Jimmy Eat World concert at the Wonder Ballroom last night. My ears are still ringing. I've never been to the Wonder Ballroom before, and I would've been happy to live the rest of my life without spending a night in a sold out show there. Regardless, they put on a great show.
I had this professor once (in my Rock History course, actually) who said that music was never meant to be recorded and replayed -- that there was nothing like a live performance, no matter how high your kbps, you're doing yourself an injustice relying on the convenience of your iPod. That is not to say that these means of reproduction don't have their uses, but he made it a point to express his frustration as a musician as we covered the development of recording devices while technology improved over the years. He was an enthusiastic professor and his passion for the subject was clear. I liked the idea -- it echoed the idea of using pictures as to try to replicate an experience or capture a moment.
So no, I didn't take any video, and while there were some perfect shots with the way they used the lighting on stage (I suppose that's one good thing about the venue) I didn't pull out a camera. People are usually disappointed when I don't take photos, but if you really want to know what it was like -- what it really, really was like as -- we're going to need a pot of coffee and a couple hours.
I suppose it would be different if I were less of a writer and more of a visual person than aural. You know, they say that the sense most closely related to memory recollection is smell. I used to live in Sacramento down in California before we moved up here, and my mom has these pictures of me in a bunch of places I remember nothing about -- I mean, I was a little girl. There's one park we used to go to all the time -- my grandma says it was called Rainbow Park. I don't know where it was or how we got there, and I couldn't tell you how big it was or what color the slide was. I can't remember if it had barkdust or sand, or how many swingsets there were.
But I remember what it smelled like.
It was sweet, like vanilla pudding -- not ice cream, definitely pudding -- and I knew we were near it before I could even see it. It smelled like pebbles in my tiny palms and the bottom of the slide on a warm day. That is where I grew up.
I had this professor once (in my Rock History course, actually) who said that music was never meant to be recorded and replayed -- that there was nothing like a live performance, no matter how high your kbps, you're doing yourself an injustice relying on the convenience of your iPod. That is not to say that these means of reproduction don't have their uses, but he made it a point to express his frustration as a musician as we covered the development of recording devices while technology improved over the years. He was an enthusiastic professor and his passion for the subject was clear. I liked the idea -- it echoed the idea of using pictures as to try to replicate an experience or capture a moment.
So no, I didn't take any video, and while there were some perfect shots with the way they used the lighting on stage (I suppose that's one good thing about the venue) I didn't pull out a camera. People are usually disappointed when I don't take photos, but if you really want to know what it was like -- what it really, really was like as -- we're going to need a pot of coffee and a couple hours.
I suppose it would be different if I were less of a writer and more of a visual person than aural. You know, they say that the sense most closely related to memory recollection is smell. I used to live in Sacramento down in California before we moved up here, and my mom has these pictures of me in a bunch of places I remember nothing about -- I mean, I was a little girl. There's one park we used to go to all the time -- my grandma says it was called Rainbow Park. I don't know where it was or how we got there, and I couldn't tell you how big it was or what color the slide was. I can't remember if it had barkdust or sand, or how many swingsets there were.
But I remember what it smelled like.
It was sweet, like vanilla pudding -- not ice cream, definitely pudding -- and I knew we were near it before I could even see it. It smelled like pebbles in my tiny palms and the bottom of the slide on a warm day. That is where I grew up.
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