Concert Review: The National - The Pageant, St. Louis, 9/30/10

In June of 2007 the National played the Duck Room here in St. Louis, a drafty, windowless, duck-themed basement at this city's beloved Blueberry Hill burger joint. With its austerely gray atmosphere, it could easily be used to stage a performance of Endgame and generally caters to four types of artists: current indie bands on the rise; current indie bands treading water at best; once-mighty bands on a slow, pitiable decline; and Chuck Berry. There was no doubt at the time that the National belonged in that first category. Boxer had recently been released and was beginning to generate Album of the Year buzz, and plenty of people were quickly discovering that Alligator actually wasn't the group's debut LP.

A few years and another remarkable album later, this time High Violet, the National are unarguably one of indie's leading bands, feted in The New York Times, blessed with the Michael Stipe seal of approval and commonly described as being on the cusp of "mainstream" success, whatever that term means in today's mostly radio-less world. Though there was some pre-show pissing and moaning from at least one guy - few things in life compare to being cornered in a bathroom by someone ranting about the band playing a mid-sized club like the Pageant instead of a smaller, more personal venue - such griping is by now expected; every indie band whose listenership increases significantly will always have some myopic fans nostalgic for poorer days long gone.

The venues may have gotten larger, but the band's live show has still managed to retain its intimate, visceral quality even as it has become more polished. Such was the case with the group's most recent St. Louis performance, as the band drew from every LP except the oft-overlooked self-titled debut in their nearly 100-minute set. After a stately opening to "Runaway," most of the songs that followed were louder and longer than their album versions. The two-man horn section of Kyle Resnick and Ben Lanz and multi-instrumentalist Padma Newsome boosted the sound considerably and complemented the Dessner/Devendorf brothers' playing, with "Mistaken for Strangers" (dedicated to some dude named Ron), "Baby, We'll Be Fine," "Slow Show," "The Geese of Beverly Road" and "Fake Empire" all closing with full-bodied instrumental sections. "Available" was given a harsh treatment appropriate for its subject matter, with Berninger of course screaming the closing lyrics over squalls of guitar noise, before the band segued into the closing verse of fellow Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers track "Cardinal Song;" Berninger also punctuated "Bloodbuzz Ohio," "Squalor Victoria" and "Abel" with more yelling, precariously swinging the microphone stand in the air on that Alligator track. Elsewhere there was humorous stage banter about the singer's newest nickname - Dick Jagger - and his wife being/not being a cannibal, a bit of palatable guitar-rock-god preening as one or both of the Dessners stepped out for a short guitar solo, Berninger wandering around the stage and a few classically gloomy National moments via "Sorrow" and "London."

The band's encore was brief - three songs - but thrillingly wild. After a faithful version of "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks" that featured Newsome on violin, the band played the expected "Mr. November" - with Berninger roaming far from the stage, climbing on the railing, probably kicking a few drinks over, ending up in the pit and generally covering all corners of the Pageant except its parking lot - and ended with a blistering version of "Terrible Love," the singer standing on the railing nearest to the pit and screaming as anonymous hands either pawed at him or, more civilly, made sure he didn't fall off. Sure such antics are at least partly orchestrated and similar acts of showmanship will probably happen in the next city the band plays, but it was still cool as hell.

This ability to connect with an audience is what makes the National's live show so captivating; like their albums, in concert the band is able to sincerely express the types of everyday highs and lows to which anyone can relate. No surprise then that the night's atmosphere, sometimes something of a wild card given the Pageant's cookie-cutter aesthetics, was subdued but not catatonic, with most of the crowd intent on listening to the songs and not talking through them, the occasional catcalls about what Berninger was drinking notwithstanding. It was as flawless of a performance as I've seen; there were no lulls, deadweight songs or mailed-in efforts, and the guys all played like they were a young band fighting damn hard for an audience and not a marquee act who had the crowd in its pocket from the onset. There's no telling how many folks from that 2007 Duck Room show were in attendance, but if any of them skipped the National's latest stop here with the conviction that a band isn't worth following once its members aren't setting up their own gear, it's their loss. Certainly it's a difficult task to exceed beyond-lofty expectations, but that's exactly what the National did at the Pageant on this night.

by Eric Dennis

Concert Review: The Rural Alberta Advantage - 12/9/09

February 3, 2010 8:42 AM
It was fucking cold in St. Louis on this particular Wednesday night. With temperatures hovering in the single digits and a large segment of the local population raiding grocery stores as if Thursday morning would bring with it a new Ice Age, the chance of a poorly-attended show at Off Broadway was a strong possibility. Yet despite the usual panic-inducing weather forecasters begging people to stay the fuck inside, enough like-minded indie souls braved the elements to make The Rural Alberta Advantage's second show in St. Louis in 2009 respectably attended.

Mixing songs from the somewhat-underappreciated Hometowns with several new songs and one truly bizarre yet sublime Survivor cover, the trio played a spirited, ramshackle and altogether too brief 45-minute set. The band's setup was rather minimal, as members Nils Edenloff, Paul Banwatt and Amy Cole set up in a straight line toward the front of the stage with only a couple keyboards, an acoustic guitar, small drum kit and various pieces of percussion.

In this live setting the tracks from Hometowns were performed rougher and more aggressive than their more polished album counterparts, suggesting the current critics' depiction of the group as dreamy-eyed, nostalgia-filled Canadian indie-popsters isn't entirely accurate. Most noticeable was the contrast between Banwatt's precise and frenetic drumming and Edenloff's slowed-down vocals on "Don't Haunt This Place" and "Drain the Blood," a juxtaposition that exists on the album but was more noticeable in concert. Cole alternated between keyboards and percussion, sometimes hitting a tambourine set atop a drum or just the drum, adding an extra kick to "In the Summertime" and most other songs. Edenloff's vocals were far-ranging and expressive without coming across as overly emotional, overblown or derivative - enough with the comparisons to Mangum and Meloy already - on slow burners like "The Ballad of the RAA" as well as the blistering, set-closing "The Dethbridge In Lethbridge." Even a take on the goddawful and nauseatingly insipid "Eye of the Tiger" - one of the lowest points in the history of shitty 1980s music - somehow worked, as Edenloff transformed it into something more meaningful and relevant than the bombastic Balboa-recalling original. It wasn't quite as implausible as Richard Thompson singing "Oops!... I Did It Again," but it certainly came close. Three new songs were performed with very little introduction from Edenloff; all three were excellent and suggest the band's next release will be every bit as good as Hometowns.

There is an honesty and sincerity to Hometowns, and the band's stage demeanor similarly came across as equally earnest. Clearly the band knows they've got a damn good set of songs, playing with an intensity and focus that older and more established bands still lack. Skeptics might dismiss the group's subject matter as too limited, and undeniably the Canadian landscape right now defines both the band's catalog and how they are perceived by some fans and critics.

