With a terrible experience at the Velvet Room earlier that week, I was ready to swear off concert-going permanently after Franz Ferdinand openers Cut Copy gave an “eh” performance and Pretty Girls Make Graves started their equally-unexciting set.
Those bands weren’t the biggest problem, however- I had agreed to go to the show largely on the notion that TV On the Radio would be performing, and they had cancelled. I couldn’t believe my luck – 33 dollars for this? I took my problems to the back of the Saltair and sulked.
After the openers I decided to give the show one final shot, making my way into the crowd of grimy scumbags surrounding the stage. I was able to squeeze back to where my friends were standing as the Franz Ferdinand roadies were setting up the band’s equipment.
Apparently I got there too soon as I had to endure the torture of standing among some surely-fraternity nitwits who were dancing their way into the threat of me gouging their eyes out. I’m fine with dancing, but there’s a time and a place, and it’s not between bands in an area tightly packed with already-angry people.
The band took the stage what seemed to be six hours later, and by that time I was ready to assassinate every one of them just like their namesake. How dare they drag me through this? How dare they charge me thirty-three dollars? How dare they?
Suddenly the sharply dressed Scots broke into song and like the curtain that plummeted behind them, so did all of my complaints about the evening. The band’s singer (and boyfriend of my rockstar secret crush Eleanor Friedberger) Alex Kapranos eyed the audience like the rock and roll supervillain he is, leading the band as they blasted us with their molten dance hits. My exhausted, frail body bounced to life and I was ready to figuratively dance my heart out.
And dance I did- all the way to the front of the audience, where I was confronted by three of the most boring concertgoers I’ve yet to know. There they were, front row, not so much as tapping their feet. Aggravating as they were, I continued to pogo up and down, firing my imaginary pistols into the air. The band played an enormous amount of songs with nearly no downtime, and though I was ready to pass away, I continued to shake it until they finished their incredible set.
The audience continued to go wild as they exited the stage, chanting the always-baffling “ONE MORE SONG!” Why do people set the bar so low for bands? Why not “AS MANY MORE SONGS AS YOU’RE WILLING TO PLAY!”?
Luckily for us the band didn’t hear the mob’s cry- they came back for what I’d like to call an en-four, giving us not one, but four more songs to lose calories to. I was ecstatic through the rest of the en-four, my excitement peaking as they closed with “This Fire,” where yes, despite the tedium of the rest of the show and my Velvet Room disappointment, Franz Ferdinand was able to reignite my faith in live music.