MarathonProxys: Bizarre Concert Experiences, Volume 1

I could start this by making some claim as to the unique aura of the concert experience, especially in a technological era when so much music is so very invisible. But I won't. I'll just get straight into it. I've been asking some of my blogger friends, and some other Internet-esque people who might have interesting things to say about music and music-related experiences, to share with me (and you, Dear Reader) their most bizarre (of the ones they can remember) concert experiences. Because they're far more efficient than men, this first gathering is happily gynocentric (three ladies to two dudes). Thanks so much to this round of contributors, the first round of hopefully many more rounds to come. I'm still taking contributions, too, so if any of these spark a memory, drop me a line.

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John: One of the most bizarre shows I've ever seen was an amazing performance by soul legend Howard Tate, the legend behind the classics "Ain't Nobody Home" and "Get It While You Can.” Mr. Tate's life has been a hard one: addiction, the death of his daughter, divorce, mostly forgotten in the field where he has been most successful. His performance in New York was his first in literally decades. Tate is legendary for his high, clear falsetto and I can happily relate that he was still very much in possession of a powerful voice. Unfortunately, though he was very sweet and friendly on stage, he seemed a bit absent-minded and would occasionally ramble off in an odd direction. Even stranger was his song selection: this gospel and blues legend did a few of his own pieces but relied primarily on the songbook of whitebread staples Burt Bacharach and Randy Newman. Mr. Tate seemed only somewhat familiar with the songs he was singing; he referred to lyric sheets and would regularly lose his place and make up new lyrics. This would be forgivable, if the song in question weren't "Close To You." Mr. Tate also accompanied himself on guitar for every third song or so. This was regrettable because, as Mr. Tate noted, he had not played a guitar for over twenty five years. The playing was such that it was hard to believe he had ever played the instrument; he fought hard for every note and generally sounded like a first week student. But that voice! That beautiful voice! It was one of the more striking, odd and enjoyable concerts I've ever seen.

Cindy Hotpoint: It was a hot and sticky August night and Statistics, M. Ward, and Rilo Kiley were playing a late show on Emo's outside stage. Already, this story is probably making you all cringe. Believe me, it was astronomically hot. It is miserable. And yet we went out! Insanity! Anyway, this was at the front end of the band's burgeoning success, so I wasn't really expecting a huge crowd. Boy, was I wrong. I forgot all about the crazy Saddle Creek fan-kids, and as Emo's is an all-ages venue, they were out in droves, knotted together in a massive throng in front of the stage. Luckily, they were all tiny, so at least I could see over their heads. On the other hand, they'd all managed to get completely wasted before they came to the show, since the hawk-like bouncers live to throw out underage drinkers. Anyway, this tiny girl in front of me with giant X's on her hands was clearly trashed out of her mind and screamed "JENNY YOU FUCKING ROCK!!!" for the first half of the set or so. (This fact is even documented on bootleg recordings of that show. She was really, really loud.) The kids around her told her to shut up. The band told her to shut up. I think Jenny even leaned over and asked her very nicely to shut up. But still, she screamed. And screamed. That is, until she turned kind of green, and puked EVERYWHERE, including on my foot. And I was wearing flip flops. Luckily, a Stand By Me-ish chain of vomit was avoided as we were all just glad she'd finally stopped screaming. She feebly tried to take up her devotions again, but just kind of passed out on her feet and her friends dragged her out of the venue. We applauded. Some nice girl gave me a cup of water, and I rinsed off my foot as best I could and edged as far away from the puke as possible. The rest of the show was fantastic -- but really, you haven't lived until you've had a rabid and drunk 16 year old Rilo Kiley fangirl barf on your foot in 100+ degree heat. Seriously.

Jennifer O'Connor: Let me preface by saying I am a huge huge huge Mark Eitzel/AMC fan. A couple of years ago at SXSW AMC gave a most unusual, amazing performance. The sound was, in a word, atrocious. I can't remember what the venue was, but nothing was going right on stage. Mark was in very rare form: he kept talking about Viagra and there was lots of rolling around on the floor. He got out into the crowd a couple of times. He seemed very upset---and the show was indeed out of control---but it was truly amazing and completely riveting. It was impossible to take your eyes off of him. I've seen them/him play several times and you can always count on him being completely dedicated to the performance. And on this night, the performance was completely surreal. And somehow, really really beautiful.

