by Amanda Ventura
Say what you need to say about John Mayer. You just don't know the goodness of his music until you've heard him blowing his songs wide open with guitar solos and those special deviations and blends you can only get in-person. It only took the first few bars into last night's opener "Queen of California" to replace the racist penis and playboy jabs that were nagging at my brain's pleasure center. The image of Mayer's face geeking out while looking to his band members during a jam sesh, too, was ephemeral but unforgettable. It's those child-like glimpses that frequently get to you at a show like this.