Wednesday, February 02, 2005

The Arcade Fire/Webster Hall/Feb 1, 2005

Dear Diary,

Ohmigod, last night I got to see the Arcade Fire. They…are…so…CUTE. Every single one of the hundred band members, completely fuckable. Even that singer guy Win who sorta summons the je ne sais quoi of Rocky Horror Show’s Riff Raff. Win, if this diary ever becomes public, please know that this is totally a compliment.

But I have to confess. Can I confess to you, sweet receptacle of my innermost thoughts? I hate them. To death.

See, during the whole show, they all kept switching instruments with the laissez faire of a pre-schooler running from game to game in the basement rec room. The hopped from keyboards to drums to accordion to bass to tambourine. They made it seem easy. Diary, I have tried to play one instrument in my life and have failed miserably. How do the kids in the Arcade Fire think it makes those of us not blessed with the nexus of creative and math smarts feel? The answer is dumb and bitter.

But then again, it’s hard to stay mad. You see, they all line up and shout the ebullient choruses at you, almost like a dare. Come on, join us. We are singing at YOU. Double triple dare you!

And then different players act out these dorky tableaux during songs: the two violin players start pretending that they’re having a vicious lover’s quarrel, a man in a motorcycle helmet starts pummeling the dude with the accordion, two of ‘em start waltzing. This is strictly study hall goofs and they’re unabashed about it. Know why? These guys are having fun. You just can’t hate them.

Diary, know what else I feel really dumb about? I think I was standing behind David Bowie the whole time and didn’t even know it.

See, I got a VIP pass because I’m writing about the show for another outlet besides you. Don’t be mad, ok? Why they gave me a VIP, I’ll never know. I had fully planned to be with the hoi polloi. I had dressed accordingly: tons of light layers to shed as I got hotter and hotter packed in with the masses. I got there early.

So it was a surprise, this VIP thing. When I entered the VIP balcony, I noticed that all the good places were these tables against the railings that had reserved signs on them. Since I was so early, no one was sitting at them and I picked the best one and sat down, thinking the person would ask me to move when they got there.

Well, just before the AF hit the stage they got there.

A huge burly man swooped in and shouted, “This table is reserved for INSERT LADY’s NAME HERE, move away from the area.” He was really mean. I was thinking, “Who the hell is this lady?” I had never heard of her. She was over forty and a little jangley.

I wasn’t going to let them get the best of me, no way. So, I had to give up my seat. No biggie. Didn’t mean I was going to abandon my post. So I stood behind her date, a dorky guy with a British accent. Diary, please believe that this man had no Bowie aura whatsoever. He seemed like this lady’s date and was dragged to the show. Granted, I mostly saw the back of his head. But still.

I got into the show, but this huge bodyguard stood right behind me the entire time, practically pressing into my back. Who the hell was this lady who needed a body guard all night? They quickly went backstage before the show to meet the band. When they wanted to leave, the lady nodded to the burly guard who practically lifted me up and moved me out of the way.

When I left the show I called Agent Amy Phillips to do some internet recon and look up the lady's name. Amy came up with this. Duh. I am dumb. Still, I gotta say, in person Bowie comes off as a dad. A dad who was into the show. As was I.

All said, a good night Diary. A good night.