As part of a class lottery prize, I threw pizza parties for the winners (plus friends). Today’s winner, Josh, brought along Ben, Henry (the four hour rock concert kid), and a few other buddies. I offered to put on a movie while they wait for their pizza to arrive.

“NO! We want conversation – we must practice Englishee!” declared Henry. In high school, he explained, they will have “many stress,” so they should practice right now while they’re “comfortable.” Then he imposed a rule on the pizza party: “if Korean speaking, then go outside and thirty pushup!” The other boys laughed and kept mum as Henry gamely stammered through conversation – his English comprehension is great, as is his eagerness to participate, but his speaking ability is pretty solidly Konglish-ee. Naturally, at some point he slipped up and said “왜?” instead of “why?” and got called out by his buddies. To show he meant business, he proceeded to take off his jacket – and then vest, outer shirt and tie. (Of course, I’m thinking, why is this student stripping in my class, and is the principal going to walk by right now?). Then he ran outside, slapped SNOW on his arms — fyi, it is friggin’ COLD as BALLS in Korea — did his thirty pushups and runs back inside, picking up right where he left off.

What he lacks in ability, he makes up thirty-fold with enthusiasm. Fueled by energy drinks.

The pizza boys hung out in my classroom and chatted for a long time. Mind you, school lets out early for this abbreviated week, so this was their precious free time they were spending, time that could otherwise be spent playing Starcraft, or something. Instead, we sat around and chatted about music and other things. It was pretty hard for them – “힘들어!” they exclaimed, as they frantically thumbed through the dictionary and tried to think of the precise word (we’d given Henry’s rule a rest by that point). But we worked through it, with Google Translate and lots of body language-ee, and talked about all sorts of things. Mostly music.

One thing that has surprised me is how a lot of the students are listening to the same bands me and my friends listened to back in my middle school days. Because I’m old-balls, that will have been fifteen years ago, which in music terms is long enough for a musical style to be considered retro enough, I guess. Or maybe that’s the length of time needed for, say, Nirvana to cross the ocean. (I wish I’d kept my old Kurt Cobain memorial shirts. Damn.) These boys went to see Green Day in concert a few years ago, and that just blew my mind, because how old are those guys by now? In their forties?

Yep, aside from hair style changes - I think Billie's hair was green and short back then? - they still look pretty much the same as they did in their "Dookie" days. Ahh, memories.

When I mentioned Girls’ Generation, Henry scowled. “I hate idol groups,” he said, which surprised me a little, as during class he is usually mooning over ‘beautiful girls’ and all. “I want punch their faces! Then they must have more plastic surgery.” Ha! “Teacher, we don’t like Kpop idols. We are musicians.”

Unfortunately for prospects of the kids remaining together in a band after middle school, they have wildly divergent tastes. Henry’s into “metal” these days: “Rammstein! Marilyn Manson!” (Ahh, yes, that was middle school for me too.) Josh is more into things like Maroon 5 and Jason Mraz; Ben prefers Adele.

We swapped music recommendations. They showed me some Korean indie metal bands, and Henry wrote me a general list of bands I should check out. I’ll post more on those later. For awhile, I was stuck on what to recommend to them. They seemed pretty knowledgeable about a lot of Western music, even more than a few of my American friends. Henry found out about the Sex Pistols through independent research, after learning that people don’t really consider Green Day and Sum41 to be “real” punk. The internet is an incredible thing – wire threads linking a youth in farmtown Korea with Johnny Rotten in 70s England.

For some reason – maybe because Josh mentioned playing the violin, and being bored by classical music – I suddenly remembered the existence of Andrew Bird. I showed them this youtube clip, and they were duly impressed:

I also told them about the Flaming Lips, which was probably a terrible idea, because I’d sort of kind of forgotten a frequent concert schtick of theirs in which the band members enter the stage by emerging from a giant LCD display of a woman’s vagina. D’oh. (I hope I don’t get any weird questions or concerned parents calling later). I found a more or less vag-free video, featuring Wayne Coyne running around in the hamsterball, the confetti jets and dancing mascots on stage. Henry’s eyes shimmered with awe and envy, taking in all the props and the chaos and energy of the crowd: “I must have this for my band!”

