Monday, April 13, 2015

Simple Twist of Fate (redux) [Dylan - Lyric - 4/11/15 / Rhiannon Giddens - Lincoln - 4/12/15]

It's the magic hour. On a Monday evening. The light hitting the buildings on Montello just right.. DC Brau. Oh Mercy spinning.. battling congestion I'll blame on allergies.

Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of me
If I was still the same
If I ever became what you wanted me to be
Did I miss the mark or overstep the line
That only you could see?
Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of me

Oh how quickly a year can pass.

Saturday was Dylan again. I spent the afternoon planting beans and fixing up my bike. Walked down to BR's and we hit the road. Oh Baltimore. Gritty in a way DC isn't. And old. The Lyric was amazing - beautifully restored. Old theatre seats. It was the same setlist as the November show. That "gorgeous sense of loss, yet hope" was still bubbling underneath. And the songs all hit deep again. Forgetful Heart ("The times we knew / who would remember better than you"). Simple Twist of Fate. She Belongs to Me. Love Sick, of course. And somehow it was even more poignant, and pointed, and powerful than last time.

Then Sunday. Fishing for shad on the Potomac with DW. I caught (and released) over 30 in roughly 4 hours - an incredibly peaceful way to spend a gorgeous spring morning. The simple, repetitive act of casting and reeling. Over and over. Nothing else to think about. Eagles and osprey and cormorants (or shags, of course).. the little things.

At the last minute I bought tickets on StubHub (at a discount!) for Rhiannon Giddens at the Lincoln. A half-smoke at Ben's before-hand led to a fantastically surreal conversation with Collin - former high school (and Howard) basketball star. Career cut short by injury. Now playing comedy sets at the Handsome Cock. With a six-month old baby and twins on the way. But I digress..

Rhiannon was nothing short of incredible. There's a power to her voice, an immediacy to her presence, that doesn't really come out on the last record. Though the historicism of the songs can be a bit precious, she narrowly evades making them living museums. And (re)inhabits them. I read Gilead and overheard conversations from the over-40 NPR crowd, but was glad I went out.. She was barefoot. Dancing. Alive. I rode my bike home down Florida, happy.

So much more to say. But some things are best put on paper. Or into the air.

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