Do I chase the night or does the night chase me?
On a night when I meet a friend at Laura Lee's - a mere 48 hours after the Elbys - staff and a few customers are still talking about their hangovers the day before. Some would say that's the sign of a good party.
While we necessarily spend some time covering the Elbys and aftermath, our primary purpose is a tad more self-involved since we haven't talked in a couple of weeks. Every friendship has its own frequency level and figuring out where that is provides part of the pleasure of making new acquaintances.
With a mix unexpectedly heavy on Fleetwood Mac, we devour mussels and sausage, salads and Syrah as parents with a screaming child try to eat in the dining room and cyclists arrive with lights so bright a bar sitter signals them to make it stop.
It all feels very southside neighborly.
And, for us, friendly. Tales are swapped about out-of-town excursions, costuming assistance is requested and the handsomest beard in the room and I delve deep into why everyone should see "Moonlight," which he watched while in full blown hangover mode.
But the best conversations come later - melody or lyrics, which reigns supreme? - over wine and set to a dash of the Grateful Dead by way of the National to start things off, and then followed by the Decemberists and St. Paul and the Broken Bones.
What better soundtrack to consider the elephant in the room and whether it's a Sri Lankan or Borneo variety? Inquiring minds want to know.
There is nothing better than a friend, except a friend who tells you what they're thinking. Way up in the sky, I can see that you want to.
Never underestimate the value of a well-placed lyric.
Let's just say I rarely have any problem sharing what's on my mind and leave it at that.
Showing posts with label the xx. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the xx. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Monday, January 23, 2017
Easier Than Saying What You Mean
After a thorough reading of today's Washington Post, I needed "Amarcord." Badly.
Why? Because today's entry in the Bijou's anti-fascist film fest, Fellini's 1973 look back at his childhood (the title translates as "I remember") in fascist Italy, promised reassurance that life goes on, even when delusional leaders seize control and, frankly, who couldn't use that reminder along about now?
It wasn't a big crowd - I heard something about a football game - but everyone there seemed to need what the film was offering and although I'd seen it in 2013 not long after visiting Italy, it necessarily resonated differently this time.
Of course, some details of Italian life - "Fernet or coffee?" - don't change.
Discussing "Amarcord" with a film aficionado afterward in the lobby, we agreed on the theme of daily life's durability despite a dictatorship, but, as he pointed out, that worked far better in the un-populated countryside of the 1930s than it might in a metropolitan area circa 2017.
My only other accomplishments were a foggy walk over the T Pot bridge and beyond, nailing a last-minute deadline and an intermittent but day-long listening party of The XX's new "I See You," the better to discuss it with the two fans who've sought my opinion on it this week.
It took exactly one listen to their debut album in 2009 to make me a fan and proselytizer for the band's hushed, minimalist sound. I recall playing it continuously for a fellow music-lover as we drove up Route 301 under a leaden sky. He was completely smitten with the band by the time we arrived. Success.
Naturally, 2012's "Coexist" engendered countless conversations with music fans about the direction their sound had taken, with an Italian cohort saying that it was so stripped down that for their next album, the band would simply dream the songs and fans would hear them.
Humor is a matter of opinion, but my attraction to The XX was as much about the murmuring sound as the lyrics of longing and introspection. Lyrics for fans of lyrics, so right up my alley.
Fiction, when we're not together
Mistaken for a vision, something of my own creation
Any certainties, how am I to tell?
I know your face all too well, yet I wake up alone
Happily, introspective lyrics are still there, only now they're part of a richer, more expansive sound palette that's clearly informed by synths and dance music (even briefly sampling Hall and Oates).
Hot damn, I would play this album at my next party in a heartbeat.
As it is, I'm already in love with it and it's only been a day since I brought it home from my neighborhood record store. Don't come to my apartment any time soon or you're going to hear it.
I've been a romantic for so long
All I've ever heard are love songs singing
Oh, oh, oh, go on, I dare you
Oh, oh, oh, I dare you
I get chills, heart rate multiplies
I'm on a different kind of high
A rush of blood is not enough
I need my feelings set on fire
The truth is, a rush of blood was never enough for me. As long ago as college, my friend Leo dubbed me "hopelessly romantic" and that's a man who knew me well. Still does.
The XX don't, yet they've given me a new soundtrack for 2017 going forward.
Chemistry is rare
in a two, three time affair
There's no guarantees
So I've learned since Leo labeled me way back when. Better, I think, to work on something of my own creation.
