Sigur Ros

Now that I've binged on 4 slices of Famiglia Pizza--by far the worst pizza in the city, but hey, nothing else is open right now, I'll try to make some sense of the night I just had. Here goes:

Tonight I went to go see the band Sigur Ros in concert at the Paramount Theatre at MSG. Lord knows nothing makes me happier than spelling "theatre" with an "e" at the end rather than as "theater," the traditional American way, so needless to say, I'm walking on the moon right now. Quite frankly, the only things that would make me happier would be a [redacted] of [redacted], followed by a handjob from a Norwegian national here on holiday. But that's not important for our present purposes.

If you don't know of Sigur Ros, clearly you aren't a fan of Icelandic neo-classical post modern indie folk rock. And if you do know them, you're probably aware that they aren't the type of group one could easily envision putting on a good show. But after countless missed appearances in NYC where I wanted to go but instead opted to eat pizza alone on my couch instead, I decided it was finally time. And so, tonight, I headed over to MSG after work, and still dressed like a lawyer, to mingle with the "common folk," and take in a little music, to boot.

I could go on and on about how, in terms of "ambient soundscapes" and creativity, Sigur Ros is the modern version of Pink Floyd, and how their music--which sounds like pure movie soundtrack--is inspirational, innovative, and like nothing you've ever heard before, but instead I've opted to talk about the women at the concert, because, well, it's just easier, and I'm too drunk to do an actual music review right now.

I knew going in that this would be a concert like none I had ever seen--in other words, the throngs of hippies would be sitting down and staying silent, instead of spinning in circles and dropping tabs of acid like they were tic-tacs. But I never thought that I'd see such a talented throng of women lining up to watch these four Icelandic men--and their backing string and horns sections--belt out some of the tightest, most awe-inspiring modern classical music I've heard since that Iron Butterfly show back in '68.

Let me tell you, each girl was hotter than the next. First, there were the typical European model types. Sure, perhaps they're in town for fashion week. I don't know. I don't wear Seven jeans. Nonetheless, they pranced around with their chins in the air, wearing boots up to the neck, if you know what I mean. And if you don't, let me just say that I stored enough mental images to make for masturbation fodder for at least 4 days--which, for an "enthusiastic" masturbator like me, is saying alot--and that's word I don't use very often, because my 9th grade English teacher, who recently got arrested and fired for engaging in intercourse with a 16 year old student, told us never to use that word.

Then there were the creepy-yet-hot tattooed hipsters from Greene Pointe. While waiting in line for a beer, I noticed that one of these vixens, wearing a tight, midruff-exposing tank top, had a tattoo of a box wrapped in a red bow right right above her "private area" (her vagina). 'Nuff said.

What impressed me most, however, were the "regular" girls. That is, the "girl next door" types, the ones who are cute and that you would bring home to mom except for the fact that they love Billy Joel, except they don't, because they were at the Sigur Ros show and not the Billy Joel show upstairs at the arena, which demonstrates that they are different, or at least, that they are potheads. Speaking of pot, were I a pot smoker, I'm sure I would've enjoyed this show so much more, and wouldn't have fallen asleep in the middle during one of their dark, effervescent "hopelandic" jingles, but I'm not, so I did. But these girls didn't, and that says something to me--even if they would otherwise refuse to talk to me because I haven't cut my hair in 3 months and look like a hairy octopus, if such a creature even exists.

Sure, I enjoyed the fact that the band played such notable tunes as "Untitled 4" and "Viorar Vel Til Loftarasa," but in the end, it was the nubile yet slovenly 18 year olds who really made this a night to remember. Meanwhile, I'm home now, alone, possessed by the 7 beers I drank in 30 minutes, 2 clicks shy from pissing down my leg, but I'll never forget those "regular" girls rocking out to a band who otherwise makes grown men weep their your hands after but a few seconds of listening. But to tell you the truth, it was all worthwhile.

To conclude, let me say this--I really like Sigur Ros. Their music is like nothing you've ever heard, and like nothing you are likely to hear. It isn't very hard or fast, if that is your thing, nor is it very linear. But what it is is emotional, and nuanced, and different--and considering the landscape of modern music, that sure goes a long way--at least for me. Not to mention the fact that harems of hot, hot women--who apparently date guys who are much greasier and uglier than I--seem to really dig them. And that gives me hope. So for that, I'll wait in line again to see Sigur Ros in concert. But next time, maybe I'll take up pot smoking before I go.