Running Cold: 'Ghost Stories' Album Review

When the chilling quasi-single “Midnight” came out a couple months ago to tease Coldplay’s sixth album, my interest was piqued. The dizzying iciness of that song was so unlike anything on its chart-busting preceding album Mylo Xyloto (2011) that I hoped the stadium rockers were getting a little tired of Top 40 and were experiencing creative wanderlust. I imagined them hoisting the sharp alt-pop sensibilities of their early days on their backs and journeying into a place of even greater lushness and imagination.

Well, a girl can dream. 

Ghost Stories is for all intents and purposes a break-up album, but the saddest thing about it is that it’s so void of any artistic display of emotion that the greatest indicator to its subject matter is any recent headline over Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow’s “conscious uncoupling” process. (Nice try, GOOP troop, but people have been divorcing that way for years. It’s called “not being total dicks to each other.”)

The minimalist atmosphere of Ghost Stories probably started out as a good idea--a step back from the costume rock of Viva La Vida and Mylo Xyloto--but the end result is little more than a neutered contrivance of cheap-o synth beats and grossly trite lyrics: “All I know is that I love you so much that it hurts.” Aww, dude. Why ya gotta?

So I'm listening to this album and hearing a lot of Chris Martin feeling sort of sad via shallow imagery, but I could have sworn there were other members in this band. Truth is there is nothing to speak of instrumentally that can’t be done by an overpaid producer tinkering by himself on Ableton for a bit; I wonder how the rest of the band agreed to become so obsolete? On that note, why the hell did this album take two and a half years to make? They could have produced triple the mediocrity and multiplied their profits.  

On an aimless road of sapless ballads, there is one anthemic moment with the penultimate song “A Sky Full of Stars,” a Euro dance pop track only remarkable for how nauseating it is, apparently borrowed from Ryan Seacrest’s 16-year-old nephew who sometimes DJs at his high school parties. Christ, I’d divorce this guy, too.

Okay, that was harsh. It’s certainly not the worst pop album I’ve ever heard, but if that’s the standard Coldplay is going by now, then they've got a real problem.

I suppose as one of the highest-earning bands in the world, they may have learned how to simply abuse their power, but it's more likely that they've lost control of it. After a humble but striking start to their career and then the grandiosity of their last two albums, the mood they've achieved with Ghost Stories is awkward; it doesn't plunder or even try very hard to explore the depths of personal loss--lyrically or sonically--but it's too intimate for us not to be curious. As listeners, we're caught in the middle, wallflowers at a stranger's funeral. We should be wailing over the damn coffin. 

Some nice moments: Midnight, Oceans

Skip it, bop it, kill it: Ink, A Sky Full of Stars                                                                              

Johnny Marr in Asheville: Moving Forward But Finally Looking Back Fondly

"Mr. Marr, it is such a pleasure," I say, taking his hand in mine without looking at it. I am magnetized to his dark eyes and familiar Manchester haircut, which I have a complete view of, standing at least a couple of inches over him. I thank myself for deciding against those four-inch ankle boots.

Johnny Marr has just emerged from his dressing room. He's wearing the same black dress shirt--buttoned fully to his throat--and crushed velvet blazer he wore during the show, but he's clearly freshened up because there is no olfactory evidence to suggest he was just sweating on stage for 90 minutes in this insanely hot-looking outfit. My version of Heaven suddenly features a room full of rock legends smelling exactly like Johnny Marr does at this very moment. (I'll spare you the details of the other goings-on in that room.)

"I really enjoy your new record," I tell him honestly. He smiles and tilts his ear politely toward me to hear. "Why The Messenger? Why now? What does The Messenger mean to you?" I ask, the first of 16 simultaneously burning questions to percolate.

"Well you know," he begins, his thick Mancunian accent bursting pleasingly from his gut, "it's about carrying the message, even if it's negative. You know, puh-tting yer 'ead in the lion's mouth, so to speak." I admittedly haven't listened to the lyrics of the upbeat, guitar-driven album enough to immediately access a reference, so I ask him which songs best represent that idea.