Once the show ended some of the audience clearly wasn't in a hurry to head back outside; it likely wasn't just because of the freezing slaps of winds that waited just outside Off Broadway's front door. It doesn't always require overwrought lyrics and bloated arrangements to convey emotion. Sometimes it can be done with a simple stage presence, imperfectly nasal voice, precise drumming, flourishes of keyboards and percussion and lyrics that say something about both hope and loneliness without dissolving into either extreme pessimism or idiotic optimism, something that The Rural Alberta Advantage clearly already knows.

Concert Review: Lucinda Williams

The Pageant, St. Louis, MO 10/17/09

It took exactly one song for the intoxicated requests to start. After Lucinda Williams opened her St. Louis concert with a soulfully garbled solo acoustic take of "Motherless Children," a rather forceful demand for "Drunken Angel" was shouted from the pit area. Other requests punctuated the breaks between songs throughout Williams' mesmerizing two and half hour performance at the Pageant - "Lake Charles," "Joy," "Are You Alright?" (a glutton for punishment, there) - and even if such things are standard and expected for a Williams show, it still doesn't make them any less annoying or unnecessary.

Perhaps such fans were unaware of the approach Williams and her expert backing band (a Doug Pettibone-less Buick 6) have taken on their current tour. Featuring a chronologically arranged setlist, these shows have the feel of a career retrospective, with Williams digging into her back catalog for songs that have been in her repertoire for years as well as a few rarities. If the crowd's expectations and what Williams had planned didn't always jive - especially in the concert's mostly down-tempo first hour, it was clear that more than a few fidgety and vocal concertgoers were expecting a full-on rock concert - the show was nevertheless memorable, with the singer turning in her most assured and confident performance in St. Louis since her 2003 stop at the same venue.

Although any such chronological format runs the risk of disintegrating into a mere nostalgia trip or Kumbaya community sing-along, there were enough surprises in song selection and wrinkles in the arrangements to keep things interesting. The first hour or so emphasized the musician's folk and blues roots: Williams' Folkways years were represented by the aforementioned opener, Robert Johnson's "Rambling On My Mind" and "Happy Woman Blues," while her self-titled Rough Trade debut was revisited with a pitch-perfect full-band version of "Crescent City," a country-inflected "Big Red Sun Blues" and a stripped down take on "Side of the Road." Only a scant two songs from the underappreciated Sweet Old World were offered, neither of which were particularly inspired; if there's an additional complaint here, it's that both songs - "Little Angel, Little Brother" and "Pineola" - were again performed with little deviation from their album versions and have grown a little stale.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the most generous selection of songs came from Williams' three best albums:Car Wheels on a Gravel Road, Essence and, despite the occasional dud, World Without Tears. Weeper ballads like "Greenville," "Lake Charles" and "Blue" were intermixed with the muscular, aggressive blasts the band applied to "I Lost It," "Out of Touch" and "Real Live Bleeding Fingers and Broken Guitar Strings." Guitarists Chet Lyster and Eric Schermerhorn and bassist David Sutton played masterfully across the board, while goateed monster drummer Butch Norton was particularly savage, pounding away at his drum kit as if he'd just discovered that it slept with his woman.

The main set somewhat limped to the finish. Recent songs "Unsuffer Me" and "Tears of Joy" sounded as lifeless in concert as they do on record, with both lazy blues crawlers standing in sharp contrast to the mocking and nasty tones the band applied to the vitriolic "Come On" and set-closing "Honey Bee." Still, such missteps were rare, and, after a three-song encore, the curtain closed on a fitting end to the band's tour and one of Williams' most engaging and least predictable St. Louis concerts.

With only a few exceptions, the performance itself was almost always flawless, with both Williams and her superb backing band breathing passion and energy into both the reliable standbys and lost gems from her back catalog. Though Williams' standing as a critics' darling has taken a hit with the dual disappointments of West and Little Honey, she still knows how to translate her songs to a live setting and there is a power to her ragged voice live that isn't always captured on record. If this chronological show confirmed anything, it's that most of Lucinda Williams' songs have aged well and rightly continue to find an audience based on the strength of their content and the often wrenching and conflicted emotions they express.

by Eric Dennis
[Photos: Lindsey Best]

Setlist:
1. Motherless Children
2. Rambling On My Mind (Robert Johnson)
3. Happy Woman Blues
4. Crescent City
5. Big Red Sun Blues
6. Side of the Road
7. Little Angel, Little Brother
8. Pineola
9. Greenville
10. I Lost It
11. Lake Charles
12. Still I Long for Your Kiss
13. Blue
14. Out of Touch
15. Essence
16. Real Live Bleeding Fingers and Broken Guitar Strings
17. Righteously
18. Unsuffer Me
19. Come On
20. Tears of Joy
21. Honey Bee

Encore:
22. Nothing in Rambling (Memphis Minnie)
23. Joy
24. It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock n' Roll)

Satire: Area Music Fan Suffering from Hearing Loss

Longtime concertgoer Howard Deefman dejectedly admitted today that he’s distraught after learning from his physician that he’s starting to suffer from irreversible hearing loss. Deefman, a 65-year old Venice Beach street vendor and self-admitted “dinosaur rock aficionado,” estimates that he’s seen thousands of concerts over the last nearly 50 years, both in his hometown of Los Angeles and throughout the United States.Deefman readily admits the specific details of these show have become seriously scrambled in his addled brain. “I can vaguely remember sitting through marathon Led Zeppelin drum solos, Who concerts where the volume was so loud I couldn’t complete a covert drug transaction in the bathroom, and even a recent Springsteen concert that I thoroughly enjoyed from row 278.” Yet the street vendor is still in shock over his impending auditory demise. “The memory loss I can deal with; losing the memory of those Rick Wakeman ice concerts seems like a fair tradeoff. But I gotta be able to hear at these shows.”

Perhaps what’s most surprising is the alleged cause of Deefman’s hearing loss. Dr. Heinrich Vears, Deefman’s long-time doctor who he describes as a “good croaker who knows the score and how to write a solid prescription,” attributes his patient’s deterioration to a very unique cause. “Based on a series of extensive and cutting-edge tests, billed of course at a discounted rate since Mr. Deefman’s insurance lapsed sometime around the heyday of Prog Rock, I’ve concluded that his hearing loss is attributable to a lifetime of concerts in which he found himself sitting directly in front of a decibel-shattering person who would constantly shout at the band, drunkenly requesting songs that the band would never play anyway, and loudly harass those around him by calling everyone ‘bro’ or ‘dude,’ directly into Mr. Deefman’s ears.”Deefman readily agrees that the doctor’s theory rings true. Deep within the recesses of the remaining brain cells that are doing more than retaining bong resin, the lifetime music fan can still recall countless cases where his concert experience was ruined by a loud neighbor. “Dylan gospel tour 1980, some meathead spent the whole night screaming for ‘Tiny Montgomery’ and booing directly into my ear every time Dylan played a religious song. In 1997 I spent a whole month following Tom Petty around, and each night girls screamed hysterically every time he played ‘American Girl.’ At this year’s Tom Waits show in Phoenix, a fan in a bowler hat directly behind me conducted a screaming soliloquy about having Mr. Waits’ children before he was escorted out.”

