Snow plummeted down from my dreary above. This past Sunday night in Allston draped itself in an eery darkness; the kind of darkness, where the streets take an orange glow — reflecting off the dendrical flurries. I heard the inside of my hood chafe my red skull cap, as the beers from dinner wore off, replacing that warm fuzzy feeling, with the sound of nails on a chalkboard. I was trudging. I was miserable. I was convinced that my footslog to Brighton Music Hall would only end in heartbreak (okay so maybe I’m a bit melodramatic).
But, when I looked to my right, I saw my mom in tow (she’s in town visiting), trudging through that very same snow, with a smile on her face. Her black, down-feather hood cupped her face like a baby gorilla’s, and she said: “Isn’t this just great? Two girls from California, hanging out in this snow.” Never had I seen such unadulterated enthusiasm for life. So, I smiled back at her, and I realized, this wasn’t a footslog. This was an adventure: this was one night with San Francisco-based indie rock band the Dodos. And this was my odyssey.
On my voyage this particular evening, deep in the winter of 2015, things took a roaring upswing for the better the second my mom and I made our way through the black doors of Brighton Music Hall. With something along the lines of a light blizzard outside, the rock club stood either half empty or half full (depending on your feelings on winter after 100 inches over five weeks). We glided through the room, peering up at the hanging lights, that give off the effect of fireflies on a warm summer night. Finally, life filled the cheeks of myself and my fellow concert goers. The audience mingled in small groups, swaying side to side, as Steely Dan played rhythmically to the backdrop of headliner’s band set up. My mom grabbed my hands, and we danced to “Deacon Blues,” all the while inching closer to the bar.
Spirits were bright, even for a sleepy night.
The electronic clock on stage clicked past ten, its red numbers promising something. Insert color metaphor here… insert numerical analogy as well. Just as my head was about to spin-off, pondering the above, the evening’s adowable Dodos duo, Meric Long and Logan Kroeber, breezed onto the platform and to their instruments. Hearts swooned. I think I saw even the boys of the audience blush.
Clad in perfectly subtle, yet indie attire, the Dodos’ sound was anything but. Long, who has an uncanny resemblance to Joseph Gordon Levitt, plays his guitar with ease; there’s a love in his art that’s almost tangible. His eyes suggest a certain disconnect. He’s there, right in front of you, but as his instrument sputters out long, wavy, and caramel like melodies you get the sense, he’s somewhere else. You stand there, wanting to be wherever that is, exactly. It feels like the age innocence, that first summer love, that autumn walk, those changing leaves.
Nostalgia washes over me when the opening chords of “Walking” actualize before me. I remember home. Being in high school. Feeling awkward. Getting my first car. Putting this song on that inaugural mixtape. Careening down Pacific Coast Highway, the top down, and all. I miss this, but then I snap back. I realize this is this. I look out on the audience and get the sense they too are experiencing something metaphysical, too.
Kroeber pounds away on his drums heartily. There sound is flawless. I peer to my left now, and there is my mom. She whispers in my ear, “their sound is so powerful.” I reply affirmatively. That’s all there really is to say. The Dodos mix the perfect cocktail of sounds; One-half pop punk, one-third folk, one part grunge, and another indie rock, all adding up to their own terms of measurement. It’s stunning. It’s inspiring. It’s more than worth the trudge through the snow.
The show let out, and this time around, my mom and I hailed a cab (so much for that great pilgrimage), we crawled into the back seat laughing — both of us riding the high of such a great show. Me signing out, smitten. Moms make the best concert buddies, ever.
Follow Madison Silvers on Twitter @MadiSilvers
