastards members start piling on stage and tinkering with drums, bass, rhythm guitar, and lap steel.

From what I can tell, this is the first stop on the tour, at least that's what I got from the Myspace schedule. While the Patrick Sweany is helping clear the stage and break down the kit, I sense a mounting anticipation. Perhaps it is one of the stage props that conspicuously resemble a diaphragm that have people buzzing. I can't be sure.

Finally, a lithe, petite frame of a woman who looks all of twenty-two clad in jeans and a black hoodie inched her way on stage. Once there, she seemed perfectly comfortable navigating the endless cords and wires littering the stage floor. Ah, this must be Ericka Wennerstrom, the young girl with a big voice.

Her presence seemed a bit large for her small frame and I am instantly curious about her. At what can't be more than 110 pounds I am sure the winter wind outside will blow her over once the backdoors open. Erika wanders over to the guitars and focuses intently on tuning a couple of gold Gibson electrics both appearing to be made of natural wood and expends an awful lot of energy on a Gibson hallow body.

Now, I am all for a good sound check and vocal check to make sure the equipment is up to snuff but the time seemed to drag on precariously long. It was precisely this point where I was convinced that Ericka, amidst her annoyance with the mic check, acted more like the headliner than opening act. Good for her. Her perfectionist nature was noteworthy and I made a mental note to check back in with his during her set. I found myself losing patience, wishing someone would remind them they were an opening band. Then I realized why all the fuss. They completely rock.

Erika lurched into "Done Got Old" as her opener, where her deliciously alto voice seemed to sugar coat the insightful, regret-weighted lyrics that betrayed here youth. To her extreme credit, when researching her lyrics I was positively blown away by the maturity and depth of her words. She sings as if she has lived a hardened life of fifty years and has made it back to tell us about it.

Her fourth song was an interesting moment, a few strums and chords in, Ericka abruptly stopped saying, "there's some kind of weird sound I can't do this song". While a little strange, no one seemed to mind much. Or maybe the crowd was intimidated by her. She seems like a scary person to get angry. Recovering, she plowed into "The Mountain" the title track off the new album. Angry strumming led into great energy and I discovered that her big voice also carries an incredible talent on lead guitar. There is apparently nothing that this girl can't do and do well.

They followed "The Mountain" with another new track entitled, "Out At Sea". The girl has a set of pipes on her. With a hint of Janice and Patty Smith growling, I pictured Ericka banging back a couple of shots of Jack to warm her throat prior to the show. Some of the notes seemed out of her range and it was an obvious struggle to hit the higher notes but she certainly tried. Some unsolicited advice, stick with the bourbon soaked voice, it does you well.

Heartless Bastards ended with two more songs, the last on the set-list was accompanied by a repetitive guitar encore seeming to last ten minutes, which was more boring than painful as it merely changed chords. By my watch Heartless Bastards played nearly a 40-minute set. Add the multiple sound checks and indiscreet disdain for imperfect equipment, their part of the show raked on for nearly an hour. Fans definitely got what they came for. Professions of love echoed from a testosterone-filled audience.

Overall, the band has a nice synergy while feeding off each other's energy. Dave Colvin added a spark of fire and a welcomed consistency to the timing with impeccable percussions. His energy was off the hook. Jesse Ebough, the band member credited with tapping Fat Possum's interest to begin with, played a mean bass and was equally inspiring with the lap steel. I have to hand it to the fourth band member, and rhythm guitarist Mark Nathan, who added intrigue and interest by his mere presence on the stage, since last I checked the band, was a threesome