The Record Store Ashes

I went to a record store in Adams Morgan in 2009, a store that like so many others no longer exists. They were playing an album of a band I'd never heard, and I liked it enough to ask the guy at the counter who the band was. 

Once upon a time, that's one way you learned about new bands.

They had a small display of the band at the counter, a CD with a pink cover and the title "Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix." I took a chance on it; it wasn't a difficult choice. The music was catchy pop rock, and if you know me, you know how much I love a good pop rock song, one that isn't manufactured for the sole purpose of selling records. I also like the bands who sing about things that matter. I got hooked.

As it turned out, this rock band was FRENCH. I mean, who ever heard of FRENCH rock n' roll, amirite? LOL. I love Louise Attaque and Noir Desir and Francis Cabrel, but how dare any French band sing rock music in English? LOL. 

Phoenix formed in the nineties, and it took them forever to get noticed. I guess being a French band who sung in English was an obstacle of sorts? Perseverance, man. They won a Grammy for Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix in 2009 and performed on SNL, Letterman, Fallon, Kimmel, Ferguson, and Conan.  All the nighttime TV things...

For me, 2009 was one of those years where you start a new chapter of your life and everything changes in ways you can't even begin to control. I had just begun a new job at a Lebanese-American civil society organization and did not yet grasp how much Lebanon would be my life. In the next two years, I'd spend half of it in Beirut. That album was part of the soundtrack of 2009 for me, along with U2's No Line on the Horizon, (I mean, come on, Cedars of Lebanon right before I get the Lebanon job? Fate), Green Day's 21st Century Breakdown, Arctic Monkey's Humbug, and Muse's The Resistance. 

Later in 2011, my roommate in Beirut was a French journalist. We didn't speak much because my French is crap and his English was crap, but we did bond over Phoenix. 

I got to see them for the first time yesterday. If I'm still thinking about the show and watching other people's videos a full day later, it really means something. I didn't realize Thomas Mars was such a showman. The set was great, the sound was great, the setlist was great, and I have already promised myself I will never miss another Phoenix show in the area again.

The song Winter Solstice is really something, real opera stuff. That's a moment in the show where you feel the weight of the universe. A guy comes out in an old Venetian mask from opera, and he pulls out a head near the end that is creepy but very real. It reminds me of Don Giovanni, when il commendatore condemns Don Giovanni with that single devastating bass line that condemns him. 

"Turn the lights on
Find me a narrative
Something positive
This requiem played a few times before
I heard it once
So, I'm not sure
On the phone "I told you"
Why open your eyes to go to bed?
Drive straight to the ocean
And see what you won't find out
Even the righteous beheaded their loved ones"

 

But you all know the bands I love write those kind of lyrics. Because reality is a weight most of us can't bear. 

 

I don't know why sometimes I need to be reminded of how much I love a band until I go see them, but yes, I am reminded that Phoenix is in my top 20. After seeing them, maybe closer to the top ten.

I logged off

I logged off.

Not completely, but enough to listen to the waves and watch the people coming and going. I sent a few texts, then fewer, then none. I posted some pictures and checked the baseball scores. I watched a game once, on the sand, because we carry machines that can do that in our pockets.

But mostly, I logged off.

I read a book from cover to cover, then started another. I drank pina coladas and spicy pears. I watched a school of dolphins make their way down the coastline, their rhythm a silent song for the mesmerized among us. I dodged seagulls and looked for pelicans and wondered where they all went at night. I saw children building sand castles and old men fighting rip currents and mothers who seemed to be relaxing for the first time in ages. I talked a little and listened a lot and I made new friends. I walked the boardwalk and ate various versions of seafood and watched some music and listened to more. 

But I felt no need to pick up the phone, because I had nearly logged off.

Oh sure, that online machine was always in my bag or pocket. We've become enslaved to devices, chained and bird brained. Our minds have been rewired to crave the scrolling, even if it makes us angry or sad or frustrated or violent. But that tether was long, oh so long, and the craving was largely gone.

 

I've left the beach, reality has returned, and I've logged back on, because that's the modern world. Our lives revolve around our lap devices and our pocket machines, whether by choice or not. I've seen the news and read the buzz and even managed to do some work.

But all I want to do is log off.