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Seren-dippity-doo
Mar. 29th, 2008 02:47 amSaw Flansie and Linnell in concert tonight, all because I happened to be passing by the Somerville Theater just as some feller was asking if they had any TMBG tickets left. "Yes," I overheard the box officer say. "They're $45." I hustled along to the ATM and withdrew a couple of twenties, then hustled back and found out I'd misheard by a factor of 80% — they were only $25. Score! I wound up with a great seat, center orchestra aisle. (Not that I spent any time in it.) After a basket of pork tacos at Chipotle Grill and a mocha chai + gooey brownie at Diesel, I was full of caffeine and sugar and pork and ready to rock. \m/ \m/
Apollo Sunshine opened.1 They're three fuzzy-bearded hipster boys, and they sing tight southern-folk harmonies over a fuzzy wall of distorted sound that blows through the audience, sweeping out everything gray and gluey and small and plastering it to the back wall, leaving us as clear crystal shells chiming along with the high harmonics. Featured in their eclectic instrumentation were an electric autoharp, a feedback solo, and a three-man drum solo on a single drumkit. I'd heard a couple of their tunes before, and the half-hour set (chiefly Magnolia) was enough to make me drop $10 on their eponymous CD. I asked the lead singer to sign it, which he did: "Thanks for wanting my autograph, Jesse Gallagher."
TMBG continued the fuzzy overamped vibe into and through their two-hour set (no intermission, two encores). They summoned us to the stage like moths during the first number (Dr. Worm), and I now have a crick in my neck from headbanging, because of how I am old. Picture me covered in confetti, hair unbound, spastically gyrating beside a charming librarian jumping up and down in a Joss Whedon T-shirt.2 Ana Ng, Twisting, Alphabet of Nations, and New York City really benefited from the hard rock treatment; The Mesopotamians and Birdhouse (which opened encores one and two, respectively) drew the biggest crowd response. I also recall: Put Your Hand Inside the Puppet Head, She's an Angel, Hey Mr. DJ I Thought You Said We Had A Deal, Particle Man, Letterbox, James K. Polk, The Guitar, Cyclops Rock, Experimental Film, One Dozen Monkeys, and Contrecoup.They closed with the Fingertips medley, and as they were jamming during the coda ("I...walk along...darkened corridors...") Flansie proffered his guitar to the front row. With outstretched arms and glassy eyes we stroked it and fondled it and made it jangle. (I touched the strings. My fingertips — oh, hey, I just got that — glow with the power of rock.)
I left feeling a river of rainbow energy pouring in through my head and out through my toes; it dripped and drizzled away on the cold bus ride home, but I left fluorescent footprints around Boston for a while. It's good to get out of your head once in a while. Standing within arm's reach of a ten-foot speaker stack will do that, apparently.
1 Special note for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
adfamiliares: a Stoltzfus named Quentin sometimes plays in the band.
2 I'd spotted the shirt in Diesel, predicted (based on the T-shirt evidence) that she was going to the show, and chatted with her about it in the lobby. If she took the advice I wrote on the Moo card I gave her, I say, "Hi, charming librarian!"
Apollo Sunshine opened.1 They're three fuzzy-bearded hipster boys, and they sing tight southern-folk harmonies over a fuzzy wall of distorted sound that blows through the audience, sweeping out everything gray and gluey and small and plastering it to the back wall, leaving us as clear crystal shells chiming along with the high harmonics. Featured in their eclectic instrumentation were an electric autoharp, a feedback solo, and a three-man drum solo on a single drumkit. I'd heard a couple of their tunes before, and the half-hour set (chiefly Magnolia) was enough to make me drop $10 on their eponymous CD. I asked the lead singer to sign it, which he did: "Thanks for wanting my autograph, Jesse Gallagher."
TMBG continued the fuzzy overamped vibe into and through their two-hour set (no intermission, two encores). They summoned us to the stage like moths during the first number (Dr. Worm), and I now have a crick in my neck from headbanging, because of how I am old. Picture me covered in confetti, hair unbound, spastically gyrating beside a charming librarian jumping up and down in a Joss Whedon T-shirt.2 Ana Ng, Twisting, Alphabet of Nations, and New York City really benefited from the hard rock treatment; The Mesopotamians and Birdhouse (which opened encores one and two, respectively) drew the biggest crowd response. I also recall: Put Your Hand Inside the Puppet Head, She's an Angel, Hey Mr. DJ I Thought You Said We Had A Deal, Particle Man, Letterbox, James K. Polk, The Guitar, Cyclops Rock, Experimental Film, One Dozen Monkeys, and Contrecoup.They closed with the Fingertips medley, and as they were jamming during the coda ("I...walk along...darkened corridors...") Flansie proffered his guitar to the front row. With outstretched arms and glassy eyes we stroked it and fondled it and made it jangle. (I touched the strings. My fingertips — oh, hey, I just got that — glow with the power of rock.)
I left feeling a river of rainbow energy pouring in through my head and out through my toes; it dripped and drizzled away on the cold bus ride home, but I left fluorescent footprints around Boston for a while. It's good to get out of your head once in a while. Standing within arm's reach of a ten-foot speaker stack will do that, apparently.
1 Special note for
adfamiliares: a Stoltzfus named Quentin sometimes plays in the band.2 I'd spotted the shirt in Diesel, predicted (based on the T-shirt evidence) that she was going to the show, and chatted with her about it in the lobby. If she took the advice I wrote on the Moo card I gave her, I say, "Hi, charming librarian!"