Wayne Coyne doing his bombastic rocker thing. Credit to MMMNast @ Flickr.

I’d told the students about the time I’d gone to see Andrew Bird in concert, and along with my friend Krissy, met him (as well as the lovely St. Vincent) outside the venue afterwards. I didn’t tell them that Krissy and I had first met each other in middle school. We’d bonded over doing things like tormenting our English teacher with endless note-passing, and skipping lunch to hide quietly in the library (so hardcore.) We were a lot like my kids, except way worse at math. Krissy ended up getting expelled in the middle of French class for stabbing a boy with a pencil (by accident…goes the claim ;), and so we fell out of touch, until randomly meeting up again in college and becoming the closest of friends. I’m luring her and her sister halfway across the world to come visit me in April, as it turns out!

“Your friendships don’t have to end with graduation,” I want to say to my kids – the world is so big you can run the length of it millions of times without repeating sights, but small enough that someday, you’ll find yourself running smack dab into your friends when you least expect it.

Thursday is the day my students officially part from the school and from each other. I’m gonna miss these guys. May my kids be as lucky as I’ve been thus far: getting the chance to fly around the world, to live all the craziness and wonderment out there on this nutty blue marble, while habitually wending my way back to my flock.

Sandhill cranes flying at sunrise in New Mexico. Photo credit: Tyler C. Lingley.

**Note: Staging a “comeback,” in reference to Kpop, appears to mean “releasing a single,” and can apply to bands who still have singles on the charts that are being blasted over the speakers in front of every store in Korea. You apparently don’t need to “go away” in order to have a comeback. I’m not sure why this is, but I’m guessing it has to do with the cutthroat nature of the Korean idol industry. If you’re a famous pop group that decides to rest for maybe a week or two, not touring or making another song or anything, you risk falling from the limelight and having five nearly identical groups spring up in your place. Valerie Cherish wouldn’t stand a chance.

But people who do it just right, who share enough to strike a chord that resonates with countless people beyond the scope of their own lives…those people impress me. How they can manage to do this without breaking down in hysterics, in public, is a complete mystery to me.

Enter the latest album by the Rosebuds, a band that should really be a lot more famous than they are. I’ve been a fan of them ever since I first listened to “Birds Make Good Neighbors,” which came out in 2005. (Has that really been six years ago? Good LORD.)

Evidently I haven’t been such a good fan, or else I would have realized earlier that Ivan and Kelly Rosebud had divorced in 2009, shortly after releasing “Life Like.” (I’d even subscribed to their blog on on Google Reader! Stalking FAIL). Happily, they got back together and released a new album earlier this month, themed around the crumbling of their relationship.

Two things occur to me:
1) I miss live music so much, it almost hurts. I was truly spoiled when I was living in Lawrence. Now, the only live music I hear is endless recorder renditions of “Puff the Magic Dragon” floating down from the music classroom above me.
2) How heavy must it be to go on tour, singing about the problems that led to the death of your relationship, with that very person? It’s one thing to still be friendly with your ex, but another thing entirely to have to endure the stresses of being on the road and doing gigs with that person. While hashing out all the issues that shoved you apart in the first place.

Years ago, I’d also been bewildered when I’d learned that this Sleater-Kinney song had been written by Corin Tucker (the lead singer with the warble-y voice) about the time Carrie, the lead guitarist on the left, walked out on her:

Some more things have occurred to me:
1) Mein gott, they look like babies in this video. This was 1998, so of course I looked even more like a baby then. Were we all that young?!
2) Somehow or other, I will make it my mission to wean my girl students off of Kpop and onto riot grrl punk from the 90′s. This may require the purchase of tons of choco-pie bribes, but I’ll get it done.

