I bought my ticket to see David Byrne a lifetime ago.
And by lifetime, I mean February 11, which might as well be the same thing considering the seismic shifts in my world since that long ago day.
I can't tell one from the other
Did I find you or you find me?
There was a time, before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be, where I'll be
When tickets for his May show at the Anthem in D.C. went on sale, I'd passed on going because of the venue. But when a Merriweather Post Pavilion date was added, I jumped on board despite the steep price (for me anyway).
MPP was the site of my second-ever concert - Carol King - back in 1972 or '73 and the thought of seeing as iconic a performer as David Byrne at Merriweather on a July night was irresistible, even if I did have to cross state lines and go solo.
As fate would have it, I didn't go by myself. As fortune would have it, I picked the right show to return to Merriweather for. No doubt about it, 2018 has been my year.
I'm just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I'm dead
First of all, the evening weather was glorious, not too hot or humid. We arrived when the gates opened and had our choice of great views. Then there was the benefit of the show not being sold out. Our chairs may have skirted the blanket laid down by a happy hippie-ish couple to our right named Tom and Karen, but everyone had breathing room.
Not necessarily a bad thing when an occasional whiff of weed wafted by.
It wasn't even dark when English poet and singer Benjamin Clementine took a seat on a stool in front of a piano and began singing and playing in an intense way that was poetic, moving and quite beautiful. Nina Simone came to mind. I sensed immediately that he'd been chosen by Byrne to open, no doubt for his incredibly distinctive voice and talent.
Let's just say it was an impressive start to a stunning evening of music, choreography and theater.
The less we say about it, the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground, head in the sky
It's okay, I know nothing's wrong
Byrne, not to mention that magnificent head of hair he's got, began the show alone onstage, sitting at a table and holding a model of a brain while singing "Here" off the new album "American Utopia," which all ticket buyers were sent as part of the deal. Right off the bat, it seemed like an appropriately intellectual and musical way to set the tone for a man known for his art school roots.
But where it got truly wondrous was when a dozen people, musicians and singers all in identical suits, joined him, each of the musicians with their instrument strapped to their body like a drum line or marching band. It was an incredible amount of sound they produced while a duo sang backup and danced the most difficult moves.
We drift in and out
Oh! Sing into my mouth
Out of all those kinds of peoiple
You got a face with a view
Every song was fully choreographed, with Byrne dancing along with his cadre of musicians and singers (loads of drums and percussion, natch, but it was the strapped-on keyboard that was the most impressive when being played), whether it was one of the kickass new songs like "Everybody's Coming to My House" or one of the Talking Heads songs that set the crowd off into a frenzy.
Where he made time stand still for me was in playing "Naive Melody," a song I hadn't dared to hope I'd hear and one that sounded transcendent sung into the soft night air. It was while he was singing "Burning Down the House" and the middle-aged crowd was losing their minds that the all but full moon finally rose above the tree line like a benediction on the show below.
Oh! I got plenty of time
Oh! You got light in your eyes
When they did "Blind," Byrne played guitar while a bright light focused on the performers caused shadows to be cast against the background. Byrne's shadow looked enormous compared to the others, reaching almost to the stage's rafters, in the same way that his giant suit used to make him stand out back in the Talking Heads days. It was like having a Balinese shadow puppet show, except with real people.
The final encore was Janelle Monae's "Hell You Talmbout," with drums backing the names of black people killed by police and the admonishment, "Say his name." It was incredibly powerful way to end the evening.
I come home
She lifted up her wings
I guess that this must be the place
I don't recall how I felt after Carol King finished performing, but I know that I won't soon forget how I felt when Bryne and company took their final bow. Standing under that bright moon with my favorite person next to me, I knew we'd seen something wondrous, something that would have been worth a 3 1/2 hour drive alone for.
Lucky me, I got to share it with someone who was not only as wowed as I was, but who's willing to make it up as we go along. In fact, cruising home on Route 301, that's how we ended up at Captain Billy's Crabhouse on the Potomac having a late waterside lunch. Crabs, shrimp and hushpuppies (not to mention Homes' favorite crab and vegetable soup) go down mighty easy watching sea birds vie for pole perches and reveling in the passing of time together.
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money, always for love
Cover up and say goodnight, say goodnight
This is where I'll be. Where I'll be happily.
