Last night I had high aspirations of a rare two-show/one-night venture. I went to the Fillmore to see Chester French, but they played earlier than quoted and I missed the set. I was confused when I got there and asked the older black security guard if anyone had played yet and he sniffed, “A few skinny white boys. They was good.” I found this amusing, and frustrating that I didn’t get to see them myself. I had time and stayed for N.E.R.D., then headed to the loud, uplifting rock-and-gospel sounds of Spiritualized. It was quite the head-swirling show.
The Foo Fighters at Red Rocks were loud last night — some of the highest decibel levels I’ve heard in a while (I’m not complaining, I just can’t hear you).
It’s obvious to anyone who has seen these guys that Dave Grohl simply adores being a frontman, and has found his calling in life. His affability greased the wheels of the show and trickled into everything they performed — it was such a fun night. Musically it was a treat to watch Taylor Hawkins (the man, the myth, the machine) and Pat Smear (formerly of The Germs) play, as well as the two kickass women on their impressive stringed instruments (a cello and a violin methinks, but I was never an orchestra kid so it could be, like, a viola or something).
A lot of sentiments seem to diminish and dissipate through daily life as we grow up into adults who hold jobs, buy groceries and maybe even do responsible things like invest a fraction of our paychecks into some Orange ING account somewhere.
Me, I was once 15 and I once listened to a lot of Nine Inch Nails. Whole worlds of emotion, rage, angst, sex, God, fear and doubt all unveiled themselves to me through albums like Pretty Hate Machine and The Downward Spiral. And now I’m 29 with a whole lot more living behind me, and even as life looks so different, there’s still something in me that is drawn to the stuff Trent Reznor is creating. I was surprised by that last night, in the unseasonably crisp night air of Red Rocks.
Nine Inch Nails has not gone anywhere, I am very aware of that, and of all the inventive and intelligent music that Reznor continues to produce (even bucking the commercial norms by releasing his latest album The Slip for absolute free). But I will admit that my affinity for regularly listening to him has waned, partly in the face of so much other new music and also partly because I’m occupied with things like acoustic singer-songwriters with soaring harmonies. I have, in a word, gone a bit soft.
Reznor is not only a sonic genius, but he is a man who scribes some of the most ragingly incisive and achingly honest lyrics of anyone out there. At last night’s sold-out show, NIN absolutely blew me away with a dazzling, LOUD, intense performance. My friend Adam saw them last month; it was his 22nd show and he’d place it in the top 3. This was my first actual Nine Inch Nails show (saw Trent acoustic in 2006), so count my face as summarily melted — definitely one of the best rock shows I’ve seen in years.
The one thing I didn’t expect was how I felt a churning, pent-up intensity building somewhere in my gut throughout the show — a simultaneous tension and physical catharsis, a release. There’s something irreplicable about yelling along with 10,000 people to lyrics like, “I wanna break it up, I wanna smash it up, I wanna fuck it up, I wanna watch it go down” (when seriously the last thing I broke was a favorite pint glass, on accident). I didn’t expect it to all feel so real.
The current band lineup (Freese, Finck, Meldal-Johnson, Cortini) helps Trent make some of the most blistering industrial rock music you can see in concert these days. They also did it while looking damn amazing. The light show aspect of the night was nothing short of breathtaking — between shimmering LED curtains of white that repelled away from Trent’s body and he moved closer, to sound bars of blue that rose and fell across the front of the stage through Trent’s taunts of “Hey pig piggie pig…” — it was unparalleled. We felt like kids, the way my friend and I kept oohing and aahing whenever the display made our jaws drop once again.
If the groundbreaking Pretty Hate Machine was released in 1989, that means next year it will be 20. But even stretching back to the beginning, the songs that NIN performed from that record last night sounded as vital and current to me as anything I hear on the radio — nay, more vital, more current. I have always appreciated Trent’s vulnerability in his lyrics, and going live through the ebb and flow of spiritual questioning with him on songs like “Terrible Lie” still got me. For all the hatred and anger in that song (“You made me throw it all away, my morals left to decay…” ) he then flips immediately to a childlike pleading, “I want so much to believe.” It was something of a masterpiece then and it still felt that way last night.
