The Glory of The Mountain Goats
I'm getting old and boring. Whenever I go to shows anymore I find myself wishing the set would just end already so I can sit down and rest my weary bones. It doesn't help that I still insist on wearing the trusty chucks with no padding whatsoever, or that my attention span is such that I'll space out thinking about something else entirely until I realize two songs have gone by unappreciated. Still, I never give in and leave early; that would mean missing part of the show. I just wish they'd end a bit sooner, maybe play 3 of my favorite songs and then ditch out.
I did not feel any of these things even once during The Mountain Goats set. John Darnielle is this amazing presence of infectuous energy, the kind that sticks with you like some kind of super HIV that's transmittable through soundwaves and ridiculous shakes of the head with a smile as wide open as when you go to the orthodontist and put those plastic things in your mouth and photograph your teeth. You know, that kind of fucking STI (sonically transmitted infection). Even this man's banter alone is worth the price of admission. This man broke a string after either the first or second song and proceeded to regale us for a good five minutes about this boxer Pinklon Thomas (whose name was emblazoned upon Mssr. Darnielle's shirt) who he described as having "...a jab that hits you like an 800 pound mosquito." This was all complete with sound effects and delivered with manical glee as if he'd been waiting all tour for someone to ask him about his shirt so he could rave about this ex-con boxer he loved so much.
You have not lived until you've seen John Darnielle belt "Aha listen to the engine whine!" This is where the crazy wide smile and head shaking comes in and you start to think a little demon is going to leap out of his throat revealing that John is in fact genuinely a minion of Satan, and later when he tells you to "Hail Satan!" you hail him without hesitation for he has brought you the powerful music of The Mountain Goats somehow delivered by nothing more than an acoustic and bass guitar and a kind of nasally voice.
Suffice it to say, this show has renewed my faith in being able to wholeheartedly enjoy a rock show, and maybe I'm not getting old, but these indie bands think being indie means not to rock or they have gotten too lost in their melodies and brooding and whining to remember how, but oh how they are wrong and/or missing out. That is all.
I did not feel any of these things even once during The Mountain Goats set. John Darnielle is this amazing presence of infectuous energy, the kind that sticks with you like some kind of super HIV that's transmittable through soundwaves and ridiculous shakes of the head with a smile as wide open as when you go to the orthodontist and put those plastic things in your mouth and photograph your teeth. You know, that kind of fucking STI (sonically transmitted infection). Even this man's banter alone is worth the price of admission. This man broke a string after either the first or second song and proceeded to regale us for a good five minutes about this boxer Pinklon Thomas (whose name was emblazoned upon Mssr. Darnielle's shirt) who he described as having "...a jab that hits you like an 800 pound mosquito." This was all complete with sound effects and delivered with manical glee as if he'd been waiting all tour for someone to ask him about his shirt so he could rave about this ex-con boxer he loved so much.
You have not lived until you've seen John Darnielle belt "Aha listen to the engine whine!" This is where the crazy wide smile and head shaking comes in and you start to think a little demon is going to leap out of his throat revealing that John is in fact genuinely a minion of Satan, and later when he tells you to "Hail Satan!" you hail him without hesitation for he has brought you the powerful music of The Mountain Goats somehow delivered by nothing more than an acoustic and bass guitar and a kind of nasally voice.
Suffice it to say, this show has renewed my faith in being able to wholeheartedly enjoy a rock show, and maybe I'm not getting old, but these indie bands think being indie means not to rock or they have gotten too lost in their melodies and brooding and whining to remember how, but oh how they are wrong and/or missing out. That is all.