Tegan and Sara: So I’d heard their names before, but until the day before the show, I couldn’t tell you if I’d heard their songs or not. (Turns out I had, without recognizing that it was T&S). I think some people get the impression that I know a lot about music, particularly indie rock and whatnot, but my knowledge is actually pretty patchwork, and this happened to be one of my blind spots. I can’t say I dug what little I heard during my pre-show research, but the show was pretty entertaining. Mostly I was amused by the aggressively dancing girl who danced her bony hipster ass in a circle around us, and who severely annoyed the diehard T&S at the show with me – “ugh. She’s not even a real fan.” Apparently little miss Tiny Dancer kept texting when she wasn’t jabbing us with her hips, and made the criminal noob mistake of cheering for their popular radio hits as opposed to their older songs. Anyhow, T&S put on a good show, and regaled the audience with lots of little quirky Canadienne anecdotes between songs.

I didn’t so much care for their opening act, Steel Train, comprised of a bunch of hipster gay boys playing 80′s prog-rock sendups. Just wasn’t my thing, really – and it didn’t help that they broke out into this barbershop quartet routine for one of their songs! They did have cool T-shirts, though.

Beach House: The only one of the four concerts that I would have actually purchased tickets for if I hadn’t won them, owing to the $14 price tag. I didn’t know much about them beforehand, either; I’d just listened to the live stream of their latest album “Teen Dream” off NPR. The album was amazing, of course, and they didn’t really deviate the way they played their songs, which usually bugs me. In this case it didn’t matter; hearing Victoria LeGrand’s ethereal, spookily androgynous voice fill physical space was positively enchanting. Eli mentioned that he had a much greater appreciation seeing the guitarist, Alex Scally, live – it’s tough to pull off dreamy, gauzy guitar plucking, and he does it well.

Their opening act was Bachelorette, a nice seeming girl from New Zealand. She played a short set owing to voice difficulties, though her singing sounded all right. I’m not the biggest fan of laptop-oriented music, though, and wished there was a little more to it besides that.

Jonsi: PHENOMENAL. I can’t stress this enough – if you have the opportunity, go see either him or his band of fellow Icelandic witchgoblins, Sigur Ros, live in concert. Even if you’re not particularly a big fan of the music as heard in mortal album form, just go. Something about the alchemy of a live concert experience transforms this music into a transcendental experience.

Didn’t catch the opener for Jonsi, a band with the highly misleading name of “Death Vessel” – a soft-voiced guy plucking an acoustic guitar.

The Flaming Lips: also a great band to see live, even if you’re not particularly into their music. It’s tough to top a performance that involves the band members emerging from a giant pulsating neon vagina, Wayne Coyne in his patented hamsterball roaming over the audience, a giant catfish attempting to clap with his little stubby fishy fins, and loads and loads of giant balloons and confetti jets.

Jack White’s newest band, The Dead Weather, opened for the Flaming Lips. That particular concert in Kansas City marked the only point on the bands’ respective tours where they would join forces; I guess the Flaming Lips have a long and happy history with Jack White dating back to the time they feuded with Beck while on tour. Jack White apparently cheered up the Lips by bestowing upon them a fiberoptic plastic Jesus, which inspired them to write a thank you song. Inexplicably, the Lips chose not to play this song at the concert? Maybe it was too expected.

Anyhow, the Dead Weather. They also put on a good show, though it was a straight up rock concert featuring straight up classic rock and roll. Krissy said she thought the lead singer, Alison Mosshart, looked completely strung out on heroin. I thought this was probably not the case, as she was bouncing and dancing around all over the stage…as to what she and the rest of the band would do recreationally after the show, of course, I couldn’t comment. Anyhow they looked like typical rock stars, dressed in black and too cool for school. Ho hum. Meanwhile I’m sitting in the audience, knitting. (That’s right bitches. I live life on the EDGE….of a needle.)