Check out this mysterious video that just surfaced of “Down In It” into “Head Like A Hole” – no lie, I just got goosebumps watching it again:
There was an oasis in the middle of the set where the band recreated the spectral sonic landscapes of the Ghosts I-IV instrumental album and got all prog-rock with ukeleles, marimbas and heaving symphonies of string instruments. Some would call it indulgent, but I thought it fascinating. Now if only they’d found a way to put “The Perfect Drug” (possibly my favorite NIN song) somewhere in the set…
NINE INCH NAILS RED ROCKS SETLIST, SEPT 2, 2008 999,999 1,000,000 Letting You Discipline March Of The Pigs Head Down The Frail Closer Gave Up Me, I’m Not Vessel The Great Destroyer 5 Ghosts III 6 Ghosts II 19 Ghosts III Piggy (Ghosts remake) The Greater Good Pinion Wish Terrible Lie Survivalism 31 Ghosts IV Only Down In It Head Like A Hole Reptile God Given Hurt In This Twilight
In the closing moments of the show, after Trent talked about both how much he loves playing Red Rocks (“Tonight, I can see every single one of your faces”) and how unseasonably cold it was (“I don’t even know if I match, I just put on everything I own”), NIN stripped it all back and the almost-hesitant opening notes of “Hurt” floated over the sea of people.
So maybe it was just me, and the very specific and personal things about my night last night, but I don’t want to forget sentiments like the beautifully sad ones that Trent surgically excises. For as many times as I’ve heard “Hurt” on the radio, I felt such a huge and surprising resonance as Trent and then the whole crowd passionately swore, “If I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself, I would find a way.”
As I approached from blocks away, the crowd was spilling in the street as they waited to get in through the half-lowered garage door entrance. A converted police car flashed multimedia exhibits onto the faded warehouse wall, with music pulsing loud enough to be heard at the Convention Center. Pandemonium!
Inside the thousand-degree gallery, I did some general browsing of the political artwork covering the walls, and then the requisite gawking and people-watching (most eclectic crowd ever – mixing political pinstripes with the indie kids and watching them try to dance side-by-side). This non-Dem was admittedly a little creeped out by a few of the near-deistic portrayals of Obama in various painted settings; a friend and I were talking about how we felt like we’d entered his shrine. But overall it was a cool expression of passion and commitment by the artists who contributed, with a few ace lighthearted inclusions (Stephen Colbert! Slaying evil!).
Comedienne Sarah Silverman started things off with her hilariously deadpan ruminations on the convention and the election, and she was dipped into an enthusiastic two-armed welcome (totally almost like this) by San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom (SCU Broncos represent!). Newsom then introduced Seattle’s mayor Greg Nickels, and after many words and rousing rhetoric, the five musicians finally climbed onto the small stage. Throughout the 70-minute show each artist took turns on lead, with various duets, group singalongs and covers. It was lighthearted and felt like a rare living-room collaboration.
This Is Not A Test (live 8/2/08, Newport Folk) – Zooey Deschanel & M. Ward Zooey was completely charming, and performed this song with her guitar. Halfway through she stopped abruptly and laughed at a small mistake she made, saying it was the first time she’d ever played guitar in public since she usually rocks the piano.
Love Hurts – Gram Parsons & Emmylou Harris Johnathan Rice and Jenny Lewis sang this ’70s staple, and in a move of complete awesomeness, they dedicated it to Obama and Hillary.
Little Boxes (Malvina Reynolds cover) – Jenny Lewis & Johnathan Rice They didn’t sing this song. But they did lots of duets together, all lovey and gazing into each other’s indie-alt-country-couple eyes, and sounding good.
See These Bones (live on MOKB Sirius) – Nada Surf I loved every note and word that spilled from Matthew Caws last night (recall my fondness). I was unabashed dork fangirl, coincidentally ending up right at Matthew’s feet for the set, and I didn’t even bother to check my singalong enthusiasm. He kept eying me in bemusement as I sang “the lights of this city are more or less blinking…” with possibly more enthusiasm than he did.
Weightless (live on Leno) – Nada Surf You know those gorgeous Beach Boys harmonies at the end of this song? Picture the full gallery crowd and those other four voices on stage all swelling together behind Caws’ lead vocals. Jenny Lewis admirably played band leader, cupping her hand around her ear and waving her arms in encouragement. Nada Surf drummer Ira Elliott stood off to the right (in front of that massive Obama/Lincoln meld) and kept time with fancy claps for the whole song. You can take the drummer off the stage …
Cath (live at BBC6) – Ben Gibbard This song appeared on last night’s setlist but was substituted with “Sound of Settling,” which was great by me because we all got to “Ba baaa! Ba baaa!” heartily instead.
