Love in a Fake Empire: The National Live

I grasp the little piece of paper in my sweaty hand like it's a lifeline. I'm so scared i'll drop it, accidentally tear it up, or naively show it to someone who'll snatch it from me and run for their life, giggling as they disappear into the sunset. I put my hand in my bag, still clasping the little rectangle, just in case. The text on it says 'The Bowery Presents: The National. Rain or Shine'. I remember it by heart, that's how geekily excited i feel about this gig. Right now it's shining. I'm hot, and slightly worried my ticket will start to fall apart in my eager, sweaty hands. The text beneath that says 'Celebrate Brooklyn', which is also written on the banner we're about to pass under. I glance at the line behind me; it zigzags so far back into Prospect Park i can't see the end. I wonder if all the people behind me are also having their gig entrance threatened by the damage their excited, sweaty palms are inflicting on their tickets. Probably. I take mine out to look at it again, just to make sure this is actually happening.

Because it almost didn't. Some time in May, when the thought of coming to NYC was just an idea i was flirting with, i checked online for any good shows coming up, and saw The National were playing Brooklyn at the end of July. If this New York thing worked out, this is number one on my list of things to do, i promised myself. A few weeks later, i'd booked my flight and checked back for gig tickets. The show was sold out. Shitballs, i thought to myself, undeterred. I'll see that band if it's the last thing i do. 


Several weeks of serious Craigslist-stalking, dozens of emails and i'm-a-foreign-kid-in-NY-for-a-month-and-need-to-see-this-band-pleas later, we trot up to North Harlem late one night to exchange a wad of cash for a small white envelope (addressed to 'Nina, from Finland) with a very tall dude in a grey shirt. We nod, turn around and head in opposite directions. i tear open the envelope. It contains two tickets. I'm so happy i want to burst into a Gene Kelly's Singing in the Rain-esque rendition of 'i'm on a bloooodbuzzzzzz, yes i aaaam' like an idiot on a random street corner in Harlem in the middle of the night. I manage to restrain myself.

So here we are now. We enter the park, find ourselves a spot to sit. Everyone around us is having a picnic, laughing and talking in the most laid-back of manners. I look around and have half a mind to inquire how they're being so blasé about this, lounging on their blankets, scooping hummus with their pita chips; this is no time for casual eating, this is time for some serious, focused anticipation! I shake my head and content myself with taking long, ruminating drags of my last cigarette.

Some hours (and a Beach House gig which i might write about some other time) later the sun has set and the muggy heat of day is finally giving way to a balmy evening and a deep blue sky. The park trees have been strung with fairylights that twinkle in the canopy above the expectant crowd. Gigantic dragonflies buzz past and the breeze carries the pungent smell of marijuana our way. The blue of the sky takes on a deeper hue as people sip on their beers and the stage lights up. Suddenly, i see people standing up, the crowd shifts, an eager wave of applause ripples through the audience, gathering strength. I shoot up, standing on tiptoe, and catch a glimpse of Matt as he drifts on to stage, flanked with his band mates, and palms the mic. 

Runaway

starts off slow, even melancholy. Matt's voice is soft, almost brooding. The green lights illuminating the band fade, replaced by lights that look like candles placed around the stage. The audience is silent. There's something really still about the moment. I notice all the hairs on my arms are standing on end. It's like voluntary suspension of disbelief. Am i here? Is this The National? Then the song is over, and Matt says a quiet 'thank you'. Before the audience can react, they burst right into 

Mistaken For Strangers

Which is faster than the album version; all loud drums and growing sound with Matt discarding softness for an almost aggressive take on the lyrics. "Showered and blue-blazing" pummels the audience, and then amidst applause we're back from The Boxer, on to High Violet and 

Anyone's Ghost

and the stage is bathed in a purple light; violins, trombones and trumpets. The music is huge, moving, and the sound is stellar compared to Beach House gig earlier. The song finishes and Matt addresses the crowd: "This next song is about Ohio, where we're from. But even though the song is about Ohio, we actually feel more at home here in Brooklyn." Brooklynites in a Brooklyn park burst into applause for their honorary neighborhood band.