Deefman gloomily concluded: “I used to think the worst thing about these concert screamers was that they’d startle me so much that I’d spill my Pabst all over some college preppie. But now I guess my hearing loss wasn’t actually caused by that particularly shrill Joan Baez show from 1963.”Though Deefman isn’t thrilled that he needs to begin wearing a hearing aid, he’s equally concerned that other music fans will suffer the same fate. “The younger generation’s ears are going to hell, without a doubt,” he asserted. “The stuff that passes for music nowadays is a far cry from the dulcet melodies of my 1960s prime. The noise kids listen to today proves to me that their ears are already crapping out. It’s certainly not music to my ears.”

Satire: Mysterious Group Vows to Constantly Talk During Music Concerts

A mysterious group calling itself Concert Talkers of America (CTOA) announced today its ambitious plan to “create a steady, audible, and obnoxious torrent of constant talking and to utterly ruin the concert experience for as many concert goers as possible” by the year 2010.

In its defiant statement, CTOA also boldly declared: “Our aim is to return the concert experience to its purest, most primitive, and least civilized form. Concerts are meant to be talked through with conversations ranging from the banality of modern life to Jimmy’s bizarre and unusual sexual proclivities to Susan’s doctor who totally misdiagnosed her, not listened to with rapt attention, or danced to in enjoyment. We are certain that both the majority of music fans and musicians themselves would agree with this.”

Although the group admitted its strategy for achieving these goals is not yet solidified, it reported its first successful test run at The National’s opening slot of the May 29 R.E.M. show at the Hollywood Bowl. “Conditions were perfect for this experiment,” the group stated. “An indie band with increasing popularity playing the bottom of the bill for a Voltron-like legendary band. Only the most dedicated National fans would be there for their set. A perfect setting for ruining the experience for those indie hipster kids.”

The group declared their first victory once they heard a tape of the band’s performance. “Even the loud songs are compromised by our constant, inane chatter. We worked in topics ranging from Bud Light Lime to circus freaks to that one’s girl’s haircut. We even received several requests to sit down and shut up, from clearly agitated fans. One little indie fella even said we were more obnoxious than post-Exile in Guyville Liz Phair, whatever that means. Our mission was a complete success."

Although CTOA was not willing to divulge its current number of members, the group did announce plans to actively recruit throughout the United States. “Our requirements are simple but strict: anyone wishing to join CTOA must pay their own money to attend a concert, find a dedicated fan who really wants to hear the band or dance the night away, turn their head immediately to the left, and loudly talk nonstop for the length of the concert. Requests to be quiet must be swiftly answered with either an F bomb or a rabbit punch to the spleen. Intoxication via pink-hued beverages ending in ‘tini’ is also strongly encouraged.”

The CTOA statement also placed the group in the larger context of American concert talkers. “From the most famous and influential American musicians of the 1960s to the least-known and most-talented unsigned band pounding away in some dingy, poorly-ventilated shithole club in Fort Wayne of today, Americans have a fine history of treating live music as an incidental backdrop to more important concert activities, like playing grabass with old college frat brothers or talking about the finer assets of Janine in Payroll. We aim to expand that tradition into all genres of music.”

In an attempt to gain increased exposure, CTOA is targeting Tom Waits’ upcoming American tour as its next foray into concert sabotage. “Waits shows are rare and tickets are difficult to get. His fans are fiercely loyal and appreciate his music. There will be many people who have never seen him in concert before, complete with excessive expectations of musical transcendence and the simple desire to listen to the music without extraneous background talking. Our forces will be mobilized and our vocal chords will be well rested to ensure that simply doesn’t happen.”

Finally, CTOA has its sights set on expanding overseas. “Our methods will likely be different in Europe,” the statement concluded. “A quick, jarring first volley is needed. We likely will begin employing the primarily American practice of talking during the entire concert, and then screaming hysterically like possessed drunken louts when the one song we recognize is finally played.

“Ambitious? Sure. Unrealistic? Possibly. But with dedication, perseverance, and blatant disregard for that short guy in the Sufjan Stevens Illinoise t-shirt who’s nearly in tears as we chat during the entire show, we can achieve these goals.”

Summer Music Festival Survival Tips and Etiquette

You might think that attending a summer concert festival with thousands of other music fans who share your abiding love of a specific band would be enough to make your festival experience enjoyable. You'll doubt that when you hear said band perform their best songs from their best album with the fellow fan while desperately wanting the lines to the porta-potties to just move already.

You might think that several days in the sweltering sun with like-minded music fans would lead to a mystical sense of musical joy and community, and that the person thuggishly shoving his way to the front of the stage won’t step on your head to get a few feet closer to the band.

You’d be wrong.

Simply put, a summer concert festival is Thunderdome, a regular outdoor concert gone gonzo on HGH and the cold, unforgiving Darwinian struggle for survival all rolled into one. With Coachella already in the books and a whole mess of festivals remaining this upcoming summer, a few simple tips are in order to maximize your enjoyment and ensure your survival.

1. Do not be deceived by the "Chill Tent." What looks like an oasis of cold water and available shade from a distance is actually a cruel mirage. Get close enough to the "Chill Tent" and you’ll see what it really is -- a swarming mass of suffering humanity that most closely resembles a Goya painting or a medieval leper colony.


2. You must cheer wildly for the dinosaur act that recently reunited for the festival circuit. Sure the band hasn’t released a decent album in decades. Their waists have gotten wider while the hair has gotten thinner and grayer. Their upcoming album, that’s described as a return to form, will probably stink out loud, but dammit, the band dusted their corpses off for this festival. Applaud.


3. Dress appropriately. The deciding factor for your wardrobe is not the temperature; instead, it’s your favorite musical genre. If you are a Goth Rock fan, and I know the five of you are still out there somewhere, heavy black clothing is required. If you’re an indie rock fan under the age of 30, you must wear a hoody and dark-rimmed glasses. Bonus points if someone mistakes you for Colin Meloy.


4. You are responsible for your pharmaceutical stash. If you get all Han Solo and panic by dropping your goods at the first sign of an Imperial Cruiser, don’t drop them in the lap of the nearest innocent bystander.

