My OperaYou Must Be This Short To Mosh
Friday, November 28, 2008 10:14:06 PM
by guest contributor Hussy.
Seeing as the Führer of this hallowed publication, Girl In Germany, is probably still seething with rage as you read this, she's asked me, Hussy, to write a somewhat less bile-filled review of Wednesday's Ben Folds gig in Frankfurt. I shall explain why, dear readers, but all in good time. First, the music.
Well, well, well done, Mr Folds! What a performance! My sound buds are still tingling from an awesomely well produced, happy, bouncy, tight-as-a-duck's-arse, rock-like-a-bitch show. G.I.G. and Doktor and myself were treated to a euphony of new material (and a couple of oldies) by Ben+band. Who would've thought that a couple of tins of Altoids on the piano strings and a bit of distort would make something that sounds like the bastard lovechild of a digital sitar and a Clavinova? Huh? I guess you had to be there. And to hear the fake/real versions of a couple of tracks for a humour injection (Ben Folds originally "leaked" a fake album, which had all the song titles of the real album, but they'd made up fake songs based on those real song titles - if that makes sense) made the show all the more personal and fun.
So, the reason for the rage. G.I.G. and I admittedly had sunk a glass or three of vino pre-show, so were definitely up for a bop and a jump
around, while the Dok so kindly refrained for he was chauffeur for the night: some people are meant to drive and some are meant to be driven - G.I.G. and I fall strictly into the latter category.
But we hadn't reckoned with the sour-faced grumpy-bitch tossbag Frankfurt gig-goers. Now, a bit of "would you mind moving a bit, I can't see clearly" is fine. I can cope with pleasant people asking for a bit of visibility at a gig - but the unashamed rudeness of some of the attendees with their "don't dance here"s and "my girlfriend can't see"s just took the biscuit. Shout outs - in the bad sense - go to Stripy Shirt Guy for telling us off for moving our heads rhythmically to the music and to Nine Foot Tall Guy who seemed to think that tall people have an inalienable right to stand front row. Indeed, when asked if he wouldn't mind swapping places for just one song so that we could have a clear view, we were met with a stern "Nein". So in good tradition, my lethal weapons - the vocal cords of destruction - were deployed and we sang as loudly as humanly possible to the aaah-aaaah singalong bits right into N.F.T.G.'s ear.
Which had the interesting side effect of Mr Folds turning around and pointing to me to do a solo, which I accepted with magnificent gusto. So that made up for being abused by the stuck-up shitwads there.
By the way, the anger was exacerbated by having to check in our cameras at the door, by order of the manager. Of course mobiles weren't being confiscated, so enjoy the snaps
Here's the setlist for you, expertly acquired by G.I.G. herself:
Seeing as the Führer of this hallowed publication, Girl In Germany, is probably still seething with rage as you read this, she's asked me, Hussy, to write a somewhat less bile-filled review of Wednesday's Ben Folds gig in Frankfurt. I shall explain why, dear readers, but all in good time. First, the music.Well, well, well done, Mr Folds! What a performance! My sound buds are still tingling from an awesomely well produced, happy, bouncy, tight-as-a-duck's-arse, rock-like-a-bitch show. G.I.G. and Doktor and myself were treated to a euphony of new material (and a couple of oldies) by Ben+band. Who would've thought that a couple of tins of Altoids on the piano strings and a bit of distort would make something that sounds like the bastard lovechild of a digital sitar and a Clavinova? Huh? I guess you had to be there. And to hear the fake/real versions of a couple of tracks for a humour injection (Ben Folds originally "leaked" a fake album, which had all the song titles of the real album, but they'd made up fake songs based on those real song titles - if that makes sense) made the show all the more personal and fun.
So, the reason for the rage. G.I.G. and I admittedly had sunk a glass or three of vino pre-show, so were definitely up for a bop and a jump
around, while the Dok so kindly refrained for he was chauffeur for the night: some people are meant to drive and some are meant to be driven - G.I.G. and I fall strictly into the latter category.
But we hadn't reckoned with the sour-faced grumpy-bitch tossbag Frankfurt gig-goers. Now, a bit of "would you mind moving a bit, I can't see clearly" is fine. I can cope with pleasant people asking for a bit of visibility at a gig - but the unashamed rudeness of some of the attendees with their "don't dance here"s and "my girlfriend can't see"s just took the biscuit. Shout outs - in the bad sense - go to Stripy Shirt Guy for telling us off for moving our heads rhythmically to the music and to Nine Foot Tall Guy who seemed to think that tall people have an inalienable right to stand front row. Indeed, when asked if he wouldn't mind swapping places for just one song so that we could have a clear view, we were met with a stern "Nein". So in good tradition, my lethal weapons - the vocal cords of destruction - were deployed and we sang as loudly as humanly possible to the aaah-aaaah singalong bits right into N.F.T.G.'s ear.
Which had the interesting side effect of Mr Folds turning around and pointing to me to do a solo, which I accepted with magnificent gusto. So that made up for being abused by the stuck-up shitwads there.
By the way, the anger was exacerbated by having to check in our cameras at the door, by order of the manager. Of course mobiles weren't being confiscated, so enjoy the snaps
Here's the setlist for you, expertly acquired by G.I.G. herself:
