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How Death Cab For Cutie saved my whole week

Regular readers will note that I’m falling into a fairly predictable update pattern as the site staggers uncertainly out of its fledgling days. Expect posts very early in the morning on weekdays, late in the afternoon on Saturdays, and maybe sometimes on Sunday if my muse inspires me. The reason for the discrepancy is that I’m usually too incoherent to write on Friday nights, so it gets postponed.

Regular readers will also be familiar with my Death Cab ticket dilemma. Yelling at the manager of fastixx.com for ten minutes brought me no closer to having tickets; they’d screwed up and I’d have to deal with it, and that was all. Running up and down the line at the Showbox proved much more effective, and I found someone with an extra ticket pretty quickly.

“Do you want to sell me that ticket for any amount of money?”

That amount turned out to be $20, but I would have paid a lot more. I ran into Marta and her crew in line, which was either unbelievable coincidence or the gentle nudge of fate, and hung out with them for the duration of the show. She’s just as quiet and innocent as freshman year, but even more beautiful, if that’s possible. Her lack of boyfriends is almost criminal (just ask Sven sometime).

Anyway, Death Cab was awesome beyond words. They played a two-hour set with an encore, including pretty much every song I wanted to hear, and a few new songs off their upcoming album. Indie concerts are so much better than punk or rock shows, because everyone there is so chill. They come to hear the band, not to thrash around among strangers. At a punk show, the degree to which one has rocked out is judged by how many teeth they’ve lost; at an indie show, the same amount of rocking is displayed by nodding one’s head with the beat. It’s a better way, believe me. The vibe among the sold-out crowd was overwhelmingly positive, and I left the show on an amazing natural high that I haven’t felt in quite some time.

The opening act, The Thermals, suck ass. I always find it interesting to watch bands in which the lead singer doesn’t play an instrument, because they always act like they’re trying to prove something, to somehow justify their existence as mediocre voice talent by introducing on-stage antics. This guy was no exception. Halfway through the set I suggested to Marta that he must be a theater major, so exaggerated were his hand motions while singing. The audience was unimpressed. What did leave a mark on me was their guitar player, who may have been the sweatiest human I’ve ever seen. He had a shaved head, and really got into the act, whipping his bald pate around and flinging off liters of water at a time. It was splendid to behold.

Get your tickets for Sasquatch Fest now, before it’s too late. True, Coldplay is headlining, which kind of sucks, but Modest Mouse, Death Cab, and Flaming Lips are also on the bill. And as it turns out, Death Cab is getting huge.

Posted in Musings.


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