Arts From the Letter Bag
Specifically, from email@example.com.
You know you really should do yourself a favor, take your own advice and go see STYX! Quoting you…”Now Styx is a desiccated shadow of its Paradise Theater days”. Nothing could be further than the truth, when you are talking about STYX ! So don’t insult them, just go to the show, and you’ll find that they more than “Rock The Paradise”. Then come back and right a fair review, instead of one that is made up from your preconceived notions.
Okay, lady. A fair review: I went to the motherfucking Styx show at the Southwest Washington Fair. (In Chehalis. With fresh-dipped corn dogs. And funnel cakes. And tallboys of Budweiser. And other things that make you feel like you’ve been on 15 carnival rides when you have not, in fact, been on any.) Styx was energetic. They asked: “Are you ready to get Styx-ified, Chehalis?!” Chehalis was. They played all the good songs (“Lorelei,” “Come Sail Away”) except “Mr. Roboto” (it got one short chorus during an 18-Styx-songs-in-one medley, I assume for legal reasons. They hit their notes, wailed on their guitars, they did all the stuff.
But there was that inescapable air of a group whose aesthetics and sense of self-regard had frozen decades ago, when they were at their peak. Exhibit A: the weirdly straight-ahead cover of “I Am the Walrus.” (I though the rule in rock ‘n’ roll was to cover down, not cover up, unless you’re going to do something great and weird with the song. Exhibit B: the new vocalist/keyboardist (who, appropriately, sounded pretty much like the original one) stood atop a raised, circular platform with his keyboard on a pivot, so he could prance in circles without interrupting his playing. He played behind his back. A lot. Too much. (Be sparing with your top moves, dude.) Exhibit C: the copious Styx frisbees and t-shirts hucked into the crowd, the many, many picks thrown from the stage (dozens a song), which presumed Chehalis wanted 12,000 guitar picks briefly touched by a Styx guitarist.
So there you have it, firstname.lastname@example.org. I hope I’ve writed a rong.
(Her name isn’t really Susan, so don’t try to email her. I just wanted to share that bitchin’ domain name.)