Arcade Fire, at the Greek
When your ticket to the Greek Theatre says the show starts at 7:00pm, they aren’t lying like all those jackleg indoor venues. The Greek Theatre isn’t trying to fake you out, draw you in so they can increase their bar sales. The Greek Theatre doesn’t survive apocalyptic forest fires so that you can stand around drinking overpriced imported beers and admiring each others’ hundred dollar haircuts. The Greek Theatre is here to host music.
So you walk in on Electrelane’s last song, which makes you more despondent, you feel even more alone, and use your last few dollars to purchase a Large Domestic Beer. You find your seat, between two groups of strangers. A few moments later, the lights darken. You stand up, and decide to down your beer Right Now.
Arcade Fire is exactly the kind of beautiful music that crushes your soul. The pipe organ builds and builds, and your tears build along with it, until you can’t tell the taste of salt from the sound of the guitars, and the wetness on your cheeks feels like a trumpet, and your emotions crash out in a wave, just like the music on stage. The band comes back for encore, and they play that song, and your tears flood the amphitheater. They drown the audience and sweep everyone down the hill into the city and deposit them on their beds. And you’re caught in the deluge, too, straight down Vermont, a little turn on Wilshire, and before you know it, you’re there, next to the Ambassador Hotel, on your own futon, curled up, wet, collapsed. The tears pull back into your body, the flood recedes, the city dries, and the next morning everything looks shiny and washed and new again. It’s beautiful and clear in Los Angeles, again.
Next time you won’t be late for the show.
