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certifiablyplatinum · 5 years

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Can you save my heavydirtysoul?(Please say you can.)Twenty One Pilots concert story, 10/22/19

As I had missed my GA Floor seat show in June at home in Cbus due to my woeful injury, I decided to buy tickets when the boyz announced their second leg and stop in Cincinnati. I mean, why not? Fangirling all over the place here. Of course, I was taking Jordan, as the summer of 2016 was the Blurryface summer and we played it out on our deck almost every night. I am secure in my vast music knowledge and boldly admit my love for Twenty One Pilots just as I do my more bizarre and obscure bands. Diversity is where it’s at, babies, ya like what ya like.

The brilliant blue October day arrived, and my preparations were made.

First, I chose a hotel north of Cinci. I had a work retreat on the south side of Columbus the next morning, so shaving off those ends saved me time.

Secondly, I told the wayward Jordan “Meet me at XXX South High Street with your bags packed at 3:30 pm.” (referring to the event space I needed to be at the day after the show.) Jordan: Huh? Where? Why? Me: Just meet me there.

Third, I called the event space to ensure I could leave a car parked there overnight.

Fourth, I packed an overnight bag with 17 different outfits. I am not sure why.

I left work and drove to the space I was to be at the next morning, and Jordy showed up VERY promptly. (Me texting her: It’s just past the bridge going over 71. Her reply: I have GPS.)

She tossed her bags in my car, locked her car up, and off we went together. She drove, as I needed to focus up with a call and verbal beatdown to A T & T and a little light bill paying. An hour and a half later we arrived at our Blu hotel in Blue Ash, freshened up, poured a Citron and G2, and called an Uber to US Bank Arena.

Our driver pulled up, we tossed our cardboard coffee cups in the trash, and hopped in. He looked back at us randomly asked, “Do you like country music?” I diplomatically and cheerfully answered, “I do if you do!” He seemed to doubt my sincerity, as he wordlessly handed me his phone. I chose a 90s alt-rock playlist and, well…. Pearl Jam’s Jeremy came on first. I believe this set the tone for the whole evening and led to my overall uninhibited abandon. Because here’s the deal—I have this thing where I have a primal need to sing Pearl Jam loudly and also in a PREEEEETY spot-on Eddie Vedder voice. I simply can’t not do it. So when I began to bellow along in my Eddie voice, Mohammed turned the radio up so loud that my ears were bleeding, as if to urge me along. Still, I sang on. (OOoooh my jaw left hurtin’, OOoohhh dropped wide open…)

Anyway, we got dropped off and headed to get food and drinks at the Holy Grail Tavern. Both Jordan and I couldn’t stop looking at our attractive server. It got so that we were laughing out loud when she whizzed past us because we (the server and me) were always accidentally locking eyes. I said, “Oh my God she’s going to think – who is this perv staring at me?” And Jordan said, “Well, *I* get to see her as she walks away and she has a great butt.” This led us to the conclusion that we couldn’t stop looking at her because we, as a species, are so used to ugly being the norm (“Have you BEEN to the BMV, Elaine?”) that we can’t stop looking at people who are attractive. We drink them in like a scarce hidden spring in a dusty desert. The server asked, “One check or two?” as soon as we finished our food and apparently I spoke loudly and with a bit of shock: “Well I am HAVING another drink!”

We chugged away and then around 7 we headed out the door. I was in a bit of a conundrum because I had already walked a great deal and I didn’t know what side of the stadium we were on, and I didn’t want to walk in circles for nothing, as BabyCalf and BionicTendon were a lil sore. Just then, (of course, because this is how things happen to witchy little me), a jolly man called from one lone open-air shuttle across the street: “Need a ride?” And how! Not only did we get a ride, we got the VIP drop off at the secret back elevator! Up we went, got scanned in, and found our kickass seats—basically 6 rows up from the floor.

Once we knew where our seats were, we went up to the stuffed and crammed hallway overflowing with yellow and camo-clad Cliquers, and made our way to a hallway bar cart. The windows behind the bar cart looked out to the open air terrace. We figured we would go out and get some fresh air rather than wait in our seats, and asked the bartender, “Can we have someone let us back in if we go out there?” She said “No, but you can keep walking around the corner and come back in the main entrance.” No problem! But was it? We soon found it was, as we wandered back up to the main entrance with our brazenly open containers and were told, “No re-entry!” by a shocked looking person who may as well have added, “You dumbasses!”

“BUT! BUT! She said we could come back in this way!” I eloquently burst forth.

The ‘who are these stupid people’ gate attendant said with some ‘tude: “Who. Is. ‘She’?”

“The bartender!” I pouted.

“You can’t have open containers either!” he parried again, noticing our drinks.

“Well what do we DO!?” I demanded, my Scarlett O’Hara inconvenience bubbling up.

He sighed and pointed. “That guy in the blazer is the manager. Go talk to him.”

Another witchy win: the plaza was empty except for the one, lone, blazered manager, talking to a cop! What are the chances he was right there? I strolled up, my drink still blatant AF, and explained our predicament.

“No re-entry,” he said.

“Oh my God! We were clearly here! We had to get in to even be here with a drink in our hand. She told us we could go out on the terrace and walk around to get back in!”

“Who is ‘she’? And no open containers.” he chided.

Amazingly, our damsel in distress act got us back in and the manager bellowed “Let ‘em through!” to all the ticket attendants, and we sailed on through, triumphant. “Comin through!” I waved my hands. Back to our seats we went!

MIsterwives opened up, and I get it, auburn-maned singer Mandy Lee has a wild falsetto that yips and yodels and leaps around, putting me in mind of Kate Bush’s vocal style. Their wavy, colorful set and lighting was bright and cheery with rainbow tones and pops of pinks and yellows. The highlight was their cover of Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts”. Ballsy move! They bopped, boogied and bounced with great gusto all over the stage and when they finished with a rollicking “Our Own House” with its zesty horn riffs, the crowd was getting into it. (Jordan and I happened to be sitting in the “Family Section” and felt chastened by the uncertain-faced teens at their first show, not quite sure how to let loose, and their basic and somewhat resigned parents – neither of which group had a drink in their hands. Jordan made several trips up and back, soaking these poor people with vodka as she sloshed her way back to her seat.)

FINALLY – the main event! The arena seethed with anticipation when the curtain billowed back and forth, sooo close to unveiling the set and stage. Finally, in a burst of red lasers and flames, Josh and Tyler appeared on the scene and ripped right into Jumpsuit, performed as a car on fire burned behind them. JUMPSUIT! JUMPSUIT! COVER ME! He screamed at the close, as we all did.

Visually, the evening was a treat for the senses. Kaledoscopic shifting colors and shapes, lasers, catwalks, a B Stage…. Costume changes and bridges, Josh Dun and his abs on full display, Tyler with his various hats and costumes and instruments, a glittering swath of twinkling lights for the gentle “Neon Gravestones” shining like stars caught in a net: The production of this tour was top-notch and stunning, allowing for a visual orgy to accompany the talent of the hometown boys. I stumbled across a line that I think puts it perfectly:

“This wasn’t a band rocking out, despite how hard Dun plays the drums. This was a post-apocalyptic rapper-hero performing songs with his drummer-sidekick nearby, in the midst of lasers and explosions.” They really do have a kind of anime’, lone-wolf kind of renegade vibe going, especially with the way their albums tend to run with storylines: The Blurryface character, and now the bishops and mysterious DEMA of Trench.