We also caught opening bands White Rabbits – who had an impressive percussion section – and Minus the Bear – who Krissy didn’t care for, but E and I enjoyed, though I wonder what they would sound like with the Bear (HA! I slay myself. I really should).

In summation, it was a great month for music in the world of karenology! The fact that so many great bands came (and continue to come) to this area reminds me how lucky we are in Lawrence, and how lucky I am to have been able to see all these shows. It’ll be tough to go back to gazing wistfully at shaky Youtube videos of live recordings. But it was great while it lasted!

First attempt: went down to the Jackpot with Krissy to get tickets to this show, and also for the upcoming Midlake concert.

“Oh, Midlake canceled, and we’re completely sold out of Beach House tickets,” said the bartender, delivering a double whammy of bad news. Krissy and I had been really excited about the Midlake show…and how in the world did an April show sell out by early February? “Oh, we’ll definitely have more Beach House printed and ready by next week, so just come back then.” Phew.

We decided to have a beer anyway and process this poor news before moving on, when a middle aged lesbian / bar lizard started talking our ears off – ranting about the latest city controversy regarding some designer drug in the process of becoming criminalized. She was, of course, most emphatically opposed to this and did not hesitate to let us know about it. She also had very interesting theories on how law enforcement is conducted in our fair city. There was a pretty controversial raid on a store that carried the drug (K2), and I mentioned the common speculation that this particular store had been raided because the owner had testified before the legislature on behalf of K2. I thought that this explanation would sound reasonable enough to paranoid people, but no…the old bar lizard decided the store had been raided, “because the government keeps track of receipts and what’s sellin’ out.” Apparently the electronic cash registers send some signal beam to some shadowy control center, where bureaucrats can monitor individual store sales and notice sharp upticks in the sale of quasi-legal items. Somehow her explanation also involved Little House on the Prairie?

Bar Lizard was highly entertaining to listen to, but – as with my father – my ears can only tolerate so much lecturing, no matter what the subject, so Krissy and I excused ourselves and shuffled off once the old bar lizard paused to take another swig of Hamm’s.

Attempt two: a friend of mine mentioned that Beach House had changed venues to the Granada to accommodate more people. A few days after the venue change had been officially announced, I rode up to the ticket window and asked the guy there about the tickets. “We don’t have those printed yet,” said he. “Come back next Monday.”

Attempt three: I rode back next Monday, to find the window deserted and the lights off inside. Grr…

Attempt four: Same as attempt three, though the lights were on inside. Nobody at the ticket window, though, and I had to meet some friends at the other end of Mass St so I just rode onwards.

Ever elusive Beach House tickets! I’d just resigned myself to haunting the ticket window every subsequent Monday, and maybe just trying to get tickets at the door – hoping that the tickets didn’t all sell out to other people.

Then yesterday, before heading down to meet my alcoholic friends at Harbor Lights (they basically showed up there right after the employees, but I thought drinking before noon was a bit much), I glanced at lawrence.com to check on the time of the Downtown St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Immediately underneath the time, I saw a posting about a Twitter contest to win tickets to four upcoming shows: Tegan & Sara, The Flaming Lips, Jonsi (lead singer for Sigur Ros) and – of course – Beach House. Apart from Beach House, all pretty expensive shows, and it would be a ridiculous boon to win tickets to all four of these shows. The contest was basically “look for a guy with a funny mustache in a green shirt.” Which, on St. Patty’s Day in Lawrence, is like half the population of the downtown area!

I met up with Krissy on her lunch break, when she came over to greet us (and maybe sneak a quick beer), when over her shoulder I noticed a guy standing at the bar, with a respectably full mustache and a green shirt. Suddenly, though the potential prize was admittedly sweet, I had a moment of doubt. How do I walk up to him and say, “hey, are you the guy from the Internet contest?” Even if he was, there was just no non-dorky way of saying this.

Luckily Krissy was there, because I just informed her of the dilemma and without hesitation, she walked right up to the mustachioed man and said, “Do you have tickets?” Mustachioed man reluctantly said, “you’ve got me” – poor guy had been hoping that the contest would last a bit longer.

