If you've never heard of them, Gogol Bordello is a Gypsy punk rock back from NYC, and they sound exactly like you'd expect from that description. If you've heard of them, it's probably for "Start Wearing Purple":
Just about every tattoo parlor I've ever been in has them playing on repeat in the background. They've made documentaries about their band and added their bizarre sound to a variety of eclectic movie soundtracks, and they have more band members than I have fingers. Years ago, the frontman was the lead in the movie Everything is Illuminated, opposite Elijah Wood, and spent the movie (as far as I can tell) being himself.
The band lives for the stage; they tour relentlessly, almost nomadic like their Gypsy-inspired sound, and they are known and loved for their on-stage performance and energy.
Even though I can only name the one song, I've always wanted to see them. They live as a constant presence in the back of my mind, all tumbling chords and pounding drums and cheerful accordions.
So when I got the opportunity, I bought tickets immediately. Poor Bishop -- he didn't have a choice; he was going too.
We drove to the venue a few nights ago with the same repeated sentiment: This was an experience. If the show was awful, we'd leave, but we needed to see them. Needed to experience it, just to see what it was like. If the Wikipedia stories of their insanity were true.
They were.
By the second song in, frontman Eugene Hutz had produced a bottle of wine from somewhere and proceeded to tear the cork out with his teeth. He waved it around as he danced, unbuttoned-to-his-waist shirttails flying, while next to him, a 70 year old music professor positively wailed on his electric violin. By the end of the concert, he'd broken half the horse hairs of his bow.
By the fourth song, their second-best known called Wonderlust King, the little kids and the braless women surrounding us were losing their shit dancing, the kids up on the table next to us as their parents danced behind them. The according player on stage stood on top of the speakers and made faces at the audience while he gave Weird Al Yankovich a run for his polka-loving money.
The opera singer came out next, wearing a steam-punk floor-length orange leather jacket over leggings and binoculars, her stunning voice soaring over the Russian pouring from Hutz's mouth.
Then came the brass section, four guys in white shirts and Beetlejuice-stripped black and white pants that I quickly realized had been hanging out with the audience before the show (they'd been right behind us, actually - how was I supposed to know that the pants and the lime-green headband meant they were in the band??). These guys, complete with trombone, trumpet, saxophone, and baritone, proceeded to rock the next three or four songs until Hutz took a break to take off his military jacket -- and then the saxophone player got into a duel with the violinist in the most insane, talented display of playing I may have ever seen. The saxophone player could match every note of every arpeggio rolling off the strings, something I didn't think was even possible outside a symphony.
Even the frontman couldn't resist, and when they booted up the next song, wine bottle in hand, he waved all the horns back out, the opera singer produced an enormous marching band drum, and the drummer himself came out front to sing. His white shirt was stained pink by the end.
The drum ended up in the audience for the finale, Hutz standing atop it to alternate between conducting the audience and the band (and the bouncers right behind him to catch him if he decided to crowd surf). The crowd itself was so loud, and so enthusiastic, that when he aimed the mic to let the venue sing the refrain, I could actually understand the words. That just doesn't happen.
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| Don't judge the quality of my smartphone camera :) |
And then the lights went purple.
I've seen a lot of fabulous concerts over the years -- I've seen Davey Havok walk across the hands of a mosh pit and Chris Cornell sing a duet with Chester Bennington. I've seen Dave Mustaine rock the solos of Hanger 18, Bruce Dickinson climb the speakers to wave a British flag during The Trooper, and Gerard Way force the audience to pray to his dead grandmother. Hell, I've seen Ninja Sex Party cover Asia's Heat of the Moment and Papa Emeritas conduct his ghouls with GHOST.
Gogol Bordell wasn't better than all of those, but it is rare that I've seen a finale with more excitement, more energy, than the refrain to Start Wearing Purple.
It was an experience I wouldn't trade for anything -- but it did throw some things into sharp relief.
Bishop went with me; like me, he was curious about the rumored energy and theatrics of this band, and like me, he was not disappointed. But... he is the only one I shared this experience with. I didn't walk into work the next morning excited to share the story with anyone; no one asked. No one cared. They talk about cholesterol levels and church gatherings and grandchildren, and only rarely do they ask about my life, my interests. My coworkers and I don't exchange stories -- we exchange problems. We aren't friends.
So though I like my job, my new career, I miss my old... life, really. I miss seeing my friends on a daily basis. I miss having people to eat lunch with and share stories with, that daily dose of empathy and laughter that always bolstered the necessary courage to deal with the rest of the day.
I am lonely at work in a way I wasn't expecting.
This isn't necessarily bad -- everything I'm learning requires so much work, so much effort and sheer concentration, that I don't have much time for fan theories or discussions over character development in Stranger Things 2. Being on my own is freeing sometimes because I can push myself further, faster, than I've ever done before.
I'm going to need it. In less than two months, I'm starting the job search once again, this time looking for a bigger, more professional place to really grow now that I've kicked down the IT door.
Maybe, just maybe, I can find a place with people I will love, people who want to talk about Thor: Ragnarok and argue about which new Star Wars movie is the best and swoon over all the UST between Dean Winchester and Castiel.
And if I'm really lucky, one day some coworker will ask what I did last night, and their face will light up when I brag that I got to see Gogol Bordello, and I can start wearing purple to work again.