Their setlist was packed full of the goodies…. Stressed Out (“what’s my name?” Tyler would chant rhythmically.) The frenetic insanity and staccato rapping of Heavy Dirty Soul. My favorite from Trench, The Hype, or as I say “The song with the best ukulele-backed bridge ever written.” God that song is tight! They shifted stages during the end of “Nico and the Niners” and returned back on the main stage by the time Holding On To You started….. ahhhh, where Josh does his perfectly timed backflip from the piano! Lean with it, rock with it. Swoon, y’all. Tyler’s laid-bare confessions are what resonate, causing the band’s wildfire-like leap to global fame.

Something that is becoming a bit of tradition with the duo is that every show, as far as I know, has always ended with Trees. It’s a euphoric communal outpouring to close the night, everyone jumping up and down singing “LA LA…. LA LA LA LA LA LA….. HELLOOOOOOO!” It’s a soft start, a gentle and sad build, and then a sweaty screamfest at the end. PERF!

As we made our way out the doors and across the plaza, we made up songs like “My momma needs to take an elevator because of her busted tendon” – Jordan, and “OOooh but I got ma fishnet stockings on, yeahh” -Me. Jordan also stepped on my foot and I howled in pain as she knelt before with remorse, boozily patting and stroking my foot.

Sooo we grabbed another Uber, and here’s where things shifts from a normal boozy concert night to one for the books. Our dude, Dean, pulled up with the license plate that began with LGR. Our relationship began with my opening sentence: “Your license plate says LIGER, like Napoleon Dynamite. It’s a lion—and a tiger!” And bam! Merrily we roll along!

I am not quite sure how this went from polite chatter to veering off the rails, but I will condense and recount what went down as best I can recall.

Jordan: She had her achilles’ tendon repaired!

Dean: Oh, I can fix that.

(Like, totally matter of fact. Oh, I can fix that.)

Jordan: Really? YES!

Dean: Sure. We’re all made of electricity. We’re just made of electric particles and neurons. I consult all over to doctors because I fix people.

Jordan: Why are you driving an Uber?

Me: .

Dean: Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.

Me: …How???

Dean: Electricity.

Jordan: How do you know how to do this?

Dean: I’m just kind of brilliant with this kind of stuff.

OK, so, I’m kind of brushing it off at this point, thinking I’ll ditch him when we arrive at the ol’ Blu. Dean says he’s going to find a place to park and he will be right in. Jord and I get out and stand outside for a minute as we watch him drive around the corner. “Let’s just go in,” I say. “Yeah,” she agrees, “I think he left.” My brain was so jumbled with confusion I wasn’t sure what was going on. Was he actually planning on coming up to the hotel room? “Let’s get inside,” I said, relieved that he probably was just messing with us and took off.

The automatic glass doors blew open to the lobby and we walked in. Right behind us, a dude with a bag of City BBQ carryout and a gray medical-looking case followed us in.

Jordan: What’s that?

City BBQ dude: This is my (blah, blah, blah.) It uses electricity to heal injuiries. (He says a name similar to something like the Electralux El Diablo 5000.)

Jordan: She tore her achilles!

City BBQ dude: Yes, this equipment will heal it.

ME: (whipping my head back toward him): OH MY GOD!!!! MY UBER DRIVER JUST SAID THAT TOO! WHAT ARE THE CHANCES!?

Like, seriously, I am thinking this guest of the hotel is maybe a doctor in for a conference, or whatever. It was only through muddled bits and pieces clicking together in my brain during the ride up in the elevator and ending when the bbq-toting man did not go to his “room” but walked in OURS that I fucking realized…

This guy WAS MY UBER DRIVER.

Not 2 separate people, both coincidentally on a mission and willing to fix bodily injuries with a machine with the equipment on their person.

I was so confused when faced with this reality it was like I was living in an alternate universe. As I am sputtering around saying, “Oh my God, I never really saw your face in the car, just the back of your head” Dean is busily and efficiently placing electrodes on my ankles, calves, shins, even my goddamn glutes. I find myself saying, “You know, my shoulder has hurt a bit lately too” and he briskly whips my arm around and jams his thumb right where it hurts, murmurs the word “Release…..” and then slaps an electrode on my shoulder. THEN he hooks Jordan up. “Is this a TENS unit?” I ask. “Pfft. This makes a TENS unit look like child’s play” he retorts proudly.

Jordan and I are now are standing next to each other looking like inmates of The Green Mile and sizzling with pulsating electricity. Dean eats his corn pudding, yanking the current up and down based on our grunts of discomfort. My phone is in my hand at all times with the first two numbers of 9 – 1 punched in and on high alert. But as he contentedly moves on to his green beans with his feet kicked up on the table in front of him, I have to admit he looks pretty harmless.

I think Dean the Electrode Machine was in our room until midnight, giving us confident tips on how to heal, saying he could bring his machine anywhere in the world, and I finally started giving signs of get-out-I’m-tired. In a gentlemanly way, he bid us adieu, as I babbled on about leaving him a big tip. I mean, he invited himself to cure me, but isn’t his time and trouble worth something? I tipped him 30 dollars and added him on Facebook.

Jordan and I try to get ready for bed but she then runs into a couple of questionable characters and starts talking to them. The three of them are standing outside (why did we go back outside? Perhaps to bid Dean adieu, I believe.) They start cooking up plans like long lost homies. I say “Get upstairs” and take her arm. (She can be hard to manage once she crosses that line.) We get in bed. It is nearing 1am. Jordan lays on top of me crying and blubbering “Promise me you won’t ever die.” I say kindly as I smooth her hair, “I will though.” We laugh about being electrocuted by our Uber driver. I say I can’t believe he just invited himself to our hotel room. She casually says with the air of a jaded and well-worn matriarch: “Please, Mom, everybody hangs out with their Uber drivers in their hotels now.” Then she gets up again and walks out the door. I am fading fast but I manage to say, “GET BACK IN HERE! Where are you going?” I close my eyes for a minute and I open them when I hear the door open again and Jordan puts her face right next to mine and whispers in a low, clear, concerned voice:

“Mom. There is a naked man sitting in the egg chair in the hallway masturbating.”

“Huh?” I whisper back.

She repeats it.

With STRANGE AND STOIC CALM considering my inebriated and disoriented state, I pick up the desk phone. The next thing I know, I am whispering as calmly and clearly as Jordan did: “Hello. This is Room 303. I want you to know there is a naked man masturbating in the egg chair up here in the hallway.”

DEAD ASS PAUSE on the other end. Finally: “Umm, ahh, ok, I… I .. uhhh… I’ll come check it out.”

Five minutes later the phone startles me out of my slip into slumber.

“Hello?” I answer.

“He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes. The man. No man.”

“Okay.”

