Miike Snow
Michelle Yeo (no.17, not 35) came to Boston last weekend. She's in Smith College, and unlike us they get A WHOLE HALF WEEK OFF for fall break. So she came, with one thing in mind: me the Miike Snow concert in the House of Blues. I, being a very nice person (but of course), accomodated her during that time. (Plus my roommate is off at her hubby's place every weekend anyways. I do occasionally need human company.)
Confession time: my teenage years have passed without attendance at a single concert. I don't mean suit-up sit-down classical music concerts. You know, the kind with mosh pits. What the hell do people do in mosh pits anyway, I thought. Mosh? Get drunk? Grind? Make out? Pass out and get sent to the hospital escorted by a fleet of ambulances? I've heard stories: a kid saw a bunch of fans removed on stretchers after some show, and heard someone say, "You know it's a good concert when somebody bleeds." Listening to music seems like the last thing these strange people do.
But Michelle no. 17 went to these things, man. And she remains a picture of angelic sweetness and innocence, even after all this time. How bad could it be?
So I went with her to my first concert in 21 years.
We took a while to find the place. First I managed to get lost on my own campus (everything looks different at night, I swear!), and then thanks to Google Maps we got off at the wrong T stop. But we made it, just in time, and we didn't have to sit through the opening act.
Miike Snow's music sounds like this. Listen to, say, Animal. Now take that and multiply that by say a hundred*, throw in a couple pulsating lights, a crowd of bopping heads and sloshing cups of Blue Ribbon. Oh, then factor in the resonant frequencies of my jeans and intestines. It's quite interesting, really; at lower frequencies I can feel my jeans vibrating at peak amplitude. If you go higher up my various internal organs will start vibrating violently in turn. I burped quite a bit afterwards; there must be some kind of link between intestinal vibration and flatulence. Even more fun: we were sitting on metal railings to see over inconveniently placed tall people, and they vibrated at certain frequencies too. Against my thighs.
Yummy. (Nah, just kidding. My butt was too numb to feel anything.)
I didn't see any bleeding people. Does that mean it wasn't a good concert? I was a little blinded, a little bit deaf, a little bit sore, but damn I'd do it again. (Anything's better than doing nothing on a Sunday night. I had no homework left :( )
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*well, loudness in decibels is measured with a logarithmic scale but you get the idea. Right? Right.
**Oh and then I took her to that lobster place and she treated me to lobster! Yay. :D I just came back from the Boston Book Festival... but of course that post will go up a week late, as usual.
Confession time: my teenage years have passed without attendance at a single concert. I don't mean suit-up sit-down classical music concerts. You know, the kind with mosh pits. What the hell do people do in mosh pits anyway, I thought. Mosh? Get drunk? Grind? Make out? Pass out and get sent to the hospital escorted by a fleet of ambulances? I've heard stories: a kid saw a bunch of fans removed on stretchers after some show, and heard someone say, "You know it's a good concert when somebody bleeds." Listening to music seems like the last thing these strange people do.
But Michelle no. 17 went to these things, man. And she remains a picture of angelic sweetness and innocence, even after all this time. How bad could it be?
So I went with her to my first concert in 21 years.
We took a while to find the place. First I managed to get lost on my own campus (everything looks different at night, I swear!), and then thanks to Google Maps we got off at the wrong T stop. But we made it, just in time, and we didn't have to sit through the opening act.
Miike Snow's music sounds like this. Listen to, say, Animal. Now take that and multiply that by say a hundred*, throw in a couple pulsating lights, a crowd of bopping heads and sloshing cups of Blue Ribbon. Oh, then factor in the resonant frequencies of my jeans and intestines. It's quite interesting, really; at lower frequencies I can feel my jeans vibrating at peak amplitude. If you go higher up my various internal organs will start vibrating violently in turn. I burped quite a bit afterwards; there must be some kind of link between intestinal vibration and flatulence. Even more fun: we were sitting on metal railings to see over inconveniently placed tall people, and they vibrated at certain frequencies too. Against my thighs.
Yummy. (Nah, just kidding. My butt was too numb to feel anything.)
I didn't see any bleeding people. Does that mean it wasn't a good concert? I was a little blinded, a little bit deaf, a little bit sore, but damn I'd do it again. (Anything's better than doing nothing on a Sunday night. I had no homework left :( )
---
*well, loudness in decibels is measured with a logarithmic scale but you get the idea. Right? Right.
**Oh and then I took her to that lobster place and she treated me to lobster! Yay. :D I just came back from the Boston Book Festival... but of course that post will go up a week late, as usual.