Photo credit goes to my partner-in-crime, Miss Elizabeth Payne. Enjoy!
Hello friends,
After a brief hiatus - fear not... I'm back and ready to rock. No pun intended... ever. Nor was the sarcasm... I swear!
Here it is:
Feist Does a Rain Dance at Prospect Park 7.09.08
It was a dark and stormy night. Literally. Prospect Park, located in the South Slope of Brooklyn is perhaps one of New York City’s finest in outdoor venues. Tall lush greenery encompasses winding dirt paths and grassy knolls, taking you by way of the everglades and marking this as the ideal summer spot. Throw down a picnic blanket underneath a willow tree with the perfect companion (and some beers) and you’re set - that is, unless it starts raining.
Feist or shine, rain or bust – the crowd (and thankfully not the thunder) kept rolling in. Opening the floodgates for lady Feist on this wet hot midsummer night’s eve was Argentinean folklore/grindcore temptation, Juana Molina. Strumming away on the acoustic, she paused between songs to explain (in English) that although her lyrics are sung in Spanish and Portuguese – there is still a way to understand songs through feeling.
As the music continued I realized the only words I understood were a likely improv’d, “it’s ra-a-ain-ing”. Seemingly unplanned and eerily coincidental with nature, Molina couldn’t help but smile, apologizing for the incoming thunderstorm as the rain began to downpour.
Between sets I watched the turnover from single acoustics and a synthesizer capable of creating and writing a full band sound complete with drum machine - to an actual full band setup. I was stoked upon my discovery that there was potential rock caliber of the Canadian indie queen.
As the lights went down, last-minute roadies dragged onstage a large screen reminiscent of the looking glass – its trim woven by wooden vines. The screen lit. Standing behind it, a sultry silhouette figure wearing a straw Fedora. The backdrop splayed a giant fig tree, a hanging lantern swinging from its branches. A large shadowy hand plucked the lantern away as the music started. Leslie Feist began to coo, “When I was a young girl… I used to be a little sad”.
And then a little shimmy shake and there she was – an urban cowgirl dressed in a hot white little number with black tassels and polka dot stockings completed by a pair of vintage ankle boots. Not exactly the melodrama I had anticipated.
An audience member exclaims, “You rock, Feist!” She was quick to strap on a solid body electric and left the pink-and-white guitar behind for one of the hurly-burly mountain men in her band mate entourage to play. It might have been right around the “I love Canadians” outburst that the sky cleared, revealing a perfect half-moon. The storm had eased to a slow drizzle and by some strange twist of Feist it was almost like fate. Consider a stop-the-rain dance. It’s possible, no?
So I think she can dance, yes. A real genuine musician - she sings and plays a lot of guitar. Using a recording device onstage, she manipulated her voice by singing into the mic and layering the vocals three times to create a repeating round. The range was vast and full of soft ascending “oohs and aahs”. The sound was true to form and much louder than the studio album. Luckily I just so happen to like it loud. Backed by drums, bass, additional guitar and two gals dressed in black on the keys, this show stopped the rain (and the audience) dead in their tracks.
Like any good conductor, Feist flicked and gestured each and every note from her fingertips as if she were a regular Carlos Santana. And if that wasn’t enough, she put on an air guitar performance worthy of heavy-metal hair god stardom.
Feist bantered between songs with a British fellow, playfully imitating his accent. Joking with the New York audience about high rent and roommate issues, she asks coyly if anybody wishes they had a backyard. Ah yes, the wide-open spaces of our friendly neighbors to the north.
Her childlike antics stem from an interesting past of hand-puppetry infatuation. This was evident throughout the entire show. The backdrop varied from paisley to farm scenery and vibrant finger painted sailboats, oceans and volcanoes. Feist encompasses a unique ability to connect with any age.
In a time where we seem to find ourselves swimming in a sea of constant new-new wave amidst the young and relentlessly uber-hip, Feist sets us adrift from that false sense of ‘Emocean’.
“We tried to go for a swim at McCarren Pool”, Feist adds, poking some fun at a popular Williamsburg, Brooklyn concert venue. The massive empty swimming pool is splashed with graffiti and infamous for packing in flocks of the hipster elite. It can hold well over a thousand. Judging by a vast array of the flower-power people it’s likely that only two of two thousand at Prospect Park that night understood the comment.
Summoned to brandish our cell phones high and doing the “1234”sway, we danced and twirled to the power pop riffs of “The Water”. I was completely immersed in none shy of a San Fran hippie-fest, at the height of Asbury Park.
