After having a somewhat debauched evening the other night, some friends and I decided to go get on a bus and head downtown to drink coffee, iced tea, chai tea and imported Mexican Coca-Cola (it tastes better, so shut up!) at a stylish place that was strangely crowded for being 10:30 at night. Okay, simple enough. Things got interesting, if not a little cosmic, though, when we walked up to the bus, which was stopped at the stop for a layover, or something, asked how long we’d have to wait (10 minutes) and then sat back down on the stone wall, which, also somewhat strangely, surrounded a cemetery. The five of us were sitting for a few moments before the bus driver leaned out of the bus and asked us what we were up to that night. We told him we were just at the park, etc. He pointed to the cemetery and asked if went there. We said we didn’t. At this, he got off the bus, stood in the street and began talking to us about coincidence; launching into this obviously preferred conversation topic by using the cemetery’s proximity to the park and the fact that that proximity was clearly “no incident” as a segue. He had a thick, relaxing Eastern European accent and we were eager to listen.
“Do you, you believe in destiny?” He asked each one of us, going down the line. We were transfixed. It was evident that he was a strong believer in this destiny business, and to illustrate this belief, he told us a story. I am fairly hazy on that story’s actual plotline, details and conclusion, but I remember that it was some 2,000 years old, took place in Arabia or something and vaguely proved the theory of destiny. The “destiny” (the belief that your life will unwaveringly follow a predetermined path) versus “free will” (the belief that you have explicit control over your actions and decisions) discussion is an old one, and a very interesting one to have every now and then––especially with a bus driver who has a soothing accent late at night outside a cemetery. I believe in a final destiny, but I think how we arrive at that endpoint is pretty much up to us. I told the bus driver this. He seemed to agree, although he believed that someone else dictates our individual actions to make us aware of the fact that we are not in complete control. Ever. He has a painfully good point; a brain-hurtingly good point. “When have you ever planned something that turned out exactly like you planned it?” was his next question. We all answered honestly: Never.
It’s true; nothing you yourself plan ever can possibly turn out exactly how you plan it. Although, you’re never going to plan every single detail of something––you just plan the big picture––and however that plan changes is just what happens, right? For example, you’ve got a big party coming up. Sure, you plan the theme, you invite who you want, you decide what music to play, you decide what catering company to use…but any number of things can––and will––occur that you could never have ever planned. Like two of your guests will have a conversation. That conversation will be about the new Gwen Stefani album. You would have never possibly have been able to conceive that. And you have no control over it. Except you hosted the party where the conversation took place. Would that exact same conversation have happened anywhere else? I don’t think so. But it happened at your party. Is that destiny? Let’s see: (a) You planned the party; (b) People come to it; (c) Person 1 and Person 2 both happen to be standing next to the buffet at the same time; (d) “Wind It Up” starts playing; (e) Person 1 says that she really likes that song. And there you have it, the conversation has begun.
You have no control over this. No one does––not even the people talking, really. So who decided that these to people would spend four minutes of their night talking about the way less good follow-up to Love.Angel.Music.Baby? Is this destiny? Because it can’t really be free will, I don’t think. Or is it just something totally different? Is it human nature? It’s human nature to just talk about shit and roll with a conversation, sure, but why did that conversation take place to begin with? Furthermore, if those exact two same people were standing in a different place at the party, the song was playing, and they were talking to each other, would the same conversation still happen? That shit can’t be planned out by anyone, yet stuff like this happens every minute of every day. Do we actually have any control over our actions?
Think about it. Yeah, I told you it was cosmic.
We all exchange looks of awe and excitement. Come to think of it, is randomly meeting and talking to this guy destiny? It sort of has to be, right? How could any of us ever imagined and planned out that later that night we would linger on a corner, cross the street, sit on a cement wall and have a philosophical discussion with an Eastern European bus driver? That’s not the kind of night I’m “planning” yet it happened like that. It just fucking happened. Everything just fucking happens.
It’s been ten minutes. We climb into the bus; the he’s still talking to us. We’re, obviously, the only people there. We try to pay. He waves his hands and tells us not to worry about it. We genuinely thank him and then take seats at the front in order to easily continue our conversation. Now it’s our turn to ask the questions. First we want a name. He tells us his name is Lola. He tells us he’s from Ex-Yugoslavia, he used to be a chemistry and biology teacher there, he’s been a bus driver in Seattle for three years and he has a son graduating from the University of Washington this year, and another in his sophomore year. Think about that. What could have possibly led him from Yugoslavia to Seattle? From a chemistry teacher to a bus driver? From sitting on the bus alone 15 minutes ago to talking to the five kids he is now? Sure, he made all of those decisions, in the earthly sense: He decided Yugoslavia was too _________ (Dangerous? Maybe.) and had to leave, he bought the plane tickets to Seattle because he heard it was _________ (Amazing? Yes.), he applied for the job as a bus driver because it would _________ (Be a good opportunity to read a lot? Of course.), he decided to get off the bus and talk to us because he was _________ (Bored? Probably.). Yeah, that’s how it all goes. We all know we make our own decisions, and we know why. But why?
Destiny? Probably.
More people eventually got on the bus and we had to stop talking to Lola; he had other people to deal with, though he didn’t say anything to them; he just stopped talking to us. We came to our stop near the trendy coffee shop, got off, thanked Lola and wished his sons good luck in college. What a night.
Similarly, yesterday I went to a small taco stand for lunch. There was an extremely not-Mexican guy sitting in there reading a book on Italy. It was a large coffee table-style book; lot’s of aerial pictures, very few words. As soon as I entered the place this man stood up and sauntered behind the counter to take my order. He worked there. I told him I wanted three shredded chicken soft tacos. “With cheese, sour cream, guacamole?” He asked, in some sort of European accent––French, or possibly Italian. How immensely interesting, although it probably wouldn’t have struck me as such if I hadn’t met Lola one night before. And of course I wanted cheese, sour cream and guacamole. As soon as he gave my order to the very-Mexican woman in the kitchen, he lifted up the removable piece in the counter and came back out to read his book on Italy. I asked him if he was going to go to Italy. “Yes, yes, I always go to Italy.” He said he grew up in France but his mother was Italian so they spent every summer in Italy. This prompted me to make him aware that I went to Italy last summer. He asked me whereabouts in Italy. “Florence, Rome, Sorrento, around Tuscany; Assisi,” I replied. He looked happy, he told me that he always goes to Venice and how beautiful the ocean is, etc. I told him I was in Sorrento the night that Italy won the World Cup. He found this very, very cool and went on to say how Italy hadn’t really been playing soccer at all. “There was no finesse, it was violence.” This is probably true. I really couldn’t give less of a shit about soccer, but my new French-borne taco stand worker friend seemed to love it (and a lot of my actual friends do too, actually) so I continued the conversation by telling him that I went to the soccer game at Qwest Field last year. He knew exactly which one I was talking about. “It was okay, not too exciting,” I said. “Yeah, they’re fine. It was an exhibition game,” he offered. “If you want to see real soccer, go to Brazil or Africa.” We talked for a little bit longer about the merits of young African players (“Everyone over there is young, if you get too old, you die,” he insight-ed. I have to say, I agree.) before my tacos were ready and I waved good-bye and headed out. Granted, this conversation was not nearly as profound––or random––as the one I had the previous night with a certain chemistry teacher-cum-bus driver, but I still found it strange and intriguing. Just the fact that this French man who visited Italy every summer and played lots of soccer in his youth––and still visits to this day and would play soccer, if he hadn’t “hurt my knees when I was twenty”––now works at a hole-in-wall taco stand in Seattle astounds me for some reason.
I think this is why: (1) I am in a very destiny-y mood because of that aforementioned late-night encounter. (2) I do find all of that stuff really interesting and I want to know what made him change his life so drastically. Why the hell is he now living in Seattle and selling tacos? Doesn’t that sort of have to be destiny? (3) The whole phenomenon of just plain old starting conversations with strangers––and having them be meaningful, deep conversations, no less––never ceases to amaze me. (4) This phenomenon seems to happen a lot; too, in just one weekend I had two such conversations with people I will never––most likely––see again. (5) How everything works together = motherfucking mind-blowing.
All of this, of course, ties back into my topic du jour, destiny. I mean, why did I decide to go to that taco stand? I wanted some chicken tacos. Okay. Why did I start talking to the guy reading the book on Italy? I dunno, I felt like it. Fine. But really, is it all total coincidence? I went to Italy last year; I had something to talk to him about. Something actual to talk to this guy about. What are the fucking chances of that? What if I had ordered beef tacos? Would I still have had the same soccer conversation? Would my entire day be the same as it was with the chicken tacos? Would my entire life change if I ordered beef tacos? Would I have gotten in a car wreck on the way home, because I ordered beef tacos. I mean, I ordered chicken and I got home perfectly safely, but would beef have changed that? Whew.
Life really is amazing. Honestly, it is. Forgetting about this whole destiny thing for a moment, life itself is an incredible thing, no matter how it’s controlled. Is it all a web of completely unrelated things that, because they are all happening at once, occasionally turn out to be connected? Or is everything actually connected? So connected, in fact, that most things appear to be totally disconnected? It’s pretty much impossible to say for sure, but it’s overwhelming to think about.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Thursday, May 31, 2007
This Is The New Look
Check it.
New logo.
New font.
New post title color.
New border color.
New posts soon, too!
New logo.
New font.
New post title color.
New border color.
New posts soon, too!
I ♥ Björk
So Sasquatch! was really fun this year; it was different, but fun as fuck. As some of you may––or may not––know, I was seriously considering not even going this year. My plans had changed so extremely in so little time and I was left scrambling to attach people to the unaccounted-for tickets that I now found myself with. Fortunately for me, it was not too difficult to find a couple of people willing to drive a few hours to see the likes of The Hold Steady, The Blow, Viva Voce, Arcade Fire and Björk live.
The drive went fast; the four hours seemed more like three. In fact, I think it actually was three. We made two stops a long the way. The first was at a weird rustic-themed McDonald’s in Everett, where we encountered a couple of things: (a) some bitch eating breakfast with her dad while listening to music in headphones. Is that really necessary? Fuck no, it’s not. And, (b) McDonald’s McGriddles are really, really good. And disturbingly heavy. So, yeah, that was strange. But good-strange. They were hearty, I guess. From there we got back in the car, blasted mad Belle & Sebastian (“It’d be cool if they were coming to Sasquatch.” “Yeah, well it’d be cool if the Beatles were coming to Sasquatch too, but they’re not, jackass.”), a few sweet Justice trax and, of course, some Björk and Arcade Fire just to, ya know, get us in the mood. Next stop: Rest stop. But then straight on to Sasquatch!
Sasquatch! requirements:
- a hat (mine was The North Face, and definitely helped keep the sun off.)
- lots of sunscreen
- lots of cash (a can of beer was $11, okay?)
- knowing Arcade Fire's catalogue like the back of your hand
- a late model Suburu Outback crammed with crap like tents and sleeping bags (or, if you don’t have a Suburu, you won’t look too out of place in a Prius.)
Upon arriving, we quickly sun screened-up and then––tickets in hand––proceeded to stand in line for upwards of half an hour. Then: We were in! It was Gorge-ous (pun definitely intended): the Columbia River was right in front of us, the falsetto stylings of Loney, Dear were playing as we walked past the Wookie Stage, the sun was shining and there were nothing but cool people for as far as we could see. The first band we really wanted to see was the Hold Steady; they played in a few hours, at the Mainstage. We hit that up. But before THS took the stage, we had to sit through what was possibly the worst 40-minutes of music I have ever had to endure. The band was the Saturday Knights. They are a “Seattle-based hip-hop group.” They suck. Their singer is a huge-ass white guy who happened to be wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a trucker hat, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the other singer-y guy was wearing a sweater, a few scarves and a beanie in the 85º+ weather. That should make you hate them already, but if you’re still interested, maybe this will kill that: One of their songs consisted of this and only this lyric: “I wear a vest/And a jacket underneath/With patches on the elbows/Patches on the elbows.” The big white guy sang these words, with no variation whatsoever, over and over and over. Thank God their set soon ended.
Now it was the Hold Steady’s turn. Their set kicked ass. They played “Stuck Between Stations” first, with no introduction––not that one was needed. They just started right in on that dun-dun-dun-da-da riff and it was obvious what was coming next.
There are nights when I think Sal Paradise was right.
Boys and Girls in America have such a sad time together.
Sucking off each other at the demonstrations
Making sure their makeup’s straight
Crushing one another with colossal expectations.
Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.
She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.
She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.
She likes the warm feeling but she’s tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights are crystal clear
But tonight it’s like it’s stuck between stations
On the radio.
The devil and John Berryman
Took a walk together.
They ended up on Washington
Talking to the river.
He said “I’ve surrounded myself with doctors
And deep thinkers.
But big heads with soft bodies
Make for lousy lovers.”
There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly.
But he didn’t
So he died.
She said “You’re pretty good with words
But words won’t save your life.”
And they didn’t.
So he died.
He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.
He loved the Golden Gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters.
He likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration
Most nights were kind of fuzzy
But that last night he had total retention.
These Twin Cities kisses
Sound like clicks and hisses.
We all tumbled down and
Drowned in the Mississippi River.
We drink
We dry up
Then we crumble to dust
Next came “Chips Ahoy,” “Hot Soft Light,” (“This is a song about gettin’ cought.”), “Stevie Nix,” (with awesome intro riff-plus-abrupt-stop beginning) “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” and “First Night” (truly one of the band’s most incredible songs; after the epic piano bridge, when the “Boys and girls in America” refrain starts up, every boy and girl at the Mainstage closed their eyes and sang a long. Talk about getting goose bumps.) Plus, the way Craig Finn moves his hands when he sings was practically the best part: Poking and jabbing up and down at the air after each verse, clamping a hand over his balding head, etc.
We were hungry. It was time for $8 chicken strips and $6 Cokes accompanied by the awkward love stories and awesome beats of the Blow. This all went down in the Plaza aka the Yeti Stage. The Blow (who, when performing live, is exclusively Kheala Maricich) played several of their songs and each of them came with a long narrative about their origin. This is cool, how she explains it, up there all by herself and stuff, but in the huge open air Yeti Stage, it didn’t translate immensely well. Most of the people were walking past to buy their $12 margaritas and generally had no idea who this woman singing about how this guy never called her back was. Nevertheless, I did know who she was and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Looking at the schedule, it appeared that there wasn’t much else for a little while so we decided to go buy t-shirts. We thought the Björk shirts would be cool, but those weren’t in yet, so we asked the guy behind the counter if he knew when they would get them.