5. Ric Flair was your favorite wrestler and that’s cool. The Nature Boy’s a legend, even though his minimalist wrestling attire left nothing to the imagination. Still, use between-song “woos!” sparingly. You don’t need to shout like Flair after every song.


6. You might see people with recording devices. Let them be. They are your friends. Plus, there is nothing worse than an illicit live recording punctuated with “are you recording this? Are you? Really?” during every song.


7. If the natives become restless, the festival starts to deteriorate into an orgy of mayhem and violence, and a random stranger who looks like Beavis asks you to help tip something over or set something aflame, do not accept the offer. Or at least wait for a camera crew before proceeding.


8. Every band has a fan that can only be described as "That Guy." "That Guy" knows the length of every song, can link the band’s latest album to a current political issue, and thinks the band is singing about him in every song. You’ll first meet him buying a beer. Then he’ll be in front of you by what the concert promoters have charitably called the “restrooms.” By this time he’ll consider you his friend, slap you on the back with drunken gusto, and give you a nickname like Johnny One Punch, even though you’re name is Evgeny and you’re from Latvia. Avoid That Guy at all costs.

The final band on the final night is playing the final song. The concert promoters and sponsors are loading their crates of money into vans under cover of darkness. Limbs and legs are strewn over the festival grounds like a Fiona Apple video. You haven’t bathed in 72 hours, your car keys were lost in the Great Unknown, mud and beer have mixed into your clothes to form a potentially fatal epoxy, and your girlfriend’s been backstage for a while and you’re getting suspicious.

But you’re still breathing and have a few musical memories you won’t forget. Survey the carnage and take a deep breath. You survived.

Concert Review: Okkervil River and New Pornographers - St. Louis, MO - April 19, 2008

Somehow I had managed to convince my wife that attending the Okkervil River/New Pornographers concert in St. Louis was the best way to spend our two-year anniversary. Certainly better than a quiet, romantic dinner and a few glasses of wine. After all, if spending an April night in a packed concert club with various hoody-wearing indie fans isn’t romantic, I don’t know what is.

I understood her trepidation; she hadn’t heard anything by Okkervil River, and her knowledge of the New Pornographers didn’t extend far beyond the song “Twin Cinema” and “that poppy song that was used in the University of Phoenix commercials.”

Top that off with several failed attempts to impose my musical tastes on her (“there’s no way you can’t like this"), and several brutal Bob Dylan concerts over the years (synopsis: sweltering St. Louis summer, lawn seating, and a dancing concert neighbor sporting what appeared to be a massive case of scabies), and the possibility of a disastrous evening was very real.

But a person unfamiliar with the musical performers brings something that those familiar with the band’s music sometimes lack: objectivity and a lack of preconceived notions. Chances are very good that if you really like the band on stage, nothing short of a complete disaster (chemically-disabled musicians, abysmal venue acoustics, or Woodstock 1994) will change your opinion about that band. You’ll enjoy the songs and be reminded of why you downloaded the latest album on the sly; maybe on the way out you’ll stop at the Merch stand and buy a size medium t-shirt that shrinks to the size of a postage stamp upon first washing. Roughly paraphrased, Bob Dylan once said in an interview that he plays for the people who don’t attend every concert and who might not be familiar with or fans of his music; those Dylanphiles who roam the world popping up at every Dylan show (and they are out there, living among us, biding their time, corrupting our children…) are already converted.

Applying this concept to the show at the Pageant Saturday night, both my wife and myself largely had the same experience and opinions for both bands: headlining act New Pornographers was solid and tight; opening act Okkervil River was nothing short of spectacular.It’s not that the New Pornographers mailed in the performance; far from it. The band was clearly energetic and enjoying themselves, and there were some musical highs. The live versions of songs from their latest, and underrated, album Challengers were played well enough, even if they didn’t sound much different from the actual album version. And a cover of ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” unleashed the closet pogo dancers throughout the pit. The biggest letdown from their performance is that the band and their playing almost seemed too controlled, too proficient, too note-perfect. There weren’t many rough edges or new twists: just another day at the musical office.

This impression was at least partially shaped by Okkervil River’s standout opening performance. At times quiet and controlled, and other times unhinged and wild, the band delivered one of the most memorable performances I’ve seen at the Pageant.

Cramming songs from recent albums Black Sheep Boy and The Stage Names into an hour-long set list, singer Will Sheff and the band delivered an emotional, sometimes theatrical performance that successfully communicated the themes that run throughout the band’s songs: life’s small disappointments (“Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe” and “A Girl In Port”), self-inflicted endings (“John Allyn Smith Sails”), and a whole mess of ugly emotions (“Black” and “A Stone”).My wife was hooked from the opening song (“The President’s Dead) and I suspect she wasn’t the only one. The band’s music and Sheff’s lyrics didn’t so much nudge us awake as they grabbed us by the throat. After an hour that seemed to pass all too soon the band was done and left to loud applause.

Despite both being indie bands, Okkervil River and the New Pornographers are far more different than similar. With their open-ended lyrics, catchy tunes, and controlled stage demeanor, the New Pornographers are somewhat traditional. Okkervil River’s lyrics tend to be more direct and attention-grabbing, and their music often veers into various styles and tempos. At the Pageant on Saturday night, each band played to their strengths. One band was solid. The other was spectacular.

An Indie Music Junkie's Year-End Best Of List

What would December be without crass commercialism, rampant orgy-like spending, and random year-end lists?

It Was the Best of Concerts, It Was the Worst of Concerts

Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan, October 22, 2007 - In October the two music icons appeared at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis. Costello, armed with an array of guitars, delivered a memorable solo performance full of the spite, anger, humor, and occasional tenderness that mark his best songs. There was crowd participation, furious guitar playing, and a perfect “The Scarlet Tide” to close the set. Then Dylan ambled out, played a couple songs on guitar, and retreated behind his keyboard for a set that sounded like the end days. The mix was horrible, and Dylan could barely wheeze three words at a time as he growled his way through the murk.


Reunion Album That Reconfirmed It All

Beyond - Dinosaur Jr. - Sure, J Mascis looks like the guy you always see in Best Buy monopolizing Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock while children wait impatiently for their crack at it, but Beyond was a tremendous reunion album. With its mix of guitar squall and buried melodies, it stands right alongside You’re Living All Over Me as a classic Dinosaur Jr. album.



Reunion Album That Ruined It All

The Weirdness - The Stooges - Forget that “Lust for Life” is now the theme song for a cruise ship commercial (with the lines about liquor and drugs carefully removed). This underwhelming album by the Stooges killed whatever mystique they had left. Even Steve Albini as “recorder” couldn’t save it.



