Dear Denver: Shut the fuck up
Fuuuuuuuuuu
Here is the scene: Portishead is playing the 1stBank Center, one of a very few U.S. stops on the band’s North American tour. The first third of the show is a hot, slow burn. The percussionists take a break for a stripped-down version of the already-spare “Wandering Star.”
Singer Beth Gibbons is hunched over, her tiny frame wracked as she sings lyrics like, “Always doubled up inside, / Take a while to shed my grief.” Her voice is as delicate as crystal—resigned but still aching—and her eyes are shut tight, blocking out the world.
And then: “FUCK YEAAAAAAAH!”
Followed by: “WOOOOOOOOOOO!”
These two ejaculations incite further screeching from the audience. The band carries on, of course, oblivious. For the rest of us, though, the mood is shattered. Actually, it’s been shattered for a long time because this Denver crowd will not shut the fuck up.
Is this a Colorado party thing I’m just now discovering? Does Portishead have a strong following in the Jagermeister snow-bro demographic? When did the woo girls get into ’90s trip-hop?
I was nervous about the show as I drove up to Broomfield last night. Arena shows are always a little on the iffy side, crowd-wise, but some naïve, old-fashioned part of me thought that perhaps the people at a Portishead show would be low-key. The concert offered a rare opportunity to Denver fans, too—it was the last date on a very exclusive tour. People would feel really lucky to be there, right? They’ll want to pay attention and simply enjoy this experience.
Ha. The two guys over my left shoulder talked through the entire show, except during familiar hits from Dummy. During those songs, they chose to focus instead on pretending to scratch invisible rekkids on imaginary turntables.
In the row ahead of me, a couple took turns using a BlackBerry to take video of the show. No big deal, except that their stupid phone kept the shitty flash on continuously while they took their awful video. Instead of enjoying the band’s tasteful light show, I found my eyes involuntarily drawn to the brightest object in my field of vision—the illuminated backside of the security dude right in front of them.
I took a hurried bathroom break toward the end of the set and discovered a rather large group of people gathered around a TV to watch the World Series. You pay $50 a ticket and $8.50 per beer to ignore a rock show and watch baseball instead—and your home team isn’t even in the Series? How is our economy in such an awful state when people are willing to waste this kind of cash?
And this doesn’t even cover the screaming. Oh, the screams. This is what happens when a generation raised with American Idol reaches drinking age: Beth Gibbons unleashes her perfectly controlled, beautiful voice in a moment of unbridled emotion, and instead of listening and absorbing this moment, dozens of people begin to “Woo!” over her. It’s the exact same dopey “Go on, girl!” yowling that greets AI contestants’ gooey melisma.
Maybe I was sitting in the wrong place (on the side of the arena, exposed to it all). Maybe I should have tried to move. Maybe I should have asked those guys to be quiet instead of glaring at them. Maybe I should just relax, man, it’s a rock show.
Except it’s not really a rock show. I’ve been to hundreds of rock shows. It’s fucking Portishead—dreamy, haunted music that rewards attention and encourages contemplation. For me, Portishead brings back sad memories of sitting in the dark in my sophomore-year dorm room, smoking endless cigarettes and drinking wine, still feeling the sting on my arms from the previous night’s cutting session. Apparently, for a very vocal portion of last night’s audience, Portishead is a reminder of that one birthday where they went out in LoDo and got sooooo wasted. Go Cardinals!
It’s a testament to Portishead’s greatness as a live band that the show was somehow not completely ruined for me. I can’t remember a show where I’ve gotten chills so consistently. The sound, especially for an arena concert, was fantastic. All the staff members I interacted with were easygoing and downright friendly. The band seemed pleasantly surprised by the roaring applause after each song. (Important note: After each song, when they could actually hear it.)
It would have been an almost perfect experience except for the frequent flickers of scream-induced rage. I had a sickening thought toward the end: “I bet this loud bullshit wouldn’t be happening in Chicago or New York. The scarcity of the tickets would mean that the people who were there really wanted to be there—they want to hear the band, not just party like it’s a Red Hot Chili Peppers show.”
I hate thinking that way. Perhaps, at 32, I’m just too old and cranky for “big rock shows”—I had the same reaction at The National’s show at The Fillmore earlier this year. My head hurts now. I need to lie down. Get off my lawn and all that. But mostly: Shut the fuck up, Denver. Please.