Why? Because today's entry in the Bijou's anti-fascist film fest, Fellini's 1973 look back at his childhood (the title translates as "I remember") in fascist Italy, promised reassurance that life goes on, even when delusional leaders seize control and, frankly, who couldn't use that reminder along about now?
It wasn't a big crowd - I heard something about a football game - but everyone there seemed to need what the film was offering and although I'd seen it in 2013 not long after visiting Italy, it necessarily resonated differently this time.
Of course, some details of Italian life - "Fernet or coffee?" - don't change.
Discussing "Amarcord" with a film aficionado afterward in the lobby, we agreed on the theme of daily life's durability despite a dictatorship, but, as he pointed out, that worked far better in the un-populated countryside of the 1930s than it might in a metropolitan area circa 2017.
My only other accomplishments were a foggy walk over the T Pot bridge and beyond, nailing a last-minute deadline and an intermittent but day-long listening party of The XX's new "I See You," the better to discuss it with the two fans who've sought my opinion on it this week.
It took exactly one listen to their debut album in 2009 to make me a fan and proselytizer for the band's hushed, minimalist sound. I recall playing it continuously for a fellow music-lover as we drove up Route 301 under a leaden sky. He was completely smitten with the band by the time we arrived. Success.
Naturally, 2012's "Coexist" engendered countless conversations with music fans about the direction their sound had taken, with an Italian cohort saying that it was so stripped down that for their next album, the band would simply dream the songs and fans would hear them.
Humor is a matter of opinion, but my attraction to The XX was as much about the murmuring sound as the lyrics of longing and introspection. Lyrics for fans of lyrics, so right up my alley.
Fiction, when we're not together
Mistaken for a vision, something of my own creation
Any certainties, how am I to tell?
I know your face all too well, yet I wake up alone
Happily, introspective lyrics are still there, only now they're part of a richer, more expansive sound palette that's clearly informed by synths and dance music (even briefly sampling Hall and Oates).
Hot damn, I would play this album at my next party in a heartbeat.
As it is, I'm already in love with it and it's only been a day since I brought it home from my neighborhood record store. Don't come to my apartment any time soon or you're going to hear it.
I've been a romantic for so long
All I've ever heard are love songs singing
Oh, oh, oh, go on, I dare you
Oh, oh, oh, I dare you
I get chills, heart rate multiplies
I'm on a different kind of high
A rush of blood is not enough
I need my feelings set on fire
The truth is, a rush of blood was never enough for me. As long ago as college, my friend Leo dubbed me "hopelessly romantic" and that's a man who knew me well. Still does.
The XX don't, yet they've given me a new soundtrack for 2017 going forward.
Chemistry is rare
in a two, three time affair
There's no guarantees
So I've learned since Leo labeled me way back when. Better, I think, to work on something of my own creation.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Post-Midnight City
As M83 would say, hurry up, we're dreaming.
Vorfreude aside, when an outing begins with the presumption that trouble will find you and ends on hold - not once but twice, mind you - someone's bound to describe it as a wonderful evening.
Even if it takes almost eight hours to reach that conclusion.
At Pasture for drinks and curry cauliflower, a wall map of the state's geology results in the devoted urban dweller being teased about being a devotee of Virginia's coastal plain and light-heartedly chided for not venturing to the western part of the state more often.
I say give me a reason and I'll get in the car.
With my back to a young woman at the bar, I overhear her bemoaning how she feels like a cougar ogling young male actors in movies. I can't let that go, so I whirl around and tell her to imagine how I feel at the movies admiring younger men.
"Yeah, but you've earned the right to do whatever you want!" she tells me, a perfect stranger. I lean in and assure her I already do anything I want without compunction.
"Ooh, can we hang out? Can I have your phone number? What's your name?" she eagerly asks, sounding for all the world like a fangirl of a middle aged woman. I'll take it, but only because there don't seem to be fanboys of the same.
The crowd at CentreStage for the Richmond Symphony's casual Friday concert is a decidedly different one than what you'd see at a Masterworks concert: more diverse in age and race and many, many decibels louder as people take their seats and chatter.
In what has to be the bossiest thing I've yet to hear out of my ultra-polite companion's mouth, he commands me, "Move!" when yet another couple arrives at the end of row O, where we're seated. It's not that we mind getting up to allow late arrivals in, it's just easier for them not to have to climb over us.
This is not an agile crowd.
I silently nickname him Bossy Boots, moving over and rearranging. A tiny piece of paper flutters out of the side pocket of my purse - a fortune from a cookie eaten my first night in San Francisco last month.
