A perfect Monday evening, thanks in large part to my favorite musicians: Gomez.
The Fine Line is crowded and steamy, full of beer and energy as we push past college frat boys, aging hipsters, and dreadlocked hippies to catch the last few songs in the Matt Pond PA set. I immediately remember why I always regret bringing in my purse and coat. The Fine Line books decent artists -- and on this particular night, it's Gomez, my favorite -- but Jesus God, could the place use a little traffic reengineering. I think to myself: what I wouldn't give to see Gomez on stage at First Ave. Well, you know what they say about wishes being horses.
It's not often that I show up on time to a show -- intentionally -- to watch the opener. But Matt Pond PA gets that honor, due mostly to the fact that they are so intensely connected to where I am in life. From their blog entry yesterday: We are within this experience so heavily that we don't have an extra second. This is the time of hints of sleep, grasps at cleanliness, and the inability to care about anything that doesn't immediately matter. We are directly connected with how temporary life is -- how perfectly hardcore it can be... hell yah.
Matt Pond PA wraps up and we bob and weave like some sort of shrimpy boxer duo through a packed floor at Fine Line. Packed, I say. The show was sold out -- it was totally no worries to unload my 2 extra tickets at the door (too bad you weren't in town, Sweet Dave). We plant ourselves right of center stage and wait patiently. I remember why it's a blessing and a curse to wear heels to shows: blessing - I get an extra couple inches height; curse - I am in excruciating pain by the time the show's over. Height's on my mind, and a massive giant frat boy (he was 6-8 if he was an inch tall) manages to be right in my line of sight. Thankfully, there are some tiny, shrimpy heckler girls who aren't afraid of a doughy boy giant and harrass him til he moves to the back(ish) area of the floor. Silly tall boy; let's allow the tiny girls to be front and center, shall we?
So, sound checks and roadie work complete, the lights dim and the gentlemen get on stage. They are as consummately understated as ever -- slightly unkempt, booze in hand, a little unshaven, a little unshowered, a little evidence that no one - no one - in this band ever goes to the gym. I love it. Real boys playing real music. They play an intense set -- two-ish hours in total. There's the usual songs, all chock-full of wicked guitar and drum goodness, and I realize that I fall in love a little more everytime I watch these guys play. They are so musically solid - so incredibly tight, meshed, just... ah. Bluesy and lonely and intimate and sensual. And they obviously are having a ton of fun in the meantime, and I realize that Gomez is one of the few bands I follow who has been making beautiful things for 10 or so years and just keeps getting better and better at it. The best part of the night: acoustic solo time with Tom (a heart-wrenching, poignant version of Sweet Virginia), Ian (a lovely little ditty about, ahem, failure...) and Ben (who did the most wickedly amazing acoustic version of Get Miles. He prefaced his performance with the story of how Get Miles was his audition song for the band, which later became a completely different song... but damn if it wasn't equally powerful and perhaps even more beautiful.) Wrapped up in a neat little encore, that as always, ends in Whipping Piccadilly, to which the entire, elbow-to-elbow crowd at Fine Line bounces in time. Yah.
I cannot envision a better way to enjoy a damp and cool October night than in the company of fellow music lovers, listening to a band of true musicians who gel completely each time they step on stage.
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