Military Madness (live 10-22-06, Bridge School) – Death Cab for Cutie, Gillian Welch, Neil Young The five musicians closed with this Graham Nash cover about military madness and solitary sadness. Ben Gibbard led on the piano, and despite one false ending (another chorus? should we stop? let’s do both) it was a stirring closer. This live mp3 is one I saw at the Bridge School Benefit in CA a few years ago with a slightly different lineup. ZIP: UNCONVENTIONAL ’08
Last night eight of us made the three-hour drive up to the mountain town of Steamboat Springs to see these North Carolina siblings perform. I came at the behest of a friend who saw them once, said they changed his life, and proceeded to see them ten times on one tour. Last night was his eleventh show, and the fans there all seemed to possess similar levels of devotion. Although the music finds its roots in a backwoods-bluegrass kind of heritage, the show felt more like a punk rock performance in the spirit and the energy, the yell-out-loud immediacy. More than anything, I stood there happily perplexed for the first several songs as my neurons fired and tried to categorize a performance that defied it. This is their performance of Paranoia in Bb Major:
Scott and Seth Avett look like they stumbled in from the same cabin that Ray LaMontagne lived in out in southwestern Maine, and they seemed right at home in the small auditorium all open along the walls to the green hills covered in wildflowers. Their voices combine flawlessly, as only siblings can, whether they are shouting out one of their foot-stomping numbers or weaving a gorgeous dirge backed by a string duo. As they stand, Seth plays the hi-hat with one foot, and Scott has a kick drum – and the urgency pounds out while they strum as hard as they can.
I kept warning my friends that if they played “If It’s The Beaches” I just might cry and wouldn’t be able to help it (and who wants to cry on their birthday, really). That song slays me for so many reasons, both for they way it echoes some personal disappointments in my life, but also the immensely beautiful sadness and love that it captures in the pure lyrics. After a set that completely satisfied, they came out for the final song of the encore and launched into “If It’s The Beaches.” Dammit, I found those big fat tears slipping out unallowed from my eyes, but don’t tell anyone. But you know, even though I was crying (just a little!) on my birthday, it was a beautiful moment on an amazingly beautiful night and I didn’t mind.
The Avetts are back in Colorado for Monolith in a few weeks, and then they have dozens of other shows coming up. Seriously. You must go. An incredible, visceral, unclassifiable performance.
I return from the warm and open arms of the Denver Post Underground Music Showcase this weekend with an invigorated and genuine excitement about the music that is being made in this fine state. I heard some incredible stuff. Even if you live nowhere near Denver, take a listen to what my weekend was like because there are acts that I feel could be nationally noteworthy right now out of the Denver scene.
The festival was a screaming success on the sweltering hot streets. Even after going to about a jillion large-scale music festivals, I’ve never yet been to one that was so cohesive, well-constructed, and uniquely local. The model for this weekend should be recreated at cities around the world who don’t already have something like this in place. As they say, “because your life needs a soundtrack, and because your life is richer and more rewarding when that soundtrack reflects where you live.”
Just a few of the most vivid Fuel/Friends highlights of the weekend:
Young Coyotes at Indy Ink. The buzz on the street after this trio performed with no mics in a small independent print shop was deafening. Tipped by some as having the potential to be the next huge band out of Denver, the Young Coyotes were everything I’d hoped for and more, with their ferocious primal drum backbone (two guys playing), chimey melodies, and shout-out-loud vocals that made my blood pulse hot and happy. I was singing this song for the rest of the day:
Chain Gang of 1974 at the Rule Gallery of Contemporary and Modern Art. In a starkly cool setting, this duo transformed the room into a dance party where our biggest concern became trying not fall into the artwork. I’ve never danced in a gallery before, but this stuff was absolutely irresistible. The drummer from Young Coyotes reprised his awesomeness for this set too. Make sure to catch them at Monolith.
Hearts of Palm at the Hi-Dive. I was struck by how passionate and vocal a following this collective has, obviously due to how enthusiastically they give back to us all. The Hi-Dive was humid and electric, echoing along with everyone singing at the top of their lungs, “We have no water here and everybody knows it!!” That may have been the first time I’d seen a local band with that degree of communal singalong support. They played most, if not all, of their newest free EP and blew us all away.