“Hey, so will you guys be getting in any Björk shirts later?”
“Who?”
“Björk. She’s headlining.”
“Um, I dunno, what we got is what we got.”
Thanks a lot, douchebag.
Generally speaking, this year the tees were not as cool as the ones last year. The Beastie Boys ones were hideous, the Hold Steady were cool but a little boring and several bands didn’t even have shirts. Oh well. Later, we checked back and they did have Björk shirts, which were the best of them all. They said “Björk” in purple over flames on a bright red American Apparel t-shirt. Works for me.
By now the heat had gotten much more bearable but we were once again thirsty. We all went in on a Coke. Let me repeat that. We all went in on a Coke. Nevermind the high cost, it was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. And we kept the cup, in case we wanted to fill it up with the cheapo hand-washing water. We also wrote all over the cup and dubbed it “The ‘Quatch Cup.”
Back to the Wookie Stage. We chilled out on the grass listening to some Electrelane, a band that I had become familiar with one day prior, while hearing one of their songs in Sonic Boom. Turns out, it was their best song. They were still cool though; the band was entirely chicks and they had very few lyrics. It was nice to just sit and listen to. After Electrelane finished their set (and didn’t play that one song, much to my disappointment, the song, by the way, is called “Tram 21.” It rocks.) Grizzly Bear took the stage. Grizzly Bear also plays largely chilled-out instrumental songs and we took this time to chat, take pictures, draw on ourselves, look for girls and people watch.
A few highlights:
Based on people watching, I concluded this very official study:
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing Converse: 90%
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing pretentious, douchey and/or ironic t-shirts: 90%
Additionally, another off-site study was also taken:
Percentage Sasquatch-goers who own a Suburu: 99%
These statistics are very real. And, actually, not very alarming. I was wearing Converse. Although I was wearing a blank white v-neck (from American Apparel, of course). Either way, I’m a tool.
Meanwhile, at the Mainstage!
This weird Mexican guy named Manu Chau––or something like that––was playing. We headed over to check it out, and, more importantly, to get into a prime Arcade Fire-watching position. Manu Chau’s songs all really sounded the same; they all stared out slowly, with some Spanish lyrics (which I assume are dirty as hell) and then quickly deteriorated into a fast-paced rock-out with a police car siren sample. Every single time. It was fun though. This was around 8pm. We would not sit down again until we got back in the car at 1:30am the next morning. This was about to be intense. After Chau finished his repetitively awesome, seemingly endless set, there was a long set change. During this time we shoved through as many people as we could to get as close as possible to that amazing collection of people known only as Arcade Fire.
As soon as Arcade Fire took the stage, it was pandemonium. It was powerful stuff. They blasted off with “No Cars Go” and then played a slew of their other great songs (basically every song they have). Highlights include: “Haiti,” “(Antichrist Television Blues),” the organ-heavy “Intervention,” “Black Mirror,” “Ocean of Noise,” “Neighborhood 1 (Tunnels),” “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations,” “Neighborhood 2 (Laika)” and then topping it all off with arguably the best 15 minutes of my life: “Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)” with the ending held out for several extra seconds, leading straight into the powerful drum beat of “Rebellion (Lies)” and then, from the last smacks of the drum, the energetic “Keep The Car Running” started up. No words really can describe the awesomeness. All 20,000 people in the gorge knew the startling chorus to “Power Out:” “I went out into the night/I went out to pick a fight with anyone.” And everyone sang a long. And jumped a long and screamed a long. All attempts at explaining the energy in the Gorge that night would be futile. “Every time you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)/Everytime you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)” To finish up his other-worldly-ly good set, Win Butler and his band of nine other musicians played “Wake Up.” I now know why Arcade Fire have been aggressively touted as “the best live act on the planet.” The energy around them is incomparable. And Arcade Fire is not a small band, either; the 10 members all contribute heavily to the sound and do so in their own way. They’re all standing on stage, just inches away from one another but in their own world, rocking out. It was an incredible show.
I thought the evening could not be any better. But I had forgotten about Björk.
We moved closer to the stage. This was possible to do because, evidently, a huge number of people had left after Arcade Fire. These leavers were presumably die hard Arcade Fire fanatics who had been on their feet all day, in front of the main stage just to get a good look at Win Butler, Régine Chassagne’s accordion playing, or the hot violinists. Whatever, Arcade Fire rocked fucking hard, but I wouldn’t have left if you paid me. Björk was about to begin!
The set change took forever and we stretched our legs and talked to a pair of Canadians who were standing behind us. We learned that they were brother and sister, the brother was trying to get his pilot’s license, they both wore Crocs and they liked tye-die shirts. A lot. Soon enough Björk stormed the stage.
Now, before this show, I was fairly familiar with Björk; I knew––and liked––many of her songs, had a few of her albums and generally just thought she was pretty cool. This has all changed since that fateful show at the Mainstage of Sasquatch.
This is why:
Björk is awesome. Period. This became extremely apparent during her set. She came out on stage (seemingly from out of nowhere) dressed in a weird banana yellow dress-like thing, silver tights and matching silver rubber boots. She opened the show with her new tribal-beat heavy single “Earth Intruders.” Next she played “Pluto” (by this point she had kicked off the boots and was performing barefoot). Near the end, when the song’s beat breaks down into strange electric noises, she shook her arms out and inward––in perfect time with the music. It was like she was controlling the sound with her hands; she was so in step with what was going on. This brings me to her band: there were at least 14 other people on stage with her. There was the 10-piece Icelandic Orchestra, the futuristic-looking drummer who kept the beat in practically every single song, the very out of place-looking piano player who appeared to be just some guy who could play the piano pretty well and finally “on electroneecs,” as Björk said in her adorable Icelandic accent, some hip guy who mixed each song live and seemed to know exactly what Björk would do next. All of these people knew why they were there: To support Björk. They did so perfectly and never took too much of the focus off of her.
At this point the set slowed down a little. She played several slower, less recognizable songs. This was not a bad thing. You could see how focused and how completely dedicated to the music she is. Björk’s voice, also, is one of her biggest draws. The way she sings is crazy, emphasizing random syllables, hitting high notes and then instantly letting her voice slide into a throaty yell and pronouncing words differently than anyone else ever has. During the end of Vespertine’s “Pagan Poetry” she repeated the refrain “I love him/I love him/I love him” and, in her awesome Björkian way, it sounded more like “I lufffhim/I lufffhim/I lufffhim.” Then, the Icelandic Orchestra picked up the backing vocals and begin their “She loves him/she loves him/she loves him” while Björk hopped and shook around the stage. The slow songs were now pretty much over, with the exception of the gorgeous “Dull Flame of Desire,” in which she tells us that she loves “your eyes, my dear/Their splendid sparkling/Fire” in her beautifully fractured style. The crowd was a little fatigued, it was now 1am and Björk was ready to rock.
