hey now. tomorrow's the new york city premiere of that great good fifteen minute movie the strange rebirth of andre weil. in it, yours truly daniel arnold debuts awkwardly and chubbily, though not charmlessly (if i must say so myself), as the changeling andre weil, opposite the irresistibly beautiful kind thing ellie brenner sherman, nature's favorite girl, playing sasha. in supporting roles are the jazz bassist bill noertker with a heavy metal goatee and his front tooth out, playing gil, and the happy cloud christie kiefer as dr. botchkin from canada.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
"Two women of similar pigment stand on a street corner at 6am; as day time arrives. They stand with their arms folded, the slowly rising sun on their backs, a frown washes through their smiles. I hear one say to the other "we ate that bitch's flesh, and burned the motherfucking evidence." the other woman bursts into an uproar of hysteric laughter; cavorting and hawing up and down the sidewalk. "HAW! HAW! HAW HAW! HAW!". This has become a daily routine for me. i wake up as early as possible to watch the early risers do their cavorting."
MORE.
I’m not saying that Devendra’s de-volution into hipsterati boogaloo dudery necessarily negates all the old creation myths. In fact, I think it makes them more interesting, seasons the stew of Marc Bolan parallels. But I am saying that when Devendra Banhart and Greg Rogove got out under the Webster Hall lights Friday for an effortless (which is to say, devoid of effort) but endearing and ultimately irresistible set of stripped-down olds and news, the crowd did not say, “What kind of creature is this?” They said, “Who was it that he dated again?” I literally heard that said. More than one time.+ WATCH: Devendra Banhart - "Baby" Live At Webster Hall
Gone with the wonder was the hush that used to fall over the old crowds. This one was young and overdressed and sweaty for Moretti, who they would have soon enough. They talked over “Little Yellow Spider” and “So Long Old Bean” and strung-out banter about New York City’s bombardment of charms. Catching on, Devendra dropped the sweet hippie nothings and joked about Reel Big Fish before switching over to gibberish, “Eshawmm, ya know, blazza me ev-er-y time I’m in towlow shrrrmrrrr nrrmmrrr bleh blummaduh!” The crowd called out for “Chinese Children,” which he wouldn’t give them and when he introduced “Baby,” off his upcoming What Will Be, he said “You guys will probably hate this.”
READ: DEVENDRA BANHART PLAYS A SECRET SHOW
the way it went last night, which was windy with clouds and the harvest moon making everyday streets look like something else, was that you came to the walk-up on roebling and buzzed all the apartments to get in the door, then flights of concrete steps in yellow-brown graffiti stairwells and curious residents, uninvolved, wondering at the procession of us. afterwards on the roof the wind came directly and a wobbling wall of white plastic, like an over-sized garbage bag, distorted psychedelic projections with its waves.
the show must be behind the wall you thought, but you were wrong because it wasn't a wall. it was a bubble. a translucent football. the harvest moon itself scale-modeled and the fall in the air having its way with it, making ocean ripples and everything. then you crawl through the three foot opening at its base, and into the extra-terrestrial coziness of oriental rugs and girls in antique bowler hats, which have sprouted feathers. neil young is playing and it's warm in there and the song goes "you and I we were captured, we took our souls and we flew away."
before that, after man benu, pure horsehair did a set that he introduced as lullabies in a long beard and sweater. the room was quiet and loosely packed but you had to lean forward to hear it right anyway. then it was family band and i want you to believe me when i say that i haven't had many things ever move me like they, and the plastic moon bag i was in, did last night. their music is joyful sophistication played sinister. the light done dark and raw with lap steel flourish. this polar combination, all grave and slow, comes out downright elemental.
in that restless bubble with the wind drawing devil faces in shadows across the backdrop, what was already elemental now seemed to have taken control of the actual elements. commanding the wind. rattling the venue in great rolling brushsnare gusts. and there was genuine fear there to ignore, of suffocation and panic. and you could feel the goddamn thing in your teeth.
i shot videos that, like this jerkoff haiku nonsense, can't possibly do justice to a time that stands out from most other times. a thing in whose presence your life, going along idiotically, stands still out of respect and your mouth hangs open smiling beyond the control of dumbstruck muscles. i wish you'd been there. or were you?
* more insight into the full bubble experience