Bloodbuzz Ohio

Draws an ecstatic scream from the audience within the first drum beats. Although a sea of people separates me from the stage, i see Matt, dressed in black head to toe, leaning into the mic. There's something about this guy, he has this easy nonchalance that gives him incredible charisma, independent of the enraptured throng of listeners shouting his name. The lights shift and Matt's silhouette is thrown on the back wall of the stage; the shadow of the man with the mic enormous and flickering. The darkening night and vibrating music has drawn bats from their perches, and these tiny shadows crisscross and flit in the air, likewise silhouetted against the lights. 

Matt dedicates the next song to Luke Hewitt, "who i've stolen some lyrics from". And slowly they launch into

Baby We'll Be Fine

, accompanied from the start by violins. When Matt utters 'baby we'll be fine', i sincerely believe him. I wanna spill Jack and Coke down his collar. This is as good as it gets, i think to myself. I find i'm mistaken, when they roll into the next song.

Slow Show 

is better. it makes me cry, i'll be honest. This is the song i've always wanted to see performed live. It's like a love letter. It's haunting. It's a fine example of Matt's talent for penning ingenious lyrics. I feel the drumbeat somewhere in my ribcage as "you know i dreamed about you twenty-nine years before i saw you" draws applause from the enthralled audience. 

Squalor Victoria

starts with an extended intro and sees Matt's raspy scream of 'Squalor Victoria' echo across the park. The audience goes wild. To counter the roaring, the band softens for 

Afraid of Everyone

I can't even count how many people are on stage at this point. It's all strings, percussions, and in the midst of everything Matt is pacing the stage like a man possessed, stopping to bellow forlornly into the mic. His baritone voice, criticized for its limited range and monotony, sounds beautiful.

Little Faith

The lit ends of blunts make little red pinpricks in the darkness, which has settled on the park like a mantle. The drums of Little Faith vibrate in the air, which hangs thick. It's as if the stage and all people are encased in a park-sized bubble, a little pocket of darkness removed from the rest of the world.


Available


The song is a rougher, edgier version, with loud blaring guitars matching Matt howling "how can you blame yourself when i did everything i wanted to" like a man carrying some serious emotional baggage. 

The Cardinal Song

from Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers is an interesting choice for the set list. It's almost disconcerting how mellow and ballad-like it is after the raw screaming of 'Available'. 

Conversation 16

is one of the best songs from High Violet, and the intensity between the band and the audience reaches a fever pitch; the stage is like a beacon of light in the balmy night with thousands of dancing, swaying, jumping shapes in the darkness before it. The song finishes and the band rolls right into the jovial rhythm of 

Apartment Story

"This is probably the first show we could walk to", Matt remarks. "Instead of walking we should have arrived in one of those 400 feet long hummer limos", Aaron interjects, drawing laughs from the crowd. 

The Geese of Beverly Road

Abel

The stage is red and the lights are blinding. "My mind's not right", Matt screams at the audience, who scream at him like theirs aren't either. I lose sight of the stage, which is obscured by the jumping crowd. The song comes to an end and the stage fades to black. They then launch into

Daughters of the Soho Riots

the mellowness of which makes the audience reciprocate with drawing out lighters and swaying like this was Woodstock in '69. 

England

sounds crisper live, with all instruments audible; the violin especially sounds beautiful. Matt says "i think i might ride my bike home tonight. Straight to the Vale of Cashmere." I can't believe it; i want to live here, where seeing the boys from The National ride their bikes home after an amazing gig is nothing out of the ordinary. 

Fake Empire

is what everyone's been waiting for. It's amazing seeing this live; it starts so small, with Matt singing, almost gingerly, and Bryce on the piano. Then in come backing vocals, the drums, clapping; musician after another emerges from the shadows of the stage and picks up their instrument...the song grows, just kinda lifts off. The audience counters it with a wall of sound, the stage lights are blinding, the song comes to an end with a resounding horn fanfare. The musicians take a quick bow in front of the exhilarated audience and disappear off stage. 


