I'm standing on the dance floor, looking up and over at the stage when I start to feel my weight shift onto one foot.
My head starts to tilt shortly thereafter.
Next thing I know, I'm peering up at the stage with a thinly veiled expression of puzzlement on my face.
Huh.
It is a fundamentally strong performance. The instrumentation is tight. I know that I dig the material. The vocals are on, the audio levels and mix sound just about right...
And yet my instincts are nagging at me. Attempts to ignore are proving futile -- and dulling them with another pint of pumpkin ale certainly didn't work.
Something is off, and now I'm busy dividing my time between second-guessing myself and enjoying the set.
It's been a fun night, the random kind of evening that only seems to unfold at Milly's. The assemblage for this particular gathering includes more circles than usual, but it's been cool -- the friends coming together to laugh and converse are actually in the same place for the first time in at least a few months. A couple of guys with whom friends had been chatting wound up leading my friends in a blush-enducing toast "to blogs!" The New Hampshire equivalent of Turtle on "Entourage" was on the prowl, an encounter that prompted me to flip over my cladagh ring and joke with N and M about which of the boys would be game in pretending to be my boyfriend for the evening. There were warm hugs, kisses on the cheeks, introductions, playful banter and high-fives galore -- as well as a text message or two to folks that we wished could have made it out for the night.
And, true to form, the Soundguy Complex has already made itself evident, peppering TC's set with feedback and frustration, both onstage and off.
It's Milly's. It's how that place rolls and I long ago grew accustomed to it.
There are new friends, old friends, those acquaintances who happen to fall somewhere in between...and tonight a person or two to whom I am thinking of walking over to introduce myself and say hello. I hold off, however, cognizant of the potential awkwardness that could follow a "Hi, we know a bunch of the same people, I'm pretty sure we each know who the other is and we've both attended a number of these shindigs. How about I just say hello already?"
So for the moment I'm focused on feeling relaxed and content, standing with dear friends, listening to much-loved music performed by the friends I will be sure to hug at least once more before evening's end...
...and I can't shift that weight off my foot, get that little voice out of my head that's inquiring as to what precisely is wrong.
I hate that voice.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
10.23.2006
10.15.2006
Awk and awe
I extended my hand with a firm grip and ready smile.
I said: "Hi there. It's great to meet you."
I thought: "Thank God you were here tonight and I was here for it."
The evening had been precisely what I'd needed - easy good time filled with laughter, dancing and clap-accented whoops. I couldn't stop smiling, from the time the vamp kicked in until that last wave from the stage.
It felt so foreign, the sensation of relaxing. It had been the first soothing span of time in a week, and I could sense the tension release from my shoulders as I raised my arms to applaud.
Rather amazing, the way a week of frustration and surreality makes you realize a need to almost retrain yourself into simply having fun again. Add to that the fact that I'm so often drawn to the heart-on-sleeve music that elicits thoughtful tears that I manage forget about the joy of laugh-until-you-cry style of performance.
Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers drove into town at just the right time. I relaxed. I felt better.
I rather felt like me again. Just dancing and singing along with friends.
I respect SK6 immensely for the way they are capable of seamlessly blending talent with a flair for the absurd. A musical play-off between kazoos and keytars. Kit's shirtless Sprinkler and "Material Girl." The water-chugging contest and "Bust a Move."
Each time the laughter peaks, a glorious three-part harmony fills the room.
And then Boots wins the movie quote contest by brilliantly delivering "You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha -- TWO THREE FOUR!"
It proved an...interesting juxtaposition to the previous night. Mid-sized room at Higher Ground versus the tiny Radio Bean space. SK6 zaniness versus CP contemplation. Stella versus Switchback. Musicians I don't know versus friends. Full set versus a half hour.
Definitely a change in gears, transitioning from one to the other. Both excellent, but clearly Granny Smiths and tangerines.
I have to wonder if my temprament for most of the rest of the weekend would have been different, had I taken in both performances in an opposite order of appearance.
It's all speculative at this point anyway, but I have to think I would have been better suited to stand on the sidewalk, in a skirt in the cold, waiting for who knows what, had I spent the previous two hours laughing myself silly.
Instead, I found myself up to my eyes in the Awk, realizing that what I'd gone there for -- precisely what I'd come to find one night later, to feel that stress slip away -- was simply a notion fading fast.
(YouTube captures the brilliant dichotomy of this band in...Atlanta? Yeah. View both for the full effect.)
I said: "Hi there. It's great to meet you."
I thought: "Thank God you were here tonight and I was here for it."
The evening had been precisely what I'd needed - easy good time filled with laughter, dancing and clap-accented whoops. I couldn't stop smiling, from the time the vamp kicked in until that last wave from the stage.
It felt so foreign, the sensation of relaxing. It had been the first soothing span of time in a week, and I could sense the tension release from my shoulders as I raised my arms to applaud.
Rather amazing, the way a week of frustration and surreality makes you realize a need to almost retrain yourself into simply having fun again. Add to that the fact that I'm so often drawn to the heart-on-sleeve music that elicits thoughtful tears that I manage forget about the joy of laugh-until-you-cry style of performance.
Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers drove into town at just the right time. I relaxed. I felt better.
I rather felt like me again. Just dancing and singing along with friends.
I respect SK6 immensely for the way they are capable of seamlessly blending talent with a flair for the absurd. A musical play-off between kazoos and keytars. Kit's shirtless Sprinkler and "Material Girl." The water-chugging contest and "Bust a Move."
Each time the laughter peaks, a glorious three-part harmony fills the room.
And then Boots wins the movie quote contest by brilliantly delivering "You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha -- TWO THREE FOUR!"
It proved an...interesting juxtaposition to the previous night. Mid-sized room at Higher Ground versus the tiny Radio Bean space. SK6 zaniness versus CP contemplation. Stella versus Switchback. Musicians I don't know versus friends. Full set versus a half hour.
Definitely a change in gears, transitioning from one to the other. Both excellent, but clearly Granny Smiths and tangerines.
I have to wonder if my temprament for most of the rest of the weekend would have been different, had I taken in both performances in an opposite order of appearance.
It's all speculative at this point anyway, but I have to think I would have been better suited to stand on the sidewalk, in a skirt in the cold, waiting for who knows what, had I spent the previous two hours laughing myself silly.
Instead, I found myself up to my eyes in the Awk, realizing that what I'd gone there for -- precisely what I'd come to find one night later, to feel that stress slip away -- was simply a notion fading fast.
(YouTube captures the brilliant dichotomy of this band in...Atlanta? Yeah. View both for the full effect.)
10.09.2006
Relaxing the third verse
My subconcious scares me.
VICTORIA: I have "Curbside Prophet" stuck in my head. Random? Yeah.
BETH: That IS random.
VICTORIA: Now I'm relaxing the third verse
without even rehearsing
Lacing up my Converse
and conjugating the verbs
A SHORT TIME LATER
VICTORIA: I KNOW WHY IT'S IN MY HEAD. I'm rather frightened.
BETH: laughing And what anniversary is this?
VICTORIA: October 9, 2003. First time I saw Jason Mraz perform a full set.
BETH: I'm not going to lie, your memory kind of frightens me.
VICTORIA: How did my subconcious KNOW that? That frightens me, too.
VICTORIA: I have "Curbside Prophet" stuck in my head. Random? Yeah.
BETH: That IS random.
VICTORIA: Now I'm relaxing the third verse
without even rehearsing
Lacing up my Converse
and conjugating the verbs
A SHORT TIME LATER
VICTORIA: I KNOW WHY IT'S IN MY HEAD. I'm rather frightened.
BETH: laughing And what anniversary is this?
VICTORIA: October 9, 2003. First time I saw Jason Mraz perform a full set.
BETH: I'm not going to lie, your memory kind of frightens me.
VICTORIA: How did my subconcious KNOW that? That frightens me, too.
10.06.2006
My parents surprised me this week with an offer for a lunch getaway and a bag of cider donuts from the autumnal version of Shangri-La. As I halfheartedly prepared to resume my normal afternoon activities, all three of us were looking for reasons to delay the final rounds of hugs and goodbyes.
"Hey, you'd made reference to seeing Tom Petty in Texas, and we saw the photos. But how did he do? What was it like in the...photo pit, right?" God bless my mother. I'd completely forgotten that this was my first face-to-face encounters with the folks since Austin; my telephoned anecdotes had all been quick bursts, not in-depth explanations.
The white paper bag of fall's finest baked items were temporarily set aside atop my parents' car. I needed to talk with both hands.
You know when something big is taking place, but you have to focus on the series of small tasks in order to get the job done?
That was Tom Petty's set. If I were to take it all in, I would have been overwhelmed before the performance even began. I had the roar of at least 50,000 people hitting me in the back as I stood among professional photographers, each seemingly armed with lenses longer than my forearm. The two men who had been overseeing security in the photo pit all weekend were shouting over the cheers, telling us that we would have to clear out of the pit if people in the crowd -- some of whom had been standing in the sunshine and heat for more than eight hours -- started to require medical care. Apparently, the crowd began to drop like flies during the last set at Lollapalooza, and they were worried that this would be the same kind of situation.
We were all supposed to take seats along the metal benches that were built into the crowd barriers. We had to wait there until the band took the stage; we weren't allowed to approach the stage until we saw Tom. Imagine a slew of photographers playing musical chairs, trying to get a seat as close as they could. Somehow, I wound up with a seat immediately to the right -- and I'm talking about maybe a foot and a half -- of the microphone.
So we're waiting, the crowd is chanting (and some photographers are joining in), and I'm busy trying to keep my energy contained by checking my battery, chatting with another photographer who tells me he shot off 500 frames during The Flaming Lips. I'd been psyched to get 50 shots, some of which were blurred. The difference between a point-and-shoot and the real thing. Yeah.
The lights go down and the crowd is whipped into more of a frenzy than I've experienced live. I'm craning my neck, trying to look up onto the stage and off to the stage right side...and then I see the band walking out. A moment later, I see the light fall on the blond hair. We've already stood up by this point, and now we walk up to get the best spots each of us can get.
I'm pointing my camera up, and Tom Petty is right there in the frame. I start taking photographs and then it hits me that there is absolutely no one - nothing but a level of stage - between me and Tom Petty. Someone I never even thought I'd see live is right in front of me, smiling out over my head at the thousands upon thousands of people who are screaming as if Jesus Christ had taken the stage.
When the band starts playing, I'm trying to get shots AND groove at the same time. I'm not the only one. Lots of the photographers are enjoying the vantage point. The band is tight and, were there anybody in the crowd not into Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, they would have been excited simply feeding off of the crowd's energy. The singalongs are intense -- his voice is drowned out by the audience and he appears to be absolutely loving it.
It was insane. Unbelievable. This huge spectacle of light and sound and lenses, and then just me, fully aware of the fact that if I don't focus on working with the light and getting these shots, my head really might explode from the utter shock of it all.
But then my camera's battery is dying, so I get out of the pit and meet up with Michelle. We had a good spot already picked out, right near where the exit to the photo pit, so it was relatively easy to reach her. We're dancing like mad, along with the rest of the people in our area, when we start to see the lightning flickering in the distance.
We're hoping that the storm will bypass us, but soon the wind is picking up, whipping the band members' hair as they continue to play. It adds to the weird, crazy nature of the experience -- kind of like that time I saw Grace Potter in Boston and it felt as if she was channeling nature, you know? It makes them look all the more like rock stars.
The rain starts slowly, a few drops here and there. All of a sudden, drops become drizzle, which morphs into a light shower. The band plays as long as they can, before the water threatens to ruin the equipment and pose a safety hazard. But during those two songs when they kept playing? It felt almost Dionysian -- everyone just frolicking in the storm.
