The Fanalyst

Tips for Rock Audiences

2006-12-20T09:41:00.000-08:00

In this final post, I've distilled some observations I've made about audiences over the last few years. These tips can come in handy at shows of any style of music (except for classical, which has its own set of rules) in nearly any venue. They come from a place of caring for you, your body, your ears, your love for music, and a desire for you not to be clobbered by a fellow show-goer.

1. Wear earplugs
Why do some shows get louder as they go on? Because the guy running the mix is nearly DEAF. Repeated attendance at loud rock shows can permanently damage your hearing. Do a favor for yourself and the people who will be around you when you are old, and get a decent pair of earplugs. Heck, get a cheap pair of earplugs. Just use them. Besides, using good earplugs can help separate the instruments and give you a cleaner sound.

2. Be quiet and pay attention
Most of the people who attend shows are there to hear the music. Their satisfaction of the show will significantly decrease if you are jabbering loudly with your friends through the whole thing, and you won't hear the show either. Some bands play songs quietly, so that means that you'll need to be quiet too. If an audience or band member yells in your direction to shut up, that's a good sign that you should take your conversation outside. Please. Reference.

3. Sing along in moderation
I love a good and well-orchestrated sing-along. Really --it's one of my favorite things in the world. But people randomly and loudly warbling along to every song a band plays makes me feel a teensy bit murderous. I know that you know all the words, but consider that the person next to you may have never heard the song before. Unless you are encouraged, sing along in your head or out loud quietly, but be respectful of the people around you so that they can experience the music as it is intended. Reference.

4. Move through a crowd politely
Advancing through a crowd is a common practice, and if you love a band, then by all means you should be at the front. Some techniques will get you through smoothly, and others will invite the ire and elbows of your fellow audience members. Be polite. Be careful with your drinks so you don't spill them on people. Recognize that some people will resist moving for you, and go around them. Stop when you realize you can't get any closer, and just enjoy the music. See techniques here and here.

5. Only shout requests when asked
You may have come to a show hoping to hear your favorite song. As the show progresses and that song still has not come up, you may get anxious. Unless there is complete silence in a room, the band is probably not going to hear what you request aloud. If they do, they interpret that as "I don't trust you to put a good set list together! Abandon that and do what I want!" which is annoying. Let them play what they want to play, unless they ask you for suggestions. Yelling "Freebird!" at any show makes you sound drunk and old.

6. Drink water
This is key at dance shows in hot places or anything at summer festivals. Collapsing from dehydration is not sexy or hardcore, and it causes trouble for the security staff. I have a new rule of drinking one glass of water per alcoholic beverage for the rest of my life, and it helps prevent headaches, hangovers, and wooziness. This may sound simplistic, but it's important. Stay hydrated.

7. Tip the bartender
This one is easy. Ensure yourself good service and strong drinks by tipping the people who serve you.

8. Don't be a drunk asshole
Woo! You are here with your best friends and you omg love this band wooooo!! We are so drunk right now!! This is the best night ever WOO! Please go forth and have a great time at the show, but be aware that crashing into people, engaging others in blathering conversation during a show, or causing your own friends to leave early because you have been ejected from the room is rude, not cute.

9. Turn your flash off
Most venues don't bother confiscating cameras anymore, so go ahead and bring it for some photos on the sly. Just turn your flash off. Yes, it's dark, but understand that your flash makes no difference beyond 20 feet in front of you. All you're doing with a flash is illuminating the heads of the audience members nearby, blinding the performer, and obliterating the nice colorful lighting. So turn it off, turn up your camera's ISO setting as high as it will go, and stay steady.

10. Applaud
Put yourself in the shoes of a performing musician: you are up on stage working, sweating, emoting, and at the end of the song you hear... crickets. An unmoving, silent audience can be devastating to a band, and yet they soldier on. Make the tiniest of efforts and clap at the end of a song. Move your body a little if you like the beat. Give them some encouraging feedback so that they deliver a great show for you.

Thanks to those of you who have been reading this blog for a short time or from the beginning (mostly my friends, I think) and for encouraging me along the way. If you'd like to wander through old reviews, please visit the Fanalyst Review Index.

-Shelley McIntyre
a.k.a. The Fanalyst
Seattle, WA

Tips for Rock Stars

2006-12-12T17:55:00.000-08:00

After more than twenty years of attending rock shows and 2.5 years of nitpicking over them in this blog, it's time for some summarizing summary action. I'm putting The Fanalyst to bed with two last articles. This is the penultimate post.

Tips for Rock Stars

These are not new concepts, but they warrant tabulation and repetition. They come from the perspective of an audience member, not a musician. They come from a place of love for you and for your music. They can apply to new bands, old bands, solo singer-songwriters, and duos. They apply equally to rock, country, dance, electronica, and other styles of music. They are free to implement. They are for boys and girls. Whether you sing teary songs of loss or polka songs of booze, they are for you. Because you are a rock star.

Make an entrance
You don't need to plunge through a cloud of dry ice and strobe lights to effectively announce your presence, only to walk purposefully and commandingly on to the stage. Slinking up to your instrument will make people think you are doing a sound check. Take up space.
Look good
While I love a band in a uniform, it isn't necessary to go all Devo on your crowd. Simply avoid crappy jeans, ratty t-shirts, and ball caps. You are a rock star. Dress like one, and do your hair like one. Besides, it shows that you respect and care about your audience, many of whom got dressed up to come out and see you.
Talk to the audience
Yes, they want to hear lots of songs, but what they really want is a personal connection with you (otherwise, they would just listen to the CD). If you ignore them, they will think you don't appreciate the fact that they are the reason you are on stage. Talk to them. Say hello. Tell them what you saw in their town today. Tell them a story.
Say your name
The audience at every show you play will contain at least a few people who have never heard your music before. Unless your name is written on a huge banner behind you, say it out loud several times during the show. Make sure these new potential fans walk away with your name seared on to their psyches.
Tell your audience what to do
Dance, clap in time, scream, move closer, sing! Provided there are enough people in the room, they will respond to your commands with glee. Crowds love receiving instructions - it helps them bond with each other and bond with your music.
Play the songs your fans already know
A live show is the perfect place to introduce new songs, but do this in addition to the songs your fans already know and like. They came to your show hoping and expecting to hear their favorite song, so play it for them. If you are dead bored of the song, mix it up or try different instrumentation, but get it out there.
When the crowd wants to sing along, let them
If your popular song is a ballad or has a rousing repetitive chorus that the majority of the crowd clearly knows, quiet the band down and let the crowd hear themselves sing, even if only for a few seconds. This is supremely satisfying to an audience, and they will do their best to please you and each other with their voices. It doesn't matter if they get the words wrong. Let them sing.
Look at your audience when you play
You may be playing an instrument, operating a sampler, talking to a bandmate or futzing with guitar pedals, but try to spend the vast majority of your time playing to the audience. Otherwise, you will look like you're phoning it in, and audiences will take your lack of attention personally.
Don't be a whiny baby
I know that your sound guy was barely paying attention during sound check and that now the levels in the monitors are totally messed up. I know that you can't hear the bass. Ask that it be fixed, and move on. Ask again if you need to. But please dear lord do not stop a song to complain about the mix, the instruments, the microphone, or anything else. Your fans will walk away remembering the complaints more than your music.
Fake it
Maybe you spent 11 hours in a van to arrive at your gig and you're feeling grimy and exhausted. Or maybe you are terrified of this show. Or your pet just died and you are stricken with grief. Unfortunately for you, your audience does not care. Take those feelings and hurl them into your performance. Even if you don't feel like it, pretend that you are a professional musician that is here to create a positive experience for your audience. Suck it up and deliver to give your audience the best possible opportunity to love you forever.

Feel free to chime in with additions or rebuttals.

-The Fanalyst

Foreigner

2006-11-07T22:47:00.000-08:00

Because We Know All the Words
Paramount Theater, Seattle, WA

It is beyond me why Foreigner is playing at the 2800-seat Paramount Theater. They're great and all, but believe me when I tell you that they played the Lake of Torches Casino last month. I suppose the challenge of filling this large venue is why I my friend and I are here for a total of five dollars.

The crowd is far more diverse than I expected. Walking through the lobby I spot a 10-year old girl with her mom, two punk teenagers with bright pink hair, several Tukwila rocker chicks, a handlebar mustachioed biker guy, and a pack of well-scrubbed technology workers. 80s anthems: they unite us in a way that can be matched only by natural disasters. As broad as the age range is here in the lobby, the real indicator of the advancing median age of the audience can be found in the Foreigner onesies for sale at the merch table.

We settle into our excellent balcony seats next to a lovely couple. The fellow sings for a band called Temperedcast, and he is VERY excited to be here seeing Foreigner, particularly since Jason Bonham is on drums. Always the bridesmaid, Jason continues to ride on his dad's reputation from Led Zeppelin as the band carts out the Zep medley ("let's help Jason send a message to his father!") and a cover of Misty Mountain Hop, which I suddenly realize has the same guitar riff as Uncontrollable Urge by Devo and YES I understand that I am the last person on earth to figure this out. People in the audience scream BONHAM! when Jason is introduced.

Mick Jones' introduction of the band concludes with lead singer Kelly Hansen. The Temperedcast guy next to me is shocked. Wait - the lead singer isn't he original guy? Uh, no, the original guy is off playing Christian rock at a SUNY Brockport Alumni Function. Kelly Hansen sounds astonishingly like Lou Gramm circa 1984. I find it interesting to note that Kelly is not permitted to speak - only to sing. As the hired gun, he is not afforded a persona outside of singing the Foreigner songs, just like how the handlers do the talking for Mickey and Goofy when you meet them at Disney World.

Down on the floor Mick encourages people to get out of their cushy seats and come to the front of the stage. I've been keeping my eye on a rocker chick down there wearing a tight red and black mini-dress and sparkly black heels (I see her later in the bathroom). She dutifully shakes her bleached hair and tries to discreetly distance herself from her lunkhead boyfriend. While she stays put, a bolder version of her manages to get on stage and dance for about ten seconds before being ushered off by a giant security guy.

My friend notes that the older members of the band must have doctor consults seared into their psyches. They do what they can to maintain an erect posture and rock out at the same time, resulting in an awkward robot sway from side to side with their instruments. This does not diminish their tried and true rocking out-ness, however. Foreigner sticks to the hits, keeps the banter to a minimum, and delivers to a T the energetic show that casino audiences the world over have come to expect.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: ***
Scene: *
Band to Audience Rapport: ***
Audience Focus: ***

More photos from the show

[P.S. This is my 100th review since beginning the blog in June 2004. Woo.]

TV on the Radio

2006-10-05T01:06:00.000-07:00

Dry Bar, Sweaty Floor
Showbox, Seattle, WA

TV on the Radio's first album sounded to me like it had been made by robots in an indie rock laboratory. The songs were crafted and interesting to the complete omission of emotion. So I was a little hesitant when my friend handed me a ticket and told me to go. I picked up their latest album "Return to Cookie Mountain" to prepare, and it has not left my CD player. These guys have figured out how to rock the house.

The Showbox is sold out tonight, packed with every scenester from Georgetown to Northgate. Since it's an all-ages affair, my friends and I head straight for the bouncer-protected bar, leaving the floor area to the under-21 crowd. At all-ages shows we like thinking that our ability to get into the bar makes us more special and gives us better sightlines. It's the whole VIP-section dynamic. But what really happens is that we are segregated from the rest of the crowd and we end up with a less immersive experience of the show than the kids on the floor. And it's just as hot up here. I quickly get antsy and head to the floor for some jostling action.

As I try to shimmy my way to the front, I get stuck between two sets of drunk BFFs (best friends forever!!). Behind me a guy sways woozily with his arms around two gals, and in front of me are two girls who OMG LOVE TVOTR soooooo much. They switch between three modes: hugging each other, pumping fists into the air and screaming WOO, and girl A accosting random guys while girl B text messages someone on her phone. Latching on to BFFs has its advantages and its pitfalls. While you can be sure that you will get closer to the front by following them as they brazenly plow through the crowd, 90% of your pictures will be blurry due to them elbowing and falling on you all night.

During one song, a mosh pit breaks out in front of me thanks to maybe 5 guys who choose to make it so. One grabs his other friend's hair in a catfight like move, they crash into other guys, and the other guys crash back. We all know this weird moshing will only last for one song since a lot of TVOTR's tunes are kind of droney, so we give the dancers space and patience. I suppose it's better for these guys to use dancing as a vehicle to release their aggressions than using an actual vehicle as a vehicle.

The band has this audience captivated, and the sweat and movement provided by lead singer Tunde Adebimpe only helps in that effort. He is a whirlwind, and infuses even the slowest songs with an intensity that you don't find so much in this genre. While we can't understand a thing he says when he addresses the crowd, he is unfazed as a girl from the audience gets up to dance on stage for most of a song, merely shooing her off when it's over. David Andrew Sitek, on the other hand, wearing a v-neck shirt that looks exactly like one I bought recently at H&M, remains perfectly still so I get pretty good pictures of him.

Meanwhile, my BFFs get two military-looking guys so caught up in the WOOing and hugging that that the guys temporarily forget that they are here with their girlfriends. Once the BFFs stumble away, the guys try to prolong the excitement by shaking some quiet girls in front of them with that annoying "you two are having TOO MUCH FUN. Quiet down now! Har har har!" to which these girls glance back as if to say, "um ya shutup." We need to focus on the blistering end of this show, where members of opening band Grizzly Bear come on stage to bang on instruments and provide further freakout energy to a breathless night.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: *
Scene: ****
Band/Audience Rapport: **
Audience Focus: ****

More Photos

Video from this show

Phoenix

2006-09-28T00:44:00.000-07:00

Research Rock
The Crocodile, Seattle, WA

You know those times when you're walking along minding your own cultural references, and your friend casually references a Hot New Thing, then ten minutes later your waiter mentions that very same band or artist and now suddenly they are EVERYWHERE? This happened in Seattle a few weeks ago with Banksy, and now it's happening with Phoenix.

Yes, I know that you hip people have been listening to Phoenix for nearly two years, like the UW senior I meet in line for the bathroom tonight. It's her adorable first time at the Croc, and earlier today she attended Phoenix's in-store at Easy Street. She said they were all great and cute, but that one of the guys gave her pedophile energy with his pervy-ness. She said that I would totally know which band member it was when I saw him.

The attire is refreshingly selective this evening, though it's divided between those who have already put away their summer clothes and those who are hanging on. A lot of boys wear skinny jeans, fancy t-shirts and sport coats. The girls have chunky lopsided blonde hair and strappy heels. I spot at least three fedora hats and a couple of those blasted driving caps that for some reason look fine if you are male and under 25.

Listening to the songs I get the sense that these boys have done their research. I picture them sitting in a conference room pouring over thousands of #1 pop songs from the last 30 years and extracting the best chord progressions and bridges. Maybe one of them brings in a PowerPoint presentation called "Extending the Promise of Tahiti 80." Another kicks off a brainstorming session to come up with ways that their live show can differ from their album. The results of this session clearly include "really long repetitive intro," "expanded bass/drum interlude," and "Thomas stares at crowd." These techniques work to increase tension and drama in the room only to a point; if they go on too long, we stop concentrating and start thinking of which emails we need to reply to and how long that hole has been in the ceiling.

Phoenix is made up of gorgeous boys who must get a ton of action. When lead singer Thomas Mars addresses the crowd, several of us think, um, aren't you guys supposed to be French? He gleams with pre-daddy star power and cranks through his songs accompanied by the bassist and a vocal effect that make it sound like there are five of him. They try to balance the incredibly catchy soon-to-be-hits with the noodling breaks, and it mostly works for this sold-out crowd of pop worshippers. Now we'll see how long hot can last.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: ***
Scene: ***
Band/Audience Rapport: **
Audience Focus: ***

Degenerate Art High School

2006-09-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

Danger! Art! High School
Lawrimore Project, Seattle, WA

For the uninitiated, the Degenerate Art Ensemble is, well, uh... it's a band sometimes, and a dance troupe other times, and an orchestra, and an experimental theater company. They perform pieces that bore their way into your skull and can either make you feel supremely enlightened or profoundly unhip. Tonight's loosely organized and happily chaotic party is called "Degenerate Art High School, " and it's a fundraiser for the group.

My friend and I arrive in our best plaid skirts and begin our first lap the Lawrimore Project, which is so spacious and lovely we almost forget we're next to the former INS jail. We have the main performance space, a detention room, a bar in the back, and a dunk-tank outside that features various band members in full marching band regalia. Activities include musical chairs, speed spelling bee, the wonderful Aerialistas, and the DAE band led by majorette Haruko Nishimura. You can see both the Aerialistas and DAE in this video.

The crowd is just on the fringes of Seattle's hipster scene. Most of the people are normal art-loving 20 and 30-somethings, with a sprinkling of adorable boys in skirts, space-age girls holding snakes, nerdy-looking guys dressed as shop or PE teachers, an older man who tries to look down my friend's top, and a local newspaper writer who later will throw his gin and tonic on my legs. However, none of these characters can out-character Stop Rape Guy and Crazy Girl.

As you can see in this fuzzy picture, he wears a t-shirt emblazoned with the words "STOP RAPE." She starts off with a wool cap and jacket, but sheds these items throughout the evening. Their respective bloodstreams course with a substance that is definitely not alcohol. Stop Rape Guy stumbles into people and things in his effort to get everyone to dance. DANCE!!! (My friend suggests we make t-shirts that say "Stop Stop Rape.") Crazy Girl gets progressively more belligerent until her coup de grace during the second round of musical chairs.

The nice orderly hipsters pay their five bucks to participate in musical chairs, where music is performed by DAE. Just before the round begins, Crazy Girl and Stop Rape Guy decide to join in. She barrels her way around the chairs with the group and he marches in the opposite direction. At first we think she's funny, and then when we realize that no security person is on the way to haul her ass out, the tension rises.

Crazy Girl is fearless--she flings herself on chairs when the music stops, frequently keeping that chair lodged between her legs as she crashes onto the floor. She climbs over the other players and walks across the chairs. The crowd is temporarily stunned into silence by this trainwreck until their fear/protection instincts take over and they start yelling "GET HER OUT OF THERE" to no one in particular. Where are the gallery owners? Where are the security guards? Finally both she and Stop Rape Guy are subdued. By this time the crowd is so invested in the safe completion of the game that they go completely bananas when the adorable girl in pink wins the round.

The organizers somehow recover from that disaster, but now the schedule is thrown way off and we don't get to see the Mike Min piece that we're here for. On our way out of the event we pass by Crazy Girl and Stop Rape Guy, who are lying on the cement ramp outside yelling about a sea of blue vaginas. For some reason, their continued attendance was allowed. It's an appropriate end to an exciting and degenerative art show.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: **
Scene: ***
Band/Audience Rapport: ****
Audience Focus: ***

American Idol auditions

2006-09-19T18:28:00.000-07:00

The Wanna-Carries
Key Arena, Seattle, WA

I figure that the best salve for missing American Idols Live! this year is to attend the Seattle stop of the American Idol 6 auditions. Well, "attend" inasmuch as I can hang around outside the smoking area talking to people. My friend Slick accompanies me today, and he is wearing fancy duds with the intention of blending in with the auditioners. However, we are both surprised to see the overall lack of care that these folks have put into their attire. Extra hair product does not equal dressing up, my friends.

The deal today is this: a zillion people, some of whom got in line yesterday morning, are assigned a contestant number and time to audition. They go in front of judges (not *the* judges) in groups of four, sing, and get either rejected on the spot or invited to come back tomorrow. A tiny fraction of people who get to come back tomorrow audition for the producers. If that goes well, they audition for Simon, Paula, and Randy. If THAT goes well, they go on to Hollywood for the semi-finals.

A press gal near me says that she and her camera guy have waited three hours to interview someone who makes it through to tomorrow's round. Fortunately, out comes Amanda from Spokane, all professional and unsurprised. Then comes Tony. They are both poised, articulate, well-dressed, and receive generous camera time by authorized media outlets. Slick and I get close enough for good shots and interview questions, but we are at risk since we're flying under the media radar. This place is teeming with security people and AI staffers whose job it is to shield the contestants from solicitors and unauthorized media people. (One tiny fib later: hello!)

Talking to all these happy and/or smoking people makes us long for a good old breakdown. We head around the corner to the Reject Gate. Most auditioners have a realistic perspective on this process and their chances here. We hear "well, it was a good experience," and "at least I got to see Seacrest" from teenagers lugging their lawn chairs and sleeping bags out to the bus stop. Very occasionally, though, a girl comes out of the gate crying, as she really TRULY thought she would be the next American Idol.

The diligent security offered around the corner at Winner Gate is not available at Reject Gate. As soon as people come out of the arena, a big guy hands them a flyer for a recording studio. Then another group of guys pounce on anyone remotely emotional, give them lots of encouragement, and get them to sign up for "free" recording time at their studio (one of the guys has an airbrushed shirt that says "Pimps Up!").

Despite the creepy solicitors, the crowd back here is far more interesting. Desiree wears a costume to fit her song, which is "Hero" ("they told me I wasn't loud enough" she says). An example of people leaving the Reject Gate can be seen in this video. A pack of people take turns singing their songs, then harmonizing with each other as confirmation that the judges are idiots and that they really can sing. Also, being in this crowd gives us the temporary, refreshing, and false feeling that we live in City Of Diversity.

On our way out we stop and talk to Owl, who just made it through to the next round despite battling a sore throat. He has ginger root in his pocket and says he couldn't sing his song as of yesterday. He looks dazed and weirdly calm as he tells me that if he makes it, he's going to call himself American Idowl. I ask him if he's happy, and he says blandly "I'm so excited I can't believe it," while his eyes dart around looking for someone. "My mom is supposed to be here," he says, "I just want my mom." And right then I am Owl's #1 fan and I pray that he makes it beyond tomorrow. Oh how I love this show.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: **
Scene: ***
Band/Audience Rapport: n/a
Audience Focus: ****

Nina Hagen & the Capital Dance Orchestra

2006-07-25T01:38:00.000-07:00

Growling Swing
Barcelona Teatro Musical, Barcelona, Spain

Apparently it takes a punk icon like Nina Hagen combined with shiny purveyors of 20s, 30s, and 40s swing music The Capital Dance Orchestra to create this gorgeous audience. Older hippies sip cava with terribly fashionable German couples; packs of excitable gay boys whisper about the hair styles of punk teens; posh older jazz afficionadoes steal glances at the eyeglass frames of hip web designers. It's very.

No format can stop Nina Hagen from being Nina Hagen, and having a swing orchestra as a backing band is no different. She comes out in a red FBI tank top, black and pink tutu, purple tights, and chunky orange heels. She lurches into each number, singing like she wrote the songs to be punk classics but now here they are being presented by a fancy orchestra. Her vocal range is shocking, and at times she reaches down into the caverns below the city to draw up a gutteral rasp that can make the cheeriest song sound downright creepy, as if every dance number is now a dark Weill piece.

Nina has four costume changes during the show which she handles during her frequent breaks, much like Cher did a million years ago. The band keeps playing, however, dually-led by an energetic singer and buoyant violinist. And as they did during the Cher show, some audience members take Nina's departure from the stage as a signal for a mini-intermission, slinking out for a cerveza or a smoke. At one point the couple behind me leaves, and ten minutes later are replaced by two new people. You just can't keep Spaniards in one place for too long.

At the start of the show, only press photographers go to the front of the stage for photos, leaving the rest of us to curse our weak zoom lenses from our seats. Then during her second set one guy creeps down the aisle in front of me to get a better picture. Thus begins the Rolling Permissions Phenomenon (RPP). Some see RPP as a lemmings theory, that if one person jumps everyone else will. But I like to think of it as a self-esteem builder. Two punk girls look at the first guy and say "if that shmuck can go down there and take a photo, *we* sure as hell can." And so then a song later they march themselves down to the front. Soon people are inching their way forward like flies to a lightbulb, getting bolder and bolder with their positioning.

It only takes a couple of guys who walk right up and rest their cameras on the stage for RPP to really thunder. By the end of Nina's third set there are around 40 people at the front. By the end of the fourth set there are 100. And during her encores at least 120 people are cramed into the small asile between front row and stage. Finally, during Nina's first curtain call, the bravest girl of all jumps up on stage to hug and kiss Nina, then turns to her friend to pose for a photo. It's like the whole crowd suddenly remembered that this is Nina Hagen, who was stomped on and spat at during shows for a decade. She of all people will not be alarmed by adoring fans taking her damned picture.

Half of the songs tonight are in English, and half are in German. The Capital Dance Orchestra is fantastic, and the singer belts out Cole Porter and other tunes while Nina gets changed. Of course her German songs are more heartfelt, and she dedicates several of them to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., the American peace movement, people living in harmony throughout the globe, and her own ancestors. The audience is charmed and delighted to hear such a unique take on pieces of music that are seldom messed with. But mostly we're happy that despite the backdrop of peppy cocktail music, Nina still growls, stomps, and struts her way beyond the end of a fantastic show.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: ***
Scene: ****
Band/Audience Rapport: ***
Audience Focus: ****

Estrella Morente

2006-07-20T02:03:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Disaster
Palau de la Musica Catalána, Barçelona, Spain

I am here at the 2100-seat Palau de la Musica Catalana to see both the building in all its modernista opulence and a belle of modern flamenco music, Estrella Morente. On our way into the concert hall, some local women voice their surprise at the sold-out crowd, seeing as how Estrella has been out of the scene for a few years. But she's back. And no one will forget this show for a very long time.

You know how in some of your larger concert halls there is a dividing line between the expensive seats and the cheap seats? Usually this is in the second balcony about halfway back. So the people in the front have paid like 50 bucks each, and the back section only 25 bucks. Tonight I am in my most loathed place: the last row of the spendy section. Just five feet behind and a head above me, hundreds of better planners enjoy good sightlines and cheaper chairs.

I sit down expecting to be surrounded by posh local patrons of the Barcelona arts. Instead I am in the midst of French, Dutch, British, and Greek tourists. There are plenty of locals here, though: you can tell where they (the bossy ones, anyway) by how they shush people. In the U.S., shushing is a long SHHHHH sound. In Spain, it's a rounded SSSSS, like you're about to say susurro. There is even circular shushing here tonight, the people are so intent on quiet.

Estrella begins her set seated and accompanied by a guitarist. She is fabulous with a long drapey shawl, waving a gorgeous fan that inspires fan-envy. Her singing is somewhat emotional, but she's just warming up. Then, in the middle of her fourth song, PAF. The power goes out in the ENTIRE CONCERT HALL. Consternation erupts until seconds later when we realize Estrella is still singing. The crowd goes dead quiet; I haven't heard this many people be so silent since the Sigur Rós show. We collectively pray for her to keep singing, and she does. The room goes wild at the end of the song, and then she and her guitarist walk off the stage. Some confusion and the odd heckle later, a person from the Palau comes on to the stage, saying something that is of course completely drowned out by the shushers. An old man near me stands up and hollers something accusingly in Catalán until he too is shush-monished.

Encouraged by shouts and rhythmic clapping, Estrella and a pianist come back on stage. Now freed from the microphone and charged by the agitation from the audience, she sings while roving the stage. Her emotional output has gone up tenfold. The crowd goes bonkers. However, there is still a significant amount of stirring among us, particularly since people are getting hot with no A/C. THEN the emergency lights go out and we are in total blackness. Seconds later, the follow-spot guy near us realizes he has power. He aims that followspot on Estrella, and the other follow-spot guys quickly join. Now only she is illuminated on the stage, and she shines like a beacon. Power, amplification, and the air all slowly cycle back on. She keeps singing, and the crowd settles back down. Can this show possibly get any better? OH YES IT CAN.

Two songs later, the power goes out AGAIN. This time, the old heckler guy stands up and starts hollering. He is immediately attacked by a vehement shusher, they fight, then both promptly get their asses turfed out. The band starts, they stop. They try to address the crowd and they are met with shouted advice, admonitions, or praise from every corner of the room. They offer to keep singing unamplified in the dark or come back another day. The crowd chants "Otra dia! Otra dia!" The band breaks into an emotional acapella improvised song anyway, competing with the hecklers, the shushers, and the rapidly abandoning audience members who stumble on the darkened stairs as they group their way out. It is a mess.

The show finally fizzles out when it becomes clear that electricity is not in our future. The band bows, Estrella offers her apologies and gratitude, and it's over. Those of us who remain loiter in the foyer and the courtyard as we are all riled up and not ready to go home. This audience is bound together by some kind of artistic crisis. Some are angry, some sad, and others, like me, are deliriously happy to have witnessed such an electrifying event.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: ***
Scene: ****
Band/Audience Rapport: ****
Audience Focus: ****

The Pope

2006-07-09T00:36:00.000-07:00

The Waiting Is the Hardest Part
Valencia, Spain

The Pope is behind schedule. He was supposed to drive by us in the Pope Mobile at noon, and it´s after 1:00. There are probably 10,000 people here in Plaza de Reina, and a million more distributed along his route. The plaza features tons of police, camera crews, and a large video screen to track his progress, but that screen is 3/4 hidden by a tree. It is stinking hot and shade is at a premium.

