Hammers, last night the GRAMMY AWARD WINNING Arcade Fire played on the Dartmouth Waterfront and as one might expect, it was solid - spectacular even. They played everything you would have expected them to play, from the opening track of The Suburbs to Tunnels to Power Out to Lies to Keep The Car Running and Wake Up and Sprawl II. And more. There was much earnest "ohhhhhhh ohhhhh"-ing and dancing and clapping and people swaying and singing along to the chirping/droning string arrangements. Propulsive beats. Depressing lyrics. Noisy codas. Megaphones. Theremins. Flashing lights. Sparkly dresses. And Will Butler screaming, running and bouncing around the stage like an indie rock Flavour Flav. They was tight, and the crowd of thousands expressed their appreciation accordingly (but not too much - this is Halifax after all). And the venue, Alderney Landing, is perhaps the most perfectest place to watch a concert in HRM... unless you are short, as Terri and I are (fortunately we navigated our way stageward, past lanky Captain Tim fairly early on).
Now, reading the above you might think that Aaron left the concert happy and satisfied and exhausted, and you would be mostly right, but you would also be about... 3% incorrect. See, I had fairly lofty expectations for this show, which had been steadily building (my expectations, that is) since Pitchfork broke the band in the early aughties. Frankly, I wanted nothing short of a religious experience. I wanted shivers and goosebumps and tears and transcendence - and if any band is currently capable of providing such an experience, it is Arcade Fire. For all the times I have shamelessly screamed along to the wordless chorus of Wake Up, alone in my car; for all of the hyperbole heaped upon the band and their live show over the years; for all the Youtube performances I have watched in envy... it was as if my entire post-Napster life had been building to this one evening, and one could not help but be a little underwhelmed. I wanted CATHARSIS, and I wanted to experience this catharsis with hundreds of other like-minded, equally-stressed fanboys and fangirls. Perhaps we were standing too far away. Perhaps the crowd of unfunky white folks with weird body shapes and second hand eyeglasses and fitted plaids with pearly snaps (mine is navy blue) weren't up to the task. Maybe I was too self-aware. Maybe I was trying to force it. Maybe, just maybe, my expectations were too high.
IN CONCLUSION, on a scale of "barely competent" to "pants-shittingly awesome", Win & Co. were only able to provide a concert experience of "moderate incontinence-inducing excellence", which puts them somewhere between Truthfully-era Plaskett and Neil Young & Crazy Horse (i.e. the gold standard in pants-shitting awesomeness). Temper your expectations accordingly (it will be amazing on the U2 stage).
But really, it was great. Highlights: Lies, Rococco, and (durr) Wake Up ("Hold your/mistake up" - kills me every time)...
-AA
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4 comments:
Jane, you ignorant slut. I don't know how you have time to form opinions with the conveyor belt of boy toys running through your bedroom 24/7.
I guess expectations are everything. I took the ferry across to D-mouth at 6pm and was repulsed by the milquetoast crowd on the ferry and repulsed even further by the knowledge that I was "one of them". I stewed in my repulsion at a small pre-show gathering to which my girlfriend had invited her sister and a friend. Becky's sister and friend are 17 years old. And I realized this show was much more for them than for me... these girls were born in 1994, a year I have yet to musically escape thanks to my ongoing emotionally immature attachment to Soundgarden, Smashing Pumpkins and (occasionally) the Doughboys. Needless to say, I was one bummed motherfucker by the time I reached Alderney Landing. And while I didn't shit my pants from the sheer awesomeness of everything, the band and the venue combiined to make me lighten the fuck up. It was awesome, awesome stuff. I may have even smiled.
Ok, the post and comment were just what this kid needed this morning as I sit looking at weather forecasts and counting down the hours. I am okay with not shitting my pants. Truly. I would like some goosebumps and think that may be achievable - especially on the claw stage. And I don't like to feel old and unhip but since the crowd at U2 will be less young, plaid snaps and more old, pasty mom jeans, it should be all good. I will report in on Sunday. From bed, where I will likely be shivering after all the rain.
I once saw a guy shit his pants in an arcade. He was in the midst of such an inspired performance on 1942 - miraculously managing to keep his four shooter and the same wing man for about a level and a half, that he decided the glory associated with a long-standing high score with his insightfully scribed CNT emblazened on the top of the title screen outweighed the shame associated with public trouser defecation. He was about 12. Fast forward about 18 months and I think he would have made a different choice.
Sadly, that's all I have to offer that's even loosely relevant to this post. I've been in a media blackout for four years, and could not pick an Arcade Fire song out of an audio lineup. Jacq asked me last night why Ultimate had been cancelled, and I replied: "it has something to do with a concert or the long weekend or something."
I feel shame.
Does it concern anyone else that Derek cannot pick out an Arcade Fire song but always has a story about shit. Seriously. And most of the time they make me laugh. A lot.
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