Tom promised everyone that the band would be back, but they hid out back as the rains really started to come down. It was cold! We just laughed and looked up and whooped about the fact that this was happening. How was this happening? How were we here? For this?
Ultimately, the band came back and we continued to rock out and be amazed. There were a lot of the hits, as to be expected, but I didn't expect "Refugee" to be a highlight. Huh. Anyway, then the band covers Van's "Mystic Eyes" and I am just so damn excited that I jump up and down with delight. Michelle laughs at me, of course, then joins in the rockout.
And then it was over.
My parents are grinning, as I've been jumping around, providing near interpretive dance of the experience. I laugh at myself, fix my hair and shrug my shoulders.
"So yeah. It was cool. Yep."
"Hey, you'd made reference to seeing Tom Petty in Texas, and we saw the photos. But how did he do? What was it like in the...photo pit, right?" God bless my mother. I'd completely forgotten that this was my first face-to-face encounters with the folks since Austin; my telephoned anecdotes had all been quick bursts, not in-depth explanations.
The white paper bag of fall's finest baked items were temporarily set aside atop my parents' car. I needed to talk with both hands.
You know when something big is taking place, but you have to focus on the series of small tasks in order to get the job done?
That was Tom Petty's set. If I were to take it all in, I would have been overwhelmed before the performance even began. I had the roar of at least 50,000 people hitting me in the back as I stood among professional photographers, each seemingly armed with lenses longer than my forearm. The two men who had been overseeing security in the photo pit all weekend were shouting over the cheers, telling us that we would have to clear out of the pit if people in the crowd -- some of whom had been standing in the sunshine and heat for more than eight hours -- started to require medical care. Apparently, the crowd began to drop like flies during the last set at Lollapalooza, and they were worried that this would be the same kind of situation.
We were all supposed to take seats along the metal benches that were built into the crowd barriers. We had to wait there until the band took the stage; we weren't allowed to approach the stage until we saw Tom. Imagine a slew of photographers playing musical chairs, trying to get a seat as close as they could. Somehow, I wound up with a seat immediately to the right -- and I'm talking about maybe a foot and a half -- of the microphone.
So we're waiting, the crowd is chanting (and some photographers are joining in), and I'm busy trying to keep my energy contained by checking my battery, chatting with another photographer who tells me he shot off 500 frames during The Flaming Lips. I'd been psyched to get 50 shots, some of which were blurred. The difference between a point-and-shoot and the real thing. Yeah.
The lights go down and the crowd is whipped into more of a frenzy than I've experienced live. I'm craning my neck, trying to look up onto the stage and off to the stage right side...and then I see the band walking out. A moment later, I see the light fall on the blond hair. We've already stood up by this point, and now we walk up to get the best spots each of us can get.
I'm pointing my camera up, and Tom Petty is right there in the frame. I start taking photographs and then it hits me that there is absolutely no one - nothing but a level of stage - between me and Tom Petty. Someone I never even thought I'd see live is right in front of me, smiling out over my head at the thousands upon thousands of people who are screaming as if Jesus Christ had taken the stage.When the band starts playing, I'm trying to get shots AND groove at the same time. I'm not the only one. Lots of the photographers are enjoying the vantage point. The band is tight and, were there anybody in the crowd not into Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, they would have been excited simply feeding off of the crowd's energy. The singalongs are intense -- his voice is drowned out by the audience and he appears to be absolutely loving it.
It was insane. Unbelievable. This huge spectacle of light and sound and lenses, and then just me, fully aware of the fact that if I don't focus on working with the light and getting these shots, my head really might explode from the utter shock of it all.
But then my camera's battery is dying, so I get out of the pit and meet up with Michelle. We had a good spot already picked out, right near where the exit to the photo pit, so it was relatively easy to reach her. We're dancing like mad, along with the rest of the people in our area, when we start to see the lightning flickering in the distance.
We're hoping that the storm will bypass us, but soon the wind is picking up, whipping the band members' hair as they continue to play. It adds to the weird, crazy nature of the experience -- kind of like that time I saw Grace Potter in Boston and it felt as if she was channeling nature, you know? It makes them look all the more like rock stars.
The rain starts slowly, a few drops here and there. All of a sudden, drops become drizzle, which morphs into a light shower. The band plays as long as they can, before the water threatens to ruin the equipment and pose a safety hazard. But during those two songs when they kept playing? It felt almost Dionysian -- everyone just frolicking in the storm.
Tom promised everyone that the band would be back, but they hid out back as the rains really started to come down. It was cold! We just laughed and looked up and whooped about the fact that this was happening. How was this happening? How were we here? For this?
Ultimately, the band came back and we continued to rock out and be amazed. There were a lot of the hits, as to be expected, but I didn't expect "Refugee" to be a highlight. Huh. Anyway, then the band covers Van's "Mystic Eyes" and I am just so damn excited that I jump up and down with delight. Michelle laughs at me, of course, then joins in the rockout.
And then it was over.
My parents are grinning, as I've been jumping around, providing near interpretive dance of the experience. I laugh at myself, fix my hair and shrug my shoulders.
"So yeah. It was cool. Yep."
10.05.2006
Yawn.
Bloggers all over are in a twitter about the fact that OMG! Clear Channel posted a list of band prices for private shows! Hot damn, I so wanna have Death Cab play at my birthday parteeeeeee! LOL!
Yeah. And?
Guys and dolls, this list has been out there for a nice long time. To the point that the most surprise registered with me was that the price for Jason Mraz's onstage presence had dropped and how much Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!'s price has increased. Well no, actually, neither were surprises at all, but hey.
This has been, for at least a couple of years now, a good way to measure the mainstream popularity of an artist. For example, the aforementioned Mraz used to command a higher total (I'd include the figure, but I can't recall it), with the specification that the cost covered the entire show, production and all. Bands such as Rilo Kiley are now costing more, because people listened to "More Adventurous," realized (finally) that the band didn't suck and started clamoring for live gigs.
It's simply that no one knew it was there. Except for, of course, college SA officials, venue bookers and tend-to-just-be-curious folks such as myself.
You know. A lot of people.
Why is everyone flipping out?
Seriously. I'm curious. It's how I roll.
Yeah. And?
Guys and dolls, this list has been out there for a nice long time. To the point that the most surprise registered with me was that the price for Jason Mraz's onstage presence had dropped and how much Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!'s price has increased. Well no, actually, neither were surprises at all, but hey.
This has been, for at least a couple of years now, a good way to measure the mainstream popularity of an artist. For example, the aforementioned Mraz used to command a higher total (I'd include the figure, but I can't recall it), with the specification that the cost covered the entire show, production and all. Bands such as Rilo Kiley are now costing more, because people listened to "More Adventurous," realized (finally) that the band didn't suck and started clamoring for live gigs.
It's simply that no one knew it was there. Except for, of course, college SA officials, venue bookers and tend-to-just-be-curious folks such as myself.
You know. A lot of people.
Why is everyone flipping out?
Seriously. I'm curious. It's how I roll.
10.03.2006
For the sake of clarification
Fun times at Skybar in Somerville on Saturday night.
The Official Joe Feloni Sendoff Extravaganza featured a lineup of Skybar standouts -- Jen Murdza, Jude Nemo, Cahill, Tommy Dempsey and Tides -- gathered to say thank you to Feloni, whose myspace suggests is leaving the night-to-night club business to focus on his own creative endeavors, including his music.
It was a musical roast, in that everyone good-naturedly teased the guy and then invited him on stage to jam during their sets.
Must admit that my presence at the show had more to do with the headliner than the man of the hour, as I've met Joe exactly once -- and that was only a couple of weeks ago. But hey, I was there, I was cheering and then I was happily taking in the sounds coming from Tides.
But shortly before that set* began, M provided a terrifying thought.
"If a child was born the day you met Andrew, he or she would be able to legally drink by now."
What the hell???
Amazing, how a reference to alcohol will make me realize my age. My jaw dropped, I started laughing and, later, passed along the newsflash to Andrew, who responded similarly.
(Side note: it's nice to have maintained ties to someone who's known you since you were five. I believe he's one of the only people, family aside, with whom I still have that connection, even on a very periphery sort of way.)
But during my drive last night, I did the math again and realized that that little factoid wasn't accurate.
That child would be 20 this year. Which means that he or she isn't quite yet strolling into bars with proper ID.
That said, he or she will surely be out tonight, doing keg stands at a frat party.
I'm so proud.
*I've always found Tides dynamic and engaging, but Saturday's set kicked things up a few notches, much to my delight. The new material presented is tight, filled with strong hooks and more of that "You can tell we all dig U2, but we're branching off in our own direction of pop rock" style the band has honed over the last couple of years. It's the same sound I've come to enjoy, but it felt as if the band has matured infinitely over the latest recording process.
The Official Joe Feloni Sendoff Extravaganza featured a lineup of Skybar standouts -- Jen Murdza, Jude Nemo, Cahill, Tommy Dempsey and Tides -- gathered to say thank you to Feloni, whose myspace suggests is leaving the night-to-night club business to focus on his own creative endeavors, including his music.
It was a musical roast, in that everyone good-naturedly teased the guy and then invited him on stage to jam during their sets.
Must admit that my presence at the show had more to do with the headliner than the man of the hour, as I've met Joe exactly once -- and that was only a couple of weeks ago. But hey, I was there, I was cheering and then I was happily taking in the sounds coming from Tides.
But shortly before that set* began, M provided a terrifying thought.
"If a child was born the day you met Andrew, he or she would be able to legally drink by now."
What the hell???
Amazing, how a reference to alcohol will make me realize my age. My jaw dropped, I started laughing and, later, passed along the newsflash to Andrew, who responded similarly.
(Side note: it's nice to have maintained ties to someone who's known you since you were five. I believe he's one of the only people, family aside, with whom I still have that connection, even on a very periphery sort of way.)
But during my drive last night, I did the math again and realized that that little factoid wasn't accurate.
That child would be 20 this year. Which means that he or she isn't quite yet strolling into bars with proper ID.
That said, he or she will surely be out tonight, doing keg stands at a frat party.
I'm so proud.
*I've always found Tides dynamic and engaging, but Saturday's set kicked things up a few notches, much to my delight. The new material presented is tight, filled with strong hooks and more of that "You can tell we all dig U2, but we're branching off in our own direction of pop rock" style the band has honed over the last couple of years. It's the same sound I've come to enjoy, but it felt as if the band has matured infinitely over the latest recording process.
9.22.2006
The Roundup
I'd waited to see if this would make the DU site -- as of yet, it hasn't. But with a desire to wrap things up, I thought it important to get this out there.
Although I'm sure I'll be offering little insights and quips about the experience that was ACL in times to come, I present to you what was my final roundup whilst officially writing about the Austin City Limits Music Festival. Written on Tuesday, published, well, now...
Everyone reaclimated post-ACL?
Yeah, me neither.
I spent a portion of my plane ride back east yesterday (the portions in which I wasn't watching a marathon of "Blow Out") sifting through my notes and thoughts about the weekend. ACL had already started to become a jumble of frenzied, sweaty events, capped Sunday night with a set by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers accented with winds and a storm. People were left either scurrying for ponchos or dancing and whooping in the rain.
It seemed rather fitting that a girl waiting out the set delay looked up with a silly, slightly drunk grin on her face.
"It's RAINING!" she said. "I live here. IT DOESN'T RAIN. What IS THIS?"
Simple answer: it's ACL.
