TCMH, v.96: When Concerts Become an Existential Exercise
The Expectations of Our Shared Experiences Are Changing. I'm Not Super Happy About This.
There was a brief period of time in which the British singer-songwriter Beth Orton had enough popularity to score a gig at The Pageant, a 2,000 seat venue in St. Louis. I went to a show of hers and sat behind a couple of folks that I didn’t know, per se, but had seen at countless art and music shows around town. They were maybe a foot lower, only a tiny seating deck removed, the exact two people directly between myself and the stage. Within a song, maybe two, they kissed.
No big deal, it happens. Hey! I’m not against love! Then they kissed some more. Basically, they kissed for the remainder of the show, sometimes involving themselves in what could be called “a passionate embrace.” To this day, I can’t see either of them when bouncing around St. Louis without that image in mind. (Yes, they’ve long-since broken up, in case you were wondering). And I can’t listen to Beth Orton without the same images bubblin’ on up. Would just as soon move on from that sight, but… I can’t. It’s locked.
This past weekend, we attended a show by the band Heilung, which is really more of a musical theatre troupe (of a very specific sort). The show was held at the Saenger, a beautiful, historic, highly detailed room for 2,600 patrons, located just across the street from the French Quarter. Walking into the theatre, we were greeted by the sounds of birds, the only sounds heard until the band made a belated arrival onstage at roughly 8:10. The true concert was preceded by a ritualistic cleansing of the stage, which was multiple minutes in length. And for the next two-plus hours, Heilung captivated the big room with music and theatrics that varied from very quiet to very loud, with a final song that called for the audience to stand and dance; to be honest, though not a dancer in any way, I was happy as heck to move around, to celebrate their show in exactly that way. After another closing ritual of maybe 10 minutes, the show ended at roughly 10:35 pm, the audience scattering to nearby watering holes.
The reason that all of these time marks are included is this: Heilung plays a set that demands the audience’s attention. If you’re there for the right reasons (and why wouldn’t a $50 ticket suggest as much?), you’re in for the whole experience. To talk during a show like this is to break the common bond of the room. Heilung doesn’t offer party music, chat-with-your-friends music, phones-up-for-the-duration music. It’s literally healing music. And it was that for us and 90% of the audience. And yet…
The lottery of where you wind up in public events in becoming a little stressful for me. For this show, we sat in Row O, 15 rows from the stage.
Meanwhile, in Row M, a gent fiddled with short video clips for about a half-hour, before he disappeared to the front of the house. Our immediate neighbors a row up in Row N took up his phone duties, though relatively minimally. Worse were the five or six friends two rows back in Row Q. At one point, with a song starting just with the sound of bells, one of them loudly wisecracked “C’mon home, Bessie, it’s time for supper.” Around a barroom table, a joke delivered like this (cows, bells, a country accent) might land just right. Here, in this environment, it was another bit of audio corruption from a row of folks who couldn’t seem to last five minutes without an eruption of some kind.
This isn’t just a music venue problem. Sporting events? Lord.
A couple of summers back, I attended a Triple AAA game in Salt Lake. Without any real care about the fate of the local team that afternoon, I chatted with friends. Blah-blah-blah all through game, eventually noticing that one member of our group was truly into the game. Keeping score, living and dying a little, tiny bit with the actual outcome. I quieted down, just a touch. But not really. We moved twice to avoid the sun, we drank beer, we talked, we acted like most people do at a ballgame.
To be honest, I’m not one to deal with crowds these days. But even a movie theatre with 40 people can be a mixed bag. Attention spans seem blown out. There’s no moderating some folks’ indoor voice, if that’s even a thing anymore.
Thinking that I might find some time for a candle soon, alongside some palo santo, a nice, long Heilung video on YouTube and a bit of bliss. No crowd. Yes.
(FYI. This week I’ve been reading about war[s], climate issues, the upcoming election, various “challenges” to the world. Re-reading this note, I realize that the volume of temporary human neighbors at a concert is relatively minor. And, yet, the artistry of this particular group requested, if not demanded, a certain collective spirit. Alas. It’s a complicated world.)
Newbie Orleans: A while back, I wrote that we’ve semi-adopted a feral cat colony, a mob that calls the humble corner of Independence and Marais home. Moe, one of the regular cats when we began, was culled by a pitbull, but has since been replaced in the Core Four of that colony by another orange cat, New-Moe (or Nu-Moe, who rounds things out with Eenie, Meenie and Meiney). That group’s the day-to-day crew, but another dozen cats dart in/out for feedings. It’s good fun. They seem to appreciate the grub. The closest neighbor’s also cool with it, so we keep showing up.
Things have gotten more serious lately, as a friendly has started making a dusk-time visit to our front steps. Francis/Frances is its name. There’s talk from our Neighborhood Weirdo/Creeper on a Stolen Bike that the cat lives around the corner from us, but I can’t totally take this unreliable narrator seriously. So maybe Frances/Francis does have another landing pad, another family. It started one day, became a week, is stretching beyond that now.
Kinda feel like we have a cat. As for the other two that’ve started to come by for a meal. Oy. This is how it begins, right?
Mixed Media: Tim Alberta on Dean Phillips’ longshot Presidential campaign for The Atlantic… Carlos Augilar for The New York Times on the enduring appeal of The Nightmare Before Christmas… Delaney Dryfoos of The Lens on the recent appearance of New Orleans’ gross “superfog”… General dipping into the music/audio tech readings of The Vinyl Factory… Jamelle Bouie of The New York Times on Louisiana’s own, the new House Speaker Mike Johnson.
A YouTube Lagniappe: To look ahead to next week’s newsletter and its detailing of brushes with fame, I’ll hint at this: I’ve talked to some famous folks at different levels of their fame. Once, when co-running a corner bar, a fella named Willi Carlisle played our humble, 49-seat “venue.” He later played there again, this time for a birthday party, of all things. Another few years later, he’s now opening for Tyler Childers, who’s apparently A Big Deal in Country Music. Maybe Willi’s next up for stardom? Hope so, as he seemed like a nice person. Someone who’d commission an possum-inclusive, stop-motion music video, no less.
The Thank You Department: Thanks be to Larry M who sent me a few digital coffees this week! And also thanks to Jennifer RP for a paid sub. Speaking of which... if you took some enjoyment from this newsletter and wish to support my writings, you can via three platforms. Venmo gives me the most bang for your buck and tips from (honestly) a dollar-on-up are appreciated. You can also support through a standard subscription of $30 annually through the link below; while Buy Me A Coffee offers $5 tip increments. Danke!
This is 100% how it begins. How you don’t have a ragtag bunch of cats INSIDE your house yet is a mystery. The universe’s Cat Distribution System is calling you, and loudly.