It is 2:30 now and I don’t just fall asleep—I hurtle into it like a plane crashing into the ground, fading to black. I don’t wake up until I hear something. It sounds familiar. It’s a ringing sound. It’s that thing that makes you wake up. But where is it? “Jordan,” I hiss. “Huh?” she moans. She bolts upright and grabs her phone and stares at it. “This is new,” she whispers. “Make it stop!” I cry. The ringing continues. I realize it’s coming from my phone which is on the floor. I remember how to make it stop. It’s 6:45 am. I lay in exhausted torment until 7:15. Then 7:30. Then with every ounce of strength I can muster, I get my ass up and get to the excruciating business of getting my shit together and getting my shit together…( sayin’ wake up, ya need to make money!) At 8:10 Jordan and I are both in the car with a cup of coffee. You’re not hard core unless you live hard core, like Dewey Finn says.

I sail up 71 without incident. The coffee kicks in and I’m actually feeling pretty okay. At 9:49, I pull into the venue we are at for the day at work. Jordan’s car is safe and intact. I find a parking spot, wave to my friend, and tell Jordy to wake up.

She sits up, opens her eyes, retches, opens the door, and promptly vomits down the side of my car.

I squeal, then chant prayerfully: OMG PLEASE DO NOT PUKE IN FRONT OF MY CO-WORKERS!

I don’t even see her leave. She is gone, slinking away to her car, as I had practically pushed her out of a moving vehicle.

So. That’s my review of Twenty One Pilots and a little story thrown in to boot.

PS My foot doesn’t feel any better.

PSS Pics below of Tyler, Josh, me, Jordan,and Dean.

#twenty one pilots

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certifiablyplatinum · 7 years

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“‘Call the police’, cause I been arrested for an improper display of rockin’!” LCD Soundsystem at the Masonic Temple, Detroit

So, when I got notified of the “early bird sale” for this show waaaay back when in June,, I whipped out my plastic as I am wont to do without thinking…. of course I did. Because… James Murphy, and one of my favorite bands of all time. I consider LCD Soundsystem my Depeche Mode 2.0, and for anyone who knows me that’s all the summation that needs.

Well, because when you get old, time moves in a different way (as in, faster), summer basically didn’t happen, and before I knew it, it was time to hit the road to Detroit. I was beyond stoked, and played my favorite classics all morning as I finished up some work…. North American Scum, Losing My Edge (probably my favorite lyrics of any song,* and even more pointed AND poignant as an aging creative in my industry. Like, I GET that song: “But I was THERE!”

Anyway- Russ (so game! So indulgent of my schedule dictations and crazy plans!) and I made our escape in the Escape and off we went. We checked into an Air B & B 3 hours later that seemed KIND of sketchy but was “actually really, really nice.”* We poured some warm vodka into a solo cup I had brought along in my bag just in case (it pays to be prepared, and I can be weird about other peoples’ dishes) and about an hour later, after playing tunes and sitting on the bed looking at each other, we summoned an Uber and went to the Whitney, a gorgeous 1800′s mansion converted into a restaurant, dessert parlor, gardens, etc. When Russ saw the white tablecloths he looked at me with wide eyes and said, “Holy shit” and promptly covered his “God Save the Queen” sex pistols shirt with a classy flannel. We agonized in stage whispers how to plan, mesh and merge our overeating vs. cocktailing- (Russ said somewhat accusingly: “THE LAST TIME YOU HAD A FULL FISH DINNER COMPLETE WITH SIDES AND BREAD YOU WENT HOME AND SLEPT”) along with figuring our budget for this meal, which there was none. So, I ordered a crab cake (playing it off with a coquettish “Oh, I don’t have much of an appetite!” to the waiter), and kept asking for more bread.

Yes, I’m cutting to the chase, but I like to add a little background flavor to my “reviews” (which are turning into stories.) Anyway, we ate our way to a pleasant satisfaction, NOT stuffage (key to a good evening.) We left the Whitney and popped into another Uber and got dropped off in front of the imposing, castle-like Masonic Temple theatre (the largest in the world.) It was about 7:30, and the line already snaked around the building. As we exited our Uber, we were met by my fellow LCD fan and Columbus-ite, Kerrie, and her BFF Dani, who had also road-tripped up. We gathered together and moved simultaneously in a clump until we reached the front doors and presented our tickets.

Inside was already a bit of pandemonium. The auditorium was the size of the indoor LC, (oops, Express Live) with the ornate-ness of the Ohio Theatre, with arches leading through to aisleways into the venue and beverage/snack counters like the Schott or any basketball arena.. Kerrie and Dani had balcony seats so up they went, and Russ and I made our way to the floor. (Earlier Russ had asked, “Is there an opener?” I had said, “I bet there will just be a DJ” and bingo.) Thudding bass beats blasted into the auditorium, and I rocked out with my Rum and Diet once we found a seat. Get this. Our seats were on the aisle, second row from the floor. (The whole show was GA, and I couldn’t believe what a great spot we got.) It was like being on the floor, but– I could see better because we were elevated a bit OVER the floor, and I could sit if I damn well chose to do so.

The DJ spun, the floor in front of us filled, and before I knew it the place was maxium capacity, with people even spilling into the aisles. A wisp of smoke, a darkened stage, and the screams began… as the opening notes of the first track off their new album, “Oh Baby” filtered into our eardrums. The build of swirling, tinkling keys sounded like a fairy tale, or Tinkerbell, or making one feel they should be standing in a darkened field with stars swirling dizzingly around them in sparkling rotation.

I was agog at taking in the sight of James Murphy (and all his gear!), my shaggy-haired hero. Who IS this odd genius, cool yet mad, hipster yet pushing 50, dapper yet rough, a singer/songwriter/drummer/pianist/programmer/DJ/mixmaster? Such a hodgepodge of talent, so much so that I can’t pin him down with a word. He almost seemed as if he was the maestro of an orchestra, or big-band leader at a supper club, in his white shirt and black jacket (and black jeans). For the entire show, he was the beacon on the stage that everyone revolved around. Even when laying down the most danceable beats, he stood tall and composed, a beam of light shining upon him.

After the magical vibe of “Oh Baby” faded away, the band launched into a rapid-fire, doubletime, raw take on “Daft Punk is Playing at My House”, causing a frenzy of moshing and screaming. The stage turned red under the lights, fists were pumped, and a cowbell made a bold and badass appearance:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLWUIy0dvTk&feature=youtu.be

“Call the Police”, with its deep bass riff toward the end (ba bum bum bum da da ad DA da, repeat) slayed the crowd; like “Daft Punk…”, the tempo was amped considerably. In fact, most songs were played with a driving, energetic urgency, almost as if the band couldn’t keep up with themselves. Everything was spot-on… clear vocals, an assured presence, drummers that bounced up and down as they slammed the sticks– James hit every high note with thoughtful preparation… (’we don’t waste time with…love”). He commands this song with Bono-like intensity. (I think he sounds like Bono on a lot of the new album, if you must know).

Get Innocuous, You Wanted a Hit, ferocious and fun, blasted out next. And then, I made a critical error. Fateful, dare I say. Like Icarus soaring cockily to the sun, because I have done this hundreds of times before with no negative consequence… I left to “bring back drinks.”