Spain is 98% Catholic, so you can imagine that this is a popular event. His timing is good for Valencia, as 41 people died here on Monday after a terrible metro crash. When we hear rumblings in the crowd that Benny has stopped to pay tribute to the families of the victims, we cut him some slack. This does not in any way alleviate our discomfort, however. Squished like sardines along a metal barricade, my friends and I quickly realize that the personal space bubble we so enjoy back home is not available in Spain. We each have a sweaty person pressing his body against us and stepping on our shoes. We thrust elbows back and butt out, which encourages them even more.

I relent and squeeze out to seek shade, and I end up near a pack of seniors. They do their best to find comfort in the heat, with the women fanning themselves non-stop (I position myself directly behind), and the men hoisting their legs over railings to sit the heck down. Their families show up, and the little kids try to weasel their way past abuelo and abuela to get a better view, and they get a stern lecture about how seniors will *always* take precendence over little kids, no matter how cute they are.

Every so often a bus tour of youth group kids from somewhere in Spain will bounce by, all with an inventory of cheers for the Pope. The girls groups are completely together and perform them like an A-school cheerleading squad. The boys get their motivation from the many television cameras scattered throughout the plaza. A brass band hanging out in the shade picks up on one of the cheers and plays along, and the boys believe they've already gone to heaven.

Finally we hear clapping thundering up the street, and since sweat is now dripping down all of our bodies we pray to please deliver the Pope unto us. Since I've now lost my spot against the barricade, I crane to see what I can from senior station. It's not much, and since I'm now dehydrated and shaky, I see exactly the back of the Pope Mobile. We watch him go down the street, get out of the car and wave to people, then go inside the Archbishop's palace for a meeting. And then it's over.

Of course, that evening far fewer people line the street to watch him drive by again. The street that my hotel is on. Where we have balconies. We all feel like idiots for having waited for hours in the sun earlier in the day, but we chalk it up to experience. Benedict and his security crew sail down the street, and we have all the photo opps we can hope for. He gives a mass the next day for a crowd of over a million (I'm guessing, but based on the number of port-a-potties here I think that's safe), who I hope get some spiritual comfort from their number one guy.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: *
Scene: ****
Performer/Audience Rapport: **
Audience Focus: ****

Bob Dylan

2006-07-07T14:17:00.000-07:00

Tangled Up In Bob
Valencia, Spain

Thousands of people are crowded into this outdoor venue to worship at the altar of Dylan. To my left is a 13-year-old boy with his two older brothers, which warms my heart immensely. In front of me are two handsome businessmen in their mid 50s. At 2 o'clock is a pack of 30-somethings who stare reverently at the stage. And to my right is a group of young guys who are so wrapped up in the fact that they are here that they frequently forget to watch the show.

Dylan addresses the crowd not at all. In fact, he does not speak until the very end when he says thank you and introduces the band. However, the crowd cares not one whit. Dylan could have coughed and wheezed to musical accompaniment for the entire show and the audience would have cheered just as enthusiastically. But it's the crowd's attempt at singing along that gets everyone all discombobulated.

As you know, Dylan is a word guy. It's amazing the songs even ended up with melodies, but of course that is what people latch on to, particularly when a large percentage of them don't speak English. So we have these weird moments where Bob is making up a brand new melody for a song but the crowd is trying to sing along with the original tune. "Tambourine Man" features not one single interval from the original recording; Bob opts instead for frequent repetitions of his favorite interval, the octave.

As the show progresses, people start figuring out that if you go ahead and mostly sing the octave and switch out the words, you can learn these new melodies pretty quickly. A guy next to me got the formula down and now will forever remember "Rolling Stone" as having exactly three notes. The people at the front are having none of that, belting out the original melody loud enough to drown out Bob.

Bob gets drowned out a fair amount. His voice is completely trashed, but of course that will not be silenced. While his keyboard is probably super loud in his monitors, we can barely hear it. The band works around this nicely: they focus on him intently, pick up the theme that Bob is plonking out, then repeat that theme quickly before Bob realizes his instrument is not turned on. Bob has retained his harmonica chops, though, and the crowd freaks out whenever he does a noodling solo.

After a while the crowd gets more quiet, probably because it takes us all fully until the chorus to recognize what song we're hearing. This requires concentration. The set list is tweaked and polished until it sheens, however, and right at the end they kick it up with "Highway 61" which thankfully everyone knows. The closing numbers erase the confusion we experience for the previous hour, and we glide out into the warm night believing we just saw one hell of a show.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: **
Scene: ****
Band/Audience Rapport: *
Audience Focus: ****

Gay Pride Madrid 2006

2006-07-01T12:27:00.000-07:00

Vikings, Bears, and Short Shorts
Plaza de Alcalá, Madrid, Spain

I'm told this is the largest Gay Pride parade in Europe, and by the sheer number of people here, I believe it. However, as far along as Spain is in the gay rights department, they could use some help from cities like San Francisco with the art of throwing a parade. Come to think of it, if we spent more time on legislation and less time building the floats... hmm.

We begin with a seemingly endless string of societies and organizations that promote tolerance. You've got your lesbians, your deaf gay folks, your university alliances, your religious gays. That's really where I see the most divergence between pride parades here in Europe and back home in the U.S.. Religion is a much bigger issue here.

Spectators are delighted to be a part of this event, as we are looking at the largest collection of beautiful men anywhere. It is stinking hot, so most people clamor into the shady spots, box of sangria or Mahou beer in hand, and cheer dutifully when different groups come by. (But then you have that awkward parade thing where the group gets the crowd riled up then they have to stop for five minutes due to parade congestion. Then no one knows what to do.)

People in costume are at a minimum, surprisingly. The effect of this is that anyone wearing anything remotely themed must pose for pictures every three feet. But we are all about love love love so even the mean tall drag queens don't mind so much.

We *finally* get some float action. A float in this parade is a flatbed trailer, lighting rack, sign for a club or cosmetic draped across the side, and 100 sweating gay men and three women in bikinis stuffed inside. Spectators crane to see the results of millions of hours in the gym, and some stick fingers in their ears to protect against the tinnitus-inducing music blaring from each truck.

Eventually the entire parade route stalls, and the floats crawl along at 100 feet per half hour. The poor hefty guys in the Bearçelona float stop dancing, conserving their energy for when they enter shade again. No matter to the crowd. They go insane for each new float as it inches by, encouraging hardbodies and activist bodies alike to do what they do best. Which today, is to sweat and sing and hurl support at the people who support them right back.

Fanalyst Rating

Fashion: **
Scene: ****
Performer:Audience Rapport: ***
Audience Focus: ****

World Cup Fan Fest, Berlin

2006-06-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

Brasilia Mi Amor
Near Brandenberg Gate, Berlin, Germany

We are situated on a long stretch of road between Grosser Stern and the Brandenberg gate. It is filled with people, video screens, random games and activities, and beer stands. The Germans - they know a thing or two about temporary beer kiosks. The game is Brazil vs. Japan, with the crowd here being overwhelmingly in favor of Brazil.

Fans wear their national colors with price and vengeance. I talk to many sets of childhood buddies on a pilgramage to the football holy land. Their love of the game and the friends who are here with them is balanced by their gleeful hatred of opposing teams. The Brazilians want to see the Argentinians pummelled to a bloody pulp. The Scots wish terrible things upon the English, and so on. Nothing like mixing sports with centuries-old political and religious grudges.

After home country and ancestry, people's reasons for supporting certain teams gets a bit squishy. One person like Ghana's shirts. Another selects based on hair styles, and more than one gal roots for Sweden because #3 is an underwear model for Calvin Klein.

Once the game is underway, fans are riveted. This is not just a game--none of them are. National pride is at stake here. Besides, hell if Japan is going to beat Brazil at their own game. When Japan scores, the crowd goes mild.

At halftime a fresh-faced spokesperson tries to keep the crowd engaged by hosting games and introducing cheerleaders. This peters out when we have to watch seven minutes of FIFA-mandated commercials, but of course the crowd revs back up for the exciting, if not predicatble, Brazilian win. Bets are collected on, horns blare, and the crowd stumbles out through the Brandenberg gates to start the whole process over tomorrow.

Fanalyst Rating:

Fashion ****
Scene ***
Band:Audience Rapport - n/a
Audience Focus: ****

Pinkertones / Goldfrapp

2006-06-19T22:47:00.000-07:00

I´m Dancing as Fast as I Can
Sonar Festival, Barcelona, Spain

Again we will cover two shows from the Sonar festival, both day and night. First up is The Pinkertones, a band I stumbled across on MySpace a couple of months ago and have been smitten with ever since. They are in the doomed first slot of the day festival, which is attended by far fewer people than the evening concerts. And they´re in a tent where people usually sit around and smoke, barely paying attention to the DJ.

The boys remind me a little of OK Go in that they are all about stage presence, they weave in some choreography, and they instantly get the entire crowd on their feet and moving around. This is an accomplishment for a crowd that was up until 5am. The people here love this band, and by the end of the first song they are dancing which as you know makes me very happy.

One audience member dances and sweats his butt off then VERY considerately has his friend spray a fresh batch of deodorant under his arms. Oh and hey you know those haircuts that all the rocker boys started getting a few years ago? Like a modern mullet? Well, the girls in Europe all have them now. I´m calling it the Groupie Do, and astonishingly it works well on most gals here, provided they combine it with High Fashion.

Advance ten hours and ten miles, and we´re at the big opener to the Saturday shows for Sonar. I met a guy in a shop earlier today who poo-poo´d the Saturday shows as too big and commercial, opting instead for the unknown gems of Friday night. I say at least I´ve heard of some of these people.

Goldfrapp is first, and based on all accounts of their Seattle show, they did pretty much the same thing. The hot outfit, the hair-blowing fan, the incredible light show. The people crushed to the front of the stage are having a fantastic time, but there are hundreds of others on the periphery who are thinking, "I am far too drunk to enjoy this right now," so they keep a safe distance.

In terms of crowd dynamics, I´ve gotta say that the smaller tents win out over the gigantic convention halls. While the bigger venues provide more opportunities for the band to create a showy spectacle, their performance can come across as removed from the people who are supporting them. In smaller places there is more at stake for everyone involved, and higher stakes can lead to a scintillating show. Pinkertones win this round.

Pinkertones
Fashion **
Scene ***
Band:Audience Rapport: ****
Audience Focus: ****

Goldfrapp
Fashion *
Scene ***
Band:Audience Rapport: *
Audience Focus: ***

Fanalyst Ratings System

2006-06-19T15:22:00.000-07:00

For those of you who are not so much for all the words, I´ve created a simple ratings system for reviews. We´ll rate each category from one to four stars. The categories are:

Fashion
Is clothing haphazardly thrown on, or are items carefully selected? We´re not looking for high fashion per se, but evidence of deliberate choices. Themes get bonus points.

Scene
Is the show a run-of-the-mill performance to regulars, or is there a buzz that makes this a capital-E-event?

Band to Audience Rapport
Does the band ignore the crowd and likewise, or do they establish a relationship to which the audience responds?

Audience Focus
Does the audience fidget and drink, or do they gaze upon the band with rapt attention?

Groove Armada / Scissor Sisters

2006-06-17T03:32:00.000-07:00

The Conversation
Club Mephisto / Sonar 2006, Barcelona, Spain

Interior, Night. The first of two shows we're discussing is Groove Armada, a DJ (at least, only one is here tonight) spinning at an out-of-the-way club in a random neighborhood in Barcelona. There are about five opening acts tonight, and we arrive to a packed house and the final (and super boring) opener at 1:45 am. Spain. It wakes up late. Photos forthcoming.

This show was heavily advertised at the Sonar festival, so there is high crossover with festival attendees--the young and hip from all over Europe, the US, and Canada. You can pick out the Spanish women from the tourists by their impractical footwear and glittery belts. One member of the Eurosvelte is Flipper. She loooooves her long hair and ensures its proper appreciation by whipping it around her head every 30 seconds or so. Several people step back a few times to avoid the more airborne flippage.

Stomp is next, and important as she is a perfect indicator of how well the DJ is doing. When Stomp stomps, then we have a solid beat going and all is well. If she stops and moves uncertainly, then the DJ is not cutting it (this happens several times during the opening act). It would behoove DJs the world over to notice these people and make sure they keep stomping. When Groove Armada finally takes the stage, the only way we know it's him is that he has a guy sort of rapping on mic who yells "Groove Armada!" every 15 seconds. Yay branding! Groove Armada ups the quality of the mix 100%, and Flipper, Stomp, and the rest of the crowd are supremely pleased.

CUT TO Exterior, Day. We have hustled over to one of the Sonar stages to see a band called White Diet, who we've never heard of but who sound interesting on paper. As we approach the stage we hear the Scissor Sisters singing "Take Your Mama Out Tonight," so I think, great, the band hasn't taken the stage yet. But in fact they HAD, and White Diet was a ruse for a surprise show by the Scissor Sisters. Hooray!! This band delivers joy, and the crowd is thrilled and dancing.

The interaction between the Scissor Sisters and the crowd makes me think about how different the scene was for the Groove Armada show. Jake and Ana from Scissor Sisters know exactly what to say to get a crowd to jump around, they bring attention to certain active audience members, and they command behavior and movement. We are in their palms. The DJs at the Groove Armada show mostly ignored the crowd. While Groove Armada pulled off an impressive mix, the guy before him seemed to play what he wanted and did not take very obvious cues from the crowd.

The shows I love most are conversations between audience and performer. It's easy for performers to get in a zone and play what they're going to play despite a crowd's reaction. You have to steel yourself against audience apathy if you want to continue as a musician, so some of that makes sense. But when you are creating flexible and nearly-improvised music, you have the luxury to react to and try to change a crowd's mood. Crowds notice this - nothing is more satisfying than a sudden change in the music just when you're starting to get bored. Groove Armada does this to a degree, but Scissor Sisters are the pros here.

Miguel Migs

2006-05-21T10:03:00.000-07:00

Flinging Beads of Vodka
Chop Suey, Seattle, WA

Poor Miguel Migs is accustomed to performing at immense venues filled with the beautiful and sweaty. While Chop Suey is sold out tonight, it's a small and intimate space that probably doesn't make him feel as famous as he is in other cities. That intimacy also makes it a hell of a lot harder to take pictures of people without being questioned as to whether they'll end up on the Internet along with revealing comments. Oh gosh no - not at all. Just for my scrapbook.

First up is someone who I quickly understand to be one of the queens of the live house music scene in Seattle. When I approach the stage she grabs me by the hands to inspect this obviously fresh piece of dance meat, saying with elongated vowels, "do you like Houuuuuuuse? I haven't seen you arouuuuuund!" She introduces herself, "I am Svetlana - have you heard dat name befoooooooore?" Soon she's dancing on the stage and inviting others to join her, as you can monitor in this video.

As lovely as Svetlana is, she is only the second most-popular queen in the room. This guy is so entirely fabulous that whenever he is on stage dancing, the show becomes about him instead of Migs. He tries to teach another less nimble fellow some dance moves so they can wow the crowd with an impromptu choreographed number, but the dude is either not sober or gay enough to follow, so he breaks off to continue his shimmy separately.

This crowd is pretty diverse for Seattle. We have a refreshing blend of ethnicities and an age spread broad enough to not make me the oldest person in the room. It's a terrible venue for a straight guy to pick up a straight girl, however. Fashionable clothing + dance music + Capitol Hill = you are gay. I know that at least half the guys here are not, but the odds are stacked against them.

My friend orders me a vodka tonic, which the bartender hears as "100% vodka with lime." I spend the next hour switching up between the booze, a separate glass of tonic, and a giant glass of water, mainly so I can steer clear of Svetlana's spell. As I'm standing there with 2 of my 3 glasses, a guy comes up to me and says, "YOU ARE SHIMMERING WITH POWER" so I take 3 extra sips of the tonic to dull my gloss.

Hey remember when we talked about the types of dancers? My favorites here are the Zoners, specifically one girl who dances her butt off the whole night without a break. A Bonder couple dance well together for most of the evening, but then when the girl does the dirty-dance slide down the guy's legs, he takes the opportunity to check out the gals on stage. There is a lot to look at here tonight, and while Migs' set started off a little clunky, he has most of the crowd hopping until his set ends at 2:00. It may not be a crowd of thousands, but this group does its best to throw the man some props.

Cloud Cult

2006-05-13T06:36:00.000-07:00

Gaining, Holding, Losing Ground
The Crocodile, Seattle, WA

There are a number of techniques you can use to hold your spot in a crowded club, a few of which are being described by a guy next to us as we wait for Cloud Cult to take the stage. "Keep your knees slightly bent and your feet a bit apart," he says, as if describing the proper body mechanics for lifting a heavy box, "and then don't let anyone move you, ever." This is a good theory, but it doesn't take a few variables into account that allow you to gain, hold, or lose ground.

Gaining ground: People will often start toward the back of the room and move up simply by filling in the vacuum of others who leave or shift around. Tonight we watch countless people do the casual shuffle forward the instant some poor sap dares to go out for a drink. Of course you can always just plow through to the front, but by the time the show starts you'll have all these people lowering their centers of gravity to get ready for you. So now you just hope for attrition.

Holding ground: Like our guide mentioned, you can make yourself practically unmovable if you want to. One gigantic guy tries to maneuver his way through the crowd, but a couple near me is having absolutely none of it. He is trapped and tries to make a joke of it, but he is far too large and lunk-headed to receive sympathy from anyone around him. This makes him a Foil.

Losing ground: You can get foiled at any moment. Try to be nice and let someone find their person in another part of the room, and they will end up in front of you, shoving you back slightly. Move aside so someone can get out, and they will not only stand in front of you, they will be one foot taller AND wider than you are (we shorter people believe all crowds should be arranged by height). Get what you think is a great spot and have the people around you be talkers, messy drunks, or smell-emitters. You can avoid being a Foil yourself by staying put, securing loose articles of clothing, and please dear god being quiet during quiet songs.

Illustrative examples: (1) An Italian couple in front of us chatters incessantly as the band starts, which would be infuriating if they didn't TALK SO PRETTY so I can't tell them to be quiet. (2) Italian man has a narrowly-defined sense of personal space and is happy to stand one half inch in front of me. (3) A well-dressed couple (my friend would call the guy a "cute little man") get progressively more drunk on PBR and Red Stripe, and eventually do the drunken slow dance to the fastest songs. (4) While Cloud Cult plays the lovely "Transistor," a guy on the other side of the room screams "SHUT THE HELL UP!" to the chatterers and now I love him.

Cloud Cult puts on a terrific show despite the crowd's jockeying for position. The best part is watching two painters on stage create these fantastic pieces while the band plays (they are later auctioned, and the one here that I love goes for $350). My little friend at the top of the page stands holding his ears for three full songs (earplugs, sweetie!). The audience is full of earnest math-rockers, the requisite where-did-you-come-from? beautiful girls, and the indie crowd. And the band crams a ton of music into one hour while gushing about Seattle, which of course makes them sound even better.

Fanalyst Review Index

2006-05-12T17:55:00.000-07:00

Music

American Idols Live! 2004
American Idols Live! 2005
Aqualung, Luke Temple
Beck
The Black Keys
Jon Brion!!
Jon Brion, Jon Auer
Cher
Citizen Cope
Cloud Cult
Dayglo Abortions, The Antithesis, Mr. Plow
Death Cab for Cutie, Harvey Danger
Mike Doughty
Drive-By Truckers & Son Volt
Minnie Driver
Dudley Manlove Quartet
Bob Dylan
Hilary & Haylie Duff
Earlimart, The Shore

The Fading Collection
The Faint
Fatboy Slim
The Frames
Flogging Molly
Franz Ferdinand, SOIL Auction, KEXP show
Foreigner
The Futureheads
Future Pigeon
Eliza Gilkyson
Greenwood Allstars
Groove Armada / Scissor Sisters
Nina Hagen & the Capital Dance Orchestra
Handsome Boy Modeling School, Buck 65
Hot Hot Heat, Louis XIV

Kasabian, The Music
The Killers, The Pussycat Dolls
Sander Kleinenberg
Maktub
Graig Markel, Robert Roth, Pleasure Club
John Mayer
MC5 featuring Mark Arm & Evan Dando
Miguel Migs
Estrella Morente
Mountain Con, Heather Duby, Kuma
The New Pornographers
New York Dolls
Nortec Collective
OK Go

Phoenix
Pinkertones/Goldfrapp
Pop Smear Test
Presidents of the USA, Mountain Con
Public Enemy
Radio Nationals, Dear John Letters, The More
Red Light Music
Queen + Paul Rodgers
John Roderick, Graig Markel, etc.
Justin Rutledge
Scissor Sisters
Seattle Symphony performing Orff's "Carmina Burana"
Sigur Rós
Sleepytime Gorilla Museum
Super Diamond
Swing

TV On the Radio
U2
United State of Electronica
USE, Death Cab for Cutie, Presidents of the USA

Art

Greater New York 2005 exhibit
"Bashville" art auction

Festivals

Deck the Hall Ball
Gay Pride Madrid 2006
Ladyfest Seattle opening night
Moisture Festival
Sasquatch v. EndFest 2005
Seattle Erotic Art Festival
SXSW 2005 Wrap-Up

Special Events

Adult Entertainment Expo
American Idol 6 auditions
AVN Awards Show & After-Party
Butt Rock vs. New Wave Karaoke
Degenerate Art Ensemble
Emerald Cup Bodybuilding Championships
Eurofever - Abba and Bee Gees tributes
Extreme Makeover: Home Edition
Flickr Turns 2 Party
Fremont Outdoor Movie
Giampino family benefit show
"Gimme the Mike!" show taping
The Iron Composer
New Year's 2006 Swaray
The Oracle Gathering
The Pope in Valencia, Spain
Seattle Semi-Pro Wrestling
World Cup Fan Fest, Berlin 2006

Theater

Carlotta's Wing Ding
Brown Derby Theatre's "Showgirls"
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
The IKEA Cycle: Tiny Domestic Dramas
Suicide Girls Burlesque Show

Me Rambling About Things

Boyfriend accounting
Girlfriend Accounting
One-year Anniversary

Drive-By Truckers & Son Volt

2006-05-10T14:20:00.000-07:00

Smoke, Spit
Showbox, Seattle, WA

Back in 1990 when Uncle Tupelo taught alternative rock fans to stop worrying and love the country music, formerly-homogeneous audiences became much more interesting to look at. Granted we're all still mostly white, but now you've got cowboy hats, baseball caps, dreads, football jerseys, and sandals all mixed in together. Girls are at a premium, however, and it takes me a few minutes to notice the SCADS of men trying to make eye contact with me. Since country-loving gals are hard to come by in Seattle, the show can now double as a dating service were one so inclined.

Among those who are decidedly not inclined are the MANY superfans here. Son Volt is pretty legendary in this genre, and Drive-By Truckers are getting airplay that the former only dreamed of back in the day. Superfans sing along with every song, carefully document the performance with a variety of electronic devices, or dance a spazzy dance to even moderately paced songs as soon as they begin.

On that note, you may have noticed that audiences recognize songs at one of three stages, arranged from Superfan to casual listener: (1) first note; (2) presentation of musical theme; (3) first verse vocals; (4) chorus.

The stage 1 folks applaud the loudest because they love the song and want YOU to appreciate how fast they recognized it. The stage 2 people have just a tad less enthusiasm, since some of them are thinking "oh right - jeez - I should have recognized that on the first note." The stage 3 people are a bit quieter, because why is it so great that you recognize a song NOW? The stage 4 people are drunkards who heard the song on the radio and never listen to verses anyway.

Six months ago I praised shows that left me only partially reeking of cigarette smoke. Now that our non-smoking rules are in effect, I am ALL UPPITY about even the slightest whiff of smoke, and believe me, I have olfactory superpowers. So when the guys from Drive-By Truckers get on stage and create their own toxic cloud, that is all I can focus on for the first ten minutes of their show.

The novelty of their smoking quickly gives way to the generous amount of moisture emanating from the face of Patterson Hood as he sings. Spit billows out of his mouth with every plosive and sweat drips profusely from his beard. The man is working his ass off and having a great time. His enthusiasm and the rest of the band's stellar playing go a long way for this attentive and happy audience, full of PBR and love.

Dudley Manlove Quartet

2006-05-06T00:48:00.000-07:00

The End of Irony
Sunset Tavern, Seattle, WA

When we walk in to the Sunset, the first thing I think is "who are all these OLD people?" and then I remember, oh right - THEY ARE ME. Tonight the crowd is split in half between those of us who have been attending Dudley shows since the mid 90s and the younger set who are pretty much replicas of us ten years ago, except with a more attuned fashion sense and better hair.

I will always think of this decade as the one where we all got over ourselves and started listening to Steve Miller again. Finally freed from the shackles of hip, we can admit that we know all of these songs. The more charming audience members sing blatantly incorrect lyrics at top volume, and the serious people make sure you know that they know both the verse AND THE BRIDGE to the Rick Astley song while you only know the chorus, chump. (Hang on - you know the bridge of this song? Really? Why?) Two people in front of me do the bump for nearly a full song and keep both drinks intact. This audience is PROFESSIONAL.

Dudley Manlove plays several medleys of songs (Abba into Boz Scaggs into Tom Jones, for example). While many of us have heard these numbers dozens of times, the inherent promise of a medley is the element of surprise for new listeners. Singers pause briefly but dramatically before the next tune to invoke maximum delight from the crowd. But what happens when the crowd anticipates the change and jumps loudly to the next song before the band gets there? They steal the thunder, that's what.

Once you've been playing mostly the same material for many years, your regular audience will get to know your setlist, request songs that they KNOW you play, and hold you to a standard that may get annoying. Instead of the band owning the audience, the audience feels a sense of ownership over the band. I don't know how they do it, but Dudley Manlove turns what could be a tedious rehashing of songs into something energetic and joyful for both the regulars and the new people in the crowd. I'm telling you. Watch the video.

It's been ages, so I am thrilled to see a real live sexygroovedance (the slow shimmy of a girl who dances for the express purpose of being noticed by one or more band members). At first I think this gal is putting on a show for Paul, but after a while I come to think that she is trying to look beautiful for her friends so that together they can be The Beautiful Girls. And they are.

Later in the evening one of the Beautiful Girls gets repeatedly jostled by a boisterous dancing gal behind her. At first she tries to move out of the way, but that doesn't work. So she accidentally/on purpose elbows her in the back, you know, just to create some space. I instantly have a TOTAL flashback to doing EXACTLY THE SAME THING at a Dudley show at the OK Hotel circa 1996. And now we are full circle. And it is good.

Future Pigeon

2006-05-02T09:57:00.000-07:00

Cool Bodies, Hot Feet
Getty Center, Los Angeles, CA

The primary feature of the Getty Center is: the Getty Center. It barely matters what is inside the buildings (art, research, etc.) due to the outside being so purposeful and stately and architecturey. Besides, you have to pay to park your car at the bottom and take a tram up to the top of the hill, so that means actual Effort, for which We The People should be compensated by means of aesthetics.

Since the museum is a landmark unto itself and admission is free, daytimes are populated by members of the general public who would never consider visiting other galleries like the MOCA. They are here to see Richard Meier's work even though they've never heard of Richard Meier. They will make a quick breeze through the galleries to look at the works of Monet and Van Gogh just so they can say they've seen them. And then they'll go outside and scream for their kids to STOP STEPPING ON THE FLOWERS.

Aside from art/architecture, the Getty hosts other events in a courtyard that thankfully boasts cocktails and heat lamps. Tonight's double bill is called "Aesthetics of Risk Concert: Future Pigeon and The Red Krayola." It quickly becomes clear that the Aesthetics will be provided by the audience and not by the band, and that Risk will be conveyed through lack of sound-checking or rehearsals. As show time nears, the Public makes their way back to the tram station, and the Beautiful People amble into the Getty courtyard.

Please can we take one moment and talk about the preponderance of Ugg boots? These things keep coming back into style every few years and they WILL NOT DIE. Unless you are 15 and wearing a micro-mini on your way to a Boredoms show, they do not look good on you. During this show I am aghast to see them on this guy, along with his short shorts and shaved legs. Nooooooo.....

For every unfortunate Ugh Boot there are ten people who look like they just arrived from a fashion shoot. I consider asking one woman if I can take her picture as a reference for how I want to look when I'm 60. Other famous-template people stroll by who I would recognize if I was an entirely different person who had facial recognition skills. Impossibly hip musician-type daddies monitor the Frankendance of their toddlers, and black garments in every available shape are heaped upon emaciated frames. (Oh, and skinny jeans are back. crapcrapcrap.)

