I saw Belle and Sebastian last night, but I don’t really have much to say about them. The band, all twelve of them on guitar, bass, drums, strings, horns, and whatever other things, sounded clear and precise. Lead man, Stuart Murdoch, was polite, like an English soccer, ahem, football announcer during a 90-minute nil-nil draw between two mid-table Premier League sides. Even if they aren’t my thing and I personally blame them for every leader of every indie pop band who ever thought it was a good idea to have their girlfriend play clarinet on record, they were nice, especially in the light, evening rain. Hell, if I saw Murdoch outside of the press tent, I would have gone over and asked him to autograph my pocket thesaurus. They were that nice.
For the record, there were other things I didn’t say as artists and the almost famous were spotted outside of the press area.
To Conrad Keely of Trail of Dead: I gave up on your band five years ago, but today you guys were pretty sweet.
To John Norris working for Fuse TV: Man, the last time I saw you, you looked as if you were addicted to heroin and meth. I’m glad you got treatment. You look pretty good, today.
To Matthew Houck of Phosphorescent: Hey, Diamond Dallas Page, you always looked bigger on tv.
To the people in Solange’s band: I remember those pants from the set of A Different World. Where can I get a pair?
I blame all of my unspoken dickishness on Pissed Jeans and their dick of a singer, Matt Korvette. After seeing Pissed Jeans, mean seemed they way to go.
I saw some other bands on Saturday, too:
Yes, Saturday was a good day to rock. Thank you, Jeff Sierputowski, for all of that fantastic photo work.