Best Artist to Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial

It was an interesting year for Band of Horses. After a spat with fans in San Diego over videotaping of the band’s July 6 performance, the Sub Poppers took some heat for licensing songs to Wal-Mart for use in an online campaign. In recent weeks, the band’s song “Funeral” has been in heavy rotation for a Ford television commercial, marking the strangest use of a song for commercial purposes since Volkswagen used Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” in 2000.



Best Artist to Not Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial

That Tom Waits is a bad mofo. In January, Waits won a decision against Adam Opel AG, an offshoot of General Motors, for using a Waits soundalike to sell cars…in Scandinavia. It was the second time in less than two years that Waits won such a lawsuit. Rumors that BMW wants to use Waits’ “Misery is the River of the World” for their 2008 marketing campaign are not yet confirmed.



Favorite Concert

When The National played the Duck Room in St. Louis on June 11, Boxer was freshly released and beginning to garner plaudits that ranged from reserved praise to over-the-top awe. What could have been a sparsely attended show was instead a packed house with an eager, energetic crowd. Relying on the new material but also playing songs from Alligator and Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers, the band delivered an intense, cathartic performance, surpassing the increasing hype. Now, if someone has a recording of it, I’m not hard to reach.



Reissues Are More Than Just Cash Grabs

Bronze – Calenture, The Triffids - The underappreciated 1980s Australian band finally got their due with a nice reissue of their 1987 album Calenture, the follow up to the essential Born Sandy Devotional. The original album, demos, and outtakes were spread out over two discs, plus the album’s packaging was snazzy and liner notes were actually informative.

Silver – Stand in the Fire, Warren Zevon - Long out of print on disc, Warren Zevon’s Stand in the Fire received the digital treatment this year. A recording of a wild, frenzied 1981 performance, the album showed Zevon at his manic best. Four cuts excluded from the original album were included to top it off. Play it loud.

Gold – Daydream Nation, Sonic Youth - Sonic Youth’s much-worshiped Daydream Nation was given a fat dose of bonus tracks this year. The original album is, of course, great, but the real treat here was the second disc, which was jammed full of Sonic Youth goodness, including a live version of each album track, as well as covers of songs by The Beatles, Neil Young, and Captain Beefheart. A nice essay and cool period photos made this reissue an essential purchase.



You Fool, Reissues Just Rob You of Money

Pointless reissues or compilations were certainly not in short supply in 2007. While many major labels could be taken to task for uninspired reissues/compilations, Columbia’s bland, boring, and utterly useless Dylan release represented everything wrong with such releases. With zero unreleased recordings (unless you paid on iTunes), this abomination rehashed most of the same damn songs as Dylan’s many other compilations. With an artist whose vault must be packed with unreleased goodies, lazy stuff like this shouldn’t even exist.



Favorite Albums

Bronze – Neon Bible, Arcade Fire - Even if many music fans and critics blew their loads over 2004’s Funeral, the Arcade Fire’s self-produced sophomore album gave everyone a chance to get fired up again. Even though the images of apocalypse and bombs could grow a little heavy-handed at times, Win Butler’s voice, ranging from howls to everything in between, and the band’s damn loud playing made this album more than just another rant about the sorry state of our world.

Silver – Armchair Apocrypha, Andrew Bird - With the guitar pushed to the forefront, Armchair Apocrypha marked a stylistic shift for Andrew Bird. The songs were highly textured and far more layered than his previous albums; violin loops, drums, whistling, guitars and glockenspiels were thrown together to create a symphonic sound that amazingly didn’t result in garbled mush. The songs could sometimes be decidedly heavy; absurd superstitions, old age, the futility of war and the fall of empires, childhood confusion, and a general helplessness against a vast, impersonal world all unfolded in Bird’s lyrics. There aren’t many albums that sound like this one, and that’s a good thing.

Gold – Boxer, The National - Never has an album whose characters suffer under a veil of fuck-it-all resignation sounded so good. The songs on Boxer invoked themes of broken relationships, people aging quickly beyond their years, and passing, superficial comforts like drugs and booze; even the implied threats of “Start a War” sounded powerless and empty. Evocative lyrics, Matt Berninger’s weary baritone, and the band’s sometimes minimalist, sometimes layered instrumentation combined beautifully to create one of the best albums of the decade.

The Concertgoer's Guide to Appropriate Behavior

The timid finger gently taps the back of the dancing concertgoer, currently engaged in a grotesque pelvic thrust that is part macarena, part electric slide, and all horror.

The concertgoer spins around as if shook from a dream, to hear a kind request to sit down so that the face of the timid finger can see the performer on the stage. The dancer answers by gruffly threatening future physical abnormalities and by telling the person to do something to herself that is physically impossible.

The dancer spins back around and continues his boogie-woogie-woogie. The woman sits in her seat dejectedly. Her seat happens to be a wheelchair.

This, of course, makes the dancing man the world’s biggest asshole.

I witnessed this at the recent Elvis Costello/Bob Dylan October 2007 show in St. Louis.

Only the intervention of a security guard convinced the dancer to at least move to the aisle, so that he could continue his gyrations without blocking the woman’s view. It also led to me to ponder the question of what qualifies as appropriate behavior for a music concert, since I have seen too many cases where norms of human decency have been scuttled in favor of behavior that would rival that of our knuckle-dragging ancestors.

The fact that this type of thuggish behavior has mostly happened at concerts by “established” acts (Dylan, Costello, R.E.M), and not at shows by less-known indie acts (The National, Silver Jews) is a topic probably best left for another day.

What follows is my humble attempt to create a modern day Hammurabi Code for Concertgoers. Minus the punishment by dismemberment and disembowelment.

Reserved Seating

You’ve just thrown down hundreds of dollars and donated several pints of blood in order to afford a couple Neil Young tickets, yet you aren’t exactly thrilled to be sitting at the top of the mountain:

Your reserved seat number is not a suggestion or a general approximation of where to sit. If your ticket says Nosebleed Balcony Seat 236, your posterior should be drawn like a magnet to the confines of that seat’s dimensions.
If you are occupying someone else’s seat and you get called out on it, don’t feign surprise and act like you were unaware you parked it in the wrong spot. Your hangdog expression and slow ascent into the wilds of less cozy environs within the venue gives you away every time.
People occasionally leave their seats to get a drink or buy $50 tour sweatshirts. When they come back to their seat, you shouldn’t be sitting there like a rock-n-roll Goldilocks.
General Admission

General admission is always a dicey proposition. You have a great chance to get in the pit and get close to the musician you’ve been stalking for years. Yet as your fellow concertgoers jockey for prime real estate before the show begins, violent elbows to your spleen are a real concern. Here’s how to handle this situation:

If you are a male under 5’9’’, forget about it. You will be muscled out of your spot in the pit; it is a Darwinian certainty.
Sitting on the floor of the pit until the show begins is not a good strategy. Some concertgoers equate sitting heads with steps. And like a turtle hiding inside its shell, eventually you must come out. When you do, that winged predator with sharp teeth you were hiding from will still be there.
Tables with either chairs or stools at a general admission show are the equivalent of water from a cactus for a man starving in the desert. Do not hesitate, do not look around for a better spot, and do not be fooled by the mirage of a near-empty orchestra pit. Grab the table and bunker down. Do not leave it unguarded under any circumstances.
Bodies in Motion (Dancing and Standing vs. Sitting)

You’ve impressed your date with third-row center seats, but she’s not yet aware of your Travolta-like tendency to treat the venue as part of your personal discotheque. What’s a guy to do?

