Smitten

My impressions of last night’s concert:
Shirley Manson is hotter than an exploding star. My God, the woman is beautiful. But more importantly, she and the rest of the band put on one of the best musical performances I’ve seen in recent years. Manson tore into almost every song with self-assured relish. The playlist was equally divided between some of their older material and their new album, “Bleed Like Me.” As other Garbage fans might expect, the songs that generated the most enthusiastic crowd response, as well as the band’s most manic performances, included “Queer,” “Stupid Girl,” and “I Think I’m Paranoid.” But I also liked some of the newer, more metal-driven songs like “Run Baby Run” and “Bad Boyfriend.” Manson has a magnetic presence on stage; she was constantly in motion, prowling around the stage with a fierce, diva-like intensity. And when she spoke in between songs in that lovely Scottish brogue of hers, my heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.
First Ave was packed, but I found a good spot right behind the mixing board that afforded me an excellent view of the stage. I was completely boxed in by other people; this place is not for claustrophobics. On my right was a guy furiously playing air drums during the whole concert. Behind me was a cute dark-haired girl using my chair as an armrest. And what is it about me and drunks at a concert? During or after a show, some obviously intoxicated person always comes up to me and wants to be my friend. In their alcohol-induced hazes, they seem to think they’re doing me a favor by striking up a slurred conversation with me. This time, I got ambushed outside the club as I was heading home. Fortunately, a couple friends who happened to be walking down the sidewalk rescued me from this encounter.