The Wake

On a rainy evening, I don’t look forward to going outside for my cigarette. But at First Avenue, waiting for the Shins to come on stage, I go outside. I smoke a cigarette. I smoke another. The photographer and I came early, to get a good spot for photos. I glanced in my wallet to see how much beer I’d be able to drink before the opening act started in an hour an a half. Enough, I thought.

After a while, I inevitably end up here in the grey drizzle, smoking, glancing at my watch, talking to friends I didn’t expect to see. I inhale, fingers pressing the cylindrical cigarette, lips tense, as a man slowly walks across the street in front of me, seemingly oblivious to the oncoming traffic. As he approaches the other side of the street, a car turns the corner and accelerates. Seeing the man, the driver slams on his breaks, but slides on the wet surface and hits the man, sending him legs-first into the air and back down to the earth on his back.

Folks in the crowd gathered outside First Avenue turn and gasp in astonishment. The man hit by the car, obviously inebriated, gets up and points at the car. He walks away waving off the nearby cops who saw the accident.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles. But the cops know better and call for an ambulance.

Stunned, I throw my cigarette but into a nearby puddle and walk back into the show. I decide to drink more after watching the first band, The Brunettes, whose lead singer I think I will marry. I need the courage only alcohol can provide to try and get backstage and meet the New Zealander. Then she marches in place during the last song, and I start to have my doubts.

I wait patiently for the Shins. Between groups they show a cartoon, “Birdman Something-or-Other.” It looks quite funny. They were just showing Barney Ruble at a strip club. But I can’t stop replaying what I saw outside the club over and over in my head. The man was thrown in the air from the impact of the car, yet gets right up and says he’s fine. I wonder if he really is fine. I wonder what happened.

Finally the Shins come on stage, and quickly change my thoughts. The crowd around me is going crazy, dancing and singing like it was their last day on earth.

“I’ve never rocked this hard in my life!” One of them says, spilling beer on the photographer’s ass.

The band launches into “Girl Inform Me” and the crowd is loving it. They seem pretty tight, I suppose. Do they sound empty? Whatever. I’m just having a good time. They start playing “Mine’s Not a High Horse,” a song I’ve never really liked all that much, but everyone is eating it up. And you know what? I kind of like this song now, but I don’t know why.

“Saint Simon,” oh I love this song! The harmony is so cool. Wait, are they singing the right harmony? Aren’t there more parts? Oh who cares, this is such a cool song, it doesn’t matter. And they seem to be energetic, so they must be good.

I walk away from the show happy, filing out into the street where the car hit the drunken man. I suddenly wonder if the show I’d seen was really any good. It was like the Shins had put a spell on me. Their energy, wittiness and crowd all worked together to intoxicate me.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize that their sound must have been empty, and that the harmonies couldn’t have been there. And, damn it, I still don’t like the song “Mine’s Not a High Horse.” But the Shins have the ability to fool you, because they’re the Shins, and if you don’t like the Shins, go and get hit by a car.