Investigate new possibilities with friends. Now is the time!
Now BB really had something to chuckle about while I look around, noting other differences from a usual symphony performance, like the lights not being lowered for the performance and that there's a host making his way through the orchestra section with a mic, warming up the crowd.
What was especially cool, though, was that Jacques Houtmann, who'd conducted the R-Symphony from 1971-86 (so right up until I arrived in Richmond) had been tapped to lead tonight's performance of Franck's "Symphony in D Minor," which we were told in his charmingly French-accented English was particularly significant for its use of English horns (a first) and that it was written in only three movements.
Easier to digest for casual audiences, one presumes.
The program described the piece as a "cathedral of sound," which is sort of what I strive for in my living room with my turntable cranked to loud, but this was a different sort of cathedral. And while it wasn't an uplifting piece, I'm not about to complain about any aspect of starting my night surrounded by classical musicians playing.
Back on the pavement, we needed sustenance for more than the soul.
It was my first time in Maya, diagonally across from CentreStage, where I was immediately won over when I saw "tequileria" painted on the glass, found flights of tequila on the menu and heard a soundtrack playing loud enough to make things lively despite being isolated by a wall on the bar side.
I only had a bite, but his corn tamal with shrimp and scallops was stellar - sweet from corn and smoky from poblano - while my tilapia tacos suffered only for the pedestrian tortillas that cradled the fish, mango salsa, jicama, cabbage and jalapeno crema contents.
Libation-wise, my Espolon blanco won out hands down for how well it complemented both our dishes in a way that his COTU beer simply couldn't begin to match, for obvious reasons. Agave, tomatillo, poblano, hello?
Once sated, it was time to move on to my cathedral of sound for records, wine and a wide-ranging conversation that stayed fluid enough to take tangential tracks when a song lyric, a painting on my wall or a recounting of a conversation with mutual friends provoked something (the latter usually causing major laughter on his part).
I wish that I believed in fate
I wish I didn't sleep so late
Next thing you know, I'm listening to his defense of why he doesn't believe in fate, a point raised by the National's "Mr. November," a song about new blue-bloods and great white hopes. Perhaps he's both; I didn't inquire. I, on the other hand, made no defense for liking to sleep late.
I regaled him with stories from my recent past, including an evening with another friend who'd marveled at not having to "entertain" me after making me dinner because I was more than happy doing nothing more than conversing for pleasure and diversion.
We talked about people we know who are in it for the long game, despite the challenges. He explained the sonic reasons I need to ride my bike over the T Pot bridge. I let slip that I'm only 5'5", which is how he discovered I'm short.
Meanwhile, we listened to records: Lydia Loveless, Roxy Music, The National x 2, Arcade Fire, the XX.
The stars and the charts and the cards make sense
Only when we want them to
When I lie awake, staring into space
I see a different view
A tad long, but otherwise, I'd say that's practically fortune cookie material.
Vorfreude aside, when an outing begins with the presumption that trouble will find you and ends on hold - not once but twice, mind you - someone's bound to describe it as a wonderful evening.
Even if it takes almost eight hours to reach that conclusion.
At Pasture for drinks and curry cauliflower, a wall map of the state's geology results in the devoted urban dweller being teased about being a devotee of Virginia's coastal plain and light-heartedly chided for not venturing to the western part of the state more often.
I say give me a reason and I'll get in the car.
With my back to a young woman at the bar, I overhear her bemoaning how she feels like a cougar ogling young male actors in movies. I can't let that go, so I whirl around and tell her to imagine how I feel at the movies admiring younger men.
"Yeah, but you've earned the right to do whatever you want!" she tells me, a perfect stranger. I lean in and assure her I already do anything I want without compunction.
"Ooh, can we hang out? Can I have your phone number? What's your name?" she eagerly asks, sounding for all the world like a fangirl of a middle aged woman. I'll take it, but only because there don't seem to be fanboys of the same.
The crowd at CentreStage for the Richmond Symphony's casual Friday concert is a decidedly different one than what you'd see at a Masterworks concert: more diverse in age and race and many, many decibels louder as people take their seats and chatter.
In what has to be the bossiest thing I've yet to hear out of my ultra-polite companion's mouth, he commands me, "Move!" when yet another couple arrives at the end of row O, where we're seated. It's not that we mind getting up to allow late arrivals in, it's just easier for them not to have to climb over us.
This is not an agile crowd.
