Pshaw to those naysayers who think St. Paul doesn’t have it going on. Last night I felt like I stumbled upon my city’s best kept secret (though I’m pretty sure it made the A List). It was the perfect evening for a pretty patio show, cool and breezy, beneath a nearly full moon (great for blurry band photos). And this particular patio was practically in my backyard. It took all of three minutes to get to the show. I arrived in time to catch the opening band, Mr. 1986, an instrumental space rock opera outfit from Nebraska. They were enjoyable enough but I found my mind wandering more than once, with no vocals to anchor me in the here and now (or the there and then). I looked around me, at the assembled hipsters, and started wondering just how the strategically scruffy look had become the new black. Afterwards I wandered around a bit, while waiting for my friend’s band to play, finally getting a good look at the amazing exhibit 9 Months in America, an Ethnocentric Tour by Wing Young Huie. But during their set I was forced to contemplate…the awkwardness of standing in close proximity to a person…who one has engaged in various sexual acts with (some time ago, mind you) without acknowledging one another in any way whatsoever. These things happen. Thankfully the music grabbed my attention 99% of the time. I considered going home after Signal’s set, but stuck around to see Askeleton…partially to see what all the fuss was about, but also with the hope that Minneapolitans Chuckumentary, Lorika and perhaps Spacewaitress would turn up. Alas, they must have had other plans. Probably on the other side of the river.
