So swoon baby starry nights/May our bodies remain/You stick with me, I'll feed you light...
I tried to think of what I'd say in this entry while Blonde Redhead was playing, and then while Interpol was rocking, and while we shuffled out and received yellow slips of paper (Decemberists, Trail of Dead playing in April). I made a bunch of little observations that I probably won't even have space for.
This entry will be long.
And it will be full of fangirlish asides.
But at least three people asked for this to be in excruciating detail.
Blame them.
* * *
I guess I should start right about the time we left the hotel room. Our room is right by the little Elevator Bubble--why they have it off in its own little glass bubble, I will never know--and this group of people got off. I mention this seemingly pointless part because as we tried to squeeze past the wet mass of people dripping off the elevator (in all literal ways possible), this guy asked us out of nowhere, "Are you two Scandinavian?"
It'd make sense if either of us looked Scandinavian.
"No, we're black."
After laughing about this all the way through the elevator ride and lobby (not to mention at random times before and after the concert), we bounce out to the parking lot only to find that the car is...well, basically we scraped snow off the car. I can't really think of any way to make that sound fun.
Oh, hell.
I do love it when people leave me comments telling me how they think my entries are interesting--I never expect them and they warm my heart more effectively than any flaming arrow to the chest ever could--but I now realize how insanely dull most of the evening would be for any one reading about it. I suppose this is a warning: Even if you thought my other entries that whined a bit of being boring and useless were sort of funny, or even cute...just don't get your hopes up. Honestly.
So, we never bothered to look for Liberty Hall beforehand. I guess Mother just figured it'd be Right There, or just wanted to get to the hotel quickly so she could read her moronic romance novel. Either way, we spent most of the ride to there wondering if we were on the right street, and the other part following an ugly red car because they had a Blood Brothers sticker and I figured there was some sort of Rock Connection between the ugly red car with a Blood Brothers sticker and the Interpol Concert. My faith in the Gods of Rock came through. Remind me to buy a novena candle first thing tomorrow.
Of course, we had to park an almost obscene distance away. Fuck the novena candle, I'm sleeping in.
Wait an appropriate amount of time before you imagine Mumsey and I standing outside the doors of Liberty Hall, so we don't have to run.
As I walked in, some guy drew a big black "x" on each hand. His marker was one of those obnoxiously thick ones, so I ended up looking like I was some confused straight-edger who got drunk before drawing on my hands. I still maintain that my right hand "x" looks like an ice cream cone. Then I pulled mother over to the table with the t-shirts. To be honest, I'm one of those people who doesn't know what to think about band t-shirts. On one hand--the one that has the ice cream cone "x"--band shirts are a nice way to find out what kind of person you're talking to. Maybe I'm just as horrible as everyone says, but I try not to talk to people who wear a shirt that involves the Hatchetman, Linkin Park, Dashboard Confessional...you fill in the rest. But on the other hand--that would be the one with the star-like "x"--band shirts are a bad way to know what kind of person you're talking to. I hate meeting some person who is annoying in every way and then running into them a week later when they're wearing a Shins t-shirt. Not that anything like that has ever happened to me, but what if it did? Plus, a lot of the time, band shirts are just status symbol, "I'm More Indie Than Thou" things, and I'm always being accused of music elitism.
But I bought an awesome t-shirt regardless. I looked on the site, and they don't have a picture of it up, but it's got a rat with a megaphone. Is that awesome? I think it's pretty awesome. I'll take a picture of it, if anyone wants to see the rat (I'm naming it Paul--don't mock me, I'm in love) and his megaphone in all its magnificent Interpol glory.
We spent maybe twenty minutes waiting around, and I tried to people watch but most of the people there were the "hipster" types with friends and fitted tweed jackets (paired, naturally, with "outrageous!" converse sneakers) that aren't very fun to watch because they're all just standing there looking freakishly alike. I ended up studying the walls.
I'm sure that very few--if any--of you will ever visit Liberty Hall on your own, and I feel the need to tell you that there are lovely celestial paintings on the wall.
Eventually, the normal lights went down, and Blonde Redhead starting playing. And I think that's when I really started to get excited. I was standing about twenty feet away from the stage and I could feel everything. Plus, the lighting and the angle I was standing at made the drummer look like Wayne Coyne. Hey--it's true.
But I'm sick of all this exposition: Let's talk about Interpol.
Because I'm sure there's one or two people who are actually curious, I'll try to remember the songs they played (though there's no hope in remembering the order).
