My Trip Smoked
What follows is an account of the blogger Brock H. Brown's travels...
In writing a detailing of my experiences at the Braid shows, I came to two conclusions: The first is that Gabe, being the bigger fan, wrote a much stronger summary. The second conclusion is that a justification of Braid's excellence is pointless. History has already written volumes on Braid's worth. Hence, instead of spending your precious time and emptying my vocabulary, I'd much rather expound upon the band's dynamic. Don't worry; you can rest assured that the shows killed. In my exploration of Braid's live inner-workings however, you will come to an understanding of that.
First and foremost, you need to take into account that Braid is a vastly different band then Hey Mercedes. I say this because in my observation of Hey Mercedes live I've noticed that Hey Mercedes is primarily a "frontman" band. Although influenced by its other members, it’s shaped by the stage presence of its frontman, Bob Nanna. But in order to see the difference between Hey Mercedes and Braid you must throw in Chris Broach. And the second you do that, the group ceases to be a "frontman" band and becomes a counter-balancing act. Broach is quite simply the frontman opposite Nanna. Nanna is poppy, thoughtful, whereas Broach is dark and emotive. In essence, Bob Nanna croons the audience with his feelings; Broach unloads them like caps from a semi-automatic. Nanna was always a performer of want, and Broach one of need. And this dynamic between the two, this contrast shows greatly in a live performance.
That isn't so say that Broach’s lack in Hey Mercedes makes that group worthless, just that his presence is part of what made Braid so worthwhile.
The truly haunting moment during the shows came however at the end of the night. Closing with the last song on Frame and Canvas, "I Keep a Diary", the boys who became Hey Mercedes gradually exited the stage, one by one, until the audience was left with the visual commentary of a solitaire Broach whom strummed the song's final chords.
Being able to see the Braid shows with Gabe, Rebeckah and Alex was a real treat. But the secondary purpose of my trip to California was a hook-up with my family at a two-day stint in Disneyland.
Aside from being able to enjoy the added presence of my aunt, uncle and young cousin (they all flew in front Salt Lake City just to be there) I got to enjoy some of the rides at the massive theme park.
Yeah, Mickey Mouse is a corporate bastard, and Eisner has enough money to mass-burn his greed in the world's most expensive bonfire, but the immense fun of the park quelled every anti-corporate slogan that normally emerges from my mouth. Besides, why should I let the brutal opinions of the anti-corporate cannibal within me interfere with family time? We all got to go on cool rides like Indiana Jones, and the brand new Tower of Terror. My Mom, a normally timid person, went for some of the most gut-wrenching rides at the park, like the Tower and even Disney California's loopy, vomit churning roller coaster.
While I have yet to fully get behind roller coasters, I did go on the Tower of Terror. And let me tell you, the free fall experience of you and 20 other people hurling down a metal shaft into absolute darkness is far worse then anything a mere roller coaster could throw at you. My Uncle tended to think so too: "The rush of speed on the coaster is completely different then the feeling of free fall. I just felt like my stomach was trying to force a way up my throat there."
Still, there were a few oppressions that befell us at "the happiest place on earth". Namely, the tormenting heat. "Hey! I thought Disneyland was in California," you say, "not Phoenix". I thought so too, but apparently, California is going through a patch of warm weather right now. And the combination of heat and being dropped down dark shafts serves to drain the stamina very quickly.
The other downside? This would be the un-ending vendetta between my family and "Splash Mountain" (or the 'log-raft' ride for you non-Disney folk). For years we've tried to ride that infernal attraction to no avail. Massive lines and time constraints always kept it out of our schedule. But this year would be different. This year we got "fast-passes" to the ride, allowing us to skip ahead of the throngs of people and experience the ride at our comfort. It was all coming together when, in my family's moment of triumph, the park shut Splash Mountain down due to "ride difficulties". What?! You mean the ride had won again? Next year...it’s end game for the log-rafts.
After Disneyland we made the trek down to San Diego and stayed a few days on the beautiful Coronado Island. While I could let my volatile disposition pass subtly at Disneyland, I couldn't help but comment a few times on the snooty disposition of Coronado and Hotel Del. And a few others in my family couldn't either. You see, us Browns, we're not wealthy, but we do enjoy spending time in nice places. And Coronado, despite all of its catering to society's "upper-crust", is a relaxing and sociable place to visit. The Hotel Del is always nice to stay in, more for its architectural impression then its elitist tendencies. It was built about a hundred and sixteen years ago, and it still smacks of the rich Victorian era. The dark woodwork and shining handrails, they were a lone Bohemian’s entire dream in the 1800's. And they're still nice surroundings. Besides, spending time on Coronado, despite the riches, added much needed inspiration for my short story. It does reference the island's "golden beeches and shores" after all.
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