These Kids Today and What They Call Music
Tuesday was Darren‘s birthday. A friend of his gave him tickets to see Of Montreal play in Minneapolis, but couldn’t make it, so I went with him instead.
The concert was literally so loud I couldn’t hear it. I can’t tell you, o hapless reader, whether I liked the music or not, because I don’t know whether it posessed lyrical virtue, nor whether instrumental talent was exhibited, nor whether scintillating harmonies were woven. Any such possibilities were sacrificed early and continuously on an altar of pure volume.
It looked like the performers had a good time, the fifteen-year-olds nearest the stage gyrated wildly—which I can only assume was a symptom of vibration-induced insane euphoria—and I am certain the electric company will enjoy sending the venue its bill. There’s just one thing I don’t get: does the guy who ran the sound board—who presumably does that for a living—not understand that he could have made the show twice as good by giving one knob a half-turn to the left?