I silently nickname him Bossy Boots, moving over and rearranging. A tiny piece of paper flutters out of the side pocket of my purse - a fortune from a cookie eaten my first night in San Francisco last month.
Investigate new possibilities with friends. Now is the time!
Now BB really had something to chuckle about while I look around, noting other differences from a usual symphony performance, like the lights not being lowered for the performance and that there's a host making his way through the orchestra section with a mic, warming up the crowd.
What was especially cool, though, was that Jacques Houtmann, who'd conducted the R-Symphony from 1971-86 (so right up until I arrived in Richmond) had been tapped to lead tonight's performance of Franck's "Symphony in D Minor," which we were told in his charmingly French-accented English was particularly significant for its use of English horns (a first) and that it was written in only three movements.
Easier to digest for casual audiences, one presumes.
The program described the piece as a "cathedral of sound," which is sort of what I strive for in my living room with my turntable cranked to loud, but this was a different sort of cathedral. And while it wasn't an uplifting piece, I'm not about to complain about any aspect of starting my night surrounded by classical musicians playing.
Back on the pavement, we needed sustenance for more than the soul.
It was my first time in Maya, diagonally across from CentreStage, where I was immediately won over when I saw "tequileria" painted on the glass, found flights of tequila on the menu and heard a soundtrack playing loud enough to make things lively despite being isolated by a wall on the bar side.
I only had a bite, but his corn tamal with shrimp and scallops was stellar - sweet from corn and smoky from poblano - while my tilapia tacos suffered only for the pedestrian tortillas that cradled the fish, mango salsa, jicama, cabbage and jalapeno crema contents.
Libation-wise, my Espolon blanco won out hands down for how well it complemented both our dishes in a way that his COTU beer simply couldn't begin to match, for obvious reasons. Agave, tomatillo, poblano, hello?
Once sated, it was time to move on to my cathedral of sound for records, wine and a wide-ranging conversation that stayed fluid enough to take tangential tracks when a song lyric, a painting on my wall or a recounting of a conversation with mutual friends provoked something (the latter usually causing major laughter on his part).
I wish that I believed in fate
I wish I didn't sleep so late
Next thing you know, I'm listening to his defense of why he doesn't believe in fate, a point raised by the National's "Mr. November," a song about new blue-bloods and great white hopes. Perhaps he's both; I didn't inquire. I, on the other hand, made no defense for liking to sleep late.
I regaled him with stories from my recent past, including an evening with another friend who'd marveled at not having to "entertain" me after making me dinner because I was more than happy doing nothing more than conversing for pleasure and diversion.
We talked about people we know who are in it for the long game, despite the challenges. He explained the sonic reasons I need to ride my bike over the T Pot bridge. I let slip that I'm only 5'5", which is how he discovered I'm short.
Meanwhile, we listened to records: Lydia Loveless, Roxy Music, The National x 2, Arcade Fire, the XX.
The stars and the charts and the cards make sense
Only when we want them to
When I lie awake, staring into space
I see a different view
A tad long, but otherwise, I'd say that's practically fortune cookie material.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Bring on the Night
It was a long time coming.
Ever since I put The XX on my "best of" list in 2009, I had been hoping to see them.
When tickets went on sale, I wasted no time in walking down to the National to get mine, unlike some XX-loving friends I could mention who waited until a couple days ago and then panicked to discover the show was sold out (R.J., I'm looking at you).
For maximum enjoyment, I planned to go to the show with someone who had been introduced to the XX by yours truly.
Our first stop was 821 Cafe for black bean nachos in a mobbed dining room with a server who was clearly in the weeds.
The nachos were more than just sustenance: they were a tradition since we'd shared them together before we'd gone to see Rodrigo y Gabriela at the National a few years back.
He'd forgotten how large the serving was, but I hadn't and we both finished feeling quite replete.
But the chalkboard had one lone dessert, we had a half hour until show time and we were barely a mile away.
The piece of mint chocolate cake was enormous, with a minty green icing that was neither overly sweet nor overly minty.
In fact, my companion noted, "It's like the toothpaste you're allowed to eat."
We wolfed down the cake mainly because a large contingent of motorcyclists had come in and appropriated three tables and now people were waiting for our chairs.
Arriving at The National, we found a surprisingly big crowd already in place just before 8:00.
There were several things I could say about the crowd - they were punctual, they were probably devoted fans, they were infrequent concert-goers- but the main thing I could observe was that they were young.