The enormous sounds of the intro to “Army Of Me” kicked off the rock-out. Also, near the end of the song, lasers started up and jabbed all over the Gorge––once again, in perfect time with the beats. Speaking of the beats, the songs were a lot louder and more beat-heavy live, which was very conducive to dancing and rocking a long to them. Everyone was jumping and moving their heads to the crashing beats and perfect acoustics of the Gorge. Including Björk. She was going crazy. In “Hyper-ballad” (one of her coolest songs) the backbeat was made much louder than it normally is, and she stood in the center of the stage and ran in place, shook her black hair all over the place and moved her arms ridiculously fast. Additionally, those lasers didn’t stop. They were still blasting the night sky with penetrating green lines. The real head banging came during the intro of “Innocence.” The Timbaland-produced beat is unbeatable and makes for perfect head-turning and arm-jerking fodder. The show quickly built up momentum and by the time it’s 90-minutes was over the crowd––and Björk––were having a great, loud time. (With lasers!) Not doing an encore was pretty much out of the question. She ran back out on stage, introduced the other 14 people behind her (Yes! Another chance to hear her adorable speaking voice. "Thinks very mooch.") and then started right in with the loudly political “Declare Independence.”
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Make your own flag!
Raise your flag!
(Higher, higher!)
Declare independence!
Towards the end, it seemed like the stage was going to explode; the beat was so loud and precise and awesome. The show was now over, but its power was still inside of me. Björk’s energy, her dancing, the thunderous music and the fact that it was all being performed live, 60 feet from me at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the most beautiful outdoor venue ever was all incredible.
Plus, Björk is fucking bomb. I know she’s 42, married and has a couple of kids, I think, but she is really, really, really cute. She’s pretty much unquestionably weird, too. But that only makes her cooler––and hotter. Her adorable Icelandic accent, her intense dancing, her perfect hair, her quirkiness and her obscene amounts of creativity; it’s all right there and makes her insanely attractive.
I truly do ♥ Björk.
And I also ♥ed the whole day. It was fantastic. Perfect weather, great people, amazing music and a great time in general. Arcade Fire and Björk were definitely the highligts, but nothing was bad, even the bad things were good and made the day even more fun. I can’t wait to find out who’ll be playing next year. Hmm…maybe I should just change the name of this post to I ♥ Sasquatch! No, maybe not. Sasquatch isn’t a ridiculously cute Icelandic singer. So, yeah, no, the name’s staying the same.
The drive went fast; the four hours seemed more like three. In fact, I think it actually was three. We made two stops a long the way. The first was at a weird rustic-themed McDonald’s in Everett, where we encountered a couple of things: (a) some bitch eating breakfast with her dad while listening to music in headphones. Is that really necessary? Fuck no, it’s not. And, (b) McDonald’s McGriddles are really, really good. And disturbingly heavy. So, yeah, that was strange. But good-strange. They were hearty, I guess. From there we got back in the car, blasted mad Belle & Sebastian (“It’d be cool if they were coming to Sasquatch.” “Yeah, well it’d be cool if the Beatles were coming to Sasquatch too, but they’re not, jackass.”), a few sweet Justice trax and, of course, some Björk and Arcade Fire just to, ya know, get us in the mood. Next stop: Rest stop. But then straight on to Sasquatch!
Sasquatch! requirements:
- a hat (mine was The North Face, and definitely helped keep the sun off.)
- lots of sunscreen
- lots of cash (a can of beer was $11, okay?)
- knowing Arcade Fire's catalogue like the back of your hand
- a late model Suburu Outback crammed with crap like tents and sleeping bags (or, if you don’t have a Suburu, you won’t look too out of place in a Prius.)
Upon arriving, we quickly sun screened-up and then––tickets in hand––proceeded to stand in line for upwards of half an hour. Then: We were in! It was Gorge-ous (pun definitely intended): the Columbia River was right in front of us, the falsetto stylings of Loney, Dear were playing as we walked past the Wookie Stage, the sun was shining and there were nothing but cool people for as far as we could see. The first band we really wanted to see was the Hold Steady; they played in a few hours, at the Mainstage. We hit that up. But before THS took the stage, we had to sit through what was possibly the worst 40-minutes of music I have ever had to endure. The band was the Saturday Knights. They are a “Seattle-based hip-hop group.” They suck. Their singer is a huge-ass white guy who happened to be wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a trucker hat, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the other singer-y guy was wearing a sweater, a few scarves and a beanie in the 85º+ weather. That should make you hate them already, but if you’re still interested, maybe this will kill that: One of their songs consisted of this and only this lyric: “I wear a vest/And a jacket underneath/With patches on the elbows/Patches on the elbows.” The big white guy sang these words, with no variation whatsoever, over and over and over. Thank God their set soon ended.
Now it was the Hold Steady’s turn. Their set kicked ass. They played “Stuck Between Stations” first, with no introduction––not that one was needed. They just started right in on that dun-dun-dun-da-da riff and it was obvious what was coming next.
There are nights when I think Sal Paradise was right.
Boys and Girls in America have such a sad time together.
Sucking off each other at the demonstrations
Making sure their makeup’s straight
Crushing one another with colossal expectations.
Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.
She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.
She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.
She likes the warm feeling but she’s tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights are crystal clear
But tonight it’s like it’s stuck between stations
On the radio.
The devil and John Berryman
Took a walk together.
They ended up on Washington
Talking to the river.
He said “I’ve surrounded myself with doctors
And deep thinkers.
But big heads with soft bodies
Make for lousy lovers.”
There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly.
But he didn’t
So he died.
She said “You’re pretty good with words
But words won’t save your life.”
And they didn’t.
So he died.
He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.
He loved the Golden Gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters.
He likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration
Most nights were kind of fuzzy
But that last night he had total retention.
These Twin Cities kisses
Sound like clicks and hisses.
We all tumbled down and
Drowned in the Mississippi River.
We drink
We dry up
Then we crumble to dust
Next came “Chips Ahoy,” “Hot Soft Light,” (“This is a song about gettin’ cought.”), “Stevie Nix,” (with awesome intro riff-plus-abrupt-stop beginning) “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” and “First Night” (truly one of the band’s most incredible songs; after the epic piano bridge, when the “Boys and girls in America” refrain starts up, every boy and girl at the Mainstage closed their eyes and sang a long. Talk about getting goose bumps.) Plus, the way Craig Finn moves his hands when he sings was practically the best part: Poking and jabbing up and down at the air after each verse, clamping a hand over his balding head, etc.
We were hungry. It was time for $8 chicken strips and $6 Cokes accompanied by the awkward love stories and awesome beats of the Blow. This all went down in the Plaza aka the Yeti Stage. The Blow (who, when performing live, is exclusively Kheala Maricich) played several of their songs and each of them came with a long narrative about their origin. This is cool, how she explains it, up there all by herself and stuff, but in the huge open air Yeti Stage, it didn’t translate immensely well. Most of the people were walking past to buy their $12 margaritas and generally had no idea who this woman singing about how this guy never called her back was. Nevertheless, I did know who she was and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Looking at the schedule, it appeared that there wasn’t much else for a little while so we decided to go buy t-shirts. We thought the Björk shirts would be cool, but those weren’t in yet, so we asked the guy behind the counter if he knew when they would get them.
“Hey, so will you guys be getting in any Björk shirts later?”
“Who?”
“Björk. She’s headlining.”
“Um, I dunno, what we got is what we got.”
Thanks a lot, douchebag.
Generally speaking, this year the tees were not as cool as the ones last year. The Beastie Boys ones were hideous, the Hold Steady were cool but a little boring and several bands didn’t even have shirts. Oh well. Later, we checked back and they did have Björk shirts, which were the best of them all. They said “Björk” in purple over flames on a bright red American Apparel t-shirt. Works for me.
