(no subject)

Reminding myself, mostly: risk is the surest antidote to regret. So it was last night, when I went to see some guy named Andrew Bird at the Chop Suey club, the management of which I now want to destroy, and all their issue unto the last generation. This is mostly because of something that is by no means exclusive to the Chop Suey: opening acts.

I HATE opening acts with the fire of a thousand suns. I can see where the logic is-- giving unknowns a chance to be heard, enlivening the local scene, giving patrons more for their money, yadda yadda. All that? Is fine. HOWEVER: the managers of every venue at which I've attended a show ever in my life seem to go about the booking process... badly. The openers are frequently not nearly so polished (OR talented) as the main show, and furthermore are only occasionally able to play any music that sounds even remotely like the headliners' music, genre-wise. Last night, I was NOT in the mood for weirdly-percussed Casio noodling after I came to see an experimental violinist, nor for the faux-punk shit-kicker dreck that followed it. (cherrysher, remember that greasy John Mayer wannabe who opened for LBC at the Knitting Factory that one time? Like that, but it went on longer. Haaate.)

Add to that a woefully inadequate A/C and the fact that my lower back was in agony-- which, admittedly, was my own damn fault, seeing as I did choose to wear sandals because of this weird-ass weather, and while we're on THAT subject, the Indians can have their damn summer back already because it is hitting EIGHTY in the afternoons over here, despite being nearly OCTOBER, and I am DONE with that shit-- I was in absolutely no mood to enjoy the music I'd paid $20 to hear.

I'd like to conclude my bitter, semi-coherent tirade by observing that the Chop Suey box office stated the main act would be on at 8PM, and was it? No. NOBODY was on stage until almost 9, and then it was more than two and a half hours until Andrew Bird came on, and that was just inexcusable.

Still, the night was not lost. Went to a new place, met a new person (ykantchristype, for those keeping score), heard a musician who's very talented. All I have to do is report the club to the Better Business Bureau, and all is gravy.

And now... it is nap time.

ETA: and I totally forgot to mention the two drugged assholes who accosted us on the street before the show-- the first, a drunk and painfully queeny dude I thought was gonna have to be pried off my roommate with a crowbar, the second an older gentleman on crutches (who I think was out with his physical therapist or something, so maybe he was on pain meds and thus not really at fault for violating my personal space). I just... really, people, a tip of the hat would be quite sufficient, if anyone still wore hats. God, I long for the days of Victorian England... in a social-etiquette sense, at least.

(no subject)

Reminding myself, mostly: risk is the surest antidote to regret. So it was last night, when I went to see some guy named Andrew Bird at the Chop Suey club, the management of which I now want to destroy, and all their issue unto the last generation. This is mostly because of something that is by no means exclusive to the Chop Suey: opening acts.

I HATE opening acts with the fire of a thousand suns. I can see where the logic is-- giving unknowns a chance to be heard, enlivening the local scene, giving patrons more for their money, yadda yadda. All that? Is fine. HOWEVER: the managers of every venue at which I've attended a show ever in my life seem to go about the booking process... badly. The openers are frequently not nearly so polished (OR talented) as the main show, and furthermore are only occasionally able to play any music that sounds even remotely like the headliners' music, genre-wise. Last night, I was NOT in the mood for weirdly-percussed Casio noodling after I came to see an experimental violinist, nor for the faux-punk shit-kicker dreck that followed it. (cherrysher, remember that greasy John Mayer wannabe who opened for LBC at the Knitting Factory that one time? Like that, but it went on longer. Haaate.)

Add to that a woefully inadequate A/C and the fact that my lower back was in agony-- which, admittedly, was my own damn fault, seeing as I did choose to wear sandals because of this weird-ass weather, and while we're on THAT subject, the Indians can have their damn summer back already because it is hitting EIGHTY in the afternoons over here, despite being nearly OCTOBER, and I am DONE with that shit-- I was in absolutely no mood to enjoy the music I'd paid $20 to hear.

I'd like to conclude my bitter, semi-coherent tirade by observing that the Chop Suey box office stated the main act would be on at 8PM, and was it? No. NOBODY was on stage until almost 9, and then it was more than two and a half hours until Andrew Bird came on, and that was just inexcusable.

Still, the night was not lost. Went to a new place, met a new person (ykantchristype, for those keeping score), heard a musician who's very talented. All I have to do is report the club to the Better Business Bureau, and all is gravy.

And now... it is nap time.

ETA: and I totally forgot to mention the two drugged assholes who accosted us on the street before the show-- the first, a drunk and painfully queeny dude I thought was gonna have to be pried off my roommate with a crowbar, the second an older gentleman on crutches (who I think was out with his physical therapist or something, so maybe he was on pain meds and thus not really at fault for violating my personal space). I just... really, people, a tip of the hat would be quite sufficient, if anyone still wore hats. God, I long for the days of Victorian England... in a social-etiquette sense, at least.