Concerted
Two different days, two totally different concerts, but equal amounts of fun!
We saw The Prodigy last Tuesday when they came to Fort Canning. Holed up at the back of the hill with a great view of the stage and lights from where we were standing, we lounged around on the grass in the chilly night breeze while two deejays spun their sets out. My brother and Han told cheesy jokes while I lay back with my eyes closed, feeling the stars shine through the trees.
When The Prodigy finally came on, no one could keep still. We danced and jumped madly through the one and a half hour set, much like clubbing with crazy live DJs. Even my brother, usually laid back and cool at gigs, was prancing around on the slope to the songs that we knew off Fat of the Land. Sure, some of the music was repetitive and the lyrics were cheesy (prompting Han and I to joke that they only had two songs: Firestarter and Everything Else), but it was a blast.
I remember growing up to Breathe and Smack My Bitch Up in school. Keith Flint was a sensation then, frightening and fascinating with his madly glaring eyes, horns of green hair and various piercings and studs. We were told repeatedly by the Catholic teachers that they were satanic and not to be listened to, which of course promptly sent every girl who could afford it rushing out to HMV to get the cd.
Me, ever the consumate nerd, refused to listen and even changed the channel on the radio if they came on. Now, I caught myself letting the electric music pulse through my body with manic energy. Enh, so much for being brought up by nuns.
One highlight - a man we nicknamed Mr Happy Pants (HP), standing just in front of us, was so excited by the concert that he had been wriggling around before it even began. Presumably, the dude was on a Prodigy Pilgrimmage and when they came on, he went into frenzied dancing, not unlike that which you see in charismatic churches with TV evangelists (sorry, Christians). His hair was soaked with sweat as he squeezed his eyes shut and shimmied out his love for Keith, Liam and Maxim Reality, sometimes pressing his hands to his forehead as if God Himself had come down for him and he couldn't take it anymore.
With nary a pause, HP shook and dipped and chassed, running in circles round his friends when he ran out of moves. He cycled his hands like he was swimming freestyle, pointed madly at the sky and thrust and jiggled his hips.
Needless to say, this called for only one thing. Imitation. By half-time, we had learnt all HP's moves and started breaking them out in sync like dorks at well-timed intervals just for fun. He never turned around and caught us swimming and pointing in time, but I daresay we would have had to hurt him to make him tear his eyes from the stage.
Ani DiFranco this Tuesday was a whole 'nother barrel of pygmy three-toed sloths. She was charming and intelligent, communicative and relaxed and obviously enjoying herself. I never really listened to her until someone lent me a cd late last year, but she's a songwriter par excellence with lovely, staccato guitar licks that suit a musical voice which half-speaks, half-sings, dripping with gentle irony.
At 38, Ani - or should I go all formal and be like Ms DiFranco? Or do the music review surname style - DiFranco? Or just call her by her full name the way I talk about Nikki Sixx and Tony Iommi? Not John Lennon obviously, because being the soulmate of my next life, I call him merely John. Or snugglepuschnookums. Or whatever, you know? I mean, not like it's going to matter once we meet and get it on eventually, karmically speaking of course. Ahem. Where the hell was I, anyway? - At 38, Ani seems to be really content, laidback and confident which equates to a wonderful performer on stage in a way that's equally exciting and inspiring.
She was practically note-perfect and I really enjoyed the songs that I knew, plus the mad (but slightly geeky) xylophoning going on at the side of the stage from one of the backing musicians. Some of the newer songs were slightly cheesy, including one about how much she adores Obama (sounding like she possibly wouldn't balk at getting into his presidential pants), prompting Nisha to say that these angsty activist musicians are only good when they're angry.
In between enjoying her cheeky, mature sense of humour and the political poem-rants, we were kept busy trying to guess which of the three piece backing band was her husband (or wife) after she told the audience she'd just gotten married in Hawaii. Nisha voted for the heavily tattooed xylophonist or female drummer while I vacillated between the guy playing the awesome double bass or the poorly attired shorts-and-high-socks roadie who handed her guitars throughout. Turns out she's not married to any of them but some dude who's the babydaddy to her two-year-old daughter.
So, randomly, two awesome Tuesdays which helped chase away the start of work blues... next up, Coldplay, anyone?
I hear they're coming in little over a month's time and I'm as eager as any to finally see Chris Martin and co. in action because they're huge and it promises to be great. I gotta tell you though, I'm attending the concert with a gigantic Coldplay fan, who was planning to fly up to Australia so she could catch them, so she's probably jonesing to end up in the front row of the fracas.