But before he can answer, two bouncy women suddenly interrupt our conversation, one of them quick with a story about her friend's dog who finds sexual gratification sitting on the edge of an electric fence. I swing a mental hatchet squarely into her face.

And thus begins the process of my removal from the Orange Peel.

***

Most famous as the guitarist/co-writer for the game-changing Smiths, Johnny Marr is now touring what is called his first solo album (even though he's already released an album with his current band The Healers?). The Messenger comes after 26 years of post-Smiths collaborations, which include stints with The Pretenders, The The, The Cribs, Modest Mouse, and innumerable session works.

I learned the night before that I'd won a pair of post-show Meet & Greet passes, in my mind a fantastic opportunity to conduct a casual interview. My heart all a-flutter, I loosely formulated what sort of questions I would ask and did some research to determine the sort I would not (*cough* Morrissey *cough*).

All day I tried to find a taker for the extra M&G pass, but to my utter disbelief I failed to find another fan who wanted it. In shock and horror, I forfeited it at the box office and entered the venue. I could see then why it wasn't an obviously simple task; I'd scarcely seen such a small crowd for any Orange Peel show. But before long I was swallowing my mind's tongue; not everyone lives in my bubble of reality, and at a show like this, there is not actually room for people who don't totally want to be there.

The crowd erupted as the band entered the stage. The hard-driving opener "The Right Thing Right" from the new album set the tone for the evening, Johnny's signature jangling guitar fresh but reminiscent of the work that made him famous, his lead vocals also strong and satisfying. When the epic introductory chords of the classic Smiths song "Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before" rang out next, it was clear we had all heard it before. And fuck no we didn't stop him. 

Not from the Asheville show, but he wore the same outfit

For years the guitarist tried to distance himself from the painful breakup of the painfully short but intense Smiths relationship (1982-87). Never the type to capitalize on cheap gossip or nostalgia, Johnny only recently started playing Smiths songs live again (for which fans are endlessly grateful), but it's not just the acrimonious separation of the Smiths that discouraged him from satisfying his audience's sickly withdrawals: Johnny Marr is first and foremost an ever-evolving artist. This is clear from the first Smiths album to the last (FUCK YEAH STRANGEWAYS!), as too from his work in Electronic to that with Modest Mouse. He's not going to stick around playing the same old guitar, getting old and fat and dying all the time.

He graced us with a 20-song set, six of them classic Smiths tracks. He played his solos intimately to the crowd, that sexual rock energy I love so much almost too much to bear. I realize now that my signature move is staring mouth agape at the sight of revolutionary fingers flying down a fret board.

***

Despite my clear intentions to hog his attention entirely, Johnny's got to move on. After the anecdote about the masochistic dog, I notice a line of impatient fans standing patiently behind me.

Now that I've talked to him, I am immediately approached by a security guard to please get the fuck out. I slither out of his line of vision and observe quietly on the side. He turns around and repeats his request, this time rather more of a demand. I look into his eyes and tell him "I understand," but I stay put. A British guy from Johnny's personal crew appears then, a little more emphatic about it, but I maintain my position.

"He's not Santa, where you sit on his lap and take a picture. He's a music legend," I tell them. They've heard it all before and are not as amused with me as I am with myself. This goes on for another couple of minutes before I decide it's probably better to simply back away (dramatically) than to make a real scene. 

While I am delighted that I got to ask at least one of the questions I had prepared (only one about Morrissey, I swear, and that's more of a comment), I am tired of being a nameless fan. I need a press pass.

Johnny Marr's American tour is now over, but you're in luck if you're Australian.

Ta-ta for now!

      

   

Pretty Sure Motion Control Technology is the Future of Audiovisual Production...And it's Happening Now

Technology moves fast, and unfortunately brilliant ideas don't mean much unless you are a programmer/developer/tech wizard with the know-how to bring your ideas to life. For the rest of us, by the time we've even heard of some new innovation, there are already two or three generations of it. Same is true for music and now, I think, all other audiovisual production methods.

