Tin Speaker

What an ordeal this was, deciding whether to go to this concert! Back and forth I waffled, like John Kerry out to dinner. Going, not going, going. First I had no extras, then one, then two, then one, then none, then I needed one. Then I cried.

I ended up going, obviously. It was mostly the Good King’s urgings that convinced me. I know how dearly he loves the Ratatat, and I was rather hoping to bear witness to another legendarily royal confrontation that would leave some rogue vassal stricken down by a mighty blow from His Highness Martinslas I’s potent scepter. While the Good King did attend the show, dancing and bodying with much kingly gusto, he was not forced into such a situation as would require the outward display of his inner potential. I am glad for my fellow concert-goers that this was the case, as many of them were spared life and limb by the calmness of the kingly temperament throughout the evening.

Was I busy that night? Did I have many important things to do? Yes, of course; exceedingly so, and exceedingly many. I did some really responsible things before I left, though, so in that way the leisure time was justified. After downing several 80-proof energy drinks, I joined my compatriots on a voyage, via van, to that sordid cesspool commercially known as Terminal 5. After being patted down like a common criminal, we fairly bounced into the main room of the space, light with youth and drink and that particular joie de vivre that accompanies the combination of the two. The place was packed, as they say, “to the gills.” With encouragement from the rest of my party, I managed to push forward a fair bit, to about 15 metres, stage left. At this point, we reached an impasse, and set up base camp. A certain young rogue, not in my party, expressed his resentment at my having used my exceptional strength to muscle past him to a more desirable vantage point (!) by blowing on my head. This was strange. After he repeated his offense, I turned around for the inevitable confrontation. With uncommon benevolence, I informed him that I was not oblivious to his huffing and puffing. He grinned one of the goofier grins I’ve seen in my years on this Earth, turning stupidly to his companion to snicker like a four-year-old. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned back to me. I head-butted him in the nose. As he reeled, my hand shot out almost of its own accord, and plucked delicately his left eyeball from its socket. I tossed the eye on stage and shouted, So it begins! Ratatat took the stage shortly thereafter.

What is there to say about the show itself? It can be summed up, perhaps, thusly: super bro. So many dudes, so little space. So smelly. There was not so much a mosh pit as a throbbing horde of people up front, undulating in waves whose frequencies and amplitudes reflected little of the rhythm or phrasing of the music. The result was a struggle to stay afoot in the face of constant, pushing tumult all around. After about twenty-five minutes, I was a sweaty mess, and I roared out a warning to all. The crowd simmered. I ate toast with cream cheese and jelly.

Ratatat themselves were about as exciting as two guys playing the same song over and over for an hour can be. The guy on the left had great guitar posturing, the guy on the right beat the drums like a wild man. They both had (and are still in possession of, as far as I know) long hair. There were lights.

Set list? Setlist? I don’t know, I didn’t want to stick around and try to get one. All their songs sound the same, anyway. Burn. But seriously, they pretty much do. Just saying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Except there is. But it’s a pretty good sound, I suppose. The penultimate song before the encore was Wildcat, and they followed that with Seventeen Years. I think. Whatever. What does it matter, anyway? Not a whit.

One other thing: I didn’t realize that Black Pus was a.k.a. Brian Chippendale, the drummer for Lightning Bolt, so I didn’t bother showing up for him. He was probably great, but I’ll never know for sure. So there’s a little sad note on which to end this post. Sorry for the downer, friendly readers.

This entry was posted on 25 Apr 2009 at 2:08 pm and is filed under music. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments.

Tags: black pus, brian chippendale, bro, classics, lightning bolt, lp3, music, new york, ratatat, set list, setlist, terminal 5