The crowd didn't quite match up with the noodling reggae on the stage, but it hardly mattered. Content is content, whether it be music, art, or literature. The important things here tonight are style and environment. As long as those two principles are supported by heaps of cash and cosmetics, we'll listen to the guitar feedback, sip our bellinis, and dance.

Emerald Cup Bodybuilding Championships

2006-04-23T11:28:00.000-07:00

Orange, Protein, Bars
Bellevue, WA

I am physically the weakest person in this room, and there are babies here. Don't get me wrong, I can do THOUSANDS of wine glass curls, even with a heavy wine like cabernet. But there are so many pumped up muscles around me that I feel like a flabby Before. I'm not alone - a woman next to me worries aloud that she will be ejected from the event because she has more than 4% body fat.

The Emerald Cup Bodybuilding Championships looks like a big deal based on the number of people here, but the applause for each competitor is so half-hearted that we soon realize people are holding back for the big guns to come out, pun intended. Before that can happen, we need to get through the taut and crinkled skin sheathing the muscles of the over-60 set. Please lord let me not look this good when I am old.

While the seniors show off their stuff on stage (oldest competitor: 89), we tour the trade show areas to look at the protein bars, supplements, and something called Muscle Milk, with which Chip is instantly enamored. The flood of samples means our entire dinner can be consumed in three bites. Chip is talked in to buying an entire box of bars, each of which contains more protein than a case of Costco jerky. Women with Met-RX bags walk by in "No pain, no gain" t-shirts, and men proudly flaunt the names of their gyms. I am shocked and delighted to discover they have a bar here, as clearly we will require reinforcement.

During the young men's finals, I park myself directly behind the three trainers of a competitor. Chase is their golden boy, and they shout encouragements like "flex that calf!" and "more lat, Chase!" All of this must work, because Chase wins, even though he looks like he's been microwaved on High for ten hours. Actually, most of the competitors are orange - at least the white ones. And many of the women have blonde hair, bleached and fried to the point of desperation. This whole thing is exactly like the AVN awards, except with smaller boobs and less vodka.

As you will see from this video, one of the bodybuilders drags his children on stage and makes them dance to religious hip-hop. The whole thing turns into a gospel revival, with dad in the center striking poses once in a while. The crowd loves it, his family freaks out, but the judges aren't buying it and he ends up in 5th place. You'll also note the excellent jockeying for position during the women's freestyle pose-off.

A long line of bodybuilders in training wait to have their pictures taken with the more famous competitors, like the terrifying Jay Cutler. ("Dude - did you see these pictures of Jay? I had to delete a bunch of family trip pictures to fit them on my camera.") We opt out of the finals, creeped out enough by the women's high testosterone count, the men's nearly incapacitating lack of flexibility, and the orange skin. GOD, THE ORANGE. However, this is heaven for hundreds of people whose bodies are temples. I'll keep doing my toasting reps in their honor until I get it right.

Sander Kleinenberg

2006-04-16T12:49:00.000-07:00

This is Miami?
The Showbox, Seattle, WA

Let's get straight to the most pressing topic tonight: the abundance of carefully-selected shirts. As you know, the new corporate casual uniform for men has changed in recent years from blue button-down shirt and khakis to striped button-down shirt and fancy jeans. While during the Blue/Khaki years guys couldn't quite get away with wearing their work clothes out at night, the new uniform is perfectly suited for both work-work and dance-dance revolutions.

The room is not as full as I expected for a Sander Kleinenberg show, but it's nice to have some elbow room. Opener and local favorite DJ Eva gets off to a good start, but like the better-looking bridesmaid, is handicapped by lack of video effects and strong beats. One guy at the front makes these weird gang-like symbols with his hands. When I ask him what they means, he says "It's an E and a V. If I had another hand I'd make an A!!"

There are three primary types of dancers at events like this, each of which I have been in the space of five minutes.

(1) The Zoner - gets into a personal mental zone and dances for him/herself alone. Does not wish to be approached or even acknowledged. Little to no eye contact with fellow dancers. Easily dehydrated.

(2) The Bonder - dances primarily for the attention of others, and often for the attention of one person. The music is secondary. Prone to frustration if dancing with a #1.

(3) The Watcher - focus is elsewhere, either on fellow dancers or on the musician. Does not think about his/her own body so dancing tends to be subdued. Extreme Watchers may consider too much movement and wavering of attention to be disrespectful to the musician.

Now watch this video and see what I mean. The girlfriend of red shirt guy is the best #2 I've ever seen.

The guys look great, but the gals here take it to a new level, making me wonder which Seattle neighborhood might have produced them. Kirkland? It feels like they were airlifted here, with their blown-out hair, J.Lo sunglasses, and VIP wristbands. Most of these girls are #2 and #3s, which you'd pretty much expect. They make the whole crowd prettier. And me feel older.

I don't entirely understand the set of equipment used to transform Sander from straight DJ to DVDJ, so some of the performance looks canned. Having images announce a hit song is great branding, but knowing that the video is pre-produced takes some of the spontaneity away. My friend tells me that Sander could do way more with his video decks, but I can't tell what's static and what's fluid. It reminds me of an MF Doom show I saw here where he pressed Play on his DAT player and then sang his album note for note. But we've discussed this before.

Some people are overwhelmed by the sound and dance with fingers in their ears, which would be EASILY REMEDIED BY THE USE OF EAR PLUGS which I haven't railed on in a while so consider that a rail. Sander's set ends abruptly, and we all experience that surreal break between dancing and making a dash for the coat check line. We are sweaty, thirsty, and satisfied, which is just what you want when you come out of the zone.

Queen + Paul Rodgers

2006-04-11T07:17:00.000-07:00

Two Nearly Bands: Compare
Key Arena, Seattle, WA

Chip and I are here to see Queen + Paul Rodgers, and we're excited to compare their performance with tribute band Queen: It's A Kinda Magic who we saw last year. While both bands use pre-recorded backing vocals and replacement lead singers, I believe the tribute band delivered a more consistently entertaining performance, sticking with the hits. Chip prefers this Queen since they sound like a live band and offer two of the original four members of Queen. Like *that* gets you anything.

Paul Rodgers looks like a rock star action figure, with his tight pecs and pants with the sparkly flair. Or maybe a spinning instructor. Either way, super cute and as gay as Freddie (come on - later he changes into leather pants and a tight red tank top. Come ON. Granted I hope I look that great when I'm 57.). Roger Taylor is a little worse for wear. After a long drum solo during which his jowls shake, he hulks off the stage for a rejuvenation session in the hyperbolic chamber. We figure there's only room for one person in there because he & Brian trade off a few times.

During the performances of the early Queen songs, we spot Wayne and Garth a few rows down. Garth claps to a beat not found in the song, but Wayne flails like a man possessed. First he makes stabbing gestures like he's putting a spell on the band, then he morphs to air keyboards, then to straight-up exorcism. He flings his arms to the side and does an impressive back bend whenever his experience reaches a climax. It's a joy to behold. During Brian May's masturbatory guitar solo, many folks in my section keep eyes on Wayne rather than on the stage. Of course, all of Wayne's convulsions are put on pause for songs written after 1980, Chip's favorite Queen era.

There are some other great fans to watch. First is an older gal dancing with her granddaughters, rocking out to every single song. Next is a Michael McDonald-looking guy right near the front, who cranes to snap a perfect cel phone shot every time a performer gets near him. Another guy's mullet is nearly forgivable because the he is wearing a sharp sport jacket, but he loses all points by taking off the jacket to reveal a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. And finally there is mom with her two boys. Mom looks interested at first, but after a string of new songs that her sons don't know, she starts thinking, like lots of other people in the audience, please just play We Will Rock You so we can go home. It's a school night.

The early songs go over well. During "Love of My Life," a girl right next to us stands and allows a solitary Movie of the Week tear to roll down her face. But when the band breaks into a Bad Company song, I sense a slight ripple of discontent on the floor. Many of the superfans who are here to hear Queen songs now stand with their arms folded waiting for this *other* song to be over. They'll have more waiting to do, as by gum Paul is going to play his music.

But back to the comparison. This Queen is trying to stay vital and current, so they throw in newer songs (they have newer songs?), long guitar and drum solos, and loose interpretations of the songs due to Paul Rodgers' shriveled vocal range. Original members or no, at least the tribute guy could sing, and the audience never experienced long lulls like we are witnessing here tonight. But Chip loves them. All Chip hears is Radio GaGa.

Moisture Festival

2006-04-02T12:51:00.000-07:00

Hanging, Heckling, Swinging
Hale's Palladium, Seattle, WA

We're at the Moisture Festival in a converted warehouse attached to Hale's Brewery. It features a rotating cast of jugglers, magicians, aerialists, schticksters, and burlesque girls. Their early shows offer fun for the whole family, but this late night event is 21+ so we all hope for nudity. And with an 11pm start, we also thank god for the espresso cart out front.

Present is your standard Seattle Hipster crowd, a decent number of older people, and a few tourists. Well, I imagine they're tourists but maybe they just came from the East side. Same difference. The audience is super-engaged tonight, and since we are at a brewery they are also drunk.

There are three stages of alcohol-inspired heckling.
Stage 1: Jovial shout-outs ("That was AWESOME!")
Stage 2: Beligerent non-sequiters ("Freebird!")
Stage 3: Shamed silence.

The Stage 1 folks are delightful and encouraging. The people in Stage 2 have an acute lack of self-awareness, so they don't recognize the moment they graduate from 1 to 2. However, the people in Stage 3, finally over their alcohol limit and shunned into silence by shushers around them, find those still in Stage 2 to be HILARIOUS, and their laughter proclaims both "I miss being a Stage 2" and "no one can shush me for laughing." Here's the guy directly in front of me about 10 minutes after he hits Stage 3.

During intermission I spot these two guys loitering by the bar. They look like hippie holdovers from before Fremont was gentrified, so I take their picture. When I show them the photo they react like they've never seen an electronic device in their lives, and the guy on the right says something about how I should take the picture down to the post office because I could make some money. So there I am marveling at how broad a reach this festival has, when 15 minutes later I'm watching the guy on the left beat the hell out of a guitar on stage. Turns out he's Baby Gramps and quickly has the entire crowd shouting "Scrotum!" and you have to love him for that. AND I have video.

While the Aerialistas perform (they are *so strong*), a gal in a leopard print coat sitting across the aisle from me looks on with horrified attention. I'm not sure if she expects a rope or leg to come swinging into her face or if she's never seen aerialist work up close, but she keeps her drink close to her chest and questions her aisle seat choice.

The show is long and incredibly satisfying, featuring a great clown duo from Berlin, Lelavision spinning, hanging, and playing a giant metal thing (look! more video!), an acrobatic guy named Tom Murphy who should just go ahead and stop wearing clothing immediately, and much more. We leave just before 2am, and thanks to dumb daylight savings time arrive home ten minutes later at 3. But after tonight, we don't mind a bit.

Seattle Erotic Art Festival

2006-03-25T09:28:00.000-08:00

Quivering Arrows
Consolidated Works, Seattle, WA

This is the biggest event of the year for Seattle's sex-positive community (and it seems like you have to say that as if it's one word - sexpositive - so that no one confuses it with a general unbranded healthy relationship with sex). While the point is the exhibition of paintings, photography, sculpture, and Other featured on the walls of ConWorks, what really draws attention are the jacked up boobs and leering swingers around every turn.

The theme at the opening night costume party for the Seattle Erotic Art Festival this year is "Deities of Eros". I'm not so up on which one is Persephone and which one is, um, Hades? Is that one? But there are some fantastic costumes here. After a guided tour around the event by a guy named Pete in a painted-on tiger outfit, we begin our slow perusal of the art, some of which you can see right here. Some of it is good, some pieces are hilarious, and others evoke an "ouch Ouch OUCHIES" response in me. Many of the most evocative pieces are already sold. Where exactly do you hang your gigantic photograph of a guy blowing himself? In the living room?

My first attempt to photograph the attendees is soundly trumped by a security guy in a Utilikilt, who tells me that for "safety" and protection of the art I can't take pictures of people, even with their consent. This of course compels me to take more pictures. We make our way to the bar in the back of the room and shimmy by people making out against the wall or screechingly demanding that their fantastic costumes be documented. One of the guys is so shrill that I flatly refuse to take his photo, even though he's entirely blue and dressed as, uh, Nefertiti? Aquaman? Either way he is annoying.

For every corset, pastie and pair of assless chaps in this room, there is the expectation of a hook-up later. I mean, if you can't find someone to take you home after this event, you are clearly Doing Something Wrong. Even the weird older lady with her boobs on serving trays will probably find joy tonight. Several people make eyes and comments at my friend - well, specifically at my friend's chest. The younger sexpositive set is pretty attractive on the whole, but we know if that if they don't get good grades and stay off the grass they'll turn into the creepy older set that you don't ever want to see naked.

Also everyone is pied. We meet several people who strike up bizarre conversations and then apologize with "I'm kind of messed up right now." In a clumsy attempt to recreate a high school experience, two women in beautiful costumes smoke up in the bathroom then wander around happily not recognizing their own friends. The bartenders pour strong drinks to a set of people who never make it out of the bar to see the art. Bums are felt, fabric is tested, and desires are blurted.

After a few hours we pretty much get it, and wander through the store looking at penis pendants and noonie soaps. It's a great event with a wide array of art, and a lot of these folks will be back tomorrow and the next day for more opportunities to wear on the outside what they feel on the inside.

Super Diamond

2006-03-18T13:18:00.000-08:00

Touching You, Touching Me
Showbox, Seattle, WA

It's Saint Patrick's Day, our national drinking holiday. People lean out of cars wearing green headbands, t-shirts, and rapidly-transforming skin color. Even Hawaiian restaurant O'Hana is packed tonight on account of the O'. But really, is there any better place to be than inside the Showbox watching Neil Diamond cover band Super Diamond? I think not. Plus, mama gots a new toy.

The people here are surprisingly attractive despite the garish hues that most everyone sports. It's a pleasant cross-section of fans of Super Diamond and fans of Neil Diamond, which are actually a little bit different. While we're over the irony motivator of liking Neil, the fan-of-cover-band vs. fan-of-actual-singer duality is still lost on some people. I run into Paul Jensen, lead singer of Dudley Manlove. He's been performing a lot of these songs for as long as SuperD has, and I personally think he does them better. I imagine most Dudley fans are here tonight as well.

Now for a few vignettes. (1) Two gals sit on bathroom floor tending to blistered feet and help each other carefully lace up their fantastically pointy shoes. (2) Drunk girl runs full-on into Chip, bounces back against a wall, and slumps to floor. (3) Guy in Guiness shirt dances like crazy, looks over to make oogling eye contact with me and slips on spilled beer, landing hard on his tush.

And then there is Pedro. This awesome guy wears huge sunglasses that at least two other people in this room also have. He's in character all night, slithering up to girls and introducing himself as "Pedro, your Latin lover." After I take his picture he keeps babbling at me about some kind of proposed follow-up, but I can't decipher his fake accent enough to know what he's saying.

A few notable drunk gals make their presence known throughout the evening by stumbling with full force into as many people as possible. The great thing is that they have no qualms about having their photos taken, which pretty much tells you how Girls Gone Wild became so successful. These are happy/tipsy people, and I only see one incident of bouncers marching purposely into the crowd with Spanish Inquisition-type flashlights.

The band stops after a short while, then trots back out for the requisite encore. No one is ready to go home yet, so they'll stand around for the next half hour wondering what to do next. At the end, the lead guy says, "I hope we've brought back some good memories for you tonight." And while he means memories of the actual Neil Diamond, more people here have memories of seeing Super Diamond play at a conference in San Francisco in 1998. And those are good memories too.

Flogging Molly

2006-03-09T09:45:00.000-08:00

A Wonder and a Wild Desire
Showbox, Seattle, WA

Maybe it's due to the fact that the crowd is all-ages, but the fashion here tonight is ADORABLE. You have your Guiness ball caps, "I (clover) Ireland" t-shirts, the odd NIN and Pogues garment for a handy RIYL, some lovely tattoos and ear bolt thingies on the huskier boys, and those dang caps which I only know as driving caps. I picture one of these kids 25 years from now showing his teenager a photo from this show and the teen replying, "you mean you've been wearing your crappy driving cap since you were SEVENTEEN?"

At first it doesn't look like the dancing maelstrom is under supervision, but eventually we see a giant security guy loom into the crowd for a private conference with one show-goer. Two other bouncers come over for the meeting which now involves flashlights and intimidation, and soon the offender is being escorted out of the venue. NOW the audience is daddyless, as apparently it takes three security guys to get one 19-year-old out of the room.

Kids pile on top of each other to crowd surf, some with fascinating techniques: the scissor legs that somehow stick straight up in the air; the corpse pose with hooked ankles; the ass-over-teakettle flip; and the body bounce, where the surfer is literally flung into the air, hopefully to waiting hands. A few people disappear to a hard landing somewhere under the crowd, but most pop right back up for another go. Once in a while the bouncers pour water directly into the mouths of quickly dehydrating dancers.

Eventually we end up in the bar area/dance floor overlook. The band members routinely issue Hands Up/Arms Up commands, and the audience turns into a beautiful macro wheat field. Their participation and exuberant singing-along is so satisfying to us that it must feel like a narcotic to the band. I am shocked to learn later that Flogging Molly only has four albums; some of these fans attend shows with a Dead-like reverence.

My spot is right next to the bouncer checking IDs for the bar area. While any guy over 24 is completely unselfconscious about having an ID verified, the girls react in one of four ways, ranked by their age:

1. Blase glance away since they aren't used to being legal yet (21-23)
2. "I've been over 21 for like FOUR YEARS" deadpan (24-27)
3. Defensive "are you kidding me?" smirk (28-32)
4. Cheery "of course, and don't I look fabulous?" smile (33-)

Tonight we are all members of the cheery set, however. Flogging Molly dishes out an excellent performance to a crowd that is already in love. It's a match made in Dublin.

Flickr Turns 2 Party

2006-02-12T17:46:00.000-08:00

Only Famous on the Internet
Adaptive Path's office space, San Francisco, CA

Before we get to the most well-documented party in history, we're making a stop at the Chinese New Year parade through downtown San Francisco. There are zillions of people everywhere so seeing anything more than the tops of floats and dragons is a challenge. We end up on the second floor of Borders amid a small cast of people who have been holding court here for hours.

A Chinese man is answering earnest questions from a Polish woman about the significance of the dog, the colors used in the dragons, and why Laos is represented in the parade. The rest of us are nonchalant and pretend not to listen, but really we're craning to hear so we get the story straight. A young girl with her nose against the window gives us running commentary of who in the parade dropped what, what float is coming next (McDonalds? wtf?), and what all the signs say. Meanwhile, a group of 20-somethings behind us ruminate about whether transgendered athletes would have an advantage in the Olympics. It's a very San Fran moment.

We head to SOMA for the Flickr party, stopping to talk along the way with a few people scrambling to find clues in the Chinese New Year treasure hunt. We arrive at the party, and it's pretty much what you'd expect: tech workers, digital photographers, artists, and the odd outlier who is a genuine customer of Flickr and nothing else. People wear nametags that say "On Flickr I'm..." followed by their handle. As the Flickrati (will I ever get tired of made-up words that end in ati? I think not.) greet each other, they look to the nametag first. If they recognize the handle then they have context and we're all good - "You're Other Things? I love your stuff!" If not, then they move to actual name, and then if that fails, company - "Oh Ruby Red - yeah I've heard of you guys."

We quickly venture out to find the secret back room, as there is always a secret back room at these parties. This one is called the Fungeon, and it features camouflage air mattresses, a large stuffed frog, and fabric ceilings. Eventually we gather a variety of people and while at any other party they would be making out with each other in a haze of alcohol or drug-induced happiness, here they are taking pictures of each other, experimenting with lenses, and discussing the business models of their startups.

Several people here are famous, and as we well know I cannot recognize famous people, particularly when they are only famous online. I do know the names, so I can appreciate when Stewart Butterfield and Heather Champ are pointed out, but when somone introduces me to Paul (as if Paul's name is always italicized), I don't realize until much later that it's the same Paul who wrote the Flickr Hacks book that my friend hurls himself across the crowd to grab as if it's a bouquet, spilling red wine on my doomed jacket in the process.

And then there's the picture-taking. Folks here snap photos of each other (and not just smiling photos - some get right in your face to get a picture of your eyeball), photos of the signs (one of which my friends altered from "Flickr - a Yahoo! company" to "Flickr - a Yahoo! joint"), and random shots of the message board, the raffle ticket jar, the wine glasses, and everything in between. Rock-star looking boys mingle with famed blogging girls, and everyone is happy. Within moments of the end of the party, Flickr users have posted hundreds of photos of the party in a glorious act of self-referential joy. As my friend would say, it's very.

The IKEA Cycle: Tiny Domestic Dramas

2006-02-07T08:00:00.000-08:00

Theater and Retail, Together At Last
IKEA, Renton, WA

This is the opening night of the new season of The IKEA Cycle, presented by Printer's Devil Theatre. The possibilities for staging scenes in a retail establishment are boundless, but what we're seeing here tonight seems clamped down by corporate restrictions. Though if I ran IKEA, I wouldn't want any artistic hooligans with their tattoos and theater degrees messing up my merchandise either.

Accompanying me tonight is my socialist friend Hank, who rails on the evils of large-format retail starting the moment he walks in the door. He has *never* bought *anything* at IKEA (save the ENTIRE SLEEPER SOFA he admits to later). We are both under the impression that you happen upon actors doing scenes in different parts of the store, so we start stalking people.

There are a number of young couples here to outfit their first apartments, quietly figuring out if this throw pillow will match that lampshade. It makes me a bit sad to realize that in a few years they'll be arguing over who gets what, but for now they seem happy and all growed up. One girl lobbies for a frying pan, "I want an excuse to OWN SOMETHING. It's the AMERICAN STANDARD." A few guys argue the merits of speaker systems while examining cabinetry. When we finally stumble upon an actual staged scene with actual actors, it's a jarring leap from the real scenes we've been tracking.

We settle on to some couches to watch what turns out to be Scene 3 of the six-scene loop. As we're whispering with each other about how you could turn this into a subtle play for product placement by having the characters ask each other about the furnishings (though maybe it already is product placement because you're showing people interacting with a living room set as if it's a home [Hank says that content doesn't matter anyway since no one is listening]), a guy leans back and hands us a schedule of the performances. Wait, there's a schedule? You know what time everything happens and what it's all about? That is not very guerilla.

The most interesting thing, of course, is to watch how customers discover, react, and either engage or do not engage in the performance. A few stop with a "hey, what's this? Hang on a second," but most size up the situation, inquire about whether it's being video taped, then surreptitiously hustle through the "set" to get on with their shopping. If these were comedic scenes with actors being hurled across furniture or breaking into dance numbers, the audience wouldn't treat it so cautiously. Then again, with the exception of the few of us only here to see the show, most folks are here to buy stuff and get the heck home. And also IKEA doesn't want them to break anything.

Hank believes that the only kind of theater possible in a sea of domestic products is one that oozes suburban cynicism. Have you ever watched someone complain bitterly about cynicism? It's fascinating. Hank wants these scenes to leave people feeling good, but then again the series is called Tiny Domestic DRAMAS, not Tiny Domestic Pleasantries. Some of the scenes are well done, and it's too bad that more people don't stop. But this is IKEA, we're in Renton, and our team just lost the Superbowl yesterday. A pratfall or two wouldn't kill anyone.

Seattle Semi-Pro Wrestling

2006-02-02T09:00:00.000-08:00

3, 2, 1, BATTLE!
Rebar, Seattle, WA

This is not the right event for my cute new sweater. A more appropriate garment would have been my Misfits hoodie (note to self: buy Misfits hoodie). Thank the lord almighty I am at least wearing Docs. Unless you are a stylist, you cannot wear cute clothing to SSP Wrestling.

The crowd here is excellent: faux-hawks, mohawks, ample chainery, gorgeous tattoos, and some super mean looking people that you know are total teddy bears just under the surface. Most of the folks here are regulars since it takes some work to even find out about the event, which happens the first Wednesday of each month at the Rebar and you should totally go.

Just as the matches start I go to the bar to get cocktails. There's a bit of a line, but I'm up next. Then this gal comes up, somehow gets the attention of the bartender, and proceeds to make the MOST COMPLICATED DRINK ORDER EVER involving two different shaken drinks, mixed drinks, etc. I am trying to remain calm, but her friend notices the steam shooting out of my ears and tells the gal I'm really mad. "No no! Not mad! It's fine!" I lie. But she insists on paying for my drinks, and then she doesn't have enough cash. So I hand her six bucks, she gives four to the bartender for the rest of the bill, then ONLY TIPS TWO DOLLARS on a six drink order! Jeez!

Like WWE wrestling, this event features a regular cast of characters, carefully selected and groomed for maximum audience response. The crowd loves to hate the cocky and bonkable Mr. Fitness, is required to hate Domestic Violence, and cheers like crazy for Simba and Lucia Dora, who uses the Famous Lucia Lock on her (HER) competitors. The regulars also have high standards for the wrestling moves. Give them anything remotely fake-looking, and they will holler until it gets more violent.

A guy struts in and stands next to us. He is wearing a black cutoff sleeveless shirt, arm bands with metal hooks all over them, tight pants, and big boots. But he's a scrawny little thing and clearly needs to make a statement, so he shakes up and sprays his beer all over the audience whenever possible. I see him later drinking his beer through a straw, which we all know from high school will get you messed up way faster.

As the evening progresses the wrestling gets better. Wrestlers are tossed against the wall, thrown off the stage, pile-driven, choked, and twisted, all the while being PELTED WITH BEER CANS from the crowd. Deevious Silvertongue looks like Peter Frampton so we freak out when he wins his match. Weapon of Mass Destruction battles Masta Blasta and both get airborne at some point. The announcers keep screaming their commentary as wrestlers come back from certain death and trounce their opponents.

The key to enjoying SSP Wrestling is: BUY IN. If you decide that serious injury among the wrestlers or the crowd is imminent, you'll have a great time. Condoned violence always makes for a good show.

Pop Smear Test

2006-01-19T08:35:00.000-08:00

We Make It, They Break It
Chop Suey, Seattle, WA

Pop Smear Test is another Seattle School production (or, rather "joint" - we're supposed to call productions "joints" now. See how hip I am?) that sounds complicated when you first hear about it, but is actually quite simple. It's essentially a DJ contest using found sound, and the body temperatures of the judges determine the winners. DJs have four minutes to collect sounds from the audience, four minutes to prepare a piece, and four minutes to play it for the crowd and judges. Easy, right?

The audience is Venn-diagrammed this way: hipsters who read about this in The Stranger, fans of Iron Composer who will go see anything Seattle School spits out, and musicians both current and aspiring. The host asks Team A what they need, then comes into the crowd with his mic to collect drum sounds, words, patterns, yelps, and moans, all of which are recorded by the team into their fancy sampling micro-computers.

During round one, only the boldest audience members step forward to the mic. The younger gals who are here tonight "seeing something weird!" stay quiet until their blood-alcohol levels creep above .08%. Team B's requests are more scandalous - all words and few sound effects- which gets the audience more involved. The tracks are played back, and while surprisingly good, only vaguely resemble House music. Producers can alter the pitch of the sounds they collected, so some stuff is indistinguishable from the original sounds. Nurses take the temperatures of the two pre-selected audience judges and jot down their readings.

During round two the audience starts to get with the program. You know your friend who says things like "dude, I do an AWESOME beatbox" or "I can TOTALLY make a trumpet sound"? Then you also know that friend is incorrect. We hear horrific sounds coming from the most confident people, and we cringe and look to the faces of the team members for their reactions. However, for every over-zealous drunkard there is an *actual* musician in the audience who comes out with these STUPENDOUS drum sounds, sung lines, and crazy voices. Hearing someone good gives us double satisfaction because now we have a chance to hear them *again* in the produced piece.

The theme for round 2 is Breakbeat, and hell if I can tell you the difference between House and Breakbeat and Jungle or any of the other zillion forms of electronic music. I think Breakbeat means "a ton of sounds played really fast." Unfortunately, it also means that many of the great audience-generated sounds are going to be clipped and altered beyond recognition. So while our expectations of hearing original sounds are lowered, the reward increases when some line or word slips out intact. Some of the best parts of the pieces are snippets of the host giving people instructions or doing a countdown - sounds captured when no one was looking.

Judging is fun but slightly unsatisfying, simply because we want to be measured MORE. We've helped to create this piece, we are engaged in the process, so we want to GIVE. Where is my blood pressure cuff? Where is the stopwatch for my pulse? This extra complication is unnecessary, of course, as one measurement does produce a winning team in the end. (Oh, and duo Posse Ad Esse do a fantastic mid-show rap about parking on Capitol Hill.) Despite a small audience, the uh, *joint* works and the producers pull off credible pieces of music using our very own voices.

