I know it’s exciting that Elvis Costello is playing Seattle again. And Benaroya Hall is certainly a great venue, what with the acoustics designed for the symphony and all.
It’s so exciting, in fact, that I can let your incessant hand clapping slide. Most people figured out that since it’s just Elvis (vocals and guitar, sometimes) and Steve Nieve (piano) on stage that it’s not a particularly raucous night. Except for that guy two rows behind us, who calls out “play it!” in his basso profundo voice five seconds after every song starts. He’s annoying, too.
But when you started to supplement your rhythmic hand clapping and toe tapping by pretending that your voice was a hi-hat, you became far more annoying.
I was enjoying the spare yet peppy rendition of “God’s Comic” just fine without you trying to become the third band member. Your faux-scatty impression of a drum kit, though, did not add to my enjoyment. In fact, it detracted from it, because frankly, sir, you are not a qualified musician.
This was borne out later in the show when you added your unique vocal cymbal noises to Elvis’ relaxed versions of “Sleep of the Just,” “Inch by Inch” and various selections from NORTH.
I am only thankful that I wasn’t directly in front of you, as I suspect that you were emitting a mist of saliva during some of your more excited moments.
In other words, shut the fuck up and let me enjoy this concert and get back to hating that guy who wanted him to “Play it!”
(The radio station I work for was giving away tickets to that show during their last pledge drive. People were donating as much as $500 with the tix as incentive.)
He was about eight seats to my left, so it was difficult for me to do much more than glare without being even more disruptive than he was. And he was sporadic enough that it was difficult to just shush him – he’d start up, I’d get irritated after 30 seconds or so, contemplate what to say (because “shut the fuck up!” isn’t really my style in real life), and he’d stop before I could get determined enough to be more disruptive. See, it was a pretty quiet audience, so anything I did would’ve made for an extra commotion.
Maybe the people next to him were enjoying it. I don’t know why they didn’t say anything.
OT amusing thing: there was no opening act, which I figured out from the tickets. But there was a spate of people arriving about half an hour after showtime, so I assume some people were surprised. But they still got two hours of music.
I felt the same way at Peter Gabriel a few months back. I don’t go to a lot of those big, arena-type shows, but when there’s one I feel strongly about to shell out that kind of cash for tickets, I want to actually hear the artist(s), not the drunken schmuck behind me. Is your name on the credits for “Biko”? No? Then shut the hell up!
It’s enough to make a girl avoid everything but symphony concerts. At least most of the time, classical concertgoers have some respect for the artists.
Ha! You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? But apparently you haven’t been to the Hollywood Bowl lately!
Being a student, I obviously do not have a great deal of disposable wealth to shell out for good seats. Luckily, seats at the bowl are priced from $2-$15 for the cheapest seats (depending on the show/day) to over a hundren apiece for box seats. Oh how I long for a return of those halcyon days when I went to the bowl with my folks, and we sate in the boxes. But those days are gone, and you’ll find me up in the farthest reaches of section X2 - with “the great unwashed” as I like to call them. These are people who may very well be attending their first ever non-rock concert. These are people who either do not understand the concept of a natural amphitheatre, or are merely so rude that they don’t bother to consider the impact it has on how their voice/noise is carried.
Hey you. Yeah you, schmuck 10 rows down and 20 seats over. I don’t give a rats ass what you ate for breakfast this morning. Did you happen to notice that some dude in a tux walked out on stage like 1/2 an hour ago and started waving his arms? Yeah, that mean’s the show started. And you - the guy 5 seats to my right and three rows up - I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you just AREN’T as good a singer as they guy they paid to be on the stage tonight - so SHUT THE FUCK UP ALL OF YOU!
Hey, did you notice how I whispered that and you all heard me? Cool. Remember it, or I’m calling a damn usher.
A couple of years ago I went to a Nick Cave gig, an acoustic one, just Nick with a piano and the violinist from the Dirty Three as occasional support.
Sort of a quiet gig, except for the pair of dipsticks behind me who knew every song and sung along to it. Loudly. In chorus, but sadly, not in tune. Pissed off everyone in ear shot, and that was a fair few people.
But I had a secret weapon. My brother-in-law is also a big Nick Cave fan, so we take turns in shouting each other tickets and go together. My brother-in-law is a big bloke. And he’s a cop. Did I mention he’s very, very big Nick Cave fan? He’s been a cop for a lot of years, so he’s got that steely authority thing down nicely.
After the first couple of songs were drowned out by the karaoke twins in the next row, my brother-in-law felt the urge to speak to them. Firmly. Very firmly.
The spent the next song swearing and cursing and then left. The rest of us enjoyed the show.
So I think the moral of that little story is don’t forget your personal policeman when attending public entertainments. They come in so handy.