I headed up the packed aisle and walked down the marble steps to the basement- the quickest and closest bar. I pulled my sweaty 20 from my bosom and got a bottle of water, a Pabst (lol) for Russ, and a rum and diet. After waiting 10 minutes, I gathered my sundries and climbed back upstairs, finding my entry way to “aisle 3.” And I was met by a wall of bodies. No, more like..a CONE of bodies, packing every square, breathable atom of space and air from the top of the entryway down to the floor. My 5′2 self, carrying three beverages, pushed boldly on, and then confusedly, and then feebly. The oxygen was sucked from my lungs, I was being eaten alive by warm, sweaty, douchebag bodies as they sucked me in the Upside Down like Barb. My cracking, forlorn, yet agitated voice called “RUSS..” (dear God, why. The auditorium was powering out decibels with the same power of the sun.) It was so dark, so loud, so packed, I didn’t even know where I was heading. To top it all off, in the cruelest sense of irony, during my time of woe the band was blissfully singing their gentlest, saddest song, “Someone Great.” As I pushed and sloshed through the Upside Down of bodies, my wrists wet from rum, a ragged sob burst forth from my throat. I sensed I was getting close to the floor… and then I was being grabbed and clawed, some colossal dickhead grabbing the neck of my shirt to keep me from getting through, grabbing my drink and spilling it, and then his friends laughing – I felt I was in a fucking funhouse hall of horrifying mirrors. Like, if it was a movie, I would have seen their faces in slow mo moving toward me with deep, slowed-down, “HA, HA, HA’s.” Somehow, I found myself on the floor, which meant I had bypassed my second row seat. As the haunting lyrics, “when someone great is gone… when someone great is gone…” were being sung, in a weird way I trying to listen to it I was pissed I was missing it, while the rest of me was painfully aware I had no idea how to find Russ. Would Russ be singing those lines about me when I never returned? I wondered forlornly. A girl yelled - “YOU’RE ON THE FLOOR” and I stared at her blankly and yelled back, “I’M ON THE FLOOR?” All my instincts could do was send me away from the floor. Like a penguin on their programmed quest for winter food, I marched back toward the packed aisle. My foot felt a step up- I had made the front row. My eyes scanned the seats, and finally I saw Russ standing. I shoved my way into any available hole that a human body made as it stood next to another human body it was not connected to, and I slithered my way to my (unbelievably) still-empty seat. I collapsed, tossed Russ his pabst, and wiped an exhausted, emotional , drunken tear from my cheek, barely able to blurt: “I WAS ASSAULTED AND THE AISLE WAS PACKED.” I then slammed the remaining droplets at the bottom of my spilled drink.

SO, YEAH! ‘Someone Grea’t was… great. (It really was. I was hyperaware of it as I was going through my trauma.) Once settled, though, I shook it off, and danced with vigor at Yr City’s a Sucker and Tonite, Tonite (which sounds like a Daft Punk song. Ironic? Discuss.).

“We’re going to the bathroom, then we’re coming back,” James informed the crowd, so we settled down a bit because I had a feeling that Dance Yrself Clean may be one of the encores… I was not disappointed! It put a worthwhile capper on the whole evening. “Ahhh ahhhhhh, ahhh ahhh….” rang out the harmonies, with the chirpy RD2-D2 synth sounds peppering underneath, and then, the big, bold, reverb-y breakdown…. ahhhh! Washed clean. Danced clean.

Here I am, sweaty with the abovementioned cleanse. I look like I’ve been through the “wringer”, so to speak. Hot mess!:

(as my POS phone had died, I was begging Russ to document the evening in a photographic sense.) Anyway, we weren’t quite sure what to do because we were both feeling pretty rough and tired at this point… so we wandered toward the casino. Once we got there, we sat down at a metal table in a glorified food court, looked at each other and said, “what the hell are we doing here?” I really just wanted a huge bottle of water, and maybe a sub. Like- Justin and Karly, if you are reading this, I really just wanted that pizza place/bar we stumbled into on the way back from the U2 show in Cleveland. Quiet, dark,dumpy, whatever. SOOOO, we ubered back to the air b & b (in Lafayette Park- which I am reading was a hotbed for Mies Van Der Rohe’s’ residential buildings, and I wonder if the apartment building we stayed in was one of them?)

I had a half a bottle of water waiting for me from earlier, which I chugged; I ripped out my contacts, changed into my slug clothes, and hopped in bed. I wondered aloud if I would be able to sleep– many times after a concert I am too jacked up, especially when rum & diet is involved. Like a magical elf, Russ rolls toward me, producing a Klonopin he takes for his own sleep issues. I cracked the hell up. Russ then literally proffered it on his finger and put it in my mouth, saying in a creepy voice, “Take it, kid… just let it dissolve and see the rainbow.” Holllllllyyyy shite.

So- I love this band, they are a sinuous, living, silvery, fluid octopus of harmony and rhythm, soft and loud, thundering and syncopated and layers of weirdness and stops and starts. As I read weeks ago– the only band who could produce a 9-minute pop song and leave you wanting more. WHO are they? WHAT do they create? Just like me getting trapped in a throng of screaming, pulsating bodies, there are some things we may never understand.

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certifiablyplatinum · 7 years

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I Got SPOONED! Spoon with Tennis, 5/11/17

For almost 25 years, any music aficionado has been aware of Spoon on the landscape – and the many contributions and side projects of visionary (and Hot Ging) Britt Daniel (Divine Fits, etc.) Over their long career, Spoon’s distinct but hard-to-define sound has ranged from post-punk/pop/art rock/psychedelic/ to sophisticated and minimalist, and a mix of all of the above. Anywhoozers, on this temperate spring day when the sun burst forth from a cloudy morning, and I had left a long work “town hall” meeting and then hit a happy hour, the fun was still going to continue with this sold-out show. (“Sold out” at the Newport means you grab your spot and instantly find a “family” who has your back when swapping back and forth for peeing and beer runs.)

^^ Spoon

Dapper in black jackets, Britt and Co. stepped on stage looking like they were performing at a classic supper club; Britt’s silky red shirt peeking underneath reminiscent of the cover of “Gimme Fiction”, his rusty hair long, spiky and wild. They launched right into their current single, “Hot Thoughts”, so spot-on that I could have been listening to the album. However- no pre-recording, no tricks – actual musicians playing! Throughout the night, Britt’s distinctive, raspy vocals hit every note – a true pro in action. Swag, soul, and groovy rhythms filled the packed space, from the thumpy bass of “I Get My Camera On” to the the cocky “Don’t You Evah” to the ghostly synths and plaintive vibe of “Do You”, the hits kept coming, the crowd sweaty and euphoric, as they played before a triptych of illuminated black and white blocky pyramid-like panels. On occasions, such climbing onto a platform and standing above the band such as the during keyboard interlude before “I Ain’t the One” and during the swingy, epic long jam of “My Mathematical Mind” there was some Bowie-esque channeling going on under chilly purple lights.

Spoon is not just one guy, obviously - but it’s Britt Daniel’s show. He’s the Ginger Caliente’ you come to see. He commands attention; you just know what you are hearing has originated from his brain and emanates through his guitar.

So, to crib a line from my favorite Spoon song: “As the sun went fading in the west” (no rainy taxi this night!) I left with a dizzying satisfaction of seeing one of the most notable bands around, one who’s firmly made their mark and who predictably will continue to.