Consider the performer:
If you are seeing Johnny’s Disco Explosion, go gonzo. There are no laws, rules, or regulation. It’s Thunderdome.
If you are seeing Johnny Q. Folkie, part your butt in your seat, hold hands with your neighbors, and join in when he sings “We Shall Overcome.”
If you are seeing something in between, commit hard in one direction. Either remain rigidly seated even though the other 19,999 people in the arena are shake-shake-shaking all over like frustrated wannabe go-go dancers, or, while everyone else is moping and staring at their shoes, perform your own rhythmic gyrations from the time the show starts until the performer walks off stage. Or until security throws you out. Whichever comes first.
Those around you should not need to drive a flag into the ground to claim their space as part of their familial birthright. Likewise, your raised arms, flailing legs, and shaking ass should not intrude upon any concertgoer with whom you are not intimately familiar.
Nicotine Consumption and Beyond

Your reformed smoker friends constantly tell you to drop the habit. Yet you cannot get the full concert experience without a few puff-puffs. Although your lungs are crying on the inside of you, you need a few lung darts to have a truly enjoyable time. With public smokers becoming pariahs, what’s a dedicated Marlboro man to do?

If it’s a smoking venue, puff away until you can’t puff any more. For extra spite, blow your smoke in the direction of the 6’3’’ jerk that muscled you out off your spot near the pit’s railing (see above).
If it’s a non-smoking venue, you will likely be relegated to an inconspicuous, dimly-lit, and borderline-dangerous alley near a side door to the venue. As you shorten your lifespan along with your fellow cigarette cronies, take this opportunity to remember the old days when non-smokers didn’t complain about minor things like secondhand smoke, their personal comfort, or their desire to not smell like Joe Camel.
A popular alternative to smoking in the great wide open at non-smoking venues is the classic play of smoking in the bathroom. Not only does this say that you won’t be relegated to an alley, it also shows that you are a true worshipper at the altar of God Nicotine. A word of warning though: this approach is the equivalent of running the gauntlet .Those pesky male pissers tend to be uncompromising with anything that keeps them from reaching the porcelain goddess, especially in dire situations.
If your chemical proclivities extend to, technically speaking, illegal substances, follow these simple guidelines to maximize your illicit enjoyment and to avoid an awkward 2 am call to your parents from a holding cell:
You are not hanging out in your basement room with your friends Slappy and Jimmy C-Nuts after your parents have gone to sleep. Be discreet about it.
If you are holding and Security approaches you, do not panic and throw your stash in the lap of the stranger sitting next to you.
Liquid Consumption

You’re a hard-working white collar dude, but sometimes you want to cut loose with half a dozen strawberry-almond flavored microbrews, to show your fellow concertgoers that you’re not a total suit. Before you or your significant other get blitzed at the Police reunion show on drinks that all end in “tini” and drunkenly croak out “Roxanne” in your own key, observe these rules:

Remember that beautiful duet of “I Shall Be Released” that Dylan and Costello sang at Tramps in 1999? How you couldn’t believe your luck to be in the front row to witness such a moment? How the crowd was pin-drop silent and just knew they were witnessing something amazing that would defy later description? No? Then you drank too much.
Remember hitting on the blonde bartender, challenging the bouncer to a mixed martial arts fight, and screaming hysterically for Kelly Clarkson to sing “that one song from the radio?” Yes? Then you didn’t drink enough.
Performances come and go, bands come and go, but the memory of an unplanned concert vomit on someone’s Chuck Taylors lasts forever.
Waiting in Line

You’ve got general admission tickets to see your favorite musician for the 47th time tonight. To ensure you get close enough to him to see the wrinkles in his catcher’s mitt-like face, you’ve lined up outside the venue six hours before the doors open. You’ve got no one for company except the voices in your own head. You’ve got some time on your hands, so remember these rules:

Eventually people will line up behind you. Do not snarl, bark, or constantly look over your shoulder in paranoia at them. They mean you no harm. Besides, they are piss-fear afraid of you.
Sometimes people will need to walk past you. They are not trying to steal your spot. Some of them aren’t even going to the show. There is no need to eye f-blankety-blankety-blank them.
Sometimes security moves the line to a new starting point, for no reason other than their sadistic pleasure. Shake your fist at the sky, blame cruel fate, whatever gets you through, but the bottom line is that you’d better run like hell. Your previous position as king has been suddenly usurped.
Talking During Shows/Other Random Noises

For some reason, we Americans love to spend large sums of money on concerts and then talk through the buggers. You’ve done this in the past but want to repent; you still have a sneaking suspicion that your constant gum-bumping precipitated the riot at the Guns-N-Roses concert in St. Louis years ago. Follow these simple rules and you shall be granted forgiveness:

If someone smaller than you tells you to quit talking, ignore him. If someone bigger than you tell you to quit talking, listen to him.
Opening acts are people too. Give them a chance before continuing your conversation about how opening acts aren’t people and almost always stink.
Your brand new, super-shiny Motorola V-1,000,000,000 is pretty cool. It’s Web-enabled, is smaller than your pinky finger, washes your car, feeds your children, and when you’re feeling frisky, its vibrate function packs a decent punch. But no one wants to hear your Bette Midler ringtone as Springsteen and Max Weinberg’s Semi-Retired Superstars play “Rosalita” for the 700th time.
Remember that shows are taped with increasing frequency nowadays. Unless you want your conversation about your asshole boss recorded for posterity, keep your voice down.
You’ve followed Dylan across the country since 1963, screaming at every show for him to play “Let Me Die In My Footsteps.” Give it up. It’s not gonna happen.
Behavior in Outdoor Venues

These shows aren’t for the uninitiated. And if you have a heart condition, be warned. Like scaling Mount Everest, surviving outdoor concerts and festivals requires a certain kind of mental fortitude, along with a blatant disregard for sanity, hygiene, flushable toilets, and other key pieces needed for human life to flourish. So before brazenly heading off to that White Snake/Poison double bill under the stars, observe the following:

Urinating in a port-a-potty is gross. Urinating on the lawn where people sit is grosser. Use the port-a-potty.
Not everyone shares your affinity for mud. The mud people are not hard to find. Find them and fling away.
That early 20s-something girl who sported four-inch bangs and flashed Bret Michaels at the Poison concert in 1987 still lives inside you. Please warn everyone around you before your now-undersized shirt is tossed into the ether.
It’s July in Chicago. It’s Hades hot. You’re hungry and tired. The “chill tent” looks like a sick room. You’re surrounded by thousands of people who all resemble Will Oldham and smell like an unholy mixture of sunscreen, weed, and corn dogs. This is the true festival experience. Enjoy it.
Common human decency should dictate how to behave at a concert. And everyone should drive the speed limit. When that decency deteriorates into a mixture of chaos, anarchy, and baby boomers breaking out “Heart of Gold” in a drunken frenzy, the guidelines above could help out in a pinch.