Nonetheless, here I've been all my life, daydreaming away, trying to intellectualize some new way of combining my two greatest passions in life (aside from human relationships and all that jazz): dance and music. By the looks of this blog you may not realize that as well as a music obsessive, I am a diehard dancer. The dance floor is where I belong; it has always been my home and my church. I've accepted the reality that I may not ever again make it to the stage, having followed paths in life which have rendered a professional career in dance impractical, and perhaps impossible. 

But I've never truly given up the ghost. 

AND NOW, LIFE IS NEW AGAIN and birds are chirping. In my recent quest to find innovation in dance and also nurture my desire to create music, I determined that the missing link between dance and music, or dance and stage visuals, is the dancer becoming the musician/technician (and vice versa). What if, in the context of a live music experience, the dancer were no longer resigned to looking pretty on stage when there's not much else to look at? Why can't the body-in-motion be the vehicle for the audiovisual experience, a central player in the production journey?

I dunno, fuck, something like that maybe

Enter motion-controlled AV technology, like the Xbox Kinect, Leap Motion, and even Wii before that (but I'm pretty sure Wii is in a bar somewhere with the Blackberry, drowning their sorrows of obsolescence). The Kinect, like Wii, was originally intended as a way for gamers to control the screen action with their own body movements (getting gamers off their asses may be the most impressive thing about this technology, actually). But of course artists took that idea and blew it the fuck up (motion-controlled music production is not entirely new. The theremin has been around since 1928, and Jimmy Page famously used it in live Zeppelin performances, but somehow expanding on that idea is just now catching fire). 

Last night a friend sent me this video of musician/tech queen Imogen Heap presenting her "musical gloves" at a music tech conference in 2012. I have been buggin out ever since. With the help of a whole technology team, she developed the gloves to be "gestural music ware," allowing her to create and make fine manipulations to sounds and effects, real-time in 3D space, without touching her clunky old instruments (skip to 13:30 if you just want to see her demo a song).

There are loads of examples of motion-controlled art already happening, some filmmakers but mainly straight musicians who are already making their art with production software like Ableton Live and don't seem to really need or care about using the entire body in performance.   

It is the complexity and sheer responsiveness of these gloves which seems to differentiate it from other Kinect-based gestural productions. In videos I'm seeing of people using Kinect + Ableton but not the glove tech, movements seem to be limited to hands and arms (so too with Leap Motion). So I have a lot of questions: is the current technology being applied to movement of the whole body? Is it easy enough to make real-time songs with the Kinect, not just manipulate effects whose sonic construction is pre-programmed? Could a producer be doing one thing and a dancer complement it through gestural tech? Can I designate different body parts to different instrument families and switch between them at any time? Can I add lights?! WHERE CAN I GET THE GLOVES??!!

I'm not a born techie, and I've never had consistent patience to compose songs with production software, but this, Christ Almighty. Get my body involved, and I am there all the way. It's all too much. I'm so excited. I haven't been this turned on since Dave Gahan reached his arm out and smiled at my crazy ass dancing at my first Depeche Mode concert. 

So for all you developers/programmers/tech wizards who make dreams come true, hit me up. Let's do this before we are all dead.

First Annual Mountain Oasis Festival Successfully Takes Moogfest's Reins

When Asheville heard that our semi-beloved Moogfest would not be taking place this October, we were admittedly not devastated, but never ones to forget the promise of a good party, we collectively wondered: so what's taking its place then? Enter Mountain Oasis Electronic Music Summit, the newborn festival that has successfully greased the path for Moogfest to quietly step out to fulfill its greater life purpose in the springtime. After just a three-year run of the always-a-little-weird (not entirely cool weird) Moogfest, the much more clear-headed Mountain Oasis seems to be just the thing to satisfy Asheville's now desperate need for a pre-Halloween/end of festival season festival fix. 

Photo by AVL's own J Smilanic

The festival ran Fri Oct 25-Sun Oct 27, but having just spent a massive four days in Austin the previous weekend, I only bought a ticket for Saturday night. Also, I was really only intent on seeing electronic music pioneer Gary Numan and Nine Inch Nails, because, well, I didn't think I cared enough for Friday and Sunday's headliners and wasn't familiar with any of the non-headlining acts.

