I like reading books about bands I don't listen to
They set the scene as if they're telling you: this is important, something magical is going to happen hear. But did any of the twelve people in the room know that then? Sometimes we only see these things when we look back. The thing and the greatness of the thing exist, but not together.
When we write histories, we only talk about the parts that will matter. We only talk about the memorable things. We don't talk about the things that didn't work. We don't talk about the naysayers and the fence sitters, or when we do, it's to laugh at How Wrong They Were. The war will be over by Christmas. Guitar bands are on their way out.
The closest I've ever gotten to this sort of thing is this: I saw the Alabama Shakes perform in 2009. The show was free at this horrible venue in Huntsville that has changed hands two or three times since then. We went because Brandon was friendly acquaintances with most of them from high school. They weren't calling themselves the Alabama Shakes then, either. I remember speaking to Brittany briefly afterward and asking what their band was called. "The Shaky Hands," she repeated it, like she was trying to remind herself, like maybe she knew that wasn't quite right. "The Shaky Hands." I remember thinking, like I still do, that Brittany looked sort of funny with a guitar, like she dwarfed it. I remember them doing a Chuck Berry cover, which was a fun surprise for me, but I don't remember which song. I remember thinking they were good, way better than I expected, and I remember being impressed because Brandon told me they had finished one of the songs they performed that very day. I don't remember the song itself though, or any of their songs. I don't know if they performed anything that ended up on their album, or early versions of those songs. I don't know. I wish I had held onto the memory harder, both because now I can't get into one of their shows anywhere near me because they sell out in five minutes, and because I got to see and hear them in their early days, something not very many people got the chance to. Because they didn't know.
But I didn't know either. Maybe I don't have a very discerning ear, or maybe they just weren't that good yet, but I don't remember anything with the strange significance of "You Ain't Alone" or the energy of "Heavy Chevy." I remember Brittany's voice being good, but I don't remember it having that sort of powerful rawness people keep associating with Janis Joplin. The folks there were into it--I remember some cool middle aged couples dancing near the stage, but the crowd was pretty small and I don't think anyone there knew they were listening to a band that would "make it."
And who knows if they will ever be a "big deal" yeah? I mean they've gotten lots of buzz lately, and they are North Alabama's favorite sons and daughter right now, but will they be culturally significant? Enh, who knows? Does it matter?
I heart the Shakes, but why do I love them? If they weren't from my home town, would I still like them? Would I know who they were, even? I know I wouldn't have that 45 with "Be Mine" and "You Ain't Alone" on it, live before they cut their first album and produced by Jack fucking White, the one where whoever pressed it scratched "You Ain't Leavin' the Stage" in the inside edge. That feels significant. That feels legendary. But is it? Or is it just me?
When do you start loving a song or a band? It's not the first time you hear it, generally. I remember the first time I heard "This Time Around" and I remember what I think was the first time I heard "Welcome to the Black Parade," but those are very much the exception. With bands I heard first live, it takes me a while to warm up to them. The hour needs to get later. The crowd needs to relax and maybe get a little more drunk, get to a point where they stop asking themselves whether it's any good and just start enjoying it.
Art, especially music, has so much to do with expectation. The experience and energy of a concert, especially, has so much to do with the audience. In Musicophilia Oliver Sacks talks about attending a concert of a famous operatic tenor while going through a bout of depression. He came away from the performance disappointed because this singer who he had loved for his raw, emotional delivery seemed cold and technical to him. Yet, when he read reviews of the same performance in the papers, the critics praised his emotional intensity. The problem wasn't with the tenor, it was with him.
I don't even know what my point is here. I'm just really, really fascinated by music and performance.
When we write histories, we only talk about the parts that will matter. We only talk about the memorable things. We don't talk about the things that didn't work. We don't talk about the naysayers and the fence sitters, or when we do, it's to laugh at How Wrong They Were. The war will be over by Christmas. Guitar bands are on their way out.
The closest I've ever gotten to this sort of thing is this: I saw the Alabama Shakes perform in 2009. The show was free at this horrible venue in Huntsville that has changed hands two or three times since then. We went because Brandon was friendly acquaintances with most of them from high school. They weren't calling themselves the Alabama Shakes then, either. I remember speaking to Brittany briefly afterward and asking what their band was called. "The Shaky Hands," she repeated it, like she was trying to remind herself, like maybe she knew that wasn't quite right. "The Shaky Hands." I remember thinking, like I still do, that Brittany looked sort of funny with a guitar, like she dwarfed it. I remember them doing a Chuck Berry cover, which was a fun surprise for me, but I don't remember which song. I remember thinking they were good, way better than I expected, and I remember being impressed because Brandon told me they had finished one of the songs they performed that very day. I don't remember the song itself though, or any of their songs. I don't know if they performed anything that ended up on their album, or early versions of those songs. I don't know. I wish I had held onto the memory harder, both because now I can't get into one of their shows anywhere near me because they sell out in five minutes, and because I got to see and hear them in their early days, something not very many people got the chance to. Because they didn't know.
But I didn't know either. Maybe I don't have a very discerning ear, or maybe they just weren't that good yet, but I don't remember anything with the strange significance of "You Ain't Alone" or the energy of "Heavy Chevy." I remember Brittany's voice being good, but I don't remember it having that sort of powerful rawness people keep associating with Janis Joplin. The folks there were into it--I remember some cool middle aged couples dancing near the stage, but the crowd was pretty small and I don't think anyone there knew they were listening to a band that would "make it."
And who knows if they will ever be a "big deal" yeah? I mean they've gotten lots of buzz lately, and they are North Alabama's favorite sons and daughter right now, but will they be culturally significant? Enh, who knows? Does it matter?
I heart the Shakes, but why do I love them? If they weren't from my home town, would I still like them? Would I know who they were, even? I know I wouldn't have that 45 with "Be Mine" and "You Ain't Alone" on it, live before they cut their first album and produced by Jack fucking White, the one where whoever pressed it scratched "You Ain't Leavin' the Stage" in the inside edge. That feels significant. That feels legendary. But is it? Or is it just me?
When do you start loving a song or a band? It's not the first time you hear it, generally. I remember the first time I heard "This Time Around" and I remember what I think was the first time I heard "Welcome to the Black Parade," but those are very much the exception. With bands I heard first live, it takes me a while to warm up to them. The hour needs to get later. The crowd needs to relax and maybe get a little more drunk, get to a point where they stop asking themselves whether it's any good and just start enjoying it.
Art, especially music, has so much to do with expectation. The experience and energy of a concert, especially, has so much to do with the audience. In Musicophilia Oliver Sacks talks about attending a concert of a famous operatic tenor while going through a bout of depression. He came away from the performance disappointed because this singer who he had loved for his raw, emotional delivery seemed cold and technical to him. Yet, when he read reviews of the same performance in the papers, the critics praised his emotional intensity. The problem wasn't with the tenor, it was with him.
I don't even know what my point is here. I'm just really, really fascinated by music and performance.