Disappointing for him but exciting for us: WE WON! I never win contests! Twitter actually made itself useful! Maybe it was Fate that prevented me from successfully purchasing those Beach House tickets. What a lucky day yesterday was, for a girl without a drop of Irish blood in her veins.

Afterwards we geeked out a little with the singer, who is this really tall black guy with dreads, about iPhones and their various iterations. Not exactly the most stereotypical country / bluegrassy concert experience! I thought back to the time I went to a Gillian Welch show, and had these two middle aged white ladies who kept sneaking up behind me to touch my hair, because they had never seen Asian hair in person before? Made me appreciate that times appear to be changing.

Last night’s show wasn’t without its own creepers, however. One guy in the band played a lap slide guitar, which I’d never seen before, and immediately thought was the coolest thing ever. (I could totally play that while recuperating from tendonitis!) A guy in the audience also apparently thought this was the coolest thing ever, because he squirreled his way right up to the guy playing the lap slide, planted himself firmly within the poor guy’s personal bubble, and touched his shoulder! The lap slide player brushed him off and continued playing, but the creepster went to get a beer and lurched his way back up in Lap Slider’s business. At this, the bouncer did his job and bounced Creepster right out of the bar, seizing the mostly full beer glass and disposing of it. (I bet Creepster was really sore about that). Some of Creepster’s buddies tried to plead with the bouncer to let him back in, but really, unnerving the band is a pretty major offense. Not ten minutes after his ejection, Creepster casually went up to the door and tried to regain entry, as if the bouncer would have just forgotten about it? He eventually skulked off into the night, this time – for once – not reeking of booze.

Towards the very end of the show, I got up to use the restroom, leaving my stuff in Krissy’s care. Upon my return, I saw that one of Creepster’s friends – Lady Skeeves – had usurped my seat, across from a really uncomfortable looking Krissy. Lady Skeeves wore baggy filthy camo pants, and an entire ecosystem as a hair accessory. I shrugged and figured it was almost the end of the set; if she wanted the seat it was hers.

Then Lady Skeeves did something that unfortunately distracted me from the great finale of the Woes show – she ran her fingers through her stiffened, matted hair and started vigorously SCRATCHING. In the dim hazy light my germophobic mind saw thousands of lice bailing onto the table, onto the seat, onto my stuff! I looked at Krissy in alarm and she grabbed my stuff out of the line of fire, brave friend.

I’m not sure what Lady Skeeves was after – she didn’t seem interested in the band that much, and Krissy said she had marched right over to my seat to steal it, with an air of purpose. Eh, maybe she was trying to seduce Krissy with her verminous wiles, and was angry at me for intruding. Or maybe she wanted to talk with us, cause we look like okay people. Maybe she just wanted to unload some of the cargo in her hair. Whatever the reason, after the song was finished we grabbed our stuff and got in line to talk to the band. She skulked off into the night after her friend the Creepster.

“It is so not creepy,” said James, as he tried the door of a trailer parked behind the building. Thankfully, it was locked and no one official with a baton or a glaring face saw us.

Note that I am not the type of person who ordinarily likes to try and interact with celebrities, major or minor. Even if they seem reasonably approachable. Once I stood about five feet away from Ira Kaplan of Yo La Tengo, who was just idly chatting with a sound guy or whoever, with no one else mobbing him for autographs or anything…and I was still too shy to walk over there and introduce myself. At the time I thought about it and just decided I had literally nothing witty enough in my brain to contribute to a conversation with the King of whip smart rock nerds. Maybe my buddy Indie Dan could, but not me. I was too tongue tied to even shout “you rock!”.

Eventually a band member or two emerged from the doorway, and the flicking of lighters combined with wafting cigarette smoke set me at ease. A few Andrew Bird fans joined us in our groupie vigil, waiting to pounce on the headliners as they popped out of the door. Andrew Bird emerged first, and an elated Krissy managed to beat back some blonde floozies (pfft) to get a photo opportunity with the Bird. Then out came Miss St. Vincent, Annie Clark herself, and my helpful friends pushed me forward. Took a photo with her, babbled something about how she should come to Lawrence, and she said something about how her sister had gone to school there, and she’d been to a frat party there once. I’m not sure if in my drunken, giddy state, I did true justice to the many exciting tourism opportunities of my town in the two minutes I spoke with her. Once we walked away, we played it cool…ish…until we rounded the corner, and then skipped back towards my car like three schoolgirls high on pixy sticks.

Later, I saw that she added ‘Lawrence, KS’ to her spring tour dates. And yes, I may have boasted constantly about it for the rest of that week.

Fast forward to the Bottleneck, last Monday. I was glad I got my tickets over a week ago, as the place was packed and I’d even shown up early, by rock o’ clock standards. This band from Sweden called Wildbirds and Peacedrums opened for St Vincent, and they were only the most incredible band I’d seen in ages. These two gentle looking hippies strolled onto the stage: “we are from Sweden,” said the woman timidly, and the pair promptly proceeded to blast our eardrums with their music. She had a full, brassy soul singer’s voice, and he attacked the drums in a decidedly non-peaceable fashion. At some point during their set, I even questioned whether St Vincent was going to be able to adequately follow this act.

I shouldn’t have doubted: St Vincent brought it that night, with the backing of her incredible band. She had a robotic yet strangely winsome manner while casually shredding her guitar. The flautist – wait, that sounds like a fried Mexican snack food – flutist? Flute tooter – yes, that guy, and the violinist were top notch, intertwining their notes seamlessly to give the impression of a fully loaded orchestra. They walked off stage to go take a smoke break for a song or two, leaving just Annie Clark and her guitar to do a scorching rendition of the Beatles’ “Dig a Pony”:

Not from her performance at the Bottleneck, obviously, but it’ll do. Just crank up the volume and pretend the lights are red.

After the show I contemplated waiting for St Vincent again outside the show, autograph my new ticket, and thanking her for coming to Lawrence (because obviously she came at my behest, and not because she has like any family members here or tour dates to fill, or any other good reason. hee). But judging from the murmurs around us, a lot of other people were planning to do so, and this is the coldest February in Kansas I’ve ever shivered through. So I decided to just go buy some merch and replay happy music memories in my mind, in the warmth and comfort of my home.

Ahem. So I was super nervous about getting there on time, scooting from work a bit early so that I could get gas and snacks for the road (ohh yes, there will be snacks). Swung by krissy’s place of work, where she was hurriedly trying to break loose – this being the busiest time of month for her job, she ran out to my car at 5:07ish instead of 5:01 at the dot. Well, no matter. Peeled away and took the slowest route possible to K-10 (it’s amazing how long it takes to get anywhere in this small town. Maybe if y’all didn’t drive 15 in a 30 we could be getting somewhere, peoples!) Drove into the sprawling Corporate Woods where my roommate Jamie was waiting – went so quickly that we actually passed him and had to double back. Oops! We made it out alive, with everyone in the car, and dove into the traffic nightmare that is I-70 leading out of Kansas City at 6 p.m.

Approximately one hundred porn-store, fireworks and Jesus billboards later, we rolled into Columbia at 8:00 on the dot. Giddy with excitement, krissy ran ahead of us to try and take a candid photo, I guess – causing the random guy walking ahead of us to freak out. Hey, if I did not know krissy, I would have assumed she was about to mug him too. After random guy determined we were not trying to jump him, we found the Blue Note and walked in just in the nick of time – St Vincent was kicking off her set with “Actor” – loud, jangly guitars. YES. We ran in and forgot about our seats, but it’s okay because I’ve determined the Blue Note is magically set up so that even short girls can see from pretty much everywhere you’re standing. Sloped floors for the win!

