Nest and Fest

My friend Maz and I showed up to the Palace in downtown LA around 8:15pm for the 9 o’clock show.  I knew we were at the right place due to the stormy sea of black leather jackets and skinny jeans being donned by the uber-cool greasy-haired hipsters making their Friday night pilgrimages from Echo Park and Silver Lake.

The first victory of the night was getting by security unscathed. Meaning, they didn’t confiscate my camera.  God knows I would have forgotten to pick it up and left without out it. That’s just how I roll. Anyway, there was a bar available upon entrance into the theater, but I’m just about as poor as poor gets and Maz didn’t seem to be taking any interest in the alcoholic bounty, so we quickly found our seats about seven rows back on the left, downstairs.

The 20-30 something crowd could either be found quietly sipping their brown ale, killing time on their iphones or just chatting with chums. The vibe in the place was cool, collected, anything but rowdy, much like the man we were all there to see.

As the curtains opened, there was an immediate, undeniable shift in energy from the (once) disinterested mob. Everyone was on their feet in a split second, literally shouting at the top of their lungs. We’re talking Beatles,  Ed Sullivan Show, 1964-type excitement.  Now, being the mega-star that he is, you might think that Julian would be used to this type of welcome. But from the moment he sheepishly walked to the front of the stage, you knew that this show was different. This was special. He was vulnerable. He was thankful. There was a genuine look of relief when he realized how excited his fans were to see him again. He placed his hands together as if praying  and thanking us for the salvation of acceptance. He looked weathered, slightly tired, but had a younger and more innocent aura than I was anticipating. See I’ve never actually seen The Strokes live, I’ve been listening to them for the past six years or so and never had a true desire to shell out the dough for a performance. There have been too many mediocre reviews of their concerts. Too many rumors of Julian producing sub-par performances due to inebriation and basic lack of respect for his fans.  I didn’t want any part of that, but when my buddy told me he had an extra ticket for this show, I figured I’d give it a shot. And am very glad I did.

For the first time in his musical career, Casablancas wasn’t sharing the spotlight, this concert was his baby and he was going to revel in the new life he created and cradle it until it coo’d.

If you know anything about The Strokes then you know their distinct sound;  Fabrizio Moretti pounding and slicing the drum beats through the “in your face/come hither” guitars as to create excitable stress, but backing off just enough to give gracious respite and keep you coming back for more. Casablancas’ solo work seems more free-form, less controlled, allowing his youth and honesty to take front and center. The synthesized melodies could send any 80′s pop expert into a whirlwind of nostalgia.  “I wish air clouds could hold me up, Like I thought as a child growing up,” he sang on “Tourist,” one of my favorite performances of the night.

In between songs, Casablancas conversed with the crowd. So relaxed, so smooth, what a dangerous man. “F@#%in’  LA, man. F@#%in’   Ellllll Laaaaaay,” he crooned and giggled after the first song, as if we were college buddies he hadn’t seen in a few years.

A treat in the night came about five songs in when, after finishing up, Casablancas looked to the crowd and stated that the band would be back in  five minutes. No one had any idea what was going on. Was that a self-implemented encore? I don’t know. Do you know? You don’t know. Great. But sure enough, no less than ten minutes later the curtains are torn to their respective corners and reveal the six-piece band donning white tuxes and twinkle lights, backed up by a stage that seemed to be a cross between the set of Tron and old Hollywood.

Just before performing his last song, Casablancas confessed “this is, in fact, the last one, we have no more songs, I promise you,” which immediately translated to a crowd of boo’ing and hissing loyals begging for more. Luckily, since this was the first show out of a four-Friday residency in November, Casablancas stated that he would neglect to share that piece of information in the future. And with that, a giant kaleidascope lit up the stage to distract us from our new found disappointment.

Come to think of it, the stage was probably one of the best features of the show.  So much thought was put into each theme, as it changed from song to song. We never saw the same image for more than three minutes at a time, a true delight for the A.D.D community (such as myself). There was a desert background, an aquarium, a wild wild west sequence, an apocalyptic city, and so on.  When Casablancas stated in a Pitchfork interview that the show was “like half Pink Floyd laser light show” he wasn’t kidding around. Mind blowing and such a welcomed retreat from anything I’ve seen as of late. Bravo, indeed.

Take a look and see: