Feeling our age: Part I

Last Friday night J and I went to a concert in a small theater venue near the Belmont stop. My music tastes, as anyone who has seen my iTunes will verify, are best described as catholic. (Nanci Griffiths, Fleetwood Mac, Bryan Adams, Aerosmith, Death Cab for Cutie or Handel anyone?) Musical instruction comes from my friends and family. (Dad, Mum, best childhood friend, husband, sister) I also believe that live music offers a great event no matter what the genre. So when friends offered us tickets to a small venue gig for a British indie artist, I said yes before I even listened to her music. It was live, it was a relatively cheap Friday night out, and it could be our next musical love.

I failed to remember that the last time I’d even been interested in actually going to a live, small venue gig I was at school. Sixteen. Over a decade ago. Now we listen to CDs or catch John Mayer in the park on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Sometimes we even get as far as discussing the wisdom of spending $100 on tickets to see The Police at a huge, comfortable arena. (Didn’t get any further. Conclusion: $200 is not a cheap Friday night out)

We arrived early, as we didn’t want to highlight our ignorance amongst the crush of bodies on the main floor. We wanted a good vantage point, and preferably somewhere to rest our ancient limbs. The rest of the patrons did not have that worry. For a long period of time, everyone we could see was at least a decade younger. A lot of them were not old enough to buy the $6 beer. Then some folks our age turned up. They’d brought their two kids along. On the other hand, waitress service while you wait for some live music - still a good night out.

To say that the warm-up act was bizarre is to totally and utterly miss the mark. The world’s only “indie-vaudeville conceptual art-rock pop band” has to be the one and only, because there just is not room for two bands of this kind in the universe. They are a family group, whose 14 year old daughter, Rachel, first joined them on stage at six, playing the harmonica. Their unique selling point is that their songs are written to describe slide-shows. They buy slides from estate sales or flea markets and proceed to project the slides on stage while they sing about them.

From our vantage point, they didn’t really seem to be holding the crowd too well. As a grumpy old person, I thought they were fascinating. And then they sang another song about a slide-show. And another. And they all sounded a bit similar. In 2006 Time Out New York described them as impossibly twee. Their reviewer was ultimately converted, but the poor Trachtenburg Family Slide-show Players* were thwarted in their attempts to win me over by the bathroom ceiling leaking on me towards the end of their set.

I know it’s not fair, but that’s the way it is. When the ceiling leaks unidentified liquid substance on me in a bathroom where none of the stall doors close and the door of the one I’m using is too far away to use my foot, as an OAP, I’m going to find you twee and annoying. Sorry. Maybe some other time, in a sunny park. As I remarked on my return; I am either too old, or not drunk enough to be at intimate music concerts on a Friday night. Tonight I’m going to Symphony Hall, to hear the CSO. I do not expect to be leaked upon. I will be among my peers: potentially grumpy grown-up folks.

Coming up in Part II, read how we meet the most annoying audience members in the city. Also, there’s a chance I’ll try and defend our reputation as fun people by saying how much we love going to Buddy Guy’s Legends. Although, I do fall asleep almost every time.

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* I’m not linking to their website because it really upsets my Firefox and keeps shrinking it as it opens. Google them. You’ll not be sorry. Although really, the shrinking is just one more nail in the coffin. I’m never going to love you people now.