St Vincent and her backup band. I would describe her music as “a tea party in the middle of a Black Sabbath concert.”

St. Vincent’s set was smashing, as expected, but short – I bought the tickets before I realized she would be the opening act for Andrew Bird. Now don’t get me wrong, Andrew Bird is absolutely fantastic live, and put on a great show like he normally does. But I was a little disappointed that she didn’t play longer. I’ve seen Andrew Bird before and he comes by Lawrence quite a bit, but I don’t know if St. Vincent will come to Lawrence itself anytime soon. Maybe Kansas City, I hope. Anyway! Andrew Bird was also super, though I think I prefer watching him without his backing band. It takes the music to a new level of sublime, watching him play EVERYTHING and loop it all together masterfully with his cascade of pedals. No discredit to the musicians playing with him, though, as they are very talented and kept me dancing (and spilling gin and tonic) all night.

Andrew Bird is an impressive multitasker.

Summary review: I am going to start rating shows according to how intense the stench of unwashed butt and ashtray surrounding you becomes, before you are distracted enough to notice. According to this system I would give St Vincent four cigarette butts, and Andrew Bird three and a half.

St Vincent mentioned during her set that they would be outside signing things after the show. In my G&T addled brain, I thought this meant after the whole show, and she would be out there signing things after Andrew Bird finished. I ran out to the merch table to be one of the first ones there, and the girl behind the counter informed me that St Vincent had actually been there during the break. D’oh! While I was sulking about this, Krissy and James informed me that while I was saving their spots and texting them to hurry up because Andrew Bird was starting…they were out there chatting with “Miss St Vincent” (Annie Clark giggled at being called this, so says Krissy), getting her autograph for me, and hugging her. AHHH! I was ecstatic that they got her autograph for me, but really bummed that I had missed her, so James said “let’s go lurk outside her trailer and see if she’ll come out.”

“Augh, that’s creepy…okay sure let’s do it!” So we ran behind the Blue Note and waited in the alley for her to come out. Andrew Bird emerged, and Krissy waited patiently for a couple of blondies in four inch heels to get their autographs, before making her move.

Krissy and her boooooyfriend, in her ideal imaginary world at least.

After that we loitered / lurked for a little while longer, which would eventually prove fruitful when her bassist called over to Krissy : “psst! She’s here!”

Annie Clark, being nice to lil ole me! Ridiculously gorgeous and sweet as Marcon pie!

After rambling to her about Lawrence for some reason, she wished us a safe ride home. I walked about five feet from her before I started skipping, and then realized “oh shit she and her friends can still see me.” So I stopped and waited till we turned the corner to resume. YAAY! I wish I had the presence of mind to thank or otherwise acknowledge her bassist and other backing musicians, who put on a great show as well and tolerated our lurking, but I was a bit overwhelmed.

By the time we made it home, past sleepy truckers and torrential rain clouds, we were past ready for sleep. Not ready, though, to discover that our roommates had inexplicably started locking the bolt to the front door, and to also discover that neither of our keys to that bolt are effective. Eventually Eli heard the desperate ruckus we raised outside, and rescued us. A happy ending to a happy evening.

SO EXCITED! Though I have to say I prefer the dirty, crunchy guitar version of “Black Rainbow” over the quiet, sweet collaboration between the two. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be thrilled if there was a duet or two tonight at the Blue Note, though.

Not so with the Arcade Fire: “Neon Bible” is a stunning album, and in many ways stands superior to its predecessor.

The band sounds fuller this time around, with more advanced production and instrumentation. They accomplish this without sounding overly slick and polished; the raw energy from the first album is tamed into a more subtle, powerful and controlled sound here. The best comparison can be drawn between the EP version of “No Cars Go” and this latest version. Initially I was a bit disappointed upon hearing that they repeat a song – really, have they been around long enough to justify recycling songs yet? Any disappointments vanished once I listened to this new version. It is, simply put, sublime. Everything, from the interplay between Win and Regine’s voices, to the ethereal guitar in the background, transforms the song from merely a great tune into a near-religious experience. The quieter songs, such as the titular track, also show how well the band’s sound has matured. My personal favorite is “Ocean of Noise,” which brings me almost to tears with every listen. Also, I defy anybody with taste to resist the slow crescendo of the organ in the closer, “My Body is a Cage.”