The clapping, shouting and whistling sees no end. They're not gone for long.

Sorrow

has the stage flooded in purple light. Matt leans into the mic, grasping it with both hands. The song is beautiful, its melancholy mood at home in the dark park at the end of the gig.

Secret Meeting

Mr. November

As the third song in the encore, they finally play Mr. November. The stage alternates between pink and white lighting, strobe lights flash as Matt screams "I won't fuck us over". It's a haggard scream, the words to which are occasionally lost, but that's okay, cause everyone knows them. 

Terrible Love

They play the first song from the new album last. "This is our final song. Thank you so much". The song finishes, the stage fades into darkness. And then, as subtly as it manifested, the bubble pops; the willful suspension of disbelief dissolves and the real world starts happening again. People look around, start shifting, moving towards the gates. Was i just here? Did this just happen? Yes i was and yes it did. And it was epic. 

The NY Chronicles: There's a Tentacle in My Teacup...

Lo and behold! The octopi have taken over! At least this is the conclusion i came to after a recent visit to Anthropologie, where the glorious, bulbous-headed creature of the deep had found its way onto many a curious thing. I don't mind one bit, because everything tentacled infatuates me greatly. Like these dinky teacups and saucers, for example. Notice the handle of the teacup is a tentacle complete with little suction cups.

And gorgeous Kraken dinner plates. "Eat your greens before Cthulhu floats off the plate and devours you!", i'd encouragingly coerce my frightened children in the future, with a house full of octopus china.

Then there was this lovely item, an eight-armed clothes hook. I had a really hard time letting go of this; it would have been right at home on my wall, mounted next to the bambi-skull and winged, grimacing skeleton. In the end, the only thing stopping me from giving this particular octopus a new home was the $48 price tag. Having managed to exercise such impressive self-control, i feel there might yet be hope for the black hole-like, bottomless pit that is my tiny, homeward bound suitcase. But more likely, i'll find myself at the airport trying to rationally explain my octopus-fetish and the second suitcase, bulging at the seams, full of tentacled paraphernalia.

The NY Chronicles: i heart Coney.

A very long subway ride away from upper Manhattan, at the Brooklyn end of lines D, F, N & Q, lies Coney Island. Much like the legendary end of the rainbow, this magical destination is full of treasure for those who find their way there.

Coney Island - home of the American amusement park - has spawned, cultivated and cherished all manner of wayward characters during its long, murky and enchanting history, from ladies of the night to sideshow freaks, and tattoo artists to sailors. Reaching its heyday as a haven for laughter, inebriation and other wild pastimes circa the 1920s, the amusement park fell into a state of neglect post WWII. There have since been attempts to restore the park to its former glory, but the fairground still retains an air of old sex nostalgia, like a sullied, derelict counterpart to the polished, legendary original.

This, of course, makes it all the more interesting. I first went there on a gloomy day last May. The mist hung wet and thick across the boardwalk, obscuring the end of the pier, the water beyond it, as well as the towering, crooked-looking ferris wheel. The amusement park was empty, apart from the puffy, liquored-up 'Nam veterans standing sentry by the rides, waiting for those in need of amusement, but returning always to tip back their barely concealed brown paper bags. The merry-go-round travels in endless circles, the carnival music plays, the hot dogs are the best in the world and the mist thickens. i love it, this long-standing bastion of kitschy, crooked, bewitching Americana.

This time around, however, the weather was (rather surprisingly) sweltering, and my Coney Island day plan included lying around on the beach and dipping my toes into the Atlantic.

Gone was the gray fog obscuring the beach on the previous visit, and in its place were the browning bodies of masses of New Yorkers. With the temperature in the triple digits, it was to be expected. Kids frolicking in the waves, old ladies with those weird aluminum foil tanning mirror things, and beach vendors zigzagging the shoreline, selling everything from steaming empanadas to rainbow-colored kites.

