Delayed Reaction
There are serious drawbacks to not being able to sit still for more than fifteen minutes at a time, due to Life. As such, I owe the ether two concert recaps. Let's see if I can handle this.
The Hideout Block Party was Saturday, which, just... yeah. That's about how far behind I am with everything in my life right now. But whatever. Block party! It started at noon, but Saturday was rainy and I was grumpy because I was tired and whenever I want to go have fun ladytimes decide to come too. But that was just a wonderful excuse for me to get acquainted with the port-a-potties.* And, okay... so, for those unfamiliar: the Hideout is the tiniest little bar venue in the city that still manages a formidable reputation. It's where people tend to get their start. It's hipster as anything that has ever hipstered (without doing it on purpose, really. It just sort of... Is. And has been. And will be.) But the crowd, while overwhelmingly hipster, was the sort of crowd that was mostly there to enjoy the music, not just to be seen (as was obvious by the number of girls rocking their utilitarian rain boots. The fancy patterned ones were few and far between. And to think I was afraid of wearing mine.) I suppose that's to be expected, though, since the lineup really had only one indie-rock darling, a few up-and-comers, and some formidable old-school blues and soul artists (and a couple of rather odd acts). So... instead of getting there at noonI decided to skip the guitar play-along, and White Mystery (who I have a severe vendetta against for reasons that are not exactly respectable but have to do with me thinking they suck). In fact, I was set to drag my feet for even longer, except I was reading through the short blurbs about the bands that were playing and when I got to "With three horns, a rapper, a blues-rock trio and a female singer..." decided I needed to see Kids These Days and hopped on my bike. Unfortunately my sense of direction failed me slightly on the way there and I nearly ended up miles away (darn you, Milwaukee! Darn you, Elston!), so I only caught the tail end of their set. They were impressive for 8 kids just out of high school, though, and they give me hope for Chicago's music scene. I'll be keeping an eye on them.
Also of note was Mavis Staples, who was actually one of the two people I really wanted to see. She was, as expected, quite good. And sweet, and political (my favorite line of the night was hers, tacked into the middle of one a rant about people disrespecting Obama: "People keep throwing these parties / but they're not inviting me // They're mixing up the kool-aid / and passing it out as tea." It took the crowd about fifteen seconds to get it, but after that the majority of us were in love. And then Andrew Bird joined her for a song and it was amazing.
I think I'm going to skimp on the rest of the sets, because, honestly, other than Booker T. Jones (who was good fun, in an old-blues-guy sort of way, but I'm spoiled by Buddy Guy's style of performing and he was very reserved and low-key in comparison) I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention. And that is in part because everything beyond the stage was made of lines. Food was taken care of by a small fleet of Chicago's trendiest food trucks... which promptly ran out of food. And only a few of them openly admitted it (there was a line at the Tamale Space Ship for who-knows-how-long without anyone actually getting anything from the truck. All I know is that I gave up. Also, there were no beverages available other than beer (there was apparently a stand with water, but they were hidden between a craft vendor and the Montessori school and I didn't see them until I was on my way out). Also they ran out of beer.
But anyway! The other artist I showed up to see was Andrew Bird. And... I probably don't even need to write about his set, because I've been fangirling the man for something like six years. (He was first on the list of Musicians I Want to Take Home and and Keep Forever and Ever. I adore him for his vocabulary, and his unabashed penchant for playing whatever the heck he wants however the heck he wants, even if it means the audience can't sing along. And he's a spaz on stage. And wears multi-colored socks and no shoes. And he's adorable. But he's also 12 years older than me, so... there's that.) So, most of what I have to say about my dear friend Andrew Bird's set has to do with the surroundings. The best part of the show? Opera-matic (a sort of performance art group) had been doing little between-set performances all day. And once Mr. Bird finally came out to play (after a mini-set by his drummer, who, btw, got heckled by Andrew's fans because... I don't know? It was techno? And not Andrew Bird? I wanted to punch the guys that were yelling in the nose)... but anyway, he came out and launched into this lilting instrumental bit that I didn't recognize, and slowly, slowly there was this sort of low-hum motorized noise coming from the back of the crowd. And then next thing I knew there was a giant diaphanous white whale with a light show inside and speakers mounted by the tail, playing a modulated version of the instrumental piece to make it sound like whale song. And they drove the enormous modulated white whale light show directly through the crowd. It was... pretty awesome, I must say. (At least no one attempted to heckle the whale.) And then we got down to business with the show, which was full of Andrew gushing about how awesome the Hideout is, and how he used to illegally sleep in the attic when he first came to Chicago. It was all good feelings and lots of throw-backs to the Bowl of Fire days (which, just... yes. I have been addicted to "The Swimming Hour" lately, so he can play Bowl of Fire songs all he wants). He also accidentally played 20 minutes longer than he was supposed to, which made the ending all the more adorable. He obviously meant to play one more song that everyone would recognize, but instead the evening ended on a folky song and then the drummer waving his arms, Andrew looking at the clock, and then sheepishly thanking us and practically running off the stage.
* Which, actually, by-the-by, while we're... no longer, but were, previously, on the subject of port-a-potties. The first one I went in? Someone had clearly hotboxed it prior to me entering. It was terrible. It reeked of pot and excrement. Is... is that a thing? Hotboxing port-a-potties? Isn't that an awful thing to do to yourself? Ugh, I am going to have nightmares about that.
And actually, I think that might be enough gushing for tonight, so you'll get my massive wall of text about exactly how brilliant and wonderful Beirut is in concert and how I want to take Zach Condon home and keep him for ever and ever tomorrow.