*Next Exit
*Not Even Jail
*C'mere (I nearly died then--I love that song)
*Evil
*Slow Hands
*Say Hello To Angels
*NYC
*Obstacle 1
*PDA
*Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down
I really did try to scream loudly when they came out. I swear. But tonight--actually, I see it was yesterday--I realized that I am incapable of screaming. Oh, sure, I can yell loudly if no one else is breathing close enough to me to cancel out my voice, but in crowds, it doesn't even sound like I'm talking. In fact, I spoke louder than I screamed during that concert. It was kind of funny, but also useful because I ended up singing/screaming the lyrics along with most of the songs. I also realized that while I always have trouble knowing what to do with my hands when I'm just "hanging out with my peeps" (or, you know, standing around), I have even more trouble knowing what to do with my hands when I'm not clapping them. I spent most of the time wringing my hands with excitement. Because of this, the Starlikex is almost completely worn off. I then went through a phase of crossing my arms, before finally opting to tug anxiously on the extra fabric in my jeans.
While I struggled with handplacementissues, two very important things happened, or more exactly, didn't happen.
The first was, unfortunately, that Leif Erikson, as you may have noticed, was not performed. I'll admit that I spent many nights listening to Leif Erikson loudly on repeat thinking, "I will hear this song live and," I don't know, "my life will gain meaning." But I'm okay with not hearing it. I mean, I'm not going to hunt down Carlos D. (who looked adorable, by the way--his hair looked better than it normally does. Less Flock Of Seagulls-y.) because he didn't listen when I called out, "LEIF ERIKSON!" And not only because as I mentioned before, I couldn't even hear myself screaming.
The second was that Paul Banks looked at me. Actually, he probably didn't but let me pretend that he did because guys never look at me and I'm in absolute nonbutyeahlove with Paul Banks (hence the naming of the rat). Paul Banks. Yay.
Oh yay, Paul Banks in a sweater looked at the part of the crowd I was standing in, anyway.
I'm just dying.
PaulBanksPaulBanksPaulBanksPaulBanks I'm sorry, but I'm your new obsessed fangirl.
I'm going to go now and think about how awesome the show was, and how maybe it'd be better to stalk Paul instead of Stephin because as much as I love Stephin Merritt...well, Paul is probably straight. Alison, Clara, Lauren--mind if we stalk Paul and Stephin?
God, this was the best thing ever.
Possibly because nothing ever happens to me.
But possibly because it just was the best thing ever.
This entry will be long.
And it will be full of fangirlish asides.
But at least three people asked for this to be in excruciating detail.
Blame them.
* * *
I guess I should start right about the time we left the hotel room. Our room is right by the little Elevator Bubble--why they have it off in its own little glass bubble, I will never know--and this group of people got off. I mention this seemingly pointless part because as we tried to squeeze past the wet mass of people dripping off the elevator (in all literal ways possible), this guy asked us out of nowhere, "Are you two Scandinavian?"
It'd make sense if either of us looked Scandinavian.
"No, we're black."
After laughing about this all the way through the elevator ride and lobby (not to mention at random times before and after the concert), we bounce out to the parking lot only to find that the car is...well, basically we scraped snow off the car. I can't really think of any way to make that sound fun.
Oh, hell.
I do love it when people leave me comments telling me how they think my entries are interesting--I never expect them and they warm my heart more effectively than any flaming arrow to the chest ever could--but I now realize how insanely dull most of the evening would be for any one reading about it. I suppose this is a warning: Even if you thought my other entries that whined a bit of being boring and useless were sort of funny, or even cute...just don't get your hopes up. Honestly.
So, we never bothered to look for Liberty Hall beforehand. I guess Mother just figured it'd be Right There, or just wanted to get to the hotel quickly so she could read her moronic romance novel. Either way, we spent most of the ride to there wondering if we were on the right street, and the other part following an ugly red car because they had a Blood Brothers sticker and I figured there was some sort of Rock Connection between the ugly red car with a Blood Brothers sticker and the Interpol Concert. My faith in the Gods of Rock came through. Remind me to buy a novena candle first thing tomorrow.
Of course, we had to park an almost obscene distance away. Fuck the novena candle, I'm sleeping in.
Wait an appropriate amount of time before you imagine Mumsey and I standing outside the doors of Liberty Hall, so we don't have to run.