I find myself a spot, apply factor 30 in excess and settle down with Richard Price's Lush Life, ignoring the smirks my chalky white limbs seem to be getting from the orange-hued hoochies in teeny bikinis on the neighboring beach towel. Ah, this is the life.

After finishing my book and dozing off for a while, i come to, thirsty as hell and with an uncomfortable burning sensation beginning at the back of my calves and ending somewhere around the back of my neck. Ouch. Note to self: even SPF30 isn't gonna save you when you fall asleep in the sun. The gum ball-popping ladies to my left continue to simper as i pack up my stuff and head back to the boardwalk with pizza and a pint in mind.

Before i call it a day, i pay the Glass Box Grandma a visit. There's nothing like getting your fortune told by a googly-eyed dame encased in glass.

 

I drop in a quarter, expecting the robotic geriatric to spring to life. It doesn't happen. Instead, a light comes on, the granny jerks awkwardly back and forth a couple of times, and then resumes her static, cockeyed vigil.

I'm a little disappointed. And then i see the card sliding out of the waist-level slot of the machine. I pick it up and decipher grandma's prophecy.

Grandma tells me i talk too much, can't keep secrets, shouldn't leave the house for any reason, and would be better off taking after a wise, old bird. For another quarter she'll elaborate. I'm satisfied with the crone's counsel; it's little nuggets of wisdom like these that keep me from making awful mistakes, like going on ill-advised trips to dirty, big cities; meeting horrible people and generally having the worst time of my life. Oh my, how dreadful it all sounds. How dreadful indeed.

The NY Chronicles: Cupcakes and Skulls.

Cause these are a few of my favorite things.

The scrumptious delicacy above is a Devil's Food Cupcake from Crumbs Bake Shop. While choosing cupcakes, i noticed that the little sign displaying the name of the cupcake also tells you the amount of calories per cupcake. Appalling! Who wants to know what kind of calorie bomb they're tucking into? Who even cares? I'd like my decadence with a side of blissful ignorance, thank you very much. 

I've been looking for a bird skull necklace for ages, so when i found this wood pecker skull pendant in a little store called Norbu in Williamsburg, i was over the moon. It's very similar to Pamela Love's jewelry, which i've been lusting after for a year now, but, lucky for me, comes at only a fraction of the cost. This skull set me back $35. I slipped it onto the same chain as my nerd glasses -necklace, just so i'd have somewhere to put it until i found it a chain of its own, but now i kinda like the skull with the glasses, so i might keep it there.

Cupcakes and skulls. Cause it's the baked goods and head bones that make you happy.

A Rock'n'Roll Heart: Murder City Devils Live.

It's two o'clock on Sunday afternoon and Brooklyn, much like the rest of New York, is sweltering, i discover as i emerge from the furnace-like subway platform on to Bedford Avenue. The sky over Williamsburg is blue; the air is still, the heat making it flicker and dance over the black asphalt. Potential perils, such as sunstroke or severe dehydration do little to deter me today. I wouldn't miss today for anything. Wiping the sweat off my brow, and lighting a cigarette in defiance, I start towards the waterfront. 

The Williamsburg Waterfront plays host to Jelly Pool Parties on summer Sundays in July and August. These one-day festivals are real gems, featuring an eclectic mix of bands, cold beer, dodge ball games and a smashing view of Manhattan across the river. While the event in itself is awesome, what makes today's pool party epic is the headliner; taking the stage at sundown is none other than The Murder City Devils. The superb garage punk group got together in 1996, called it quits in 2001, and have since done the occasional, random show. How i wished to see them. I just never thought i'd happen to be in the right place at the right time. And now, suddenly, hell, this is about as right as it gets. I sit on the grass and prepare to wait.

At six in the afternoon, the air has cooled a little and the white concrete field that makes up a good chunk of the East River State Park is rapidly filling up. An expectant cheer goes up from the crowd, i snake my way closer to the stage. The air is rife with giddy anticipation. And suddenly, there they are - this band whose songs have been the soundtrack of wild garden parties, first crushes and break-ups alike - on stage, right in front of me. Being unable to decide between peeing my pants in excitement and bursting into tears of joy, i instead join the jumping, screaming crowd and shriek at the top of my lungs.

