Before we left, I made some extensively researched, painstakingly transitioned mixes to accompany those drives through dusty terrain. But I'm not going to write this post about listening to Bill Callahan warble about "wild, wild country" as we skirted sagebrush hills, or in what ways Forever Changes is the perfect soundtrack for crossing the border into Nevada, or how we car-danced while rediscovering the glory of The Bangles doing "Hazy Shade of Winter" as we merged onto the freeway out of Malibu, but, rather, about what happened as soon as our western vacation ended, we said goodbye to our friends, and the husband and I raced against weather delays, mechanical malfunctions, and little sleep to make it to Chicago in time to see The Bats.
We became fans of The Bats about six years ago, after this article in the Guardian about Flying Nun (the New Zealand label that put out their music and music by hosts of influential antipodean bands of the 80's and 90's) piqued our interest and we started digging for their old albums. Immediately, we realized how much we'd been missing all these years before we knew their jangly, direct, imperfect and infectious pop. Not long after we read that article, we got the chance to see them at the Primavera festival in Barcelona (in fact, we were staying in the same hotel and rode 22 floors on the elevator with them unaware they were Bats until we saw them take the stage that afternoon) and since have kept loyally checking their website for news they'd be touring again sometime, someplace near us.
Hence, this mad dash to make the only date we could on this US tour (which I thought best represented pictorially, despite my shoddy art skills):
There was a point, when we were on the car ride back to our apartment from the Columbus airport with our friend Tom, where we were looking at the clock and thinking the delays had been too much and we wouldn't be able to make the final push to Chicago in time. Then Tom said, "Good thing Chicago's an hour behind us," and we rejoiced in the existence of time zones.
So imagine us, if you will. Standing in the middle of Schuba's after briskly walking the few blocks from our B&B and realizing we had made it with 20 minutes to spare. Thankful and travel hungover and with huge expectations. The Bats take the stage and begin thusly. The interplay of guitars and bass and harmonies. The voice of Robert Scott reaching just a little, like yours does after you've woken up and as you say your first words of the day. And there's "Castle Lights" and many songs from Daddy's Highway, all the while Kaye Woodward and Bob Scott's voices in egalitarian counterbalance, the guitars in contrapuntal conversation. Standing there, exhausted and moved and blubbering just a little and grateful for the things this music reassures me of, how we're all going to be OK.
Watching them, I noticed the beauty in the way they drop lines, choruses like little gilded mantras that ache and wonder and hope:
"It's a mystery / how I'm so unaware / And you've been good to me / but I just didn't care,"
"We want you back here / you've been too long away / Images remind us / of what is lost today,"
"And I know that we're apart / but it won't be for long / And that's why I sing this song / and that's why I carry on,"
"I don't know / my mind's made up in blue,"
"It doesn't look good / and I'm feeling like a block of wood / so take me away / I know not where."
Later as we leave, hungry because we had no time for dinner, two friendly gentlemen point us toward a pizza place that might still be open. They're closing up but they sell us their last, slightly congealing slices for $1, and we walk the streets in the rain, gnawing on old pizza, in a haze and feeling like kings. I want to remember not only what it was to be standing in the middle of that audience, but also the walk home where anything felt possible, the destination irrelevant.
No comments:
Post a Comment