Sappy Yew Beer, everybody. I spent last night at the Pops with my ladyfriend. Amanda had played a show there in the past which my friend David saw, and he said it was amazing. Having been one of the folks who had tickets to her cancelled House of Blues show, we got express notice and a place in the VIP party. So after traversing Boston trying to keep warm in the parades, we made our way to symphony hall. Hoorah!
It was fun enough just sitting in line, waiting for people. The draw that Amanda has is intense and so deliciously eclectic. The goth idiom, the victorian idiom, the steampunk idiom, the fuck-organized-society idiom, and the do-crazy-shit-and-be-beautiful-and-creative idiom all melded together smoothly. Thankfully people got dressed up this time (as was not the case at shows of the Onion Cellar, for example), and so it was nice looking at the crossdressers and the subtle cosplayers and the generally wild and expressive folks in semi-formal, semi-distorted attire (the only full tuxes I saw were on those of the female sex). And that was all just the public! Amanda had all sorts of crazy art acts hopping about, including a coin operated cabaret act, a crazy rock group or two, and others. There was a surprisingly number of the fur-coated regular concertgoers as well, and even more surprisingly, I think only a small number of them walked out in the end. All of this was covered in a healthy dosage of party hats, noisemakers, and general badassery.
Amanda played two ukulele songs with Miss Tess' band at the VIP thingie, which was great to see. Musically it wasn't mindblowing, but she's a fine player, and more importantly she was clearly far, far, FAR into the "let's have a joyous paaaaaarty!" kind of place of mind. So it served to get me pumped up.
Pops went on at 10. I didn't realize that "a night at the pops with amanda palmer" meant "40 minutes of the pops, a 10 minute film, and then an hour of amanda," but they did a fine job. I've always likened the pops to a very serious prostitute who thinks he's an artist; that being said, if they are a very skilled prostitute. Their renditions of "The Imperial March," "Mack the Knife," "All That Jazz," "A Fifth of Beethoven," 3 tunes from Carmen, and an absolutely impeccable and heart-wrenching rendition of Bjork's "Overture" (to Dancer in the Dark, and with lyrics called "New Day," but never "Selmasongs," Keith). And then it was done. The songs were festive in nature, had a bit of nice flourish, and functions just as the pre-show festivities had: riling up and entertaining.
At around 11:00, a film directed by Neil Gaiman (five feet away from whom I was twice that night...I love that he's dating Amanda, they're perfect) came on, Statuesque. It's under the "10 Minute Tales" name, and a bunch of "illegal" (read: unlicensed) copies are floating around the internet (to Amanda's joy) to see. A fine piece of filmwork, Amanda does as fine a job as she did in With The Needle That Sings In Her Heart (such a good fucking show: pics and stream) and some of the highest resolution jam I have ever seen. More than one of the folks in that crowd had done living statue work before, and the theme was all a part of the anarchic creativity of that night. Niel gave a really heartwarming New Years wish all about dangerous dreams and unexpected invention and ambitious creativity (as well as kindness and wisdom, ha...a few moments later I got called a fag by some ruffled fiftysomething). So we were all in our "WILD THOUGHTS AND URGE TO MAKE ORGIASTIC CREATION" mode when Amanda popped on.
Started with Missed Me, beginning with the orchestra building it (and everybody going nuts) while Amanda readied herself in the back. In the recording, after she finishes a vocal progression ("If you...that must mean...etc.") there's a high minor second before the piano and drums jolt back into action. On each and every one of those (and a few other moments), a musician from the crowd (trumpeter, violinist, guy with duck beak, trombonist in the first balcony, and then Keith Lockhart with a moocow) started chasing Amanda around, and then she started leading them on. It was all very very sexual, which I think was mostly for the good. Amanda knows the shock value of sexuality, and so she plays shoes essentially in her underwear; I wish she was more expressive with her view of her body than just shock, but it really gave the air a spark. Song continued, all around well done. Very good showwomanship, fine playing.
Amanda's been talking about her Tchaikovsky piece for the pops that she'd been planning, and I didn't expect her to add any theatrics. But she had some guy's cell phone ring, made him come up and pretend to me not in the know, and then hop into full swing while she danced around. The piece did make clear her musical limitations. She is not a subtle pianist. She is a highly expressive musician, but she doesn't seem to have very many shades between piano and forte. Nevertheless, she and her slightly inebriated self (there was a small table with wine glasses and champagne on it...a good running gag) did a fine job. Interestingly, I know the man who was going to teach her that piece, and who was going to be the man in the crowd.
The same entrance to "A Fifth of Beethoven" served as the entrance (again, to riotous applause) for Coin-Operated Boy. The arrangement felt a bit contrived, but the percussion was very very good, as it was the entire night (even if the slight echo of symphony hall wasn't made for hihats). Amanda and Keith were on good enough terms that she messed around with the cues for the hits at the end of the bridge: "I....want.........a, I!...........want a I want....a...I.....want.....a...................coin-operated boy." During the record skip part, she had Keith give her a glass of champagne. Mr. Lockhart really is the sanity of the pops, and only between his collaboration with Amanda did the energy keep going while the players, bemused, played their parts.
Gets fuzzy from here, but somewhere in the mix was Astronaut, Runs in the Family, Farewell (or some song or other from Cabaret), Hurt (an amazing NIN cover), Poker Face (aided by the ladies from The Slutcracker and mixed in with a poststructuralist academic discussion of the implications of the song: "Has Lady Gaga, in attempting to free herself from the ties to femininity and its requisite habits and presentation, trapped herself in the poststructuralist chains of fame and its necessities?"), a late night night countdown to We Are the Champions (with a touch of bombastically joyous irony...turns out the countdown was actually at 11:58, but nobody cared), and a pretty ok version of Leeds United. Everything was punctuated by Amanda's lack of clothing, lack of propriety, and lack of sobriety. Champagne was imbibed and the new year was described.
To sum up: faux-fur coats with fake baby heads whose eyes were fake baby heads whose eyes where pudgy baby hands. That was my night.
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