tooth soup

photo credit: Xena Paradox aka Margaret Hart

This weekend just passed

was an incredible journey, both musically and introspectively. Two nights ago Louise, myself, Zak, and Dino attended the first of Amanda Palmer’s two Perth shows at the Fly-by-night musicians club in Fremantle. To say it was mind blowing is a horrible understatement. Let’s see if I can find a simile all-encompassing enough to speak of its value. Hrm.

It was like watching a tiny supernovae of lace and lust and love explode on the stage. No, that’s too scientific.

It was like seeing a shadow of a reflection of Dream’s wake. No, that’s too I’m-a-Neil-Gaiman-fanboy-ish.

It was like being in a life-sized hand-carved wooden music box with a gorgeous dancer that enthrals you until you realise that the music box is a coffin and the lady in front of you is dead. No, that’s way too emo.

It was like being at a performance whereby you know you are the only person alive that understands exactly what is going on in the mind of the performer, that you are the one to whom she is directing every quirk of lip and gaze towards, yet also paradoxically know that everyone else in the room is filled with the same feeling, but this knowledge only serves to enhance the feeling of inspiration and involvement that you are experiencing.

Mm, a bit far on the poetic/weird stalker side for my tastes, but it’ll do.

The Fly-by-night had a history of inspiration to uphold; I saw Cat Power, that powerhouse of voice and verve, there last year. Her performance left me utterly spent, and somewhere in the back of my mind I expected Ms. Palmer to live up to the location’s standing in my mind. You may have guessed this already, but just to confirm suspicions: it sure fucking well did.

It was theatre, it was comedy, it was performance art, it was tragedy, it was interpretive dance, it was cabaret for the darkly-dressed eyes that remained seated at the edges. She gave us reason to cry, to laugh, to be (wide mouthed, choking) amazed. They gave us reasons to close eyes and fly to strings, or wonder how on Earth one person could manage all those layered sounds and still appear as a hand-weaver, rather than a factory machine worker.

It’s difficult not to get caught up in the spectacle of Amanda’s (may I call you Amanda?) shows. She, like her predecessor in my mind, puts every single inch of herself, every last drop of energy (and she must have a deep reserve somewhere, as she was visibly jet-lagged when she arrived) into her performances. There isn’t anything left post-trauma, as evidenced by her dazed eyes and polite, but obviously tired, talk after the show. She burns like all the young artistic tragics before her, but never think for a second that this burn is in any way out of control. The flame is thin, tight, and so hot to be invisible to all but herself and those that can’t bear to look away.  The crowd soaks her up, soaks up the energy that she emits like sponges. My personal theory is that this energy must go somewhere; Amanda Fucking Palmer is fuelling the creative projects of young adults, one thousand at a time.

And it did feel like that. It felt like, if I could disengage myself from obligations for one second, I could use this reserve of Palmer Gas to start my online publication, or bend a hundred-thousand words to my will, bind it up and be a novelist. But away from the vaulted, hanger-like ceiling of the Fly-by-night it’s difficult to find the release valve to let it flow into those great and infinite engines lurking in the corner of our minds.

But I can rest assured that it remains there, mixing with contributions from such varied sources as Mr. Gaiman, Ms. Power, Mr. Keenan, Mr. Fford, Mr. Pratchett and many others. Waiting for the opportunity to mix with the oxygen offered by free time and space to combust and fling me into creative action.

So thank you, Ms. Palmer. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

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