Here are eleven aspects of the festival that continue to stand out for me. They are listed in no particular order other than that in which they come to me -- and in the shadows linger countless other moments.
- Cat Power & the Memphis Rhythm Band (Friday): You know that at least 70 percent of the crowd gathered at the AT&T Blue Room stage was wondering whether Chan Marshall would take the stage and perform a full set; just as uncertain was what her temperament would be for any performance that would take place. The songstress dazzled with a smooth set that, from my spot lying in the shade to the side of the stage, hinted at languid playfulness with a tease of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" (this came shortly after the original version was performed at the other end of the park). The buzz about Cat Power often refers more to Marshall's demeanor than the music itself, which makes it a dicey venture for an audience member. For the ACL crowd, however, she channeled Friday's heat and gave the crowd reason to pause and appreciate.
- Sylvia St. James and The Gospel Stars/Patrice Pike (Sunday): In each case, I was heading elsewhere when a strong female voice made me stop, turn and veer over to her stage. Sylvia St. James, decked out from hat to toe in white, wailed away within the Washington Mutual stage tent, delivering an electric performance that prompted audience members to stand up, hands waving, legs pumping. Over at the Austin Ventures stage, hometown gal Patrice Pike's rocker girl vocals captivated, making one reconsider one's vow to never watch a reality television show hosted by Brooke Burke.
- Matt Nathanson (Friday): I've loved me some Matt for a long time now, whether the singer-songwriter is operating solo or with band. But with a new album on the way and good word starting to spread, I was looking forward to seeing how the Austin crowd responded to his full-band performance at the Austin Ventures stage. I was pulled away early (so disappointed that I missed "Detroit Waves"), but the portion of the set I saw indicated that this guy could finally get the recognition he's deserved for years. A crazy, sweetly raunchy and fascinating performer, Nathanson simply made me grin like a fool. If the photos posted on Perez Hilton are of any indication, he made Matthew McConaughey smile like mad as well.
- John Mayer (Friday): Can we please just forget about "Your Body Is a Wonderland" and focus on the fact that Mayer has finally begun to fuse the sensitive singer-songwriter thing with sizzling blues guitar chops? Listen up, cynics: I was right there with you until Friday night's set at the AMD stage. But now know that it's now perfectly acceptable to own up to liking John Mayer. Thank you.
P.S. If I hear one more thing about the aforementioned "Wonderland" having been inspired by Jennifer Love Hewitt, I may be forced to shiv someone. It wasn't. Move on.
- Van Morrison/Willie Nelson (Friday, Saturday): Seeing these guys perform proved just why they are the living legends that they are. They've still got it and they still know how to make a crowd go wild. I hope that the younger crowd was taking notes so we can look forward to performances like this in a few decades. Even if Van or Willie weren't audience members' particular style of choice, concertgoers were still making sure to catch the sets. If nothing else, it was all about being able ot say, "I saw these guys perform."
I find that awfully telling. Free Willie!
- The Stills (Sunday): I gushed like a dopey fan on Sunday, so you know I dug the set. What I didn't mention is the excitement that radiated from the AT&T stage during the Montreal band's performance slot. The band members seemed genuinely fuelled by the crowd and the festival as they ripped through their set, which heavily featured songs off the 2003 "Logic Will Break Your Heart." Tim Fletcher dedicated one song to Austin sushi, describing the way the band was treated to a free meal at a sushi bar over the weekend because someone at the restaurant dug the band. In a time of celebrity freebies galore, hearing a musician sound genuinely psyched about such a gesture was pretty unexpected. Dig it.
- Ben Kweller (Saturday): It was one of the most discussed parts of the weekend. Ben takes stage. Ben's nose bleeds. Ben puts tampon up nose. Nose still bleeds. Ben keeps playing. Guitar gets bloody, keyboard follows.Ben is forced to leave stage and splatter of blood behind. Alternately awesome and gag-worthy at the time, true. But I know I spent a portion of the evening thereafter hoping the Texas-raised, Brooklyn-based musician was, you know, actually OK.
Turns out that he was, which means audience members can continue to discuss how badass it was of the guy to push his body as far as it would go for the sake of the show. It should be noted that the songs Kweller and his band did perform during the shortened set were tight and polished. If a set is that good during a bloodbath, just think of how it could be when no bodily harm is involved.
- KT Tunstall (Sunday): The girl can loop tracks like a pro, but can laugh at herself when little technical difficulties do pop up. The small sprite of a woman walked onto the large AT&T stage and kicked the mid-afternoon energy up a notch, seemingly with ease. Charming the crowd, she touched upon many of the songs from "Eye to the Telescope," making material that comes off as decent when recorded sparkle on stage.
- Iron & Wine (Saturday): I'm actually considering digging out my copy of "The Creek Drank the Cradle" to give it another listen. Actually, maybe not. I think I'll give a different album a shot, as Iron & Wine surprised the hell out of me with a lively performance that belied the image of overtly self-engrossed, whispered folk. Standout: "Upward Over the Mountain."
- The Flaming Lips (Sunday): I still don't know what the hell that performance was. I suppose that outs me as a first-time Lips concertgoer. Dizzied by the sensory overload, I had to force myself to refrain from laughing, dancing or singing in the photo pit. It would have blurred my shots and, thus, pissed me off.
The band is one of all-out entertainers, led by ringleader Wayne Coyne, who had the gumption to Bush-bash in Texas and was rewarded with one hell of a cheer. Good set, one that should have headlined the festival, if not for...
- Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers (Sunday): By the time Tom and Company took the stage Sunday night, the crowd was feeding off itself, whipped into a frenzy that exploded when the spotlight fell on Tom's blond shag.
The band confidently sauntered through the beginning of their set, as lightning flickered in the distance and the winds started to pick up. When the rain came, the band persevered, raindrops projected onto the huge screen to the side of the stage. The precipitation fell sideways onto the stage throughout "Handle With Care" and prompted a set break shortly thereafter. Petty promised the crowd that the band would be back to provide an "extra long set."
A half-hour later, it returned with a fevered cover of Chuck Berry's "Monkey Business" and another hour of audience singalongs. Tens of thousands of voices rose to join Petty's for the duration of the set, prompting kisses blown from the frontman, ever-increasing cheers from the crowd.
- Leaving the park (Sunday): The crowd snaked toward downtown Austin, past impromptu water vendors, restaurants and T-shirt stands. Pedicabs was the only acceptable non-pedestrian mode of transportation among the water-logged crowd.
The sound started somewhere closer to the park and surged up the street. A roar of voices cheering and hooting. I didn't see a single person who chose not to join in.
One last release of energy and sound, a cheer of approval of the festival just concluded.
Thanks for reading, guys and dolls - it's been a pleasure dispatching ACL to all of you. To those who were at home, hope it helped keep you connected; to those who were there, hope you enjoyed.
And, a final note: while Matthew McConaughey, Lance Armstrong and Jake Gyllenhaal didn't accept my blogged meeting invite at Matt Costa's set, I'm sure they know they can make it up to me with flowers sent to Burlington, Vermont.
I like daisies.
Although I'm sure I'll be offering little insights and quips about the experience that was ACL in times to come, I present to you what was my final roundup whilst officially writing about the Austin City Limits Music Festival. Written on Tuesday, published, well, now...
Everyone reaclimated post-ACL?
Yeah, me neither.
I spent a portion of my plane ride back east yesterday (the portions in which I wasn't watching a marathon of "Blow Out") sifting through my notes and thoughts about the weekend. ACL had already started to become a jumble of frenzied, sweaty events, capped Sunday night with a set by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers accented with winds and a storm. People were left either scurrying for ponchos or dancing and whooping in the rain.
It seemed rather fitting that a girl waiting out the set delay looked up with a silly, slightly drunk grin on her face.
"It's RAINING!" she said. "I live here. IT DOESN'T RAIN. What IS THIS?"
Simple answer: it's ACL.
Here are eleven aspects of the festival that continue to stand out for me. They are listed in no particular order other than that in which they come to me -- and in the shadows linger countless other moments.
- Cat Power & the Memphis Rhythm Band (Friday): You know that at least 70 percent of the crowd gathered at the AT&T Blue Room stage was wondering whether Chan Marshall would take the stage and perform a full set; just as uncertain was what her temperament would be for any performance that would take place. The songstress dazzled with a smooth set that, from my spot lying in the shade to the side of the stage, hinted at languid playfulness with a tease of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" (this came shortly after the original version was performed at the other end of the park). The buzz about Cat Power often refers more to Marshall's demeanor than the music itself, which makes it a dicey venture for an audience member. For the ACL crowd, however, she channeled Friday's heat and gave the crowd reason to pause and appreciate.
- Sylvia St. James and The Gospel Stars/Patrice Pike (Sunday): In each case, I was heading elsewhere when a strong female voice made me stop, turn and veer over to her stage. Sylvia St. James, decked out from hat to toe in white, wailed away within the Washington Mutual stage tent, delivering an electric performance that prompted audience members to stand up, hands waving, legs pumping. Over at the Austin Ventures stage, hometown gal Patrice Pike's rocker girl vocals captivated, making one reconsider one's vow to never watch a reality television show hosted by Brooke Burke.
- Matt Nathanson (Friday): I've loved me some Matt for a long time now, whether the singer-songwriter is operating solo or with band. But with a new album on the way and good word starting to spread, I was looking forward to seeing how the Austin crowd responded to his full-band performance at the Austin Ventures stage. I was pulled away early (so disappointed that I missed "Detroit Waves"), but the portion of the set I saw indicated that this guy could finally get the recognition he's deserved for years. A crazy, sweetly raunchy and fascinating performer, Nathanson simply made me grin like a fool. If the photos posted on Perez Hilton are of any indication, he made Matthew McConaughey smile like mad as well.
- John Mayer (Friday): Can we please just forget about "Your Body Is a Wonderland" and focus on the fact that Mayer has finally begun to fuse the sensitive singer-songwriter thing with sizzling blues guitar chops? Listen up, cynics: I was right there with you until Friday night's set at the AMD stage. But now know that it's now perfectly acceptable to own up to liking John Mayer. Thank you.
P.S. If I hear one more thing about the aforementioned "Wonderland" having been inspired by Jennifer Love Hewitt, I may be forced to shiv someone. It wasn't. Move on.
- Van Morrison/Willie Nelson (Friday, Saturday): Seeing these guys perform proved just why they are the living legends that they are. They've still got it and they still know how to make a crowd go wild. I hope that the younger crowd was taking notes so we can look forward to performances like this in a few decades. Even if Van or Willie weren't audience members' particular style of choice, concertgoers were still making sure to catch the sets. If nothing else, it was all about being able ot say, "I saw these guys perform."
I find that awfully telling. Free Willie!
- The Stills (Sunday): I gushed like a dopey fan on Sunday, so you know I dug the set. What I didn't mention is the excitement that radiated from the AT&T stage during the Montreal band's performance slot. The band members seemed genuinely fuelled by the crowd and the festival as they ripped through their set, which heavily featured songs off the 2003 "Logic Will Break Your Heart." Tim Fletcher dedicated one song to Austin sushi, describing the way the band was treated to a free meal at a sushi bar over the weekend because someone at the restaurant dug the band. In a time of celebrity freebies galore, hearing a musician sound genuinely psyched about such a gesture was pretty unexpected. Dig it.
- Ben Kweller (Saturday): It was one of the most discussed parts of the weekend. Ben takes stage. Ben's nose bleeds. Ben puts tampon up nose. Nose still bleeds. Ben keeps playing. Guitar gets bloody, keyboard follows.Ben is forced to leave stage and splatter of blood behind. Alternately awesome and gag-worthy at the time, true. But I know I spent a portion of the evening thereafter hoping the Texas-raised, Brooklyn-based musician was, you know, actually OK.
