Who do they think they are...Coldplay?

“Who do they think they are…Coldplay?”

It all started as a joke. I tried to contact the publicist for Editors. I was passed around and feeling fed up, so when the press contact finally got back to me saying that she might be able to get me ten minutes with perhaps one of the band members, I responded with my first thoughts. Apparently I need an editor for my thoughts. I may have used the word crass and implied that said representative was haughty, but not actually stated such. I guess implication is enough, she wrote back merely to snap at me, and I never heard from her again. So I never got those possible ten minutes with what I am now sure would have been a roadie rather than an actual band member. Ah well. In retelling this story to our Boston correspondent, she was aghast at all the gatekeepers for Editors: “Who do they think they are…Coldplay?” As it happens, the evidence from their live performance will answer this question affirmatively.

My editor and I met up for dinner downtown at this little hole-in-the-wall Venezuelan place, Caracas Arepa Bar (7th Street at 1st Avenue). This place is evidence that god is a fat man in danger of suffering cardiac arrest and loving every minute of it. The menu is rather extensive for a restaurant that is smaller than my bedroom, and a large majority of the items proffered are of the fried variety. I have been to this place a couple of times, but I was introducing it to a Caracas “virgen” that night, so it was almost like new. I have sampled much of the appetizers portion of the menu, and loved all of it, but the MUST HAVES are the Yoyos (deep fried balls of plaintain stuffed with white cheese and served with the clincher of sweet cinnamon flavored sauce, so delicious) which are so sweet and delicious they could almost be a dessert, and of course the G-caca. G-caca is in actuality guasacaca, or the Venezuelan version of guacamole, which I believe contains tomatoes, peppers, and onions, and is served with chips from some tuber veg, perhaps sweet potatoes. It is possible to enjoy any meal without some G-caca, but you will not reach the plane of enlightenment and nirvana that you can achieve with it. So get yourself some G-caca and be happy.

I have not tried most things on the menu. I have tried several arepas. They carry various other items, but I am a firm believer of playing to your strengths, and since Caracas is an arepa bar, I get arepas, and these are some mighty fine arepas. An arepa is essentially a corn cake that is fried until crispy and golden brown on both sides. It is delicious en classico (plain), but fantastico with “sandwich fillings.” My editor went with De Pabellón, a house specialty of shredded beef, black beans, plaintain, and aged cheese. She really liked it, but thought perhaps the plaintain was a bit much. I went with Dominó, which is black beans and cheese, and I added some of our leftover G-caca--so basically heaven on earth. They also have this homemade hot sauce on the table in a sawed-off condiment squeezy bottle. The packaging is a bit off-putting, but those in the know understand the importance of this secret sauce. God knows what they put in it, but God smiles when she eats it. Oh yes, it is delicious-ness in spicy liquid form. It is Venezuelan ambrosia. OK, it may or may not imbue the diner with traits of beauty, fame, riches, immortality, and other god-like qualities, but it tastes DAMN GOOD!!

Caracas serves other things, like fresh made juices and dessert, but I have yet to try those, so I will not speak of them. But what I have tried, combined with the location, the atmosphere of the place, the South American musical blend bouncing through the large speakers from someone’s IPod, and the fact that the entire place has maybe 5 or 6 tables so its very intimate, quirky, and fun, makes me want to eat there all the time. The fact that its small means there is almost always a wait. They don’t do reservations, but they do do takeaway. I personally think takeaway is cheating. You need to put your name on the list and wait a few minutes for a table. Anticipation is half the fun. The experience is worth the wait. I should know (my editor was late, so we kept missing out on tables, I waited at least an hour as a result, and I still loved every bite I ate).

OK enough gushing over my new favorite restaurant, its not like they’re paying me. So we departed Caracas for Webster Hall. It was a step down in my estimation. We strolled the few blocks to Webster Hall in order to alleviate the “overeater’s sweats” (the discomfort and hot flashes that accompany a bit of a fried food binge). We arrived to a line awaiting entry to see Editors. We thought we were early (it was only about 9:30pm), but we had already missed the opening act, Brooklyn band The Big Sleep, which sucks because I heard they are good. We made our way up to the balcony as the mob crowding the floor was a bit intimidating to our overstuffed selves. We found a big green velvet couch and crashed out on it to await the show. As time drew on, we grew drowsy (dark room, comfy couch, full tummies), so we decided to stand before we passed out. We were trying to find ways to break into the “backstage” area, which was really a tiny room upstairs guarded by security personnel. We terminated all plans when we saw a scary lady that looked like she was probably the press rep that I unknowingly (ok maybe I sort of knew) insulted. She gave me the evil eye and made some gesture that I interpreted as “DO NOT let that girl anywhere near the band!” She could have just been some scary old hag that happened to walk past me with a strange facial expression, but I opted to go with my paranoid theory of her as the press-Medusa jealously guarding her band’s cave. I wasn’t about to go up to her and say “Excuse me, but are you that psycho hose-beast bitchtress that I called crass? Can you still get me 10 minutes with one of the band members?” So, there went all hope of an interview that night.