Fifteen minutes late, I calmly walked (cuz I got reprimanded for running) onto the US Cellular Center floor to find a sparse but mostly interested crowd swaying and nodding to Gary Numan. Dressed in a dark graphic tee and black jeans, the legend floated around the smoky stage, strangling the microphone, his trademark yowl slicing through the thick atmosphere. A setlist dominated by his most recent album Splinter, I was surprised at how heavy and, dare I say, gothic his sound has become--no easy tinky synth sounds of old--but the depth of it felt very, very good in my body.

Gary Numan on Saturday night. Photo by someone at NPR

I, probably like 99.99% of the crowd, only really knew his 1979 breakout hit "Cars," but it's Gary goddamn Numan, one of the first musicians to bring electronics to the pop scene, one of the major influences on Trent Reznor and Depeche Mode (and vice versa) and thereby every single electronic artist since. He may have completely fallen off the radar over the last 30 years, but when that man is in town, you go see his fucking show.

And all 12 of us were lucky to be there.

Later that night I spoke to him outside one of his tour buses, his black eyeliner bleeding down his aged but familiar face. Lovely guy. We rapped for a couple minutes before one of his crew pulled him away to do an interview on the bus, and my blood bubbled on medium-high heat with envy.

Nine Inch Nails, touring their first album in five years, was obviously a big draw as headliner (I still made it into the venue and wherever I wanted in the crowd with relative ease). T-Rez is apparently at the top of his game, several years sober and looking damn good, all buff and shit. His new album Hesitation Marks shows he's not as angry as he always famously was, which is fine, but he still delivers his classic material with convincing outrage. My favorite moment was the catharsis of shout-singing "Head Like a Hole." Yerrrrssss.

Saturday night had a very tough, gloomy feel, but in plowing through the darkness, my heart became light.

So I found myself at the festival again on Sunday. I remember PANTyRAiD being ridiculous but having sweet dancers and Disclosure generally blowing my mind, but it was the weekend's closer that fractured us only to glue us all together again in perfect symmetry. Yes of course it was fucking Pretty Lights.

Now I've always felt sort of pffft about Pretty Lights via stereo system, but I am often surrounded by people who are real serious about him, and I was curious to see what all the hullabaloo was about. While under normal circumstances I would never consider standing in the back balcony, that's where my crew was, and WOW! I stood corrected. The sound was fantastic, the view of the madness below (and all around) unparalleled.

Pretty Lights really were...
Photo by J Smilanic

Derek Smith (aka Pretty Lights) and his tight live band threw down with an energy I can't even imagine summoning eight days a week like they do. To me, obviously, it was fresh, a magnetic whirlpool into which the crowd was immediately swept. Best light show I've ever seen. The man himself was noticeably intoxicated, but it only amusingly affected his speech, not his groove. As for my groove? I managed to bust any and all of my moves in that small foot space between seat rows. Success.

A little humbled, a lot awed, and apparently just now recovered from it, I bless the forehead of the newly christened, bouncing baby Mountain Oasis. Let Asheville nurture it, and it will grow.



     

Last Days of ACL Recap, and That Silly Thom Yorke Forgets to Put Me on the Guest List

From my hotel I had a certain view of the wet clouds which continued to threaten the city Sunday morning; even if the same kind of rain wasn't on its way, the flooding on the roads and in Zilker Park was enough to justify shutting down early. Sometimes the show just does not go on, but to say the cancellation was a bummer is an understatement.

I spent the next few hours in my room, unsure what to do so instinctively re-living both Depeche Mode and The Cure's headlining sets via webcast as I finished my recap of Saturday. Overwhelmed by the righteousness of the last two days, and with each passing minute a little more depressed about the abrupt change in schedule, I finally went out to a nearby sports bar to commune in a different way with the people of (and not of) Austin. I needed a little escapism through football. A lot of good that would do me.