Colorado band and husband and wife duo Tennis opened, with some warm retro 70’s-style vibes being supported by Alaina Moore’s lilting vocals and sparkling keyboards and amazing hair. (FYI—their tune “My Emotions are Blinding” works beautifully as a mashup to LOTTA LOVE by 70’s crooner Nicolette Larson AND “It’s Too Late” by Carole King… try it. I was singing along loudly, my own personal a capello DJ. I am sure the packed sardines next to me appreciated my genius performance.) Husband and guitarist Patrick’s guitar broke and they had to cut the set short, but they still had an opportunity to share their groovy love with the crowd.

^^Tennis (and her hair)

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certifiablyplatinum · 8 years

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Silversun Pickups (with Bear Hands) Newport Music Hall, 6/25

“To feel safe again, look over your shoulder....

Very carefully, look over your shoulder....”

-so you’ll be able to dodge obnoxious concert novices who’re acting like it’s their first time out after being locked up in their grandma’s pantry for 10 years....

Seriously folks. SSPU has been one of my ab favorites for a decade. The dramatic, clamoring surge of Brian Aubert’s otherwordly, feminine vocals mixed with his impeccable guitar fingerplay (that chugging crescendo through The Royal We, Lazy Eye, Panic Switch, et. al.) combined with bassist Nikki’s coolness (and the fact that she’s a mom of twins!) just blended a bunch of heady, eerie, melodic favorite styles together, to where upon the release of Better Nature last fall (anxiously waiting for clunkers so their impeccable record of EVERY DAMN SONG being a good one wasn’t tarnished) I announced, “I think I seriously have liked EVERY Silversun song, ever.” They are DRAMATIC. They tell tales with vivid, bloody, beautiful imagery. Brian screams his impassioned poetry through a falsetto and then, for a song like “Ragamuffin” quietly brings it back down, over and over. And, the guy is damn funny at shows - the last time I saw the band, they lurched into an intro and Brian suddenly stopped, waved his hands like a ref calling “OUT” and said, “What the hell was that? We’re starting that again.”

Anyway, at the Newport show on a hot, sultry night, they didn’t disappoint with their badass jams, dreamy atmospherics, crowd banter (Brian encouraged the crowd: “Everybody look at Nikki during this song - she gets embarrassed” right before her vocal debut in ‘Last Dance/Circadian Rhythm’) and a great mix of old and new. “Better Nature” is a softer, more polished lullaby of an album, with intricately woven vocals, than the edgier, raw “Swoon” and/or “Neck of the Woods.”. They launched right into the night with “Cradle (Better Nature)” and then the hits kept coming: Well Thought out Twinkles, The Pit, Panic Switch, the can’t-miss scorcher Lazy Eye, and three encores: Kissing Families, Dots and Dashes, and the Wild Kind.

(Joe, Brian, Nikki) ^^

(Funny aside, if I may veer off topic. Along with the puking, pummeling crowd, I myself began the evening as a hot mess, when I literally clomped my way out of the bar next door’s bathroom before the show and realized MY ENTIRE wedge of my heel was flapping in the breeze, unglued. As I jokingly hit a “power stance” where I lunged forward, not moving my shoe from its spot, and said “this is how I am going to dance all night”, I looked down and saw I had wisps of gorgeous toilet paper flowing underneath the broken sole -- the classy piece de resistance. My husband and comrade fled to UDF and purchased a role of duct tape, MacGyver style. He appeared inside the venue what seemed to be 5 seconds later, like a superhero, grabbed my gross shoe, ripped giant strips of duct tape off with his teeth and rolled that whole sole up in duct tape with a satisfied: “There. That shoe will last you all night.” (Security asked him- “sir, what are you doing bringing in duct tape?” and he said, “Ohhh... my wife’s shoe broke.”) Anyway.

(MY SHOE GETTING BOUND) ^^^

Another tiny disappointment was the sound didn’t hit me in the brains and punch me in the sternum. With a band like SSPU, you want that full wall to hit you. But it just seemed kind of quiet - like when you have a bad mp3 and keep wanting to turn up your headphones to feel the throb, but it never gets there. The mix seemed a little off, a little quiet, lacking a bit of depth; even when I was right next to the speakers. When we stood in the back, we could have been watching a concert video wayyy off in the distance. Normally in the back of the house, I can hear just as well - even better most times, because you get the full mix.

Still, SSPU remains one of my favorites. They are loud, lush and wonderful. Brooklyn’s Bear Hands opened the show with bright, punchy, high-energy fun; the upbeat “Agora” and the staccato electronica of “Winner’s Circle” prepping the crowd for some Silversun fun.

Bear Hands ^^

#Brian and Nikki Silversunpickups

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certifiablyplatinum · 8 years

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#promowest

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certifiablyplatinum · 8 years

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Review by Stephanie Garber for Columbus Calling: April 2015

#washington dc

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certifiablyplatinum · 8 years

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FIERCE FRONTWOMEN : Three in a weekend

Wolf Alice, Joy Formidable and the Kills pack a triple punch

On a rainy and blustery April weekend, some scorching rock warmed our fair city. They say things happen in threes, and in this case, the thing was badassery.

Rewind to last Friday night when I had the pleasure of getting up close and personal at the intimate A & R Bar with a band with a major buzz, Wolf Alice. They recently won Best Live Band and Best Track at the NME Awards 2016, hitting the scene last year with the grungey, 90’s tinged “Moaning Lisa Smile” which became kind of an iPod staple as I staggered around the track at my gym. Nonetheless, given that they are yyyyuge on the festival scene this year, I was ever-so-slightly stoked to see them in such a small venue.

After I was thrilled and titillated by some proper British punk from the opening band, Slaves (seriously - Oi!) the main act sauntered on; Ellie standing in confidence with ripped black tights and long swinging hair. The Londoners were tight, loud, and chill, with a retro vibe stemming from that haunting 90’s dissonance on the guitars and a wee bit reminiscent of Pumpkins fuzziness. But that’s not to say they’re not fresh – singer Ellie has said they just do what comes naturally to them, and if emotive, loud, melodic rock and forceful, echoing vocals is what that is – more power to them. From the ground up, each song is built subtly yet powerfully, from the gentle opening of “Silk” that drifted over the room like a billowy curtain, to the nostalgic sound and sweetly hushed melody of “Bros” – a sweet anthem of sisterhood, brotherhood, best friendship, whatever it may be -- to the powerful roar of “Giant Peach” (which I TOTES waited for all night with bated breath.) I mean, that song even has some deeply Sabbath shit going on somewhere in its darkly toe-tapping middle. We NEED this stuff – shiny nuggets of music to be uncovered in the nooks and crannies of a crowded world. I predict there’s a lot more evolution to be seen in this band!

(Sad panda note of the night: After the set, I spotted bleached-blond guitarist Theo sprinting up from the “loo.” He put his arm around me for a photo, all golden glitter adorning his eyelids and cocky vibe, and when I checked the photo my skilled husband had taken, it was of my husband’s large, “giant peach” of a thumb. Great!)

