shoo
On return from the Xiu Xiu show I was in a sour state; I've never had to walk out of a concert before. Paying ten bucks for a joke is one thing. I'm down with that. I'm a cool dude. But if the joke is to be on me, I'd like it to be at least funny, for ten bucks.
Blake, as usual, saved me from malaise. See, Becky had been cagedly gazing around the bar for the set's duration (I was mesmerised by the contrast between shit and what I expected -- Beck, expectationless, just got bored), and she noticed him as he lined up for beer. That jerked me solidly back to a place where I could do things other than hate Xiu Xiu.
Foreshadowing: like hate Blake.
We absconded. Blake mentioned that he got in without paying, because the door people had left the room entirely to watch the show. I hate Blake, he really is a nob.
So you'll be pleased to jump ahead to the next chapter, wherein Becky leaves, and Blake goes off in a maelstrom of incoherent (but compelling) convincing and I find myself scuttled into the corner at the Banclan's dirty house. (B.A.N. : Bunk Ass Nigga.
Speaking of hate. I hate parties where the 'goers do nothing but talk about being drunk. This one got a paradigm shift, however, when a chubby little bong (too tarry to touch, too leaky to fill, and at least 40% duct tape by weight) was brought out. Soon the conversation turned to marijuanical musings. One faction held that pot was the superior of the two intoxicants. The drunker group maintained the opposite. Voices, already being raised, remained unchanged. I should have jumped in and said both were boring. Thing is, they already found me a nerdish wallflower, for not saying anything at all to any of them. So I could have at least brought sparks to the air, without fear of my rep slipping. Eventually I took to the road. Is it a faux pa to duck out the side without saying goodbye, if you haven't said hello?
When I say I hate Blake, what I mean is that Blake and I are very different people.
So, I was saying: Xiu Xiu tricked me, by means of the studio, into thinking they were a band. Live, they were vapid and affectless. They had a few dozen odd instruments (dulcimers, triangles, et al), seven kitschy old amps, no songs, no desire to give a shit, and only shit to give. Half the band was some chick (she wasn't even hot, she looked like a guy) who hit precious-looking percussion sets and squoze accordion lines without so much as regard to how the song went. She seemed incredibly bored, beneath us. Most of the time, one hand was dangling at her side. Anyone from the audience could have stepped in and done her job better. The only thing pulling its weight was the hypermodern sequencer.
The emperor's hornrimmed indie-nerd glasses are not glass, but cellophane. Also, his pants are down, and shit is coming out of his butt.
Blake, as usual, saved me from malaise. See, Becky had been cagedly gazing around the bar for the set's duration (I was mesmerised by the contrast between shit and what I expected -- Beck, expectationless, just got bored), and she noticed him as he lined up for beer. That jerked me solidly back to a place where I could do things other than hate Xiu Xiu.
Foreshadowing: like hate Blake.
We absconded. Blake mentioned that he got in without paying, because the door people had left the room entirely to watch the show. I hate Blake, he really is a nob.
So you'll be pleased to jump ahead to the next chapter, wherein Becky leaves, and Blake goes off in a maelstrom of incoherent (but compelling) convincing and I find myself scuttled into the corner at the Banclan's dirty house. (B.A.N. : Bunk Ass Nigga.
Speaking of hate. I hate parties where the 'goers do nothing but talk about being drunk. This one got a paradigm shift, however, when a chubby little bong (too tarry to touch, too leaky to fill, and at least 40% duct tape by weight) was brought out. Soon the conversation turned to marijuanical musings. One faction held that pot was the superior of the two intoxicants. The drunker group maintained the opposite. Voices, already being raised, remained unchanged. I should have jumped in and said both were boring. Thing is, they already found me a nerdish wallflower, for not saying anything at all to any of them. So I could have at least brought sparks to the air, without fear of my rep slipping. Eventually I took to the road. Is it a faux pa to duck out the side without saying goodbye, if you haven't said hello?
When I say I hate Blake, what I mean is that Blake and I are very different people.
So, I was saying: Xiu Xiu tricked me, by means of the studio, into thinking they were a band. Live, they were vapid and affectless. They had a few dozen odd instruments (dulcimers, triangles, et al), seven kitschy old amps, no songs, no desire to give a shit, and only shit to give. Half the band was some chick (she wasn't even hot, she looked like a guy) who hit precious-looking percussion sets and squoze accordion lines without so much as regard to how the song went. She seemed incredibly bored, beneath us. Most of the time, one hand was dangling at her side. Anyone from the audience could have stepped in and done her job better. The only thing pulling its weight was the hypermodern sequencer.
The emperor's hornrimmed indie-nerd glasses are not glass, but cellophane. Also, his pants are down, and shit is coming out of his butt.