Young as in underage, a fact I gleaned from the abundance of right hands marked with a big, black X to signify, "Don't sell this person a drink."
It reminded me of a conversation I'd had last week at the Yo la Tengo show with a friend who works at the National.
He'd chided me for not being in for so long, but I reminded him that The National isn't booking much of my kind of music lately.
"You know why?" he asked. "Indie crowds don't drink. Blues and rock bands, they drink."
Based on what I saw tonight, indie crowds don't drink because legally they aren't allowed to.
It doesn't bode well for me spending more time at The National, sadly.
Up first was Austra and, as my companion noted, "They've got no problem referencing the '80s."
And this is a bad thing, why?
Lead singer Katie had a waist-length blond ponytail, the voice of an opera singer and a dramatic singing style that involved hand gestures and dance-like moves.
Her keyboard playing required spidery hand gestures and dramatic rolls of her spine.
"Hello, we're Austra from Toronto," she said by way of introduction. "It's our first time playing here. It's very beautiful."
The light show for their set was impressive for an opening act.
After one song, the stage went black with just two pink spotlights and Katie walked across it, saying, "I don't think it's ever been this dark on stage. I like it. Thank you, lighting!"
The keyboardist got the award for most awesome ensemble in a white track suit with notes and (was it?) treble clefs across the shoulders and down the pants legs.
He and the bass player spent their set dancing in place to the variety of songs the band played, everything from synth-based pop to Kate Bush-like dirges.
It had been an impressive set given Katie's lungs, the spot-on drumming of the female drummer and the sheer uniqueness of the breadth of their sound.
For the record, I'd happily see them again.
While The XX got set up, I scanned the crowd, spotting the Johnny-come-lately friend who'd apparently scored a last-minuet ticket, but other than him, I didn't see any familiar faces other than the musician friend who worked the bar and served me.
I have to assume I don't have many friends as passionate about minimalist dream pop as I am.
The band came out and immediately launched into "Angels," thereby demonstrating to everyone in the room that both singers Oliver and Romy had every bit of the voices heard on the albums.
"That Jamie is a good looking guy," my straight friend observed. He was that.
Romy was all shoulder pads and short hair and her distinctive hushed voice and spare guitar played off Oliver's bass and deeper-than-the record voice, as they played and sang facing each other and moving in concert.
"It's very special to be here," Oliver announced. "It's not just our first time in Richmond, it's our first time in Virginia."
RVA, represent.
And, truthfully, we could have represented better.
While the crowd did tone down the talking during songs, there was far too much screaming and mid-song clapping when it would have been more respectful to shut up and let such a quiet band be heard.
My guess is that a lot of the kids in the room were new to the concert experience and don't know any better.
I should teach a class.
One of my favorites came third, "Fiction," with its Interpol-light guitar bit and Oliver's heart-tugging vocal.
"Crystallized," from the debut album got slowed down to the point that it confused the kids who continued to attempt to sing the "I, yi, yi" parts at the album's tempo instead of what the band was doing.
Personally, I thought it was terrific of them to change things up, both for their sake as well as ours.
"We wrote a new version of this song for this tour," Oliver said by way of introducing "Chained," which benefited from different rhythm than the original.
"Reunion" got the full steel drum treatment (so cool) and segued fluidly into "Sunset," just as it does on the album while "Swept Away" was sped up and ended abruptly.
The award for song that brought out the most cameras was "VCR," probably because it was the entry point song-wise for many people when they first discovered the XX.
All too soon, the set ended and they walked off stage.
When they returned, it was for the most exquisite moment of the show.
They began playing "Intro," the song that leads off their debut album and for those of us who begin with albums and not songs, the first thing we ever heard of The XX.
Call it a slow burn.
Without vocals, it allows the listener to get immersed in the furtive-sounding, nuanced chillwave that is The XX.
While earlier there had been a light show, complete with smoke and pulsing beams, for this it was just a black backdrop with a giant white "X," like on the first album.
The sound of the bass drum caused the curtain to move.
"Thanks Richmond, for being such a wonderful audience," Oliver said before playing "Stars" and abandoning us to the real world.
After a sensual set of mood music with Jamie doing multiple things at once on percussion, Romy's lush guitar and sexy singing and Oliver's killer vocals and bass, I felt lulled into a world where people whisper their feelings and it's always nighttime.
Minimal music, but never minimal feelings.
Fiction, when we're not together
Mistaken for a vision, something of my own creation
Come real love, why do I refuse you?
