I went to go see Beach House at Summer Stage in Central Park last night, and it was awesome.
Normally I find concerts to be really anxiety producing and boring. Large groups of people jammed in small spaces give me panic attacks, and most bands have, at most, three good songs. The rest, I’m like, “tinkle tinkle tinkle cute lyric how can bruce springsteen still dance like that when the fuck is this going to be over.”
Last night, however, I realized that I am a true fan of Beach House because every single time they began a new piece, I started screaming, “Oh my god, this is my favorite song!!”
I even realized, at one point, that I was inadvertently dancing, which scared the shit out of me. The only thing that makes me more uncomfortable than being around people at a concert is watching people dance at a concert. There is nothing more unattractive that someone flailing their arms around, their eyes closed, their head thrown back, their boyfriend awkwardly standing by them, trying to move in synch with their wild, white girl undulations..
About half way through the set, a thunderstorm descended, and the milky gray black sky behind the stage was illuminated by streaks of lightening. Soon after, it started pouring, but we stayed until the end, when Victoria Legrand banged her head through the last few choruses of Irene, so caught up was she—and us—in the moment.
