Upstream to Spawn

So far, in this year of our Lord 2005, I have attended 2 concerts: Ireland's The Frames and France's M83. In that order. Last night M83 played at Lee's Palace, that second tier venue featuring bands whose futures will eventually fill stadiums. I had written nothing about The Frames mostly because it had been the 3rd time I'd seen them and I no longer had a thing for Joe Doyle, the bassist. I have a staunch 4 month sexual fantasy time limit before it ticks past expiration. Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, is the first to accuse me of being a groupie. And he's not incorrect in that assessment.

At work talking to Cartman sounding Mike, the new chef of my one night a week place of employ, I was trying to dangle a jealousy carrot in front of him.

The Comrade: Dude.
Cartman sounding Mike: Dude?
The Comrade: Did I ever tell you about my meeting Interpol?
Cartman sounding Mike: You did? What did you say?
The Comrade: Oh, you know... stuff like how their music changed my life, etc, etc.
Cartman sounding Mike: You are such a loser! Did you hear Matt's Interpol story?

Matty, my ex-work comrade, who didn't see eye to eye with me for the better part of a year, but finally let go and let me in, met the band at a private loft afterparty.

Cartman sounding Mike: He thought they were waiters and he asked them for a scotch... neat.

I had introduced Interpol to Cartman sounding Mike. As part of his continued gratitude, he has introduced Dreamend, Explosions in the Sky and Japan's Mono to me. A fair trade.


I was introduced to M83 by last year's Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes. Last month, in a moment of weakness, a locale somewhere between the districts Stupidity and Curiousity, I ended a near 8 month period of silence by way of email communiqué. As ugly as the break-up had been, as much as I wanted nothing again to do with a person as capable of deception as he, I realised he had opened a couple of paint sealed windows in realms of beauty that I could neither ignore nor deny. He had introduced both Lars van Trier's Dogville and M83 to me. He had made a difference. Even though there was a mountain region's terrain of hurt left, he would be remembered as a contribution during one point of my growth.

In the return correspondence he stated he was both fine and he would also be attending the show. Fair warning.

The opening act was Ulrich Schnauss, a lone man with a pageboy cut sitting in profile liberally massaging both a Mac G5 laptop and updated Millennial Bontempi. This Ger-man delivered a TKO to The Comrade. It was awe-inspiring über-electronica.

A lone, shrill voice from the standing-room only cheap seats behind me bellowed, "Herr Schnauss! Ich liebe dich!
Followed by the English equivalent.
Elephant shoe.

After a brief Dunhill punctuated intermission, I returned to my listening station, the 2nd stair on the short staircase bridging the bar and the dancefloor. Standing next to the mixing board operator, I was imagining what it would be like modifying sounds and creating rhythmic lightshows for those who encourage an altered universe by way of resin filled inhalation and soundscapes. I felt a tap of familiar green glass against my right arm. A Stella Artois bottle. The tap was followed by a leaning nudge which sent me closer to my mixing operator's daydream.

The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes.

The Comrade: [like a cucumber] Hey.
TBwKE: I saw you come in. I was looking at your profile... How are you?
The Comrade: [not too much, not too little] I'm good. How are you?

He looked at me with the same quality he had when he reeled me in last summer.
Shy, sheepish, silently appreciative.

TBwKE: [slightly deflated] I'm okay.

We talked briefly about das opening act until the first few bars of a familiar passage commenced. It was M83's definitive sound: tension pulled heartstrings attacked with a French horsehair bow. I made a dog pitched sound while bandying between clutches to my heart and laughing while clapping my hands like a 2 year old discovering, really discovering, Christmas. The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes remembered all of my inflections, all of my little "quirks". All those moments when I would surrender to absolute delight. In that moment, he smiled while looking at his shoes. The same quality of smile that reeled me in last summer.

Shy, sheepish, silently appreciative.

I wasn't about to create any small talk. Not then. I don't like talking during shows. I don't go to shows frequently, so when I do it is a reverence displayed for longtime or newly discovered beloveds. I realised that seeing live music alone, particularly involving organ sounds, feels like being in church for me. It is nothing short of a spiritual experience. Though Lee's Palace's venue walls are festooned in matte black, I can easily imagine the pious scenes in colourful stained glass beneath.

More reasons why I go alone:
I hate waiting for others to get ready.
I hate having another precipitate my exit strategy.

The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes suggested we talk after the show. He suggested this as his eyes and head were volleying up and around to look in the direction from whence he came.

The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes: We're sitting over there.
I didn't ask who "we" were.
Too late for such questions.

Alone, four songs into the headlining act, at the point of my face nearly cracking from smiling too hard, I was touched on the shoulder again.

TBwKE: I have to go.
The Comrade: Why?
TBwKE: Brian doesn't want to stay. That's who I'm with. Brian. I came with him, so I guess I have to leave with him.

Hm.

The Comrade: Reason #1 why I go to shows alone.

He was simultaneously stuttering while stammering.

The Comrade: Well, it was nice to see you.
TBwKE: Yeah. Um... well... maybe... you can...

And then he made the symbol of a phone call next to his ear.

I have a terrible inability to hide the expression shock and horror. I felt that sensation rise, fan out in peacock's plummage and fall within a second's time. Even the blind would have been able to register it.


Yesterday after a brief mention that my barbeque worked as effectively as an Easy Bake Oven for grilling meat, Fatty had taken the entire mechanism apart, diagnosing the issues and cleaning the whole unit. Ajax was enlisted. A laundry list of new parts was created. Supplies were purchased. At the end of the day, after a veering to market for fresh salmon steaks, the barbeque was reassembled and made new again. It burned bright, hot and even. Like us. The smoke from the grilling salmon perfumed us.


Last week, on his birthday no less, Fatty was found happily helping me with the some-assembly-required series of cardboard boxes that promised to turn into our new bed. Apparently the childhood proficiency of Lego aids in the accumen of IKEA assemblage.


I didn't know how I'd feel when I would see the Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes again. When I saw him he looked like he'd lost more hair. He looked paler. Skinner, if that was possible. He looked unremarkable. Though the lighting was dim, I could still see his eyes. The effect was gone. In the place of kaleidescopes were twin grey marbles, made dull from constant deception.

Brian?
I don't think so.

Maybe someone wanted to leave because he never could hide guilt very well.
Maybe someone wanted to leave because someone noticed him talking to a girl who doesn't hide any delight she experiences.

Brian?
No.
Bryanna?
Maybe.

TBwKE: Maybe...
The Comrade: Goodbye.


During the drive home, I had an M83 bridge stuck in my head. It was gently nestled between one of my brain's grey matter crevices. Cradled there. In a hammock. I walked softly up the stairs and penetrated the lock with the key in my first attempt. Sitting at my desk, Fatty's beautiful face was illuminated by my monitor.



I hope the salmon knows his sacrifice was that of a worthwhile cause.