Cause if my fear's right, I risk to lose you
And if I just might wake up alone
Bring on the night
It was worth every bit of the three-year plus wait to hear them live.
Walking out the sold-out crowd moved slowly, as if reluctant to go home after the transcendent experience.
Beside me in the massive pack of humanity waiting to escape, a guy spoke to the girl with him, saying, "I was just reading an article about the psychology of stampedes. This is scary."
Don't worry, son. We'll cover the logistics of exiting the venue when you come to my class on how to go to a show.
Rule #1: Leave your camera at home and experience the entire thing first hand and not through the tiny screen on your phone.
That way your memories will seem less like fiction.
Ever since I put The XX on my "best of" list in 2009, I had been hoping to see them.
When tickets went on sale, I wasted no time in walking down to the National to get mine, unlike some XX-loving friends I could mention who waited until a couple days ago and then panicked to discover the show was sold out (R.J., I'm looking at you).
For maximum enjoyment, I planned to go to the show with someone who had been introduced to the XX by yours truly.
Our first stop was 821 Cafe for black bean nachos in a mobbed dining room with a server who was clearly in the weeds.
The nachos were more than just sustenance: they were a tradition since we'd shared them together before we'd gone to see Rodrigo y Gabriela at the National a few years back.
He'd forgotten how large the serving was, but I hadn't and we both finished feeling quite replete.
But the chalkboard had one lone dessert, we had a half hour until show time and we were barely a mile away.
The piece of mint chocolate cake was enormous, with a minty green icing that was neither overly sweet nor overly minty.
In fact, my companion noted, "It's like the toothpaste you're allowed to eat."
We wolfed down the cake mainly because a large contingent of motorcyclists had come in and appropriated three tables and now people were waiting for our chairs.
Arriving at The National, we found a surprisingly big crowd already in place just before 8:00.
There were several things I could say about the crowd - they were punctual, they were probably devoted fans, they were infrequent concert-goers- but the main thing I could observe was that they were young.
Young as in underage, a fact I gleaned from the abundance of right hands marked with a big, black X to signify, "Don't sell this person a drink."
It reminded me of a conversation I'd had last week at the Yo la Tengo show with a friend who works at the National.
He'd chided me for not being in for so long, but I reminded him that The National isn't booking much of my kind of music lately.
"You know why?" he asked. "Indie crowds don't drink. Blues and rock bands, they drink."
Based on what I saw tonight, indie crowds don't drink because legally they aren't allowed to.
It doesn't bode well for me spending more time at The National, sadly.
Up first was Austra and, as my companion noted, "They've got no problem referencing the '80s."
And this is a bad thing, why?
Lead singer Katie had a waist-length blond ponytail, the voice of an opera singer and a dramatic singing style that involved hand gestures and dance-like moves.
Her keyboard playing required spidery hand gestures and dramatic rolls of her spine.
"Hello, we're Austra from Toronto," she said by way of introduction. "It's our first time playing here. It's very beautiful."
The light show for their set was impressive for an opening act.
After one song, the stage went black with just two pink spotlights and Katie walked across it, saying, "I don't think it's ever been this dark on stage. I like it. Thank you, lighting!"
The keyboardist got the award for most awesome ensemble in a white track suit with notes and (was it?) treble clefs across the shoulders and down the pants legs.
He and the bass player spent their set dancing in place to the variety of songs the band played, everything from synth-based pop to Kate Bush-like dirges.
It had been an impressive set given Katie's lungs, the spot-on drumming of the female drummer and the sheer uniqueness of the breadth of their sound.
For the record, I'd happily see them again.
While The XX got set up, I scanned the crowd, spotting the Johnny-come-lately friend who'd apparently scored a last-minuet ticket, but other than him, I didn't see any familiar faces other than the musician friend who worked the bar and served me.
I have to assume I don't have many friends as passionate about minimalist dream pop as I am.
The band came out and immediately launched into "Angels," thereby demonstrating to everyone in the room that both singers Oliver and Romy had every bit of the voices heard on the albums.
"That Jamie is a good looking guy," my straight friend observed. He was that.
Romy was all shoulder pads and short hair and her distinctive hushed voice and spare guitar played off Oliver's bass and deeper-than-the record voice, as they played and sang facing each other and moving in concert.
"It's very special to be here," Oliver announced. "It's not just our first time in Richmond, it's our first time in Virginia."
RVA, represent.
And, truthfully, we could have represented better.
While the crowd did tone down the talking during songs, there was far too much screaming and mid-song clapping when it would have been more respectful to shut up and let such a quiet band be heard.
