Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Polyphonic Spree

The Polyphonic Spree (playing some secret-ish show at the Showbox on Tuesday night) spawned several hazy ideas I jotted down late in the A.B. (the After Bourbon), thinking they were ripe for study.  I was wrong.  So I decided to morph the baker's dozen thoughtlets into a bastardized Wallace Stevens poem and call it an entry.  I'm pretty sure that was an even worse idea.  Ack.

I
Among twenty dewy fanatics,
The only subtle thing
Was the eye of a critic.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a stage
On which there are three drummers.

III
The theremin whirled in the choral winds.
It was a small part of the polyphony.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A woman and a woman and a Wallace Stegner novel and a camera
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The robes coloring
Or just after.

VI
Vocalists filled the wide cavern
With colorful waves.
The shadow of the hipster
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin Tim of Laughter,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how religion
Wrinkles the smiles
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the bassist for the Jicks
Once dated Elliott Smith.

IX
When the bassist walked to stage right,
It marked the edge
Of stage left.

X
At the refrain of sunshine
Lyrics and audience lights,
Even the bawds of the Comet
Would brighten sharply.

XI
He rode over Washington
In a gold coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The people of his constituency
For thespians.

XII
Intervals are veering.
The tenors must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was raining
And it was going to rain.
The Showbox sat
On blackberry mud.

Comments

[Dave Weasel Erb]

Sooo Puge ... I'm wondering if you'll ever get around to emailing me?