Amy: Nowhere is the axiom “hell is other people” more true than at rock shows. But you don’t expect to almost get into a shoving match with a stranger when you go to see the Sea and Cake. When I’ve told this story, people usually respond with, “But The Sea and Cake are so nice,” or “so mellow,” or so + some other benign adjective expressing not known for inciting violent behavior among fans. And yet at a Sea and Cake show maybe ten years ago at Chicago’s great, and now sadly departed, Lounge Ax, I came close to punching another woman in the face.

The facts: local favorites, packed house, shotgun-style floorplan with few favorable sightlines and me, only 5’2”. However, Lounge Ax did have this little raised platform step that ran on the sides of the room in front of the stage. So when I saw a space that easily could have accommodated several bodies and wasn’t too far from where the more height-advantaged friend I came with was standing, I stepped up. That’s when the creature in front of me whipped around, “Oh no, you don’t! My space!” (something like that), gesturing to a generous perimeter around her person. Before I had time to recover from this unexpected confrontation and find my tongue, the Fury pushed me off the step. Yes, both hands to my shoulders and whoosh. It was sort of one of those moments when you have a crucial—possibly life-changing—decision to make: shove (or hit) the crazy bitch back or retreat. Imagining an evening that ended in me having to make bail, I backed off, but only after exchanging some choice insults. Of course I spent the rest of the show fuming, thinking of nothing else.

The Sea and Cake? They were nice I suppose.

Sean Michaels: So a few years ago the Arcade Fire were launching their self-titled demo/EP in Montreal. It was held at Casa del Popolo, a venue owned by a Godspeed You! Black Emperor member and responsible to no small degree for the thriving scene that's present in the city at the moment. Casa is a single, narrow room, with a bar at one end and a low stage at the other. Eight or ten people can stand shoulder-to-shoulder for its width. When the place is full in wintertime all that you can see from outside is the glow of lamps within, show posters, steamed up windows. Inside it's laughter and warmth, drinks and vegetarian sandwiches, a visiting band on stage.

Okay I'm getting sidetracked by nostalgia. On this night there were a couple of strange opening bands - I believe one of these was the Kosher Dill-Spears, a fumbling and cheerful cabaret-style act with an organist and a tap-dancer? Something like that. And then the Arcade Fire came on, with friends, their instruments glittering like polished fruit under the lights. It wasn't the same lineup as they have now – but there was Win with his acoustic, paper apple stuck on; there was Regine with an accordion; there was Dane with a bass bigger than he was; Brendan on drums; Tim (I think); Richard - who wasn't a fulltime member yet - on an enormous upright bass. And there were a couple of side players with violins, maybe a trumpet player, maybe someone on singing saw or clarinet or harp. And the room was pretty packed, friends and fans of the band, the big knot of people who did have some inkling of what awaited them. And then the band played - and it was a brilliant, brilliant show. The room hummed with splendour and want, all these yearning songs sung large and glad. I remember catching my friend Dan's eye and there was such a spark of happiness there. I realised the same spark was in my eye. It was one of those easy, happy nights where the music gives a sudden bound and you, in the crowd, give a leap – your heart jumping up in your chest. We were so happy, so confident in the certainty that this was our favourite band.


So yes: a hot Montreal bliss. And then about forty minutes in, a song started and something must have been wrong with the drums because Win turned and yelled "No - STOP!" at Brendan and things righted themselves and Win turned back and the band played on, sparkling, for another minute, but then Brendan suddenly shoved forward his drum kit, like a man throwing a punch, and he had surged forward and maybe he yelled something and maybe not---all I know is that there was such violence in the way the music had died, in the scattering of cymbal and tom, in the way the band had suddenly turned to look in at itself. Brendan shoved his drums and then stood up and stormed forward, and left, and he had pushed open the fire-exit behind the stage and the door clanged shut behind him. And there was a beat. And then Win threw down his guitar and was out the back door after Brendan. And then there was another beat. And then one of the violinists yelled "Oh my god!" from where she was standing in the crowd and she jumped up and picked up her violin, crushed by someone's fleeing foot.


The band didn't know what to do. The crowd didn't know what to do. There was awkward laughter but mostly there was fear: what would this mean for the music we had just been hearing? Would we hear it again? Was everyone okay? That poor girl's violin.


Eventually Win came back and said thanks, I think. Eventually Brendan reappeared too, and was there in the crowd, and we were told things were okay. And though the Arcade Fire didn't play any more music The Parka 3 got up on stage, gawky and grinning. Dave Barclay (who now writes for Popsheep) said: "Okaaaaaay." They played songs about robots. We danced. We danced and danced, and I told myself to remember how delicate all this was. Music's greatest strength is that it's made by human hands - but that is also its greatest weakness. Even the strongest song is made by our brittle, brittle bones.