don’t let me down
so you go to see a show. and you’ve been looking forward to this show for, like, ever. because you love this band. ever since you saw them for the first time at the double door, in 2006, when your little brother dragged you to see some dudes you’d never heard of—you’ve been obsessed with this band for reasons you can’t even fathom. you had to see them again that summer at pitchfork, and again two years later at lollapalooza, and the year after that at pitchfork again, and the summer after that at mfnw in portland. you’re totally retarded for this band. because they do that thing for you that lydia millet talks about, even if you don’t know why.
and you’ve been trapped inside your head of late, can’t mentally escape the non-stop, 24-hour, dance-til-you-drop marathon that is your completely unbearable/obscenely comfortable middle class life in america. you’re just looking to forget that you even exist on earth for a couple hours while this band takes you to magical places heretofore unseen (excepting, of course, the times this band took you to those exact places before). you want it to be exciting & invigorating & great just like it was before, but new, all at the same time. you’re banking on this band coming through for you, and saving your life from another bullshit night in suck city (which really doesn’t suck at all)(but kinda). and you’ve already had one jack&coke, but you’re not feelin’ it yet, and so you have another because you think maybe that’ll help you stop fucking thinking already about that stupid errand you have to run at old navy tomorrow.
and then the lights go down in this tiny ballroom that sold out ages ago, and the giant screen on stage is showing live images of the band in the green room, and the crowd was already ecstatic for both the openers, and you’re really to be obliterated. but the band is, well, only okay.
you tell yourself this ballroom has a looooong history of sound problems, so maybe the band & crew just need time to adjust. they’ll get it together. and they kinda do. after a half dozen songs or so, they seem to be in a better groove, the sound not as shitty. then some guy faints during a slow song, and the band stops, and medical staff searches the (still) dark room because apparently the same fuckwad running the sound board also is running the lights and doesn’t know what to do when the lead singer says “turn up the lights—somebody’s hurt.” and now you’re thinking, “well, this ain’t exactly roskilde, but it probably won’t do wonders for the band tonight.”
so the band plows forward, sometimes in sync, sometimes less so. and then they start to play a sure-fire crowd pleaser, a song that’s been climbing your own personal top 5 chart. but it’s underwhelming. especially so since you and your friend were debating earlier whether this particular song had become the best song they play live, overtaking what seemed like an undefeatable, years-old fan favorite. “wtf?” you think, “would you guys bring the goddamn thunder already?”
and now you’re worried that not only will you not escape your head this evening, you may never see this band play another show as awesome as the last one you saw. and you saw that last show with your ex-girlfriend. so now you’re really fucking in it.
the band says goodnight and fake-leaves to prepare for their encore, and you’re stuck wallowing in this shit, with only intermittent applause to break your concentration. you’ve still got a chance to salvage this thing. the band still hasn’t played some of your other favorites. and maybe they just needed a break to re-group. this might be the first time you’ve seen a legitimate need for an encore break. ever. it’s not like bands can call a timeout in the middle of a set and go hang out backstage for a bit, right?
so they come back, and you’re somewhere a couple degrees south of “cautiously optimistic.” but they sound good. they do, don’t they? yeah. they do. then they bust out the song that’d always been the consensus #1 live tune. fuck yeah, they do. and then it happens. with a song you’d always liked, but were never passionate about. suddenly the whole goddamn room is alive, and the singer is somehow crowdsurfing and singing, simultaneously, and sounding fucking awesome. and the light show is freaking the fuck out, and the band is swirling in this crescendo that’s. just. not. stopping. and the singer’s mic cord just keeps stretching, and you’re like 100 feet from the stage, but now the singer is 5 feet in front of you, but you’re not thinking about you, you’re thinking about all of you. you’re not there—everyone is. together. and you think this is the best possible end to the night.
but the band isn’t done. they cast aside all their instruments except two acoustic guitars. they put away the mics even. the two openers, who spoke highly of the band (and vice versa) inbetween songs, come out to join them. there’s like 15 people on stage, standing at the edge, unamplified, singing to all of you, coaxing you to sing with them. so you do. all of you. it really is just all of you now. and now you’re thinking about a girl—but not that girl from the last show, this is another girl, the one that’ll be with you the next time you see this band, and you think the next time will be even better. and when all the singing is done, all the people onstage start fucking hugging each other, cuz it’s their last night touring together, and because they like each other so much. but you’re not thinking about what a not-rock-star move that is. you’re thinking you’re part of this thing. and it’s not bullshitty. maybe earnest. but certainly true.
then you go eat some eggs at an all-night diner with your friends, and you laugh about the last time you were at that diner and your little brother puked up his eggs right onto his plate because he was out of his skull drunk. and these new eggs, man, these sunny side up eggs which your little brother did not puke all over—those are the best fucking eggs you’ve had in a long goddamn time.
Tags: Lydia Millet, the national
Yes.
[...] my x-mas tree right now); batman (a frequently misunderstood/brilliant character); the music of the national, radiohead, or pearl jam; the mid-career novels of don delillo; or even the muppets. but there is [...]
were you at the post-lollapalooza show at House of Blues a couple years ago, by any chance?
alas, no. sounds like it woulda been brilliant, though.
I forgot I left this comment and never came back to check for a response! Oops.
It was a fantastic show. I understand why people see shows there now. (Never got it from the layout of the place). I was up high in the balcony, but the sound was incredible and every part of their set that night was just ON.