One Divine Concert

The Breeders, Sunday June 8th at the The Fillmore at the TLA

The show was SO good. I remember seeing Ms. Deal about 10 years ago at the same location, then it was just called the TLA, but you know, other than the branding, it remains unchanged.

The last time I saw her perform, I went to the show with my boyfriend, his brother, and their roommate. All Irish boys and all desperate to be ‘cool’, especially in their taste in music. If I remember correctly they all stood around, careful not to move or bop their heads, or indicate their appreciation of the music through any physical manifestation.

Last night whilst bobbling my head around ostensibly to the beat, I noticed a few men exhibiting this dance-floor rigger mortise.  I mean, they were still beyond still. In a sea of pogoing 80’s throwbacks, these islands of flesh were immobile.  They did not so much as a sway, a twitch or even nod FOR 1.5 HOURS!

We’re not talking about a couple of guys simply not dancing.  This was an all out, full-body PROTEST.  It’s like they were proving they were completely unmoved by the music at all. I started imaging them exhibiting signs of great disdain for their fellow, more mobile, concert-goers.

Thank god I was there with one of my girlfriends, a woman after my own heart who danced and pogoed unabashed, an unbridled, breasts asunder.  We were totally in the moment and we LOOKED it.

Newsflash to stoics, even serious music is fun.  It’s OK to look like you are, in fact, HAVING fun.

After the show while waiting for MK to purchase her tee, a line of three boys walked past me, slightly fatter, slightly balder, and still very Irish.

There is a lot of singing at funerals.

I went to a funeral on Tuesday. I never met the deceased or his widow.

We went because it was a family death, my husband’s cousin’s husband.

He was 46. That is too young to die, especially of a coronary embolism.

Everything I now know about the man, I learned at his funeral. He was born in Nairobi, his father owns a hotel in Mombasa, he went to Oxford. He used to be an alcoholic, but was sober for 16 years before he died.

He was married, had a son, was divorced and then moved to America where he got married again. He worked at a church.

People loved him.

Oh, and his name was Max.

I don’t know what he looked like (I don’t view the dead if I didn’t know them in life…it’s too voyeuristic.)

I enjoyed the funeral (is that bad to say?)

It was transcendently beautiful. The church was a gigantic stone edifice on 5th Ave in Manhattan. The choir wore ruffled collars, and they sang. Beautifully.

I was struck by how much the singing human voice marks our passages through time.

Babies are sung to at their baptisms.

We are sung to at every anniversary of our birth.

Weddings are full of beautiful music.

And certainly, funerals; there is a lot of singing at funerals.

It’s like our voices were trying to reach him, or accompany him, or at the very least, mark that this happened…that HE happened.

Brett has Bionic Eyes

Brett invited me to his room last night. Sure there were 1000 other people at the Flight of the Conchords concert, but I know he was talking to me. I’m pretty sure we shared a ‘moment’. He must have, like, bionic eyesight since I was in the 4th row…in the balcony.

(But seriously, he said he was staying at the Sofitel in room 921.) You know that some poor roadie was harassed all night by star-struck drunken cougars.

The concert was jaw-droppingly amazing. Hubster and I BOTH laughed riotously, not necessarily at the same parts, but whatever, we don’t need to examine that too closely.

On the way home we spent the car ride discussing just what makes them so appealing.

You can easily imagine Jemaine and Brett back in their dorm room when you see their act. You don’t need to read their bios to “know” them.  Watching them is kind of like watching my friends John and Pete, but with guitars, and a script. They’ve perfected their selfconscious /imaginary world-influenced skit.

Last night they played all their hits.  If you don’t know them (like if you are poor and can’t afford HBO or something.) Watch them play “Business Time”.

The philly crowd received the Conchords well, especially since they apparently googled “Philadelphia culture’ before going on stage. There were plenty of shout outs to “West Philadelphia Born and Raised,” “Boys to Men,” and powdered wig-wearing “Ben Franklin.” The effort was mightily appreciated by their fans.  Shit, I screamed like a schoolgirl.

Last night I slept in my “Brunettes not Fighter Jets” tee, and had sweet sweet kiwi-filled dreams….

satiated

Last night was one of those perfect evenings.  I’ve been a bit of a cranky bitch lately and decided to show hubster that I did, really, truly, deeply, love and appreciate him.  SO, I dragged my but to DiBruno Brothers and purchased all of the accoutrement necessary to reproduce the gourmet picnics we enjoyed back when we were just dating.

I even warmed up the old debit card on a couple of bottles of Rioja.  (I do deserve a medal, don’t I?)

Husband was suitably surprised and delighted.  The dog was reasonably well behaved (for her anyway.)

The meal was followed by what just might be the greatest documentary ever produced: The Devil and Daniel Johnston.

Oh my freakin god. I don’t remember who recommended it, nor can I explain why it languished first in my Netflix cue, then in the drawer for so long.  Maybe everyone elsein the world already knows about Mr. Johnston.  This movie came out in 2005, so I’m relatively late to the game, but if you too are of the uniatiated, go rent it right now.

Daniel Johnston’s story is like that of many great troubled artists.  He was a gifted outsider, a raw genius in music and art.  He suffered/s from manic depression…severe manice depression.  He developed the most purely cult following of which I’ve ever heard.  His music is beautiful.  It’s pointless for me to try to deliver any more than the most diaphanous view of the man in such a cold medium.  Simply rent the movie, then buy every scrap of music with his name on it that you can find.

The film itself was a remarkable piece of art.  It captures Johnston’s early (from high school) movies along with contemporary footage.

Read more about him here: http://www.hihowareyou.com/ 

To wrap up this evening of perfection, we went to to L2 (our local) for a little something sweet. The bodda-bing cherry pie rocks my world and their manhattans are nothing to shake a stick at.