I forgot I was meant to be emotional or something on the occasion of my first concert since this all began. I wasn’t that, but I was a little sauced, having put a few back at a bar right beforehand. It was a millennial cocktail place playing noise music though the vibe was more Fleetwood Mac. I wasn’t as against it as my drinking colleagues were, but this isn’t a bar review, it’s a concert review: James Blake @ The Greek in Berkeley.
Direct from the bar, AJ and I bike to the UC Berkeley campus where the outdoor amphitheater resides on the hillside. We lock our bikes and wander in, showing first proof that we are vaccinated and second that we brought with us no guns or water. The stage faces stone seats that climb upwards and outwards on the hill. We direct ourselves to the grass lawn above all that. At the nearby bar they sell a beer for $11 and a large for $12. It is an easy decision to make. We share a joint as the last of the sun disappears and I graduate from just sauced to now twisted.
We’ve timed it well, both our arrival and the joint. As we cash it, all the lights go off except for the moon and a few darkened figures populate the stage. The lights come back on and James Blake is there along with two compatriots, each housed on a raised square platform, like little music islands. There is one for drums, one for keyboards where Mr. Blake sits, and a last that looks like a lit-up treadmill. I don't know how electronic music works.
The music begins and it registers quickly that maybe sitting this far away and above the rim of the stage does not make for the best auditory experience, even with the add-on of chemical modifiers. Sometimes a joint makes it easier to fall into something, other times it shows you the box in which something exists. At least tonight, the box is clearly in outline.
If I were a real music critic maybe I would mention the setlist, remark on a certain song, or even situate James Blake within the context of our times. But I am not that, I can only report that from where I sit, the music escapes unimpactfully into the atmosphere. Probably it is better to see a James Blake concert inside, where the music can bounce off the walls and ceilings and fully envelop you.
AJ says something to the effect that if you’re going to play sad and slow music at least your visuals should be cool, but the light installation at the back of the stage is basically an EKG machine without the suspense. I close my eyes to enjoy the music more, sometimes falling into it, sometimes not.
The night goes on pleasantly and undramatically. He plays old songs and new songs, some I know, others I don’t. Every so often he talks awkwardly to the crowd, apologizes that the new album isn’t out yet, compliments us on our behavior, explains that his songs come from anxiety and depression. The music performed live takes on no life beyond Spotify, but I am happy merely to be here and buzzing, looking over to San Francisco, looking over a crowd that sways back and forth in something that is short of dancing but more than stillness.
When the encore is over, AJ and I walk back to our bikes. The departing crowd has taken over the street and many are still singing. I overhear one person tell his date that the show was sublime. I wonder what show he went to. We pedal through the crowd and I pretend to AJ that I only came tonight to mow down pedestrians afterwards, the pickings here are easy. The night is perfect for biking and we take residential streets home. I bike silly because I’m feeling silly. It makes AJ both laugh and worry. When I get home, I put James Blake on in my good headphones, I like him better this way.