Turns out that he was, which means audience members can continue to discuss how badass it was of the guy to push his body as far as it would go for the sake of the show. It should be noted that the songs Kweller and his band did perform during the shortened set were tight and polished. If a set is that good during a bloodbath, just think of how it could be when no bodily harm is involved.
- KT Tunstall (Sunday): The girl can loop tracks like a pro, but can laugh at herself when little technical difficulties do pop up. The small sprite of a woman walked onto the large AT&T stage and kicked the mid-afternoon energy up a notch, seemingly with ease. Charming the crowd, she touched upon many of the songs from "Eye to the Telescope," making material that comes off as decent when recorded sparkle on stage.
- Iron & Wine (Saturday): I'm actually considering digging out my copy of "The Creek Drank the Cradle" to give it another listen. Actually, maybe not. I think I'll give a different album a shot, as Iron & Wine surprised the hell out of me with a lively performance that belied the image of overtly self-engrossed, whispered folk. Standout: "Upward Over the Mountain."
- The Flaming Lips (Sunday): I still don't know what the hell that performance was. I suppose that outs me as a first-time Lips concertgoer. Dizzied by the sensory overload, I had to force myself to refrain from laughing, dancing or singing in the photo pit. It would have blurred my shots and, thus, pissed me off.
The band is one of all-out entertainers, led by ringleader Wayne Coyne, who had the gumption to Bush-bash in Texas and was rewarded with one hell of a cheer. Good set, one that should have headlined the festival, if not for...
- Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers (Sunday): By the time Tom and Company took the stage Sunday night, the crowd was feeding off itself, whipped into a frenzy that exploded when the spotlight fell on Tom's blond shag.
The band confidently sauntered through the beginning of their set, as lightning flickered in the distance and the winds started to pick up. When the rain came, the band persevered, raindrops projected onto the huge screen to the side of the stage. The precipitation fell sideways onto the stage throughout "Handle With Care" and prompted a set break shortly thereafter. Petty promised the crowd that the band would be back to provide an "extra long set."
A half-hour later, it returned with a fevered cover of Chuck Berry's "Monkey Business" and another hour of audience singalongs. Tens of thousands of voices rose to join Petty's for the duration of the set, prompting kisses blown from the frontman, ever-increasing cheers from the crowd.
- Leaving the park (Sunday): The crowd snaked toward downtown Austin, past impromptu water vendors, restaurants and T-shirt stands. Pedicabs was the only acceptable non-pedestrian mode of transportation among the water-logged crowd.
The sound started somewhere closer to the park and surged up the street. A roar of voices cheering and hooting. I didn't see a single person who chose not to join in.
One last release of energy and sound, a cheer of approval of the festival just concluded.
Thanks for reading, guys and dolls - it's been a pleasure dispatching ACL to all of you. To those who were at home, hope it helped keep you connected; to those who were there, hope you enjoyed.
And, a final note: while Matthew McConaughey, Lance Armstrong and Jake Gyllenhaal didn't accept my blogged meeting invite at Matt Costa's set, I'm sure they know they can make it up to me with flowers sent to Burlington, Vermont.
I like daisies.
9.21.2006
"I got half a smile and zero shame"
Typical morning scene.I'm getting ready to start my day, walking around the apartment, bobbing my head to music.
Unusual selection. Mayer's "Continuum." The bobs are in time to the hot blues licks in "Belief," and I'm singing along -- in that "I half know the words and will scat during the rest" sort of way that comes with learning an album's material.
Belief is a beautiful armor
That makes for bah dobedo do
La la da da da
You never can hit who you’re trying for
Mayer's back, and I'm right back there with him, much to my disbelief. I'd sworn the guy off, had bid that music goodbye.
It began a few days before "Continuum" dropped. I found a website that was streaming tracks and took a listen, intrigued by the sound that resulted. Not half bad, Johnny.
Over coffee in Central Square on last Wednesday, the next step was taken. Nicole handed over her iPod so I could listen to "Slow Dancing In a Burning Room." I grinned.
I didn't realize at the time that I was being set up for a sucker-punch on Friday night.
I'm standing, smirking in the photo pit, waiting for Mayer to take the stage and listening to screaming calls for "JOHN MAYER JOHN MAYER JOHN MAYER." I promise myself that if the set to come at all evoked thoughts of the Counting Crows co-headling debacle, I'm out of there without a second thought, ready to happily take in Van Morrison's set at the other end of the park.
The screams are firing me up, though, and I realize that I'm excited to see what Mayer has up his sleeve, particularly when he'll be delivering the goods so close to where I stand. I grin as he walks out on stage and takes his guitar.
"Belief" kicks off the set, and I'm grooving. Head bobs as I move into position to get some shots, shoulders moving as I walk from spot to spot.
This music is hot. Confident, dynamic without straying into showy territory, the riff is a seemingly effortless hook, and the chorus dances off the tongue. Earnest without the schmaltz that drove me mad with "Heavier Things."
Mayer is similarly transformed. No more of the guy trying so hard to be the rock star everyone says he is; instead a musician confidently prowling the stage, dazzling the crowd with ease. It feels as if the singer-songwriter who quipped his way through the Higher Ground interview five years ago has finally morphed into the Stevie Ray Vaughan devotee he'd then claimed to be.
I don't see it coming until it was too late. Hooked, I grin up at the stage as I keep snapping off photos.
I thought John was lost and gone forever. Here he is. And through inexplicable turns of fate, here I am, standing right there to look up at him and welcome him back.
9.08.2006
Ahh, hello big world
"Goodbye Little World" closes out the brilliance that is Remy Zero's "Villa Ellaine." After the exhilerating musical rollercoaster of the previous ten tracks, the closer is a charming little ditty that leaves one bobbing one's head with a smile on one's face.
Well, in our little house
There's always room
For all the friends
That help us through
These struggling days
It was in my head last night, shortly before The Damnwells took the stage at TT the Bear's in Cambridge.
I'd moved to the bar to order a beer when I cast a glance back, to the spot to which I'd soon return. Five people were gathered into a loose clump, some standing, others leaning against the partition that separated bar from performance/dancefloor space.
They composed my group for the night. Familiar and friendly faces that have played roles in shaping my experiences in this area over the years - in one case, well before even that. Demonstrating the deceptively tiny nature of that which is the music scene I delve into, all had traveled to Cambridge for the night, arriving in pairs or solo, gradually meshing together with smiles and hugs of greeting.
Others that I knew were interspersed throughout the crowd. It was difficult to scan the audience without letting my gaze fall on a recognizable face.
A random, whirlwind impulse had prompted me to throw clothing into two bags and head to Massachusetts a night earlier than originally planned. It was the prospect of seeing one of my closest friends, bolstered by the promise of a good show by one of my favorite bands.
But as I returned to my spot and shared a smile or two, it felt most as if I had simply come home.
And we got heavy traffic on the stairs
With darlin' Sherrie over there and Sarah's back in town
Kim and Kay sit on the floor
While Zelda hides the closet doors,
Never to be found
See John smile and Mia sigh
Katie cries
Mia plays the violin.
This little world is all I need
And hey, this little world needs
Not much more to be a
Completely perfect world
We will be leaving soon
And we might never get back to you
But before we do
Goodbye and fare thee well
Well, in our little house
There's always room
For all the friends
That help us through
These struggling days
It was in my head last night, shortly before The Damnwells took the stage at TT the Bear's in Cambridge.
I'd moved to the bar to order a beer when I cast a glance back, to the spot to which I'd soon return. Five people were gathered into a loose clump, some standing, others leaning against the partition that separated bar from performance/dancefloor space.
They composed my group for the night. Familiar and friendly faces that have played roles in shaping my experiences in this area over the years - in one case, well before even that. Demonstrating the deceptively tiny nature of that which is the music scene I delve into, all had traveled to Cambridge for the night, arriving in pairs or solo, gradually meshing together with smiles and hugs of greeting.
Others that I knew were interspersed throughout the crowd. It was difficult to scan the audience without letting my gaze fall on a recognizable face.
A random, whirlwind impulse had prompted me to throw clothing into two bags and head to Massachusetts a night earlier than originally planned. It was the prospect of seeing one of my closest friends, bolstered by the promise of a good show by one of my favorite bands.
But as I returned to my spot and shared a smile or two, it felt most as if I had simply come home.
And we got heavy traffic on the stairs
With darlin' Sherrie over there and Sarah's back in town
Kim and Kay sit on the floor
While Zelda hides the closet doors,
Never to be found
See John smile and Mia sigh
Katie cries
Mia plays the violin.
This little world is all I need
And hey, this little world needs
Not much more to be a
Completely perfect world
We will be leaving soon
And we might never get back to you
But before we do
Goodbye and fare thee well
9.07.2006
I'd been wondering when the mental Plinko game would come to an end and next week's events would actually register with me.
As it turned out, it was while writing a brief bio about myself, attaching a digital photograph and sending off the email.
Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.
I've held off saying anything, as I was waiting to be sure that everything is in place and good to go. As I write this now, I believe it all is. If not, well...I'll take my chances.
The quick story: after the adventures in DC (hello, old brief stomping grounds) and Baltimore (otherwise known as Victoria sees Kevin Millar At Least One More Time), I return to Boston briefly (overnight) and then head off to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival. As it is being touted, "8 stages, 3 days, 130 bands."
It's my first largescale festival in some time. Since Woodstock '99, actually. I also like to think of it as "Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Countless Others." Including, amusingly enough, Matt Nathanson, Guster, Tristan and a slew of other people that tickle my fancy.
I'll attempt to refrain from seeking out John Mayer and slapping him upside the head for the Jessica Simpson debacle.
So yes, a pretty outstanding lineup. But why would I make the trip to Texas, you ask?
Because I'm going to be writing about it. The contest I to which I made brief reference in June proved to surprise the hell out of me. By which I mean that I won it. I'll be an official field blogger for the festival and Project DU.
(Insert adoring, thank you so much sentiments here. Kisses to those hooking me up for this adventure - I'm most appreciative.)
Texas, baby. Texas.
As it turned out, it was while writing a brief bio about myself, attaching a digital photograph and sending off the email.
Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.
I've held off saying anything, as I was waiting to be sure that everything is in place and good to go. As I write this now, I believe it all is. If not, well...I'll take my chances.
The quick story: after the adventures in DC (hello, old brief stomping grounds) and Baltimore (otherwise known as Victoria sees Kevin Millar At Least One More Time), I return to Boston briefly (overnight) and then head off to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival. As it is being touted, "8 stages, 3 days, 130 bands."
It's my first largescale festival in some time. Since Woodstock '99, actually. I also like to think of it as "Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Countless Others." Including, amusingly enough, Matt Nathanson, Guster, Tristan and a slew of other people that tickle my fancy.
I'll attempt to refrain from seeking out John Mayer and slapping him upside the head for the Jessica Simpson debacle.
So yes, a pretty outstanding lineup. But why would I make the trip to Texas, you ask?
Because I'm going to be writing about it. The contest I to which I made brief reference in June proved to surprise the hell out of me. By which I mean that I won it. I'll be an official field blogger for the festival and Project DU.
(Insert adoring, thank you so much sentiments here. Kisses to those hooking me up for this adventure - I'm most appreciative.)
Texas, baby. Texas.
9.04.2006
Unsurprisingly, Sunday's Grace Potter and the Nocturnals show in Shelburne proved to be perhaps The social event of the summer.