^^Wolf Alice, April 9, 2016

The next night, (proudly not hung over, as I held myself in monastery-like check the night before in anticipation of the next big event) we went to see one of my bucket list bands, the Kills, at Express Live. I had to see if Jack White’s own personal Appolonia (and rocker way before that in her own right), Alison Mosshart, had the chops I imagined she did. Plus, I just loved the relationship she seemed to have with Jamie and their story. I was fully prepared to be missing the top of my head by the time I left. We arrived in time to see the opener, Joy Formidable, who I really didn’t know that much about other than “Whirring” and “A Heavy Abacus”, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. And WHAT. A. PLEASANT. SURPRISE. My head whipped around like a bobblehead all night as each amazing, ear blasting song merged into the next. (At one point, my friend and I just looked at each other and said, “Who knew?” simultaneously.) The stage dark, the first eerie and demanding synth notes of “The Greatest Light is the Greatest Shade” blasted throughout the space and I was like, “Oh, hell yeah.” It resonated immediately with this synth queen listener, who appreciates a mix of strong beats and squealy keys. The perfect storm!

Not only was Ritzy the cutest Welsh blonde-bobbed sprite ever, her lovely wails and range carrying each song, but Matt Thomas, the drummer, was an epic spectacle and a treat to the senses, pounding his mammoth kit with the sound of a hundred sticks, long hair flying, thin arms in constant motion. With every roll, bang, flam and bass kick, I simply jammed harder, absorbing the thunderous crush into my sternum. I loved their sound: the crystal clear melodies soaring to sunshine and then diminishing to something darker (“Liana”) mixed with gritty rock, a few scorching guitar and keyboard solos extending some songs into a 1980’s prog-rock longevity. (The end of “Whirring” was insane, and seemed to last 27 minutes.) Occasionally, I would think really weird things, like “it kinda sounds like Siouxsie Soux had a baby with with the Counting Crows” (listen to the intro of “Passerby”). Much of it is also just great poppy fun (“The Last Thing on my Mind.”) I’ve listened to all of their new album, Hitch, and it’s got it all – a little gritty and fuzzy, heavy on the rhythm section and yet eternally optimistic. When their set was over, I thought two things: “I am sad now” and “The Kills better be fucking good to follow that.”

^^The Joy Formidable, April 10, 2016

So then, with much fanfare, Jamie and Alison, The Kills, strutted on – Jamie calmly BA and Alison running her hands, rocker-style, through her hair incessantly, her very, very slender legs encased in leather. The chick definitely has a presence. Between songs and during intros, she would pace in circles determinedly, a bit like a very small horse being exercised on its longe line. Many of the songs were supporting their upcoming album, Ash & Ice: “Doing it to Death” is a slow-burning, kinda sensual jam; “Heart of a Dog” is another churning grind.

Much of their sound –such as “Kissy Kissy”-- is raw, earthy, and bluesy – yes, garage. And “Pots & Pans”, off of my favorite album, Blood Pressures, is as dusty and weathered as a chapter from The Grapes of Wrath. They had a nice variety of selections sprinkled across the set from various albums, and I loved that they ended with “Sour Cherry” as an encore, but was a bit saddened that my two absolute staples (“DNA and Future Starts Slow”) were omitted. To me, Future Starts Slow IS the Kills sound – just a duo making a lot of cool music from very few instruments. They are grassroots; they not only make music, but they feel it.

^^The Kills, April 10, 2016

All three of these ferocious frontwomen fulfilled a weekend of music I’d circled on my calendar months ahead of time, and none of them disappointed. It was deeply satisfying to see them owning the stage, commanding the scene, blazing their guitars and just rocking out like the pros they are. (And secretly: Ritzy, I’m lookin’ at you.)

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certifiablyplatinum · 9 years

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From Sonic Attack to Group Hug: BO NINGEN and TV on the RADIO

I haven’t reviewed anything in awhile –and I boldly admit it’s just been out of sheer laziness. But the intense urge I have to write one now hopefully will demonstrate how affected I was by the freakiest, most intense, ferocious show I think I have ever witnessed.

I’d bought my TV on the Radio tickets basically the same day they went on sale, and was so counting down the months to the event and focused on seeingTunde and the gang that I didn’t even know who the opener was. It never even crossed my mind. So when that day came, we arrived into the darkened music hall and my ears instantly perked up to what I was hearing onstage as my ticket got scanned. My partner in crime went to the beer line, and I saved us a spot in our usual vantage point. And from that point on, I was visually and aurally assaulted for the next hour. My jaw hit the ground as I slowly absorbed the performance in front of me by London-based, Japanese 4-piece Bo Ningen. I texted my husband: “You better get back up here. This is crazy.”

Drawn out, melodic, reverbbed shrieks and yelps filled the cavernous old venue, propelled by HUGE, ear-bleeding, thundering guitar riffs and drums that appeared to be pounded by Kubla Kahn. The skinniest, most androgynous front person I’d ever seen, with the craziest guitar face I’d ever seen, stood in a floor-length gray gown, hipbones jutting out, flinging waist-length, shining black hair that masked his face. He was flanked on either side by equally skinny guitar players in matching Moog T-shirts (one was in a floor-length kilt). They, too, had long black hair hanging in their faces. (The whole band did, creating an image of the Grudge Girl of your nightmares mixed with the musical version of an acid trip.) This psychedelic acid-punk, noise rock, post-punk, industrial force of nature, whatever genre you call it (who knows?) had the most original sound I think I have ever heard. From Black Sabbathy, face melting riffs, Cocteau Twins-esque distorted melodic shrieks, and the pounding relentlessness of Skinny Puppy or some other heavy industrial sound, one second I wanted to dance and the next second I was terrified and aghast. I think one epic anthem went on for 15 minutes, actually involving guitar windmills and a mind-melting drum solo. By the end of the show, we had come to terms with what we were seeing and hearing, and were laughing with exhilaration and shaking our heads. Moral: GO SEE BO NINJEN – if you think you can handle it.

And then TV on the Radio came on, cool as phuck as usual, confidently owning the stage and every song… awesome production, great sound, chill vibe. Tunde prowled around like the great front man he is, his Prince-inspired vocals (especially on songs like Lazzeray) blending perfectly with the self-assured, impressively-bearded Kyp Malone’s awesome falsetto. The set list was incredibly strong, including heavy hitters like Wolf Like Me (where I believe many audience members gave themselves whiplash), the gentle and happy singalong of Trouble (“Everything’s gonna be okay”, the crowd sang as one, like hippies in a field) and included three encores which included the more obscure, somewhat gorgeous, full sound of “Staring at the Sun.” Songs ebbed and flowed, sound blooming and then releasing, in varying melodic textures. I left that evening feeling like we’d been pummeled, tumbled about, ridden hard and put away wet. And I’d do it again tomorrow.

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certifiablyplatinum · 10 years

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COLD WAR KIDS- HOLD MY HOME album review

Great Taste, Some Filler: But overall a home run

The slow and steady rise/fall/plateau/repeat of Cold War Kids is interesting. They’re one of those dogged, understated, steadfast-yet-always-cool indie bands in the background; not flashy yet not a flash-in-the-pan; a band where you hear one of their songs and take a quick “Oh yeah! I forgot, I kinda dig them!” moment. Starting out uber-strong with 2006’s Robbers & Cowards, since then they’ve had a meandering journey of hits and misses without really going anywhere or, on the bright side, fizzling out.

