Arcade Ants

Oh Arcade Fire -- you are so far away, and I am here, sitting on a 70 degree slope of cold lumpy grass, trying to pay attention to your joyous Canadian shoutings. It's a challenge, as I'm surrounded by people on their cell phones, checking their e-mail, and talking nonstop throughout the entire song about how good the song is "I love this song, it's a good song, do you like this song? Which song do you like? What a good song! Yeah! I like this one" (the song is over now, but they are still talking.)

And when did smoking become cool again? Or are we accidentally sitting in the smoking section? If all of the outside world is a giant smoking section, did we enter the lumpy grass seating area with a sign pointing "Hip Smokers! Enter Here!"? I watch as the girls in front of us kindly direct their smokey exhales into their neighbor's faces and then stub out their cigarettes next to them on the lumpy grass area where their friends will sit when they get back from the beer stand. Did the sign near the lumpy grass seating area say, "Welcome concert goers! Grab a seat in our uncomfortable giant ash tray!"?

When you launch into my favorite song (Antichrist Television Blues) from the new album "Neon Bible" the annoying drunk guy wearing a baseball hat leaps to his feet in front of me and starts doing a crazy epileptic dance. I panic, thinking -- uh oh, now will I think of this idiot every time I hear this song? Have I ruined my enjoyable listening experience of an Arcade Fire song by simply attending this sold out concert? If I do not ponder it for too long, perhaps the image will leave my brain. Except for now I've written it down, making it more of a challenge to forget. Crap! Panic attack!

I have just overheard some first date conversation from the people next to me who have their legs intertwined. They have invaded my personal space and the hulky dude is touching my arm as he asks his date what she's doing July 17th and, if she's free, does she want to go to a wedding with him? Later, when we move away from them their back pack rolls down the hill and hits me.

I look at the Chef and he apologetically smiles at me. I say "Blah Blah Blah. I'm not having fun. Blah Blah Blah Blah."

Sorry Arcade Fire. I'm glad that you are still full of joyous Canadian shoutings and that, despite your huge popularity, you have refused to sell out to the man, won't play venues that are run by the corporate mafia and remain on a cool indie record label (go Merge!). I respect and admire you, but I'm easily distracted and I can't feel your madcap energy from so far away - even when your guitarist climbs the stadium rafters. Even when Regine Chassagne skips around the stage between playing accordion and the hurdy-gurdy(!).

As we are walking back to BART and trying not to follow the young people who are returning to their UC Berkeley dorm rooms, I say to the Chef, "Next time we come to the Greek Theater (a gift from William Randolph Hearst!) we'll show up early so we can sit on the cold hard concrete seats instead of the cold lumpy grass." He replies, "Will there be a next time?" I put on my ski hat (because even though it's June, summer concert season is foggy and windy in the Bay Area) and respond, "Yeah, probably not."