AVN Awards Show & After-Party

2006-01-08T16:07:00.000-08:00

Testosterone and Commotion
The Venetian Hotel, Las Vegas, NV

At first we weren't sure what we had tickets for. My friend came about them through a complex web of work connections, so we thought we'd be attending the after-party in some part of the Venetian Hotel. The text message instructions said simply "#104" which we assumed to mean a room. After much getting lost and talking to security guards, we finally realized oh - oh - OH this is TABLE 104 in the BALLROOM where happening right now is the Adult Video Network awards show, the Oscars of adult film.

On our way in (look! Larry Flynt!) I recognize some of the industry people from the Expo the other day. There are no fans of the great unwashed-type here. Everyone looks smashing, the cleaves are out, the men have dunked themselves in cologne, and business is being discussed. With so much to gawk at, it takes me a good ten minutes after I sit down to notice that the guy at the table next to me isn't wearing pants.

Paul Thomas receives an award for Best Director - Film, and in his acceptance speech he thanks his parents, his "best goddamned wife anyone could have," and humbly admits that "I've been shitty to so many people" in his climb to the top. Shortly thereafter a less-eloquent starlet receives her award, saying "I'm so happy I just want to squirt all over every one of you!!"

Our group of twelve consists of The Ring Leader (fabulous LA-executive), Wunderkind (corporate boy genius), and The Entourage, of which I am now a temporary member. We pull up stakes and head to the next stop: Tao nightclub. There are at least four different lines to get in, all unmoving. But Wunderkind gets on the phone and does his magic, and suddenly we are being escorted to a private lounge overlooking the club. Lord, thank you for the wealthy and connected.

This place is gigantic and packed to the ceiling with the young and beautiful. People are so jubilant and hot that you can conduct little experiments like "try to make out with someone on the way to the bathroom" AND THEY TOTALLY WORK. At one point my friend and I go back up to the lounge after dancing to find the group gone. My coat/purse panic barely starts when our waitress grabs us both by the hand and leads us downstairs to our NEW table, smack in the middle of the dance floor. The entourage has grown by a few vaguely famous-looking people.

We dance until nearly 4 and yet are the first in the group to leave. After loving this party, seeing the AVN show (and actual pimps with *actual pimp cups*), walking through the Expo, attending both Zumanity and Avenue Q (both far too wonderful and engaging to notice any fan behavior), and eating some fantastic food, I finally understand that THIS is the Las Vegas people talk about. The decadent, the debaucherous, the dazzling. Now I get it. Now I love it.

Adult Entertainment Expo

2006-01-06T22:27:00.000-08:00

Boobie Overload
Sands Expo Center, Las Vegas, NV

The fact that the Adult Entertainment Expo coincides with the gargantuan and male-dominated CES is a stroke (ahem) of absolute brilliance on the part of the planners. While there isn't much crossover between pr0n producers and technology executives, there are thousands of 50 dollar expo tickets available to thousands of men with 50 dollars to spend.

We begin downstairs in what later turns out to be the booth ghetto. Here is where the past-their-prime stars are relegated to push their new production companies, websites, and videos. We meet and I get a picture with Peter North, whom I am told is legendary in his field. My friend tells me that my picture with him now gives me cred in a way I never knew I needed cred.

After seeing a terrifying 3D video and meeting a gal with the biggest knockers I've seen in my life (ouchie! back pain!), we realize we need a change of scenery fast or we're going to slit our wrists. So it is a relief to walk upstairs and see the REAL booths by familiar brand names (oh be quiet - you know them too), the *current* industry stars, and the accessories. There is a pogo stick with a dildo on it, a sling contraption called Bonkum, and countless performance-enhancing "all natural" potions to get you off X.

The people visiting this show as fans are exactly who you'd expect: gawking college students and program managers who can't believe their good fortune but are dismayed to see that the only naked boobs they will see are on posters. The interesting guys are there for the conference itself. These are video producers, directors, and distributors with too much hair product and cologne and who look like caricatures of themselves. They are all business, walking through the booths collecting swag and talking on their phones. And they make more money than you.

At one point I go into a restroom where six girls are preparing for their booth shifts. I'm not sure if these are actual video stars or up & coming starlets who dream big. Either way they couldn't be more than 21. They are dressed in chains and tiny swaths of fabric and they examine their asses for flaws before they start their shifts. How these gals stand in those heels for hours at a time is beyond me, though we see some shivering and hobbling by the end of the day.

We hit boob overload after a couple of hours--since there is no full-on nudity here, the content gets a bit repetitive. As we head to the door my friend spots the only adult film star he actually recognizes. She is signing autographs and posing for pictures, so he makes a beeline for her. He is enthralled and enchanted until she opens her mouth and talks, revealing her dim-wittedness. My pal broke a golden rule that applies equally to musicians, artists, and adult film stars that we revere, and I offer it to you as a warning: go ahead and love their work, but don't expect them to be good at other stuff, like talking. Knowing too much takes some of the magic away.

The Killers, The Pussycat Dolls

2006-01-06T01:59:00.000-08:00

The Pussycat Dolls Returned My Coat
Pure Nightclub, Las Vegas, NV

Ok so here's what happened. I get in to Pure at Caesar's Palace and immediately find a nice innocuous bench on which to stash my coat for the evening. After a couple of laps through the crazy crowded room, I weasel my way on to the balcony-ish place, which is the PERFECT vantage point to observe this crowd and the band.

This audience is comprised of marketing executives, product managers, vice presidents, partners, and underlings who have managed to gain access to this corporate party during the CES show. They've had a hard day of meetings and booth duty, and they're ready to cut loose with the help of free alcohol and quality entertainment.

There I am on the balcony watching guys try Dancing 101 and leer at the go-go dancers. One guy is particularly fabulous in that he is making eye contact with and dancing near a dancer who is on a platform 4 feet above his head, all while TALKING ON HIS PHONE. This prompts several other people to whip out their phones and join him on the dance floor. My friend and I are busted several times for our overt pointing and laughing at guys in suits who dance like nutballs. My friend has video documentation, which I'm pretty sure could be worth something someday.

After The Killers finish their excellent set, during which at least 25 people take photos and/or video and/or text message with their fancy devices, my friend and I wander up the stairs to check out the rooftop deck. We pause at the glassed-in mezzanine that overlooks the lounge. As we look down we watch a gal (I'm assuming she's a dancer but since she made me mad I'm now calling her a stripper) lay MY COAT over a bunch of purses, scoop the whole thing up, and head toward a door.

I run downstairs to intercept her, but POOF she is gone. For the next hour I scour the place for the girl and my coat, to no avail. The people in the VIP lounge are sympathetic and helpful, because that's what makes them "P", but still no coat. I resign myself to sitting down and enjoying another friend's breakup story (the young ones find their own lives so very complicated). We note two of the Pussycat Dolls sitting near us. As they get up to leave, THERE IS MY COAT, just four feet from where it was pilfered in the first place.

Of course there is no way to prove it, but what I like to believe is that these girls heard about my missing coat, had harsh words with the stripper, then casually returned it to me like the class acts that they are. Ten minutes later they were doing a hot burlesque show in front of aforementioned gawking technology executives. Happiness ensues. I receive one of their gloves. And after that we danced.

New Year's Swaray

2006-01-01T03:05:00.000-08:00

Teddies, Jackets, and Booze
Porta by the Market, Seattle, WA

We are at a sort-of private party in a hip Greek restaurant downtown that used to be a hip Mexican restaurant, right after it was a hip natural foods restaurant. Derek Mazzone is spinning, people are well-dressed, and the median age looks to be about 30. So the old guy at the bar looks a wee bit out of place.

He's in his early 60s and wears a tweed jacket with a button-down underneath. He's grumpy and leaves his seat frequently to go to the bathroom? Kitchen? Does he own this place? He has one eyebrow that goes SCHWING! and often says brief things into the ears of pretty girls but never smiles at them. If he comes back and someone is too close to his chair, he grumbles and shoves his way through. It's like he's been here for ten years and hell if a change of ownership will make him give up his seat.

We discuss and settle on "camisole" to describe the particular tank tops the girls are wearing tonight, after rejecting one friend's olde timey suggestion of "teddie". There are tons of these girls here with their sparkly shirts and strappy heels and prom hair. My friend calls it a Boobie Bonanza. It's the type of environment that makes you throw in the towel and be happy that you're invisible and can dance like an idiot.

The boys wear striped shirts, and some are in suit jackets. BOYS, CAN I JUST SAY that even if you are missing a prominent tooth, tossing on a suit will increase your attractiveness by at least 20%. Though I quickly note one tiny drawback of the new no-smoking law in Seattle: I can now smell the actual smell of each of you. Deodorant. It's your friend.

As we count down to midnight with our plastic cups of champagne and our Happy New Year head things with the feathers on them, I see at least ten people get out their cel phones and start text messaging. At first I think they are missing the moment of midnight by being absorbed in their devices and their T9'ing. But maybe it's more important to connect with people you can't see at that precise moment than hug the person right in front of you. You'll do that in a minute. Right now your friends on the other side of town or the world will have a record of your midnight, and that's worth something.

The real show, of course, is outside once all the parties have ended. Walking through downtown I witness a few arrests, public urination, and screeching fights. But mostly it's less-drunk friends helping more-drunk friends stand up, put on jackets, find their cars, and hail cabs (there are no cabs here. What are they thinking?). Friends declare love for each other, promise to call tomorrow, and tell strangers Happy New Year as they stumble by, arm in arm. Now it is 2006, they holler. Now we can move on.

Extreme Makeover: Home Edition

2005-11-12T15:00:00.000-08:00

Drama! Intrigue! Mud!
Port Orchard, WA

We are tossing muddy bits of scrap lumber into the back of a truck at the job site for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. As 2x4s and big chunks of wood with nails sticking out sail over my head, two things occur to me. (1) WHY OH WHY did I decide to wear my cute jacket from Anthropologie today? (2) A hard hat would be an excellent accessory right about now.

My burst of activity comes after three hours of parking lot purgatory. Due to a mishap involving the accidental RECYCLING OF DIRECTIONS, I arrived at the staging/parking area just as the last shuttle pulled away. At that point (8:30 am), the job site was officially "full" and only contractors and other people with tangible skills were allowed to travel there. Since I am skill-less, I ended up directing cars and absorbing as much gossip as possible from other volunteers.

This place has all the right ingredients for an instant community. There is DRAMA in that the crew is 14 hours behind schedule due to the not-drying of the concrete foundation. Contractors bicker, multiple people bark orders into walkie-talkies, giant trucks make giant noise. Because of the delays, drywallers, tapers, and carpenters are beckoned and then sent away and then re-beckoned. But this also means they all have something to bitch about and bond over, which happens quickly.

There is INTRIGUE in that shirtless hottie Ty is hopping between this job site and one in Iowa (Idaho? A state starting with I). Eager volunteers keep tabs on his flight schedule and try to arrange themselves to be there when he returns. Stories are relayed wherein camera crews nudge actual carpenters aside so Ty can explain what "he" is building. The mere threat of celebrity presence and TV cameras keeps energy high and faces cheery.

And finally, there is MUD. A safety inspector tours the site and sees pneumatic staplers and other injury-producing tools wedged in a foot of muck. Shoes are destroyed. A truck down the hill gets stuck. 100,000 cubic yards of dirt and gravel must be distributed so the new house has something to sit on. The mud makes people who are barely working (such as myself), look like they're working really hard.

Two of my friends who have skills manage to add value all morning. They are dirty and sweaty and have the right boots and work gloves. They learn the system quickly and develop strategies to align themselves with certain crew bosses to get the good assignments. By Tuesday this place will boast one highly complex and evolved social structure as enemies are made, alliances are formed, and credit is doled. For now, the notion that on Thursday a finished house will be revealed to a deserving family in the midst of this absolute cluster is stunning and inspiring.

United State of Electronica

2005-10-30T09:32:00.000-08:00

My Name Is Dan, and I Am Disco
Neumos, Seattle, WA

Eight people are on stage vying for first place in the costume contest. The hosts are half-hearted, have no system of choosing contestants, and keep things dragging along so slowly that at least 20 type A personalities in the crowd, including myself, would like very much to jump on the stage and take over.

The finalists are: Doublemint Twins, Vagina, Ronald McDonald (my friend, who flips off the audience), Cupcake, Bert, and, um, Late-Term Abortion (gal in miniskirt holding cocktail connected to dwarf in Hefty bag and skull cap). While the latter is probably the most inventive, it offends this crowd's PC sensibilities and Bert wins by a landslide. They need to give out a second-place prize, but the applause is so weak for the remaining people that one of the hosts just chooses, and he chooses Vagina. See how punk rock we are?

The guy who arrives too late for the contest but clearly would have won is Bike Accident - he has a broken bike frame around him, blood and scabs on his face, and a bike helmet with a license plate sticking out of it. Nicely done. Other people have taken less care with this project, and I start asking people what they are when I can't tell. A guy in a silver mask and red suit very clearly repeats "ROWLRFRYM" three times, and shrugs like I'm an idiot when I can't figure that out.

My friend is wearing a smack-on Annie Hall costume, and the ONLY person who gets it is a boy dressed up like Linda Evans from Dynasty. Rent something other than Royal Tennenbaums, people, there are far too many tennis rackets here tonight. I am dressed as my mother circa 1968, which of course no one would know so it's fun to have them guess.

Neumos "Spooky Fall Ball" is U.S.E.'s last show of their monster tour, and they're down one member due to pneumonia--not a surprise considering their schedule. They have a fill-in who does a great job. I don't know where this band gets its energy, but it appears to be boundless. They have the crowd amped and dancing in no time. Santa, Scooby, and Cupcake must be sweating like crazy. Suddenly the girls dressed as hookers look pretty smart.

Costumes can reveal our innermost selves - our loathing, our hopes, our recognition that we are turning into our mother. The last guy I inquire about has on white pants and a shiny shirt. I ask him what his costume is, and he strikes a Saturday Night Live pose, blowing smoke dramatically into the air. John Travolta? I ask. "Disco Dan" he says. Is that a character from something? "No. My name is Dan, and I am disco."

Suicide Girls Burlesque Show

2005-10-29T11:16:00.000-07:00

Boobs and the Man
Neumo's, Seattle, WA

I know the Suicide Girls are famous in some circles, but I barely knew who they were before their recent controversy shone the bright light of pop culture on to their pierced and tattooed bods. This is the second of their live burlesque tours, and it comes as no surprise that Neumo's is completely packed. Seeing my first burlesque show seems like a good time for my first (and last) Vodka/Red Bull. You kids DRINK this? Willingly?

When we arrive, openers Tsu Shi Ma Mi Re are just getting started. For the record, this is the MOST ADORABLE ALL-GIRL BAND IN THE WORLD, and they are fantastic musicians to boot. Their songs are "hard! and fast! and cute!" and lead singer Mari teaches us bits of Japanese so we understand the choruses ("This song about tea! CHA is tea!"). We, the audience, love them and want to take them home with us. The line to buy their merch starts before the band finishes their set.

As this is 3 days before Halloween, some people are dressed up, but most haven't busted out the costumes yet. So the crowd goes like this: normal - normal - normal - pirate - normal - normal - zombie - normal. One girl wearing angel wings keeps whacking people when she walks through the crowd. This place will look much different tomorrow night.

My friend goes off to the bathroom and sees a small Buster Brown-type red shoe poking out of the handicapped stall, worn by drunk girl. Her friend is in there with her, and after many retching sounds, drunk girl goes quiet. Now drunk girl's boyfriend is calling into the bathroom "is she ok?? Can you get her out??" but her friend can't lift her. So boyfriend goes into the bathroom and scoops up drunk girl, who is now stiff like a mannequin with legs sticking straight out in front of her, and carries her off.

The Suicide Girls set consists of one to three girls doing a themed act to a song, during which they strip down to panties and tape X's covering their nips. As a result, people are crammed against the stage or the balcony railing, blocking all sightlines. I have a good spot for about three numbers, but then realize my friend is gone so I go find her. There is just no getting back after that. We try to lean over people to see the stage and instead catch glimpses of arm or face. Eventually the large effort and minimal payoff gets tiresome for a lot of people - the crowd at the back is thinning out, and people start leaving.

Of course, the people in the front are riveted and overjoyed as they have full body views, high alcohol content, and low expectations. Tonight was fun, but I still want to see a real burlesque show. This wasn't quite it.

Eurofever - Abba and Bee Gees tributes

2005-10-20T08:34:00.000-07:00

Jive Talkin' Dancin' Queen
Triple Door, Seattle, WA

Quick - where is the best place for a superfan to watch a show that is also the most frustrating place for a Fanalyst to watch a show? That's right - the front row. And what makes it even worse is that this show is so engaging that turning around to look at people almost feels wasteful. Every time I do, people stare back at me as if to say "what the hell are you LOOKING AT? The show is the OTHER WAY AROUND."

This show unites two groups in a benefit for MusiCares Hurricane Relief: Dancin' Queen, an incredibly faithful Abba tribute band, and Jive Talkin', a Bee Gees tribute band with slightly lower-quality wigs. Both bands are backed up by luminary Seattle musicians, including a horn section. They are doing two shows tonight, and that's it.

The Triple Door, while nice, is a bit anti-social in that it's mostly high-backed booths, making it hard to interact with anyone other than your own party. So I'm pleased to see two booths of husky gay men settle in behind our counter and start hollering immediately. Next to them is a booth of girls who are all dressed up and fabulous, and down the aisle is a mixed gender group who looks like they don't know what they got themselves into.

Dancin' Queen is first up, and I am THRILLED that in addition to being wonderful vocalists, they are putting on Swedish accents for their minimal banter. Every number is choreographed, and both girls wear white 70s outfits and platform boots. One of the gals does some eye-locking with my friend, who credits his excellent striped shirt. Abba wrote some dang catchy songs, and as the show goes on, the singing-along increases.

Jive Talkin' is next, and can I just tell you that the older I get, the more brilliant I recognize the Bee Gees to be. People are starting to sing along and scream, but you have not heard men screaming until faux-Barbra Streisand joins faux-Barry on stage to sing Guilty. The boys behind us are freaking out. The all-girl booth next to them are excited, but the mixed-gender booth is just not getting it. Then I realize, oh, these poor people haven't had their show-enhancing THREE VODKA TONICS yet. Further arm and votive-waving occurs when faux-Dolly Parton comes on stage for Islands in the Stream (Bee Gees - did you know that?).

My only small gripe with Jive Talkin' is their song order. They build you up with great songs that make you *almost* get out of your chair, then they slow it back down again. It should be an arc, not spikes. But they pull it together for the last three songs, and we are finally dancing in the aisles. Happy and grooving, one of the husky guys twirls me because "you looked like you needed a twirl! Woo!!"

The Faint

2005-10-18T13:50:00.000-07:00

Smoke-Free Corporate Rock
B.B. King Blues Club, New York, NY

The only fitting end to a corporate-sponsored weekend is a corporate-sponsored rock show. Tonight's sold-out concert is part of Camel's Sin City promotional tour, held in a city that does not allow smoking in clubs. To get in to the VIP area, people must sign up for the Camel mailing list and wear glowing red Camel necklaces for passage (a handy visual indicator of their inclination to smoke or ability to be suckered). In that area is an Elvis impersonator who poses for photos. The pole dancers are more easily accessible.

The crowd is pretty diverse – we have regular guys in tattered Cold Fusion t-shirts, squealing sorority sisters, hulking men covered in tattoos, insanely beautiful girls with their insanely beautiful boyfriends, and nearly-goth boys who wear eyeliner and green eyeshadow. The trait that unites everyone is their glee about seeing The Faint.

Since this is a spectacle, we need a host. Johnny Fayva is a big guy in a sequined suit who sings lounge versions of modern songs and introduces new acts. Miss Saturn is a super-buff and fantastic hula hoop performer. Comedian Steve Byrne is really funny, magician Tomas does smoking tricks which I'm sure Camel loves, and members of dancing girl troupe Dirty Little Secret don't dance as much as writhe, making the boys happy. But Johnny sings too many songs ends his set by stripping down to a leopard thong and pasties, which is not pleasant. My friend refuses to clap because that might encourage him.

By the time The Faint comes on the crowd is beyond prepped. The girls sing along with every song and the boys jump on my feet. The band like a less-happy but equally energetic LCD Soundsystem, and even when they're singing about loneliness or death the crowd responds like it's "Walking on Sunshine." The band soaks up the crowd's joy and delivers a fantastic performance. Why had I not heard of this band until a week ago? It's a mystery.

I'm not sure why corporate-sponsored shows need to be taped, but there are cameras everywhere. I can picture some marketing VP barking "get me more footage!" to the zillion people in headsets hurrying through the crowd. One guy turns a bright light on a young couple and instructs them to KEEP DANCING as he films. Maybe they will show up in the intro video to the RJ Reynolds annual meeting.

It's easy to forget that we're in a fancy blues club just below 42nd Street. Upstairs from us on the street are a million tourists, guys hawking bus tours, people on these crazy 6-person round bicycles, and flashing billboards. It's an unlikely place for a mostly local crowd of superfans to drink PBR and forget that they're being advertised at. Some folks in other cities don't like this tour, but because of this band and this crowd and this city, somehow it all works.

Franz Ferdinand, SOIL Auction, KEXP show

2005-10-03T07:58:00.000-07:00

Bright Whites, Big City
Western Bridge, Neumos, Paramount - Seattle, WA

How to sum up a weekend that begins with art anxiety and ends on stage at the Paramount, 20 feet from Franz Ferdinand? With bullet points, of course!

Friday: SOIL art auction

-- Two other women are here with the exact same highlights as I have in my hair, and while we all look fabulous I vow to change mine immediately.

-- Two guys seated behind us during the auction are in suits and consult detailed notes before the auction begins. We decide they are Art Snipers and we are paranoid that they will bid on the pieces we want. In the end they bid on NOTHING, the posers.

-- Remember when we talked about filtering? My friend and I decide that art openings provide the perfect filter, and that we will attend these events in the future to shop for men.

Saturday: KEXP benefit show

-- When we arrive at Neumos, my friend points to the cute boy singing on stage and she jumps for joy. I think she’s pointing to the “No Smoking” sign, and I jump for joy in response.

-- The crowd claps and says "yeah!" to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah as if they can understand what the hell the guy is singing. They are so faking.

-- The highlight of the evening: witnessing a gal pour a packet of Emergen-C into a mixed drink. That’s Xtreme Health, baby!

Sunday: Franz Ferdinand

-- Opening band Cut Copy makes me feel like it’s 1987 and we’re watching the unknown opener for New Order. They rouse a still audience by instructing them to “jump up and down on the count of three!!!” Audiences love to be instructed. Remember that, bands.

-- We are in the bar and miss TV on the Radio because how can you walk away from a story about someone being arrested and repeatedly frisked by cops in Moscow?

-- A British fan find out that a member of our group was in a band he knew in London a long time ago, freaks out, takes pictures, chats him up, then confides to the rest us that he never really liked the band anyway.

-- Because of a random audiology-related favor that my friend did for Franz Ferdinand yesterday, we have all-access passes to this show. We follow a friend through various doors and end up in the wing ON THE STAGE, right behind the mixing board, where we stay for the rest of the show. Finally I am seeing a crowd from the band’s perspective.

My god, people, do you know how beautiful you are? That your smiling faces are dazzling and inspiring? That your immobility can be heart-wrenching? We all assume that the band can’t see crap because of the lights in their eyes, but they really can see you. Your reaction really does matter. If you love your bands, send them all of your good juju and your happiness and your motion, because they will feed off of it and deliver it back to you in spades, like Franz Ferdinand did tonight.

Sigur Rós

2005-09-29T08:10:00.000-07:00

Capitol Hill Is Empty
The Paramount, Seattle, WA

Tonight, all of Capitol Hill walked down the hill to the Paramount Theatre to be swept away by Icelandic wunderkinds Sigur Rós. It’s interesting to walk into a show where people talk about how they expect to feel vs. what they expect to see or hear. Stories of men openly weeping and overwhelmed girls fleeing from the show are whispered between friends as the room fills up.

This is one narrow and well-dressed demographic. Boys in Sevens flirt with Vain hair-do’d girls, and when they talk about going to Vita tomorrow, you know exactly which Vita they’re referring to. It’s a big, happy hipster family.

Opening the show are four fairy-like girls called Amina who plink and bow on a variety of instruments to create lovely ambient plinky-bowey music. At one point they have to stall for an equipment issue, and when one gal speaks to the audience you can see why they don’t use words in their music as the talking is not so much their forte. My friends tell me that the Amina set is the exact polar opposite of the drummer porn show they saw last night.

When Sigur Rós comes on, the audience is mostly riveted. A couple of guys behind us get shushed repeatedly for talking, even when the band isn’t on the stage. And a girl directly in front of me keeps hanging off her boyfriend, petting his hair, gazing into his eyes, etc. Sister, this is NOT the show to attend if you want attention from your guy. You wouldn’t want him pawing you during a Sleater-Kinney show, would you? Boyfriend looks directly at her maybe once during the entire show.

Sigur Rós plays vast, sweeping music and sings in a made-up language they call Hoplandic. The effect on the listener is interesting: you supply the story they sing, you supply the background, then you react to your own creation. The band is the facilitator, and they can carry you from joy to anguish in the space of one song. At one point they just stop playing for about 30 seconds, and I’ve never heard this many people be so quiet for so long. It is gorgeous and bonding.

One guy in my group DOES cry. The girl in front of me feels jilted by her boyfriend. Another friend has a gal he barely knows hang on to him and shiver for the entire show, and he has to run to the lobby before the last song which is good because his head would probably have exploded at that point. It is an incredible show where for once we provide all the conflict and joy and drama, and we react just like we saw other people create it for us.

The New Pornographers

2005-09-25T09:22:00.000-07:00

Canadian-American Relations
Showbox, Seattle, WA

What is it with the Showbox lately? All the attractive people are here once again, which makes me wonder what Harvey Danger is now staring at over at Fremont Oktoberfest. This crowd's good looks must be enhanced by a huge number of Canadians raised on Kraft Dinner and clean living.

There are templates. The guys appear to fall into one of four categories: ski instructor, guitar teacher, program manager, other. The girls as well: marketing, school teacher, grad student, other. They are happy and expectant except for one gal who is barfing in the bathroom by 10:00.

The openers are both New Pornographers side/pet projects. Immaculate Machine is ADORABLE and is comprised of UVic students. Well, it looks like 2 college students and Iggy Pop on drums. The crowd is fairly receptive but unmoving, because generally Canadian music includes a lot of clever words so you really have to concentrate on what you're hearing.

The second band, Destroyer, is a different story. Do you ever hear a band that, for absolutely no good reason, grates on your nerves so much that you have to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible? I don't know what it is about Dan Bejar's vocal technique and lyrics, but it sounds to me like the music could be the soundtrack for "Magic the Gathering: the Movie" or maybe an SCA Underground tape. I actually have to leave the building for a bit and go for a walk.

By the time New Pornographers comes on, the place is so packed that you can barely walk around; way more packed than the sold-out Death Cab show the other night, oddly. There is considerably less smoking here due to preponderance of Canadians, which is lovely. This audience holds promise: in this next ten years they will produce probably 500 children and billions of dollars of revenue for companies everywhere. It's weird to look at the Future Parents of America (and Canada), and for once I feel ok about it. I do not get this same feeling at the mall.

Standing at the front of the room allows you to be far more engaged than you are at the back of the room, where it actually gets a little boring. The front holds the superfans, but you need to keep your distance because every single part of their body from pumping fist to ponytail becomes a hazard when they dance. They are joyful and their favorite band can do no wrong. Any show is a good show when you leave feeling a bit more Canadian.

Death Cab for Cutie, Harvey Danger

2005-09-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

Shiny, Smoking People
The Showbox, Seattle, WA

Tonight's topic is: the topic of filtering. So let's say you're looking for a new mate and you want to filter out the undesireables. Going to a bar only filters by people who go to bars, and that isn't really effective. Going through a 20-page questionnaire on eHarmony is the complete opposite and also a pain in the butt, so you don't want to do that either. A happy medium? Attend a rock show featuring a band who wears their political and sentimental beliefs on their sleeves. A *benefit* rock show that is super hard to get into on account of it sold out in 30 minutes. A rock show that is highly likely to feature tons of people in your demographic.

Welcome to a living, breathing Match.com ad. This crowd is attractive, fairly well-dressed, and all lovers of Death Cab for Cutie. Each one has a story of how they got their ticket ("I was on hold for like an hour!" "I kept hitting refresh!" "I love Craig's List!"), and how they are either attending or not attending Death Cab's two sold-out shows at the Paramount next month. These boys have arrived, so opportunities to see them in a small venue are not to be missed.

