feather2pixels

I ended up accepting Indy Sarah’s press pass to the Shins show and so on a cold Wednesday night I found myself eastward bound in a taxi down Market Street with her. I was excited; the Shins are good and the Shins are popular, but I had never seen them play and thus couldn’t fully commit to liking them.

We arrived in the middle of the first song, which according to band policy, meant that I had two and a half songs left during which to take pictures via my photo badge. They passed in approximately twenty seconds.

It was about then that I realized I have no idea who these musicians are, much less what they look like. It was a truly disappointing moment. Not that the performance was bad in any way, but it made me realize that all that I know about this music, which I supposedly like, is recordings–just another way to suck the experience out of life. Lots of people before me have expressed that sentiment at concerts but it’s my big thing now and maybe the experience of being behind the cameras cast it in full relief. Anyways, in addition to the digital, I also managed to lug the Polaroid along and by luck snapped this remarkable shot of James Mercer in what looks to be the bowels of hell.

So the verdict: The Shins’ are good performers and their music is intelligent and well-balanced, the logical result of a natural selection process operating on a sea of shitty indie bands, weeding out the undesirable characteristics in a lucky few. The problem is the Shins don’t move me. Until the encore, that is, when they came onstage, harmonicas in hand, and played old shit lithe way Neil Young would have. And sometimes two songs can make a show.

Then I accidentally let Indy Sarah use my chapstick and she gave me a virus.