I slip out of work tonight a bit early and make my way up to the Hollywood Bowl with Llyr to catch Dead Can Dance. We sit down, eat sandwiches, open a bottle of wine and chat through Nouvelle Vague’s breathy, undulating performance. There are three people behind us. One comes from Denver, one from Ohio and one from Sonora, Mexico. Llyr comes from Silverlake. I come from Martel.
Dead Can Dance do a better job than any other band at making me feel like a gnat in an infinite universe.
Lisa Gerrard looks so much like my friend Becca that I get, in purely clinical terms, the willies. Must remember to compliment her later.
Cell phones, it seems, are the new thing to wave in the air when the concert mood settles into velvet and cool melody. Cell phones are the new cigarette lighters. Cell phones are the new Zippos. And the galaxy that ignites from an appreciateive audience is blue and steady and cold.