It's always rather odd, concert run-ins. I can think nothing of traveling three and a half hours from "home" and waving at familiar faces; I find it crazy to see their Vermont counterparts when I'm a short drive from my house.
The logic? Well, it often seems as if I hit up more Boston shows than Vermont -- and the Boston scene circles tend to run smaller than one might think.
Anyway. Back to the sloping greens of Shelburne. It seemed as if everyone in the surrounding communities packed up and moved over to the stage-adorned hill for the night. I found myself busy offering greetings and offering commentary on who was who.
Hi! Helloooooo! Oh, hi there. Yo! Hey, you!
It was nice for a girl accustomed to knowing of people who don't know her to receive many a greeting. Refreshing. A change of pace.
It should have been expected, though, as people had been waiting for this show for at least several months. The homestate boys and girl GPatN have been off traveling the country, bringing the blues/rock/soul sound from Vermont to new ears and seemingly enthusiastic crowds. The buzz has been growing, the label is getting ready to bring the band in for new recording sessions, and the Green Mountain folk have patiently counted down the days until we got another dose of the music.
The rains that had threatened all weekend held off just long enough for a long, tight, energetic set. New material indicated the band's foray into more of a rock sound, but with the storytelling lyrics for which Potter has grown renowned. Some of the older tunes are being reworked -- my personal favorite, "Stop the Bus," continues to take an electric slant and gets better each time I hear it.
(Which is why a bystander looking into the third row during that song's performance would have seen me, huge grin on my face, joyously singing along.)
The rules for the concert series specifically limit dancing to the sides of the stage, and the band held off provoking the crowd as long as they could. But as the skies deepened in hue, Potter told the crowd that she thought it was time they stood and danced -- which meant that a few thousand people sighed of relief, jumped up and boogied away. An older (and by that I mean Old) man a row ahead did all but flash the band the devil horns.
It was pretty goddamn glorious.
Apparently, the band will be back for a few Higher Ground shows leading up to New Year's Eve -- I'm playing around with that idea, as well as the Paradise gigs lined up for (I believe) at the end of this month. My favorite Vermont band at my favorite Boston venue?
I know. How could I resist that?
In other news, sorry for my absense. Unintentional, and I'm returning with some anecdotes and ramblings in the next couple of days. Some news, too, but I can't really share that yet.
In the meantime, how are you guys doing?
(in the fine tradition that is photo posts in blog entries, click above to go to the rest of the set.)
It's always rather odd, concert run-ins. I can think nothing of traveling three and a half hours from "home" and waving at familiar faces; I find it crazy to see their Vermont counterparts when I'm a short drive from my house.
The logic? Well, it often seems as if I hit up more Boston shows than Vermont -- and the Boston scene circles tend to run smaller than one might think.
Anyway. Back to the sloping greens of Shelburne. It seemed as if everyone in the surrounding communities packed up and moved over to the stage-adorned hill for the night. I found myself busy offering greetings and offering commentary on who was who.
Hi! Helloooooo! Oh, hi there. Yo! Hey, you!
It was nice for a girl accustomed to knowing of people who don't know her to receive many a greeting. Refreshing. A change of pace.
It should have been expected, though, as people had been waiting for this show for at least several months. The homestate boys and girl GPatN have been off traveling the country, bringing the blues/rock/soul sound from Vermont to new ears and seemingly enthusiastic crowds. The buzz has been growing, the label is getting ready to bring the band in for new recording sessions, and the Green Mountain folk have patiently counted down the days until we got another dose of the music.
The rains that had threatened all weekend held off just long enough for a long, tight, energetic set. New material indicated the band's foray into more of a rock sound, but with the storytelling lyrics for which Potter has grown renowned. Some of the older tunes are being reworked -- my personal favorite, "Stop the Bus," continues to take an electric slant and gets better each time I hear it.
(Which is why a bystander looking into the third row during that song's performance would have seen me, huge grin on my face, joyously singing along.)
The rules for the concert series specifically limit dancing to the sides of the stage, and the band held off provoking the crowd as long as they could. But as the skies deepened in hue, Potter told the crowd that she thought it was time they stood and danced -- which meant that a few thousand people sighed of relief, jumped up and boogied away. An older (and by that I mean Old) man a row ahead did all but flash the band the devil horns.
It was pretty goddamn glorious.
Apparently, the band will be back for a few Higher Ground shows leading up to New Year's Eve -- I'm playing around with that idea, as well as the Paradise gigs lined up for (I believe) at the end of this month. My favorite Vermont band at my favorite Boston venue?
I know. How could I resist that?
In other news, sorry for my absense. Unintentional, and I'm returning with some anecdotes and ramblings in the next couple of days. Some news, too, but I can't really share that yet.
In the meantime, how are you guys doing?
(in the fine tradition that is photo posts in blog entries, click above to go to the rest of the set.)
8.22.2006
But as of today, I'm around...
I don't know precisely when I decided that it was my goal to document all four weeks of the Ryan Montbleau Band residency (with slight blur, due to refusal to blind the band with flashes), but nevertheless, here I am, with another set of photographs.
Click on the mosaic to go the rest of the set. And know that I was pummeled in the stomach, left dazed and grinning, during my first listen to "Love and Love Lost." One of those songs that you listen to and instantly know that it's going to be appreciated en masse.
(Much like how I felt the first time I heard "Collide" live - back in the pre-Ohmigodit'sHowieDay days.)
I don't know precisely when I decided that it was my goal to document all four weeks of the Ryan Montbleau Band residency (with slight blur, due to refusal to blind the band with flashes), but nevertheless, here I am, with another set of photographs.
Click on the mosaic to go the rest of the set. And know that I was pummeled in the stomach, left dazed and grinning, during my first listen to "Love and Love Lost." One of those songs that you listen to and instantly know that it's going to be appreciated en masse.
(Much like how I felt the first time I heard "Collide" live - back in the pre-Ohmigodit'sHowieDay days.)
8.17.2006
Jesus on the radio
It's not that I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of bold-faced names; I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of just about anyone, bold-faced name or not. I've met famous people and I've met complete strangers - I consider each equal opportunity to wind up coming off as an ass.
Which is why I found it so funny to have the question thrown my way. Or, frankly, more of a request to confirm than anything else.
"You've MET THEM?"
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Yes, I've met them."
The girl dropped the corner of the six-foot wide sign she was helping to carry. Her jaw dropped in time.
There's something to be said about the sheer joy (and wonder, terror and everything else) that comes across some people's faces when they realize that one or some of their idols are actually meetable. That people do in fact have the opportunity to say hello, shake a hand, exchange names and chat about the weather or whatever the hell they would like to discuss.
You can do that???? Yes. You can. And kudos to you for having good taste; these idols are worthy of your star-struck eyes.
The trio (two girls and a guy) had pieced together multiple sheets of posterboard -- neon orange, of course -- to request a song. The six-foot-by-four-foot sign requested "Jesus on the Radio," complete with an image of Christ hovering above, well, a radio. A boombox, really. On the back of the sign, they'd added a second option. "Or...Two Points."
Contingency plan. I liked it.
When I told them about how everything worked with the raffle, they descended upon the table. As much money as they could. They singlehandedly contributed to about a quarter of the proceeds. Which meant that none of us were surprised when one of their names was drawn.
Turns out, they kind of won twice. As they had tried to wrap their brains around the idea of meeting the band, Adam had walked right behind them, smiling at the huge sign on the ground. They'd been completely unaware of this, of course.
And at show's end, when the band returned for their second encore, Ryan made reference to the "huge sign" shortly before the band launched into "Jesus on the Radio." The girls screeched and ran to grab the sign, pulling it back into the center of the crowd as they pumped their fists in the air and clutched at each other.
Had anything happened to them at that moment, they truly would have died utterly happy. One tried not to cry, the other stared raptly at the stage. The token male of the group hugged each, a huge, beaming smile threatening to crack his face.
It was a great rendition of the song, but I kept my eyes on this little group of Canadian fans that, while a bit louder than I tend to be, managed to strike a chord. People so wrapped up in a song or a band, alternating between disbelief and joy that That Band was playing That Song and mentioned Their Sign.
And that they were actually going to MEET THEM in just a few minutes' time.
It's not that I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of bold-faced names; I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of just about anyone, bold-faced name or not. I've met famous people and I've met complete strangers - I consider each equal opportunity to wind up coming off as an ass.
Which is why I found it so funny to have the question thrown my way. Or, frankly, more of a request to confirm than anything else.
"You've MET THEM?"
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Yes, I've met them."
The girl dropped the corner of the six-foot wide sign she was helping to carry. Her jaw dropped in time.
There's something to be said about the sheer joy (and wonder, terror and everything else) that comes across some people's faces when they realize that one or some of their idols are actually meetable. That people do in fact have the opportunity to say hello, shake a hand, exchange names and chat about the weather or whatever the hell they would like to discuss.
You can do that???? Yes. You can. And kudos to you for having good taste; these idols are worthy of your star-struck eyes.
The trio (two girls and a guy) had pieced together multiple sheets of posterboard -- neon orange, of course -- to request a song. The six-foot-by-four-foot sign requested "Jesus on the Radio," complete with an image of Christ hovering above, well, a radio. A boombox, really. On the back of the sign, they'd added a second option. "Or...Two Points."
Contingency plan. I liked it.
When I told them about how everything worked with the raffle, they descended upon the table. As much money as they could. They singlehandedly contributed to about a quarter of the proceeds. Which meant that none of us were surprised when one of their names was drawn.
Turns out, they kind of won twice. As they had tried to wrap their brains around the idea of meeting the band, Adam had walked right behind them, smiling at the huge sign on the ground. They'd been completely unaware of this, of course.
And at show's end, when the band returned for their second encore, Ryan made reference to the "huge sign" shortly before the band launched into "Jesus on the Radio." The girls screeched and ran to grab the sign, pulling it back into the center of the crowd as they pumped their fists in the air and clutched at each other.
Had anything happened to them at that moment, they truly would have died utterly happy. One tried not to cry, the other stared raptly at the stage. The token male of the group hugged each, a huge, beaming smile threatening to crack his face.
It was a great rendition of the song, but I kept my eyes on this little group of Canadian fans that, while a bit louder than I tend to be, managed to strike a chord. People so wrapped up in a song or a band, alternating between disbelief and joy that That Band was playing That Song and mentioned Their Sign.
And that they were actually going to MEET THEM in just a few minutes' time.
8.15.2006
Ruh roh
The next month of Tuesdays are going to be painfully difficult. In a good, set-up-the-coffee-IV sort of way.
Bleary eyes are the order of the day. Bleary eyes and multiple lattes (I'm on my second already, with at least one more to come). True to form, the evening's performance did not wrap up until the morning, with a 2 am. sendoff of "See you next week!"
Oh God. Next week. This happens again. And again. And then once more, for good measure.
I'm not complaining. It's the lack of sleep that's talking, and even that is with a dopey grin that can't quite translate onto the page.
Music and friends have seemed to be everywhere I turn. "Glorious" does not even begin to describe.
Truth is, there's been so much fun crammed into the last few days that my brain is reeling. And my body isn't overly pleased with me.
Memo
To: V
From: Your Body
Subject: What the hell?
You're not in college anymore, dipshit. You need to give yourself some rest. Seriously. Hello. Do you copy?
To: My Body
From: V
Subject: Re: What the hell?
Oh, shut up, you wuss. You can take it. You're the first to complain about being bored when there isn't enough to do.
One more show tomorrow, then a few days of relaxation. During those days, I sleep. And work on other projects.
In the meantime, keeping conscious is my chief objective.