Though I’m quite blown away by the album, just as with “Funeral,” “Neon Bible” is not without its flaws. My main hangup with the album is, as addressed in the Pitchfork review, the track order. I can even forgive some of the sillier lyrics (and they do get pretty ‘rage against the machine-ish’ on tracks like “Windowstill”), but the track order is jarring to the point of distraction. For instance, I’d heard “Black Wave / Bad Vibrations” prior to buying the album and fell in love with it. But when I listened to the CD, and heard it come up right after the stunning organ fade-out of “Intervention,” “BW / BV” sounded awkward, thin, and totally out of place. I still love the song and all, but every single listen I’ve had the same negative reaction when track five rolls around. I’m not sure where it should be moved to, though. Maybe it would be better as a B-side.

Like the Pitchfork reviewer, I feel that ending the album with the stunner “No Cars Go” would have been best. “My Body is a Cage” is a good track on its own, and probably would have served as a perfectly fine album closer, had it not immediately followed such an energetic, satisfying track. Flipping the two might make more sense sonically. I’m certainly no composer, but I’m also apparently not the only one getting my panties in a bunch over the track order. Such issues, however, can be easily resolved through iTunes playlists and whatnot.

For those of you who haven’t gotten the album yet and are interested in such music, I definitely recommend it. “Black Mirror” is available for a listen at the band’s website. In addition, there’s a podcast of one of their concerts up on the NPR website. Give it a listen, and if you like what you hear, go get yourself a neon bible.

Conclusion, after a whole night’s listen: I have absolutely fallen in love with “Neon Bible.” It will probably drive me to drink and break my heart one day. It is that beautiful.

I’m also floating on a cloud of tea and cold medication, because yesterday, two packages arrived at my doorstep:

These boots were made for walking. With proper insoles for my flat duck feet, of course.

1) A pair of boots from Zappos.com (free overnight shipping on all shoes if you order before tomorrow! bye-bye, bank accounts, hello shoes!)

2) A copy of “These Boots Were Made for Walking,” a complete set of recordings that Lee Hazlewood did during his time at MGM Studios.

Now who in the heck is this Lee Hazlewood character?, you might ask. He is the Svengali-like figure responsible for Nancy Sinatra’s career. A mix of campy pop and psychedelic country, his music is exactly what my ear has been straining for my entire life, and I didn’t even know it. I got turned on to him by my friend Louise, when we drove up to Chicago together. She’d made a mix CD and this song came up:

If you know anyone named Phaedra, this song is the reason why.

“What is this song?”

“Oh, it’s a duet of Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood. Weird, isn’t it? My friend and I consider this our hangover song.”

I honestly can’t say I’ve heard anything like this. Johnny Cash comes close, because of the similarities of voice, but there’s something quite bizarre and ethereal about this particular song. Hence began my recent obsession with all things Lee Hazlewood. And then I came across this article, from the end of January:

Lee Hazlewood is ready to die. Suffering excruciating pain from renal cancer, Hazlewood, the reclusive singer, songwriter and producer doesn’t have much time left, maybe a year if he’s lucky. So he has been preparing for what he calls his impending “dirt nap”.

:sad:

I do seem to have a tendency for getting into artists just before, or right around the time of their death. Kurt Cobain in middle school, Elliott Smith, Jeff Buckley, Johnny Cash, and now Lee. So, let this be a caution to you, if you are an artist: if I begin to express interest in your work, write up your will now! Get your things in order before the cold hand of creatively-spurred death grips your shoulder. I’m looking at you, members of Arcade Fire! (kidding, please don’t go! You’ve already had your Funeral! )