My review-writing was stymied not long ago by a spate of dull audiences. Where is the joy? Where is the dancing? This evening I pray to see the manic crowd that I witnessed at OK Go, the Presidents, Hot Hot Heat, etc. So when Harvey Danger plays their excellent pop hits, I crane around to watch the freak-out. BUT THERE IS NO FREAK OUT. Why???? Are you people so cool and beautiful that you can't dance to freaking HARVEY DANGER?

Which brings us back to the filtering. I witness people who are at the club as part of a couple checking out other folks constantly. And how could you not? With the exception of unknown variables like desire for children and mental illness, you may be compatible with a full TWENTY FIVE PERCENT of this audience. A couple of guys in baseball caps (filter!) complain about how some girls want to be picked up but act so snooty, which is a turn-off. I think the girls are just sending off very specific filtering vibes. You go, girls!

Since the crowd is lovely and well-behaved, I almost lose hope of seeing a good altercation until about half way through Death Cab's set. A guy I know, who earlier bragged that he went backstage and Sean remembered his name, made an alcohol-fueled decision to go ahead and invite himself on stage with Ben and the boys. He was promptly nabbed by security and firmly escorted out of the venue. His friend is annoyed but stays behind to watch the show (as is his god-given right). But then his cel phone rings - Chip and I are all like "don't answer the phone!" but the friend answers it anyway and then of course has to leave himself to go rescue Mr. Drunkypants. So the rule here is: do the crazy crap you want to do, but if you get caught, don't ruin your friend's night by whining for help.

Excellent show overall that includes beautiful singing along to "I Will Follow You into the Dark". For once the archaic "smoking allowed" rule serves a valuable filtering role, but the drinking of PBR does not since we're all drinking it "for Katrina relief!". And poor Chip, who had to get up early this morning to fly to Michigan, just sent me a text message: "Beautiful people see Death Cab, the rest fly to Detroit."

American Idols Live! 2005

2005-08-26T14:19:00.000-07:00

Washington knows something about love!!
Everett Entertainment Center, Everett, WA

Idol class of 2005, where is your school spirit? Last year you brought signs by the dozen, you screamed when your favorite Idol took to the stage, and you cheered when the group carted out Prince medleys and Outkast covers. This year you sit tamely, only standing when the people in front of you stand, only screaming until your mom tells you to be quiet. Sure, there are a few great homemade signs here, but more than half of them are the crappy half-premade signs that sponsor Pop Tarts has set up in the lobby where you write the name of your favorite Idol above a pre-printed “rocks!”.

I think we are witnessing signs of an aging franchise. The set isn’t as elaborate, the crowd is a little older (and way more men this year – last year there were a lot of middle aged gals here, but this time they brought their husbands), and there is not NEARLY enough freaking out. Maybe this had to do with tripling my row count (from 9 last year to 27 this year), and maybe it had to do with the lack of Bo.

When Scott (the Disillusioned Idol) gets up to announce that Bo will not be performing, the half of the crowd who hasn't heard responds with a concerned “ohhhhh”. But Scott speaks so gravely that the other people who already know about Bo’s recent surgery grip themselves for news of Bo’s untimely death. We realize right quick that Scott is SUPREMELY JEALOUS of Bo sitting at home being waited on by his mom. At least we have Constantine.

Like the domestiques in the Tour de France, the lower placing Idols are carted out first, setting the stage for Carrie. Since each person performs 3 songs by themselves then goes back to the green room to relax, it means that no one is on stage for more than, say, 20 minutes. This is not the arduous performance schedule that Fox put the kids through last year. It also means fewer group numbers, fewer duets, and fewer opportunities to make me cringe.

Despite my nitpicking, the ardent fans seem not to mind the show at all. It is a pleasant show featuring pleasant songs (ok REALLY BLAND songs – just look at this set list). They make up for Bo’s absence by showing his performance from another city up on the big screens, and it’s pretty much like he’s right there. But the whole thing makes me wonder how long the love for the Idols will last. Personally, I’m ready for a new reason to join the girls in screaming themselves hoarse.

"Bashville" art auction

2005-07-31T16:45:00.000-07:00

Henry Art Gallery
Seattle, WA

Throwing an art auction fundraiser is a harrowing affair. Besides the sponsorships, staffing, and art wrangling, you need to get people happy and liquored up so they spend freely, but not so liquored up that they forget what they've promised to purchase and stumble out at the end of the evening clinging to the remaining shards of their dignity. Fortunately, the many volunteers at the Henry are only pouring teeny glasses of wine and stuffing people full of food all night.

Bashville is the 2005 incarnation of the annual fundraiser for this modern art gallery. Attendees are established and budding art lovers, hipsters who know that even without the art this would be a kick-ass party, and denizens of the art community who will do whatever it takes to make sure this gallery sticks around.

People look just splendid tonight. Since it is a hootenanny, there are large numbers of cowboy hats, boots, rhinestones, a few chaps, and a couple of crinolines. Those not in costume are still having fun, but they look tragically normal. Yours truly sports a slightly more demure Daisy Duke outfit, my friend wears a fantastic Japanese Western blouse, and Chip goes for the Gay Cowboy look. (This is on purpose, right Chip?)

We note Hickey Boy first - a dweebish looking guy not in costume but for this HUGE hickey on his neck as if to proclaim "SEE?? A GIRL LIKES ME." And I chat for a while with John the Builder. "Builder" is a wonderfully vague title that could range from construction worker to real estate mogul. At the beginning of the night he has like 15 art pieces jotted down with the intention of filling up the empty walls of his recently remodeled house, but in the end he gets squeamish and indecisive and buys nothing. I figure the hotel he's "building" downtown is going better than that.

The process of purchasing the art is orderly, clever and HIGHLY DRAMATIC. A few minutes before the sale starts, everyone clamors for a wooden nickel that has a number on it. We arrange ourselves according to the number we've drawn. Then one at a time people walk down the row of art and point out which one or two pieces they want. Simple, right? I draw number 11 (out of 75) which is pretty good, but I am FREAKING OUT because I'm certain that one of the 10 people in front of me will choose the piece I want as clearly it is the BEST PIECE. I go into full art palpitations and actually start YELLING at people not to select the piece I want, as if they have any idea which one that would be. Astonishingly, I get the piece. I've never been so happy to spend 300 bucks in my whole life.

Later in the evening my friend scores two pieces that she wants, right in front of a couple who were about to select the EXACT SAME TWO PIECES. Are you COMPREHENDING the drama?

Stress notwithstanding, it's a happy and supportive crowd ("You got the forest box? I love the box!" "You got the pod thing? You are so lucky!"). Like audiences at the old fart rocker shows I love so much, this crowd really feels like a family--a cultural continuum of the younger people we once were, the people we are today, and the older folks that we're on our way to becoming. Cowboy hats off to the Henry. This event rocked.

Beck

2005-07-16T00:38:00.000-07:00

Steamboat Hip-Hop
Paramount Theatre, Seattle, WA

About a month ago I hit indie rock overload. My cure has been to completely avoid any music that contains words in English sung by White people. Either I listen to 99.3 "La Gran D" or nothing at all. So it is with some trepidation that I am Breaking The Silence tonight by attending a show by the whitest, wordiest man alive--Beck.

The crowd at this sold-out show is quite lovely. Many have come straight from work so they are in their best pointy shoes or collared shirts. I estimate that at least 65% of the women have highlights or all-over color in their hair, and maybe 15% of the guys have budding bald spots. Have I mentioned how much I love watching people from a balcony? Sometimes the movement of individuals and groups looks like a diagram of air flowing through tubes. It's nice.

Le Tigre opens, and while I like hearing their songs one at time with lots of space in between, tonight they sound like a yelling band. Like The Go! Team - they're a yelling band.

The audience members here are sorted by which Beck album was released while they were in college. The Mellow Gold people have their badges from work tucked in their pockets, they are drinking mixed drinks, and are generally well-behaved. The Odelay folks have slightly more hair product, drink beer, and holler and pogo when he plays Devil's Haircut. The Sea Change girls (ya, mostly girls) scream "I love you Beck!!" and "you are my idol!!" from the balcony because this is the album that mended their broken hearts. The Guero group is actually a mix of people in college right now ("let's do more shots! Shotshotshots!") and newcomers of varying ages who discovered Beck on The Mountain.

No one was in college when he released Midnight Vultures, apparently.

Beck has a lot going on during the show, which is highly satisfying. And he has an adopted percussion boy, too. Is this a new trend with bands? I keep seeing this: a guy who dances around, plays characters, bangs on instruments and other things with sticks, but at no time is given a microphone. It's like Beck found him hanging around a rehearsal space and brought him on tour if he promised to be good and bring everyone bottled water when they asked. Like other adopted percussion boys, he adds a lot to the show and has nice legs.

The show lasts exactly the right length, and leaves people satisfied though wanting more ("he played your Debra song!" "Ya, but he didn't play your Guero song.") which is the perfect combo. He has rekindled my belief that good shows happen to good people. But I'm still not ready to give up La Gran D quite yet.

One-year Anniversary

2005-06-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

I've learned a few things after a year of audience reviews. Namely:

- An attentive audience at a great show makes for a lousy review
- All-ages crowds are more interesting than over-21 crowds
- I so need a travel budget. Seattle is way too white.

With that in mind, let's revisit some notable crowds and sometimes notable performances.

MC5 featuring Mark Arm & Evan Dando was the gig in New York that started it all, and gave me a soft spot for old fart rocker shows. Shortly thereafter came the Dayglo Abortions, which is about as punk as Canada gets - the crowd was hard core and polite. John Mayer, who I gather is still famous, put on a lovely show for teenagers. Then came American Idols Live! which needs no explanation and YES I am very excited for the next one.

Scissor Sisters, right when they were reaching their peak here, was hot. No, like HOT. Bumbershoot eventually came along, and with it joyous shows by USE, Death Cab, and the Presidents, and Public Enemy. This joy reminds me that I do love me some teeny-bopper shows, and Hilary & Haylie Duff filled my joy void one night. Decidedly not teeny-bopper-esque then came Fanalyst obsession Jon Brion, who I could go on about but for now will spare you.

In October I ended up at this little folk festival in Canada and saw a weird/good show by Justin Rutledge, who is now on his way to fame. Remember when Minnie Driver released an album and toured? Well, I do. But the highlight of that month was most certainly the Oracle Gathering, which you'll just need to read about.

Perhaps you have been living under a rock (or live outside of Seattle, which is a reasonable excuse) and haven't heard about the Iron Composer, but their November show was the first one I saw. I expected more from Fatboy Slim, but learned a valuable lesson about venue layout.

The new year brought a string of excellent learning opportunities, starting with the landmark open letter to singer-songwriters post that actually prompted a private REPLY from one of its subjects. Eep. Cher is, well, Cher. The Citizen Cope show is a study in what performers offer their audiences. We learned how old rockers rock out in Austin at the New York Dolls show, and how to orchestrate a spectacle back here at the U2 show.

We veer to the world of musical sort-of theater at the Gentlemen Prefer Blondes performance. And then I veer off the philosophical deep end watching Mike Doughty. And most recently, the summer music festivals are summed up in one review in Sasquatch vs. Endfest, then wind up with the fantastic OK Go show at the Comet.

Onward to another year.

OK Go

2005-06-06T21:41:00.000-07:00

Seriously? Here?
The Comet, Seattle, WA

For context, let me tell you that power-pop band OK Go is currently on tour with The Ceasars and Kaiser Chiefs - two hot bands that command huge venues. While the boys aren't quite as popular on the West coast as on the East, they at least managed to pack The Crocodile last year. So it was a bit of a shock to learn that they would be playing at former grunge-central / beer and cash-only Comet Tavern.

The staff at the Comet are all nervous about the potential crowd, so there are weird "no hand stamps, no leaving" rules flung about. OK Go won't come on until midnight. Until then we will be watching non-pop screamers The Ones and butt-rock shticksters Chinese Fingercuffs. Huh?

You can imagine what the crowd is like: take one part Comet regulars wondering what all the fuss is about, add two parts opening band members & entourages, mix with five parts freshly-scrubbed OK Go fans who maybe heard them for the first time on Queer Eye. It is a beautifully odd combination that provides no end of entertainment to the uncasual observer.

The Ones scream for a while and then are done. Some people look like they are into it, but I think they're the band's friends. And then Chinese Fingercuffs comes on. Everyone not in the freshly-scrubbed category are won over right away. They're this great blend of White Snake and The Darkness. The people at tables on either side of us are literally checking their watches and waiting for it to be over, but the rest of the bar is rocking out, as they are rockers.

Finally finally OK Go comes on (there is no backstage at the Comet, so they've been wandering around the crowd for the whole show anyway). All the superfans rush up the steps to the stage-ish area, and suddenly it feels like we're at the last hometown show before the boys go off to make it big. Every person standing around them loves or wants to love the band. It is loud and messy and perfect, and since we've been waiting so long there is beer in us which makes us love them even more. What other band performs a scene from Les Miz while a guitar gets re-strung?

My favorite fan behavior is Dueling Beautiful Girls. Every show sports a gal or two who wears her sexiest clothes and hair in hopes of snagging a band member later. Two of said gals are on opposite sides of the band, maybe 20 feet apart. The one in white makes oogly eyes at lead singer Damian AS HER BOYFRIEND HOLDS ON TO HER. The one in blue does the patented sexygroovedance, where you slowly move to beats 1 and 3 while the rest of the crowd pogos to 1, 2, 3, and 4. I don't know if they got lucky later, but the I bet the gal in blue couldn't hear a thing the next day because she was right next to the speaker.

I know it was a weird booking choice and an odd show for the band, but it was a HUGE TREAT for their fans. RYAN AND JAY - If you made it to the Vancouver show the next night, let us know how different and sad that was compared to this, ok?

Sasquatch v. EndFest

2005-06-05T16:40:00.000-07:00

Survival of the Illest
Gorge Amphitheater, George, WA
White River Amphitheater, Auburn, WA

Two gigantic music festivals took place recently in Washington: Sasquatch, sponsored by House of Blues, and EndFest, sponsored by local radio station 107.7 The End. The lineup consisted of the indie illuminati, with a couple of acts doing both shows.

Most of the differences between these two events stemmed from location and climate. Sasquatch took place at the Gorge - a beautiful valley in Eastern Washington that looks and feels like the desert. It was BLAZING HOT that day, sunny, and the venue offered almost no shade. It's also located about 2 hours from Seattle, so staying overnight in one of the adjacent campgrounds is popular. There were probably 10,000 people in attendance.

EndFest was at the White River Amphitheater - a fairly new venue erected by the Muckleshoot Indian tribe. It's in a suburb of Seattle, and you can get there by taking a shuttle from the Super Mall. Concert day was weirdly sunny-overcast-sunny, but the temperature was fine. White River offers lots of asphalt, beer gardens, and covered seating. 8500 seats were sold, but my guess is 5000 in attendance at any one time.

Even though the lineups were remarkably similar in style, the demographics were noticeably different. Sasquatch's crowd was a bit older, quite a bit drunker, and less clothed. In general, Sasquatch had more grass, flip-flops, sun hats, fascinating sunburns, heat exhaustion, and dancing (which is incredible given the heat. Chip says this points to the dedication of the fans who are willing to smash themselves up to the front of the stage and dance; I think they are probably drunk).

EndFest had more teenagers (including several cool dad/teen combos), colored hair, faux- and mohawks, corporate sponsors (these kids don't blink at corporate sponsorships - they rush to the booth to see what they can get for free. Interestingly the most popular one was the Poker Tent, where you could learn to be a casino dealer. Of course, we're pretty much next door to the Muckleshoot casino.), black clothing, chunky shoes, and one girl in a satin evening gown. They also had a half-pipe set up for razor scooters and bikes. A one-footed invert, I now know, is sick. The music here seemed almost like an aside.

A couple of bands at each show made both events worth attending for me. At Sasquatch, The Frames tore it up mainly due to their joy about being at the venue and the presence of The Pixies. Arcade Fire killed, though would have killed more were it dark outside while they were playing (seeing Noah from USE dancing at the back of the stage made the set all that much better).

At EndFest Hot Hot Heat was adorable as usual, and Kaiser Chiefs endeared themselves to the crowd when the lead singer stage-dove and continued singing, then tossed the mic to the crowd so they could sing the chorus of one song. HUGE rockstar brownie points here. The Bravery followed Kaiser Chiefs, and it took them a long time to get the crowd on their side. Chip called The Bravery "the Project Greenlight version of Kaiser Chiefs."

You can try to swear off summer festivals entirely, but the lineups are usually too enticing. If you go, heed my advice: bring sunscreen, leave your ironic throwback t-shirt at home, buy the most expensive ticket you can afford, and try not to compare this performance with the time you saw the band at The Crocodile. It just isn't the same. See you at Bumbershoot!

Mike Doughty

2005-05-18T14:41:00.000-07:00

Musical Youth: four questions
Neumo's, Seattle, WA

(1) When does the music of our youth stop being our own?
(2) How long does it take for the lead singer of a band to establish himself as a solo artist?
(3) How can you recognize a rocker in his mid 30s without evidence of rock hair, tattoos, and ravages of addiction?
(4) How many times do I have to write "Neumo's was an oven" in this blog to remember to wear a t-shirt instead of a sweater?

(1) Each generation of music fans claims ownership over a batch of songs released during some pivotal time. This could be music that was on the radio while they were in high school, the songs that got them through finals in college, the 10 albums that accompanied their trip across the country when they were 23, etc. In any case, we look at this music and say "MINE."

Although we recognize that younger people will hear this music and love it almost as much as we do, we feel as though they are robbing us of something sacred when we see them sing along and wear the t-shirt. Of course what I sometimes forget in my irkdom is that the bands that were so pivotal to me after college, like Soul Coughing, could have been equally pivotal to someone ten years my junior while they were at band camp. What I don't buy, however, is a teen of today rocking out to Echo & the Bunnymen. You were like, FIVE when that was new. Go buy an Interpol album.

The lack of any discernable style of music in the 90s and 00s, the abundance of content today, and our limitless access to that content results in a nostalgia deficit that members of the younger set try to solve by reaching back to previous decades when music was more homogeneous and contained. This isn't necessarily a rejection of new music, which certainly straddles every available style--it's more like a quest for comfort; a way to establish some indie cred in an era when hot new bands appear on TV show soundtracks before your cool friend even has time to burn you a copy of the EP.

The music of our youth will always be our own; we just need to learn how to share. The kids will move on soon enough.

(2) Through at least two albums. Doughty's new CD is getting some airplay, but still every third song is a Soul Coughing number. Fortunately, the crowd is equally unwilling to let Mike move on, so he is rewarded for all the old stuff.

(3) You cannot. Mike looked so normal and un-rock-like that I was waiting for him to tell a story about teaching his 6 year old how to play golf.

(4) A lot of times. Too many times.

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

2005-05-14T01:07:00.000-07:00

Singin', Dancin', Stalkin'
5th Avenue Theatre, Seattle, WA

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is a show that the 5th Avenue whipped together to, I imagine, make some quick money to fund the marketing campaign of the upcoming world premiere of Princesses (though - hello?). And how do they secure this cash? Let us count the ways:

1. Lucy Lawless in lead role. Former Xena star can sing and dance, and she brings with her instant credibility and a fan base that wants VERY MUCH TO TOUCH HER.

2. Solid cast. Other leads are imported theater luminaries and local favorites that make season ticket holders feel comforted that they will be consuming quality entertainment. In addition to "real" actors, the cast includes Pat Cashman and John Curley, who both are or were on the TV. They could bring in more people who don't normally go to the theater, but see these guys in local media all the time.

3. Seattle Men's Chorus. I think their motto should be "as gay as you expect." The huge chorus is wonderful, knows the music, and adds crowd-pleasing choreography. There are 250 of them, and they each have friends & fans that see all of their shows.

So even though the leads are on book (meaning they have scripts in their hands during the performance), people EAT THIS UP. During intermission my friend and I go out to look at the crowd. It's gay, it's old, it's young, it's hefty, it's devoid of style, it's stylish. Not until we really break down the demographics (season ticket holders, gay boys, lesbians) does any of it make sense. But once it does, it reveals the 5th Ave. artistic staff as BRILLIANT. Even the program features targeted advertising: gay cruises, gay tuxedo shops, gay Hawaii getaways. Selling this thing must have been an advertiser's wet dream, as it were.

After the show we go around back to collect my friend's boyfriend, who is one of the dancers. There is a MOB of people out there. Mostly women whose eyeglass frames could use updating, these are Lucy's most devout fans. They are armed with cameras, Sharpies, and promotional photos, and they scream every time the stage door opens to spit out another chorus member. I'm sure Lucy is used to this, but it wigs me out.

Even considering the number of people in the balcony attending the show on a comp ticket and the number of people on stage who need to be paid, this show will rake it in over the weekend. I just hope some of these new folks come back to see the new shows that they just helped fund. And they should come if only to acknowledge that they've been marketed to in an effective, joyous way that not only got their rocks off, but gave a few of them something to blog about.

Sleepytime Gorilla Museum

2005-05-13T01:20:00.000-07:00

Zombie Nation
Chop Suey, Seattle, WA

Yes, I know all the cool kids are at the sold out LCD Soundsystem/M.I.A. show tonight (plus CHIP, who infuriatingly stumbled into tickets being sold on the street by hapless college students. More from Chip later.). I, however, am venturing into the world of incomprehensible music.

I do like Super Geek League, the first band. They wear costumes, start a pillow fight in the crowd, and bring up a mad scientist guy who sings this song about drinking, um, man juice. The crowd loves them, and I start noticing a bunch of audience members in costumes, some wearing camouflage makeup, and others in bowler hats and fedoras. I like it when people make an effort, regardless of the outcome.

Sleepytime Gorilla Museum at first sounded to me like Kraftwerk fronted by Rob Zombie, but on closer listens I realize that I just don't have the musical reference points to classify these guys at all. This crowd is attentive, predominantly male, heavily tattooed and pierced, sporting the requisite Fantômas and KMFDM t-shirts, and as GIDDY AS SCHOOL GIRLS about the prospect of seeing this band perform for the first time in, like, EVER. This is a different breed of Superfan - hyper-alert, intense, and knowledgeable to an almost weird degree.

A nice alterna-couple let me take their picture, beckon me over to make sure it turns out, and have me retake the picture where boyfriend licks girlfriend's face. That one doesn't turn out either, but I don't have the balls to ask them to move into the light. A couple of guys try to chat me up, as I am one of the only single women in the room. Sadly, they think that we can bond on the strength of our love for difficult music, but the conversation peters out when I profess an inclination for melody.

During the show I'm sending text messages to Chip to try and get details of the LCD Soundsystem show. He knows that he is responsible for contributing his part of the review. Sadly, his drunkenness on Absolut Raspberry and Sierra Mist (that's a DRINK? good lord) and T9 errors mar the effort. Later he'll tell me about the 80's guy with hair all pointed forward dancing like a maniac in late 70's short black workout shorts, the refreshingly crazed audience, and the show that "you would have looooooved." Rub it in, Chip.

I'm glad I saw Sleepytime. Their rhythm is complex, so when some brave people try to dance to it, they look like they are having convulsions (which makes me wonder if there are any studies about early-onset epilepsy in kids being misdiagnosed as devil posession. If you know, let me know.) It's a reminder that no matter how obscure, how complicated the time signature, how unclassifiable the band, there is a group of devoted fans out there just waiting for them to play again.

U2

2005-04-25T17:14:00.000-07:00

Sunday, Branded Sunday
Key Arena, Seattle, WA

U2's Bono is 100% rock star. All of his actions are huge and dramatic: the wiping of the brow, the shaking of the fist, the selecting of the girl. He knows exactly what will make the crowd freak out, when to remove articles of clothing, and when to let the crowd sing (which interestingly enough he does throughout the show - there are times when it sounds like he's only singing every 5th word because the audience is singing along anyway--a vocal efficiency, if you think about it). But the more interesting moments occur when he pauses at the end of a song and takes just a split second of time for himself to be tired, thirsty or thoughtful, rather than a humanitarian/rock money machine.

The setup is best described by pictures. Look here for a picture of the oval ramp that surrounds the stage and part of the audience - we'll call it the Ego Loop. Look here and you'll see the big beaded light curtains that unfurl from the ceiling to display animated airplanes and flags and walking dudes. Look here for the sea of happy raised white arms. The light show really is fantastic, and the Ego Loop lets people get a good look at the band, including the shtick where Bono lays down on the ramp, as he's been doing on stages for years.

Never have I seen this stadium so full. Although I suppose if one were to attend the more popular sporting events (Chip: "or Neil Diamond") one would scoff at this statement. I love crowds who not only worship the band, but have also been waiting between one and twenty years to see them. Since this audience is not all that diverse in makeup, race, or enthusiasm, my binoculars wander to the other types in attendance.

Two flavors of people stand out for me here: (1) part-time security guards who are highly impressed with the gig they've just landed, are aware that many people are staring straight at them with uncaring eyes, and that cameras will catch their every move should Bono saunter by. The result is that they try to be SUPER casual--one guy goes so far as to cross his arms and LEAN AGAINST THE EGO LOOP while the crowd goes crazy around him; (2) random privileged people who somehow get to stand in the same fenced-off area as the security guards, but who are not wearing a uniform or headset or anything. Some of these people try and look cool and low-key, others are excited and nervous to be there, and one guy faces his little section of the crowd and sort of conducts their cheering. Who ARE these people? Perhaps they all have terminal illnesses or are diplomatic envoys from developing nations.

I am pleased to see that the girl Bono plucks from the audience for a stroll around the Ego Loop is not a waifish girl in a camisole, but a normal looking girl in a baseball cap and saggy jeans. She is eventually deposited by the drum kit so that Bono can pay attention to his audience again. The girl stands there for a while, then starts feeling awkward and sits on the riser so people will stop looking at her. Bono eventually collects her and drops her back at the starting point. She probably feels special and cool, but you can tell that Bono has done this so many times that she might as well be a head of lettuce.

In all it's a great show, which Bono unsuprisingly uses as a platform for his latest political ventures. This time he implores people to get involved to end poverty in Africa, which is fine and all, but the most he can accomplish is to ask people to text their names to this number to show their support. Hundreds of lightning bug cel phones emerge, and a few minutes later you see these names flash across the screen above the audience. I just hope that they also send follow-up SMS spam so the program lasts longer than 6 minutes. I can understand why Bono wants to keep his night job: performing doesn't necessarily change the world, but committees at the World Bank don't scream when he walks in the room either.

Handsome Boy Modeling School, Buck 65

2005-04-05T13:28:00.000-07:00

Earn Your Inches
Showbox, Seattle, WA

It is widely known that the Maritimes (you know, all those little islands in Eastern Canada) manufactures crazy people. But they are the most disarming, sincere, and sweet crazy people you'll ever meet. Ashley MacIsaac was like that, and so is Buck 65.

This dude has been working at his music for ten years, but audiences in the U.S. learned about him like ten minutes ago. The effect of his experience on new ears is interesting. When he raps about all these stories of life on the road and his past music, you sometimes feel like an ignoramus for not knowing who the guy is, and other times feel like you've been given this very special, belated gift. Richard's banter is weird and compelling; the audience here doesn't quite know what to make of him at first, but by the end he has everyone under his thumb and knows it. With song intros like, "That was a good day. That was a day that ruined my life," you have to love the guy.

I imagine it's both frustrating and comforting to perform an entire show to pre-recorded music. There is no variation in tempo or sequence, which lets you know that it will pretty much take a miracle for something unexpected to happen. However, it makes the audience focus specifically on the performer. We listen more closely to the stories because we don't have to keep checking out the hot bass player (though, HBMS is an exception to this rule).

During the break I create a game to better judge the caliber of the audience. Points are given for ear-stretching bolts, visible tattoos, fancy eyeglass frames, blazers, and good shoes. Points are taken away for hoodies, tractor hats, ripped t-shirts, bad smells, and trying too hard. The game is to find as many credits and demerits as possible on one body for a total of zero. Only one guy fits the bill.

Handsome Boy Modeling School is Prince Paul and Dan the Automator, with a rotating series of session players and guest performers. Tonight we are graced with Casual from the Hieroglyphics, Josh Hayden, and Nathaniel Merriweather. Dan and Paul make up for their own pre-recorded soundtrack with cartoon characters on the screen doing vocals, a cute band, and a great shtick between songs that turns out to be more fun than the songs themselves. Aside from spinning here and there, Paul and Dan mostly walk around the stage holding cocktails and encouraging the actual band members. They put the M and the C into MC.

The audience is way into HBMS's set for the first 20 minutes, then they get wind of the formula and drift. After about a half hour we notice people leaving. Chip and I make it all they way to the catwalk competition, but decide to go when they descend to the realms of boob humor. The show is exactly what we expect it to be; with the substance on tape and the filler on stage, how can it not?

