The Underground Metropolis

How do? Hopefully not too late, I here attempt to do the whole 'concert review thing' whatever that is supposed to be, and to tell a tale of restricted access and exclusionary privilege. Here we go:

I eschewed my parents invitation for a real dinner (with courses and sides) to get to the Metropolis early enough to see Elvis Perkins in Deerland, the opening act. A good friend of mine named Telo Luck told me to wait in the lobby of the venue where we would meet and he would casually walk me past security for free. Now you know Tully to be quite modest and humble, sometimes to the point of a schoolgirl blushy-ness, so any special treatment in front of gushing young hipsters is sure to stroke my ego bone. Ya, it felt cool, and admitting that is cathartic, especially in the face of predominant too-cool-to-care emotional ground tones. Fuck it; and I saved the cash to boot.

Tully Kinch: You want a beer?
Telo Luck: Ya, sure.
Tully: God damn Molson products. We should spare our constitutions and splurge the extra buck for Heineken. At least it's in a green bottle.
Telo: Mmmmm, green bottle.
[Telo and Tully shift awkwardly by the bar waiting for attention like good little children]
Telo: Let's go backstage. We can grab our own green bottles for free.

And so me and Telo crossed into the underground passage on our way to seek green bottles in green rooms. Here is the testament to our journey:











We made it, praise the powers that be. And I got the treat of seeing Elvis Perkins from the side of the stage, catching uncanny glimpses of Norman Bates (on whom I am supposed to be writing a paper today) rock soulfully sweet with a subtly textured voice. Telo was already a fan, and I think I may have to get the album, Ash Wednesday, quite soon. Noteworthy is Elvis' band: an eclectic composite of individual circles colliding and rupturing with the wax and wane of whatever particular intensity the song enlivens in the moment. I have a soft spot (somewhere on my hip) for upright basses, and especially gush over the giant marching bass drum dance routine.

And Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Well, for this one I wanted to get back into the crowd, do a little dancing, bump into some cute girls (unintentionally, of course) and take some pictures. Some of the better ones I have already posted. My sissy digital camera doesn't really cut it, and I did not how to zoom. Midnight Poutine has got two great shots of the show (but not of the hory trio, see my pic below), and their blogger goes gonzo in highlighting the picture taking as central to the concert review itself. I guess we are all a little self-indulgent.

I danced, I hit the high notes on the top songs, I marvelled at how the singer, Alec Ounsworth kept the singing voice on when he talked (when, after hearing him chat backstage, I know to be part of the show, not that there is anything wrong with that). Though some mentioned the band seemed a little lacking in the enthusiasm sector, as compared with their Osheaga performance last year, the tunes themselves did not drag their tails across the stage. With equal attention paid to their super hot first album and their still-finding-its-bearings second album, nobody felt gypped of their hits. The surprise masked horn section song came like one of those unexpected, repetitive crescendos of a sound scape rock-a-thon, meaning it was awesome.

I have gone on too long, so I sum up in haste.
Show=rocked,
Elvis Perkins=keep your ears out for him,
Backstage Access=a strange place for a socially awkward anonymous blogger with no real reason to hang around except smoke cigarettes and act too cool to join any conversation but is, in truth, happy to not get booted out on the street.