My guess is that a lot of the kids in the room were new to the concert experience and don't know any better.
I should teach a class.
One of my favorites came third, "Fiction," with its Interpol-light guitar bit and Oliver's heart-tugging vocal.
"Crystallized," from the debut album got slowed down to the point that it confused the kids who continued to attempt to sing the "I, yi, yi" parts at the album's tempo instead of what the band was doing.
Personally, I thought it was terrific of them to change things up, both for their sake as well as ours.
"We wrote a new version of this song for this tour," Oliver said by way of introducing "Chained," which benefited from different rhythm than the original.
"Reunion" got the full steel drum treatment (so cool) and segued fluidly into "Sunset," just as it does on the album while "Swept Away" was sped up and ended abruptly.
The award for song that brought out the most cameras was "VCR," probably because it was the entry point song-wise for many people when they first discovered the XX.
All too soon, the set ended and they walked off stage.
When they returned, it was for the most exquisite moment of the show.
They began playing "Intro," the song that leads off their debut album and for those of us who begin with albums and not songs, the first thing we ever heard of The XX.
Call it a slow burn.
Without vocals, it allows the listener to get immersed in the furtive-sounding, nuanced chillwave that is The XX.
While earlier there had been a light show, complete with smoke and pulsing beams, for this it was just a black backdrop with a giant white "X," like on the first album.
The sound of the bass drum caused the curtain to move.
"Thanks Richmond, for being such a wonderful audience," Oliver said before playing "Stars" and abandoning us to the real world.
After a sensual set of mood music with Jamie doing multiple things at once on percussion, Romy's lush guitar and sexy singing and Oliver's killer vocals and bass, I felt lulled into a world where people whisper their feelings and it's always nighttime.
Minimal music, but never minimal feelings.
Fiction, when we're not together
Mistaken for a vision, something of my own creation
Come real love, why do I refuse you?
Cause if my fear's right, I risk to lose you
And if I just might wake up alone
Bring on the night
It was worth every bit of the three-year plus wait to hear them live.
Walking out the sold-out crowd moved slowly, as if reluctant to go home after the transcendent experience.
Beside me in the massive pack of humanity waiting to escape, a guy spoke to the girl with him, saying, "I was just reading an article about the psychology of stampedes. This is scary."
Don't worry, son. We'll cover the logistics of exiting the venue when you come to my class on how to go to a show.
Rule #1: Leave your camera at home and experience the entire thing first hand and not through the tiny screen on your phone.
That way your memories will seem less like fiction.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
My Favorite Music of 2009
I'm finally posting my Best Music of 2009 list, complete with justifications and occasional long-winded back stories. Five of the bands on my list I also saw live in 2009 (and three of them prior to that) and several others are on my wish list for seeing live in 2010. So here goes:
Fanfarlo: Reservoir because I think this album is flawless start to finish. There's not a weak song on it and it's an amazing debut for a band with the ability to play any and every instrument. I will always feel fortunate to have seen them with only 100 other devoted fans at the tiny Iota.
Passion Pit: Manners because no one reinvents 70s dance music so well. Also, for its back story; any band whose starting point is a guy writing a collection of songs for his girlfriend for Valentine's Day is a guy I want to listen to. A real shame that more people weren't at this show.
Neko Case: Middle Cyclone because she's Neko Case. Because she deigns to sing for us. Because she's had a hard time with her love life. Just because of that voice. I saw her twice this year, if that tells you anything.
The Decemberists: Hazards of Love because who else wrote a rock opera on this most intimate of subjects in 2009? Because even though seeing them in early 2007 was a far more transcendental experience than this year's show, they have a gift that no one else does.
Grizzly Bear: Vekatimest because of their unique acoustic sound and to-die-for vocal harmonies. Their combination of psychedelic, pop and folk is incredibly alluring to me, especially live, even if Norva crowds are obnoxious.
Yo La Tengo: Popular Songs because a band that can remain this creative after 25 years together is doing a whole lot right. Yes, you could call them shoegaze or noise pop and definitely experimental, but they never cease to impress me. And their live show in C-ville last year with its listening room environment is forever etched in my head.
Muse: Uprising because they make an amazing amount of sound for just three skinny Brits. Their symphonic (bombastic even) sound is unlike anything else I regularly listen to. I saw them back in 2007 at W & M and lamented that they were only the opening band.
Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavilion because someone needs to move the neo-psychedelic banner forward and these guys are just the ones to do it. Listening to this album is an exercise in pure sound and endless texture, no drug enhancement needed.