SXSW Wrap-Up

2005-03-21T15:34:00.000-08:00

South by Southwest is a huge music, interactive, and film conference/festival held every year in sunny Austin, Texas. Years ago the music festival was the place to relax, have some beer, and see the Next Big Thing. Now it’s an overwhelming fiasco of 1300 bands playing at all hours of the day and night and a jillion people wandering around all trying to see them. If you think that meticulously planning out every show you will see will guarantee you full concert-going satisfaction, you are entirely mistaken.

While it’s tempting to play “Famous or European?” here, the game is not so effective as many of the Europeans dress like crap. While most people politely ask “performing or attending?” the real game turns out to be “Stalker or Stalkee?” since those monikers straddle performer and spectator lines. I saw members of headlining bands gushing all over members of practically unknown bands. Stalking is the great equalizer in Austin.

I am highly satisfied by the fashion display at the festival. Boys in not-quite-famous bands wear label-issued red shirts and black skinny ties and heavily productized hair. The girls in the Japanese pop bands are so cute with their chains and mini-skirts I just want to put them in my pocket. But the better thing is seeing these folks in the same night-crawler get-ups outside during the day, sweating off all the goop on their heads.

With so many performers mixed in with the regular crowd, telling them apart is pretty much impossible. The only way I could recognize anyone famous was by either seeing them play an instrument or overhearing a stalker hone in for the kill. At least the badge holders wore name tags, which resulted in thousands of people walking around staring at everyone’s stomachs.

As the days progressed, spectator brazenness increased steadily. The first night people stood diligently in their lines and gave the horse-mounted police officers nothing to do. The second night there was more milling around in the streets and occasional public urination. By night three walking though the drunken crowd felt like a scene from “Shaun of the Dead”. Saturday night their boldness peaked as we witnessed push-up contests in the street, barf on the ground, and finally, fireworks in the atrium of the hotel at 3 am, which sounds charmingly like a gun fight.

Highlights of the show for me include the daKAH Hip-Hop Orchestra, Radar Bros., controller.controller, the French Kicks, Benevento/Russo Duo, and the Kaiser Chiefs. As long as you go into SXSW with the understanding that you will not see all the shows you want to see, and that you may instead discover new bands that will make you flip out and love music anew, you will leave with a happy and exhausted vow to come back next year and do it all again.

New York Dolls

2005-03-19T03:10:00.000-08:00

One Person's Trash...
Stubbs, Austin, TX

I'll get to a general write-up of South By Southwest in a couple of days, as reviewing the audiences for one million bands is, well, daunting. In the meantime, let's visit the first show at this festival worthy of its own review: the New York Dolls. Oh, and I'll introduce you to Chip.

This is the type of audience I love love love. Start with a big helping of old fart fans, since this is basically an old fart rocker show at a young fart festival. Add members of every SXSW punk and glam band worth their snot. Mix in groups of "I should know who these guys are" music students. Sprinkle all of that with local Austinites who gaze upon the punks in the crowd with a "what in THE HELL is that??" look on their faces, and you've got yourself a show.

There is rampant air drumming and air guitar which normally makes me cringe, but the air musicians are so earnest and their timing so impeccable that they are forgiven. One guy with a pink mohawk has like a bonus sideways mohawk coming out of the side of his head that at certain angles looks like a feather from those crazy squawking birds here. Another mohawk guy has his so perfectly trimmed and gelled that I very much want to set it on fire just to see what would happen.

The Fanalyst has an occasional sidekick named Chip, who heretofore has only received credit as "my friend." Some of his comments are apt and witty, so I am promoting him. And today I offer you the first of Chip's Rock 'n' Roll Tips: if you plan to be in a band for a long time, keep your hair short. That way you won't look like you age 25 years the moment you cut it all off. There. Now leave me alone, Chip.

A few people are stationed on the sides of the stage by luck, nepotism, or other. The best pair is a guy who looks like a fat, drunk Henry Rollins and his Kelly Osborne-esque pink-headed girlfriend. This guy is a Superfan, and beer keeps sloshing out of his Rolling Rock bottle as he gestures wildly toward the band. I am amazed that he stays put throughout the show and does not stumble out and grab David's microphone.

The band looks delighted to be back on stage performing again. I'm speaking in particular of the two surviving original members of the New York Dolls, since the new ones are rented and happy to be performing at all, let alone with rock legends. Chip thinks David is wearing a wig, and I wonder if Sylvian Sylvian has grandkids. This audience is so supportive, so attentive and encouraging that I imagine David and Sylvian feel they have NO CHOICE but to tour again to promote this new album. That's the impact, and the danger, of the audience love. People, use your power wisely.

Greater New York 2005 exhibit

2005-03-14T06:26:00.000-08:00

Famous or European?
P.S.1 Gallery, Brooklyn, NY

Let us veer for a moment to the world of art. P.S.1 was closed for a while for the installation of its new exhibit, in cooperation with the recently-remodeled MoMA. It's this gallery in Brooklyn (ok, well, technically Long Island City) housed in a building that used to be a school. The entrance way is big and concrete with little rocks on the ground, but then inside it feels warm and cozy and not at all like you may be in trouble.

Art openings in New York are fun because all kinds of thin people come out to participate. I say "thin" intentionally as I saw not one single larger person at this event. No, this was not a cross-section of America in any way. This was a gathering of the hip, the informed, and the international.

Some vignettes are in order. (exhibit a) Well-to-do older couple dressed entirely in black, woman sports those enormous Liz Taylor glasses. Her hair is grey but tastefully streaked with black. (exhibit b) Artist girl with shabby/spendy jean jacket, long tulle black skirt and Converse shoes clomping into the gallery, uninterested. (exhibit c) Band of very short, expensively dressed women who see a piece of art, then rush up to the description card saying "I think I know this guy!" and complain loudly if anyone happens to be crossing their path at that moment. (exhibit d) Pair of guys in their late 20s, both sporting rockstar haircuts, worn brown leather jackets, tall boots, with one of them carrying an ugly Lufthansa Airlines carry-on bag. They stand in the courtyard chainsmoking and waiting to be recognized.

For that matter, it looks to me like a full 15% of the people here could be famous in some way. I lean in to hear a few people talk, and am surprised to discover that they are merely European. So then the question becomes "famous or European?" Since I rarely recognize famous people, it's impossible to tell. Although on our way out my friend does spot David Duchovny driving away in his Land Rover, so there's that.

As with any big event, some folks are here specifically to hate it. There are about a million press people swarming around taking pictures, shooting video, and talking warmly to attendees and artists, all the while composing a blistering review in their heads. I think the negative reviews exist to balance out all the other publications who basically reprint press releases issued by the gallery.

In all, the media event works. P.S.1 gathers the rich, famous, and Euro out to an event (during the day!) where they can mingle with their compatriots and be the first to see Local Art That Matters. Hip mommies and daddies wander with babies strapped to their chests, artists rush around to find their own work, and delighted art patrons croon over and over, "oh my GAWD! I haven't seen you in so LOWNG!"

The Frames

2005-03-12T19:27:00.000-08:00

A Caution to the Birds
The Crocodile, Seattle, WA

At every club I frequent, I have a favorite spot to stand. That spot tends to be in the back of the room, as the back offers a few positioning advantages. Namely: (1) more elbow room during packed shows; (2) good vantage point for viewing questionable behavior; and (3) better sightlines to stage. The drawbacks are fairly obvious: (a) greater likelihood of being a body gate: (b) more smokers; (c) higher incidence of incessantly gabbing people.

So let’s talk about the chatter. Some forms I don’t mind (“I bet he’s going to have to tune after that song!”) while other forms make me want to K-I-double L (“Dude! I’ll give you five bucks to yell out ‘Muscrat Love’! Huh huh huh!”).

I’ve stopped asking aloud why people would pay good money to see a show and then promptly not watch that show. Peer pressure, alcohol, Jim-is-in-town-and-he-wants-to-see-a-concert, more interested member of a couple, any number of factors lend themselves to squawking-not-watching. It’s fine when the band is loud and can drown out the voices, but once in a while you’ll get a band that actually REQUESTS SILENCE and then sadly, shamefully, does not receive it.

Many songs by The Frames begin as small, sad commentaries on relationships and life, and end up as HUGE AND DEVASTATING rave-ups. Most of the audience here knows this; we even own a primer on how to attend a Frames show: the incredible live album Set List. This means that we KNOW when to be quiet and we KNOW when to sing along because a large audience in Dublin taught us how already. I actually feel embarrassment on behalf of this audience when we can not pipe down for Glen Hansard. Surely the entire band is wondering if conquering the States is worth the effort.

Sure sure, one of the solutions is to elbow your way to the front where you can be ignorant about the goings-on behind you, but for me that usually means fixating on the back of the football player directly in front of me. Ideally this show would take place in a huge stadium, in a big room with couches everywhere, or at dusk in an outdoor amphitheatre. The Frames simply cannot be contained by this small, noisy space.

The chatterers are not going anywhere – this I understand. But if you’re one, know that we are watching and cursing you, and that there is a bar around the corner where people want to hear you talk. Really. They love talking over there.

Kasabian, The Music

2005-03-07T23:50:00.000-08:00

Corneas Beware!
Neumos, Seattle, WA

The audience at this sold-out show is twittering and spazzy, and it reminds me of the Scissor Sisters show last summer: Kasabian is so completely RIGHT NOW that everyone has to rush out to see them even though it's a school night. Well, "school" is probably not the right word since these are mostly 30-somethings. In stark contrast to the Hot Hot Heat show last week, the conversations here revolve around the merits of lite beer, the horribly long lines at the bar, and who is boinking whom at work.

What I don't understand about tonight is why Kasabian is OPENING for The Music, when Kasabian is coming in to the show with approximately one jillion times more marketing, airplay, and merch. Before their set even gets underway, girls are ripping Kasabian posters off the walls and tucking them into - where? Where do big posters get tucked when the girls are wearing camisoles? I do not know.

This was one of those nights where I was a linebacker magnet, and not in a good way. Maybe these guys do a 360 rotation to see if anyone is around them, but do not tilt their heads up or down. I would benefit from a downward head tilt, boys. In the other good way.

Kasabian's music is swirly and large, and the band members wear satisfying rocker hair and shirts. One of the benefits of having a linebacker standing directly in front of you is that their bodies can protect you from the corneas-beware! rapid-fire lights of death that are annoyingly common now. These lights say "you are at an enormous rock show despite the small size of this room!" and "observe band at own risk!" It's effective however, particularly when you combine singer Tom Meighan's bravado and posturing with layered music whose instruments you can't tell apart even when you are wearing Very Expensive Earplugs.

I'm sure The Music were fantastic, but I missed them. You know when you're sick and your body is all "you are an idiot for being upright"? Ya. Need to rest up as this is March and the shows have only just begun. Lord help me.

Hot Hot Heat, Louis XIV

2005-02-22T01:07:00.000-08:00

Meme Me Meme Me
Neumo's, Seattle, WA

How can your average person tell the difference between a meme and a well-funded marketing campaign? When you suddenly hear about a band from a bunch of disparate sources, does that constitute a meme, or is it just a promoter doing his or her job? And for that matter, can a major label act ever claim memedom, particularly when their success is tied to someone's year-end review? I think you have to back up and consider the genre of a band like Louis XIV to figure out why they are suddenly so hot with only one 6-song EP to their name. The meme they are replicating is the one started by The White Stripes and The Vines and The Hives; maybe Louis XIV is simply riding that wave and capitalizing on the fact that they don't start with The.

The floor of Neumo's is packed with teenagers and the balcony is packed with ticket winners. Before the show begins there is talk of rugby formals and dating incidents and strategies for getting alcohol. Many sport carefully-selected band t-shirts (though I am thrown off-decade seeing a gal wearing a Violent Femmes shirt with She-Bop earrings - wasn't that MY outfit?), girls scream when they see their friends, and guys peek out from behind rockstar bangs. The number of early arrivals make me think that most of the crowd is here for Louis XIV and not Hot Hot Heat, but it turns out that it's pretty even if you consider the Venn-diagram cross-over.

I so need to write a handbook for up & coming rockstars. The guys from Louis XIV saunter on stage like they are doing an equipment check rather than getting ready to rock out. It takes Jason Hill practically the whole set to warm up and look like the oversexed lead singer that he aspires to be. OH - and they don't address the audience or even SAY HELLO for the ENTIRE SHOW. This is just unacceptable. Audiences know that buying the albums gives the band a reason to tour in the first place, and that touring is the only thing that funds the band's drug and alcohol habit. We should be thanked for that.

With any luck the boys from Louis XIV are offstage watching Hot Hot Heat's set. Strong entrance: check. Rock hair: check (afro on singer Steve Bays makes Leo Sayer's look sad). Rock clothing: check. Crowd singing: check (I am so pleased to see that there are at least 150 people in this room who know every single word to Make Up the Breakdown, as do I). Band acknowledgement of audience: check (Bays lavishes love on Seattle, thanks his audience, and leans down during songs so the girls can pet his hair. His hair is astonishing, really.)

Aside from the fact that Neumo's is FUH-REEZING, nixing the previously sound leave-coat-in-car-run-to-sweaty-club logic employed by many teens here, it encourages everyone to dance even harder, to jump even higher. After a string of shows standing at a safe distance from other members of the sea of immobility, it is refreshing to finally see a show that makes me realize - Hey! This floor is kinda bouncy!

Citizen Cope

2005-02-11T11:26:00.000-08:00

Of Loyalty and Deviation
Showbox, Seattle, WA

I've been thinking about what people mean when they say "great show!" People obviously apply their own standards of greatness to any live performance, and if the performance falls in line with those standards, then it's all good. At rock shows these standards come in three flavors:

(1) band is completely faithful to the album (aside from song order) so the audience knows when to sing along, what the beat will be, when the swelling refrain comes in, etc.

(2) band sticks mostly to the album versions of songs save for the odd flourish and extra solo here and there. The audience feels like they are getting something more than they would by listening to the CD, but it doesn't veer all that much.

(3) band delivers something unexpected, like new songs, quiet versions of loud songs and the inverse, different instrumentation, drum-kit crashing freak-outs, and audience-led choruses. This one is my preference, but I'm starting to think that I'm in the minority.

Tonight Citizen Cope starts off in category #1, and only in the fifth song does he move into category #2. This is an effective strategy - by that point ANYTHING different sounds TOTALLY different. It's like that Andy Warhol movie when people in the theatre cheered when the guy rolled over. Clarence does have some stage presence, but he doesn't look like he enjoys touring all that much.

The audience here is a bizarre amalgamation of Mountain listeners, people who miss the Spin Doctors, and other folks who want to listen to music with a groove without going full-on into Hip-Hop territory. One guy in a shiny black suit dancing next to us prompts my friend to say, "all the guys in accounts receivable are very impressed."

It strikes me as odd that several Cope songs incite girls to sway and cuddle with their boys. While the songs are fantastic and soulful, are you not LISTENING TO THE WORDS? Why is a song about a penitentiary being on fire suddenly an Al Green-like makeout song?

The category #1 and category #2 people loved this show; Cope delivered on the promise of the great album. But we category #3 people longed for just one knocked-over mic stand.

Aqualung, Luke Temple

2005-01-31T01:01:00.000-08:00

Songs of Devastating Voicebreak
Crocodile, Seattle, WA

Since I missed a bunch of key shows last year because I poo-poo'd the hype, my New Year's resolution is "believe the hype." Hype looks funny if you type it a bunch of times. Hype. HYPE. hypehypehype. So here I am preparing to see Aqualung since they are currently hypeful.

But first is the lovey Luke Temple. I often wish I were a musical matchmaker and with the crinkle of a nose could cause duets and collaborations to take place between complementary voices. I would pay at least twenty dollars to hear Luke Temple and Inara George sing together. Maybe even twenty-five.

The audience is pretty attentive for Luke even though he's a bit quiet. The exception is a tube-top wearing, PBR-sipping girl standing next to me who unleashes an incomprehensible and ceaseless commentary on the tiniest behavioral quirks and clothing choices of every human around us. That is MY JOB, sister. Get your own blog.

I end up at a body gate, and with my keen observational powers can peg how people heard about Aqualung as they stream by me. It goes something like: KEXP-KEXP-O.C.-O.C.-O.C.-O.C.-End-End-KEXP-O.C.-O.C.-repeat. The nice thing about the O.C. infusion, as was the case during the Earlimart show, is that we have a nice bit of diversity here for a change. Most of the O.C. guys are wearing collared shirts. I do not know why.

During the break before Aqualung comes on, a girl behind me responds to a pick-up by launching into a full-on Margaret Cho routine, complete with mom-impersonating screeches. The guy is impressed, but clearly his role in the conversation is over. It takes him a good ten minutes to squeak in his name, which is promptly mocked. Merlin.

Aqualung is one guy - Matt Hales - and his brother/manservant Ben. Unfortunately Matt's voice is a bit trashed from this tour, making it raspier and breakier. The effect is that his already sad songs are turned DEVASTATING because he sounds like he's going to cry during all the choruses. That bit of drama makes us really listen to the words for the first time, and now we're trying not to cry. However, the people encourage him, bring him scotch, and clap even louder when his voice completely dies. It's a positive, packed room, everyone looks nice, and we all forget about work in the morning. Maybe TV isn't so bad.

Cher

2005-01-27T00:29:00.000-08:00

The Cherest Show On Earth
Everett Events Center, Everett, WA

Sometimes when we are consumed by heartache, grief, or pain, we yearn for a Calgon-esque experience to grab and hold our attention temporarily so that our brains can rest. Cher is just the ticket. This is show #293 of her farewell tour. No, really.

The audience here falls into just a few categories: (1) women who announced to their husbands that they were going to see Cher and yes, we can count this as you taking me out even though I bought the tickets; (2) women whose husbands flatly refused the offer so they are here instead with their girlfriends and we are going to PAR-TAY! Yeah!; (3) beautiful gay men. I spot a few outlier hair-teased and provocatively dressed 30-something single gals on the prowl for, who? WHO? I will tell you right now that there is not one single straight man in this ENTIRE STADIUM.

A bunch of people use the opportunity of a Cher show to wear that sequined shirt / orange boa / backpack made of feathers / pleather platform stiletto boots that they never get to wear anywhere for very very good reason. Some men are in their goin' places shirts, but I suspect others are doodied up to impress their wives' friends. (Oh - so far Cher wins my wifebeater price index: 40 bucks!)

Cher floats down to the stage on top of a giant chandelier, singing a U2 song. It occurs to me that even though she's had this stupendous career, she only has a few actual hits that anyone remembers, so, covers. There are leisurely gaps between numbers for costume changes, dancer breaks, putting away the elephant, hoisting up the scarves, etc. By about song 7 people figure out that they have time to go out to the bathroom during breaks, so they sneak down rows butt-first to general hissing and consternation.

Several breaks are comprised of video montages of Cher's television and film appearances. I swear that woman must have been on TV 24 hours a day for the entire 1970s. The film montage is a bit weird - like it's either a pre-emptive edit for her upcoming Lifetime Achievement Award at the Oscars, or the piece that CNN will use when she dies.

Because the show is spectacular and production-heavy, she only performs 14 songs in 90 minutes. While some people leave the stadium rapt and happy, others complain that the editing in the video segments was too fast, the volume too loud (with the earplugs, people, how many times?), or the performance was "not as good as when we seen her last time in Seattle." But she is CHER, dammit, and therefore fabulous and un-dissable. And even better, she is a glorious jeweled reminder that we are just not that old, that there is still joy, and that we can recharge and take on another day.

Girlfriend Accounting

2005-01-18T13:39:00.000-08:00

Fanalyst Girlfriends, you say?

Even after all these months, the list of Fanalyst Boyfriends is remarkably accurate, though I'm making the executive decision RIGHT NOW to elevate Mike Andrews into the permanent boyfriend category for reasons I'll explain later.

So now it is time to introduce the first list of Fanalyst Girlfriends. Some girlfriends have been around for a while, and some are very recent additions.

Alison Krauss - it's that VOICE. She first blew me away with her cover of Baby, Now That I've Found You. Her guitar playing is so great, her backing band so incredible, and her voice so sweet yet not syrupy that I even bought her new CD for my dad.

Jenny Lewis of Rilo Kiley - Jenny sings all-knowing and all-experiencing songs that sometimes make me feel naive, sometimes sad, and sometimes like I'd rather just have my way with her. I'm just saying. Also she sang on the nearly-perfect Postal Service album.

Jill Scott - So she releases this one album and it's great and all, then she takes a break for a few years to get married and have a kid, then comes back with this incredibly mature and inspiring and gorgeous album Beautifully Human. Did you see her on Ellen? She was awesome.

Queen Latifah - is there anything this woman can't do? It's more than her voice an acting ability that make me love her - it's her incredible marketing and self-promotion prowess. The gal is stretching out her fame in an interesting and ever-changing way. Rock.

Hesta Prynn of Northern State - While their new album All City isn't as fresh as their first release Dying In Stereo (for which I can't find even one review that isn't all snitty about their lack of hip-hop rule-following), I have a huge soft spot for Northern State. Hesta (real name Julie Potash) is the brainy one of the outfit. They put on a killer show.

Inara George - This is the newest entry to the list as of, like, yesterday. She's been around for a while, and her first solo album is going to drop next week. She is backed by an incredible group of musicians, including Fanalyst Boyfriend Mike Andrews, who produced the record. You can watch her recent live performance on KCRW right now, if you want. Gorgeous voice.

So there you have it. And don't go all thinking that I'm not seeing any shows these days. I am. The audiences are simply comatose and therefore not review-worthy. That should change this weekend, however.

John Roderick, Graig Markel, etc.

2005-01-06T10:16:00.000-08:00

Open Letter to Singer-Songwriters
Neumo's, Seattle, WA

Hello singer-songwriter, it's me - your audience. Can we talk about a few things?

First, while you may know half the people in the room, I don't recognize you or your music, and neither does my friend. So it's a little frustrating that YOU NEVER SAY YOUR OWN NAME while you're playing. You refer to and thank the other guys on the bill tonight - John, Graig, Luke - but then I have to actually walk over to the poster at the back of the room to figure out what your name is. Please, singer-songwriter, tell me your name during your set.

Tonight I'm standing way back here to give you space and because I want you to be different and more important than me. However, if you create a rapport with me and ask me to move closer because you like the intimacy (like John is doing right now), I promise you that I will move closer. I like receiving instructions from you, singer-songwriter, as long as they don't make me feel dumb, or if they do that we're all being dumb together.

Now, about the yawning and the eye-drifting: I've had a long day. Even though many of your songs speak to my heart, there are times that I'm just thinking about other stuff. If I had a notepad and a pen in front of me I would be making lists. Also, tonight I'm distracted by the girl in front of me who has her hand completely between her boyfriend's legs as if there is no one standing THREE FEET behind her. I assume that you don't have to get up early like I do, so I give myself permission to be tired. For all I know, you have a day job too. But tonight, you are only a musician to me. Sorry - these are the unfair rules of engagement.

Listen, I know it's a Wednesday and a lot of your friends are here, but could you maybe brush your hair? When you are on a bill with other guys who look really good and who have carefully selected which shirt and jacket to wear, you look like a bit of a shlump. I don't think that's a "look" anymore. I care about you, and I want you to show me that you care about me.

I really like it when you invite other musicians to play with you on songs that you normally do solo - especially that cello player. She's great. However, I am skeptical and sometimes a bit disappointed when you play songs solo that you normally do with your band, mainly because you can't sing all the vocal parts at the same time. You write other songs, right? Why not play those?

The chatter in the room must be frustrating, so I understand why you crank the volume to your guitar and ask the sound guy to turn up your vocals. This is an effective conversation-stopper, but let me tell you, singer-songwriter, I now feel assaulted by sound. And since I expected an overall reasonable volume level tonight, I didn't bring my earplugs. Easy with that, okay?

I hope you understand where I'm coming from, singer-songwriter. I really do love you, and I want you to be successful. Sorry there aren't more people here tonight - I'll tell all my friends about your next show. If I can remember your name.

Love, your audience.

Brown Derby Theatre's "Showgirls"

2004-12-15T10:30:00.000-08:00

It Doesn't Suck
Rebar, Seattle, WA

The mere fact that we are seeing a live re-enactment of "Showgirls" performed by drag queens makes reviewing the audience almost a distraction. But onward we plow, because we have a GOAL here, people. The room is completely packed, as it is for all of the Brown Derby shows. People love Ian Bell, and local worshipees Jackie Hell, Ursula Android, Nick Garrison, and more amazing cast members from Bald Faced Lie and other local outfits.

This crowd is delightfully diverse: you have the Rebar regulars, Seattle theatre hipsters, and various alterna-hairdo'd, chained, and tattooed folk (including one guy with a tat on his FACE which is downright BALLSY). But the crowd also includes a highly odd 5% outlier group, consisting of people who are either here by themselves or who pretend to wait for dates. One guy even brings an extra coat to drape over the seat next to him, and he shuns everyone looking for a chair before the show starts. His "date" never shows up, but the coat stays on the chair for the whole show. Right after it ends he flees.

We sit next to a guy who spends most of the pre-show by himself, so my friend chats him up a bit. Then a girl shows up and they sort of interact, but not really. About seven minutes BEFORE the end of the show they get up, grab their coats, and muscle their way down the narrow aisle to leave. How can you leave before the end of this show? There is ACTION on stage. Is it a babysitting issue? Parking? Is their desire for one another so strong that they can't wait for the scintillating denouement of this plot? It is flabbergasting.

Being packed in as we are and watching the constant motion on the stage (plus Ian Bell's hilarious stage directions and quips) creates one highly engaged audience. The script and Ursula's robotic delivery makes our faces hurt from laughing, and when cast members mess up or wigs fall off we laugh even harder. I wonder if there are any conservative people here on a dare.

(Have you ever sat with a friend who has a different style of show appreciating than you do? So maybe you're both watching a show and something really funny happens and you look at your friend to catch her eye and connect at that moment just a bit but your friend tends to stare straight ahead and ignore everyone else in the room so you adjust and you stare straight ahead and quit the glances but by then your friend realizes what you were trying to do and so she starts looking back at you once in a while to make up for ignoring you during the first part, but by then it's too late and you're out of sync. Right? Ya.)

It's a highly satisfying show, and it must be a killer on the performers. No wonder they only do three shows (though I heard that the Monday show was canceled at the last minute due to a medical issue which sucks - they're going to do a makeup show). The next time they do this, go.

Presidents of the USA, Mountain Con

2004-12-11T11:09:00.000-08:00

No Friction in My Life
Showbox, Seattle, WA

I believe mosh pits are simply football games with fewer rules and more alcohol. They both feature ritualized, condoned violence and offer sanctioned venues for straight men to touch each other. A mosh pit at a Presidents show is the best of all worlds - its participants are full of love for the band, they help up the drunkenly when they fall, and they give wide berth to the more crazed. The band manages things a bit too - at one point Chris alerts the security staff with "we have a situation here," and encourages the instigators to step back and think about their feelings.

Openers Slender Means do a great job warming up the crowd, but BOYS IF YOU ARE READING THIS you need to reverse order of the last two songs of your set - leave the crowd with the freakout song, not the future single. I try to find the lead guy during Mountain Con's set, but since he is off the stage and so normal-looking there's no way to find him again.

I'm not sure if they are friends or if Mountain Con really has started to achieve the level of success that I dream for them, but there is a pack of people at the front SCREAMING during their entire set. It makes me SO happy to hear this, and happier still to see that the music is encouraging ACTUAL MOVEMENT in the bodies of the audience members.

(So I didn't mention that at the Karaoke show last week I went up and shamelessly gushed all over the Iron Composer guys. Tonight astonishingly one of them recognizes me and of course because he is out of his UNIFORM on which I RELY, I do not recognize him. Sorry!)

The Presidents draw out of us the joy that we've been saving up for them all night long. The new stuff makes us happy because we feel current and they are great songs. The old stuff makes us feel like we're back in college or high school and those memories are good unlike the ones dredged up by James. We place ourselves in the thick of the crowd, we bounce, we sing along (and OH how I love the singing along), and we follow Chris's instructions to a T. Every once in a while I turn around and look at all these beatific faces directing their good juju to the boys on stage.

Listen, I really want to tell you about the drama and hatahs and incidents other than ill-timed stage dives, but there are simply none. We scream and jump when they play Peaches, we bloody freak out when they do a medley that culminates in Video Killed.. It's a night where we are back to being those teenagers, not cool enough yet to hate everything, still in touch with our bodies enough to know they need to move once in a while.

Deck the Hall Ball

2004-12-10T15:35:00.000-08:00

It's Indie Rock 'n Roll For Me
Key Arena, Seattle, WA

This mammoth event is sponsored by local "alternative" station 107.7 The End. The lineup tonight is surprisingly good: Snow Patrol, Keane, The Shins, The Killers, Franz Ferdinand, and Modest Mouse. We promptly miss Snow Patrol's set. I'm sure they were brilliant.

