You Couldn't Tell Gertrude Stein ANYTHING.
If seeing Kiki and Herb at Joe's Pub last spring was like going to church, seeing them at Carnegie Hall last night was like receiving the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai.
Schulman got us these sweet New Yorker seats in the tenth row, a much more intimate location than when I saw Ani Difranco there, years ago, pressed against the ceiling, a mile away from the action, such that the audio was barely even in synch with her arm movements. This was much, much better than that.
The front section was sort of the dignitary pit. We sat behind Alan Cumming, and I considered tapping him on the shoulder and going, "Hi, you probably don't remember, but you once said my name on television." I restrained myself. Actually I restrained myself from saying a lot of stupid things to a lot of famous people. (P.S.: I saw Laurie Anderson walk into Whole Foods this morning, and restrained myself from following her and snooping in her shopping cart.)
Regardless, the show was beautiful and sloppy and regal in a way that only Justin Bond can accomplish. Truths were told, scoundrels excoriated, histories recounted and beauties summoned. He entered the stage with a huge sparkly black walking stick, raised to the heavens, like Charlton Heston in the Ten Commandments, only sparklier. (I didn't plan on revisiting the earlier Moses metaphor, it just happened.)
Justin is at his most emotive when he forgets the lyrics, and at his most eloquent when his character is a drunken mess. Highlights for me were "Psycho Killer," "Moments of Pleasure" (a Kate Bush song I never cared for until last night), and, astoundingly, "Crucify," which I saw Tori Amos destroy in October, and which was redeemed at this performance. I had forgotten what that song was actually about. I don't think the words had meaning for me since 1996. He finished the song by running around stage going, "I'm in chains! I'm in chains!" and, through the ridiculousness of the statement, I realized the ridiculousness of its truth -- a sort of ass-backwards epistemological magic trick that's tantamount to performance art voodoo.
Even aside from the miraculous, metaphysical nature of the performance itself, it was just so edifying to see someone so right-on in a place so old school. Like at their Broadway run, when the pre-show soundtrack included Julie Ruin songs about killing misogynist policemen. In fancy rooms like that, where great leftist performers are honored, I feel safe, in a totally un-complacent way, because it reminds me that I don't feel safe otherwise. That's a productive reminder.
Afterwards, Schulman and Keckler and I took a cab to the after-party at the National Arts Club, which felt alternatively like a crazy old lady's sitting room, the basement of a reconstructionist synagogue, and the inside of a thrift store lamp. Also, people and trees have roots:
The mandatory coat check gave Schulman and me traumatic flashbacks to the Butt Magazine Book Release Party when there was a big gay coat check riot in the basement, and hundreds of people spent an hour squished against each other, furiously text messaging their friends and threatening the heavens to "blog about this bullshit!" Once outerwear was disposed of, I was relieved to participate in my favorite crowded fancy party activity: Sitting With Friends on a Couch in the Corner and Talking to Whoever Passes By. In this manner, I met some indelibly charming folks and had a lovely time.
On the train ride home, I ran into Dan Costello, Ivan Sandomire and Rob Apuzzo, which reminded me that, in my other life, I mostly hang out with grungy heterosexual guitar players. Ivan introduced me to his lady friend as a "Sidewalk person." She said, "Oh really? That place is like my living room!" I said, "Mine too," and found it equal parts troubling and delightful that we could both feel such ownership over and intimacy with a public place like the Sidewalk Cafe, and not even know each other. She said, "You should come around more often." I agreed with her. I should go everywhere more often.
Love
Dan
Schulman got us these sweet New Yorker seats in the tenth row, a much more intimate location than when I saw Ani Difranco there, years ago, pressed against the ceiling, a mile away from the action, such that the audio was barely even in synch with her arm movements. This was much, much better than that.
The front section was sort of the dignitary pit. We sat behind Alan Cumming, and I considered tapping him on the shoulder and going, "Hi, you probably don't remember, but you once said my name on television." I restrained myself. Actually I restrained myself from saying a lot of stupid things to a lot of famous people. (P.S.: I saw Laurie Anderson walk into Whole Foods this morning, and restrained myself from following her and snooping in her shopping cart.)
Regardless, the show was beautiful and sloppy and regal in a way that only Justin Bond can accomplish. Truths were told, scoundrels excoriated, histories recounted and beauties summoned. He entered the stage with a huge sparkly black walking stick, raised to the heavens, like Charlton Heston in the Ten Commandments, only sparklier. (I didn't plan on revisiting the earlier Moses metaphor, it just happened.)
Justin is at his most emotive when he forgets the lyrics, and at his most eloquent when his character is a drunken mess. Highlights for me were "Psycho Killer," "Moments of Pleasure" (a Kate Bush song I never cared for until last night), and, astoundingly, "Crucify," which I saw Tori Amos destroy in October, and which was redeemed at this performance. I had forgotten what that song was actually about. I don't think the words had meaning for me since 1996. He finished the song by running around stage going, "I'm in chains! I'm in chains!" and, through the ridiculousness of the statement, I realized the ridiculousness of its truth -- a sort of ass-backwards epistemological magic trick that's tantamount to performance art voodoo.
Even aside from the miraculous, metaphysical nature of the performance itself, it was just so edifying to see someone so right-on in a place so old school. Like at their Broadway run, when the pre-show soundtrack included Julie Ruin songs about killing misogynist policemen. In fancy rooms like that, where great leftist performers are honored, I feel safe, in a totally un-complacent way, because it reminds me that I don't feel safe otherwise. That's a productive reminder.
Afterwards, Schulman and Keckler and I took a cab to the after-party at the National Arts Club, which felt alternatively like a crazy old lady's sitting room, the basement of a reconstructionist synagogue, and the inside of a thrift store lamp. Also, people and trees have roots:
The mandatory coat check gave Schulman and me traumatic flashbacks to the Butt Magazine Book Release Party when there was a big gay coat check riot in the basement, and hundreds of people spent an hour squished against each other, furiously text messaging their friends and threatening the heavens to "blog about this bullshit!" Once outerwear was disposed of, I was relieved to participate in my favorite crowded fancy party activity: Sitting With Friends on a Couch in the Corner and Talking to Whoever Passes By. In this manner, I met some indelibly charming folks and had a lovely time.
On the train ride home, I ran into Dan Costello, Ivan Sandomire and Rob Apuzzo, which reminded me that, in my other life, I mostly hang out with grungy heterosexual guitar players. Ivan introduced me to his lady friend as a "Sidewalk person." She said, "Oh really? That place is like my living room!" I said, "Mine too," and found it equal parts troubling and delightful that we could both feel such ownership over and intimacy with a public place like the Sidewalk Cafe, and not even know each other. She said, "You should come around more often." I agreed with her. I should go everywhere more often.
Love
Dan
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Dan Fishback is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions in behalf of Dan Fishback may be made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law.
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