Then again, the 300-pound guy in the Metallica Kill ‘Em All shirt who’s now sitting in your seat hasn’t ever really cared much for rules.

Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan - October 22, 2007, St. Louis, MO

As demonstrated by Elvis Costello at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis on Monday night, follow these simple steps to upstage the headlining musical legend:


Enunciate into the microphone in a language that approximates English. Bonus points if your voice can be heard and your words can be easily understood both when singing near the microphone and when singing unamplified for dramatic effect.
Deliver the songs with passion and energy; squeeze an ungodly amount of music and noise out of only a variety of sound-distorted guitars.
Mix in a few excellent new songs to compliment the older material.
Acknowledge at least once that you are aware of the city, state, planet, or epoch you are currently performing in. This can be something as simple as a “how are ya?” to a story about advice your father gave you.

All kidding aside, it is the equivalent of a musical sin to criticize Bob Dylan nowadays; the man’s a musical genius whose concert tours (1966 Europe, 1975-1976 Rolling Thunder, and too many others to count) and recorded output (Blonde On Blonde, Blood On The Tracks, and, uh, Shot Of Love) speak for themselves and crush most other artists’ masterpieces like a grape. His last three studio albums are outstanding. He’s been on a critical and creative high for the last ten years. Long after all these peon hack bloggers like myself have sprung off this mortal coil, people will still be listening to, writing about, and over-analyzing Dylan’s lyrics and life.

Some of my favorite concert memories are of Dylan shows. In 1999 my then-girlfriend (and now-wife, also along for the bumpy ride for this latest Dylan show) and I saw Dylan with Paul Simon at Riverport Amphitheatre; their spooky duet of “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” is something I’ll never forget, pending senility. In 2004, my brother and I spent three nights waiting outside in the cold March rain for early admission to see Dylan at the Pageant, and the highlights from those shows are too many to name (I’ll take “Senor” and “Man In The Long Black Coat” as my favorites).

But none of this changes the fact that Costello stole the show on Monday night. In an intense, far-too-short solo performance that saw Costello switch guitars nearly every song and pound and hack away at the instrument with fury, the singer covered the usual live standards like “Radio Sweetheart,” “Veronica,” and “(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love, and Understanding,” none of which sounded stale or color-by-numbers. A reworked “Alison” brought out the sinister, stalker undertones of the song, and “Bedlam” was given a savage treatment that surpassed the version from The Delivery Man.

New songs “Sulfur To Sugar Cane” and “Down Among The Wine And Spirits” were solid as well, and have a definite topical bent to them (maybe the next Costello album will be titled Another Side of Elvis Costello). Costello concluded with “The Scarlet Tide,” Costello’s and T-Bone Burnette’s song from the Civil War epic Cold Mountain. Updated with two lines that reference the current mess in Iraq, the ballad hushed the audience (except for one jackass in the balcony section who shouted uncontrollably for about a minute about chicken feathers or something). Costello ended the song unamplified, his voice easily heard throughout the theatre. The effect was chilling.

If the night ended there, I would have gone home happy. As the house lights went up and the crew began re-assembling the stage for Dylan and his band, the usual pre-Dylan performance things began to happen: Dylanphiles materialized from thin air, sporting their recently-purchased $40 t-shirts. Bootlegs were traded in the bathroom. The horde began to move toward the front of the stage, despite the entire show being reserved seating. I’ve come to accept the fact that for many of Dylan’s more “dedicated” fans, assigned seat numbering is a mere suggestion. When the music starts, you can expect the reserved area to quickly be swallowed up; getting someone’s dancing ass thrust into your face is practically a rite of passage for Dylan concerts.

When Dylan and his band opened with “Leopard-Skin Pillbox Hat,” the rapturous applause was deafening and expected; Dylan’s fans are by and large an energetic, boisterous, and perhaps loyal-to-a-fault bunch. Awkward pelvic thrusts and shoulder gyrations could be seen throughout the theatre, many of the dances resembling a two-hour long epileptic fit.

But something else was immediately apparent: both the sound mix and Dylan’s singing were far below par (and yes, I’m aware that Dylan has never had a “traditional beautiful voice”). The mix was essentially a giant a wall of sound; it was far closer to sounding like My Bloody Valentine than Bob Dylan. When Dylan’s voice could be heard over the murk, the words were largely unintelligible; even a few die-hard lifers seated near me readily admitted that they couldn’t make out the words. Dylan’s voice itself was not in good shape either, alternating between a wheeze and a timid bark.

Blame the lousy mix if you want; perhaps Dylan was trying to sing above the sludge, but it’s undeniable that he was inaudible for most of the performance. When the words could be distinguished, his odd cadence of “three words/pause/three words/pause/repeat” didn’t always work. For every song where this vocal styling succeeded (“It Ain’t Me, Babe” was a high point), another song would suffer from the phrasing. “Visions Of Johanna” and “Summer Days” were victims of this approach, as both songs plodded under the odd phrasing, limping toward the finish line.

I don’t think Dylan mailed the performance in, even if he rarely faced the audience and only briefly acknowledged the audience’s presence. By now, those familiar with Dylan’s live show accept the fact that Dylan will follow his muse live, and the concertgoer can form an opinion from that. The musician should be credited for trying to find new ways to present his material, some of which debuted during the Bronze Age. The obvious risk is that sometimes this succeeds beautifully, and other times it fails miserably. Unfortunately, Dylan’s performance in St. Louis fell into this latter category.

Satire: St. Louis Music Scene Found Dead; Several Suspects Under Investigation

In a startling development, the St. Louis Music Scene was found dead this morning, near the Pageant concert nightclub on Delmar Boulevard. Although the cause of death has yet to be determined, authorities speculate the death was possibly caused by St. Louis' appalling number of frustrated male concert-going go-go dancers, the number of bloated 1980s hair bands and androgynous male bands targeting pre-pubescent kids that thrive in the city, or finally, Richard "Dick" Reamer of Creve Coeur, MO.

