The aged suburban milieu discuss their children’s schooling (“He got a good grade in palm tree climbing”), chat on cellphones while their partners look distractedly at the other faces in the coffee shops attempting to meet a furtive glance with another, and they read books with titles like The Happiness Hypothesis. This post comes to you from It’s A Grind in Ballatyne Village. After being exonerated from today’s work schedule, I decided to take a personal day of ferrying Brittany to work and doing some shopping for myself at my dad, Father’s Day approaches quickly dutiful daughters and sons! Additionally, I took time to watch a gratis movie at the Village Theatre. Tonight’s presentation was Away From Her, Sarah Polley’s touching presentation of a marriage hewn apart by the onset of Dementia/Alzheimer’s in one of the central characters. All in all, a good day.
On the theme of good days, let’s talk about yesterday. Yesterday, I went to work (at 7 AM, nonetheless) and successfully avoided envolving myself with anything that required too much responsibility or cognitive reflection (one of my great talents, I’ve found). However, the question of personal alliances came up once again; the rift is often drawn between vendors and sales associates, one side accordingly does “more work” or “harder work” or some variation therein. Being a relative neophyte associate myself (and a part-timer), I inhabit that liminal space between the committed employee and the non-serious second-job “This isn’t really me” type. Thus, I am trustworthy, no snitch, and friend to nearly all. Naturally, this often forces me to be somewhat schizophrenic in my comments/manners of approach that I use with various coworkers. However, as I had only to work a five hour shift, the necessary duplicity was brief and relatively painless.
As Eddie Argos says, “Here comes the really good bit.” The best thing about yesterday happened after 4 PM. I was well off work and Brittany and I were on our way to Ballantyne Village to meet up with Enid and Daniel, fellow concertgoers, music lovers, and Cook-Out fans (new to that one as well). Enid and Daniel were our hosts/drivers to the Feist/Grizzly Bear show at the Carolina Theatre in Greensboro, NC. Enid drove and provided us with tunes. Along the way, we heard the new Spoon record in its entirety, a lovely song about Hot Dogs (by the Detroit Cobras) and a similiarly great number about Jesus coming up through the dirty ground (by Page France). Though I suspect they are well on their way towards great commercial success, I can’t bemoan the new Spoon record too much because in fact, I quite enjoyed it. I found that songs like “You Got Yr Cherry Bomb” and “The Underdog” moved with a sense of funk and rhythm that hark back to the salad days Stax records or even some of Fats Domino’s work.
In an evening suffused with song the concert stood as a cornerstone, an experience by which all others were measured, an event through which all things were filtered. The Carolina Theatre is a lovely building in the proper classic style of American theatres, modeling itself after the New York concert halls which ultimately copied the famed venues of Europe. Our seats were on the right of the stage, in the orchestra section. However, we only remained seated for Grizzly Bear’s set and the first few songs of Leslie Feist’s. Appropriately, after listening to the swirling harmonies of Edward Droste (whose hand I shook afterwards) and his wonderful band, Brittany and I departed to the lobby for $3 Cabernet (which was nearly worth that price).
Another word on Grizzly Bear’s set; their records don’t do their live performances justice. I recently purchased their 2006 release Yellow House in preparation for last night’s concert and I had listened to it several times through. However, all the repeat listens could not have prepared me for the gorgeous harmonies and near-seamless dynamism the band presented last night. Though my list of all-time favorite tracks is constantly evolving, Grizzly Bear’s “Knife” from Yellow House is, in my humble opinion, one for the ages. Inevitably, I have to thank Brittany for introducing me to the band, as she asked me one night if she might use my iTunes account to download the song in question. I am still floored by this song, as everytime I hear it, I try to isolate one of its many layers and find myself lost in the aural wash of its alternating harmonies and shifting dynamics.
Similarly, Leslie Feist on her beguiling new album The Reminder, or more specifically on the second track “I Feel It All” encompasses a register of joy and wonder at the world over a catchy acoustic strum and start-stop rhythm. This track, like “Knife” is a slippery thing that evades analysis, leading you on in a flirtatious manner asking for your commentary, inviting your critical gaze then losing you in a moment of pure pop music bliss. Once again, this song is one of the latest additions to my rotating mental bank of favorite tracks (e.g. those that may easily end up on mixtapes or playlists).
Feist’s performance last night was overflowing with energy and happiness. She came onstage to her band providing a musical backdrop (the intro to “Honey Honey”) and a spinning discoball (you can never have too much of a spinning discoball in an old theatre). Though her set began on a down-tempo note, Feist’s musical spark grew to a dull flame by the crowd-stirring “My Moon, My Man.” Indeed, the night’s theme was one of sparks and sparkles, as Feist performed the first half of her set with a sparkling sleeve on her mic stand, stopping between songs to, as she said, “adust her sparkles” and to “get serious,” which involved her removing the sleeve from her mic and sliding it commando-style onto her arm.
The most stirring moment of the evening occured during “My Moon, My Man” however, as a spontaneous crowd (of which Brittany and I were a part) gathered in the orchestra pit (earlier christened the “pihrana pit” wherein lucky contestants would each win $4 million for riskily dancing amongst dangerous flesh-eating fish and alligators and similar dangerous creatures) and danced their crazy asses off. After “My Moon, My Man” we stayed in the pit with fellow dancers, sang along during “1 2 3 4″ and slow danced to “Let It Die” (according to Feist’s direction) and went buck-ass wild to Leslie’s cover of Broken Social Scene’s “Major Label Debut (Fast)” (nearly the same reaction we had when we saw the original band play it).
Ultimately, a rewarding and impressive show from both bands and an enjoyable trip altogether. Perhaps I’ll write more about all of this later, but now distraction (in the form of Late Night With Conan O’Brien) has set in and I feel it is appropriate to close. This time, I’d like to close with a poem featured in tonight’s film. It’s a lovely piece by Michael Ondatjee:
“The Cinnamon Peeler”
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
– your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.
