New York – Webster Hall – March 28 2008

by Carl Homrighausen in Concert Reviews

Deboarding the train at rush hour is always a hoot. Trying to cram our way up the narrow stairways, cycling air that hasn’t seen the sun in months. When we finally emerged into the city, I was overwhelmed with a certain sense of nostalgia. I so rarely go anymore.

One thing that hasn’t changed, hailing a cab is a bitch. Riding in a cab, however, is much more of a bitch. My partner for this trek had never experienced the splendors of a New York City taxi. She was taken. Almost into several accidents. “That’s how I roll.” said the cabbie, in my head.

We arrived at Webster Hall, in the East Village. Immediately greeted by a drunken fan having an orgy of a conversation with a photographer from pitchfork (”Man, I love you, but I HATE your job. But I love you. Man.”), we stood in line with a lively bunch. I love a good lively bunch. Made some quick friends with the people just in front of us, and were let in.

The floor level was dark. No house lights whatsoever. Only red bulbs highlighting graphic carvings on the walls, and 4 huge blacklight-spotlights above the stage. The room would have been gorgeous in full light, but I get the feeling they were going for more of a “We happily serve vampires” look. One thing that was lit up was the bar. Subsequently, people flocked to it like moths to a flame. After some hunting, we found the stairs to the balcony and ascended.

The balcony, equally as creepy but with the added bonus of “Oh shit I could fall and die”, was quite pleasant. Not many people had yet discovered it. We took some seats and made them ours, and got some drinks from the upper bar. On came the opening act.

A DJ, named Justin Carter, took the stage and was very…much a DJ. He stood up there, and jockeyed his disks under a strobe light for the masses. He had talent, he danced about, and made some fine sounding noise. He went massively under-appreciated, though. It was easy to tell when the roar of the conversing crowd overshadowed what he was doing. Not a very dance-happy bunch, I thought to myself as I peered down from the balcony. That struck me as odd.

Mr. Carter finished up his thing to a lackluster applause, and almost immediately Ghostland Observatory took the stage. I don’t think there was a full minute in the interim. They broke into their set and took off into space, where we all followed. Two of the most rhythmic men to ever come out of the southern US, they destroyed me and definitely got to the rest of the crowd. We were lemmings for them. I threw my body about with reckless abandon, driven by the heaven that was coming from the stage.

Armed with a stellar laser show, enough fog to crash a ship, and enough lights to save it, both members of the band were pulsing with energy. Aaron Behrens, the singer, is the tastiest dancer I have ever experienced. At one point, he accidentally(?) dropped his microphone. His remedy was not to pick it up. It was instead to fall down himself and writhe about on the floor continuing to sing into the microphone next to his head. The instrumentalist, Thomas Ross Turner, switched back and fourth between a keyboard setup and his drum kit seamlessly, all the while wearing a cape. An absolutely brilliant set ended with a simple bow, and a mosey off stage. The stage lights turned off, the house lights came on, and for the first time in my concert history, the room got darker.

The cab ride home was more sane. The train ride home was more punch-drunk. And the night, overall, was a moment worth living.