Freelance work and personal strife have restricted my blogging. To catch up, here's a rundown of the past week.
MGMT @ the Ryman (Thursday)
My lack of glowsticks was far from the only reason to feel old during MGMT's night at the Ryman. The beer lines always give away an audience's age, and this crowd comfortably fell around 19 or 20 at most. The crowd was thick with Ryman virgins, who didn't know about the tight fits in full pews or that ticket prices did not grant unlimited time to shoot grainy camera-phone video at the balcony railing.
Although I will always have my audience complaints, I won't always get to see such stellar shows. Good ole Christian had an extra ticket, and I was the lucky recipient. The band didn't miss a trick, at least none that I noticed. MGMT ran into a different brand of sophomore slump with Congratulations, a less danceable record that took deep inroads to psychedelia, art-rock and more atmospheric sound. Interspersed between the Oracular songs, those from Congratulations gained steadier legs and soared on occasion.
The new record's title track ended the show well. It followed the swirling stomp of The Handshake drifted into a noisy jam. With incredible ease, MGMT drowned out its doubters.
Brian Ritchey (Friday)
Thursday night's show was a surprise, but Friday brought a long-anticipated release show for Nashville songwriter Brian Ritchey. (Full disclosure: Brian is a friend who works at the coffeehouse next to Grand Cru, but I knew him through mutual friends since I came to Nashville.)
His new album, No Way Out of This House, strives to separate him from the Americana sound he so effortlessly created on earlier records. By embellishing the sparse, melancholy songs with strings, he marched through most of the new record then chased it with a set of oldies. His Midwest modesty only added to the emotion power of the new songs. Brian might sound like Jeff Tweedy's brother, but he has his own set of chops. Hopefully he earns a wider audience for this risk-taking record.
Hash Away (Saturday)
My friend Krista was leading a hash -- a running course determined by innocuous trail markers and with beer stops. Since it fell in my neighborhood, it felt right to offer the backyard as a beer stop. I had done one hash back in January and the calendar kept me from trying it more often.
I even missed this one. After begging for more Grand Cru hours, I couldn't beg off. So I stashed a cooler with 12 Yuenglings behind the back steps to ensure good behavior. Returning after dark, I found the cooler empty and nothing changed except for the hasher signs marking my house as a stop. The hashers stuck at the Village Pub until I arrived and returned the beer favor with a few Guinness pints. After a day of mild antagonism at the store, it suited Saturday's end perfectly.
The Inevitable Crash
The weekend's and the always depressing end of daylight savings time. My internal clock already screwed up (who drops off their recycling at 6 a.m.?), the morning's pace seemed relentless. Chris and Mitzy needed help moving their king-size mattress up the early 20th century stairwell of their rental house. Bill, my soon-to-be-former neighbor needed help loading his washer and drier into a pickup bed. We canceled that move when he could not figure out how to separate the stackable units. By that time, my own work beckoned.
Not even a second Browns upset could shake loose the allergy assault brewing in my head. By dinner, my throat hurt on every swallow, and an achy current washed over my bones. Instead of leaving for Fang Island, NFL action intruded upon some slightly feverish dream. I awoke at 11 p.m. figuring I had missed the show, only to learn they want on at midnight. The younger Melville might have dressed and driven to the show, only the end up with a nasty sinus infection for the following two weeks. The older one has shrugged off any illness, but must overcome the regret of missing Fang Island's 45 minutes of rock bliss.
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