By now the heat had gotten much more bearable but we were once again thirsty. We all went in on a Coke. Let me repeat that. We all went in on a Coke. Nevermind the high cost, it was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. And we kept the cup, in case we wanted to fill it up with the cheapo hand-washing water. We also wrote all over the cup and dubbed it “The ‘Quatch Cup.”
Back to the Wookie Stage. We chilled out on the grass listening to some Electrelane, a band that I had become familiar with one day prior, while hearing one of their songs in Sonic Boom. Turns out, it was their best song. They were still cool though; the band was entirely chicks and they had very few lyrics. It was nice to just sit and listen to. After Electrelane finished their set (and didn’t play that one song, much to my disappointment, the song, by the way, is called “Tram 21.” It rocks.) Grizzly Bear took the stage. Grizzly Bear also plays largely chilled-out instrumental songs and we took this time to chat, take pictures, draw on ourselves, look for girls and people watch.
A few highlights:
Based on people watching, I concluded this very official study:
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing Converse: 90%
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing pretentious, douchey and/or ironic t-shirts: 90%
Additionally, another off-site study was also taken:
Percentage Sasquatch-goers who own a Suburu: 99%
These statistics are very real. And, actually, not very alarming. I was wearing Converse. Although I was wearing a blank white v-neck (from American Apparel, of course). Either way, I’m a tool.
Meanwhile, at the Mainstage!
This weird Mexican guy named Manu Chau––or something like that––was playing. We headed over to check it out, and, more importantly, to get into a prime Arcade Fire-watching position. Manu Chau’s songs all really sounded the same; they all stared out slowly, with some Spanish lyrics (which I assume are dirty as hell) and then quickly deteriorated into a fast-paced rock-out with a police car siren sample. Every single time. It was fun though. This was around 8pm. We would not sit down again until we got back in the car at 1:30am the next morning. This was about to be intense. After Chau finished his repetitively awesome, seemingly endless set, there was a long set change. During this time we shoved through as many people as we could to get as close as possible to that amazing collection of people known only as Arcade Fire.
As soon as Arcade Fire took the stage, it was pandemonium. It was powerful stuff. They blasted off with “No Cars Go” and then played a slew of their other great songs (basically every song they have). Highlights include: “Haiti,” “(Antichrist Television Blues),” the organ-heavy “Intervention,” “Black Mirror,” “Ocean of Noise,” “Neighborhood 1 (Tunnels),” “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations,” “Neighborhood 2 (Laika)” and then topping it all off with arguably the best 15 minutes of my life: “Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)” with the ending held out for several extra seconds, leading straight into the powerful drum beat of “Rebellion (Lies)” and then, from the last smacks of the drum, the energetic “Keep The Car Running” started up. No words really can describe the awesomeness. All 20,000 people in the gorge knew the startling chorus to “Power Out:” “I went out into the night/I went out to pick a fight with anyone.” And everyone sang a long. And jumped a long and screamed a long. All attempts at explaining the energy in the Gorge that night would be futile. “Every time you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)/Everytime you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)” To finish up his other-worldly-ly good set, Win Butler and his band of nine other musicians played “Wake Up.” I now know why Arcade Fire have been aggressively touted as “the best live act on the planet.” The energy around them is incomparable. And Arcade Fire is not a small band, either; the 10 members all contribute heavily to the sound and do so in their own way. They’re all standing on stage, just inches away from one another but in their own world, rocking out. It was an incredible show.
I thought the evening could not be any better. But I had forgotten about Björk.
We moved closer to the stage. This was possible to do because, evidently, a huge number of people had left after Arcade Fire. These leavers were presumably die hard Arcade Fire fanatics who had been on their feet all day, in front of the main stage just to get a good look at Win Butler, Régine Chassagne’s accordion playing, or the hot violinists. Whatever, Arcade Fire rocked fucking hard, but I wouldn’t have left if you paid me. Björk was about to begin!
The set change took forever and we stretched our legs and talked to a pair of Canadians who were standing behind us. We learned that they were brother and sister, the brother was trying to get his pilot’s license, they both wore Crocs and they liked tye-die shirts. A lot. Soon enough Björk stormed the stage.
Now, before this show, I was fairly familiar with Björk; I knew––and liked––many of her songs, had a few of her albums and generally just thought she was pretty cool. This has all changed since that fateful show at the Mainstage of Sasquatch.
This is why:
Björk is awesome. Period. This became extremely apparent during her set. She came out on stage (seemingly from out of nowhere) dressed in a weird banana yellow dress-like thing, silver tights and matching silver rubber boots. She opened the show with her new tribal-beat heavy single “Earth Intruders.” Next she played “Pluto” (by this point she had kicked off the boots and was performing barefoot). Near the end, when the song’s beat breaks down into strange electric noises, she shook her arms out and inward––in perfect time with the music. It was like she was controlling the sound with her hands; she was so in step with what was going on. This brings me to her band: there were at least 14 other people on stage with her. There was the 10-piece Icelandic Orchestra, the futuristic-looking drummer who kept the beat in practically every single song, the very out of place-looking piano player who appeared to be just some guy who could play the piano pretty well and finally “on electroneecs,” as Björk said in her adorable Icelandic accent, some hip guy who mixed each song live and seemed to know exactly what Björk would do next. All of these people knew why they were there: To support Björk. They did so perfectly and never took too much of the focus off of her.
At this point the set slowed down a little. She played several slower, less recognizable songs. This was not a bad thing. You could see how focused and how completely dedicated to the music she is. Björk’s voice, also, is one of her biggest draws. The way she sings is crazy, emphasizing random syllables, hitting high notes and then instantly letting her voice slide into a throaty yell and pronouncing words differently than anyone else ever has. During the end of Vespertine’s “Pagan Poetry” she repeated the refrain “I love him/I love him/I love him” and, in her awesome Björkian way, it sounded more like “I lufffhim/I lufffhim/I lufffhim.” Then, the Icelandic Orchestra picked up the backing vocals and begin their “She loves him/she loves him/she loves him” while Björk hopped and shook around the stage. The slow songs were now pretty much over, with the exception of the gorgeous “Dull Flame of Desire,” in which she tells us that she loves “your eyes, my dear/Their splendid sparkling/Fire” in her beautifully fractured style. The crowd was a little fatigued, it was now 1am and Björk was ready to rock.
The enormous sounds of the intro to “Army Of Me” kicked off the rock-out. Also, near the end of the song, lasers started up and jabbed all over the Gorge––once again, in perfect time with the beats. Speaking of the beats, the songs were a lot louder and more beat-heavy live, which was very conducive to dancing and rocking a long to them. Everyone was jumping and moving their heads to the crashing beats and perfect acoustics of the Gorge. Including Björk. She was going crazy. In “Hyper-ballad” (one of her coolest songs) the backbeat was made much louder than it normally is, and she stood in the center of the stage and ran in place, shook her black hair all over the place and moved her arms ridiculously fast. Additionally, those lasers didn’t stop. They were still blasting the night sky with penetrating green lines. The real head banging came during the intro of “Innocence.” The Timbaland-produced beat is unbeatable and makes for perfect head-turning and arm-jerking fodder. The show quickly built up momentum and by the time it’s 90-minutes was over the crowd––and Björk––were having a great, loud time. (With lasers!) Not doing an encore was pretty much out of the question. She ran back out on stage, introduced the other 14 people behind her (Yes! Another chance to hear her adorable speaking voice. "Thinks very mooch.") and then started right in with the loudly political “Declare Independence.”
