Tonight is a night of big guitars. Do you ever forget how good OK Computer is?
I know, I know. I'm avoiding the issue at hand.
So, where have I been?
I've gotten the "Big Brother Is Watching" tip from the Systems Administrator at work so we'll have to go into my "employment" (however uncertain) at a later point in time. For now, suffice to say, I'm not doing any updating during office hours. This leaves off-the-clock time for diaryland activity, and I can tell you I'm sure as hell not missing any shows for this stuff, as much as I love to detail the paltry events of my life for you people.
There have been too many good shows in the past two weeks to recount.
Neil Finn was an all-around satisfying show, like broken-in courderoys, like a good burger. I was too young when Crowded House was in their heyday to go see them live. But Neil and friends played quite a few Crowded House songs, so I could pretend that it was 1989. The only flaw of the two hour show (two encores, the lucky bastard) was the group of morons standing in front of Ruby and me. I must say she and I were the youngest folks on the balcony, and these people in front of us were having their midlife crises at the show right before our eyes -- the entire time detailing Peter Paul and Mary concerts they attended in their youth. One of the guys had clearly taken a "Guitar for Beginners" class and attempted to woo his girlfriend at each chord change with his scintillating knowledge of the instrument. She was impressed, which was even more distressing.
Okay I'm being an elitist bitch now so I'll just stop. The show was fantastic.
The next night was Samuel Beam and company, known as Iron and Wine. I swear to god, if you have an ounce of anything delicate and pure in your heart, go buy The Creek Drank the Cradle. That album blows me away ceaselessly. I originally insisted on going to the show by myself because I knew I'd cry through the whole thing, but I ended up inviting a friend and went sans mascara.
The performance was excruciatingly tender. I cried through most of the set. Even when I was trying not to. That album is one of the only ones I've ever heard that has that affect on me. No matter what mood I'm in, if The Creek Drank the Cradle is playing when I walk in the room, I just open up, and tears everywhere. It's not that it's sad, or depressing, it's… it's so difficult to explain. The gentleness wounds. There's barely music -- a breath of slide guitar and banjo, and Beam's voice whispers effortlessly. The lyrics are about discovery and loss, the natural state of things, barns and oceans and love.
After the show, Beam's sister, who sang with him, was selling merchandise so I went over to talk to her. I told her how amazing I thought the performance was and she smiled humbly. I said, "I cried through most of the show." She said, "I usually do, too."
Henry Rollins' spoken word didn't have the same effect on me two nights later, however I left that performance jumping out of my skin to burst into the world and start a movement. I'm not sure what kind of movement, but something powerful and good. I know I wish I had the energy to rail on passionately for two hours without taking a breath or even a sip of water. The man is a machine. I think he and Shannon were the same person in a past life.
I also went to see Ibrahim Ferrer a la Buena Vista Social Club, which was a golden celebration of Cuban jazz, dancing and horns. The Orpheum exploded into rhythms with everyone on their feet and moving. Afterwards, we went to Zygomat and ate and fondue.
There are half a dozen other shows that I don't feel like getting into. I have been exploding with creativity and spent six hours today on the floor of my room with an Xacto knife, rubber cement, paint and pastels working on a project I abandoned in September called "Divided by Five." There are senses, you know. And they all work for me. Sometimes too well.
So I'll leave you now. I hope the snow hasn't gotten anyone stuck anywhere they'd rather not be. This morning I was wishing I had some of those slick 80's moonboots. Whatever happened to those?
The snow's too deep for sledding.
No shovels for me; long live the landlords.
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