Love L.A. and we will love you too

Radiohead messageboards across the globe were ablaze last week with tales of how horrid Los Angeles and its Angelinos are. People who came in from all over the country/world to see their gods, Radiohead, were appalled by the apathetic snobby know-nothings who “stole tix from the real fans” and basically made a mockery of the human race. We didn’t know all the words, didn't dance enough, wore strange clothes, had too many celebrities in our midst. It was clear to every out-of-towner, including the members of the band apparently, that we were incapable of a truly emotional response to the music, and undeserving of a performance that would warrant one (nice Catch-22 right there). Indeed, many comments made by Thom Yorke during the show were interpreted to be put-downs of the audience – and they might very well have been.

Fast forward to last night. It’s 7:30pm, a gorgeous day of 75, there’s still light in the sky, and The Shins have just taken the stage for their Hollywood Bowl debut. “Welcome to outdoor dinner theater.” Thanks - you, too! The Bowl is an unlikely venue for The Shins, and it was a point of curiosity how they would present themselves, and be received. They get going, and by “going” I mean they strum their guitars and pluck at their Nord Leads and stand at their mics opening and closing their mouths to renditions of their songs that are frighteningly identical to those found on their albums. They don’t much stray from the script, except for their ‘tween-song banter - “Y’all enjoying your picnics or what?”; “Man, look at that champagne! It’s more expensive than the shit we got!!”; “So, really, who’s got caviar here? Hold up your hands. See, I knew some of you all would have caviar! Is it good?!” Then it is right back to looking, what is it?, bored?, nervous?, omg maybe it really is bored! All said and done – minus that of the two 13-yr-old girls in the box behind ours – the reception to The Shins’ lackluster performance is, well, lackluster. The group clearly does not feel comfortable up there in front of the wine-/cheese-/caviar-gobbling L.A. crowd. Their loss.

45-min later, the eight members of Belle & Sebastian mount the stage, majestically reinforced by the LA Philharmonic. Frontman Stuart Murdoch - wearing a black rimmed hat and horizontally-striped black and white shirt not unlike those of a mime - begins: “Hi. We’re from Scotland, but we like to think of L.A. as a second home. Mind if we play some tunes for you?” Massive cheers erupt from the newly shaken-from-slumber crowd. The first few songs are pretty mellow, and after a handful Murdoch speaks again: “…maybe a little later you’ll have a dance with us?” Some cheers, but cautious and unsure ones at best. As the night progresses, though, things get a bit more interesting…

First, there is the lap: Murdoch, mid-song with cordless mic in hand, descends from the stage into the crowd, and proceeds to run up up up into the audience, deep deep deep into the second tier of boxes. He runs a huge arced path - at quite a healthy pace I might add – and he’s singing and smiling and, lookie here!, there are people from the audience now running behind him and singing and smiling and who’s this pied piper and what’s he doing to us? By the time he returns to the stage, the audience is electrified and a noticeable bop has washed over all.

A few songs later, Murdoch asks whether anyone in the crowd would like to dance with him and a moment later a girl from the front garden terrace is ushered onstage. He asks for her name, to which she responds “Baby Beeyatch” – lots of hooting and “hells yeah!” and the band is playing and orchestra jamming and Murdoch & Baby Beeyatch are tearing it up.

Later, Murdoch ventures out onto the semicircular catwalk that juts out from the stage into the boxes. He’s singing and dancing and then they’re all singing and dancing – the pied piper’s legions have returned and they’re also up on the catwalk, dancing a jig and freakin’ the piper and he’s singing and dancing and doing a damn good job at ignoring security’s futile efforts to peal fans off him.

Soon, anarchy is gaining a foothold: columns, twenty deep, of the smiling/dancing/singing are cascading down the aisles, bursting through walls of ushers and pushing farther and farther towards the front. 20, 50, 100, 300. The whole bottom tier of the bowl is now jam-packed, a newly formed general admission pit bopping in unison. The aisles have long disappeared and so has the catwalk, crowned by undulating masses. The band is still playing but where are they? You can almost make them out amidst the scores of giddy celebrants who’ve made it all the way – they’re on the stage and the band is bravely plowing ahead while the conductor can only be described as incredulous and the strings and the horns and, yes!, the harpist are bowing and blowing and plucking their little hearts out.

The scene is infectious and sublime and 18,000 people ascend together. It is Basement Jaxx all over again, minus the big beats and clowns dressed as gorillas. It is Los Angeles reveling in the possibility of a band of foreigners taking them seriously and leading them as peers into the Promised Land. It is everything that’s great about our city: a place where the jaded are tough to awaken, but genuine effort is rewarded with handsome dividends. It is our secret, and one to which The Shins and legions of Radiohead groupies are not privy.