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Make your own flag!
Raise your flag!
(Higher, higher!)
Declare independence!
Towards the end, it seemed like the stage was going to explode; the beat was so loud and precise and awesome. The show was now over, but its power was still inside of me. Björk’s energy, her dancing, the thunderous music and the fact that it was all being performed live, 60 feet from me at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the most beautiful outdoor venue ever was all incredible.
Plus, Björk is fucking bomb. I know she’s 42, married and has a couple of kids, I think, but she is really, really, really cute. She’s pretty much unquestionably weird, too. But that only makes her cooler––and hotter. Her adorable Icelandic accent, her intense dancing, her perfect hair, her quirkiness and her obscene amounts of creativity; it’s all right there and makes her insanely attractive.
I truly do ♥ Björk.
And I also ♥ed the whole day. It was fantastic. Perfect weather, great people, amazing music and a great time in general. Arcade Fire and Björk were definitely the highligts, but nothing was bad, even the bad things were good and made the day even more fun. I can’t wait to find out who’ll be playing next year. Hmm…maybe I should just change the name of this post to I ♥ Sasquatch! No, maybe not. Sasquatch isn’t a ridiculously cute Icelandic singer. So, yeah, no, the name’s staying the same.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
DETAILS OF THE WAR
The best song ever? Yes.
Bloody sheets
Tenderly she moves me
An opera star
Dying hard for love
You say I'm hurt
I will take your word
Leather pants
Happiness
A hundred dollars
Buy success
Hanging with your fashionable whores
And I'm a wounded bird
I will take your word
You and tom (you and tom)
To the prom (to the prom)
Camel dick (camel dick)
Crucifix (crucifix)
Everyone's the same and on and on
Emerging from the football stands
Clinging to his broken hand
It's over I have seen it all before
Nakedness (nakedness)
A flying lesson
Tattered dress
Sunburned chest
You will pay for your excessive charm
With a boy who knows
Less than he thinks
Drinks up his expensive drinks
Be careful with the DETAILS OF THE WAR
Bloody sheets
Tenderly she moves me
An opera star
Dying hard for love
You say I'm hurt
I will take your word
Leather pants
Happiness
A hundred dollars
Buy success
Hanging with your fashionable whores
And I'm a wounded bird
I will take your word
You and tom (you and tom)
To the prom (to the prom)
Camel dick (camel dick)
Crucifix (crucifix)
Everyone's the same and on and on
Emerging from the football stands
Clinging to his broken hand
It's over I have seen it all before
Nakedness (nakedness)
A flying lesson
Tattered dress
Sunburned chest
You will pay for your excessive charm
With a boy who knows
Less than he thinks
Drinks up his expensive drinks
Be careful with the DETAILS OF THE WAR
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The Decemberists, Live at The Paramount, May 4, 2007
Evidently, the majority of Seattle-based Decemberists fans suck. I say “evidently” because this startling, somewhat depressing and somewhat useless fact became evident to me when I saw the Decemberists live at the Paramount at the beginning of the month.
Most everybody in the crowd, with the exception of me and my friends, was thirty or older (in most cases much older, sporting a very unimpressive grey haircut and some shoes that they certainly bought at REI), seemed to know the band and the music fairly well but felt completely un-compelled to display any of this knowledge––this could be achieved through singing, cheering or generally moving your body ever so slightly to the music. In fact, emotion wasn’t on display at all; at least any emotion besides boredom, if that is an emotion. Either way, boredom was in no short supply that evening and it was not all the fans’ fault, either.
Colin Meloy, the Decemberists' über-intellectual front man (read: trying way to hard to be Ben Gibbard), flaunted his intelligence in a number of equally exhausting ways: (1) choosing to open the set with a pre-recorded six minute song that sounded like something that was meant to be played before each Russian ambassadors’ meeting, circa 1880, (2) talking––in a very nasally voice––at length about Portland’s (the Decemberists’ appropriately artsy hometown) several merits and supposed superiority to Seattle, etc. and, (3) while talking at length, using unnecessarily large words––like “denizen”––which truly have no place in spoken conversation. Although that all-important element of any live show, simply known as “the vibe,” really could not have been any worse, the actual concert, inasmuch as the music, was not a complete loss.
Meloy and the rest of the band, although unattractive and a little stagey, do make very good music. Some of this good music was played at this concert, but much of it, somewhat perplexingly, was not. They neglected to play pretty much every single one of their “hits,” and instead chose to play a slew of obscure, back-catalog songs. This conscious reluctance to play their more popular songs seemed like another, more underhanded way of flaunting their intellect. “Yes, we only play songs from our early cassettes and worst-selling albums, because, you see, the fact that nobody knows, likes or understands them means that they are very intelligent songs. Their virtually unknown status is the only validation we need to play them for the rest of the night. Enjoy.” Yeah, cool, we get it; you’re intellectual.
Luckily, there were still some compelling moments of their just-over-an-hour set. To begin with, after that Russian anthem, the Portlander’s took the stage and launched into their epic three-piece story “The Crane Wife” (off of their excellent new album of the same name.). The song is fabulous and live it was technically tight and emotionally strong. Of course, the rest of the bored slobs in the audience seemed to have already lost interest by this point, about three minutes into the set. Their loss.
After “The Crane Wife” finished up, complete with an awesome electric-guitar-feedback-distortion ending, the lights went down and the group started right in again with their other three-part, 12-minute song, “The Island.” During this time I was singing a long and jumping up in the air and by the time both of these epic songs were over, I was totally energized and eager for the rest of the set, despite the everyone else around me. Unfortunately, this two song, sub-30 minute extravaganza was the high point of the show, and took place at the very start of it. They did play some other good songs: “O Valencia!,” “The Perfect Crime #2” and fan-favorite “The Mariner’s Revenge Song.” However, they didn’t play several of the songs that seem obligatory at any Decemberists show: “The Infanta,” “July, July,” and the marvelously anti-war “16 Military Wives.”
Though the show was actually disappointing because of its poor quality, equally disappointing, in retrospect, was the knowledge that it could easily have been much, much better if a few specific things had been done differently. The vast majority of the audience could have either been much more into the music, or just not have come, Meloy and his band could have better sensed the bored atmosphere and injected some life into the lame Seattle crowd by cutting down on their own unfunny banter and playing more well-known, sing-alongable songs.
Maybe the Decemberists’ brand of nuance-filled, hyper-literate bookstore rock doesn’t translate exceptionally well into a crowd-pleasing chorus-filled live show. Or maybe most of the people who think they like the Dememberists actually don’t like them at all. Or maybe all of the people who actively dislike the Decemberists decided to spend thirty dollars on a ticket to their tour-closing Seattle show because, hey, they all had nothing better to do on that particular Friday night. Or maybe attending concerts where the other attendees are visibly not enjoying the music and the people playing that music are visibly down-talking the aforementioned attendees––in a very nasally voice––isn’t really my thing. Maybe. And it doesn’t really matter how much I am enjoying the music, which, for the most part, I was. The vibe was killed before it was even born.