New Orleans' stupid last-second loss to stupid Tom Brady behind me, I left the bar and headed into the heart of downtown where I suspected I would find the interesting goings-on. It was then that I saw an hour-old tweet that Atoms For Peace would indeed be playing a make-up show at the Moody Theater (where they tape Austin City Limits Live) later that night. I just love how it was only when I unglued my eyes from Twitter that the announcement came. Siiiigh. 

I knew chances of actually getting in were shit when I got in the line that snaked around four big city blocks, but because of the light rain that had started again, I halfway imagined most people would peace out, traumatized by the previous night's shitstorm. Clearly not enough people went that route, and no one knew wtf was going on anyway, as by the time we reached the box office, my hopeful comrades and I were told we'd been standing for ages in the wrong line; this was Guest Listers only, and anyway, tickets were long since sold out. 

I felt super disappointed about once again missing AFP, about missing the ACL Live experience, and also that there was no opportunity for current ACL wristband holders to get first dibs on this or any of the replacement shows which popped up around town (okay, also bummed Thom Yorke didn't tweet me back). Not that they could have accommodated anywhere near the many thousands of inconvenienced festivalgoers, but it still seemed like a halfway plausible and groovy thing to attempt. I was slightly irked when--for example--I'd just learned all my efforts and intentions were for nil and two pretty little girls (who I strongly suspect did not kick it at the festival) sashayed on up to the Guest List window to claim their nice shiny tickets. I won't begrudge them a good time for whatever connections they have in the business, as I plan on doing some Guest List-window-sashaying of my own, but--ya know--goddamn bitches all the same.

So there I was, dancing on the street, cuz what else would I do in that situation? I wouldn't let that ruin my last night in town, so I figured I'd take the path of least resistance by aiming for little more than a dance floor. I got to talking to a couple residents who assured me we could find something a thousand times more legit than anything downtown, so they brought me to a local bar with a loud brass band, cheap drinks, a friendly crowd and a bomb ass taco truck serving the back courtyard. The night had made something of itself after all, and I felt sort of at home...with way hotter hot sauce.   

The next morning, my head throbbing, I had a little time to relax before the inevitably sad pack-up routine. I would be hanging out at the airport for a few hours before my flight, but I was looking forward to it because I quite like airports when I'm not running through them. 

At the check-in counter my stomach flipped when one of the airline employees mentioned The Cure had checked in a short time earlier (at another airline no doubt; as if they would fly US Airways). Then when I went through security I learned Flea had just come through. After an intimate TSA pat-down, yes of course I scoured all the accessible gates for the legendary bassist, but my too-little-too-late detective work told me he would have gotten on a flight to LA that had just boarded. Lame.

I parked myself at a small bar with a little stage of its own, a young duo playing an acoustic set in the corner. I got to talking to a couple of guys also on their way home from ACL (the statistics were highly in favor of this eventuality), and I learned I had yet again missed out on a band sighting. French fivesome Phoenix (whom I was also looking forward to seeing on Sunday) had been sitting at a nearby table for the last hour or so, one which I'd overlooked two or three times when I was busy scoping Flea. Okay, Universe, very funny. So clever of you.

All that bullshit aside, I made my way home in a state of almost total satisfaction. I met so many incredible people, became a part of so many exceptional shows, and all this just barely breathing the fumes of a city on fire. While I didn't experience everything I intended to (ahem see above, see below), my power and desire seemed to flow effortlessly from me, and I knew I was in true communion with myself. This was where I belonged. At least for this one weekend, this was exactly where I belonged. I'll be seeing you again, Austin.

Oh and look here: the Atoms For Peace at the Moody Theater webcast is up. Show starts about 41:30. Let's watch it and be happy (and also kinda sad) together.  

ACLFest Weekend Two, Day Two Recap

Robert Smith of The Cure totally owning us, all of ACL--shit, the world

I woke up slightly more bedraggled than yesterday to find that the entire ACL operation has f'real been canceled due to flooding and more flood warnings. The depression of the whole experience getting cut short is now starting to sink in, but I can't deny that my body could probably use the break. My feet ache, my reddened skin throbs, my clothes still hang wet from last night's torrential downpour. Day Two was serious business. 