Everything Absent Or Distorted (plus friends) at the CarToys outdoor stage. Although it was a bit of bad news for my friends trying to coordinate this fest, the cops were called on the noise levels for the outdoor stage shortly before the Everything Absent Or Distorted collective came on with some additional members. But maybe it’s not really a party until someone calls the cops. EAOD played their widescreen, angular indie rock, those fluid melodies mixed with an on-edge sensibility. They then tantalized this cover-loving girl with a handful of great ones, including early Arcade Fire (a sound not too far removed from their own) and “Glad Girls” by Guided by Voices.
Aaron Collins @ Rock The Cradle. A boutique that hawks Johnny Cash onesies, retro board games and Nine Inch Nails lullaby cover CDs, Rock The Cradle caters to the hip parent crowd. One of the first shows I saw on Friday afternoon was Machine Gun Blues’ Aaron Collins performing (clothed, so as not to scare the younguns) a melodic and charming solo set. His unselfconscious use of repeated words to underscore a kind of vocal percussion, along with his elegant and shimmering keyboard melodies made me hope that he continues in this vein even if Machine Gun Blues is almost defunct.
Rachael Pollard and friends at the Kabal Rug Kilm. Speaking of Nine Inch Nails covers, a highly unlikely one (“Down In It” done like a 1930s flapper?!) popped up at the most gorgeously cool venue of the weekend. This loft-like Persian rug gallery was temporarily converted into a singer-songwriter stage for solo artists and some fantastic collaborations, such as this one with Pollard, Gregory Alan Isakov and Julie Davis from Bela Karoli. While we lounged around on stacks of $35,000 rugs (don’t spill that beer), a steady stream of Colorado musicians plucked, strung, and hummed their lovely songs. It all took on a near-mystical air in that setting. The festival did an exceptional job of lining up original groupings of artists collaborating with those from other bands, which lent a great spirit of local pride and the making of something unique together.
Crazy For You – Rachael Pollard (charming little song)
Stop Making Sense flickering on a brick wall. Very late Saturday night, you could hear David Byrne’s voice ringing up and down the boulevard from the parking lot of an otherwise dark bank, forgotten at that hour of fiscal irresponsibility. The folks at the Denver Film Society arranged a guerilla screening of the Jonathan Demme classic, and it was simply beautiful. Until the sprinklers came on, and then everyone just moved back and it was still beautiful, just wet.
Everyone who played in the South Broadway Christian Church. This was another gorgeous venue staffed by incredibly cheerful and kind church members. I almost expected a covered-dish potluck. The acoustics were crystalline, the surroundings divine. Using the church was a great idea, and I hear God totally didn’t even mind.
Sputnik Motown brunch and the Velvet Elvis pancake breakfast. A good festival loves you from the time you arrive until the time you leave, especially when you are at your most vulnerable. When the morning comes with its dreadfully bright light, you need a greasy breakfast — and you don’t want to have to work for it. Both days we ate like royalty, first at Sputnik with the DJ spinning a vast and amazingly impressive collection of Motown 7″ records, and then Sunday at 3 Kings with a live Elvis cover band, bottomless mimosas, and fresh-made pancakes from a little griddle behind the bar. O, that I could have my breakfasts soundtracked every morning by “Hunka Hunka Burnin Love” and “Hound Dog.” [pic via]
And as is always the case, there were dozens of bands I didn’t get a chance to see, and some I’ll be featuring in greater depth at a later date (many are playing the Meadowlark Fest Aug 21-23). Whew! I’m exhausted.
Last night at The Faint was a hot show in every sense of the word. It was frenzied and frantic, all sweaty moshing all-ages and pulsing, pounding, electronic/new-wave indie rock. I needed that.
All my pictures are up on Facebook, shot tentatively on my handy dandy new Canon Rebel XTi, a humblingly-tremendous early birthday present from my family. Watch out! I plan on having fun with this thing.
CONTEST UPDATE: The new album also came out yesterday, and the randomly selected winner of The Faint vinyl contest is Josh — Josh, let me know where to have it sent!
I’ve finagled, bargained, wheedled, and slunk my way into some pretty tough shows over the years, but let me tell you: Denver’s Hi-Dive was no country for procrastinators last night at the Fleet Foxes show.
