By Laura P. Valtorta
There is so much to say about contemporary music that I’d love
to write album reviews. The problem is,
you have to attend concerts to do that. I only venture to a concert when I’m
really, really excited about a band, and then it usually ends in disaster.
In 2015, I was in Austin for South by Southwest, where there
was a peripheral parking lot concert by the Malian band – Tinariwen. I am a
huge fan of Tinariwen – their music, the beautiful varied colors of their skin,
their soulful danceable sound, and the lyrics (which boil down to “Hey, we love
the desert. The desert is great. All my friends live in the Sahara”) in some
tribal language translated in the liner notes.
At SXSW, the concert was attended by a huge crowd of drunken
people. Wait a minute – Tinariwen is a Muslim band. When do I get to enjoy one
of the two facets of sharia law that I admire – the ban on alcohol? Apparently
not at a concert in Austin .
The audio was too loud and ear-splitting. The whole experience made me want to
rumble. I actually shoved a couple of men out of my way. My children loved the
entire experience.
Last Saturday the indie rock band Alabama Shakes came to
Charleston. I love me some Alabama Shakes. Brittany Howard is amazing, and when
she screams, I jump up. I love the hairy style of Zac, who plays the bass. I
own both their albums and listen to them regularly on the stereo and on Youtube.
The story of their rise from Athens, Alabama to the world stage really inspires
me.
But a concert? I broke down and purchased three tickets. Any
review I wrote would need to focus on Brittany and not on the drugs and alcohol
that seem to be ubiquitous in American music.
The people-watching at the Volvo stadium wasn’t much fun – a
bunch of white people purchasing alcohol. Yes, the white people were of various
ages – from teen to ancient – but staring at the vast audience gave me snow
blindness. I counted 20 black people. This amazed me because Brittany Howard is
part African-American.
With Marco and Dante shielding me, I vowed to ignore the
drunkenness and enjoy the show. The performance did not disappoint. Brittany
came out in a wonderful dress (natural hair!) and did her thing. She played the **** out of that turquoise guitar. She screamed and she sang. “Don’t wanna
fight no more,” was a showstopper. “Dunes” killed me. I had a clear view of
Zac. I was clapping and swaying.
After the show, I exited the stadium happy and suggested we
walk to the car. The evening was limpid. Marco insisted we take the bus. “It
will save time.” We had a long drive ahead of us to Columbia.
As soon as I sat on the bus, I put my hand down in a pool of
vomit. Sigh.
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