Instead of Events postings today, I’m simply going to leave you with a note on previous events, or rather one in particular. I attended the Bloomingdales in-store with The French Kicks before swinging over to the Tribeca to see another +1 band this week, Evening. The in-store had such an impact on me that I decided it bore mention on the cyber pages of LARS. So then:
“It’s Loud And It’s Tasteless/I’ve Not Heard It Before/Shout It While You’re Dancing/On The Dance Floor”
Surely bands play department stores. Or such was my rationale behind RSVP’ing for the French Kicks in-store performance at Bloomingdales. But as the date drew nearer and more friends exlcaimed to me, “Wait, what?!”, I began to realize that this was not going to be as kosher a music performance as I had originally thought. However, I did not expect it to become a living metaphor for everything that’s wrong with the music industry.
I arrived at the Soho Bloomies as the sun was beginning to set, ready for some great sounds from one of my favorite bands. But I was immediately a little offput when I realized that Bloomingdales wasn’t closed for the occasion. In retrospect, I wasn’t really thinking clearly (if Bloomingdales doesn’t close on national holidays, I doubt the French Kicks could shut their doors), but it definitely added an uncomfortable element for me as I picked my way through Dior-scented women inspecting the latest cosmetics on the main level. By the time I got to the Men’s Department, I was already soured to the event.
It just didn’t make sense to me. Why have a band perform on a stage that was literally in between the shelves of designer jeans and mannequins? The band might as well have made it easy for everyone involved and simply tacked price tags and bar codes to their wrists, ready for checkout. The setting turned the entire concert into nothing more than a poorly sold commodity, and, though the band bravely sauntered their way through the set, it didn’t help when they jokingly pointed out the obvious (i.e. commenting on the confused shoppers navigating their way towards the overpriced “thrift” shirts). Call me a music purist, but it didn’t sit well with me that a band of the French Kicks’ caliber was relegated to the position of elevator music as money exchanged hands amongst them. At least events like Virgin Megastore in-stores take place in a music arena (albeit one of the worst corporate music arenas in the land). This was simply incongruous and incredibly distasteful, and an experience which not only left me bitter and dazed, but more than a bit depressed at this seemingly endless marriage of commercialism and music.
One of the main points which caused this barrage of emotion was the fact that the French Kicks were amazing. Just simply phenomenal. Their material was beautifully layered, at times heavy on the synths and at other points driven by three-part harmonies. Their “stage” presence almost transcended the fact that they were standing amidst the hangers and mannequins of Bloomindales; they went at it like true pros and never failed to enjoy themselves. A healthily tan Nick serenaded the crowd, wooing each member with his high-pitched sighs and sonorous beltings. Being without a drum kit, he instead banged on the keys a bit in between vocals, always managing to wink and grin at his bandmates. The rest of the Kicks were equally on; Matt was entranced in his guitar/keyboard workings, only opening his eyes on a high note or a light joke. Josh participated heavily in what turned into a spirited game of musical chairs, at times playing the guitar, beatbox, keyboards, and even venturing into lead vocals (all of which he excelled at). And Lawrence held it up with narry a smile, but plenty of rolling bass. It was just simply a great, charismatic and incredibly enjoyable performance, one which was bookended by my two favorite songs, “One More Time” and the crowd-pleaser, “Close To Modern”.
So, in turn, I felt quite upset at the cruel irony of the performance. The Kicks were fantastic. But they were really nothing more than noise in the basement of Bloomingdales. The minute the last chord was struck and the applause dimmed, the magic abruptly ended. I spoke a few kind words to Nick and then simply rode the escalator back to the main floor, thrusting myself back into the throng of Mastercard-clutching teenagers. The only physical reminder of what I had attended was the empty stage, which was littered with empty wine glasses. The rest was swept up in the heat of transactions and bartering.
Oh, oh oh oh/You’re a rock n’ roll suicide-S.