And continuing to dance.
The next month of Tuesdays are going to be painfully difficult. In a good, set-up-the-coffee-IV sort of way.
Bleary eyes are the order of the day. Bleary eyes and multiple lattes (I'm on my second already, with at least one more to come). True to form, the evening's performance did not wrap up until the morning, with a 2 am. sendoff of "See you next week!"
Oh God. Next week. This happens again. And again. And then once more, for good measure.
I'm not complaining. It's the lack of sleep that's talking, and even that is with a dopey grin that can't quite translate onto the page.
Music and friends have seemed to be everywhere I turn. "Glorious" does not even begin to describe.
Truth is, there's been so much fun crammed into the last few days that my brain is reeling. And my body isn't overly pleased with me.
Memo
To: V
From: Your Body
Subject: What the hell?
You're not in college anymore, dipshit. You need to give yourself some rest. Seriously. Hello. Do you copy?
To: My Body
From: V
Subject: Re: What the hell?
Oh, shut up, you wuss. You can take it. You're the first to complain about being bored when there isn't enough to do.
One more show tomorrow, then a few days of relaxation. During those days, I sleep. And work on other projects.
In the meantime, keeping conscious is my chief objective.
And continuing to dance.
8.14.2006
Chronicles of a Go-Go Dancer
There are no bad seats in the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion, but I've actually grown rather fond of the space behind all of the crowds.
See, when you're dealing with seats and seatmates, there's an issue of common courtesy. You have to worry about your personal space, others' personal space...let's face it, there's nothing worse -- for both parties involved -- than an unexpected run-in between an elbow and a solar plexus. Painful, awkward, bad, bad, bad.
But beyond the seats? That, dear friends, is the land of dancing magic, in which energetic music enthusiasts can get their goofy rockout going on.
It had already been a great evening. I was working the RFAR table with three of my favorite women in the world, and concertgoers strongly supported our Greater Boston Food Band fundraising endeavors. $2 for a chance to meet Guster and help out a good cause? Yes, please. Can I get two? Rogue Wave and the Yonder Mountain String Band had set the happy mood, and I'd spent my time collecting tickets and chatting with the (surprising, delightful) multitude of familiar faces that I'd seen.
By the time the house lights dimmed and the audience began to roar, all but a few stragglers had made their way to their seats. We stood on chairs to look out at the stage to witness the first Guster Takes on Boston entrance I'd ever actually seen.
Lights out, sound cued. "Born to Be Wild" pulsed through the speakers as four blinking red lights emerged on the house right aisle.
The most dorky, glorious quartet of Segway riders ever made its way up the side, around the back and down the center right aisle, slapping hands with the screaming audience members before moving up a ramp and onto stage. Helmets and all. Brian kept his on. We went wild.
As the band kicked off "Barrel of a Gun," my friends and I were so excited -- about being together, about being on the water, about being at this show, hell, about being alive -- that we did what anyone else would do, given the space and carefree attitudes.
We began to jump around, dance, sing at the top of our lungs and otherwise just completely let loose. At one point, a friend from college M and I had seen earlier came over and joined our little line of dancing fools. As he left, he informed M that "you girls look like go-go dancers. I dig it."
Guster's Go-Go Girls. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?
We continued for two hours. We probably would have tired at some point, had Guster lowered the energy for a song or two, but the band instead decided to unleash the best set I've ever seen them perform -- and complete the single most enjoyable concert experience I've had. Impeccable energy, musicianship and fun. The crowd loved it, and joyously booed the band back onstage for its encore (band's idea: Let's do an anti-encore. If you like us and want us to come back, boo us. Turn your backs to us and flip us off. The audience added to it by breaking into a chant of "Guster Sucks." Lovely. Charming. Awesome.)
Barrel of a Gun
The Captain
Backyard
Satellite
Amsterdam
I Spy
Manifest Destiny
C'mon
Airport Song (now less Vincent Price, more straight up Satan)
Careful
The Beginning of the End
Ruby Falls
(Nothing But) Flowers (featuring former Guster drum tech and Lowell, Mass., native Sean Lynde on drums)
Demons
Center of Attention
Come Downstairs & Say Hello
------
e:
So Long (the evening's "one time this tour" treat)
The New Underground
Happier
Keep It Together
By the end of the regular set, we were busy dancing our way through breakdown, folding tables, packing boxes, cleaning up. L and I, both thrilled to hear the "Flowers" surprise, danced in time to the beat as we rolled up banners.
Roll it roll it roll it up, "now it's all covered with daisies" -- roll it, roll it.
By the walk back to the cars at the end of the night, after gathering, chatting and saying hellos, I was still bobbing my heads and laughing over the sheer joy of the night. I don't like to say that nights or events -- anything, really -- are perfect.
But this came awfully close.
There are no bad seats in the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion, but I've actually grown rather fond of the space behind all of the crowds.
See, when you're dealing with seats and seatmates, there's an issue of common courtesy. You have to worry about your personal space, others' personal space...let's face it, there's nothing worse -- for both parties involved -- than an unexpected run-in between an elbow and a solar plexus. Painful, awkward, bad, bad, bad.
But beyond the seats? That, dear friends, is the land of dancing magic, in which energetic music enthusiasts can get their goofy rockout going on.
It had already been a great evening. I was working the RFAR table with three of my favorite women in the world, and concertgoers strongly supported our Greater Boston Food Band fundraising endeavors. $2 for a chance to meet Guster and help out a good cause? Yes, please. Can I get two? Rogue Wave and the Yonder Mountain String Band had set the happy mood, and I'd spent my time collecting tickets and chatting with the (surprising, delightful) multitude of familiar faces that I'd seen.
By the time the house lights dimmed and the audience began to roar, all but a few stragglers had made their way to their seats. We stood on chairs to look out at the stage to witness the first Guster Takes on Boston entrance I'd ever actually seen.
Lights out, sound cued. "Born to Be Wild" pulsed through the speakers as four blinking red lights emerged on the house right aisle.
The most dorky, glorious quartet of Segway riders ever made its way up the side, around the back and down the center right aisle, slapping hands with the screaming audience members before moving up a ramp and onto stage. Helmets and all. Brian kept his on. We went wild.
As the band kicked off "Barrel of a Gun," my friends and I were so excited -- about being together, about being on the water, about being at this show, hell, about being alive -- that we did what anyone else would do, given the space and carefree attitudes.
We began to jump around, dance, sing at the top of our lungs and otherwise just completely let loose. At one point, a friend from college M and I had seen earlier came over and joined our little line of dancing fools. As he left, he informed M that "you girls look like go-go dancers. I dig it."
Guster's Go-Go Girls. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?
We continued for two hours. We probably would have tired at some point, had Guster lowered the energy for a song or two, but the band instead decided to unleash the best set I've ever seen them perform -- and complete the single most enjoyable concert experience I've had. Impeccable energy, musicianship and fun. The crowd loved it, and joyously booed the band back onstage for its encore (band's idea: Let's do an anti-encore. If you like us and want us to come back, boo us. Turn your backs to us and flip us off. The audience added to it by breaking into a chant of "Guster Sucks." Lovely. Charming. Awesome.)
Barrel of a Gun
The Captain
Backyard
Satellite
Amsterdam
I Spy
Manifest Destiny
C'mon
Airport Song (now less Vincent Price, more straight up Satan)
Careful
The Beginning of the End
Ruby Falls
(Nothing But) Flowers (featuring former Guster drum tech and Lowell, Mass., native Sean Lynde on drums)
Demons
Center of Attention
Come Downstairs & Say Hello
------
e:
So Long (the evening's "one time this tour" treat)
The New Underground
Happier
Keep It Together
By the end of the regular set, we were busy dancing our way through breakdown, folding tables, packing boxes, cleaning up. L and I, both thrilled to hear the "Flowers" surprise, danced in time to the beat as we rolled up banners.
Roll it roll it roll it up, "now it's all covered with daisies" -- roll it, roll it.
By the walk back to the cars at the end of the night, after gathering, chatting and saying hellos, I was still bobbing my heads and laughing over the sheer joy of the night. I don't like to say that nights or events -- anything, really -- are perfect.
But this came awfully close.
Stop the boat
Another thing I can check off the list of Things I Never Particularly Wanted To Do But Should Probably Have the Experience of Doing for Life Lessons' Sake:
Sprint down a pier, in heels, trying to catch a boat (ship? dinghy?) before it departs for locations unknown (i.e. Boston Harbor). In this challenge, the pier pathway, of course, is alternately cobblestone and sand - you are, of course, wearing a wrap dress and occasionally showing a bit too much leg for anyone who might be observing the debacle from either of the cruises preparing to set off.
Nicole and I were late. Showed up just barely on time at the wrong pier kind of late. What are we going to do with our evening kind of late. And yet we still put in the effort, jumping out of the car in the parking lot, running in our heels down stairs, out a door, across a couple of streets, down a pier, across the aforementioned cobblestone and sand, to the gate and onto the boat.
It pulled away from shore about 30 seconds later. Hell of an entrance? You bet. Particularly as we breathlessly boarded, laughed, hugged each other to champion our success and then leaned against the railing, the very picture of nonchalance.
Another day, another crazy adventure.
We were rewarded with an amazing set. Truly. As we stood inside the main room, drinks in hand, I realized that I felt so proud of the band that has taken shape over time. Chad, Dennis, Steve and now drummer Max are locked into the same mode. The energy's there, the focus -- the addition of the drums takes already impressive tunes to the next level. During a performance of "Somewhere Beside Me," it seemed everyone -- onstage, in the audience -- couldn't help but bob their heads in time. It was electrifyingly good.
The boat itself was also a good time. Less sunset this time around (August, you kill me with your early to bed crap), but good conversation, good times. Good bad Chinese food, even -- bonus. A lot of faces I knew of (thanks, myspace, you evil thing you), some faces I definitely knew, and then a few that made my night (Hi, G!). And with the exceptions of 1) being hit by an obnoxiously drunk girl's purse -- twice -- and 2) reeling in disbelief at some Jekyll/Hyde behavior, it was a gorgeously friendly, funny sort of occasion.
Worth the wincing that occurred the next morning, when I awoke and instantly realized that my de-heeled feet were going to be angry with me for a long, long time.
Another thing I can check off the list of Things I Never Particularly Wanted To Do But Should Probably Have the Experience of Doing for Life Lessons' Sake:
Sprint down a pier, in heels, trying to catch a boat (ship? dinghy?) before it departs for locations unknown (i.e. Boston Harbor). In this challenge, the pier pathway, of course, is alternately cobblestone and sand - you are, of course, wearing a wrap dress and occasionally showing a bit too much leg for anyone who might be observing the debacle from either of the cruises preparing to set off.
Nicole and I were late. Showed up just barely on time at the wrong pier kind of late. What are we going to do with our evening kind of late. And yet we still put in the effort, jumping out of the car in the parking lot, running in our heels down stairs, out a door, across a couple of streets, down a pier, across the aforementioned cobblestone and sand, to the gate and onto the boat.
It pulled away from shore about 30 seconds later. Hell of an entrance? You bet. Particularly as we breathlessly boarded, laughed, hugged each other to champion our success and then leaned against the railing, the very picture of nonchalance.
Another day, another crazy adventure.
We were rewarded with an amazing set. Truly. As we stood inside the main room, drinks in hand, I realized that I felt so proud of the band that has taken shape over time. Chad, Dennis, Steve and now drummer Max are locked into the same mode. The energy's there, the focus -- the addition of the drums takes already impressive tunes to the next level. During a performance of "Somewhere Beside Me," it seemed everyone -- onstage, in the audience -- couldn't help but bob their heads in time. It was electrifyingly good.
