beautiful, funny, sad & true

Yann TIersen’s concert in Portland was fantastic, as I knew it would be, but I have to admit that there were a few surprises.  The first and most obvious was that he didn’t even bring an accordion.  The second was that it was an all-electric show, with the exception of the violin and melodica.  And the ukelele, which KeyboardGirl and BassPlayer each played once or twice.   There was a Moog synthesizer too, which was used by Yann and KeyboardGirl to interesting effect.  It was awesome to see Yann and the band in this electrified way, but I would imagine that fans who are only familiar with the Amelie soundtrack and his earlier work may have been disappointed with this show.

The crowd seemed to be most appreciative when something outside the realm of NormalRockBandLineup happened, such as when Yann played his violin.  He launched into Sur Le Fil, a solo violin piece, to thunderous cheers and applause.  I think after the long jams, we were all excited to hear something recognizable, and something we associate with the best of Yann’s musical abilities.  As a multi-instrumentalist myself, however, I certainly know all too well about the hassle of carrying around a truckload of weird, fragile, unruly (not to mention large) instruments in a car and a plane and a van and a trailer.  I can only imagine what it’s like to do that for months on end.  But accordions and mandolins are relatively small.  Jeez, Yann, you could have at least brought one of those, or maybe you can find a backup guitarist who also plays something else besides guitar?  I hereby volunteer my services to you.

I certainly wasn’t bored or disappointed with the show in any way, but I would have loved to hear at least a little bit of accordion, or piano, or something.  What I love most about Yann is that he’s a composer and not ‘just’ a rock band.  Or maybe it’s that he can be a rock band if he wants, but he’s so much more than that.  This was a very good rock band, but it was still a rock band.  I would have gladly shelled out much more money to see him at PCPA with a more eclectic instrumental lineup.

The things that did disappoint me about the show had nothing to do with Yann or his band.  First of all, there were signs everywhere at the venue saying “NO PHOTOGRAPHY” and everyone was told at the door, “No cameras, and no camera phones. ” This policy was strictly enforced, too, because I saw the staff guys wearing fanny packs that were stuffed with contraband cameras, and I heard him say to someone, “You can’t use your camera.  It’ll be confiscated.”  Well, crap, I thought, and dutifully left my camera in the pocket of my hoodie for the entire show.  Therefore, I have no photographic proof that I was there, which is a shame too, because I was standing in a really good spot.  Le sigh.

I had two friends come to the show, one of whom I had given my extra ticket to, but both arrived later and were unable to find me, so that was disappointing.  The good thing, I guess, is that I was able to pay more attention to the performances, but it would have definitely been nicer to have company.

The tour T-shirts wouldn’t have looked good on me, and I already own all the CD’s, so I came home empty-handed and a bit heavy-hearted to have missed out on my friends, but I was supremely glad to have seen the perfomance of a true musical genius who I never imagined I’d have the chance to hear in person, especially not without a great deal of traveling.  The Wonder Ballroom is about ten minutes’ drive from my place.  And I’ve had the opportunity to play there, too, so I know what the backstage area and everything is like.  I imagined Yann sitting on a sofa in one of the green rooms in the basement, warming up on his violin.

Here’s a picture from the previous night’s show in Seattle, which another of my friends took with her camera phone.  Apparently they didn’t have the same anti-photography regime in place, or if they did, she was able to circumvent it long enough to snap this one shot.  Anyway, here it is.

Incidentally, Yann’s the one with the longish hair, just to the right of center.

It was a really great show, overall, and I’d recommend that you take any chance you can get to see Yann.

This is the third of three dreams I had this morning.  The first one was “The Oriental Chicken” and the second one was “A Drowned Friend.”

* * * * *

“The Back Porch”

I had just moved into a new house, and I was excited for my girlfriend to see it.  I invited her in and walked her through the entire place, showing her the various rooms.  It was a small house, but clean and cozy, and I was proud of it.  I showed her the back yard, with its sunny wooden porch next to the house, and a huge leafy tree for shade in the afternoon.   She kissed me as we stood on the steps, then we turned and walked back inside to stand in the dining room, arms around each others’ waists.

“Oh wait,” I said.  “There’s something else I want to show you.”

She smiled mischievously.  “What’s that?”

I gave her a smile and whispered dramatically, “The back porch!”

She laughed and hugged me.  “We saw that already.  But I certainly wouldn’t want to try and diminish your happiness.”  She hugged me even tighter.  We stood hugging that way for a long time, and that’s when I woke up, with my arms in the same position over my chest as they’d been on her back just moments before.

As I woke up, it felt as if she and her embrace had both turned to sand, and the hugging sensation got gradually fainter and fainter.  That has to be one of the lonelinest ways to wake up that I’ve ever experienced.

