the lovely music saves our lives
I got five hours sleep last night, I’m running on a very large tea and the need to prove that I can’t be felled by my own stupid choices, I look like death on a cracker, but. But.
But just over 7 and a half hours ago, I was listening to Kevin Drew tutor us on the correct lyric to “Major Label Debut,” as he's hooked up and not fucked up. 8 hours ago, I was watching hundreds of balloons drop from the ceiling to be batted around by an ecstatic crowd who were all in agreement that they were “All Gonna Break.” Just before that I was watching Andrew Whiteman dance around Charles Spearin, who charged him with his guitar as if Andrew was a matador and Charles a guitar-strumming bull. Ten hours ago I was having an extremely abbreviated and awkward conversation with Brendan Canning, who stood 2 inches away from me on the other side of the barrier, watching the opening act. (“Hi.” “Hi.” I think this means that I get to come over tonight, if I bring a pizza.)
7 and a half hours ago, I was climbing into the backseat of the friendliest cab driver in the world, the first to let us in after 7 refused our short fare. I was toting 2 orange balloons, drop survivors we named Kevin and Brendan (we took Brendan from the gig, but we found Kevin in the gutter. In the morning, real Kevin’s earlier voice loss caused balloon Kevin to shrivel up. As one would expect.) Shortly before we got into the cab, we were shaking hands with Sam Goldberg and Charles Spearin, who were sweet as all get out (Sam and I talked about the balloons on the ceiling; Charles smiled graciously, his mustache beaming with pride, when I told him that we’d heard and loved “The Happiness Project” in Ottawa.) And 8 and a bit hours ago, I was watching “Love is New” and Brendan, dressed in a gold sequined short set, held aloft by the Broken Social Scene Solid Gold Dancers. (I really thought they were going to do a piss-take of the “1234” video, but they were classier than that.)
"You haven't even seen the motherfuckin' dancers yet!"
Just over seven and a half hours ago, I was laughing and whooping along to Kevin’s sleazy medley of “all the songs they hadn’t played” including “Almost Crimes,” “Fucked Up Kid,” “Swimmers,” “Hotel,” and “I’m Still Your Fag.” Ten hours ago I was watching the opening act and sneaking glances at BSS members wandering to and fro in the area just to my left, kind of like going to a backlit BSS zoo. Just before that, I was blowing a wad of cash at the merch table, including “I <3 BSS” socks to make sure I wouldn’t go bare-ankled today.
Through it all, from the moment we arrived in the line up to the moment we climbed into bed, I was laughing, kissing, dancing and screaming my joy right next to Mason, the only person who could have made me love this group this much. The soreness in my back and head and neck that is the legacy of an accelerated flu came sharply last night, but I discovered a wonderful thing: as long as I kept singing and dancing, everything felt alright. The kissing was either the icing on the cake or the cake under the icing.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*