Homicide detectives are currently pursuing the St. Louis male concert-going population as their strongest suspect. "We've received numerous substantiated reports that this suspect has engaged in various illicit and disgusting activities, including grotesque seated pelvic dancing thrusts during the recent Richard Thompson acoustic concert," stated Detective Fuller Johnson, lead investigator for the case. "For chrissakes, how can you justify a seated wiggly-wig dance routine during "How Will I Ever Be Simple Again?" No wonder that show was nothing but single men wearing berets."

"We also suspect that this contingent's propensity to dress like the performer has caused premier acts to avoid St. Louis in abject horror," Johnson continued. "I saw more wide-rimmed glasses at the Elvis Costello concert than I would at my optometrist's office. Shit, if I was on stage and looked at the audience to see me looking back at me, I'd run like hell from this city also."

While the bulk of the St. Louis Police Department's resources are focusing on this suspect as their primary lead, other suspects have not yet been eliminated. Another promising culprit remains the glut of washed-up acts, primarily those of the classic rock or hair metal variety, that have turned St. Louis into a veritable hotbed for artists last seen on Behind the Music.

"Sammy Hagar could go on a tour where all he does is fart on stage and primp his hair, and it would sell out within minutes in this town. Then a second show would be added, and it would sell out even faster than the first," lamented one seasoned concert veteran who wished to remain nameless.

Detective Johnson does not dispute that this suspect could have played a role in the tragic demise of the St. Louis Music Scene either. "Nothing could kill a music scene quite like the recent White Lion/Poison brutal double bill. What did the cat drag in? How about a whole lot of hairspray, questionable hygienic practices, and enough botched boob jobs to last a lifetime - and that was just the men."

Others are eager to point out that the recent rash of androgynous bands who appeal to the angst-ridden kids of affluent suburbia has not yet been eliminated as a co-conspirator. "Panic At The Fall Out Disco Boy High School Gym Stars — or whatever they're called — sold out the Pageant with ease," one local indie concert promoter stated.

"All that mascara and eyeliner, coupled with a disturbing audience demographic of pre-teens whose wardrobe makes Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie seem downright butch, has taken its toll on the Scene. Some of the girls at the show wore makeup too."

Still a very small segment of the city's detectives are quietly pursuing one last suspect at the behest of Johnson himself: Richard "Dick" Reamer, a retired auto mechanic who has lived in the city for 60 years.

"Why Reamer? Because he's a bastard sumbitch who must be guilty of something. I just feel it in my police bones," Johnson was quoted as saying. "His porch has four barbeque pits and six wind chimes, and he soaks his feet in Epsom salt while listening to Benny Goodman. He's hiding something — I'm sure of it. I wouldn't be surprised to find a stockpile of mullets and worn-out copies of Frampton Comes Alive in his basement."

Regardless of the guilty party, St. Louis music fans are nearly unanimous in agreeing that the Scene's death did not come as a complete surprise. "We got Yo La Tengo, the Decemberists, and Andrew Bird all in one week in April. But send Twisted Sister, Hanson, and Sebastian Bach with their Inquisition-grade brand of torture to your town and see if it survives," one local music fan stated dejectedly. "Poor baby Scene, she never had a chance."

There is talk of an upcoming charity concert for the Scene. Proceeds will be distributed evenly between the Scene's closest relatives (Kansas City and Chicago, which have been getting the quality acts that have skipped St. Louis for years anyway), and among those traumatized by the recent senseless and deadly James Blunt concert.

Satire: Neil Young Returns to St. Louis; Fans Secure Second Mortgages to Buy Tickets

Tickets for Neil Young’s upcoming concert in St. Louis go on sale Monday, September 24. Young will perform his Chrome Dreams, Continental show on November 18 at the Fox Theatre, and the show will include both acoustic and electric sets. Ticket prices range from $58 for upper, upper, upper (bring a Sherpa) balcony seats to $184.50 for posh, orchestra pit seats.

Some of Young’s fans could not be more excited.

“I can’t wait for the chance on Monday to gladly shell out $184.50 for a ticket to see a performer who hasn’t released a classic album in about 30 years,” said Franklin Greenback, an investment banker from Chesterfield, an affluent suburb of St. Louis. “Triple-digit ticket prices seem more than fair for a performer whose sound or subject matter hasn’t really evolved since 1976. The service charges are reasonable as well; in fact, it’s only $23 for the moderately priced $184.50 orchestra pit ticket. The tickets are practically being given away, with such low prices.”

Other fans do not share Greenback’s opinion. “The farkin hell you say,” Robbie Poorman of Valley Park eloquently lamented, in between sips from his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon as he imbibed at a local pub on Friday morning. “If I wanted to get reamed like that, I’d go see a proctologist. I love Neil, but daddgummit, that’s a lot of Blue Ribbons.”

Still other fans are finding creative ways to support their Neil Young habits.

“My wife has agreed to cut our three children’s meals down to two a day, and my wife, the little angel, is stopping her medication for a few weeks. Lupus isn’t that serious, right?” said Jessie “Slappy” Pellegrino. “With these steps, I can afford two of the $79 middle balcony seats, and only have to shell out $22 in service charges. Plus, from the middle balcony about 50 rows back, Neil will look like a closer blur than he will for those shlubs in the upper balcony section. I’m looking forward to reconnecting with such a musical legend; there is nothing more inspiring for an audience than seeing an artistic genius through squinted eyes and binoculars.”

In general though, many of Young’s fans are sorely disappointed at the high cost of tickets for the show; from various Internet checks, it is also not readily apparent whether any of the proceeds will go to charity. VC Almond, a college student from Florissant, confirmed that he was unable to find any information indicating that at least a portion of the ticket revenue would go to charity.

“Don’t get me wrong," Almond said. “Neil’s done great things with Farm Aid and the Bridge School, so maybe some of the revenue will go to charity but it’s not being publicized. And if that’s true, anyone who writes a satirical article criticizing Neil would surely be the biggest asshole ever.”

The bone being thrown to fans in the form of a free copy of Chrome Dreams II if they purchase via the phone or Internet isn’t soothing the disappointment either. “A free album that I’d download for free or steal from a friend anyway? Big deal,” said Almond.

Greenback, however, remains bewildered by these complaints.

“It’s a bunch of potheads, poor liberals, pseudo-artists, and college kids pissing and moaning about the prices. And those aren’t Neil’s type of people, anyway,” Greenback stated.

The investment banker is likewise unapologetic that some fans of the musician view the ticket prices as crass exploitation of Young’s fans.

“Let those bums fight it out in the upper balcony steerage section. I’ll be enjoying the show from my orchestra seat, along with the lawyers, doctors, trust funders, and other corporate VIPs, as we listen to Neil’s songs about political injustice, personal desperation, doomed junkies, and other things we’ve never experienced. After all, isn’t that what music’s all about?”