Thursday, March 03, 2005

I Promise To Commit No Acts Of Violence

The Interpol show surpassed all of my expectations. If you find yourself within a driveable, flyable, swimmable, joggable, or cross-country-skiable distance of one of their shows, get thee there without delay.

Not to sound like that girl [Interpol is the soundtrack of my depression, the depths of which no one could possibly comprehend. Leave me to cut myself.], but honestly, Interpol's stuff has been there for me through a rough patch or two. This fact, coupled with my going solo, poised last night's show to be a very personal, moving, it's-up-to-me-to-turn-on-the-bright-lights kind of experience. Which, to Interpol's credit, it mostly was.

Except for the two minor distractions. One was unquestionably the dudes on my right, and the second I cannot directly attribute to them although I have some weighty suspicions. How one gets drunk on a single eight dollar Radio City vodka and cranberry is a biochemical mystery I shall never unravel. Regardless, the guys to my right managed to get rip-roarin' shitfaced well before the opening band finished their set, which was convenient because the lead singer of Blonde Redhead may never have heard the staggeringly lewd comments they were shrieking at her without the sweet voice of Bacchus added to their choir.

During the half hour set change before Interpol took the stage, the guys took it upon themselves to harangue every concertgoer in our section about standing up during the rest of the show. Now, I'll admit, I've gotten stodgy in my old age. I've been to, worked at, and bartended enough general admission concerts in my vast twenty-two years to want to take advantage of a seat when I find one conviently and comfortably situated below me. I'd also been up since five-thirty that morning, and faced a two-hour commute after the show. I'm tired. I'm old. I'm boring. I was reading Faulkner between sets at a rock show for Christ's sake--pretentious, yes, horrifically so, but a quality I was willing to portray in order to deter unnecessary conversations with drunk douchebags. I could not have appeared any more unwilling to talk to them if I had been wearing a bag on my head, and still, they harped.

Of course, once Interpol took the stage everyone did stand up, so I had to stand up, and that was fine. However, midway through the second song, Distraction Two began wafting towards me in warm, pungent bursts.

For those of you assuming that Distraction Two is of the herbal variety, you are sorely mistaken. Distraction Two was less pharmaceutical, more gastrointestinal. I suppose I should be happy that the plastered duo wasn't throwing up, but I very nearly was.

Despite the company, the show was astounding. Like I said, snow-shoe, paddle-boat, mule train, spelunk to the nearest concert date.

I may post more after lunch, but right now I've got a slice of pizza in the fridge with my name on it. Literally. Theiving bastards.


Blogger Buckley said...

The vomitus in your account reminded me of one my favourite movie-scenes ever.

Many times in my life I have laughed out loud just thinking about it.

Remember (if you've seen it) in the Goonies when the Fratellis capture Chunk and threaten to put his fingers in a blender and say, "Tell us everything," with hilarious results?

Just classic.

And in other (possibly fake) news, a 'Goonies 2' with the original cast is contemplated by WB (two decades later). News that's more disconcertig than exciting I think.

6:11 AM  

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