Most everybody in the crowd, with the exception of me and my friends, was thirty or older (in most cases much older, sporting a very unimpressive grey haircut and some shoes that they certainly bought at REI), seemed to know the band and the music fairly well but felt completely un-compelled to display any of this knowledge––this could be achieved through singing, cheering or generally moving your body ever so slightly to the music. In fact, emotion wasn’t on display at all; at least any emotion besides boredom, if that is an emotion. Either way, boredom was in no short supply that evening and it was not all the fans’ fault, either.
Colin Meloy, the Decemberists' über-intellectual front man (read: trying way to hard to be Ben Gibbard), flaunted his intelligence in a number of equally exhausting ways: (1) choosing to open the set with a pre-recorded six minute song that sounded like something that was meant to be played before each Russian ambassadors’ meeting, circa 1880, (2) talking––in a very nasally voice––at length about Portland’s (the Decemberists’ appropriately artsy hometown) several merits and supposed superiority to Seattle, etc. and, (3) while talking at length, using unnecessarily large words––like “denizen”––which truly have no place in spoken conversation. Although that all-important element of any live show, simply known as “the vibe,” really could not have been any worse, the actual concert, inasmuch as the music, was not a complete loss.
Meloy and the rest of the band, although unattractive and a little stagey, do make very good music. Some of this good music was played at this concert, but much of it, somewhat perplexingly, was not. They neglected to play pretty much every single one of their “hits,” and instead chose to play a slew of obscure, back-catalog songs. This conscious reluctance to play their more popular songs seemed like another, more underhanded way of flaunting their intellect. “Yes, we only play songs from our early cassettes and worst-selling albums, because, you see, the fact that nobody knows, likes or understands them means that they are very intelligent songs. Their virtually unknown status is the only validation we need to play them for the rest of the night. Enjoy.” Yeah, cool, we get it; you’re intellectual.
Luckily, there were still some compelling moments of their just-over-an-hour set. To begin with, after that Russian anthem, the Portlander’s took the stage and launched into their epic three-piece story “The Crane Wife” (off of their excellent new album of the same name.). The song is fabulous and live it was technically tight and emotionally strong. Of course, the rest of the bored slobs in the audience seemed to have already lost interest by this point, about three minutes into the set. Their loss.
After “The Crane Wife” finished up, complete with an awesome electric-guitar-feedback-distortion ending, the lights went down and the group started right in again with their other three-part, 12-minute song, “The Island.” During this time I was singing a long and jumping up in the air and by the time both of these epic songs were over, I was totally energized and eager for the rest of the set, despite the everyone else around me. Unfortunately, this two song, sub-30 minute extravaganza was the high point of the show, and took place at the very start of it. They did play some other good songs: “O Valencia!,” “The Perfect Crime #2” and fan-favorite “The Mariner’s Revenge Song.” However, they didn’t play several of the songs that seem obligatory at any Decemberists show: “The Infanta,” “July, July,” and the marvelously anti-war “16 Military Wives.”
Though the show was actually disappointing because of its poor quality, equally disappointing, in retrospect, was the knowledge that it could easily have been much, much better if a few specific things had been done differently. The vast majority of the audience could have either been much more into the music, or just not have come, Meloy and his band could have better sensed the bored atmosphere and injected some life into the lame Seattle crowd by cutting down on their own unfunny banter and playing more well-known, sing-alongable songs.
Maybe the Decemberists’ brand of nuance-filled, hyper-literate bookstore rock doesn’t translate exceptionally well into a crowd-pleasing chorus-filled live show. Or maybe most of the people who think they like the Dememberists actually don’t like them at all. Or maybe all of the people who actively dislike the Decemberists decided to spend thirty dollars on a ticket to their tour-closing Seattle show because, hey, they all had nothing better to do on that particular Friday night. Or maybe attending concerts where the other attendees are visibly not enjoying the music and the people playing that music are visibly down-talking the aforementioned attendees––in a very nasally voice––isn’t really my thing. Maybe. And it doesn’t really matter how much I am enjoying the music, which, for the most part, I was. The vibe was killed before it was even born.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
This Is The Proper Way To Capitalize
So, from now on, sentences, proper nouns, etc. will be capitalized. The all lower case way was alright, but I got sick if it.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
LCD Soundsystem with Yacht, Live at The Showbox, May 2, 2007
Seattle’s Showbox was fucking sweaty last Wednesday night. The clean, repetitive, danceable beats of James Murphy and his LCD Soundsystem opened-for by the remarkably fresh, energetic laptop pop of Jona Bechtolt and his Yacht made sure of that. I wore a sweatshirt by mistake.
Portlander Jona Bechtolt (aka Yacht and that cool guy who made all of the beats for the Blow) stood up on stage alone before a relatively empty Showbox and began rocking out to pre-recorded multilayered track after pre-recorded multilayered track. Every few songs Bechtolt––who looks something like a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Jerry Seinfeld, only much more stylish than both––would adjust some setting on his well-loved MacBook, with “Grunge Ain’t Dead” written on the lid, and another song would instantly flare up.
The energy was very high despite the small crowd. Most people didn’t seem to be familiar with the songs––or even know who this kid was––but seemed to like it. After familiarizing yourself with the first few bars of each song, you could easily assemble the tune and bang and slide your head accordingly. Of course, the listeners’ jerky dancing was nothing compared to Bechtolt’s theatrics. He jumped high, kicked around, air-pianoed, banged his head, swung the mic and generally just really enjoyed himself. Then, a few songs in, he stopped the music and asked if anyone had any questions for him.
“No, seriously. Does anyone have any questions?” He asked, peering out into the crowd––which was an odd mix of indie kids, indie twenty-somethings and then several people who either were wearing business or ugly clothes and looked completely out of place. A few people actually did have questions. They ranged from the obvious (“How does performing make you feel?” Um, good.) to the uninformed (“Are you in the Blow?” I quit the Blow.) and then the awkward (“What was your weirdest sexual experience?” It involved a walk-in freezer.). The fact that Bechtolt took the time out of his already cramped set to answer half-a-dozen dumb-ass questions shows something. It shows that he’s in it to have fun. And you could really tell.
Besides the question-and-answer session, he also talked a little bit about the mundane things his songs are about and how he finds magic in those everyday experiences. His lyrics, his music, his dancing, his bright red pants and the name of his new record, I Believe In You. Your Magic Is Real., suggest a sense of optimism and humor, both of which made his set––and hopefully will make his album––absolutely great.
A long wait. Accompanied by a set change and some unrecognizable house music.
Finally, LCD Soundsystem takes the stage. At this point, the place has filled up considerably since Yacht and you can hardly move for the tightly-packedness. It’s getting hotter. LCD Soundsystem is James Murphy, but when LCD Soundsystem wants to perform live he does so with his five-piece band. The eight-minute “Us V Them” starts out the set and establishes the energy level of the show: Really high. Everyone within a ten-foot radius of the stage is swaying––and sometimes banging––into each other. We are just inches away from moshing. The music does lend itself to this type of sweaty, high energy rocking; it’s rock music but it’s also got the repetition and dance-ability of electronic club jams. And live the songs are even longer and louder than usual. And they do not let up. Murphy cranks it up a notch with “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” next and then keeps it at that notch with his new single “All My Friends” and a few other persistent body-moving songs off his first record.
