(the following is a barely edited rendition of what I scrawled furiously on the steps of the stage after the show, it was just about midnight and colin meloy had turned everything I knew upside down. I'm leaving it mostly raw for fear of destroying it.)
colin stood in front of us wearing a childish smile, well tailored jeans and a soft old button down shirt. faded blue and white... the kind that looks like it should have pearly white snap buttons (but it doesn't).
slowly, song by song, it became a part of me. he sings:
I am a writer
I've written pages
trying to rid you from my bones
and right then I wanted to remember every moment of brilliance, of nine fingered women wandering the desert and cheap trick covers and tinkling notes softly on his knees. so silent you could have heard someone blink between the notes just then... glasses like my father used to wear a long time ago, and the kind of hair you push forward from the top with the palm of your hand. a triumph for all the studious uncomfortable boys.
the way he sang out the corner of his mouth was like hearing a dog speak impeccable french - total insanity and total perfection all at once. like nothing I could ever comprehend, and my legs gave out a few times at the very sound of it.
I want to erase those sentences for fear of not doing that holy noise proper justice.
tuning on his tiptoes, smiling through stories of lost bikes, I swear the girl next to me is crying softly as I stand there in my combat boots wondering just how much they've seen. my aching feet, your soft stenciled letters, colin (los angeles) I'm yours... I want to own and consume and overexpose myself to everything you've ever done, to all of you, like long light through the window in the nighttime forming a beam and a square on the grass and burning into everything I know.
silver threads running through the fabric of your shirt now, catching the light, soccer shoes and another cap for the taking.
searching, staring at the lights suspended from the ceiling for words... lyrics... answers... smiling when you remember and when you forget. spinning moment painting pictures girls giggling at your pricelessness. you walked by me just now to gather your guitars, not more than a foot from where I am sitting... and it floors me that I am so far gone into what I am doing that even if you had I barely would have noticed.