Pardon Me, Sir, But Where Have You Misplaced Your Anachronists?

I should always be hesitant when creating my own idealized mental images of how an upcoming event will be. In my head, the Decemberists show would be chock full of those boys still stepping out of a hansom cab (and hitting every rung on the way down, if you know what I mean), but as it was I saw nary a pair of legitimate knickers. This was a brief disappointment to an otherwise (what word to use? Magical? Fantastic?...no...) delightful evening. Really though, a slap on the wrist to me for not having realized that when a local radio station advertises the heck out of a show by playing the new single and then proceeds to charge ten dollars for the event, there will most likely be scads and scads of young'ns, still trying to figure out what that funny taste in their mouth at the end of the night is. It's goodness, kiddos. Good Music. Maybe all of the knickered boys and cat-eyed girls were prowling the streets in hopes of finding whomever it was that stole the Decemberists' trailer/gear and then rendering the offenders to a archaicly stylist yet still bloody pulp. I, however, saved that excursion for today. That said, the show was utterly wonderful, with Safari outfits and the glories of an accordian and violins and some very enthused tambouriners. It was one of those concerts where the only thing I really regretted was that everyone wasn't as into it as I was, and I don't have those nights very often. If they had been, the ballroom would have returned to its former glory as a dancehall, with a cast of thousands (?) swaying and dancing like it was 1899. Or 1929. Or whatever the hell era that band hails from. All of the new songs they played off of Picaresque (look up the definition of that one, dear readers, if you haven't already) were wonderful (with the unfortunate exception of Petra Haden's contribution, which may very well have been excellent if you disregard the fact that I couldn't for the life of me make out what she was singing over the pitch and timbre of her voice.); Infanta, We Both Go Down Together, Eli The Barrow Boy, Sporting Life, (From My Own True Love) Lost at Sea, On the Bus Mall, and the most rollicking of them all; Mariner's Revenge Song. Semi-colons can go to hell. Mariner's Revenge song was probably the highlight of the entire show (if you discount the madly grinning tambourine boy from the opening act; Okkervill River), and it was filled with all the tastiness that I've come to know and love in a Decemberists song, with oaths of anvenging sons, long quests and travails, and even a brief stint in a priory. Foot stamping was encouraged, fancy dancing should have been par for the course for a shantey such as that. I continually wished I had just a bit of whisky in me. In fact, ideally, I would see the Decemberists in a crowd slightly tipsy and all clad in authentic period wear. Ideally. Other notable tracks included Billy Liar, July July, Leslie Ann Levine (which proved a rather morbid sing-along) and Los Angeles I'm Yours, wherein Colin was dissapointed by the crowds' forgetting the first three lines of this O what a rush of ripe elan! Languor on divans Dalliant and dainty! But the smell of burnt cocaine, The dolor and the drain It only makes me cranky but I do believe we made up for it by really knowing the last bit. Who am I kidding? I was shamed. As it was I returned from the show with my feet sore and smelling of a scent that prevails no matter what century you're from...the salty musk of sweat. According to the latest Oprah magazine I accidentally read, if I sweat too profusely and antiperspirants high in aluminum zirconium don't work, I should invest in underarm Botox injections, which block the signals that trigger sweat production. I may need five to ten injections per armpit. Results last six months to a year. Cost per visit: $750 to $1,500. The other flicker in the brightness of the evening was a previously submerged messianic egomania on the part of Colin Meloy, Esq., in the form of his choosing to end the night (post encore) with a lurchingly grandiose performance of "I Was Meant For The Stage." I can empathize that for a man who used to play to little acclaim at The Rabbit Hole back in 1999, selling out a show at the Crystal Ballroom to throngs of radio listeners could quite possibly be his sweet sweet revenge to all those who ignored him in the past, but I didn't know if I really needed to be reminded of it in such a manner, since the person of the song itself is so singular that I think it ignores the accomplishments of the band as a whole. Does that make sense? I would rather a song that spoke of more than just a charicture of the lead singer as a closing finale.