Phoenix! PHOENIX! Part II.
I take all my pictures from my iPhone. And that dude does, too.
Most days, at least recently, you can count on reliable, Monday through Friday posting action on the Show. More reliable than a brass door-knocker we’ve been for the past few weeks–until Monday. We messed up. Consider today’s double posting as a rare treat for our mistake. A rare treat of MORE PHOENIX. This post is what you might get when you remove the “Passion Pit” element from Edward’s post earlier today. And also move it to Philadelphia.
To follow up their undoubtedly electric performance at Central Park, NYC, they came to Philadelphia to play at the appropriately named “Electric Factory.” I don’t do any writing that I don’t feel I have to, and they played a nearly identical setlist, so I’m just going to take this from Edward’s excellent post earlier today, emphasis added where I feel his words ring especially true:
Every song had an extra little something. A riff that came out of nowhere. A bass rumble heard nowhere in the album. A false ending, an extended bridge, or extended solo. More often than not, however, the extra something came from the drumkit. Thomas Hedlund beat the shit out of those things, with impeccable timing and feeling for crescendo and decrescendo alike. Each time the stage lights dropped and one solitary beam was placed at the center, you could feel the collective skin of the audience freckle up in goosebumps. Never have I paid so much attention to the sweaty toil of the one guy on stage too antisocial to stand up. Now there’s a high standard set for anyone else I notice.
Okay, so suffice to say, the drummer was amazing. The lights go down, silhouetting the band on stage, and while every single member of the band looked as dynamic as they sounded, the drummer thrashed and flailed around with the skill and grace that a tool in a green-screened iPod commercial could only wish to attain.
Before the show, Edward texted me his opinion of the show from NYC:
I thought the only way they could have been better would be if they had had tits and were on fire.
Lofty expectations set up by a single sentence, and yet, they lived up to them. By the end, I could tell I wasn’t the only one that felt that way. After the last song of the encore, Thomas Mars hopped off stage, microphone in hand, intent to make it to the back of the room and up the stairs to see and sing to everyone in the room. He was immediately swarmed, a tiny Frenchman amongst fans emboldened to grab and grope forward progress away. Despite it all, he fought through while singing an improvised riff of “Lisztomania.” And he made it to the back, singing on the stairs, with lightness, posturing as a modern day Fred Astaire. And when he got back to the stage, he gave a bow that told the crowd that he was the one grateful to be there, and that he owed his great night to us. Way to end the concert with energy, with class.
I thought that the high parts of the concert were definitely saved for the end of the regular set and the encore. The “Rome” –> “Funky Squaredance” combo left me in crushing amazement, and the rendition of “If I Ever Feel Better” <insert swooning sets of adjectives here.> So I’ll leave you with “Rome” and “Funky Squaredance” here, and direct you to another one of Edward’s excellent posts for “If I Ever Feel Better.”
Best part other than Phoenix (best part 1B)? When my friend went up to the bar for another gin and tonic made up of bad decisions and pain, she somehow scored three free tickets to Grizzly Bear next week. Best. Night. Ever.
Phoenix – Funky Squaredance (YSI)