I’d waited too long to secure a spot to review this scruffy Seattle quintet, shortsightedly not expecting a rare total sell-out crowd at the intimate Hi-Dive. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such a crowd looking for spare tickets outside that venue, and it was only through a stroke of sheer last-minute luck, a guy named Kevin, and his Austrian exchange-student friend that I managed to get into this show. I was surprised but pleased at how hotly anticipated the Fleet Foxes’ Denver stop was last night — and how it lived up to the hype.
Once inside the humid oven of the club, the air was saturated with their gorgeous golden harmonies and near-ethereal shimmering songs, firmly rooted in a sort of Appalachian wilderness. I wish that they’d played longer, but with only one EP and a recently released full-length to pull from, they seemed to be climbing down off the stage way sooner than I would have liked. I was reminded of a sentiment in the Pitchfork review of their album when they wrote that “[the last song] doesn’t shoo you out the door. Instead, Fleet Foxes let you linger for a few more bars, leaning forward to catch Pecknold’s last syllable as it fades into the air. They don’t seem to want the record to end any more than you will.” I felt the same way at the end of this show.
The mood in the air was at once vibrating with a sort of CSNY-tinged nostalgia while also bringing to mind obvious contemporaries like Band of Horses. I’d rank their performance as nothing short of mesmerizing, the weight of it seeming to push back against the space in the room in almost palpable ways. Fleet Foxes also apparently liked Denver so much that they decided to stay with us an extra day today (sorry, SLC!).
OH! If you want to see some real-deal gorgeous pictures from last night, please check the fabulous Laurie Scavo’s shots. Even though I usually tend to think of Fleet Foxes’ music in shades of golden, all the reds and purples that she captures in her pictures seem so fitting to how it all felt last night.
For listening, I particularly love both of these songs:
Fleet Foxes are currently on tour (catch them! do it! buy in advance!), including some shows with Wilco. Their MySpace page adds a wonderful bit of their inner-monologue detail to these dates:
Sunday dawned even hotter than Saturday at the Mile High Music Festival (we didn’t think it was possible after the sweat and simmer of Saturday). In Colorado we usually get a rocky mountain high of mid 80s, with a rare foray into the 90s. So when the mercury hit 100+, it felt like a wave from an oven to this California girl who has forgotten what it means to perspire like that. The crowds were also more intense on Sunday, with several thousand more hardy souls fortifying themselves in the beer garden, filling up their water bottles, and slathering on the sunscreen.
The musical lineup Sunday was also more consistently solid, other than a lull right in the middle of the afternoon, when I was hard-pressed to find a single band that was worth peeling myself off the lawn for. This was one of the only downfalls of the MHMF — the bands were spaced out so that there was sometimes no choice #2 running simultaneously with the band you had no interest in seeing.
After regrettably missing The Whigs and Ingrid Michaelson (who I hear both turned in excellent performances), the first act I saw was the gypsy-flamenco sounds of former thrash-metal bandmates from Mexico City, Rodrigo y Gabriela. I was mightily impressed by this pair and the pulsing, ebbing, wildly romantic sounds that they coaxed from their pair of guitars. Through a combination of finger-picking, fierce strumming, and thumping a variety of beats on the wooden guitar bodies, this duo wove a rich set of moving music. They were also statuesque to photograph, especially the truly lovely Gabriela who evinced strength and grace like a piece of (really talented) artwork.
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals knocked the crowd (and all the photographers) flat with her soulful wails and gorgeous confidence that reminded me of Janis Joplin. After starting her set with two songs seated behind a keyboard, writhing on the seat and tossing her head back in near-orgasmic ecstasy, Grace stood up, grabbed a flying-V guitar and rocked out with her bespectacled guitarist to the sounds of the turbulent “Stop The Bus” from her latest album. I was singing that song all the rest of the day (and on the long drive home to keep myself awake).
Is it Grace Potter or is it a Vidal Sassoon commercial?
I got sidetracked by a wild concert promoter on my way to catch Denver’s own Flobots, and then couldn’t fight my way into the photographers pit (but Julio did). After watching their genre-melding set of politically-charged rap, alt-rock, and string instruments, I decided to hoof it over and find out how long John Mayer will, in fact, wait for the world to change.