You have been warned.
We saw The Prodigy last Tuesday when they came to Fort Canning. Holed up at the back of the hill with a great view of the stage and lights from where we were standing, we lounged around on the grass in the chilly night breeze while two deejays spun their sets out. My brother and Han told cheesy jokes while I lay back with my eyes closed, feeling the stars shine through the trees.
When The Prodigy finally came on, no one could keep still. We danced and jumped madly through the one and a half hour set, much like clubbing with crazy live DJs. Even my brother, usually laid back and cool at gigs, was prancing around on the slope to the songs that we knew off Fat of the Land. Sure, some of the music was repetitive and the lyrics were cheesy (prompting Han and I to joke that they only had two songs: Firestarter and Everything Else), but it was a blast.
I remember growing up to Breathe and Smack My Bitch Up in school. Keith Flint was a sensation then, frightening and fascinating with his madly glaring eyes, horns of green hair and various piercings and studs. We were told repeatedly by the Catholic teachers that they were satanic and not to be listened to, which of course promptly sent every girl who could afford it rushing out to HMV to get the cd.
Me, ever the consumate nerd, refused to listen and even changed the channel on the radio if they came on. Now, I caught myself letting the electric music pulse through my body with manic energy. Enh, so much for being brought up by nuns.
One highlight - a man we nicknamed Mr Happy Pants (HP), standing just in front of us, was so excited by the concert that he had been wriggling around before it even began. Presumably, the dude was on a Prodigy Pilgrimmage and when they came on, he went into frenzied dancing, not unlike that which you see in charismatic churches with TV evangelists (sorry, Christians). His hair was soaked with sweat as he squeezed his eyes shut and shimmied out his love for Keith, Liam and Maxim Reality, sometimes pressing his hands to his forehead as if God Himself had come down for him and he couldn't take it anymore.
With nary a pause, HP shook and dipped and chassed, running in circles round his friends when he ran out of moves. He cycled his hands like he was swimming freestyle, pointed madly at the sky and thrust and jiggled his hips.
Needless to say, this called for only one thing. Imitation. By half-time, we had learnt all HP's moves and started breaking them out in sync like dorks at well-timed intervals just for fun. He never turned around and caught us swimming and pointing in time, but I daresay we would have had to hurt him to make him tear his eyes from the stage.
Ani DiFranco this Tuesday was a whole 'nother barrel of pygmy three-toed sloths. She was charming and intelligent, communicative and relaxed and obviously enjoying herself. I never really listened to her until someone lent me a cd late last year, but she's a songwriter par excellence with lovely, staccato guitar licks that suit a musical voice which half-speaks, half-sings, dripping with gentle irony.
At 38, Ani - or should I go all formal and be like Ms DiFranco? Or do the music review surname style - DiFranco? Or just call her by her full name the way I talk about Nikki Sixx and Tony Iommi? Not John Lennon obviously, because being the soulmate of my next life, I call him merely John. Or snugglepuschnookums. Or whatever, you know? I mean, not like it's going to matter once we meet and get it on eventually, karmically speaking of course. Ahem. Where the hell was I, anyway? - At 38, Ani seems to be really content, laidback and confident which equates to a wonderful performer on stage in a way that's equally exciting and inspiring.
She was practically note-perfect and I really enjoyed the songs that I knew, plus the mad (but slightly geeky) xylophoning going on at the side of the stage from one of the backing musicians. Some of the newer songs were slightly cheesy, including one about how much she adores Obama (sounding like she possibly wouldn't balk at getting into his presidential pants), prompting Nisha to say that these angsty activist musicians are only good when they're angry.
In between enjoying her cheeky, mature sense of humour and the political poem-rants, we were kept busy trying to guess which of the three piece backing band was her husband (or wife) after she told the audience she'd just gotten married in Hawaii. Nisha voted for the heavily tattooed xylophonist or female drummer while I vacillated between the guy playing the awesome double bass or the poorly attired shorts-and-high-socks roadie who handed her guitars throughout. Turns out she's not married to any of them but some dude who's the babydaddy to her two-year-old daughter.
So, randomly, two awesome Tuesdays which helped chase away the start of work blues... next up, Coldplay, anyone?
I hear they're coming in little over a month's time and I'm as eager as any to finally see Chris Martin and co. in action because they're huge and it promises to be great. I gotta tell you though, I'm attending the concert with a gigantic Coldplay fan, who was planning to fly up to Australia so she could catch them, so she's probably jonesing to end up in the front row of the fracas.
You have been warned.
She said, she said at 3:17 pm
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