Uneasy ground

I haven't been going to many shows lately. Money feels thin in my wallet and the day calendar has become a mocking face, bleeding puss-like ink all over my sanity. But a few weeks ago I had a quick one-two punch of live music: namely the November 13th Dirtbombs show at Berbati's and Yeasayer at the Aladdin on the 21st. Perhaps my emotions were shaped by the order of the events, or money finagles, or that I've been listening to soviet rock anthems and Smithsonian field recording of historical Appalachian Mountain songs for the last couple months, but damn I want emotion when I go to shell out some bucks. Lets look at this comparison in Thanksgiving analogies. The Dirtbombs are the messy dark-meat, the fried giblets, the stuffing soaked with gravy, the dank piece of pie left in the back of the fridge, your uncle Joe after too much sparkling wine. They are a fever that excretes dirt and frantic power. They rock you and make respectable people want to dance like nobody's watching: sweating and shaking and beating on relatives/stage-equipment. Yeasayer, in contrast, represent that comatose state reached after stuffing your face full of everything in reach for 4 straight hours. It's that moment near death when the final swallow of pie ruptures your stomach and starts to squeeze out your pores and the gaps between tooth and gum, dimming your vision. You don't know if you're hallucinating or dreaming, and while your breath is rattling your brain is working as if permeated by an opium cloud - sporadic bursts of incrdulous electricity. Moving is practically beyond question and introspection overcomes the surrounding reality/stimulus of loved ones and speech.

Now depending on your personality, you might be predisposed as to which one of these scenarios you like best; and the question emerges whether one must choose exclusively. Both bands are obviously talented and urban and have their respective followings and scenes. Both are anthemic and push blood into a frenzy and fill your body and soul with beautiful noise. But my personal choice (and I like gorging my brain-out to a reflective stupor as much as the next Jack or maybe even more) is the former to the latter. Call me a poser of the underdog or whipping-up an idealic/delusional rocking-class Detroit background rather than embracing the indie-pastige product of Brooklyn that should be my suburban siren - but I'll take the sweat-dripping giblets over dream-headed fog anyday.

As a final check-out:
D: Crappy live recording in their hometown


Y: Crappy live recording in their hometown


Luv,
~SpecSocWrite