The last time I saw Beach House, I was sitting on mulch in the Body and Soul arena at Electric Picnic, not really keeping it together and unable to understand why it was taking them so long to set up. Detective work later revealed that answer. My memories of that, if I can keep them, will stay with me forever though. It looks kind of like a cross between Super 8 footage and an actual dream, and it sounds like Beach House right before Devotion came out. I’ve never seen them in ordinary circumstances.
And maybe I never will. Rather than spending money I need to spend on 99c pizza slices and cans of Mac and Cheese on actually gaining entry to the Prospect Park Bandshell, it made sense to just find a good piece of grass outside and watch from afar. So that was it. Late as usual, I caught about five songs of Beach House’s support set, possibly all from Teen Dream if memory serves. Take Care billowing out through Prospect Park dusk. Not bad, but honestly, actually seeing Beach House play might have to go a bit higher on the life priority list than it is currently. They are as tight as a politically incorrect joke, and there’s every reason to believe genuine visual contact with Victoria Legrande would help in the communication of her general sultry buzz.
Fun as that was, I had to sit through the National after that. Barring Bruce Springsteen and maybe Tom Waits, there is no music on the planet more people have tried to talk me into saying I like. I think they’re dull, the emotion is forced and often pretty trite, and they’re saved from being out and out AOR by having a badass drummer. Fake Empire, made as usual by the counterintuitive and admittedly pretty deadly drumming, was a reasonably poignant encore, I’ll admit. That far but no further.