Great Lake Swimmers: Lost Channels because I love this whole folk resurgence going on now. GLS make pretty music and I mean that in the most complimentary way. Their incredible harmonies are the stuff of lost love and hope.
The XX: The Xx because of its spare sound, haunting male and female vocalists and because it's night time music. Listening to this album is like having an audio dream. I'd like to take it out of my CD player and give it a rest, but I can't bring myself to do it.
My only entry in the Best EP category is Bon Iver's Blood Bank and I include it for sentimental reasons. When I first discovered Bon Iver last year, it was the full-length "For Emma, Forever Ago" which took on a whole new meaning for me after the personal trauma of my life early this year.
Musician Justin Vernon created that album as a way of dealing with the breakup of his band, his relationship and being sick with mononucleosis.
Since I had been laid off, dumped and hospitalized for pneumonia, I could seriously relate to his pain.
He created heartfelt music in order to stay sane and I'm still trying to figure out what I can create to do the same. Blood Bank is his most beautiful song to date, hence the EP's inclusion here.
I know my list would not match another human being's on the planet and I'm okay with that. I took a lot of pleasure from these albums in 2009 and, god knows, I needed it.
Music and love are the essentials of life and since one was absent from mine, the other took on an even greater importance.
So thank you to these musicians for giving me part of what I needed in 2009.
Fanfarlo: Reservoir because I think this album is flawless start to finish. There's not a weak song on it and it's an amazing debut for a band with the ability to play any and every instrument. I will always feel fortunate to have seen them with only 100 other devoted fans at the tiny Iota.
Passion Pit: Manners because no one reinvents 70s dance music so well. Also, for its back story; any band whose starting point is a guy writing a collection of songs for his girlfriend for Valentine's Day is a guy I want to listen to. A real shame that more people weren't at this show.
Neko Case: Middle Cyclone because she's Neko Case. Because she deigns to sing for us. Because she's had a hard time with her love life. Just because of that voice. I saw her twice this year, if that tells you anything.
The Decemberists: Hazards of Love because who else wrote a rock opera on this most intimate of subjects in 2009? Because even though seeing them in early 2007 was a far more transcendental experience than this year's show, they have a gift that no one else does.
Grizzly Bear: Vekatimest because of their unique acoustic sound and to-die-for vocal harmonies. Their combination of psychedelic, pop and folk is incredibly alluring to me, especially live, even if Norva crowds are obnoxious.
Yo La Tengo: Popular Songs because a band that can remain this creative after 25 years together is doing a whole lot right. Yes, you could call them shoegaze or noise pop and definitely experimental, but they never cease to impress me. And their live show in C-ville last year with its listening room environment is forever etched in my head.
Muse: Uprising because they make an amazing amount of sound for just three skinny Brits. Their symphonic (bombastic even) sound is unlike anything else I regularly listen to. I saw them back in 2007 at W & M and lamented that they were only the opening band.
Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavilion because someone needs to move the neo-psychedelic banner forward and these guys are just the ones to do it. Listening to this album is an exercise in pure sound and endless texture, no drug enhancement needed.
Great Lake Swimmers: Lost Channels because I love this whole folk resurgence going on now. GLS make pretty music and I mean that in the most complimentary way. Their incredible harmonies are the stuff of lost love and hope.
The XX: The Xx because of its spare sound, haunting male and female vocalists and because it's night time music. Listening to this album is like having an audio dream. I'd like to take it out of my CD player and give it a rest, but I can't bring myself to do it.
My only entry in the Best EP category is Bon Iver's Blood Bank and I include it for sentimental reasons. When I first discovered Bon Iver last year, it was the full-length "For Emma, Forever Ago" which took on a whole new meaning for me after the personal trauma of my life early this year.
Musician Justin Vernon created that album as a way of dealing with the breakup of his band, his relationship and being sick with mononucleosis.
Since I had been laid off, dumped and hospitalized for pneumonia, I could seriously relate to his pain.
He created heartfelt music in order to stay sane and I'm still trying to figure out what I can create to do the same. Blood Bank is his most beautiful song to date, hence the EP's inclusion here.
I know my list would not match another human being's on the planet and I'm okay with that. I took a lot of pleasure from these albums in 2009 and, god knows, I needed it.
Music and love are the essentials of life and since one was absent from mine, the other took on an even greater importance.
So thank you to these musicians for giving me part of what I needed in 2009.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
