Last night, S and I went to the Midlake show at Plush. I have never seen so many guys with beards (the literal kind, not the figurative kind) in one place. It seems that facial hair goes part and parcel with Midlake fanhood. It’s apparently also requisite for membership in the band. In a pinch, they might accept a ‘stache, but full beard is preferred.
I thought the show was good, though the balance seemed funky from where we were standing – the vocal levels were too low to my ear (perhaps we were too close to the speakers?). The show involved more rocking out than I expected from a lineup that includes two flutes…my personal favorite from The Trials of Van Occupanther – Young Bride – has an introspective feel on the album but outright rocked live. Of course the rocking out is present on their albums, but somehow the overall impression I’m left with is quiet/solemn. So that was interesting.
Also interesting: the number of cracked-out foolios in attendance. In the span of two hours, I was: glared at, mooned, flipped off, nearly trampled by a drunken lummox, unwittingly photographed, and almost beamed by the flailing arms of a hippie dancer. Three of the perps had beards. The rest were women.
To be fair, the mooning and flipping off came from the same woman – a little thing with a big fringe who spent the latter half of the show banging on the glass of the emergency exit door, begging to be let in. No fewer than a half dozen people mouthed, mimed, held up texted messages, and even took down and turned around a paper sign – all attempts to communicate to her that alarms would sound if the door was opened. She was undeterred. At one point, I was nearest to the glass, and when she banged on the door, I just shook my head at her. When I turned back around, she was mashing her naked ass against the (dirty) glass, which, ew.
Welcome to Tucson, Midlake.