Spencer Moody saunters on stage wearing a straw hat and his signature thick, black glasses; he's not particularly short, but he looks hobbit-like. Like he's just back from planting parsnips in the garden. And his beard, ginger and bushy, is topped off with an impressive mustache (which makes yours truly - a facial hair-fetishist to the bone - sigh in awe).

 They kick off, hitting the sea of people in front of them with the big guns: all their best songs, each one making the crowd go a little crazier: Dancin' Shoes, Hey Sailor, 18 wheels... The audience is one big hive-mind of tattooed arms pumping the air, enveloped in a cloud of sickly-sweet smoke issuing from the blunts held in every other hand, bellowing out the apology in unison: I never wanted you to be a sailor's girl, to be a trucker's wife, to be left behind...And it's just like i always thought it would be.

Spencer Moody is furious on stage. He thunders into the mic like it's insulted him. When that's not enough, he shoves the whole thing in his mouth, yelling into it, head thrown back, hands in the air. It sounds exactly like it does on their live album, if not better. In between songs he stands with his back to the audience, the mic balanced on his head. And then he's off again, climbing the drum set, barking into the mic with that trademark raw, haggard rage of his.

The crowd hollers, screams, whistles, claps. Spencer turns towards the audience. His view is of the swelling mass of people before him, the afternoon sun behind them and the Manhattan skyline on the other side of the glimmering river. He smiles and squints at the sun in his eyes: "this is really cool, i love this" he says in a voice that sounds mischievous, with some kind of endearing twang to it; a stark contrast to the whiskey-soaked scream that just before pleaded the case of the Johnny Thunders. Someone taps me on the shoulder, i turn around to see a tall, skinny kid dressed in black, clutching little plastic bags. "You wanna buy a magic brownie?" he inquires, smiling encouragingly. I decline politely and he weaves his way into the crowd, repeating the question to those in earshot -  the contraband punk gig equivalent of a baseball game hot dog peddler. i'm loving this.

 

For a band that's been off the live-circuit for the best part of the last decade, these Devils play well. A stumble on the drums at the first beats of a song earns a good-natured "you fucked up!" call from the crowd. "We're not quite ready", the band smiles in return, taking the time to tune their instruments. A second try yields results, and they're on their game. The atmosphere is amazing. The crowd, consisting mostly of hipster-types the Sunday before, has enjoyed an influx of the punk-minded this time around. Band shirts, Misfits skull tattoos and piercings abound. A pitful of carousers circle round, jumping with careless abandon, skanking furiously, most with eyes glazed over. Sweat flies everywhere, the fallen are set back on two legs, feet point skywards as someone is hoisted on to the shoulders of the audience. i fear for the life of my EOS-350, grasped in my hands, as a screaming Irishman comes sailing into me, headfirst, defying Newton's first law. I half-wish i hadn't brought the camera, in order to be able to throw myself into the pit with all the other crazies, but i figure photographic evidence will be of more sentimental value than an x-ray graph depicting crushed ribs. In the long run, anyway.

Spencer addresses the crowd once more: "We were asked to play this show when the Pool Parties were still by a pool", and again his voice surprises me. I don't know what it is - he kinda sounds like a cartoon character. Like he might burst into a fit of giggles at any minute. "We told them no, we're not gonna do that. You wanna know why? " The audience awaits an explanation. "Cause the stage was too small. We said, get an appropriate size stage, then we'll play", he smirks from the center of a massive stage which dwarfs him entirely, further emphasizing the hobbit likeness. "So thanks to the organizers for getting a better stage - here we are now." The crowd cheers and they roll into the next song.

This has been something else. Something unreal. The sky behind is coloring orange. My voice is hoarse from screaming. My legs are shaking from jumping. My shirt is soaked with sweat - mine and that of all these other crazies packed in front of a stage on a balmy Sunday evening in Brooklyn, seeing a band i never thought i'd get to see live. Suddenly, i'm all too aware of the fact that this is going to be over all too soon. Spencer's wolf-howl brings me back, sending shivers down my spine. Like a pack of primal, deranged canines, the horde assembled in front of the stage answers the call.

