Birchmere, October 28, 1999

From the RT list. Thanks, Dan.


Any reviewer who's honest will acknowledge that objectivity is a subjective
trait.

Ick. I've written that sentence, and now I want to peel it off the screen,
wad it up, and lob it at the wastebasket. Too pompous, too Latinate. But
true. How can you assess something without taking your emotions, blood
pressure, itchy contact lenses, tedious office politics, and other alleged
irrelevancies into account?

I had a burrito for lunch, from a place where the food always makes me
sick. I think it's MSG or something. By the time I arrived at the
Birchmere, two hours before the show started, I had a pounding headache. I
was weary and cranky from the traffic.

Yes, I was thrilled to get a decent seat (thanks be to Barry Beiseigel, who
had a much better line number than mine), to scarf up some of those lovely
tour T-shirts, and to be in the company of friends (including my husband).
But maybe there was some kind of lingering malaise...here I nearly had my
show spoiled by a bad burrito.

The band was hot and tight and loud. "Cooksferry Queen" started things off
with a neat kick. That song, brilliant, just runs itself; Richard could do
it in his sleep. (But he doesn't.)

And on through the beginning of the first five songs of Mock Tudor...but
something, at least for me, was odd. There was a negative vibe. There was
a joylessness, a gravity. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing; it
was very intense. It was as if the band had to play or the bus would
explode. It wasn't angry, but it seethed with a grim determination.

By "Hard On Me," the dark push forward was obvious. It couldn't have been
just me and my headache by then; it was the song, too, that strained at its
leads, a life force that wouldn't cease--not driven by love or anger, but
just life.

The end solo started. I thought about the list members tallying the time
of the solo, wondered briefly who had a stopwatch. But I wasn't distracted
for long. I watched and listened to Richard, and the solo told me a
subplot, its own story. We were all in the dark, but Richard, by means of
his guitar, was tunneling us out. His intentions carried us forward.
Hope grew in the sound. He'd move ahead, all aural twists and obstacles
and terrors, but he'd come back and get us every so often, with sounds that
we could understand. And then we were out of the darkness, but we still
weren't safe, for all around were lights and guard towers, guns and razor
wire. But he kept on, relentless, and we were with him, trusting his power
even when we didn't understand it. And then, at some point, all the
barriers had disappeared. The journey had taken on its own importance, and
walls and darkness, chairs and tables, audience and performers, all were
irrelevant.

But of course the moment you realize such a thought, the magic moment is over.

I guess I was still tired, for even though I knew it was a good show, I was
oddly detached through a lovely "Jennie" (I like the bass flute) and "She
Twists The Knife Again" (a song with an itchy energy that, to my state of
mind at the time, was more distracting than enfolding).

Somehow "Persuasion" was a rebirth. Maybe it was so loud in the Birchmere
that our ears needed a break. Maybe my ibuprofen kicked in. Who knows?
Richard and Teddy wove their voices together so beautifully that something
sacred happened. I've heard it before; I'll hear it again. Tonight was
still special.

"Sights and Sounds of London Town," not a great favorite of mine, was
delightful. Again I'll get all newagey and say that the energy had turned
positive. The remainder of the show had a bouncy, ballsy power that was
mesmerizing. Richard did lots of surf riffs. Teddy hopped up and down.
Michael Jerome was sweating like a lemonade on the Fourth of July.

I can't recall many more of the details because I was drunk. Not on
beer--on the music. I couldn't believe how good it was; I couldn't believe
how the band could just keep going, through two encores. I know that I
gave in to my id and sang along with "Bright Lights" and "Wall of Death."
(I hope I didn't ruin anyone's live or Memorex experience of the show.)

You know, it was hard to sit all that time. I think I'd have been less
tired if we could have stood. For "Walking the Long Miles Home," Richard
quipped that we should all stroll around the room, a la musical chairs.
That might have been a treat, had we been able to manage it. Alas, the
sold-out room was packed, with peripatetic servers providing the only
offstage action.

We did a fair amount of sedentary bopping. (No, wait, that sounds like
sex. Someone else who was at the show, please share Richard's observations
about horizontal and vertical music.)

"When The Spell Is Broken" sounds really fresh. "Razor Dance," which
concluded the last encore, was a revelation, with a new, idiosyncratic
arrangement that makes the song even sharper. There were no surprises in
the set list; the surprises were in the execution of a very strong set of
songs.

Richard signed at least a few autographs, and I was amused to see several
people jump out of his autograph line in favor of greeting Michael Jerome.
My husband was impressed by Jerome--couldn't believe he was making all that
noise with brushes. He must have to replace the damn things every night.

So my contact lenses are dried out, my head still hurts, and my shoulders
are tired from clapping. Full pseudojournalistic disclosure there. I
can't say how much my mood affected this little essay, but I can say that
the concert affected my mood. I have a pocket full of tickets for upcoming
shows--and a smile on my face when I think about them.