Showing posts with label merriweather post pavilion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label merriweather post pavilion. Show all posts
Sunday, July 29, 2018
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Andare a Pescare
I was invited to a cocktail party with a travel theme.
The wine was Anjos Vinho Verde, tasting of grapefruit and apples.
With logos of KLM and SAS for decoration, the conversation was all about how much time is required to prepare for a trip, how much napping should be done upon arrival and how enthusiastic a reception a woman might get in certain Latin countries.
I think I got some bets placed on me succeeding at that.
We noshed on Caprese with artichokes on baguette slices and fresh melon balls to keep up our strength for what was to come.
Once the wine kicked in, the conversation began to range off-theme and to music, not surprisingly given the soundtrack.
Somehow a discussion of what superior lyricists older men and writers can be led to discussion of The Police.
I shared how a former boyfriend had once told me that "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" was the most ardent tribute to a lover imaginable.
Someone else recalled seeing The Police on the "Ghost in the Machine " tour in 1982.
The best I could offer was seeing Sting on the "Dream of the Blue Turtles" tour in '85.
To the best of my abilities, I shared my memories of that late summer evening at Merriweather Post Pavilion.
And, forgive me, then I became a 21st-century creature and looked it up, finding a Washington Post review of that very show I'd seen.
I'd bet anything that I'd read it the day after.
It was mind-blowing to be reminded of the details of that long-ago night.
Let's face it, at that point, he was just going out on his own so the jury was still out on a post-Police career.
Would the public even care?
Reviewer Richard Harrington said that Sting had proved that night that he was "an arresting pop presence even outside the context of the Police."
Now that sounds like a "duh" moment, but not so in 1985.
Of his songs, he wrote,"Often built upon sinuous melodies, they are ambitious both lyrically and thematically."
Don't forget, this was before Sting the Activist with a capital A. Sting = causes was not yet a given.
And the review also reminded me about which Police songs Sting had performed that warm night.
"Every Breath' needs to be as starkly arranged as it was originally perceived [and] did not benefit from a fleshed-out arrangement."
In other words, don't mess with the Breath.
Clearly we were still taking our Police songs very seriously in 1985.
Not so tonight.
Music chit-chat yielded to theater-goer watching from a fifth floor window.
A couple of us made a game of guessing whether people walking toward the Virginia Repertory Theater were going to "Spring Awakening" or not.
Good thing we weren't betting.
It was funny when we saw a guy walking that way when all of a sudden, he darted behind a tree, not once but twice.
Trying to ditch a boring date? Unhappy at being dragged to the theater on a Friday evening?
Nope, just one of the theater's valets trying to sneak up on his fellow car-parker.
After a bit of street voyeurism, some of us decided that ice cream was in order and that meant Bev's.
Coldstone was within walking distance, but who wants to support a chain?
That point was driven home when I arrived first and waited for my partner in ice cream to catch up.
A woman eating a cone out front saw a friend walking by and explained why she was there.
"We just came from Mama Zu and we're so stuffed. But I told Mom and Dad," she said gesturing to the older ice cream-eating duo in nearby chairs, "That you can't come to Richmond and not go to Bev's."
A girl about to open the door to Bev's looked at her and said, "I haven't been here since 2005."
Aghast, the stuffed woman guided her roughly towards the door. "Go! Now!"
She did.
Inside, I tried one of tonight's special flavors, dirty chocolate, described as a triple fudge chocolate.
No additions, but a deep, rich chocolate fudge taste.
I was a little sorry I'd only ordered the kiddie size cup.
My fellow party-goer had been smart, getting a waffle cone of chocolate almond three times the size of my measly scoop.
Lesson learned.
We sat for a while and watched the Byrd crowd exit and saunter to their cars.
Once finished with our summer treat, we strolled the neighborhood, nostalgic because it was one in which we'd both lived back in the '90s.
To our surprise, new houses and even a new garage had been built.
A hand-written sign on the screen door of Tom French Flowers read, "Gone Fishin'."
Now there's a worthy summertime occupation.
Everyone knows "gone fishin" is just a euphemism for "gone to someplace more relaxing and pleasurable for a spell."
After tonight's travel-themed get-together, I can't wait to hang out my own hand-written sign.