The crowd is now aware that they will not be able to keep up their current pace and so the smashing into one another comes to an end, but there is no less enthusiasm in the room. I took this relative stillness as and opportunity to take off my sweatshirt, which was soaked in sweat––and it was not all mine. The crowd resets the energy level this time: High. The set continues, Murphy talks to us a little but not very much; he doesn’t really need to. Even though the songs are extended when played live, they seem to go by much faster than they do when you’re just listening on your own. You can see Murphy and the rest of his band loving every moment of the show. You could tell that this was Murphy’s band and also that they were extremely in sync with each other. During a drum break, Murphy would grab at a cymbal and hold it for exactly the right amount of time––stopping the sound––then he would let go, and his drummer would whack the cymbal again––tinginginging––then, Murphy would be back, grabbing the cymbal daintily for several seconds before letting go again. It was perfect.
Also, everyone in the place seemed to know the lyrics. A fact that is somewhat astonishing since new album, Sound of Silver, came out about the month ago. Everyone screamed the words to each song at the stage, trying to match Murphy’s voice. Once the first measures of the first single off of Sound of Silver, “North American Scum,” were played the crowd instantly knew what was coming next: that gorgeous “uh-uhh-uhoh.” Everyone knew it and everyone sang it. Then the words start, and with a huge group of North Americans singing it together it becomes pretty damn special. “Oh I admit/I dunno oh where to begin/we are North Americans/and for those of you who still think we’re from England/we’re not/no.” By the time he gets to the England part, we’re all screaming. Then Murphy’s humorous and observational lyrics continue, to stating relatable facts about our country, and everyone is singing a long at the top of their voices.
During “All My Friends” the people in all different groups of friends around me start to sing less towards the stage and more towards each other. The verse “You spend the first five years trying to get with the plan/and the next five years/trying to be with your friends again” could not be more true, or more widely sung by all of the twenty- and thirty-somethings who, apparently, know all too well how important is to just be with your friends after you work so hard for all your responsibility. And us kids can relate too: Friends are it. The final refrain, “If I could see all my friends tonight?” is repeatedly sung over and over until it stops, when it does stop there is hugging among friends and widespread agreement over the lyrics.
It soon becomes very obvious: LCD Soundsystem is making much, much more than just dance music; James Murphy is making dance rock that is as thoughtful as it is danceable. He knows a lot about a lot of things. He knows how to write a song. An electronic, repetitive dance song that is also humane and completely lovely. He also knows how to make people sweat.
Portlander Jona Bechtolt (aka Yacht and that cool guy who made all of the beats for the Blow) stood up on stage alone before a relatively empty Showbox and began rocking out to pre-recorded multilayered track after pre-recorded multilayered track. Every few songs Bechtolt––who looks something like a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Jerry Seinfeld, only much more stylish than both––would adjust some setting on his well-loved MacBook, with “Grunge Ain’t Dead” written on the lid, and another song would instantly flare up.
The energy was very high despite the small crowd. Most people didn’t seem to be familiar with the songs––or even know who this kid was––but seemed to like it. After familiarizing yourself with the first few bars of each song, you could easily assemble the tune and bang and slide your head accordingly. Of course, the listeners’ jerky dancing was nothing compared to Bechtolt’s theatrics. He jumped high, kicked around, air-pianoed, banged his head, swung the mic and generally just really enjoyed himself. Then, a few songs in, he stopped the music and asked if anyone had any questions for him.
“No, seriously. Does anyone have any questions?” He asked, peering out into the crowd––which was an odd mix of indie kids, indie twenty-somethings and then several people who either were wearing business or ugly clothes and looked completely out of place. A few people actually did have questions. They ranged from the obvious (“How does performing make you feel?” Um, good.) to the uninformed (“Are you in the Blow?” I quit the Blow.) and then the awkward (“What was your weirdest sexual experience?” It involved a walk-in freezer.). The fact that Bechtolt took the time out of his already cramped set to answer half-a-dozen dumb-ass questions shows something. It shows that he’s in it to have fun. And you could really tell.
Besides the question-and-answer session, he also talked a little bit about the mundane things his songs are about and how he finds magic in those everyday experiences. His lyrics, his music, his dancing, his bright red pants and the name of his new record, I Believe In You. Your Magic Is Real., suggest a sense of optimism and humor, both of which made his set––and hopefully will make his album––absolutely great.
A long wait. Accompanied by a set change and some unrecognizable house music.
Finally, LCD Soundsystem takes the stage. At this point, the place has filled up considerably since Yacht and you can hardly move for the tightly-packedness. It’s getting hotter. LCD Soundsystem is James Murphy, but when LCD Soundsystem wants to perform live he does so with his five-piece band. The eight-minute “Us V Them” starts out the set and establishes the energy level of the show: Really high. Everyone within a ten-foot radius of the stage is swaying––and sometimes banging––into each other. We are just inches away from moshing. The music does lend itself to this type of sweaty, high energy rocking; it’s rock music but it’s also got the repetition and dance-ability of electronic club jams. And live the songs are even longer and louder than usual. And they do not let up. Murphy cranks it up a notch with “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” next and then keeps it at that notch with his new single “All My Friends” and a few other persistent body-moving songs off his first record.
The crowd is now aware that they will not be able to keep up their current pace and so the smashing into one another comes to an end, but there is no less enthusiasm in the room. I took this relative stillness as and opportunity to take off my sweatshirt, which was soaked in sweat––and it was not all mine. The crowd resets the energy level this time: High. The set continues, Murphy talks to us a little but not very much; he doesn’t really need to. Even though the songs are extended when played live, they seem to go by much faster than they do when you’re just listening on your own. You can see Murphy and the rest of his band loving every moment of the show. You could tell that this was Murphy’s band and also that they were extremely in sync with each other. During a drum break, Murphy would grab at a cymbal and hold it for exactly the right amount of time––stopping the sound––then he would let go, and his drummer would whack the cymbal again––tinginginging––then, Murphy would be back, grabbing the cymbal daintily for several seconds before letting go again. It was perfect.
Also, everyone in the place seemed to know the lyrics. A fact that is somewhat astonishing since new album, Sound of Silver, came out about the month ago. Everyone screamed the words to each song at the stage, trying to match Murphy’s voice. Once the first measures of the first single off of Sound of Silver, “North American Scum,” were played the crowd instantly knew what was coming next: that gorgeous “uh-uhh-uhoh.” Everyone knew it and everyone sang it. Then the words start, and with a huge group of North Americans singing it together it becomes pretty damn special. “Oh I admit/I dunno oh where to begin/we are North Americans/and for those of you who still think we’re from England/we’re not/no.” By the time he gets to the England part, we’re all screaming. Then Murphy’s humorous and observational lyrics continue, to stating relatable facts about our country, and everyone is singing a long at the top of their voices.
During “All My Friends” the people in all different groups of friends around me start to sing less towards the stage and more towards each other. The verse “You spend the first five years trying to get with the plan/and the next five years/trying to be with your friends again” could not be more true, or more widely sung by all of the twenty- and thirty-somethings who, apparently, know all too well how important is to just be with your friends after you work so hard for all your responsibility. And us kids can relate too: Friends are it. The final refrain, “If I could see all my friends tonight?” is repeatedly sung over and over until it stops, when it does stop there is hugging among friends and widespread agreement over the lyrics.
It soon becomes very obvious: LCD Soundsystem is making much, much more than just dance music; James Murphy is making dance rock that is as thoughtful as it is danceable. He knows a lot about a lot of things. He knows how to write a song. An electronic, repetitive dance song that is also humane and completely lovely. He also knows how to make people sweat.
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