usually when I go to a show, I start writing it in my head. either literally, or I'll take these mental snapshots, like when the feather fell to the drumkit at the decemberists last wednesday. or when I was talking to ed harcourt, knowing I'd be scribbling about it furiously the second I got to my car.
the wrens, however, have rendered me speechless.
so go put the meadowlands on as loud as it will go.
we stood wide-eyed in the bowery ballroom, now littered with cups and papers, looking at each other in disbelief.
me: jesus fucking christ.
kacia: I think I'm in love with charles.
I'll let you know if I come up with any more words.