And the flames just might be fanned with the overall strong composition of their new baby, Hold My Home. More rootsy and rocky than some of its more electronica-tinged predecessors, most of the album is a rollicking romp, starting out with a 1-2 punch with the rolling piano of “All This Could Be Yours” (a bit of an ELO tinge to that piano, was my first thought); with strong verses that showcase singer Nathan Willett’s distinctive sound and range. Segueing into the hot track “First” we discover a Gavin-de-Grawsy, clap-your hands stomper and a chorus that begs to be sung somewhere on the open road. Vocals and music fit together like perfect little puzzle pieces, surging and retreating: and I just love the closure I feel when the vocals resolve when he sings the words “Worried” and “Sorry”…check it, you’ll see.

There are some filler moments: to me, I found “Hot Coals” a little anticlimactic; I couldn’t see “Nights & Weekends” being strong enough for a standalone single, and “Flower Drum Song” made me lose a little interest – I found it a bit drudgey and kept waiting for it to pick up. But that’s ok, because overall the rest of the album shines. For me, the standout track is “Drive Desperate”: emotional, catchy, passionate, pleading: “We are not alone… on this road…” Nathan’s voice begs you to come along with him – or not to leave him, whatever. I’ve been pressing repeat on that track quite incessantly. It might be their strongest song ever; right up there with “Hang Me Up to Dry”.

“Go Quietly” offers a nice break from the driving vocal/percussive passion of the album and features a quite lovely falsetto and a passionate slow burn. “Harold Bloom” and “Hear My Baby Call”, the last songs on the album, work together well as complimentary sendoffs – both tinged with sadness and longing, shining moments of beauty, and nice keys. “Hotel Anywhere” (Edge, is that you on guitar?) has a rocking 80’s flair – in fact, many of the more aggressive tracks seem to be rooted in that mid-80’s rock sound. The song works and they owned it. It rolls right along, a lilting key melody connecting some of the verses, a groovy bassline propelling it along underneath.

Cold War Kids have shown that they have range and emotion, yet don’t stray from their distinct sound of slow builds, impassioned vocals and lyrics and music grounded in keeping it real. I think this album will definitely be a winner for them – interesting and well-done enough to perk the ears of some new followers, while pleasing the fans that have been along with them for the ride.

SWEET SINGLES: First, Drive Desperate, Hotel Anywhere

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certifiablyplatinum · 10 years

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Who, Me?

Well, the kinda cool thing is that as a child I was a writer...usually stories about horses, affairs gone bad, and women with hoop skirts (a la "Little Women"), and now as a grownup I actually *am* a writer. A marketing writer in a corporate cube, sure, but STILL. So writing is my first love, I suppose.

But if writing is my first love, it has a twin, and that twin is music. In fact, I think words, beats, melodies and imagery all swirled together in my baby brain to create a petri dish where stories would grow and drums would pound. In fact, just as I remember the first books and stories I loved that commanded me to write my own, (a natural leap when you "run out" of something, if you're obsessed enough you'll make your own), I was so moved by my musical awakening that I have a few ditties that set the stage of my being consumed. One, "Alone Again...Naturally" by Gilbert O'Sullivan: it was so lonely and plaintive I wanted to cry when I heard it as a baby and I didn't know why; "Ramblin' Man", playing in my dad's car as we drove down a country road, and maybe "Shambala" by Three Dog Night -- such nostalgia I feel when I hear those "woo-oooh, eeee, yeah yeah yeah yeah"s.

So my life began with music and it still continues to be a fibre of my being. I remember obscure melodies from songs that have long gone the way of the dodo bird, and hear fresh new ones today that won't leave.

I'm also a mistress of duality -- I have said that for years. I raised kids while singing in a cover band, I've never met a karaoke joint I haven't said hello to, I tossed down shots with friends after attending Brownie meetings and gymnastics and family portrait appointments and cooking and paying bills. Today I go to several concerts a month; only now I take my kids with me. I've never buried one side of myself for the other -- I have wildly embraced both, refusing to neglect either. Because that's a cause for misery and resentment.

So I thought -- what do I DO with my reactions to all the live shows I see and all the music I hear? Well, duh. I'll put the music I feel into words -- the way I've always done with everything. And I'll put all these random musings here - where everything is Certifiably Platinum!

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certifiablyplatinum · 10 years

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Weezer is definitely Baaaaaaccck....to the shack!

EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT IN THE END/ WEEZER ALBUM REVIEW

Well, after four years Weezer is back with “Everything Will be Alright in the End” and the good news (if you’re a Weezer fan) is: heeere’s Weezer! at their purest. Ain’t no mistaking it for anything else. That distinctive sound is all here – the singsongy playground melodies, the anthems, the rousing chants, the “stick it to the man” rebelliousness; even a 3-part epic operatic ending. Right from the opening rallying cry of the underdoggy “Ain’t Got Nobody”, you feel like welcoming Cuomo Rivers and the gang back (and I will even tread very lightly in my critique that the opening sludgy riffs reminded me strongly of “Hash Pipe”).

In fact, this album is SO Weezer that “Back to the Shack” is like Weezer doing Weezer, almost a parody, like Tina Fey pulling out the essence of Sarah Palin. If you like Weezer – that’s great. If you’re on the fence, it actually might annoy you to no end. Too. Much. Weezer. But that might be the point of not only that song, but the whole album: it’s all about revival, dusting off who they were (and are), a fun ode to nostalgia.

Some songs are low and a little darker, such as “Lonely Girl” : (I'm lonely, So hold me/Can't you relieve?/ I'm hurtin, I'm worthy/Can't you relieve?) and “Go Away”; (recently stripped down and performed with Best Coast’s Bethany Cosentino, but fuller and dreamier on the Ric-Okasic-produced track). But you have to look for the melancholia, because Weezer is one of the few bands that make the longing of the outcast sound fun.

I enjoyed “Eulogy for a Rock Band”, with a driving, almost made-for-TV-action movie theme song vibe, bursting in to an effusive “woo-whoo”, layered harmony; its wistful lyrics proclaiming, “Adios rock band that we loved the most/This is a toast to what you did/ And all that you were fighting for…/Time marches on/ Words come and go/ We will sing the melodies that you did long ago.”

Is this a farewell to the 90’s alt legends that WERE Weezer? A hello to the new album? A statement that they’ll still do what they do? Or a testament to some defunct band they admire? We may never know.

Another standout track, imo, is “The British Are Coming”; offering a nice hook with soft acoustic edgings (I swear I was reminded of “Longer Than…” by Dan Fogelberg!) that develops into a less typical-sounding Weezer campfire singalong and offering a pretty tight and shiny guitar solo.