Finally, Editors came on a little after 10 to much fanfare and accompanied by a sound and light show. No, seriously. They opened with Lights, which I suppose made the light machine appropriate, if blindingly blatant. After that song though, all bets were off and the light machine was given no time to rest. It kept blinking and flashing and strobing all through the show, to the dismay of my eyes. After a few songs, I started to feel like I had been playing one of those seizure causing Japanese video games for a week. I started to twitch a bit. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Editors. Their music is great. I listen to the album all the time (well all except that strange French Disco song, that’s just weird). But this performance definitely hampered their appeal for me. I also like Coldplay, perhaps not as much as other bands, but they’ll do in a pinch. My problem here is that Editors was not sold to me as Coldplay. The lead singer, Tom Smith (coincidentally that is also my father’s name, and technically my brother’s too) has a nice baritone voice, that falls much deeper than Chris Martin’s. Yes, sometimes the songs sound a bit Coldplay-esque with techno beats and heavy on the keys. But I didn’t really expect the comparison to pan out. I just thought it was along the same vein as any pop-rock band being compared to The Strokes. I mean, there is nothing new under the sun, so comparisons can always be made in some form or another, but the extent to which this one fits is disconcerting.

The light machine aside, there were other disturbing affectations on the part of Tom Smith. He did the strange seizure-like dancing (I’m willing to bet those stupid lights have some causal relationship with this dance style) that can be seen when watching Chris Martin in concert with Coldplay. The overuse of the hands, the crazy side bend - head tilt combination, gyrations at the keys, and other twisting yoga position dance moves are all straight out of the “How to Be Chris Martin Handbook.” One is tempted to look for an equal sign tattoo on the back of Tom Smith’s hand. It was all just a bit eerie. My editor and I looked at each other with a shared expression of “ohmigod, it’s Coldplay’s less famous, less successful Baldwin brother!” So, in the next two years, watch out for actress balling, naming children after fruit and/or religious figures, and becoming some other (bigger) star's mini-me (since Martin has taken Bono, perhaps Smith will go with Michael Stipe!)

After we overcame our shock and dismay at the sight of these new musical talents succumbing to the pressures of younger sibling expectations, we were able to relax and appreciate the musical portion of the program, which was as good as expected. Unfortunately, as I have a freak magnet somewhere on my person that I have as yet been unable to locate and disable, we were surrounded. I usually like to be able to see the band I paid to see live in concert. On this occasion, however, I was not as bothered as I usually am when a man, who had to be at least 7 feet tall by my guesstimation (hey when you are 5’ something-cough-cough”, anyone that is taller than you is at least 7 feet tall), decided to stand on a platform directly in front of me. This wasn’t so bad as it shielded my eyes from the harsh blaring lights, but it also blocked my view of anything. If we were outside, this guy would have been my personal solar eclipse. My editor went to scope out a better spot, and could not find me when she returned as this man’s giant body completely obscured my entire person from view. It was a laugh for 5 minutes and then that got old as well and I tried guerrilla warfare tactics of trying to poison his drink or “accidentally” elbow/kick/punch him, which seemingly had no effect on his giant self. So I gave up and tried to enjoy what I could of the concert.

This was when the weird girl with the addiction to bouncing hopped her way in front of us. There are some occasions/locations where habitual bouncing goes unnoticed: bouncy castles, trampolines, the moon, and most of the time at concerts. However, when the music intermittently stops, or when the tempo slows down, bouncing may be considered inappropriate or slightly out of place. It was at such a time that bouncy girl decided, not only to continue bouncing, but to scream like a bansidhe. Given that the band had stopped playing and Tom Smith was addressing the audience, this behavior did seem a bit excessive, but the guy she was with did not seem bothered by it. Perhaps he was accustomed to spending time with an addict (or a loon as the case may be), so we gradually grew accustomed to the bouncing and screaming as well and just tried to ignore it.

For everyone else there, the energy level had apparently been set at low and then someone had pushed the hold button. There were no serious bouts of excitement the whole night. There were a few points where the crowd did sing along and make some nod to dancing during All Sparks, Blood, and Munich. But for the most part, the floor was pretty sedate (barring bouncy girl). Shockingly, at around 10:45 (less than 45 minutes after the set started, mind you), the boys made their bows and left the stage. Ummm, excuse me, what? That was quite possibly the shortest headlining set ever. After a brief respite, they returned for their encore. They played Weight and Bones, and finally when they played the last gasp, Fingers in the Factories, the crowd came alive. I suppose it was too little too late. This was the last song, it was 11pm, and officially the shortest headline act I had ever seen.

In the mad dash to escape the confines of Webster Hall, a bottleneck formed at the only street door, which was serving concurrently as an entrance and exit. Hmmmm, who was entering when the concert had just ended? Ahhhh, apparently Thursday nights at Webster Hall is Desi Dance Party. There was a mile long queue outside containing the complaining ranks of the entire greater metropolitan area South Asian Students’ Society. What a sight to see. Unfortunately, their bitter complaints mingled with our pleas for help from inside the tiny foyer of Webster Hall rose to a crescendo that ultimately sounded like cattle going to the slaughter from several blocks away (I only know because when I finally escaped and ran several blocks in order to catch a cab, I could still hear the faint drone of dead animals walking).

This night was a bit of a downhill ride after the excesses of dinner. I still like Editors, but I doubt I will be going to another concert, when I can just watch a Coldplay video, or for that matter an Editors video, in the comfort of my own home, or on my IPod once I figure out how to load video on to the damn thing. Suggestions anyone?