I've always said, I could listen to Chan Marshall recite the ingredients on a bottle of shampoo... for hours. This is how much I love to hear her voice.
When I heard Cat Power would be playing a couple shows at the Great American Music Hall, I didn't even ask anyone if they wanted to go with me, I just got a single ticket. I went by myself last time she played there, and it was a perfectly lovely time. I got a seat upstairs by the railing and was able to gaze longingly without interruption for the duration of the show. She was very quiet then and barely moved. She played her guitar hunched over, her face hiding in her long, straight hair, only rarely raising her voice. Some friends of mine later told me that they saw me, but I had such a beatific look on my face that they didn't want to disturb me. Ah, memories.
Last night was a bit different. There were two opening acts, the first a not-bad singer guy, who sounded somewhat like Doug Martsch, and second, all the way from France!... an anti-superband consisting of Nico, Chris Robinson (Black Crows), and Rufus Wainright look-a-likes, and another guy.
Since I was alone, and not in a really energetic mood, I got a drink, went upstairs and sat on a barstool in the farthest reaches of dark outer viewing range. A man I'll estimate to be about 65 years old, and stinking drunk, began to chat me up. I escaped when a group of four was looking for a place to sit, happily surrendering my spot.
Downstairs, I stood around watching the French band for awhile, but eventually decided I'd rather smell the urine of a thousand bums than subject myself to them any longer, and I went out for a walk. I noticed that on the corner of Larkin and O'Farrell, the Century Club, in all its glory, taking up half a city block, lit like a carnival ride and decorated with larger-than-life-size images of shiny, sparkly, scantily-clad strippers is placed precisely opposite a small children's playground. I tried to take pictures with my camera phone, but it's useless in the dark.
After becoming bored of sorting through my email (with my phone - my phone rules!), and replying to a week's worth of backed-up correspondence, I went back to the venue. I shuffled up to a respectable distance from the stage and waited for the show to begin. And waited. And waited. Got a text message from a friend, "Has it started yet?!" Reply: "STILL not on! *seething*" Reply: "What's wrong with her? Doesn't she know it's past 11 on a school night?"
Article comments
1 - wayne
what a great review ert!