And then—right when you’re on Weezer overload – come the triumphant trilogy of ending songs with the very prog-rock titles I. The Wasteland; II. Anonymous, and III. Return To Ithaka. This operatic suite offers lots of guitars, rolling forward with a propulsive surge into the gentle plinkings of a sweet piano breakdown and back to power chords. The sequence is placed well – you get the feeling that it’s wrapping up right; the dessert on the album’s buffet table. Although I honestly found some (most)? of the melodies pretty straightforward, even basic, what makes Weezer Weezer – and a major factor in why this album works – is Rivers Cuomo’s lyricism. He can get sad, snappy, brash, F-you, pining, misanthropic and back again with his tongue-in-cheek barbs. As an example, woven throughout the driving guitars and cheerful whistles of DaVinci the lyrics sparkle:

Even Da Vinci couldn't paint you And Steven Hawking can't explain you Rosetta Stone cannot translate you

-I mean, come on! He even goes on to work in a little Ancestry.com search for his star-crossed lover. Making words pointed, yet fun, is a linguistic gift!

So, even though there were a few things I felt like I’d heard before (remnants of “Beverly Hills”; the operatic swell of “The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived”,) that’s what they’re good at – that’s what the fans want – that’s what they delivered. Ground breaking? No. Fun, catchy romps – yes. And that’s why it works.

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certifiablyplatinum · 10 years

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LORDY, LORDE!

LORDE at the LC Pavilion, 9/23/2014

So, (per usual) I may be too old for this shit, because this was as packed and frenzied as a One Direction concert. But (also as usual), I stood my ground. I’ve been intrigued by this young phenom and her cool, sparse music and somewhat mysterious presence for almost 2 years, when my daughters and I played her EP over and over again down dark, cornfield-guarded roads in Northern Ohio on our way back from Lake Erie one late spring day in 2013. (Question: Wasn’t she 17 then? How is she still 17?) Anyway, how far she’s come since then (literally and figuratively, being a New Zealander). Amidst a crowd of roughly 4,500, Lorde (Ms. Ella Marija Lani Yelich-O'Connor) alternated between being coy and guarded with being completely open and almost as excited as a kid on Christmas day at being in front of such a crowd.

During the show, she WAS the show: front and center, whipping her long, curly tresses to accent a point, her band almost an afterthought. Her demeanor was sophisticated and eloquent, her outfit changes, many: from flowy white and angelic to flowy scarlet Red Riding Hood. The set and lighting oscillated from cool blue tones, where she was hidden away as a shadowy figure, to a triumphant and bright movie marquee.

The performance and musicality was on-point, and the crowd ate it up from the very opening notes of “Glory and Gore.” One after another, her smoky, assured voice floated above the crowd: White Teeth Teens, Tennis Court, Buzzcut Season, sprinkled with conversation that actually seemed genuine: Lorde made us feel we were all her friends.

An interesting cover of Kanye West’s “Flashing Lights” and a dirgey, almost eerie “Biting Down” were crowd-pleasers; as well as the honest and open stream-of-consciousness monologue she gave. As music pulsed softly behind her, she shared her thoughts about her experience as a teenager going through what she was; her struggle to comprehend what was happening; her joy when she’s able to be a teenager and hang out with kids her age. The crowd, many young, stood at rapt attention. Then she surged into “Ribs”, a song that appropriately punctuated her thoughts (“It drives you crazy getting old.” “It feels so scary getting old.”)

Part of Lorde’s appeal is that she calls it like she sees it. She doesn’t hold back, and many of her lyrics touch on not joining the crowd, the power of being an individual: “I’m not a white teeth teen”; “That kinda lux just ain’t for us.” (The smash hit “Royals” followed “Ribs" : a manifesto against poseurs; you know: a verbal smackdown of those who brag about Cristal, Grey Goose, diamonds on your timepiece.)

For such a young woman, Lorde seems to know herself almost scarily and what she stands for. It’s been pretty established that she has tight control over her own success, refusing to do what she doesn't agree with. If she continues to follow this track – I think she’ll be around for a long time. It will be interesting to see what she comes up with next (hint: dominating the Hunger Games soundtrack.)

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certifiablyplatinum · 10 years

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How does one even COPE with such face-melting rock?

Manchester Orchestra at CD 102.5 Summerfest

8-10-14

A boozy, sweltering, euphoric day of hedonism was this. For those brave souls who entered at 1 pm and stayed til 11 pm, I salute you. I am down with day drinking, but to mine own self am I true and I know I would a.) not make it and b.) IF I did, I would probably be carted out by security, an emergency medical technician, or both. Burlesque gals danced by; a photobooth (with props) was readily available; steampunks on stilts meandered through the crowd under the relentless pounding sun.

Even though the day featured 9 bands (and a DJ) blasting on and offstage that day, I am going to focus on Manchy O. for this review, as that was my laserlike focus and reason for being at the show. (Although, I did have a jolly good time bouncing around to OK Go’s set, and the Whigs were phenomenal with their jaw-dropping power drummer holding court over the trio as usual.) So: Picture this.

The last set of the day.

The sky darkens across the hillside behind me, the drunken throngs, and of course, Nationwide’s Plaza 1 off in the distance ahead of me. (Shout-ouuuut!)

In the dark shadows, a faint strumming opens the set.

ANDOMIGOD IS IT PRIDE? IT IS. IT IS PRIDE.

I am so overjoyed at this SO CORRECT decision to open the set with this song that I deliriously open my 5th airplane bottle of vodka that was tucked down inside my bra. (#sorrynotsorry.) I mean, this song kills. It has the most powerful build of any song I can think of except perhaps Three Days by Jane’s Addiction. What a lion. What a broke neck. What a habit. Andy’s angst rang out powerfully for the entire set. I THINK I'M DYYYYYYYYYINNN!!!!!!

I am trying to be critical, but I really don’t think there was ONE misstep along the way. Each song seemed almost cosmically placed in its flow and accuracy. By the time “I’ve Got Friends” and “Cope” followed each other about halfway through the set with a rocking one-two punch, everybody was singing and screaming along: “I NEED IT QUICKLY!” And of course, when Andy talked about his early days starting out and how Columbus was such a huge supporter and always has been, the crowd lapped it up like kitties at a milk trough.

Manchester O has a differentiator. In the throng of sometimes feeble-sounding, non-threatening indie bands multiplying and jockeying for position today – the San Cisco/Vampire Weekend/Two Door Cinema Club/Death Cab sound is the only way I know how to describe it (and don’t get me wrong, there’s a time and a place for that, it’s merely a descriptor. We all need to sip tea, all get trophies for soccer, and play a lute every now and then.) Manchester blows the doors off. There aren’t many alt-rock bands whose purpose in life is seemingly to turn what sounds like 16 guitars up to 11. I mean, the layers of their guitars are truly face-melting, how-far-can-I-take it, ANTI-indy sounding. I’m just going to say it: perhaps the reason Andy is/was known for his beard is because he can actually GROW one.

Their words, though, ARE poetic. Andy begs and pleads and screams to the sky and the powers that be through his angst in almost every song. For example, when "Top Notch" blasted through the speakers as the night wound down, not only was it a frenzied moment because of the sound and the amazing song that it is, but because (at least to me) of the creepy, supernatural story it tells. Twin deaf kids? Blistering bones hiding out in closet? There’s something buried underneath the yard – and no one ever listens or visits? More, please.

Sated and sweaty, the day into night extravaganza finally ended. And I don’t know about anyone else, but I was pretty much too jacked up to sleep much afterwards. A Benadryl and a Gatorade, I believe, was about the only way to fix it.

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