There is a good crowd on the floor of the Key, a crowd as white and scrubbed and shiny as I have not seen in, oh, three days. This is the Boring Indie Rock Audience times one hundred, and it creates kind of a pretty sea of immobility when observed from above.

Keane, KEANE of all bands, provides us with the driving, heartbeat-replacing kick drum that we desperately needed the other night at Fatboy Slim. It is unexpected and welcomed. Some girls near me freak out for the lead singer, particularly when he sings all these nice swoony songs. But to me he looks like he has a grown-up body and the face of a 15-year old boy. When I don't look at him it's way better.

This is a great date event, and you've got pairs everywhere. One couple right next to me displays an impressive act of marital familiarity: during one set, the gal turns to her husband and silently mouths information to him WHILE CHEWING GUM. Her husband understands EXACTLY what she says, nodding and laughing.

My favorite teenagers are the music-loving pre-cynicism ones. In the bathroom I overhear a pack of girls discussing a new girl at school. One says "I can really see her as part of our group." We're all filled with the love tonight. Later, the girls end up beside me for Franz Ferdinand's set. They unabashedly LOVE the band, which makes me in turn love them. They are too short to see the stage and they don't care. The girls sing along at full volume, jump up and down as soon as they recognize what is being played (usually at note three), and beam at each other. It makes me think, wait, IS Franz Ferdinand the greatest band ever? I like the fans who make you reconsider your position on bands.

In all this is a good show, though it must be hard for a band to establish any kind of relationship with a crowd when they are so still. The Killers look the best in their outfits, The Shins need to practice before shows, and Modest Mouse, current local heroes, incite not quite a mosh pit but more like a lean pit during their set. It's a fitting end to a night of safe, friendly indie rock 'n roll.

Fatboy Slim

2004-12-08T11:51:00.000-08:00

Right Here, In a Minute
The Premier, Seattle, WA

Tonight's epidemiological challenge is to solve the riddle of why less than 50% of this crowd is dancing. To answer, we look at various factors: layout of the space, lighting, demographics of the audience, consistency of the performer's set, use of visual aides, and the impact of alcohol-dispensing holding pens.

For starters, the layout is sorta retarded. The stage is set up in the middle of the room with the decks facing one of the THREE bar areas. This lets people surround Mr. Cook on all sides, but dissipates the crowd so that thre is no longer one central place for people to dance together. As a result, the energy in the room feels low because people are way too spread out. There are some individual exceptions, however, like the spillovers from the Oracle event a couple of weeks ago, a gal who looks like a pole dancer without the pole, and various amped up guys who dance really hard even though they know they have to be back to work at Eddie Bauer in the morning.

And, ok, the lighting. When I'm at a show like this I like to, as they say, lose myself in the music, the moment, etc. For me this means overall darkness, strobe lights, swirly colored things, and little eye contact. This place is so lit up that I can see the face of the guy checking IDs across the room at the entrance to one of the bar areas. This causes the crowd to be much more reserved since they know EVERYONE can see them. There is beautiful anonymity in darkness, and we don't have it here. It makes the show feel like a closing night party at CES.

We tour the bar areas to figure out why some people are lounging on couches instead of dancing. Some people are in here because they are newly able to be in here and it's novel, some are quickly consuming alcohol to comepensate for the lighting, and some are just bored. The bored ones makes me listen more closely to Fatboy Slim's technique on the decks.

The technique goes like this: start with repetitive vocal sample, add beat, add layers to create awesome freak-out groove that lasts one minute, stop beat, make up for dead spot by clapping, show crowd record sleeve with writing on it, extend arms Christ-like and accept applause and adoration, morph to new repetitive vocal sample, rinse, repeat. The stopping and starting has the intended teasing effect on the people closest to the stage, but for the outliers it's frustrating. It takes a good 30 seconds to build up a groove in your body, then he stops the whole thing and makes you look at him. This is why I see at least a dozen people standing there with their arms folded during big chunks of the set.

Overall, people seem to have a good time during the show. Maybe they are tired because Donald Glaude put on a manic, sweaty set earlier (a set I missed because for some reason I always miss him even though I have tickets to his shows). But it makes me long for a smaller, darker, less comfortable space packed with bodies, so that we can all feel like we are truly right here, right now.

Butt Rock vs. New Wave Karaoke

2004-12-03T08:46:00.000-08:00

Artful Rockstar Blurring
Chop Suey, Seattle, WA

An astonishing number of people here know EVERY SINGLE WORD to "True" by Spandau Ballet. Why? Because everyone knows that while karaoke butt rock will always trounce new wave performance-wise, we all get way more secret pleasure from belting out new wave songs and remembering our terrible proms.

This event is hosted by the lovely and talented Three Imaginary Girls, who all looked stunning as usual. Lots of people are dressed up here, which further obliterates my ability to recognize rock stars. Are the ones in the Madonna outfits/Def Leppard t-shirts/Spandex the ACTUAL rock stars, or are they regular audience members? Is that gal's Joan Jett hairdo her real hair, or is it a wig? (Turns out the gal with the dark brown version is a wig, but the other gal with the red version is SO REAL.)

Eventually I figure out that the true rock stars in the crowd are a bit dressed down, making them indistinguishable from the film hipsters I saw earlier tonight at the opening for 911. My world for uniforms.

One gal is dressed like Cher from Clueless and it makes me wonder if anyone really dressed like that back in the day, or if this audience member is parody-ing a parody in the wrong decade to boot. Either way, the look works, particularly when some butt rocker bumps into her accidentally and she spills her vodka tonic, gasping with a perfect snitty sneer and rushing to wipe off her plaid mini skirt.

The guys from The Iron Composer are here, and one of them gets up and does my ultimate karaoke dream: he sings a song but changes all the words. So Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend" is now about the cast of the Iron Composer. He must have been practicing for like a YEAR. I would get completely distracted by the crowd trying to sing the original lyrics and the video monitor reinforcing that NO, THESE are the correct words. So nicely done.

Sean Nelson (who I swear sings all over the Long Winters' CD but you can barely hear him) gets a ton of audience members on the stage with him for Safety Dance. As you know, people love participation, so it's doubly satisfying to watch regular folks up on the stage pogo-ing behind Sean. His performance is one of many highlights from tonight, along with the prizes, the Santa pictures, and the happy, tight crowd that feels like it's at home.

The Iron Composer

2004-11-27T01:38:00.000-08:00

Prostitution, DRUGS, and Burglaries
The Crocodile, Seattle, WA

The Iron Composer is a monthly "songwriting competition, drinking game, and obstacle course" put on by Seattle School, a music collective with time on their hands and crazy-assed ideas in their heads. The competitors tonight are Ian Moore vs. Brent Amacher.

It's amazing what a little (well, a lot) of audience participation and general hoopla can do for your standard Boring Indie Rock Audience. These people, including a healthy smattering of local musicians, are WAY into this show, with the notable exception of a gal standing next to me who spends the first 20 minutes of the evening KNITTING.

There is so much stuff going on in rapid succession that a lot of audience members look overwhelmed as they crane to see the action on the floor. People love the fast pacing, the partial nudity, the regulated alcohol consumption, and their own ability to be involved with the show. Some smile knowingly throughout the evening since they are smarter than I am and have been attending Iron Composer events for 6 months. The really clever ones get there early so they can sit down on actual chairs.

The judges tonight are DJ No Name from The End, Q13 hottie Dan Devone, and theatre man-about-town Bret Fetzer. They do a great job, but the stars tonight are the composers themselves. Ian keeps his focus while a gal and a guy both take their shirts off to distract him, and Brent keeps on writing while cheerleaders and other people bleat right into his face.

Forty-five minutes of pandemonium later, we are graced with performances of two songs that have been composed in the midst of all these diversions. Ian's is called something like "Bad Ween End Spleen," and Brent's is called "Prostitution, Drugs, and Burglaries in Spokane" (the muse tonight is from Spokane). Sing-alongs always win, hands down, so Brent wins.

But the crowd, oooo the crowd. We are at the CROCODILE and people are smiling and dancing and doing what they're told and having designated freakouts at designated times which, for a crowd that usually stands in front of the stage sneering with their arms folded, is an AMAZING FEAT, and Seattle School deserves every penny of that $5k.

The Oracle Gathering

2004-11-21T02:45:00.000-08:00

The People Are United
Segway Space, Seattle, WA

A pop opera singer, holding a big orb thing and wearing a silver space suit adorned with blinking lights, is suspended ten feet in the air. She is carrying on a talking/singing dialogue with a Blue Man/Borg type dance troupe behind her. The woman to my left in the flowered leggings and rollerskates is rapt, but the four year old boy to my right has fallen asleep. Though maybe I should back up.

We are at The Oracle Gathering - a multi-media and multi-art party-rave-can't-really-define-it event. This is the 16th one this group has hosted, and it's big. Like being held in a converted Safeway big.

The crowd is fascinating and diverse (though not so much racially as this is Ballard). You've got your young raver kids who my friend calls The Ballard Rave Brigade, you have parents and children who get their own play room (which the incredibly pied will later take over), and you have the bedecked and undecked public, including guys in their 50s. Add to that the various stilt walkers, hula-hoop dancers, and silver body paint jumpy guys, and you've got yourself a party. A party for which I was far, far too sober.

Each room has its own theme and name, and there are little side rooms where people offer services like "DNA transformation" and consciousness scans and such. Lots of people walk by me and make "are you?" eye contact, to which I try to respond with the "I am not" look so that we don't have to make out right there. There is glitter and fake fur everywhere, and one of my friends has Bedazzled her neck and chest.

The gathering tonight has a Space Traveler theme, and it includes a "geopolitical rock opera" called The Device. Its director is an overachiever who takes this stuff very seriously, so there's a lot going on in the show. We all sit on the dance floor and scoot around in circles to watch the action in every part of the room. About halfway through the show the Ballard rave kids start glazing over, but some of the really fancy sparkly people get WAY into the audience participation & chanting parts. People love the human beatbox guy and the other guy who looks like a young Henry Rollins.

Despite the high volume and the occasional pot clouds, it's a positive atmosphere all around. The kids who are still awake are having a great time, the performers give you "heart touches" or pet you, and by the end of the rock opera we feel like maybe our consciousness really IS raised, just for tonight.

Nortec Collective

2004-11-19T14:41:00.000-08:00

You Are Lissssstening to Los Angeles
Temple Bar, Los Angeles, CA

The Temple Bar in LA reminds me of the OK Hotel in Seattle, circa 1996. It's warm and cozy, it has red walls and art and character, and I imagine in the daylight it looks sad and lonely. It sounds like the perfect place to see the member-fluctuating Nortec Collective and some other random opening band.

The openers consist of a DJ and some drummers, and they are called, and I am not kidding, "Deejay and the Drummers." Make an effort, people. The crowd here is a bit of a shock for LA - they look like regular people, and some are even in SWEATSHIRTS. My friend is astonished and delighted by the lack of decked-out girls and heavily cologned boys. The crowd is also quite diverse, from hippie girls to hip-hop boys - a testament to Nortec's musical reach.

During the opening act, our younger and hipper friend immediately identifies the samples being used in the songs: "ooo! the theme from Kill Bill!" "Oh! the theme from [insert WB show here]!" But I have the nearly simultaneous reactions of "wait, they plan these songs?" and "wait, they plan these songs?" I thought a DJ was supposed to bring an exciting mix of samples, made more exciting by their demand that other musicians improvise and keep up. But these drummers are all coordinated in their breaks and flourishes, so while it is decent music, it comes across as contrived.

Nortec finally comes on, and they put on a show as exciting as possible for two guys stuck behind laptops all night. I guess since they are a "collective" their numbers and instrumentation can vary wildly. I have a flashback of seeing Depeche Mode in 1987 trying to rock out while they are all stuck behind their keyboards.

Some of the people at the very front are way into the music, which turns out to be a more mellow trance-y set than we expect. This is true for a couple of superfans standing near us; they are clearly disappointed by the relative lack of energy in the music. No matter how loud or seat-vibrating, I personally find trance music to be the most nap-inducing music available, so I have trouble keeping my eyes open.

The one thing that keeps me going is comparing two excellent dancers in the group: one is a short shaved-head guy near us, arms straight and jammed into coat pockets, doing rapid salsa footwork. The other is a tall lanky guy in a striped button-down shirt, doing the "dad, you dance so retarded" dance of the superwhite. They are both happy, and they are both HERE. Entranced.

The Futureheads

2004-11-17T19:14:00.000-08:00

Indier Than Thou
The Crocodile, Seattle

This show should have been a complete throw-down. The Futureheads are a great, high-energy band, and there are lots of young hipsters in the audience. However, two things are working against the lads from Scotland at the moment: it's Tuesday, and this is your standard Boring Indie Rock Audience. It reminds me of when I saw OK Go earlier this year - I was amazed that it wasn't a crazy pogo-fest.

A short gal with tons of curly hair stands in front of me, highly preoccupied by the act of taking the perfect photograph of the band with her digital camera. She keeps hesitating, futzing around and lining up her shots. When she finally presses the button the guys have just veered out of place, so she ends up with a bunch shots of a nearly empty stage. I think she is wearing Obsession by Imposters.

This gal clearly loves the band, and she trots out mid-set to pull a poster off the wall. Maybe in a few weeks or months she'll look back and realize that she would have enjoyed the show much more if she actually paid attention to the music rather than getting caught up with the rituals of loving a band. I remember doing this too. You end up with all these souveniers, but your memory of the show gets transfered to the objects rather than staying in your brain and body and ears. I'm just saying.

This crowd truly is the Indier-than-thou bunch that the bass player accuses them of being, but it's kind of nice to get back to the normal group after the Minnie Driver fiasco. One beyond-template gal does squeeze into the crowd and does the "notice-me" dance, but she is a bit too far away for the band to actually see her. I consider telling her to move up, but figure she is probably in training. (Did I mention all the GUYS doing the peacock dance at Minnie Driver? It was creepy.)

Since The Futureheads only have one album, it is necessarily a short show. I pray that some day very soon these guys get to a massive venue of screaming people where they belong.

Minnie Driver

2004-11-14T01:27:00.000-08:00

The Screeching Miasma
The Crocodile, Seattle, WA

It is downright thrilling to me to walk into a place I know so well, like The Croc, and see a bizarre assortment of people who I'm certain have never visited before and will never visit again. Tonight there are couples at the club in three piece suits, likely fresh from dinner at Axis. I see an alarming number of hair accessories (including buns. BUNS.). You've got quite a few over-50 types, one guy in particular trying to get some cred by wearing a PJ Harvey t-shirt tucked in to his pants. And finally various drunken jackasses inciting ACTUAL SHUSHING from other audience members. Oh, and WOW there must be a jillion dollars in hairdos in here.

Some people are at the Minnie Driver show out of objectifying curiosity ("Are you kidding? She's a total babe!" "I wonder how tall she is?" "How much do you think she paid for that outfit?"); others are here to see her fail ("what kinds of effects are they using on her voice?" "Oh - she's doing another cover"); and the balance attend because they heard her on the Mountain Music Lounge the other day. I spoke with very few people who had even heard one song before they arrived tonight.

Minnie has a lovely voice and the music is nice enough, but it's like that CD you have where you pop it into the stereo and then ten minutes later think that maybe you should put on a CD. Doesn't really sink in so much.

There are some excellent shirts in this crowd, however; my friend Jason calls them "goin' places shirts". One guy has on what looks like a regular striped pink-orange shirt, but from the back suddenly features this crazy tiger print. RROWR! Another guy has on an airbrushed shirt of a city skyline with a giant martini glass hovering in the middle.

A couple of gals are wearing their own goin' places shirts, which bring to mind this hilarious song about ill-fitting bras that I saw the Dayglo Abortions play this summer. But seeing these girls inspires my friend to say "if they can do it, I can do it" and right there she vows to start looking more like Megan Mullally.

Aside from the people behind us that basically miss the entire show because they don't want to give up their table, the crowd is pretty attentive. One Croc regular I talk to thinks it is the trashiest show he has seen in forever and tries not to look too closely at the sensibility-offending audience members. But it's good for all of us to break out of our bubbles once in a while, whether we're slumming, collecting stories for the office on Monday, or having our sacred spaces inhabited temporarily by Armani-wearing aliens.

Red Light Music

2004-10-28T23:14:00.000-07:00

"Is This a Rock Band?"
Neumo's, Seattle, WA

Weirdest crowd ever at Neumo's. This is a CD release and video shoot for Red Light Music - a virtually unknown band with marketing dollars and a bit of star power behind them. See, lead singer Peter Klett used to be in Candlebox. So there's that.

The audience consists of a few types of people: (1) legitimate fans who have spent the last week camped out on Red Light's message board hyping the show; (2) industry types who would like very much to have a hit on their hands, thank you; (3) beautiful people who were recruited on the street to attend the show and look pretty for the video shoot; (4) members of the random and great unwashed of Capitol Hill.

A boy near me asks if I know the band's music or what they sound like. Two Norwegian women offered him a free ticket on the street. As we're talking, a band of Amazonian model girls step in front of us, and we wonder: why are you here? what drugs make you that tall? where are your coats? Then I look around and notice a spate of beautiful girls, 90% of whom I guarantee do not know the band or this club. (Later I will talk to Chelsea who works the door - she agrees that the crowd is odd and suggests that a whole swath of them took a wrong turn in Pioneer Square and ended up here.)

The goal for the night is clearly to pack the club so the resulting video makes the band look super famous. And they do have famous accoutrements with them: a guitar tech, a well-stocked merch table run by a guy in pleather pants who air-drums along with the music, men over 40 who look like they have a vested interest in the success of the band, and well-applied hair product.

I can't help but look around at the few people who appear to be Neumo's regulars and wonder - really? Do we like these guys? Are they doing something special and interesting right now? Because I'll tell you I just can't hear it if they are.

It's a bit funny to watch the above-mentioned audience segments merge with each other. I see the over 40 men oogling the beautiful girls as they dance for the camera. The great unwashed come into the room hollering joyfully about getting a free ticket to the show, annoying the entourage. But what is the most wonderful, as always, is to see the real hard-core fans jammed up against the stage singing along, oblivious to their part in this marketing machine.

Swing

2004-10-17T07:49:00.000-07:00

Every crowd is 50 thousand
University of Guelph, Guelph, ON

You don’t know this band and you will likely never hear them on the radio or see them perform live. They sing/rap in French, they have a violin player, a DJ who is also a B-Boy, and no drummer. They are up for a “best traditional album” award for the French Junos called “Les Disques” and you don’t know what those are either. HOWEVER, Swing rocked our socks off.

Again with the small meeting room off the atrium of the student center. Unlike the other shows I’ve seen here, lead singer Michel talks to us and performs at us like we are a crowd of fifty thousand people. Suddenly we feel like we are in a huge stadium instead of a stuffy room. We raise our hands in the air and gleefully accept whatever instruction he throws our way. We scoot up on our seats to watch the DJ come out in front and dance. We sing when we are told to sing, we clap in rhythm because we really really want them to have a drummer. These songs are anthems, they are traditional, and even if we speak French we have absolutely no idea what they are about.

The classes in this crowd have vanished and there is exuberant unabashed love being hurled at this band from every seat. My friend and I muse about how much booty Michel must be offered after every single show. She claims that he is either a current or a former raver, since he has that E-gleam in his eyes and he dances the smooth dance of a raver boy. On Michel, the fabric rainbow belt is for some bizarre reason the most masculine accessory we’ve ever seen. He is part Robbie Williams and part Plastilina Mosh.

Swing is a marketing machine, so there is a long line of people waiting to gush over (and hopefully book) them after the show. They are completely NOT a folk act, so I have no idea what they are doing here. Maybe it’s the violin. Either way, you so totally missed out. Pray for distribution.

Justin Rutledge

2004-10-17T06:48:00.000-07:00

Never Been to Tennessee
University of Guelph, Guelph, ON

One nice thing about traveling to (sort of) foreign lands is that I sometimes walk into gasping buzz about a musician who is unknown in the U.S. Justin Rutledge is one of those guys. I was told about him a mere 48 hours before his show tonight, but the re-telling was pretty much constant. So, happy accident that he’s playing at this festival.

We’re in the same room as last night and it’s cozy. But this time it is immediately apparent that there are four classes of audience members attending the show:

1. Industry people who watch critically as if they have power to shape Justin’s career, but who actually do not;

2. Connected festival-goers who spend the entire show craning their necks to see who else is in the room;

3. Distracted people who want to see anything, really, and spend their time noisily consulting the schedule to see who is on next;

4. Engaged audience members who have vaguely heard of Justin and are completely taken aback to discover that he is quite good.

Justin has one of those alt. country drawls that works perfectly for a band like Drive By Truckers, but sounds a little fakey coming from someone who grew up in Toronto. It is off-putting to hear a Southern accent in a song that mentions Bloor Street West. But no matter--the writing is lovely and the audience, at least the #4s, eat it up.

For the last song Justin invites up the members of the D. Rangers to accompany him for what turns out to be an excellent sing-along. (This is a refreshing display of respect to this bluegrass band after Justin’s spectator behavior last night in a hotel room where the D. Rangers were putting on a show. Justin stumbled into the room and, exactly ten feet from where the band was playing, got on the room phone and stayed there for ten minutes. Then he got up, grabbed the Do Not Disturb sign from the doorknob, went into the bathroom, banged around for five minutes, and stumbled out again. His behavior tonight is appx. 1 million times better and we instantly forgive him.)

Even the people who were prepared to write off this performer were delighted. He has some catchy songs. It was a treat, and time will tell if people jump to create and accept a Tennessee-Toronto connection.

Eliza Gilkyson

2004-10-16T09:26:00.000-07:00

Sing-alongs good. Sing-alongs bad.
University of Guelph, Guelph, ON

My favorite thing in the whole wide world is an audience who sings along with a band in tune and using harmony. So leave it to a folk festival to produce the most in-tune, harmony-cranking crowd I've heard in years.

Eliza Gilkyson is an amazing singer-songwriter who tours incessantly and is famous among a small sliver of music lovers. The people in this small, packed, windowless room at the university know that this show is a rare treat, and they try to (loudly) impart the significance of Eliza's presence to their friends. People who don't know her fall in love instantly, particularly when she plays a lost Woody Guthrie song.

During the sing-along parts Eliza teaches the crowd some basic moves, which they immediately make more complex and layered. This participation gives me goosebumps and makes me happy. But then during some of the verses which are decidedly NOT sing-along parts, two guys behind me insist on continuing the practice, which makes me want to kill them. So you have your upsides and your downsides to the sing-along.

Sense of smell is one of my superpowers, and there are some interesting smells in this room. At first I can't tell if it's the room itself or the mass of long grey hair in front of me producing a scent reminiscent of a college radio station where I hung out in the late 80s, but it suddenly makes me feel nostalgic and vaguely like I might be late or in trouble. Other smells make me overjoyed that it isn't summer if you know what I'm saying.

One thing that festivals don't really allow for is scheduling spontaneity. Eliza plays a pretty short set, but people clearly want her to keep playing. So she gets off stage and since this is basically a meeting room, she has to stand awkwardly next to the stage while the million coordinators and room monitors figure out if they can risk the extra four minutes for her to play another song before the next group comes up to sing songs about farms. Finally it's granted and she ends with another sing-along. Everyone there is all folksy and warm and happy, and there in the conference room in a university in the middle of nowhere, for a few lovely moments, I believe that everything is going to be okay.

Earlimart, The Shore

2004-10-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

Hair & Demographics
Crocodile, Seattle, WA

The boys taking tickets at The Crocodile assure me that I am not a loser for missing Tennis Pro's set, but in fact a double winner for still having the chance to see the two other bands on the roster: The Shore, and Earlimart. But first, there is roaming on deck.

The creepy creepy representatives of cigarette companies are on hand. Young people walking around holding tablet PCs with bar code readers attached to them does not say "fun!" to me. One of them walks up to a smoker at a table nearby and says, "hey! Want a free lighter?" The smoker says, "uhh, what do I have to do for it?" "Oh, just answer a few questions. No big deal." "Uh, okay I guess." "Great! So can I have your ID?" Now I'm not exactly sure what personal data is included on the Rorschach strip on the back of my drivers license, but there is no way in HELL that I am handing it over to be scanned by a Marlboro spy. But this guy does. For a 50 cent lighter. To each his own mailing list.

Speaking of creeps, there is a large number of odd single men at this show. Like trucker caps and full beards (think lead singer of Eels from "Souljacker" era), gas station jackets and huge messenger bags, spastic self-conscious dancers, and someone's grandfather. There were just so many. It was weird.

The Shore puts on a nice set, and I am extremely pleased that lead singer Ben LOOKS LIKE A ROCK STAR. He wears a fancy shirt, a scarf with gold thread running through it, and has perfect Chrissie Hynde hair (which, later, in an act of boldness fueled by pear cider, the band and I discuss at length). One fan is so blissed out by their Oasis-like melodies that she develops a personal relationship with the pole behind her - hugging it and leaning and stuff. I send her wishes for a rockstar boyfriend.

The strange thing at this show is not only all the single guys, but this vague sort of demographic emanating from the crowd as Earlimart begins to play. I can't pinpoint it at first - lots of young almost-hip looking people, but clearly a bunch that rarely set foot into the Crocodile. Only when Earlimart announces that this is "the song that made 'The O.C' famous" does the connection make sense: these people learned about the band from watching the TV show. (It should be noted that the just-released soundtrack is disturbingly good, and even features Fanalyst boyfriend Patrick Park. I'm not sure how I feel about this.)

This very attentive crowd is clearly entranced by these up & coming stars. Toward the end of the show my male friend asks earnestly and too loudly, "isn't the lead singer hot in that jacket?" Two gals in front of us turn back to look at my friend and smirk, "yes, he definitely is." I heart fan bliss.

Jon Brion, Jon Auer

2004-09-27T09:58:00.000-07:00

Cranial Connections
Sunset Tavern, Seattle WA

An interesting dynamic plays out for me at some shows where I am standing next to the speaker. You've done this, right? You are at the front and the performer isn't more than 15 feet from you, but for some reason you are crammed up against a giant speaker. For most of the show you get blasted by sound, but sometimes the singer will talk very quietly - either mumbling to himself or communicating with the sound guy. And since you are right next to the speaker, the performer's voice sounds like it's coming from inside your OWN HEAD. It's creepy and erotic at the same time. It was this situation that made Jon Auer's request for more reverb in his mic the most fantastically sexy thing I've ever heard.

This is a pretty tight crowd, meaning that everyone in the room knows at least 10 other people in the room. It's part of the No Vote Left Behind festival, which ideally would have taken place in Missouri if you know what I'm saying. There isn't much fashion to speak of, though there's one guy who takes the indie music nerd look a bit too far and ends up looking exactly like my dad circa 1965 when he played the ukelele. Another guy standing right next to me is wearing this nice suit and he sometimes consults his Blackberry during the show. My friend surmises that he just came from showing a 3 br/2 ba home in Ballard and didn't have time to change. Once in a while he looks at me looking at him and it's a bit awkward.

There a ton of musicians in the audience, and I get a bit frustrated that they don't look more special. If you are a rock star, shouldn't you at least have interesting hair? Leather? Tattoos? This would greatly increase the chances of me recognizing you. Instead the people who fit the bill all turn out to work at record stores. Later when Grant Lee Phillips gets on stage with Jon Brion, he looks so shockingly normal that I spend the first 2 songs in disbelief that he's ever been permitted to board a tour bus. Another friend later points out that Shawn Smith of Satchel and Brad fame is in the room: "the guy who looks like Kevin Smith." Come ON, rock stars!

One guy stands exactly two inches from the stage all night and is transfixed by every chord strummed and every word sung by Jon Brion. This is the World's Greatest Fan. I remember him from the last time Jon played the Sunset -- I believe he was wearing the same outfit and tri-colored cap. At first he moves around and smiles, but once he truly feels the genius impact of Brion's sampling and playing, WGF stands slack-jawed for the remainder of the show.

While some people look at each other as if to say "hey, fun show!", there are a few us (uh, okay maybe the World's Second Greatest Fans) who turn to each other periodically during Jon Brion's set as if to say "are you KIDDING ME WITH THIS??" During some of Jon's multi-layered sampling rock songs, I keep looking back at another WSGF with a WTF?? shrug. He knows what I'm saying. The man is a musical encyclopedia and freak of nature. My face still hurts from smiling.

Mountain Con, Heather Duby, Kuma

2004-09-18T08:28:00.000-07:00

Rockin' the Caboose
Neumo's, Seattle

There is already an excellent crowd at Neumo's when we arrive, and Kuma is on stage. It is again one of those shows that other musicians attend - musicians who are clearly notable and get approached by fans who know exactly who they are unlike myself.

The lead singer Bre is a great performer, but what is most incredible is her hair. It's black in front, and blonde in the back. It must be like having a really cool tattoo on your lower back that you never actually see but that other people compliment you for once in a while, and then you go "oh yeah!" like your own body is a little gift.