I got to the park earlier in the afternoon than on Friday, about 2:00 to catch indie dance band Electric Guest. It was really no time to be dancing in the beating sun though; the Texas heat had plans of its own and would be having us know it. Maybe it was for that reason that I found Electric Guest a tad underwhelming, or maybe it was the gigantic sound coming from HAIM at the nearby main stage.

I thought I would get to catch the last 15 minutes of sister rockers HAIM's set, but they for some reason cut their performance short. I caught them just as they finished, with the three of them doing a crazyass ensemble drum-off and then one of the sisters leaping into the crowd for an unsuccessful crowd surf. But she clearly didn't give a shit and went back for a second turn. Win.

Temperatures didn't let up all afternoon, and it was a whimsical game trying to find space under one of the few trees for some shady respite. Strangely enough I found that light, continuous dancing cooled me off more efficiently than standing still. I can't stand still to music anyway, but I felt I had more power to summon breezes if I moved with it.

Life went on like that for the next couple hours, me just sort of wandering through the meadow, smiling drunkenly at everything (except sober; it was so hot I couldn't even fathom a drink until sunset). It was also around this time that the crowd seemed to swell exponentially; I'm gonna say Saturday's attendance was at least double Friday's. Suddenly people were everywhere. 

Grimes (née Claire Boucher) was one of my priorities, the adorable electronic producer from Canada who we've now learned feels strongly about burritos, Pokémon, and earplugs. She began her set with some wicked "weirdo experimental stuff" and then finally got people moving with her more recognizable tracks like "Genesis" and "Be a Body." Most notably, this was in fact the first time I had seen more than two people dancing at a time.

Okay okay okay, now I'm gonna gush about The Cure. In the downtime leading up to their performance, the sun had just set, and after such an oppressively hot day, the cooling atmosphere served to wake everybody up a little. The band came on almost ten minutes early (when does that happen??), and it was immediately obvious that they were going to own the stage, the crowd, and I'm going to go so far as to say the entire festival.

I was unsure how they would be received after seeing so many great bands get super under-appreciated by stiff crowds over the last two days, but The Cure had us all by the balls. This was the most animated I had felt any crowd for any show at ACL; that's some serious kind of magic (is Robert Smith's hair somehow connected to this power he holds? What other reason could he have for keeping it like that?). They plowed over two hours and 27 songs--a mix of ferociously familiar hits and some lesser known tracks from lesser known albums--and no doubt they could and would have kept going if the plug hadn't been pulled on them right at 10:00 (okay, they did it the classy way by fading them out, but still). 

It was at the beginning of "Wrong Number" that the rain came. And holy shit, did it come. This was the start of what would become a foot of rain during the night, the reason for today's cancellation. As disappointed as I am to miss today's lineup (Atoms for Peace, mostly), I can't imagine a more fitting closedown than The Cure.

Now I've got a whole day to get a taste of Austin. I'm going to find some beer, football, and then hopefully Thom Yorke. Wish me luck.   

        

ACLFest Weekend Two, Day One (w2d1) Recap

Zilker Park feels very intimate, considering its vast, open field-ness. Then again I love open fields and find
them to be very intimate spaces. It's just that before arriving I imagined all kinds of twists and turns in the park and that I would have to walk great distances between stages, really solid on which bands I was going to see when. At least that's the idea I'd cultivated from past attendees, but I'm finding that's not really the case at all.

Upon arrival, my first priority was to find one of the several Camelbak filling stations (you must bring your Camelbak empty). These places are a godsend for hot and thirsty festivalgoers! It's literally a long row of smiley girls holding hoses, waiting to fill your backpack with delicious, life-giving, free water anytime during festival hours. And these places are hardly even crowded. If you're coming to Zilker without a Camelbak, don't. Just don't.

