Franny and I went to the Jack White concert at the Roseland Ballroom last night. I’m a fan of most of the music/bands Jack White’s been a part of, and his first solo album is one of my favorite albums of this year, so I was particularly excited to finally see him in concert.
Well, it was loud. Really fucking loud. So loud that the music turned into a muddy mess and every song came out (kinda) sounding the same as the last –– like a Bob Dylan concert, but loud instead of indecipherable. At one point (during my favorite song on his new album, no less) the speakers were actually clipping, which is something that shouldn’t happen on your home stereo, let alone in an iconic concert venue in NYC. After about five or six songs of this, we decided to avoid further long-term hearing damage and made our way to the back of the venue, which proved to be a much more relaxed and entertaining place to enjoy the rest of the show, although it was still too loud and still not that good of a show.
That aside, it was refreshing (miraculous, even) to see a security guard busting people who were recording the show with their phones. Our culture seems increasingly less interested in simply experiencing life as it happens than in documenting that experience so they can update their Facebook profile/Twitter feed/etcetera. I find this trend troubling, and when it distracts from my ability to enjoy a concert/film/etcetera that I paid money to experience, it infuriates me. At an Avett Brothers concert earlier this month there was a guy holding up his fucking iPad to record the show, and I can’t be the only one who wanted to smack him across the head with that thing.
But the opening act –– The Alabama Shakes –– were fantastic, and Franny and I had a mad good time in spite of everything else.
I also found out yesterday that I got another (significant) raise at my main editing gig, and I realized that in one year I’ve gone from being as broke as I’ve ever been to making more money than I ever have, which is a welcome and somewhat miraculous change of fortune that I don’t imagine could have happened anywhere but NYC.
And this morning I clogged Franny’s toilet, which was inevitable, and somewhat surprising that it hadn’t happened sooner.
The view from the bathroom of my new freelance gig in DUMBO, which (aside from the view, kinda) reminds me of a bathroom in South Korea. Go figure.
DUMBO stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, and it’s one of the more unique neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Old warehouses converted into office spaces, art galleries, and expensive apartments; all accompanied by the intermittent roar of a subway train rolling over the bridge. Lots of art being made there, which makes it a more interesting place to work than midtown Manhattan, and it’s only a fifteen minute subway ride from my apartment, which makes me wish I could work there all the time. Or maybe it’s because the bathrooms remind me of South Korea.
An editor friend of mine rents an office there with a few other people, and when I asked him if it was expensive he said “uh… Kinda.”
I apparently remind people of (the musician) Andrew Bird. My cousin Sarah has been telling me this for several years, but over the past six months two close friends have sent me spontaneous text messages telling me the same.
Apparently it’s not so much that Andrew Bird and I look strikingly similar, it’s apparently the combination of our unusually similar appearances and our unusually similar mannerisms.
Somewhat coincidentally, Franny won tickets to see Andrew Bird at the Beacon this past Friday, and she took lucky me as her plus-one.
One of the first concerts I recall going to in NYC was to see Andrew Bird and Keren Ann at the Bowery in 2005. Andrew Bird played first, and I went up to him at the bar after his set and had him sign a CD: my pal << one f
Both times I’ve seen Andrew Bird have been great, but for different reasons –– the first show I had no idea what to expect and ended up being profoundly surprised, this last show I knew what to expect but still ended up being profoundly surprised (albeit somewhat less profoundly than the first time).
At the last show I was also trying to determine if he reminded me of myself, and I concluded (in part due to Franny’s assessment) that I guess he does remind me a little of myself, although it’s hard for me to say because I can’t see me from the outside. Lord knows I’ve tried.
This might be my new favorite song by him:
Tables and Chairs – Andrew Bird
..if only because it contains my new favorite lyric:
“There will be snacks.”
There will not be any photos.
I’ve been meaning to post this song for a while, but I’ve been too busy editing. I’m rendering now, though, so…
Trash Tongue Talker – Jack White