The boat itself was also a good time. Less sunset this time around (August, you kill me with your early to bed crap), but good conversation, good times. Good bad Chinese food, even -- bonus. A lot of faces I knew of (thanks, myspace, you evil thing you), some faces I definitely knew, and then a few that made my night (Hi, G!). And with the exceptions of 1) being hit by an obnoxiously drunk girl's purse -- twice -- and 2) reeling in disbelief at some Jekyll/Hyde behavior, it was a gorgeously friendly, funny sort of occasion.
Worth the wincing that occurred the next morning, when I awoke and instantly realized that my de-heeled feet were going to be angry with me for a long, long time.
8.08.2006
Will you catch me if I'm falling
I know, I know, it's a cliched song to freak out over. Oh well.
I'm standing on the lawn at SPAC, to which thousands of others have flocked to take in the spectacle, and I'm giddy. Beyond giddy. Think of a small child so excited and overjoyed that she can't express it. Instead, she stands still - hushed so as to not ruin the moment.
It's "Round Here." Adam Duritz is so far into his own head (seemingly moreso than usual, if you can believe it) that he's just spouting. He's going off into tangents that have stretched the song out into a glorious improvisation.
The moment is poignant and exhilerating all at once, and I can feel the joys and disappointments that have come over a short period of time fight each other, racing to get to the surface first. There's nowhere I'd rather be at that moment than under a hazy summer sky, standing on the grass with flouresent lights dimly burning off to my side, listening to someone wrench the emotions out of his mind and into the microphone...but at the same point, I can feel my heart breaking bit by bit as he continues on.
Few musicians or bands can tear my heart out. Counting Crows does it every single goddamn time. I just want it to stop...but not really. I just want Adam to keep on going. I want the band to keep him going.
I can feel the energy in the crowd, how they've been taking in the band's performance and are ready to give the proper, sungalong approval. We are all waiting to wail away with "round here we stay up very, very, very, very late."
I'm ready to belt out the words myself. But I don't want this moment to go away.
I mean, uh, yeah. Caught Counting Crows tonight and they, er, were pretty OK.
You know.
Whatever.
Sigh.
I know, I know, it's a cliched song to freak out over. Oh well.I'm standing on the lawn at SPAC, to which thousands of others have flocked to take in the spectacle, and I'm giddy. Beyond giddy. Think of a small child so excited and overjoyed that she can't express it. Instead, she stands still - hushed so as to not ruin the moment.
It's "Round Here." Adam Duritz is so far into his own head (seemingly moreso than usual, if you can believe it) that he's just spouting. He's going off into tangents that have stretched the song out into a glorious improvisation.
The moment is poignant and exhilerating all at once, and I can feel the joys and disappointments that have come over a short period of time fight each other, racing to get to the surface first. There's nowhere I'd rather be at that moment than under a hazy summer sky, standing on the grass with flouresent lights dimly burning off to my side, listening to someone wrench the emotions out of his mind and into the microphone...but at the same point, I can feel my heart breaking bit by bit as he continues on.
Few musicians or bands can tear my heart out. Counting Crows does it every single goddamn time. I just want it to stop...but not really. I just want Adam to keep on going. I want the band to keep him going.
I can feel the energy in the crowd, how they've been taking in the band's performance and are ready to give the proper, sungalong approval. We are all waiting to wail away with "round here we stay up very, very, very, very late."
I'm ready to belt out the words myself. But I don't want this moment to go away.
I mean, uh, yeah. Caught Counting Crows tonight and they, er, were pretty OK.
You know.
Whatever.
Sigh.
7.19.2006
"Something's coming this way"
Guster's then-unreleased "Empire State" struck me when I first heard it back in November. But my appreciation has grown to infatuation since I (finally stopped slacking and) purchased "Ganging Up On the Sun."
Pretty damn spectacular, if I do say so myself.
Anyway. I'm exhausted today and haven't the energy to post anything other than lyrics (oops, guess I blew the surprise). But know that they seem to fit me today. Somehow. Eh. A post of actual original content should land tomorrow (Thursday). Insight, literary reference and the 70s - oh my!
Til then, be well, enjoy lyrics and buy the album already. If you haven't. And if you have, make sure to get to a tour date this summer. If you haven't.
Um. Mmmmkaybye.
Empire State
Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
Been told to behave
Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow
Been a scratch on the surface
Been a clog in the drain
Been melodramatic
Been sleeping for days
Been one in a million
Been a million to one
This is taking forever
It always seems to return that
I'm slow
All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith be true, you know the way
Ten feet tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
Destroyed again
Destroyed again
Been digging to China
Been a fish in the sea
Been talking to Jesus
He's not talking to me
Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow
All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith is true, she knows the way
Ten miles tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
We'll build again
Rebuild again
Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
Guster's then-unreleased "Empire State" struck me when I first heard it back in November. But my appreciation has grown to infatuation since I (finally stopped slacking and) purchased "Ganging Up On the Sun."
Pretty damn spectacular, if I do say so myself.
Anyway. I'm exhausted today and haven't the energy to post anything other than lyrics (oops, guess I blew the surprise). But know that they seem to fit me today. Somehow. Eh. A post of actual original content should land tomorrow (Thursday). Insight, literary reference and the 70s - oh my!
Til then, be well, enjoy lyrics and buy the album already. If you haven't. And if you have, make sure to get to a tour date this summer. If you haven't.
Um. Mmmmkaybye.
Empire State
Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
Been told to behave
Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow
Been a scratch on the surface
Been a clog in the drain
Been melodramatic
Been sleeping for days
Been one in a million
Been a million to one
This is taking forever
It always seems to return that
I'm slow
All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith be true, you know the way
Ten feet tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
Destroyed again
Destroyed again
Been digging to China
Been a fish in the sea
Been talking to Jesus
He's not talking to me
Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow
All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith is true, she knows the way
Ten miles tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
We'll build again
Rebuild again
Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
6.22.2006
Have you met Mr. A-Z?
OK, bear with me here. Unless you live under a rock, you've probably at least heard of the Mraz guy. One can only wonder how many times I've made reference to him here over the years.
But consider this a commentary of sorts. A discussion prompted by recent events and even more recent news. I decided to mix things up slightly for this week's "Have you met...?" - so enjoy and, as always, feel free to comment.
Week Three: Have you met Jason Mraz?
About a week and a half ago, I rode in a car with friends, traveling over rain-slickened Massachusetts roads on a gray, dismal sort of Saturday. The gloominess outside the vehicle was belied by the smiling faces within the car. We were belting out the words of the sunshine pop pulsing through the speakers.
The summer storm relief was courtesy of Jason Mraz, the San Diego-based troubador who graduated from coffeeshops to mainstream success with a couple of studio releases and several years of extensive touring. He's "The Remedy" guy, the "Geek in the Pink" known for his plucky "Wordplay."
Hey now, don't judge, naysayers. And don't squeal, teenage girls. We weren't listening to that Mraz. We were listening to a live rendition of "1000 Things," a song that has never made the jump to a recording studio. You know, the good stuff.
Whenever a musician hits the musical jackpot and becomes a widely recognizable name, there are those clusters of fans that grumble about how things were before, back when the music was still pure, unaltered by A&R guys or songwriting teams. The word "sellout" is always at least whispered, if not shouted aloud.
Many could assume that those fans are just upset over losing a secret, that the gem they've followed and gotten to know is now easily accessible to anyone with iTunes or a radio. Just another example of musical snobbery, one could say.
With Mraz, however, the difference in craft pre- and post-big break are startling apparent. Longtime listeners who tried to chalk it up to transitioning or concessionary changes are faced with the reality that the musician they touted to friends as "The Next Big Thing" is now the musician who elicits grimaces in grocery stores or elevators.
Which raises the question any invested music fan hates to ask: When does that fan stop trying to blame a label, manager or screaming new fanbase and accept the fact that she and the artist have simply taken different paths?
The best example of the Mraz I once zealously followed remains "Recorded Live at Java Joe's," a 15-track collection of songs performed at an Ocean Beach coffeeshop in 2001. Saucy, sweet and characteristically witty, Mraz and percussionist/harmonist Toca Rivera bob their way through the material; three of the songs on "Java Joe's" made the jump to studio production a year later on Mraz's debut solo album, "Waiting For My Rocket to Come."
On "Java Joe's," however, Mraz delivers the songs as they were crafted - stripped down and intimately playful or sensitive, depending on the nature of the particular piece. Unconfined, Mraz and Rivera unleash the scatting that has become a trademark of live performance but gravely underused in studios. Laughter, witticisms and banter are included on the tracks, providing a sense of what made Mraz stand out against the sea of sensitive guitar guys who have cropped up in recent years.
That warm and comfortable ambiance is a complete 180 from the slick performances captured on 2005's "Mr. A-Z," the album that listeners prematurely championed as a return to the Mraz they knew.
The major label initiation behind him, Mraz was going to be able to deliver the album he wanted to create, they (and I) thought, and live previews of the material delivered the summer before suggested a return to the intimate and introspective songster of old. Dispatches they received from the musician along the way promised the best collection of material yet.
Instead, the material had grown contrived, cliched, overthough and overwrought. Instead of simply being witty and clever, Mraz seems to elbow the listener, winking and chuckling with each "Oh! So! Smart!" turn of phrase.
The emotions that made an audience member lean forward and gasp with delight during the 2004 Curbside Prophet tour are buried beneath synthesizers and glossy pop beats; a sharp and tongue-twisting "Geek in the Pink" is transformed into a song noted most for trying desperately to be hip-hop - and failing.
Presumably intended to reflect a musician's wide-scope of interest and talent, "Mr. A-Z" instead indicates a musician uncertain of where he's going, who he wants to be. Rocker? Singer-songwriter? Freestyle MC? Teen sensation? Mraz's attempts to force each persona upon himself leaves an audience puzzled and unsettled.
Live performances in the fall of 2005 did nothing to help. The overproduction carried over to the previously untainted stage setting, with Mraz dancing like an animetronic doll, delivering a static set that offered none of the personalized touches for which he'd become known. During shows in Montreal and Boston, it appeared he was going through the motions, catering to the screaming teenage fans who clamored for his singles.
The journal entries that followed seemed to offer confirmation:
"I had too many expectations. I heard about too many expectations of others and I grew tired. I was giving up," Mraz wrote on his official website in January. "I subconsciously sabotaged my own projects in hopes of being released from the popular reality back into the wild, to have time once again to reclaim my own path, a path not written by another, a path that leads not to a predestined location based on a series of formulas one can follow to receive a lucrative reward."
Plans were announced today for four intimate acoustic summer shows, to be recorded, in Chicago, New York and Saratoga, Ca. In the announcement, Mraz described the "promise I made to myself to go back to my roots, pay tribute to the present and acknowledge the future of my fanship to music."
After the long journey of following the musician that has brought both memories and missteps, a listener must wonder: can a musician who has strayed from that path for so long every really get back?
OK, bear with me here. Unless you live under a rock, you've probably at least heard of the Mraz guy. One can only wonder how many times I've made reference to him here over the years.
But consider this a commentary of sorts. A discussion prompted by recent events and even more recent news. I decided to mix things up slightly for this week's "Have you met...?" - so enjoy and, as always, feel free to comment.
Week Three: Have you met Jason Mraz?
About a week and a half ago, I rode in a car with friends, traveling over rain-slickened Massachusetts roads on a gray, dismal sort of Saturday. The gloominess outside the vehicle was belied by the smiling faces within the car. We were belting out the words of the sunshine pop pulsing through the speakers.
