So We Meet Again....
I'm feeling sufficiently bitter enough to catch up on some bloggin'.
Michael and I went to see The Cure, not last Friday, but the Friday before that. Admittedly, the concert was a great one and they played all but one of the songs I wanted to hear. ("Cut Here.") That said, I had a few problems with it:
-it was at the Patriot Center which, as Cartman would say ,"sucks balls." The sound is generally terrible (much like the school and it is my alma mater so I know these things). The worst concert I ever saw what White Stripes at the Patriot Center-I am not exactly sure how one can make exactly one guitar and old drum set sound bad, but the Patriot Center managed to accomplish exactly that). It is, as my friend Maria succinctly states, a frakkin' basketball court. It did seem very wrong for the majority of fans of The Cure, which I assume never before stepped foot on a basketball court. (I, myself, famously played basketball in elementary school in Bermuda, coached by a handsomely tall Canadian named Gary. I had my moment in glory when I stole the ball away from the other team and scored a goal. In my own team's basket. So yes, I was destined to enjoy The Cure. But I digress.)
-It was disheartening to see Robert Smith, seemingly on the verge of diabetes, have way more energy than me. See Michael's blog for a full set list. All I will say is that they played for over 3 hours and had 3 encores. And that I am old. And wished they would stop. And Robert Smith kept prancing on stage. Which made me feel older.
-Goth people. Nothing is worse than a person trying to emulate 2008-era Robert Smith (see diabetes comment above). That said, I spent the majority of the concert alternately sitting down (see "I am old" statements above) and glaring at the obese goth chick two rows behind me. When she was not yelling/slurring obscenities at Robert Smith when he didn't choose songs she liked, (in what I considered to be a fake British accent), she was twirling up and down the aisles (fire hazard) like some horrible goth dreidel. In fact, most of the joy I derived from the concert involved glaring at dreidel-goth-chick. And Skittles. I like Skittles.
In general, however, I was tired, but well-behaved. I am generally a homebody and see no use in most concerts-I can pay $65 for a concert ticket or stay home with a $10 CD-guess which one I get better sound quality out of? But this was a Christmas present for Michael, so I strived to not complain. And he got me Noodles & Co.
Then there was this past Friday.
I will start by saying that my typical bedtime is 10:30PM.
Notice I do not state that it is 4:30AM.
Michael and I, several months ago, bought tickets for Devotchka. We knew it would be a late night, simply because the concert is in DC and we, thankfully, live very far from D.C. We thought the concert would start at 9PM.
We found out the day of the concert that there would be two acts before Devotchka and that the headliner would not go on until 11:45PM.
I am way too old for this crap.
So I hemmed and hawed and finally decided that I wanted to see one of the preview acts so bad, I would go ahead and go. (Basia Bhulat, in case you are wondering.)
I would console myself with, alternately, copious amounts of coffee and vodka.
Michael, being the anal being he is, has a more complete timeline on his blog. I myself will not bore you with the details. All I will say is that we missed the first act, Basia Bhulat was everything I could have hoped for, blueberry Stoli is lovely, and Devotchka was pretty good, but most of their music sounded the same at 1AM in the morning.
I fell asleep on the way home and was grumpy for the next two days.
Too old for this crap.
It is very depressing at the ripe age of 27 to realize that you would rather stay at home and make JAM than to go to a concert.
sigh.
We didn't get home till about 4:30 AM and Tilda was up around 8:30 AM. It is Tuesday, and I think I am still recovering.
So, there, I am caught up.
Michael and I went to see The Cure, not last Friday, but the Friday before that. Admittedly, the concert was a great one and they played all but one of the songs I wanted to hear. ("Cut Here.") That said, I had a few problems with it:
-it was at the Patriot Center which, as Cartman would say ,"sucks balls." The sound is generally terrible (much like the school and it is my alma mater so I know these things). The worst concert I ever saw what White Stripes at the Patriot Center-I am not exactly sure how one can make exactly one guitar and old drum set sound bad, but the Patriot Center managed to accomplish exactly that). It is, as my friend Maria succinctly states, a frakkin' basketball court. It did seem very wrong for the majority of fans of The Cure, which I assume never before stepped foot on a basketball court. (I, myself, famously played basketball in elementary school in Bermuda, coached by a handsomely tall Canadian named Gary. I had my moment in glory when I stole the ball away from the other team and scored a goal. In my own team's basket. So yes, I was destined to enjoy The Cure. But I digress.)
-It was disheartening to see Robert Smith, seemingly on the verge of diabetes, have way more energy than me. See Michael's blog for a full set list. All I will say is that they played for over 3 hours and had 3 encores. And that I am old. And wished they would stop. And Robert Smith kept prancing on stage. Which made me feel older.
-Goth people. Nothing is worse than a person trying to emulate 2008-era Robert Smith (see diabetes comment above). That said, I spent the majority of the concert alternately sitting down (see "I am old" statements above) and glaring at the obese goth chick two rows behind me. When she was not yelling/slurring obscenities at Robert Smith when he didn't choose songs she liked, (in what I considered to be a fake British accent), she was twirling up and down the aisles (fire hazard) like some horrible goth dreidel. In fact, most of the joy I derived from the concert involved glaring at dreidel-goth-chick. And Skittles. I like Skittles.
In general, however, I was tired, but well-behaved. I am generally a homebody and see no use in most concerts-I can pay $65 for a concert ticket or stay home with a $10 CD-guess which one I get better sound quality out of? But this was a Christmas present for Michael, so I strived to not complain. And he got me Noodles & Co.
Then there was this past Friday.
I will start by saying that my typical bedtime is 10:30PM.
Notice I do not state that it is 4:30AM.
Michael and I, several months ago, bought tickets for Devotchka. We knew it would be a late night, simply because the concert is in DC and we, thankfully, live very far from D.C. We thought the concert would start at 9PM.
We found out the day of the concert that there would be two acts before Devotchka and that the headliner would not go on until 11:45PM.
I am way too old for this crap.
So I hemmed and hawed and finally decided that I wanted to see one of the preview acts so bad, I would go ahead and go. (Basia Bhulat, in case you are wondering.)
I would console myself with, alternately, copious amounts of coffee and vodka.
Michael, being the anal being he is, has a more complete timeline on his blog. I myself will not bore you with the details. All I will say is that we missed the first act, Basia Bhulat was everything I could have hoped for, blueberry Stoli is lovely, and Devotchka was pretty good, but most of their music sounded the same at 1AM in the morning.
I fell asleep on the way home and was grumpy for the next two days.
Too old for this crap.
It is very depressing at the ripe age of 27 to realize that you would rather stay at home and make JAM than to go to a concert.
sigh.
We didn't get home till about 4:30 AM and Tilda was up around 8:30 AM. It is Tuesday, and I think I am still recovering.
So, there, I am caught up.
posted by waltzingmathilda @ 10:46 PM
1 Comments:
At 10:23 AM,
Misty Beethoven said…
Ha ha! I'm right there with you on the bedtime tip. Just think how old you'll feel when you hit 30!
Matt and I were watching some interesting activity at the Cure show. This one couple (early 40's or so) were standing dancign with their back to us. The guy was rubbing her bum. The fondling her bum. Then tickling her bum. Then fingering her bum. It was so gross and bizarre and funny that we could hardly look away.
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