All hydrated and shit, I wandered past one of the headline stages where fun. was starting to kick up the energy for the rest of the night, but I left the kids to their fun(.) and found myself in front of Detroit-based Electric Six instead. Funk, punk, dirty rock 'n roll--yeah, all those things--they were blowing it out, and frontman/songwriter Dick Valentine was certainly only making things better with his drunken antics. At one point he commented on the night's headliners, Depeche Mode and Muse, asking the crowd if we "want to see a band that's all pre-programmed with computers, backing tracks pre-set...or do you wanna see Depeche Mode?" Some of us were tickled by that (even though I DO love Muse, as you will see in a bit).

Things kind of went on like that for a while until I caught the last half hour or so of the Local Natives, a band of beautiful men with a very stimulating sound. After that I stumbled into The Black Angels' set, a sort of nu-psychedelic blues. I retreated to the outskirts of the crowd and danced in the sunshine, where it really became obvious that dancing is in fact a rare occurrence at ACL. No, seriously.

I took the time after that to relax a little before the frenzy of the night would descend. I realized then that I hadn't eaten all day; I had gotten off the plane and straight to my hotel, quickly dressed and dashed out without even thinking of sustenance (that's when you know I'm in a bit of a crazy state). And then suddenly-- miraculously--there were fish tacos. The Austin Eats area consists of maybe 30 local vendors, all with no more than four or five choices, which appeals to my sick, situational desire for Communism. From burritos and ice cream to straight hippie juices, this place has it all. I enjoyed my tacos with immense gratitude.

Queens of the Stone Age was one of the bands I was really looking forward to seeing but knew that I wouldn't get much of a chance due to the schedule conflict with a higher priority band. The sun was going down and energy was rising as people gathered round the stage, occasionally looking toward the Arctic Monkeys just down the hill. This is the great thing about this setup; you can be standing at one stage and still totally get another stage's goings-on without it feeling like the two are clashing. 

When Queens came on, that's when the grey sky opened and rain began to fall in hefty drops. Fortunately it only lasted long enough to add an electrifying element to the evening, and by then all charged up, I purposefully made my way toward the main stage to prepare for Depeche Mode.

It was only a few minutes before they came on, the crowd showing as much enthusiasm as they could. The boys launched into the standard "Welcome to My World" and "Angel," the only two tracks they would feature from Delta Machine. It was the switch-up of the fourth and fifth songs that really got my engines going: "Behind the Wheel" and "World In My Eyes" have only been featured in a handful of shows this tour. I freaked, obviously. Unfortunately most of the crowd couldn't appreciate this, so I held it down where I stood, probably the only real Devotee as far as I could see.

Every few songs I crept closer, searching for that sweet spot. At my first DM show last month, I was front row, center. That has its obvious perks but also its disadvantages in that I couldn't take in the stage visuals, and being so close, the sound is in fact pretty shit. So I started farther back last night, but I kept getting pulled closer until I was dead center but still far enough away to see the whole spectacle. Also, I found myself in a little pocket of Latino fans, who sang loudly with me and clearly loved Martin as much as I do. Awwwww.

When "Never Let Me Down Again" was over and the guys had bowed out, I wasn't fuckin' around and immediately started my dash toward the other main stage to catch the last half hour of Muse. The sound of the ambiguous thundering drums and wailing guitar soon condensed into "Stockholm Syndrome," one of my favorite Muse songs that I was not going to miss. I started to run, then faster, and soon I was sprinting like y'all ain't never seen! Seriously, like my life depended on it. Adrenaline propelled me toward the hardcore sickness of that song, and even though I had absolutely no energy or breath left, I still shout-sang and broke it down once I was in the midst of it all. I didn't feel the need to be super close like with DM because their sound is so huge and less intimate. 

I caught some of the biggest end-of-show songs like "Uprising," "Starlight" and "Knights of Cydonia." That was enough to completely exhaust me, though I am sad to see that I missed "Map of the Problematique" earlier in the set. Still, I can't say I would have done anything differently if I had it to do over again.

So there are the highlights! This is a total ramble because I am doing no editing on it; I'm just about to rush out the door to get back there in time to see Electric Guest at 2:00! Day Two, here I come!