Review: Neko Case @ First Avenue 3/29

The fine print on ticket stated a 9:30 p.m. start time for the show, but when we arrived (around 9:30) the set sheet taped to a pillar in First Avenue informed us that opener Martha Wainwright's set actually started at, ahem, 9:15. (Since when does a rock show start early?) Ms. Wainwright is already part way through her wonderful, searing kiss-off tune, the song my friend once referred to as "that one 'You Bloody Dirty Motherfucker' song" in a case of failed recall. And (inevitably) that's the one song I really wanted to hear from her that night.

Cue: The piercing banshee wail of indignation (in basso profundo, of course).

Martha Wainwright has a voice that sounds as if her vocal chords have been slowly shaved by a serrated blade--or as if she's spent too much time as an adolescent mooning in front of her bedroom mirror in her underwear pretending that she's Marianne Faithful. Nevertheless, she is awfully affecting at times, and I really admire her when she's on, which she was last night. Martha's performance also reminded me of just how good she is with an acoustic guitar in her hands, and just how much she ruined her debut LP with a lot of ornate filligreed background crapola music (Leave that stuff to your brother next time out, okay sweetie?).

And, I have to say, that the spell of her allegedly raw, heart-pouring transparecy that she cast was endearingly broken when in between songs she indulged the crowd with narcotic maunderings that somehow passed for banter.

My brother turned to me, wolfishly smiling, and said, "Oh, she's not high at all."

Then she would go back to trying to break your heart.

An act--and a helluva good one at that.

The Main Event: Neko Case

Why? Why oh why oh why oh why oh why would you ever shell out $16 to stand and yammer at a show, ESPECIALLY when you have an angel singing on the stage? I wasn't aware that I was surrounded by the nihilist demimonde of Twin Cities hipsters who clearly had better things to do last night. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is the source of my outrage: that one would have the temerity to attend the show and then think that there could possibly be something more important than standing there, silently listening to a voice that could give you a glimpse of how much beauty exists in this world when you happen to be, uh, sitting in the same fucking room as her. That you would willingly ignore music like that. Because if you do deign to rip your dollar bills on the floor and disrupt the emotional lift and general good times of the soulful proletariat, then you simply don't like living. You're an idiot babe--it's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

Go home. Really. Just go home. Fuckers.

Anyway, I finally fought away from the disruptive fringe and into a place in the crowd where the only noise you could really hear was coming from the stage. And at that moment, the very moment I got situated and could hear clearly, Neko started to sing "I Wish I Was The Moon," my favorite Neko song.

I wasn't late. In fact, I was right on time.