The summer storm relief was courtesy of Jason Mraz, the San Diego-based troubador who graduated from coffeeshops to mainstream success with a couple of studio releases and several years of extensive touring. He's "The Remedy" guy, the "Geek in the Pink" known for his plucky "Wordplay."
Hey now, don't judge, naysayers. And don't squeal, teenage girls. We weren't listening to that Mraz. We were listening to a live rendition of "1000 Things," a song that has never made the jump to a recording studio. You know, the good stuff.
Whenever a musician hits the musical jackpot and becomes a widely recognizable name, there are those clusters of fans that grumble about how things were before, back when the music was still pure, unaltered by A&R guys or songwriting teams. The word "sellout" is always at least whispered, if not shouted aloud.
Many could assume that those fans are just upset over losing a secret, that the gem they've followed and gotten to know is now easily accessible to anyone with iTunes or a radio. Just another example of musical snobbery, one could say.
With Mraz, however, the difference in craft pre- and post-big break are startling apparent. Longtime listeners who tried to chalk it up to transitioning or concessionary changes are faced with the reality that the musician they touted to friends as "The Next Big Thing" is now the musician who elicits grimaces in grocery stores or elevators.
Which raises the question any invested music fan hates to ask: When does that fan stop trying to blame a label, manager or screaming new fanbase and accept the fact that she and the artist have simply taken different paths?
The best example of the Mraz I once zealously followed remains "Recorded Live at Java Joe's," a 15-track collection of songs performed at an Ocean Beach coffeeshop in 2001. Saucy, sweet and characteristically witty, Mraz and percussionist/harmonist Toca Rivera bob their way through the material; three of the songs on "Java Joe's" made the jump to studio production a year later on Mraz's debut solo album, "Waiting For My Rocket to Come."
On "Java Joe's," however, Mraz delivers the songs as they were crafted - stripped down and intimately playful or sensitive, depending on the nature of the particular piece. Unconfined, Mraz and Rivera unleash the scatting that has become a trademark of live performance but gravely underused in studios. Laughter, witticisms and banter are included on the tracks, providing a sense of what made Mraz stand out against the sea of sensitive guitar guys who have cropped up in recent years.
That warm and comfortable ambiance is a complete 180 from the slick performances captured on 2005's "Mr. A-Z," the album that listeners prematurely championed as a return to the Mraz they knew.
The major label initiation behind him, Mraz was going to be able to deliver the album he wanted to create, they (and I) thought, and live previews of the material delivered the summer before suggested a return to the intimate and introspective songster of old. Dispatches they received from the musician along the way promised the best collection of material yet.
Instead, the material had grown contrived, cliched, overthough and overwrought. Instead of simply being witty and clever, Mraz seems to elbow the listener, winking and chuckling with each "Oh! So! Smart!" turn of phrase.
The emotions that made an audience member lean forward and gasp with delight during the 2004 Curbside Prophet tour are buried beneath synthesizers and glossy pop beats; a sharp and tongue-twisting "Geek in the Pink" is transformed into a song noted most for trying desperately to be hip-hop - and failing.
Presumably intended to reflect a musician's wide-scope of interest and talent, "Mr. A-Z" instead indicates a musician uncertain of where he's going, who he wants to be. Rocker? Singer-songwriter? Freestyle MC? Teen sensation? Mraz's attempts to force each persona upon himself leaves an audience puzzled and unsettled.
Live performances in the fall of 2005 did nothing to help. The overproduction carried over to the previously untainted stage setting, with Mraz dancing like an animetronic doll, delivering a static set that offered none of the personalized touches for which he'd become known. During shows in Montreal and Boston, it appeared he was going through the motions, catering to the screaming teenage fans who clamored for his singles.
The journal entries that followed seemed to offer confirmation:
"I had too many expectations. I heard about too many expectations of others and I grew tired. I was giving up," Mraz wrote on his official website in January. "I subconsciously sabotaged my own projects in hopes of being released from the popular reality back into the wild, to have time once again to reclaim my own path, a path not written by another, a path that leads not to a predestined location based on a series of formulas one can follow to receive a lucrative reward."
Plans were announced today for four intimate acoustic summer shows, to be recorded, in Chicago, New York and Saratoga, Ca. In the announcement, Mraz described the "promise I made to myself to go back to my roots, pay tribute to the present and acknowledge the future of my fanship to music."
After the long journey of following the musician that has brought both memories and missteps, a listener must wonder: can a musician who has strayed from that path for so long every really get back?
6.17.2006
What was all that aboot?
Is it the Canada thing? Is that the shtick? Because that's truly all I'm capable of coming up with.
Last night, I stood among a group of downright rabid Sam Roberts fans, who were flailing, hooting and saluting up a storm as they cheered on the Montreal-based contemporary classic rocker (stay with me on this one, I'll explain).
It was crazy - I saw a strange sort of hopping dance that could only be described as "premature conga-ulation" (V definition: dancing that might be acceptable in a conga line, but comes off as downright bizarre when performed by one or two people). I saw asses grabbed, arms twirled, beer sprayed and fists raised. I saw people jumping and singing the ole soccer chant whilst waiting for an encore. The people were going wild...
...and then there was me. Standing there, holding my bottle of Stella, looking about in utter disbelief.
People were actually enjoying this?
I don't tend to be mean when I go to shows. I believe that there is something inherently good in any performance or performer - sometimes it just takes a little digging around to actually determine what that good happens to be.
But when I realize that I am going to see a show to its end just to take in the surreal, wacky train wreck the headlining set is? That's when I get snarky.
He's extraordinarily earnest, I'll give him that. The people at the show last night - many of whom had made the trip from Quebec - LOVE his band. And he loves them, taking the time after saying goodnight to slap hands with every single person who extended their arms, grinning like a fool, basking in the glory...
But let's try to describe this in a manner that Roberts could understand. Since I bet he's the kind of guy who'd laugh and say "Hell yeah!" if anyone shouted out "Freebird," we're going to go back to "Almost Famous" and Jeff Bebe, who says:
I work just as hard or harder than anybody on that stage. You know what I do? I connect. I get people off! I look for the guy who isn't getting off, and I MAKE him get off!
Sam, I was one of those people at the back of the house, keeping tabs on the length of that ridiculous jam (oh wait. You don't know what one I'm talking about? That's because there was a musical masterbation jam session EVERY OTHER SONG). And I was most certainly NOT GETTING OFF.
I just don't get what is so special about that music! And it frustrates me because I spent a lot of time last night trying to figure it out. It's nothing particularly new, it's nothing done with a certain special flair or penache. I dig classic rock, I enjoy downhome stylings. But when I wanted to go out of my way to see that kind of a show live, I went to see it done well. I saw the Black Crowes. Or if I want to listen to it? I cue up some CCR or Allman Brothers.
It just made no sense at all.
Strangest, though, was the headlining set when compared to the opening acts (who, um, I'd actually gone to the show to see).
Slow Runner and The Damnwells? Yes, please.
See, I'm a person who loves to see bands or artists many (many, many, many) times. Repeat concertgoer, for sure.
But there's something particularly special about having a band whose music you really, truly enjoy and finally getting to see them live for the first time. You've never looked upon these people before, and yet you're grinning and mouthing the words that form lyrics you've known by heart for ages - and you realize that you're going to be following the tour schedule to see when you'll next be able to take in a show.
That was the Damnwells set. Three or four songs off the new album (including two I'd already been digging, thanks to the wonder that is myspace), with the remainder of the 10-song set coming off "Bastards of the Beat." I know I was smiling like an idiot the entire time, but I didn't care. I loved it.
And then there's the experience of seeing a band whose material you thought was decent enough on album and then being delightedly surprised in a live setting.
Hello, Slow Runner. Fun and charming, the band adds a warmth to the electronic-heavy material in a live setting. There's an added bonus in watching them perform, as they get so intensely wrapped up in the music that the rest of the world seems to just disappear to them.
It's engrossing, it's entertaining, it's a good compliment to The Damnwells...
...and it makes the lunacy of the headlining act all the more evident.
Is it the Canada thing? Is that the shtick? Because that's truly all I'm capable of coming up with.
Last night, I stood among a group of downright rabid Sam Roberts fans, who were flailing, hooting and saluting up a storm as they cheered on the Montreal-based contemporary classic rocker (stay with me on this one, I'll explain).
It was crazy - I saw a strange sort of hopping dance that could only be described as "premature conga-ulation" (V definition: dancing that might be acceptable in a conga line, but comes off as downright bizarre when performed by one or two people). I saw asses grabbed, arms twirled, beer sprayed and fists raised. I saw people jumping and singing the ole soccer chant whilst waiting for an encore. The people were going wild...
...and then there was me. Standing there, holding my bottle of Stella, looking about in utter disbelief.
People were actually enjoying this?
I don't tend to be mean when I go to shows. I believe that there is something inherently good in any performance or performer - sometimes it just takes a little digging around to actually determine what that good happens to be.
But when I realize that I am going to see a show to its end just to take in the surreal, wacky train wreck the headlining set is? That's when I get snarky.
He's extraordinarily earnest, I'll give him that. The people at the show last night - many of whom had made the trip from Quebec - LOVE his band. And he loves them, taking the time after saying goodnight to slap hands with every single person who extended their arms, grinning like a fool, basking in the glory...
But let's try to describe this in a manner that Roberts could understand. Since I bet he's the kind of guy who'd laugh and say "Hell yeah!" if anyone shouted out "Freebird," we're going to go back to "Almost Famous" and Jeff Bebe, who says:
I work just as hard or harder than anybody on that stage. You know what I do? I connect. I get people off! I look for the guy who isn't getting off, and I MAKE him get off!
Sam, I was one of those people at the back of the house, keeping tabs on the length of that ridiculous jam (oh wait. You don't know what one I'm talking about? That's because there was a musical masterbation jam session EVERY OTHER SONG). And I was most certainly NOT GETTING OFF.
I just don't get what is so special about that music! And it frustrates me because I spent a lot of time last night trying to figure it out. It's nothing particularly new, it's nothing done with a certain special flair or penache. I dig classic rock, I enjoy downhome stylings. But when I wanted to go out of my way to see that kind of a show live, I went to see it done well. I saw the Black Crowes. Or if I want to listen to it? I cue up some CCR or Allman Brothers.
It just made no sense at all.
Strangest, though, was the headlining set when compared to the opening acts (who, um, I'd actually gone to the show to see).
Slow Runner and The Damnwells? Yes, please.
See, I'm a person who loves to see bands or artists many (many, many, many) times. Repeat concertgoer, for sure.
But there's something particularly special about having a band whose music you really, truly enjoy and finally getting to see them live for the first time. You've never looked upon these people before, and yet you're grinning and mouthing the words that form lyrics you've known by heart for ages - and you realize that you're going to be following the tour schedule to see when you'll next be able to take in a show.
That was the Damnwells set. Three or four songs off the new album (including two I'd already been digging, thanks to the wonder that is myspace), with the remainder of the 10-song set coming off "Bastards of the Beat." I know I was smiling like an idiot the entire time, but I didn't care. I loved it.
And then there's the experience of seeing a band whose material you thought was decent enough on album and then being delightedly surprised in a live setting.
Hello, Slow Runner. Fun and charming, the band adds a warmth to the electronic-heavy material in a live setting. There's an added bonus in watching them perform, as they get so intensely wrapped up in the music that the rest of the world seems to just disappear to them.
It's engrossing, it's entertaining, it's a good compliment to The Damnwells...
...and it makes the lunacy of the headlining act all the more evident.
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