This is the second of three dreams I had last night.  The first one was “The Oriental Chicken,” and the third one was “The Back Porch.”

* * * * *

“A Drowned Friend“

I was on a bus tour with a handful of friends.  The bus was taking us along the entire coast of Massachusetts, at which point we would turn inland and head through the middle of Maine to a medium-sized city in Canada.  The coast was beautiful.  The highway paralleled the edge of the water, and there were abandoned beach houses in the water just offshore, in varying degrees of dilapidation.  Each house would have warranted hundreds of pictures, and I kept wishing that we could stop to explore a bit.  I told my friends about how I grew up in Massachusetts, and that my family used to spend our vacations in houses ‘just like those before the water rose’, and that there are still a few that are open to the public.

I was sitting in the window seat, and the person sitting to my left was an older woman who I didn’t know.  She could see that she was sitting between me and a few of my friends, so she gave up her seat and moved to one that was a few rows back.  My friend LJ took her place next to me.  She asked if I had bought a bike passport.  I told her that I hadn’t, and she said she said, “Yeah, I didn’t either, but since we’re with the tour group, we should be fine.  We’ll have no trouble getting into Canada.”

We looked out the window at the retreating waterfront, and as the road turned inland it widened into a freeway.  After a while, we crossed over a long blue bridge and saw a green sign proclaiming, “WELCOME TO CANADA.”  After a short distance, the bus driver pulled to the side of the road and parked next to the shore of a small lake.  There were low trees around the edge of the lake, with hanging branches that dipped large leaves into the water, and the brackish water had algae and sludgy lily pads floating on top of it.  The bus driver pulled a small silver metal boat out from the bus’s storage compartment and carried it to the shore.  He invited a few of us to get in, and I was the only volunteer.   We pushed off from the shore, and the boat pitched a little, which filled the bottom of the boat with water.  We quickly bailed out the water, and rowed toward the middle of the lake.

Just then we heard a scream from the shore, and then a splash, and LJ was nowhere to be seen.  We rowed over near where she had been, but couldn’t hear or see anything.  I saw some bubbles coming to the surface of the lake, so I pointed and yelled, “Look, bubbles!  There!  No, there!“  I followed the trail of bubbles with my finger for my boatmate, who pulled out a large wooden rod with a hook on the end.  He pushed it down into the water and a hand surfaced.  “Good job!”  I yelled.  “Keep coming!”  I reached in to help him, and yelled LJ’s name, with no response.  We saw then that the hand was no longer connected to an arm, and it was in fact trapped in some sort of vegetation that went below the water.  The two of us kept lifting the rod, until the grille of an old pickup truck came to the surface, with a piece of LJ’s dark blue shirt sticking out.  Tears came to my eyes as we let go of the rod, and the grill, shirt and disembodied hand sunk below the water again.

This morning I had three dreams in a row, all of which left me feeling either sad, or creeped out, or lonely.  It really was quite the morning.  I’ve decided to break up the dreams into three separate blog entries, each under their respective names.  The second one was “A Drowned Friend”, and the third one was “The Back Porch.”

* * * * *

“The Oriental Chicken, or, My Brother’s Not Even Gay”

Mom and I were in my brother’s bedroom, and he was telling both of us in great detail about how he was having an affair with a married man who is the owner of a well-respected recording studio in town.  (Neither my brother nor the real-life man is gay, by the way.)  Mom and I were shocked, not only to find out that he was gay, but also about his unfettered ‘TMI-ness’ about it.  “If he eats any cheese at all, he can’t get it up.”

“Who?” my mom asked.

My brother gestured in the direction of the next room.  “Hunk, in there.  He’s sleeping right now.”  My mom made a face and left the room in disgust.

I couldn’t help laughing as I said to him, “Hunk? You know I know him, and that he does what I do [referring to recording and music production].  He’s not even gay, and neither are you.  How did this happen?”

My brother didn’t say anything.  I sat down on his bed to collect my thoughts, and saw a plain brown cardboard box next to the bed, so I picked it up and opened it.  Inside was another brown cardboard box which said, in large black letters:

“Oriental Chicken” – DILDO

PRIVATE – Please do not use without owner’s permission

I shook my head and closed the box without even looking at the Oriental Chicken.  I didn’t want to know.  I put the box back on the floor, stood up, and walked out of his room so that I could go to my room and play the accordion.  It sounded strange, with lots of air escaping (which makes the sound either go flat or not happen at all), so I stretched it out all the way to inspect the bellows.  They were almost completely worn away.  It was amazing that any sound was coming out at all.

I’ll be seeing Yann Tiersen in concert tonight.  In fact, as soon as I finish posting this, I’m driving over to the venue.  Yes, I’m planning to take pictures, and maybe a video or two.

I’m super excited about this.  Asobi Seksu is the opening act.

GOOD TIMES.