 Murder City Devils, i rock'n'roll <3 you.

The NY Chronicles: How to Spend a Saturday

Friday night featured beer, Disney singalongs, barhopping on Bleecker Street, vodka cranberries seriously lacking in the cranberry department, some old black guy channeling Jimi Hendrix onstage, promises of mountains of coke, passed-out sisters on the subway and far too many comments claiming i look like Lady Gaga. 

Which is why today has been spent in front of the TV watching crappy movies, eating pizza, drinking beer and emptying a gigantic bag of peppermint patties. This is the life.

The NY Chronicles: Food at Sacred Chow & Music at Cake Shop

It was Wednesday night in a sweltering city. Three women made their way to a vegan bistro called Sacred Chow. The place is tiny and easy to miss in the mix of little cafes and bars  Sullivan Street is full of. Since none of us had been there before, we walked right past it in a state of heat-induced stupor. We backtrack, find the place, sit down and order a pitcher of Sangria. Things are looking up.
 

The restaurant is entirely vegan and the menu is packed with all sorts of  veggie delights. I'm drooling. You sure as hell wouldn't come across something like Korean tofu cutlets on a menu in a restaurant back at home. I'm thinking, Helsinki, you need to get with it.

We go for some tapas: Mama's Soy Meatballs with Sicilian Sauce, Sun Dried Tomato Risotto, White Beans and Fried Potatoes, Cornbread with Sweet Potato Tempeh. The food arrives; everything looks good in home-cooked kinda way. The meatballs are lovely, the tomato sauce has a nice kick to it. And this cornbread, i love it. Warm, crumbly, almost too sweet to be bread and seriously moreish. Also, it's delicious with the whole sweet potato and tempeh combo.

We're absolutely stuffed after our entrees, but take a look at the dessert menu in any case. It features a Brownie Sundae. We can't resist. The vegan chocolate brownie comes with hot fudge sauce, vanilla ice cream and sprinkles. I lick my spoon and wonder whether i can discreetly unbutton my jeans.

We enter the muggy night once more and head to the Cake Shop on Ludlow Street, which features live music pretty much every night. 

True to its name, the place does some pretty nice-looking cake, has a pretty big collection of vinyls for sale, and doubles as a gig venue. The street level cafe is all decked out in thrift store furniture and the walls are papered in what seem to be 80s fashion ads.The downstairs live music venue is small, dark and features a bar lit up by lamps with tasseled silk shades that look like they've been stolen from my granny. A little stage decked out in fairy lights takes up one end of the small space. It's got that slightly manky, yet lovable vibe, like Lepakkomies or Semifinal. I'm liking it.

The night's lineup is four local bands we've never heard of, but look forward to checking out nonetheless. The first band is called The Crawl Babies. The three-man band plays some rather generic indie stuff and the dudes look like the poster boys of hipsterishness. Their Myspace site claims they're from Osaka and Kyoto and features pics of Japanese folk to support the claim. We think this is part of their cunning branding scheme. The drummer plays his instrument standing up and never once looks at the audience. There's something irritating about the singer's voice and his spasmodic twitching on stage. But i've always been one to appreciate a little self irony, whether it's intentional or not. 

The third band is called My Pet Ghost Project. They describe themselves as a sonic wrecking crew, which is quite accurate. Their music is cinematic, moody and songs build up to a rolling climax, courtesy of synths, serious drumming and the talented playing of the  guitarists. For the most part, this is instrumental, gigantic stuff lacking in vocals and making up for it in terms of ambiance.

The music wasn't the only intriguing part of the night, either. Because i enjoy taking pics of toilets, i couldn't leave this out. Some serious cool graffiti and stickers on the walls of the Cake Shop restrooms. Also, this may or may not have been the guys' toilet. Why do i think that? Perhaps the pic below was a clue. Shitballs.