In this case, I’m speaking specifically of the very cool singer-songwriter, Robyn Hitchcock, who, although his name rang a bell, I had never really listened to until last night when my sister Deb, visiting Seattle on what she called a “notebook conference” (as opposed to a “schwag bag conference”), took all of us to seem him play at the downtown nightclub, The Triple Door.
The club was cool, too: strong drinks, good food, and (at least last night) all-fucking-ages, so parents could sit and enjoy alcoholic libations right next to the kid, in public, and get this, Washington State Alcohol Board, the world didn’t come to an end, nor does the child seem any worse for wear from the experience.
Jen, somewhat against her better judgment as a working artist with a big presentation due today, joined me a in little pre-concert safety meeting outside, but that turned out to be just the thing to really appreciate Hitchcock’s stony way of looking at the world, his goofy twee sense of humor, and his randomly literate lyrical stylings.
We cracked up for the first ten minutes of the show, hardly able to believe the perfectly odd things coming out of Hitchcock’s mouth, while Mimi amused herself illustrating the words to song like Queen Elvis: “people get what they deserve/time is round and space is curved.”
The set featured a bunch of Hitchcock’s own songs and a number of covers, including a couple of Dylan tunes, where—in my humble opinion—he did a better Dylan than Dylan, at least one Beatles number, and my favorite of the evening, the old Byrds’ paean to psychedelic social change, “Eight Miles High.”
So now I’m totally a Robyn Hitchcock fan, which—even at this late date—is kinda cool.