It'll be my euphemism for "Off trying to prove that I can be an arresting presence even outside the context of RVA."
The jury's still out on whether or not I'll succeed.
The wine was Anjos Vinho Verde, tasting of grapefruit and apples.
With logos of KLM and SAS for decoration, the conversation was all about how much time is required to prepare for a trip, how much napping should be done upon arrival and how enthusiastic a reception a woman might get in certain Latin countries.
I think I got some bets placed on me succeeding at that.
We noshed on Caprese with artichokes on baguette slices and fresh melon balls to keep up our strength for what was to come.
Once the wine kicked in, the conversation began to range off-theme and to music, not surprisingly given the soundtrack.
Somehow a discussion of what superior lyricists older men and writers can be led to discussion of The Police.
I shared how a former boyfriend had once told me that "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" was the most ardent tribute to a lover imaginable.
Someone else recalled seeing The Police on the "Ghost in the Machine " tour in 1982.
The best I could offer was seeing Sting on the "Dream of the Blue Turtles" tour in '85.
To the best of my abilities, I shared my memories of that late summer evening at Merriweather Post Pavilion.
And, forgive me, then I became a 21st-century creature and looked it up, finding a Washington Post review of that very show I'd seen.
I'd bet anything that I'd read it the day after.
It was mind-blowing to be reminded of the details of that long-ago night.
Let's face it, at that point, he was just going out on his own so the jury was still out on a post-Police career.
Would the public even care?
Reviewer Richard Harrington said that Sting had proved that night that he was "an arresting pop presence even outside the context of the Police."
Now that sounds like a "duh" moment, but not so in 1985.
Of his songs, he wrote,"Often built upon sinuous melodies, they are ambitious both lyrically and thematically."
Don't forget, this was before Sting the Activist with a capital A. Sting = causes was not yet a given.
And the review also reminded me about which Police songs Sting had performed that warm night.
"Every Breath' needs to be as starkly arranged as it was originally perceived [and] did not benefit from a fleshed-out arrangement."
In other words, don't mess with the Breath.
Clearly we were still taking our Police songs very seriously in 1985.
Not so tonight.
Music chit-chat yielded to theater-goer watching from a fifth floor window.
A couple of us made a game of guessing whether people walking toward the Virginia Repertory Theater were going to "Spring Awakening" or not.
Good thing we weren't betting.
It was funny when we saw a guy walking that way when all of a sudden, he darted behind a tree, not once but twice.
Trying to ditch a boring date? Unhappy at being dragged to the theater on a Friday evening?
Nope, just one of the theater's valets trying to sneak up on his fellow car-parker.
After a bit of street voyeurism, some of us decided that ice cream was in order and that meant Bev's.
Coldstone was within walking distance, but who wants to support a chain?
That point was driven home when I arrived first and waited for my partner in ice cream to catch up.
A woman eating a cone out front saw a friend walking by and explained why she was there.
"We just came from Mama Zu and we're so stuffed. But I told Mom and Dad," she said gesturing to the older ice cream-eating duo in nearby chairs, "That you can't come to Richmond and not go to Bev's."
A girl about to open the door to Bev's looked at her and said, "I haven't been here since 2005."
Aghast, the stuffed woman guided her roughly towards the door. "Go! Now!"
She did.
Inside, I tried one of tonight's special flavors, dirty chocolate, described as a triple fudge chocolate.
No additions, but a deep, rich chocolate fudge taste.
I was a little sorry I'd only ordered the kiddie size cup.
My fellow party-goer had been smart, getting a waffle cone of chocolate almond three times the size of my measly scoop.
Lesson learned.
We sat for a while and watched the Byrd crowd exit and saunter to their cars.
Once finished with our summer treat, we strolled the neighborhood, nostalgic because it was one in which we'd both lived back in the '90s.
To our surprise, new houses and even a new garage had been built.
A hand-written sign on the screen door of Tom French Flowers read, "Gone Fishin'."
Now there's a worthy summertime occupation.
Everyone knows "gone fishin" is just a euphemism for "gone to someplace more relaxing and pleasurable for a spell."
After tonight's travel-themed get-together, I can't wait to hang out my own hand-written sign.
It'll be my euphemism for "Off trying to prove that I can be an arresting presence even outside the context of RVA."
The jury's still out on whether or not I'll succeed.
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