Next up was a funk-laden, wild set from Philadelphia’s The Roots. The seven members were all over the stage, strutting and writhing their way through lengthy improvisations and a cover of Dylan’s “Masters of War” that clocked in at over ten minutes. The guitarist jumped out of his shoes at one point, and if I had to blow breath like that tuba player for an hour I think I’d pass out. They were absolutely awesome (?uestloooove!) and one of the clear highlights of the festival. The tent was packed to bursting, with the crowds spilling out dozens of feet onto the surrounding lawn.
I had to go all Prefontaine to hustle it over to see The Black Crowes strut, swagger, and wail their Southern rock. Through the haze of what obviously must have been incense, Chris and Rich Robinson + band (including a pair of gospel-singing ladies) wove a tight web of tunes for an enthusiastic crowd. The field erupted in a wave of hippie dances to the sound of gems like “Remedy” and “Soul Singing,” with plenty of guitar noodling and swinging hips on stage.
Dave Matthews Band turned in the most visually impressive set of the fest as the closer, with a curtain of lights obscuring the stage that slowly raised during the first song (the slow build and crest of “Don’t Drink The Water”), as a montage of images flashed between circus-bright bulbs. I had many interesting conversations throughout the weekend with friends, trying to guess who liked DMB at one time. A lot of us actually did (some refused to admit it, or claimed to like them for “about one minute” or “back in 1992 when they were so unknown”). I’ll admit to liking quite a few of the tunes off their first records — okay and by that I mean knowing them by heart. I’ll cop to it. DMB is nothing if not enthusiastic performers, and I pleased with their extended version of “Two Step” and loved #41 (now how about “Lie In Our Graves” or “Pay For What You Get”?). They were joined on stage by friend of the band Tim Reynolds, and played long into the night (closing with a Sly Stone cover) for the satisfied and damn sweaty attendees.
Finally, a few other parting shots: Great t-shirts…
…public art, lit on fire at sunset…
…and the enthusiastic crowds glowing the twilight.
The inaugural Mile High Music Festival brought massive-scale concert enjoyment to Colorado this weekend. An estimated 80,000 festival attendees from all over the nation and beyond (Canada?) descended on the endlessly stretching, sun-baked green of the fields at Dick’s Sporting Goods Park on the eastern outskirts of Denver.
My hundred-degree Saturday started a bit belatedly (pitchers of cider called to me on a shady patio and I missed a few early day bands) with my favorite performance. The astoundingly rich Josh Ritter exploded through the more “rocking” of his folk songs (this meant no Thin Blue Flame, no Temptation of Adam sadly) and wowed the crowd with his incisive lyricism and ebullient joy in performance.
Oh, I heart you Josh Ritter.
Andrew Bird was next up, with his elegant orchestral pop songs that swirl around the otherworldly sound of his trademark whistling. My friend perceptively noted that this “instrument” of Bird’s whistle actually sounds a lot like a theremin, something I’d not previously realized but is absolutely true. Under the shade of the Bison Tent stage, Bird kicked off his blue shoes and strutted his tiny wiry frame around in multicolored striped socks. The silver double-head phonograph spun, dizzily. The crowd shouted their approval.
And finally Tom Pettyswooped in with his embroidered jacket and dozens of songs you forgot you knew every word to by heart. He finished off night one in grand style.
Festivalgoers shuffled exhausted out to our cars to get ready for day two . . .
Name: Heather Browne Location: Colorado, originally by way of California Giving context to the torrent since 2005.
"I love the relationship that anyone has with music: because there's something in us that is beyond the reach of words, something that eludes and defies our best attempts to spit it out. It's the best part of us, probably, the richest and strangest part..."
—Nick Hornby, Songbook
"Music has always been a matter of energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel." —Hunter S. Thompson
Mp3s are for sampling purposes, kinda like when they give you the cheese cube at Costco, knowing that you'll often go home with having bought the whole 7 lb. spiced Brie log. They are left up for a limited time. If you LIKE the music, go and support these artists, buy their schwag, go to their concerts, purchase their CDs/records and tell all your friends. Rock on.
Last night I had high aspirations of a rare two-show/one-night venture. I went to the Fillmore to see Chester French, but they played earlier than quoted and I missed the set. I was confused when I got there and asked the older black security guard if anyone had played yet and he sniffed, “A few skinny white boys. They was good.” I found this amusing, and frustrating that I didn’t get to see them myself. I had time and stayed for N.E.R.D., then headed to the loud, uplifting rock-and-gospel sounds of Spiritualized. It was quite the head-swirling show.
Name: Heather Browne