As I walked in, some guy drew a big black "x" on each hand. His marker was one of those obnoxiously thick ones, so I ended up looking like I was some confused straight-edger who got drunk before drawing on my hands. I still maintain that my right hand "x" looks like an ice cream cone. Then I pulled mother over to the table with the t-shirts. To be honest, I'm one of those people who doesn't know what to think about band t-shirts. On one hand--the one that has the ice cream cone "x"--band shirts are a nice way to find out what kind of person you're talking to. Maybe I'm just as horrible as everyone says, but I try not to talk to people who wear a shirt that involves the Hatchetman, Linkin Park, Dashboard Confessional...you fill in the rest. But on the other hand--that would be the one with the star-like "x"--band shirts are a bad way to know what kind of person you're talking to. I hate meeting some person who is annoying in every way and then running into them a week later when they're wearing a Shins t-shirt. Not that anything like that has ever happened to me, but what if it did? Plus, a lot of the time, band shirts are just status symbol, "I'm More Indie Than Thou" things, and I'm always being accused of music elitism.
But I bought an awesome t-shirt regardless. I looked on the site, and they don't have a picture of it up, but it's got a rat with a megaphone. Is that awesome? I think it's pretty awesome. I'll take a picture of it, if anyone wants to see the rat (I'm naming it Paul--don't mock me, I'm in love) and his megaphone in all its magnificent Interpol glory.
We spent maybe twenty minutes waiting around, and I tried to people watch but most of the people there were the "hipster" types with friends and fitted tweed jackets (paired, naturally, with "outrageous!" converse sneakers) that aren't very fun to watch because they're all just standing there looking freakishly alike. I ended up studying the walls.
I'm sure that very few--if any--of you will ever visit Liberty Hall on your own, and I feel the need to tell you that there are lovely celestial paintings on the wall.
Eventually, the normal lights went down, and Blonde Redhead starting playing. And I think that's when I really started to get excited. I was standing about twenty feet away from the stage and I could feel everything. Plus, the lighting and the angle I was standing at made the drummer look like Wayne Coyne. Hey--it's true.
But I'm sick of all this exposition: Let's talk about Interpol.
Because I'm sure there's one or two people who are actually curious, I'll try to remember the songs they played (though there's no hope in remembering the order).
*Next Exit
*Not Even Jail
*C'mere (I nearly died then--I love that song)
*Evil
*Slow Hands
*Say Hello To Angels
*NYC
*Obstacle 1
*PDA
*Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down
I really did try to scream loudly when they came out. I swear. But tonight--actually, I see it was yesterday--I realized that I am incapable of screaming. Oh, sure, I can yell loudly if no one else is breathing close enough to me to cancel out my voice, but in crowds, it doesn't even sound like I'm talking. In fact, I spoke louder than I screamed during that concert. It was kind of funny, but also useful because I ended up singing/screaming the lyrics along with most of the songs. I also realized that while I always have trouble knowing what to do with my hands when I'm just "hanging out with my peeps" (or, you know, standing around), I have even more trouble knowing what to do with my hands when I'm not clapping them. I spent most of the time wringing my hands with excitement. Because of this, the Starlikex is almost completely worn off. I then went through a phase of crossing my arms, before finally opting to tug anxiously on the extra fabric in my jeans.
While I struggled with handplacementissues, two very important things happened, or more exactly, didn't happen.
The first was, unfortunately, that Leif Erikson, as you may have noticed, was not performed. I'll admit that I spent many nights listening to Leif Erikson loudly on repeat thinking, "I will hear this song live and," I don't know, "my life will gain meaning." But I'm okay with not hearing it. I mean, I'm not going to hunt down Carlos D. (who looked adorable, by the way--his hair looked better than it normally does. Less Flock Of Seagulls-y.) because he didn't listen when I called out, "LEIF ERIKSON!" And not only because as I mentioned before, I couldn't even hear myself screaming.
The second was that Paul Banks looked at me. Actually, he probably didn't but let me pretend that he did because guys never look at me and I'm in absolute nonbutyeahlove with Paul Banks (hence the naming of the rat). Paul Banks. Yay.
Oh yay, Paul Banks in a sweater looked at the part of the crowd I was standing in, anyway.
I'm just dying.
PaulBanksPaulBanksPaulBanksPaulBanks I'm sorry, but I'm your new obsessed fangirl.
I'm going to go now and think about how awesome the show was, and how maybe it'd be better to stalk Paul instead of Stephin because as much as I love Stephin Merritt...well, Paul is probably straight. Alison, Clara, Lauren--mind if we stalk Paul and Stephin?
God, this was the best thing ever.
Possibly because nothing ever happens to me.
But possibly because it just was the best thing ever.