When Two Days Become One

Last night, Caleb and I went to see Andrew Bird + Keren Ann at Bowery Ballroom. Andrew Bird was good, but too precious or something. Few things feel worse going down than forced whimsy. I hate to sound condescending, but at worst, it felt like the kind of thing a young college male would listen to and think was totally crazy and wild because he was weaned exclusively on Simon & Garfunkel and his apex of contemporary music is Sufjan Stevens. Those moments aside, it was actually super-decent, beautiful whistling and violin playing; the looser it was, the better.

Once I went to the doctor's office and there was a temporary female substitute in place of my normal practitioner. At one point early on in the meeting, she actually said "now, I just want to tell you that you're going to have to take your pants off," and all I could think was is that really necessary to say? Keren Ann's performance was like that; sort of shattering and awkward. It was like (and forgive me for probably sounding sexist), being in 10th grade and crushing on this girl who seems pure and wonderful, but you find out that her quiet and alluring demeanor are actually deeply linked to sexual promiscuity resulting in a passive maturity. You know? On record, it sounds purposeful, driven, and magical; live, it was kinda hog-wild, sultry, and discomforting. It didn't help that her drummer was too loud, and her keyboard player and guitarist were showboats passing in opposite directions. Imagine, say, G.E. Smith and the Saturday Night Live Band supporting Bjork. Okay, maybe not quite as heretical/fucked, but close.

Anyway, I've been trying to put it out of my head. After the show, we drove all night down the coast. I'm in Charlottesville, Virginia, and will later meet fellow Stylus-er Justin Cober-Lake. I've found that Charlottesville usually holds enough beer, friends, and milkshakes to make anything disappear.