You wouldn’t think that Low would attract the type of showgoer who still thinks it’s hilarious to scream “FREEBIRD” during a quiet moment. Yet that’s exactly what happened two-thirds of the way through their set in Milwaukee at the kickoff of their winter tour. Singer Alan Sparhawk took it in stride; he blinked, leaned in close to the microphone and said dryly but firmly, “No.” This provoked a wave of appreciative laughter from a crowd that had clearly been through this one too many times. Seriously, guys, we’ve said it before and we’ll say it again: That joke is not funny anymore. With the exception of Freebird Guy and another guy behind us who felt it necessary to whistle tunelessly along with every song, occasionally mutter some lyrics that had no audible connection with the song that was being played, and at one point jump up to do a strange, disjointed dance while drumming the top of the bar that was set up in the back of the room, the audience was a model of quiet, awed respect. The first several rows even sat cross-legged on the floor to better appreciate their heroes.
(Or, How You Too Can Become Cool If You Have The Right Lighting Scheme, Skinny White Boy)
Interpol with Q and Not U at The Rave
Milwaukee, March 13, 2005
The Rave is one of the worst places on earth to see live music. There, I said it. The concertgoer, upon visiting the establishment, will inevitably be subjected to one or more of the following insults:
1. Being packed so tightly on the floor that you are staring at the back of some dude’s head the entire night because you cannot see anything, especially if, like me, you just barely clear five feet.
2. Being moved around repeatedly by security if you are in the balcony because apparently there are only certain select garbage cans and pillars that you can stand by.
There is music that is the stuff of dreams and then there is music that is the stuff of dreams sung by dreamy people. I had never heard the name Andrew Bird until about a month ago even though he’s been playing in one form or another for at least ten years. I picked up The Mysterious Production Of Eggs completely on a whim and ended up adoring it beyond all human comprehension, and then it seemed everywhere I turned—music nerds the world over couldn’t shut up about him.