so. trying to stick to this plan of watching less crap tv (already slightly fallen off the rails by watching half of “the bachelor” two nights ago), it occurred to me that i should go to the strokes show instead.

the morning’s quest to purchase a ticket was initially unsuccessful. stepping off the bus and into the tail end of the post christmas sales, it wasn’t so long before i had two tins of half price christmas biscuits (amarettini limone and fruit-studded, chocolate-covered gingerbread, probably still costing more than biscuits should), two hats (an orange bucket hat, and a blue hat similar to the orange except with a much wider brim) and a pair of jeans (dark denim with pink stitching, i suspect they are a capri style, but on me the length is perfect!). fortunately i came to my senses and ignored my need to buy a scott joplin cd, and suddenly i had a strokes ticket.

my reservation about paying $72 to see the strokes, is that on the record, at least in terms of aesthetics and production, they seem like a $30 band, tops. and what good is a burgeoning australian dollar if the pleasing exchange rate doesn’t translate to cheaper concert tickets? still i was determined to watch less crap tv!

+

five minutes before the band goes on, a girl in front of me whips around, her eyes roll up and she’s on the ground. her boyfriend carries her off the dancefloor and the crowd moves in to fill the space. there are lots of short people at the show, hurrah, so five or six metres from the stage is a pretty good place to be, pointy-elbowed girls with flippy hair not withstanding. the band strut… amble on and play a clash song — “this is a clash song, by the way” — and then it’s “this song is called ‘reptilia'”, and then

du-duh. du-du-duh
du-duh. du-du-duh
du-duh. du-du-duh
du-duh. du-du-duh…

there is good-natured banter and a thought-provoking lightshow (so *that’s* where the money goes), and on-the-spot boppping on my part, and all too soon julian stroke is bargaining with the audience how many more tunes the band will play: “*ten* more? we don’t have that many songs.” so it’s three. two. one. and they’re gone in a cloud of feedback. cheering for encores? feh. they’ve milked all the adulation during the show.

am i gushing? well, yes. ROCK!