This particular space on the A&E blog was supposed to cover Saturday night’s sold-out Beach House concert at Revolution Live. It would likely have contained adjectives like “shimmering” and “ethereal,” and described the experience of basking in the warm balm of Victoria Legrand’s intoxicating vocals and Alex Scally’s sinuous guitar, maybe suggesting how perfect their music would fit into the lush soundscapes of the “Twin Peaks” revival.
Well, dear readers, it wasn’t meant to be, but not for lack of trying. I discovered that capacity shows at Revolution are a nightmare to navigate. I arrived just as the opening band, a terrific guitar-driven girl group called Louie Louie, took the stage, but already the logjams were everywhere, mobility a blessing I’d previously taken for granted. (Judging by the extent to which demand outstripped Revolution’s supply—tickets were successfully being scalped for $50 outside—Beach House should have returned to the Fillmore, where the duo performed in 2012; this time it would not have been a “quarter filled,” as Scally harshly recalled that gig in a recent New Times interview.)
I staked out a decent position on the second floor that provided enough of an eyeline to catch a good portion of the stage and still appreciate the venue’s exceptional sound quality, but it was a short-lived convenience: Three songs into Beach House’s set, Revolution staff lowered black curtains over the fencing that allowed for our already compromised vantage, herding us downstairs.
The ground level was, by then, consumed by a monolith of bodies as understandably set in their positions as Stonehenge. The only space available hugged the wall at the back of the auditorium, but visibility was nil. To top it off, it was HOT with too many people compressed into a single space—many of whom so incessantly chatty as to negate the purifying, hypnotizing effect of Beach House’s music.
It felt like us marooned wallflowers were really congregating in an adjacent venue—Stache, perhaps—while appreciating the concert vicariously at best, jealous of the smart, dedicated, bladder-managing folks who had the foresight to queue up before 7 and claim coveted real estate on the dance floor. Firm in the logic that I couldn’t review a show, let alone enjoy one, that I couldn’t see, I bought a record from the merch table and left.
As I conclude this missive, I’m aware of a couple of things:
- Missing out on a clear view at a Beach House concert is a First World problem.
- It is possible that in my advanced years (that’s to say mid-30s), I’m too old for the standing-room-only club, the elbowing and contortionism needed to muscle one’s way to the front of the room—though judging by my enthusiastic review of Frank Turner’s Revolution show last year, mosh pits and all, I’m not that crotchety yet.
At any rate, did anyone share this experience? At this or any other concert? I’d love your comments.
