Futureheads Revisited

I don't even know how to begin conveying the fantastic-ness that was the Futureheads show. Whoo, boy. This is going to take a while.

I got to Mount Royal metro, and Ing was already there. As we waited for tardy Becky, I applied my mascara with only a vague Plexiglas reflection to assist me ("how perfectly white trash," I remarked) as Ing told some disturbing tale about Becky's cat swallowing, and subsequently pooping out a rubber balloon--un-inflated, I'm assuming.

Becky arrived, and as we made our way towards El Salon, we promptly revived our discussion from the previous evening: our band name. Crucial, crucial stuff here. Suggestions were plentiful, and plenty uninspiring, ranging from "Misanthrope" to "The Latin Lovers" to "Faux beaver." Lacking jazziness, to say the least.

A sign on the door of the venue "requests" that we do not smoke. Scoffing ensues. Inside, the coat check lineup is ridiculously long. But that's okay, because the first opening act is easily ignorable, inspiring no desire to rush to the front of the stage and revel in their crappieness. Plus, waiting in line gives us the opportunity to scope out the crowd, and point and laugh at people. One guy in particular captures our attention. Coke-bottle glasses, tapered jeans and white keds. E-gad. I whisper to Ing, "wouldn't it be funny if he ended up being in one of the bands," and we all have a good laugh. Slipping by the merch table, Ing notes the names of the opening acts, "The Shout Outlouds" and "Highspeed Scene", and their lack of the all-important jazziness factor. I buy a pack of Futureheads pins for 3 bucks. Irresistible, as they conform to the pink-black-white motif I've got going with my current accumulation on my purse. I kid not.

Our coats are secured away, and we venture towards the right side of the stage.

In a beautiful, beautiful moment, the second opening act comes on, complete with coke-bottle -glasses-guy, as drummer. Priceless. These Shout Outlouds turn out to redeem themselves, however, by a) being from Sweden (which somehow excuses any fashion accidents) b)having a lead singer who vaguely resembles Jason Shwartzmann, and c) actually being pretty damn good, and rockin' the joint like a bunch of crazy "Scandies-" as Becky chooses to refer to them as. They are a crowd pleaser. And that is a rare thing for an opening act in Montreal, let me tell you....

The Futureheads jump on stage shortly after, and they seem just as happy to be here as we do. It's quite refreshing, really. They look all spiffy, in loafers and black dress pants, but their mischievous smiles and the random jabs at each other betray this formality. Like a bunch of young hoodlums being forced to dress up for church by their mums. It's endearing.

The music starts, and we're infused with massive amounts of energy. I'm dancing like an idiot. I can't stop myself. I'm a slave to the sound. By the third song, the three of us have maneuvered our way to the very edge of the stage, in arms reach of the bassist, Jaff. They can't help but notice us, the dancing fools that we are. Every look from Jaff, lead singer Barry and drummer Dave, inspire us to no end. And just as we think we've run out of steam, they play "Hounds of Love" and there's that second wind. But, uh... gross, my bangs are all sweaty! Oh, fuck it. Dance on!

When the show is over, we are buzzed, but disgustingly hot. There's a back door that the bands have been coming in and out of, and no security whatsoever, so we cross the line into "backstage" territory, and step out the backdoor for some fresh air, and a smoke. A few minutes go by, and two of the band members walk right by us. I call out to them "Great show guys!" One of them says thanks, and I say, "It was really awesome." Awesome? Really? Oh, crap. Possibly the lamest words ever. Or at that moment in time they were anyway. Soon, the four of them are about to turn the corner, and I'm thinking.... do it you fool! Just ask them! Before it's too late! So I do.

"Where are guys going?" The lead singer hears me. He turns back. "After the show," I add, "Are you going somewhere?"

"Yeah. Some party, " he says. Oh, great, I think. A private thing. No fans allowed kinda deal. But wait! He calls out to one of his bandmates, "What's this place called?" He turns back to us. "Pistol? You know this place?" Do I?!

"Yeah. Yeah!" we all chime in. " It's just a few blocks down," and "they have good sandwiches,” and "good fries."

"Right. Thanks." And he's off. Cue giddiness.

Oh. My. God. We look at each other and exchange profanities. "Tell me I am the coolest person in the world," I say, or something to that effect. They do.

Soon after, some homely looking girl pokes her head outside, all frazzled and lost, and asks us if the band left. She gave them a CD (to sign, I'm assuming) and wants it back. We just sort of shake our heads and tell her we think they're getting changed in the tour bus. She leaves, and we reflect on the insipidness of autograph collecting.

We decide that the best thing to do is waste an hour or so, as we don't want to be sitting at Pistol waiting for them when they arrive. 'Cause, you know, that would just be sad. Ahemm. Yes.

We go for noodles right across from the Pistol, and talk about our fabulousness some more, and work out some of our band logistics. Then, the time comes.

Once inside, we wait for a table to open up at the bar, nursing our Heinekens, and assessing the Furtureheads sitch. They're all stuffed in this little corner together with their friends. We see little opportunity for mingling. But, the night is young, and a table frees up. We sit. Soon enough, someone appears at our table.

"Hi Girls." It’s the lead singer. And HE came to talk to US. "I'm Barry." He offers his hand. We shake. No hesitation there. At first, he just crouches at the edge of the table, and we talk briefly about our dancing, the Montreal crowds, and the music scene. He turns back to his group, and says, "hold on a minute," very politely, and Ingela says "smooth exit."

"You don't think he's actually coming back," I ask, not out of naïveté, but from the sense that he seems like an honest guy, who, if he were finished talking to us, would actually say a proper goodbye. And, whatdaya know, he does come back. Pulls up a chair in fact, sets his glass of white wine firmly on our table, and chats with us for a good 15 minutes. About sleeping on a tour bus, Conan O’Brien, Kate Bush and weird stalker fans that follow them from show to show. And of course, about our band: Leave it to Beaver (working title). Honestly though, I don’t think that impressed him much.

Of course, Ingela simply mentions the fact that she's heading back to Toronto the next day, and he offers to put her on the guest list. But she's floored. He goes out of his way to find a pen, and proceeds to write her name, plus one, on his hand. She's dying inside. And in the good way. Becky and I wish we lived in Toronto, so he would write our names on his hand too, until we realize.... wait.... that would mean we would actually have to live in Toronto. Never mind.

We wait until they've cleared out completely to leave the bar. Ing insists on doing some zany arm-flailing dance on Boul. St Laurent, accompanied by some literal woo-hooing, to my and Becky’s chagrin.

I console myself with the fact that Ingela owes it all to my courageous act, of daring to speak to them. It's sort of working.

Lying awake in Becky’s living room, too wired to fall asleep, I tell Ing, "I'm never not doing that again . . .. If that makes any sense."

"I'm pretty sure I know what you mean," she tells me. As I write this, she is probably on her way to the Toronto show. Have fun Ing. I hate you.