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he tore our images out of his pictures,
he scratched our names out of all his letters.

if you want something, don't ask for nothing
if you want nothing, don't ask for something!

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I roll out of bed this fine afternoon, ready to photocopy and research and do all the wonderful things necessary for my interview with Nova in TO tomorrow. Happily enough, travel circumstances form and break and reform and shred via MSN, and I am apparently taking a Greyhound into the Big City sometime tonight. Pressure to hurry-the-fuck-up is alleviated and now I don't have to be a third wheel on Tim and Michelle's magical shopping adventures.

Urgency slain, I decide to write about the super-fantastic-amazing Arcade Fire show last night. I see that Carly beat me to it, and did an A-OK job at that. I grimace. The blogosphere is getting crowded, and what can I say that hasn't already been said? I try anyways. Here we go.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Sherry kindly automotivized us into Toronto mid-afternoon, a full three hours before doors at the Danforth opened. We wandered around Greektown for a while, marvelling at the high volumes of bridal shops and dishevelled individuals smoking cigarette butts that they picked out of patio ashtrays. Carly looked at dogs, as Carly is wont to do, and Regan taught me that dogs essentially walk upright on their 'toes' all day long. Those puppies have some fucked up anatomy.

When we wandered back to the venue, a line of scenesters in skinny ties and golf shoes had already begun to form. I searched for the ultimate emo kid and found plenty of girls in dresses + jeans, thick-rimmed glasses, and work shirts. Borrelli told stories about a friend who made an abrupt decision to shift his image from Limp Bizkit rage-kid to sappy emo putz overnight. I shook my head. Why buy into a scene that's already on its way out?

Nobody knew who the opening band was. I guessed U2.

I was wrong. Inside, later, we watched Owen twist his violin into loops and layers of sound. Many of his songs reminded me of Secret of Mana for some reason, and I was strangely vindicated when we found out later that his act was called Final Fantasy.

The seating in the Danforth didn't lend itself particularly well to smoking, in either the traditional or illegal sense, and I watched the bouncers drag several would-be revellers out on their ears. Guys with big, fancy-looking cameras were also ejected, while teenyboppers snapping shots with cell phones were left unmolested. Apparently only high quality photography is frowned upon (???). I was somewhat relieved that I had forgotten my camera, although I am certainly not high quality.

The Arcade Fire eventually took the stage, nine thin, all in a line and solemn with intent. "Wake Up" opened the set and as I watched each and every member of the band lean forward, mouths open in passionate song, I think I figured out what that crazy high-pitched guy in Waking Life is talking about: a holy moment.

I stared at Sarah Neufeld, the violinist, and for an instant we locked eyes. I knew she couldn't see me - the spotlight was blinding - but I stared until she looked away. In that instant, I saw something new.

The great thing about a nine-piece band is that there's always something interesting happening on stage. The Arcade Fire showcases an eclectic range of talent, as many members switch instruments from song to song and occasionally even within the same song, and if they suddenly decide to start bashing a random cymbal into pieces maniacally, that's cool too. Everyone else can pick up the slack.

One guy looked a whole lot like Napoleon Dynamite. I cringed when the inevitable catcall between songs rang out: "You're my favourite one, Napoleon!" He didn't hear, but Win, the lead singer, savagely flashed the middle finger. I wondered whether he was angry that his bandmate had been monickered Napoleon, or that he wasn't the favourite himself. I'm thoroughly sick of hearing Napoleon Dynamite references by now. Trendiness leads to overexposure which leads to mass appeal which leads to death.

Encore. Double-encore. Regina had a tear inching down her cheek as she sang, eyes closed and clutching, and I knew that a band that could feel this much could never drown in pop-culture mundanity, regardless of how huge they become.

We left and I gushed, unable to grasp at the words necessary to convey how I felt. Lapsing into silence, I held the warmth close.

Posted by Chris at 12:29 PM >> Commentations (10)