Once Kuma leaves the stage, we notice a large-ish Wild Rose contingent at the back of the club where we are standing. Is Bre famous in the lesbian community? The gals are all excited to be there and support Kuma, but they don't pay much attention to Heather Duby as she takes the stage. Most of the attention is directed inward to their own group, and they dirty dance with each other and random boys that walk by. Then one of the gals goes off to her own space and dances with her can of Red Bull.

My date leans over and says that he was just petted by a woman "all they way down to my caboose!" We look around and see quite a bit of caboose-petting and grabbing in general. It's an affectionate crowd. Oh - we also notice a giant plume of smoke near the door, and we figure that the garbage can is on fire. When no one runs over with a fire extinguisher, we realize that it's just cigarette smoke. Affectionate, but heavy-smoking.

It should be noted that Steve Fisk is playing with Heather's band. He is wicked famous, but of course I had to have someone point out to me which one he is ("the old one"). Later Steve will barrel out of the club really fast, whacking two people with his stool in his rush to the front door. Clearly he does not wish to be approached by earnest and well-meaning fans.

It must be hard to maintain the attention of a crowd when you, as the lead singer, are seated. I could see everyone else in the band just fine, but I had to pogo a bit to see Heather at all. I wonder if she's ever tried a contraption for her keyboard that lets her stand up. It would be nice to look at her.

Mountain Con finally takes the stage, and suddenly we are at a Big! Rock! Show! One gal in the middle of the crowd keeps switching her hands from index-pinkie rock salute to double-bird. Is the double-bird a new sign of respect? It's weird. The band generally kick every single caressed and uncaressed caboose in the house, and the lead singer looks just like the logo on the Mountain Con t-shirt except that he has a real mouth and not a barcode.

You know those stage lights that are really bright and swirl around all through the show, roving from the stage to the crowd and back again? The ones where each light contains like 10 streams of little lights? With the right amount of smoke in the room they can make you feel like you're in a huge stadium instead of a small club. However, these lights sometimes point STRAIGHT into your EYES. So in rapid intervals you go: rock! - I'M BLIND!! - rock! - I'M BLIND!! - rock! But it always ends with rock.

Maktub

2004-09-12T10:39:00.000-07:00

Surgeon General's Par-Tay!
Showbox, Seattle

It started as a simple "I wonder why 200 people are receiving free VIP passes to this show?" and ended as a full-on Fanalyst Investigative Report! Y'see, this show turned out to be part of Camel's "Speakeasy Tour: the Roaring 2000s" that RJ Reynolds is running around the country.

We walk in thinking it's your standard Maktub show (Donald Glaude is also spinning later), but immediately realize that there is a TON of money in this room. First, we enter not through the Showbox's main doors, but through the restaurant next door, then go through the back and into this small room underneath the Showbox that I've never actually seen. The waitstaff is dressed in 20s-style flapper girl outfits. A jazz band plays. People are doodied up. Boas are being handed out by some hidden boa-dispenser. My friend and I wonder what the heck is up, but there is no real indication yet.

After a while we head upstairs. The Green Room is already packed, and there is a HUGE line of people waiting to get into the main doors. And then we notice them: Camel signs. Prohibition-era videos of dancers and bars. Enlarged "Surgeon General's Warning.." signs posted everywhere. Decorative smokers and actors. We are now cogs in a giant marketing machine.

On the stage in the main room there are girls performing with hoola-hoops, girls doing little burlesque-type shows, and other things that involve skin and cuteness. The crowd is weird: there are the regular Maktub fans who range from college guys to funky people to Ravenna homeowners; there are the Donald Glaude fans who are typically young hipster types; and then there is this other group of people who are just, well, beautiful. Like some marketing person decided this crowd needed to be attractive, so they handed out free passes to people beforehand. I hear several gorgeous girls asking who "Mack-tub" is.

I talk to a couple of performers, and they claim not to know who is paying them, but that they're making good money (I look later and find the audition notice online). Then I talk to a guy working at the Camel promo table - they are giving away free lighters in exchange for getting on their mailing list. He says they do this every week and are making crap money compared to "the hired performer goons."

There are benefits to corporate shows, of course. I get my face painted for free by a gal who normally freelances at places like the Nordstrom makeup counter. She is excited to be doing a gig where it's ok to swear. Other people get their bodies air-brushed with elaborate designs, also for free. (Oh - fashion thing - when did berets and those caps that look like berets come back? They are in this room too.)

Maktub comes on and does a great job as usual, but I'm still curious about the back story here. I snag more performers. One guy is a drummer in a samba band who is about to play in the lobby to create "atmosphere." Flapper girls just stand near them and smoke dramatically. He tells me that he got a call yesterday, and now he's here. He's not sure why.

Another guy in a zoot suit (Chris) tells me a great story: he was called in for an audition the night before the show - at like 8 pm. He arrives at a bar and chats with two guys about nothing in particular for a half hour. At the end of the half hour the guys offer him the gig. All Chris has to do is get fitted for a costume, then mingle and talk with people during the show. But get this: Chris is not told that it's a Camel event, and doesn't find out until he walks in the door tonight. And then get THIS: the day before this gig he does an ad for the Tobacco Smokes You campaign! HA!!

We head back downstairs to see if anything interesting is happening in the secret room. The jazz band is still playing, but it has devolved into a jam-band karaoke thing. We notice the performer ring leader - a guy in a smoking suit whose cane is actually a giant flashlight. Once in a while he speaks into a walkie-talkie tucked into his jacket.

The marketing messages are clear and well-executed during this show: (1) the current anti-smoking movement is just like Prohibition was in the 20s; (2) flaunting Prohibition was sexy and cool! (3) I can be sexy and cool if I smoke; (4) I will be in the company of all these beautiful people if I smoke Camels in particular. The show is now sold out, by design. I don't blame a single one of these actors, performers, and bands for taking RJR's money - a gig is a gig. And this was one interesting gig.

Hilary & Haylie Duff

2004-09-09T23:30:00.000-07:00

(White) Girl Power!
Key Arena, Seattle, WA

I enjoy seeing shows like this because they teach me what items of clothing I need to immediately discard. On the way in to the arena I see a girl wearing the EXACT same Nine West boots I own. Gone. Another wears a fuzzy belt that looks JUST like a sweater I have. Tossed. The only thing that truly motivates me to move on fashion-wise is seeing my clothing on an eight year old girl.

Tonight is mother-daughter bonding night. The crowd is 90% female, 50% under 13. The few dads and fewer boys are dragged around the arena by the squealing grrl contingent. The girls wear berets, sparkly eyeshadow, pink clothes, and tote in handmade signs. Some girls practice the moves from the videos while they wait for the show to start.

Haylie Duff opens (her shirts are $25, while Hilary's "boybeaters" are a hefty $30), and she is - wait - Haylie is OLDER? Oh. Poor thing. The girls around us don't know any of the words to her songs. Fortunately, the warm-up person got everyone all amped so the audience jumps, waves their glowsticks, and screams when instructed. Haylie is refreshingly clothed and not emaciated.

Using the high-octane observational powers granted to us by binoculars, we are able to see across the stadium to the executive moms and dads who have purchased seats in the luxury suites. One of the dads has the Mariners/Red Sox game on TV, and another dad two suites over is watching the New England/Indianapolis football game. At one point the mom in the baseball suite yanks on the dad's shirt to get him to pay attention to the show, and he shrugs her away.

During the break between Haylie and Hilary (cross-promo videos are shown on the big screen, followed by an ad for a razor. A RAZOR. WTF?), the ladies behind me say they are going out to get beer. Their daughters tease them about what beer THEY would like, which is cute, but then the moms actually quiz them on names of alcoholic drinks other than beer. The girls are like, nine.

Hilary arrives on stage, and the guy in front of me fires up the little camera in his phone and starts e-mailing pictures to people every 5 minutes or so. I notice that the dad to my left is text messaging his wife during the entire show. One message that I glimpse says "this is brutal - next time it's your turn." It isn't really brutal. He's just complaining. His daughter is having an awesome time.

My only beef with both Haylie and Hilary is that they fail to acknowledge (or even speak to) the crowd enough. They say "thanks you guys!" a lot, but there is no appreciation of the hand-made signs these girls have TOILED over all day. And when Hilary runs up a ramp to sing at the side of the arena, girls leap across aisles like particles to magnet to get closer to her. All they want is a wave from Hilary. A little sign that Hilary can see them all. But no. Here is where Hilary should go learn from some American Idols Live shows.

The moms here are interesting--some focus on rocking out enough so they forget that their own CDs have been gathering dust for ten years, and others focus on sharing this Special Moment with their daughters. Down front Hilary bends down and take the hand of a young girl for a moment. Girl turns joyously to mom and hugs her. Mom wipes tears from her eyes. It is quite lovely.

Hilary's songs are all anthemic, mostly non-suggestive, and you know, a lot of them DO rock. Everyone knows the words to the big ones. Cringing a bit, we are prepared to let slide her cover of "Our Lips Are Sealed," but we're ready to declare the end of the world when Hilary closes the show with "My Generation." That is, until a mom next to us (hi mom!) tells us that her husband LOVES The Who and that her daughter listens to them all the time. The girl is wearing a Hilary-like mesh arm-warmer thing and is still singing the lyrics to Generation. She knows the original. All is forgiven. Hilary is love.

Carlotta's Wing Ding

2004-09-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

Grandma Funny
Bumbershoot, Seattle, WA

It is a nice change of pace to sit down in a padded chair for a show. Although less drama is witnessed when you are forced to look at the backs of people's heads, for some reason the proximity of theatre chairs get you all chummy with your neighbors. Case in point was the woman to my right, who had with her a tall stick-like thing that she had to prop exactly between her eyeballs so that she could see the stage. I asked her what it was, and she said it was a sort of telescoping wind-sock, but less useful. It was for her son, and it had gay-pride colors and ribbons. She said that since she didn't do drugs anymore she liked things that simulated the drug experience. This is what I'm saying.

Carlotta's Wing Ding attracts a pretty wide range of people. Some old and conservative, some young and looking exactly like cast members which confused me a couple of times. The older ladies to my left asked me several times "what did she say??" during the pre-show when some of the characters were mumbling about. You know when a line an actor said was NOT part of the show and not really important at all, but you don't want to say to to the person next to you "it wasn't important" because that would be rude, but at the same time you realize that putting the effort into explaining it to them would actually be greater than the effort the actor expended to say the quip in the first place, and you are bummed out by your own obligation? Ya. So I explained it anyway, and the ladies thought it was great. So sometimes you get are rewarded for your efforts.

When Carlotta came out (she is played by the brilliant Troy Mink), Wind Sock Lady told me about her own grandmother, who she believe feigned a hearing impairment so that she could turn around and scold people for shouting. WSL said that her grandmother also crocheted blankets like the one on the stage. It made me wonder what our generation will do fifty years from now that will seem charmingly dated to young people. Some will knit because knitting is back, but what about others? "Oh, grandma is so cute with her mixed CDs." "That kooky grandad is on E again!" Who knows.

Part of Carlotta's show is to bring up guest musicians and writers and whatnot. This regular guy named Todd Davis came up to read a poem. Now this is a funny show in general, and I think people are in the mindset of finding everything pre-funny no matter what. So it was a bit weird that Todd's poem started out kind of serious. But it was even weirder when people laughed all the way through - like they were straining to find ANYTHING that could be considered funny so they could audibly expel their comedic expectations.

The poem was about books and authors, and so another dynamic evolved: overt acknowledgement gestures. OAG. Maybe there's a better word for this. Anyway, when Todd talked about Bukowski and Ginsberg and Poe and Dickinson and created interesting scenarios involving all of them together, some people in the audience wanted to subtly let other people in the audience know that they KNEW who these authors were, that they were FAMILIAR with their work, and therefore they found the poem more POIGNANT than others. Some nodded really big during certain parts, and others laughed too loud at parts that weren't really funny. It's okay - we've all done this. It's just interesting to watch it happen in a group.

The show involved audience participation which you know I love. I also love when people weave self-promotion and marketing into their shows. Carlotta made us repeat a couple of times when the next run of her show starts. October 29. Northwest Actors Studio. Marketing works.

Public Enemy

2004-09-05T23:45:00.000-07:00

Getting to the front; fronting
Bumbershoot, Seattle, WA

Every so often in this city there is a show or cultural event that creates a temporary but lovely oasis of racial diversity. For one night we believe we live in a regular town where people of all ethnicities mingle happily, attend events together, and love the same things. We'll go back to our segregated lives tomorrow. Tonight, we rock.

There are about a zillion people packed as closely to the stage as possible for this show. Ten year-old skateboard kids, old hippie guys, tough-looking teenagers, and children bouncing on the shoulders of their jock dads. Some of them know that it's a Very Big Deal to see Public Enemy live, and some of them are along for the ride.

Flavor Flav is wearing a Viking hat and a clock around his neck (I saw it up close earlier - it's this little b-boy with the clock in his belly. The time is stuck at 9:40). Chuck D, the patron saint of PE, wears a cap and a basketball jersey. Although I see no other Viking hats in the audience, there is an astonishing array of headwear: cowboy hats, doo-rags, baseball caps, knit caps, you name it.

Since my spot was near one of those natural body gates, I was reminded that the goal for some folks at a packed show is to get closer to the front. People employ one of five distinct methods to get through the crowd, every one of which I have personally tested.

1. "I'm just trying to get up there to my friend/spouse/parent/child"
2. "Wooo! We're so drunk! Oops, sorry! Woo!"
3. Person-by-person using "you're taller than me, can I stand in front of you?"
4. Choose aggressive friend, grab on, shrug & apologize to everyone on your way through
5. Adopt steely-eyed determination, barrel through without making eye contact

The people who receive the most attention, of course, are the ones trying to get OUT of the crowd. They are freaks of nature. They are interesting. They are facing us so we can examine them.

Chuck and the crew get high marks for audience participation when they lead the chants "Fuck Bush" and "Make love, fuck war." But Chuck loses people a bit when he gives a lecture about the importance of getting a passport, or goes into a fairly complex political diatribe rap. The man is freakishly smart, but sometimes those smarts don't translate out to a huge stadium. Stadiums like anthems. He does do some excellent marketing for the PE website, however. And Flav throws in some cross-promotion for his appearance on The Surreal Life.

(Oh - one guy near me is unsure of what to do with his arm during the chants. While other people have raised fists or outstretched but relaxed fingers in the air, this guy first points his index finger straight up a la "check, please!", then he switches to inward-turned hand karate chop, then he reverts to the index-pinkie Iron Maiden head-banger hand position.)

I move to another spot later (freak of nature!!) and spot many musicians from the festival hanging around by the VIP section (again, no idea). There is also a guy selling bootleg CDs to kids, which makes me feel warm and creepy all at the same time.

But one thing makes me really understand the reach of Public Enemy - how they have transcended race, culture, and class; how their fan base has remained consistent through changing life stages and political times. Right there on the floor of the stadium near the back, a nice family - mom, dad, baby, 4 year old adorable girl (no earplugs, hmf) - all concentrate at that moment not on the music, not on their new political awakening, not on correct hand positions, but on handling in the most discreet way possible the baby's diaper change.

The Black Keys

2004-09-04T20:22:00.000-07:00

Fleece forcefields and after-beats
Bumbershoot, Seattle, WA

Way before The Black Keys got to the stage at Bumbershoot, the jostling and negotiating that define an outdoor music festival were underway. You may assertively sit on the grass close to the stage, but you are banking on the people in front of you being (a) less than 8 feet tall and (b) unlikely to multiply in number. Then you probably wise up and move up the hill a bit so you can see over heads, but then you are making a rash assumption that all the seated folks in front of you won't stand up themselves. High stakes for those with sore feet.

In my first spot I had to my left a couple with a tiny, shivering Chihuahua who would stand up on his hind legs and box at the air for anyone who made eye contact. To my right was a trio of 60-something folks wearing nice clothes and sitting on a Hefty bag. In my second spot I had to my left two middle-aged Japanese women speaking in stage-whispers and to my right a couple in Tommy Bahama shirts who we will get to later, believe you me.

The standing crowd closest to the stage is 80% male, and there is a surprising crossover of wristbanded fans who are also planning to attend the Nickelback/Puddle of Mudd show later (the line for which was approximately one mile long). The Black Keys' fans declare their alliances with their t-shirts: Fugazi, The Hives, Jimi Hendrix, Radiohead. Collectively they are a living RIYL list.

Once the band starts two fantastic guys install themselves in front of me. One guy is wearing plaid pants, a bright red crocheted hat, pierced lip & septum, and has a bicycle horn dangling from his belt. His friend is tough guy with a t-shirt that has a little devil's trident on the back and directly above it on his neck he has a tattoo of a cross. He is clearly a balanced and evolved individual.

Okay then: the Tommy Bahama people. First, they remain seated while everyone around them stands so they can see the band. Other folks try to get around them but end up tripping on the guy's outstretched legs, which elicits glares from the guy. Finally after forEVER they stand up so they can see too, but they leave their fleece blanket where it is on the ground, taking up valuable real estate. And the thing about Seattle is that people are polite about blankets: the fleece effectively emits a powerful forcefield that causes everyone to either leap over it, gingerly step around it, or change course and go a different direction altogether. Because of their super-powers, only teenagers can break the forcefield.

Dan from the band (whose hair is almost as shiny as Evan Dando's) rocked consistently for the entire show. His voice did not look like it was coming out of a smallish young guy at ALL. They rocked so well that after a few songs some people in the crowd kept moving even after the song was over. Like the beat was so great that it took a bit more time for their bodies to process it out. This is a very, very good sign - that in this crowd, our ears do the hearing, but our bodies to the listening.

USE, Death Cab for Cutie, Presidents of the USA

2004-09-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

Totally Adorable Depression Sandwich
Bumbershoot, Seattle, WA

Teenagers sometimes restore my faith in humanity. On the way into the stadium people planned where they were going to stand, fixed their hair, and figured out their crowd-surfing strategies. The audience for the USE show was soooo excited to be there! They danced! They checked each other out! They reminded me of when I was 17 and sneaking into clubs to see shows. Once I got through the drama of getting through the door with my Chinese friend's older sister's birth certificate, it didn't even MATTER who was playing. I was going to rock out.

USE has become a tight little (well, big) group, and the lead boy on keys was in shiny silver pants and used that Cher mic effect a lot. The crowd sang along! Yay! But when the band stopped to teach the audience the words to a new song, they suddenly seemed like a touring version of a kids' TV show. I thought a giant puppet was going to come out from back stage. Although that would have been pretty cool. Very excellent show. Exiting the stadium after USE you first passed through dry ice cloud, then pot cloud, then curly fry cloud.

The crowd changed slightly for Death Cab for Cutie, in that older people showed up. And by older I mean people in their 20s and 30s. There is RAPT attention directed at the stage, which can sometimes look just like bored indie immobility if you don't look at people's faces. (Oh - remember those studded leather belts worn by punk kids? The preppie kids have co-opted them.) A crowd-surfing factory line ensues: kids surf, get pulled off people by security guys, are plopped outside the fence area, then trot around to be fed back into the crowd. Repeat.

Many people boldly attempt to get up to the VIP seating area where my friends and I are sitting. They get more credit the longer they try to argue with the security gal, particularly if it involves pointing and frantic searching of pockets. I say just tackle one of the unappreciative children of music executives for one of those cards. They do not deserve to be here as much as you do, rabid fan.

After what seems like an ENDLESS set change, the Presidents take over not just the stage but the hearts of the entire stadium. Younger bands should watch these guys and take careful notes on stage presence, audience participation, and rockingness. Mass crowd jumping ensues. We receive instructions on na-na-na's and choruses and arm waving and we do it ALL happily because we are an audience and we enjoy receiving instructions. (Because there are lots of hard-core music fans here and because some are parents, I see babies and toddlers wearing giant earphones or bright earplugs. This makes me very happy.)

The matching outfits of the Presidents make the Hives look like sad followers. (Okay, yes, Devo, I know.) People eat up the material from the new album, and scream like banshees when the band does Kitty and Lump. We are joyous. Even the most jaded rock fan is smiling. The bread of this sandwich is pure candy.

Giampino family benefit show

2004-09-03T13:56:00.000-07:00

Arsonists Be Damned
Neumo's, Seattle, WA

So there's this guy Scott, right? He used to be a booker at the Showbox, and he's married and has a kid. And then one day some asswipe burns down their house. So now they're dealing with the aftermath, insurance, hotels, etc. etc. and even though every single e-mail report he sends out to the music community says, "We're fine! Really! We have what we need!" the music community responds by saying, "Shutup! We're going to help you anyway!" which is pretty touching considering these are busy people and some are even famous.

The groups playing this show are: The Long Winters, Ben Gibbard, The Girls, The Lights, Preston School Of Industry, Damien Jurado, Big Business, and XXX Audio, in exactly reverse order because the good people must always come on right after you're too tired to stay anymore.

Neumo's filled up pretty slowly, but there were a lot of rock star template people there. Recall that I can recognize when someone is a musician, but I cannot associate them with their band. This is a flaw. I know this. But it prevents me from acting like a goob, so it's okay.

Hey you know when you walk up and say hi to someone who is talking to someone else, and they say hi back but they don't remember your name so you go ahead and introduce yourself to the other person, and they both cheat their bodies toward you a bit to include you in the conversation but then right away just talk to each other so they are physically INcluding you in the group but conversationally EXcluding you, and then you have to figure out the right time to blurt, "well, enjoy the show! bye!" which feels really awkward particularly since they are actively ignoring you? Ya, me too.

My friends and I monitor several characters in the club. The first is a very very tall boy who gets points by starting the evening at the back of the room so he isn't blocking anyone. He slowly loses those points by migrating to the front, but my friend claims that since he is so thin he should get half his points back.

The second is a girl who works as a door monitor. She is wee, in all black, has a flashlight that she brandishes like a billy club, and has fabulous career-obliterating neck tattoos. Every time the back door opens she springs up and makes sure no one is going outside with beer. She is great at her job, which is a good thing if you know what I mean.

The third is an unrelated group of people who, using their strategic attire, are willing Fall to arrive. They boldly wear wool sweaters and knit caps and jackets and dark colors. They are saying to summer, "Summer, your sun has burned us for too long and we are hot. We don't mind the rain. Be gone!" I respect these people, all of whom must be sweating buckets.

As with many indie rock audiences, this one is pretty much immobile. I wonder how it makes the bands feel to see the audience move around to the 80s music that is cranked between sets but barely manage a head-nod for the hard-working musicians. It made me want to advise all of the bands to switch to hip-hop.

Several of the Death Cab boys were there, not just Ben (although Ben accidentally body-checked my friend on the way to the bar). People touched them a lot. It was weird. Oh - OH - and guess who else was there?? Girlfriend to the Stars!!! She was there with Graig so now that's confirmed. She still looked like Marilyn.

The drummer from Big Business reminded me of a certain muppet. They were SO loud that the bass actually shook my bra. In contrast, Damian's set was aggressively quiet. I hope he didn't feel bad when people clapped louder for his cover songs than for his originals. He did play a Death Cab and a Nick Drake song, after all. He seemed mad when he left the stage.

The only good drama came at the end of the night. Two girls and a guy were at the bar trying to close out their tab. The guy was in a snit, complaining loudly and demanding to see the manager. When we asked what was wrong his friends told us that it was "personal" which sounds odd at a bar. A huge bouncer dude was standing 3 feet from them and when another bouncer came up the first dude subtely pointed to the group with his chin - he chindicated. The bouncers stood there looking serious and in control, and we were excited to see the whole thing unfold. But when we turned away for like ONE SECOND the girls had run back into the club area and the boy was GONE. Poof....

Jon Brion!!

2004-08-07T15:10:00.000-07:00

BOYFRIEND ALERT!
Largo, Los Angeles

Silly me for thinking this was a casual affair. Since Jon Brion has been doing a weekly gig at Largo for over three years, I thought you could waltz in to the club just before showtime. That is SO not the case. There is dinner, required reservations, lines, and lots of waiting. Since I lack planning skills, my friend and I ended up in the loser line stuck behind people waxing political beginning with statements like "I've learned a few things in my 23 years..."

Finally we get into the club and even get a stool at the bar. There was good fashion inside (we are in West Hollywood after all) and many many Lacoste polo shirts on the men. Largely seated at tables under dimly-lit Tiffany chandelier things, the crowd was tame and attentive. That part was sort of a downer.

(It should be noted that the guy working the door smells like he has been dunked in a vat of liquid incense. There is a visible incense cloud that trails him whenever he breezes by us. He reminds me of taking T'ai Chi in the late 80s. My friend claims him as her new boyfriend.)

Right away we meet Bob - a teacher who was reading Anna Karenina by candelight, and who is a semi-regular at the Brion gigs. Bob quickly surpasses Walter, the voice of the navigation system in my friend's Accord, as the new Ideal Man. He gives us the inside scoop about Largo and Brion's gigs: there is an etiquette policy that orders patrons to shut up while the performer is singing; you can get a sense of how the show will go by how much Jon drinks; and that lately Jon has been way more professional than in the past.

Jon brings out his first guests: the Section String Quartet. HFS. These people are incredible. They do two Radiohead songs and one Alejandro Escovedo tune. And THEN they accompany Jon for two songs, which sound as if they were WRITTEN for a guitar and a string quartet.

The next set is equally incredible. Jon is now solo, but he has a sampler on stage with him that lets him lay down 16 bars of drums and gets that playing over the speakers. Then he does the same with bass and piano. And then he plays his guitar and sings live over his own accompaniment. For other songs he bangs and scrapes on the piano creating this cool soundscape track under the other instruments. Oh, and he had a vocorder. The man is an effing genius.

At one point during a super-extendo version of Stairway to Heaven, a guy behind me says "..and this is how Jon Brion makes it through four hours every week." When Jon asks for requests from the audience, people immediately call out the songs or bands they've been holding on to all night. One guy keeps yelling "Fool On the Heeeeel! Fool On the Heeeeel!" over and over.

After that set a group of ten linebackers installs themselves directly in front of us, blocking the view of the stage. There is no escape, and I am forced to go to the other end of the bar and rudely block the view of someone else. It's a dog eat dog world, people. Jon's next guest is Benmont Trench. Holy cow this guy is an amazing pianist. The crowd is finally getting a bit more lively (though not, of course, while the musicians play).

By the end of this long evening we have seen Jon drink at least 5 beers, heard amazing covers of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Billie Holliday, Cole Porter, Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, and most of my favorite songs from Meaningless and some from Ro Sham Bo. We are tired and happy. Finally, JB at Largo. I can die now.

Radio Nationals, Dear John Letters, The More

2004-07-30T10:03:00.000-07:00

Boy Fashion and Jumping Pants
Crocodile Cafe, Seattle

This was not the show where I expected to have THREE separate conversations about fashion with straight men, but it turned out to be just that. As soon as I walked into the Croc, this kinda large guy notices my t-shirt from this store, and tells me that he found a similar one, but that it only came in "European medium" so he didn't buy it. And then we talked about body awareness and that maybe bigger people should avoid smaller shirts. It was a bizarre conversation, but I'm sure glad he didn't try to squeeze that teeny shirt on his large-ish frame.

Only about 12 people got there early enough to see The More play, but I bet way more people would have shown up if they knew how ADORABLE this band is. And two of them even wore matching shirts!

Have to admit that I completely missed the set of Dear John Letters (who I love) as I was in the cafe part chatting with people. So here's the other fashion stuff. First, a guy walks by me and says "nice shirt". I only realize later that he is wearing an almost IDENTICAL shirt and so we bond a bit more over that. I have never seen a man in that shirt, so it was almost off-putting. Particularly since he was a sort of manly man.

And then my friend shows me his cute new shoes which brought him an immense amount of joy. The shoes are so amazing and unique that they are nowhere to be found online. Score! We discussed how approximately one in eight people in Seattle now look familiar to us. He added that some of the ones at the Croc look like they came straight from the 1950s when smoking was recommended by doctors.

Okay so music, right. Finally the Radio Nationals took the stage, and after watching Jared drink beer in the cafe for 2 hours prior, I cannot believe he was able to remember the words to his songs. It was pretty impressive. But one thing I wonder: does alcohol make some men's hair greasy, or do you only notice the existing greasiness after you realize they are drunk?

The band displayed some really nice moves and even a little bit of choreography, but it didn't rouse the audience to do much more than some knee-dancing. It was good to know that their performance was being well-documented by two video cameras and two still photographers, but after some of their tech problems and Jared's hair I wonder how they are feeling about that today.

Hey have you ever experienced a show where the kick drum is so perfectly tuned and loud that you feel each beat in your pants? And I don't mean that in a sexual way at all, just that the fabric of your pants kind of jumps while your body stays put. It probably only happens with loose-fitting pants, but it's a nice feeling. It's like your clothing is telling your body to just accept the music and for chrissakes MOVE.