The Hideout Block Party was Saturday, which, just... yeah. That's about how far behind I am with everything in my life right now. But whatever. Block party! It started at noon, but Saturday was rainy and I was grumpy because I was tired and whenever I want to go have fun ladytimes decide to come too. But that was just a wonderful excuse for me to get acquainted with the port-a-potties.* And, okay... so, for those unfamiliar: the Hideout is the tiniest little bar venue in the city that still manages a formidable reputation. It's where people tend to get their start. It's hipster as anything that has ever hipstered (without doing it on purpose, really. It just sort of... Is. And has been. And will be.) But the crowd, while overwhelmingly hipster, was the sort of crowd that was mostly there to enjoy the music, not just to be seen (as was obvious by the number of girls rocking their utilitarian rain boots. The fancy patterned ones were few and far between. And to think I was afraid of wearing mine.) I suppose that's to be expected, though, since the lineup really had only one indie-rock darling, a few up-and-comers, and some formidable old-school blues and soul artists (and a couple of rather odd acts). So... instead of getting there at noonI decided to skip the guitar play-along, and White Mystery (who I have a severe vendetta against for reasons that are not exactly respectable but have to do with me thinking they suck). In fact, I was set to drag my feet for even longer, except I was reading through the short blurbs about the bands that were playing and when I got to "With three horns, a rapper, a blues-rock trio and a female singer..." decided I needed to see Kids These Days and hopped on my bike. Unfortunately my sense of direction failed me slightly on the way there and I nearly ended up miles away (darn you, Milwaukee! Darn you, Elston!), so I only caught the tail end of their set. They were impressive for 8 kids just out of high school, though, and they give me hope for Chicago's music scene. I'll be keeping an eye on them.
Also of note was Mavis Staples, who was actually one of the two people I really wanted to see. She was, as expected, quite good. And sweet, and political (my favorite line of the night was hers, tacked into the middle of one a rant about people disrespecting Obama: "People keep throwing these parties / but they're not inviting me // They're mixing up the kool-aid / and passing it out as tea." It took the crowd about fifteen seconds to get it, but after that the majority of us were in love. And then Andrew Bird joined her for a song and it was amazing.
I think I'm going to skimp on the rest of the sets, because, honestly, other than Booker T. Jones (who was good fun, in an old-blues-guy sort of way, but I'm spoiled by Buddy Guy's style of performing and he was very reserved and low-key in comparison) I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention. And that is in part because everything beyond the stage was made of lines. Food was taken care of by a small fleet of Chicago's trendiest food trucks... which promptly ran out of food. And only a few of them openly admitted it (there was a line at the Tamale Space Ship for who-knows-how-long without anyone actually getting anything from the truck. All I know is that I gave up. Also, there were no beverages available other than beer (there was apparently a stand with water, but they were hidden between a craft vendor and the Montessori school and I didn't see them until I was on my way out). Also they ran out of beer.
But anyway! The other artist I showed up to see was Andrew Bird. And... I probably don't even need to write about his set, because I've been fangirling the man for something like six years. (He was first on the list of Musicians I Want to Take Home and and Keep Forever and Ever. I adore him for his vocabulary, and his unabashed penchant for playing whatever the heck he wants however the heck he wants, even if it means the audience can't sing along. And he's a spaz on stage. And wears multi-colored socks and no shoes. And he's adorable. But he's also 12 years older than me, so... there's that.) So, most of what I have to say about my dear friend Andrew Bird's set has to do with the surroundings. The best part of the show? Opera-matic (a sort of performance art group) had been doing little between-set performances all day. And once Mr. Bird finally came out to play (after a mini-set by his drummer, who, btw, got heckled by Andrew's fans because... I don't know? It was techno? And not Andrew Bird? I wanted to punch the guys that were yelling in the nose)... but anyway, he came out and launched into this lilting instrumental bit that I didn't recognize, and slowly, slowly there was this sort of low-hum motorized noise coming from the back of the crowd. And then next thing I knew there was a giant diaphanous white whale with a light show inside and speakers mounted by the tail, playing a modulated version of the instrumental piece to make it sound like whale song. And they drove the enormous modulated white whale light show directly through the crowd. It was... pretty awesome, I must say. (At least no one attempted to heckle the whale.) And then we got down to business with the show, which was full of Andrew gushing about how awesome the Hideout is, and how he used to illegally sleep in the attic when he first came to Chicago. It was all good feelings and lots of throw-backs to the Bowl of Fire days (which, just... yes. I have been addicted to "The Swimming Hour" lately, so he can play Bowl of Fire songs all he wants). He also accidentally played 20 minutes longer than he was supposed to, which made the ending all the more adorable. He obviously meant to play one more song that everyone would recognize, but instead the evening ended on a folky song and then the drummer waving his arms, Andrew looking at the clock, and then sheepishly thanking us and practically running off the stage.
* Which, actually, by-the-by, while we're... no longer, but were, previously, on the subject of port-a-potties. The first one I went in? Someone had clearly hotboxed it prior to me entering. It was terrible. It reeked of pot and excrement. Is... is that a thing? Hotboxing port-a-potties? Isn't that an awful thing to do to yourself? Ugh, I am going to have nightmares about that.
And actually, I think that might be enough gushing for tonight, so you'll get my massive wall of text about exactly how brilliant and wonderful Beirut is in concert and how I want to take Zach Condon home and keep him for ever and ever tomorrow.