Dear Guys Singing At Concerts,
I hope you enjoyed the Grizzly Bear show as much as I did. By the sounds of it, you enjoyed it plenty. Too plenty, if you ask me. For you see, I thought there were only four members of Grizzly Bear. But I seemed to be mistaken. For you were screaming in my ear their lyrics to every A-track you knew (You shut up for the B-sides. Why is that? Why?). Did you hurt your hand? Is that why you weren’t on stage with your bandmates, riffing along, shredding on an instrument or bang banging on a drum? Maybe the band planted you in the audience, as some sort of audio experiment. You know, give the audience a feel of surround sound.
Maybe you weren’t a bandmate at all? This would explain your inability to sing on key to ANY, I repeat, ANY fucking song you sang along too. Really. That’s what you think a middle A sounds like? More like middle Ass. A cat on a hot carburetor would be more melodic. I like your heart, I do, but I’d like it more if it just stopped beating.
Do you just come to concerts because you were kicked out of your garage band for huffing all the WD-40 before your gig at John Barlycorn’s? Do they even have live music at John Barlycorn’s? I’m asking you, guy who sings at concerts, because I’m sure that is your favorite bar to feed women lies about your success so that they’ll sleep with you. Or do you come because you are a raving schizophrenic who in any other environment aside from a rock concert would be fingered as the blabbering, unrestrained, yelling ape-man that you are, thus rock concerts being a sort of brotherly sanctuary for you, like a gay bathhouse is to frat boys (There are secrets in the steam).
Is that beard you sport because you are trying to fit an image or are you just lazy…or are you not allowed to use a razor for fear you may cause harm to yourself or others, like your mother who obviously looks after you. Because you seem to be a walking, talking archetype, an embodiment of douche disguised as hipster wrapped up in academic do-nothing. Your button-up shirt, unironed and unremarkable, screams that you put probably as much thought into your fashion sense as you do your social sensibilities. And what a dearth of social sensibilities you have. I’ve mentioned the screaming, the incessant non-stop, in-my-ear screaming. But the head shaking and the spitting! Was that all really necessary? All those theatrics? All that spitting? In my direction? In my ear? On my hair? MY HAIR!!! I thought it was a seizure, and I thought I’d call for help. But then I realized you were just trying to shake the douche off of you, like a dog drying itself. Well let me tell you something, buddy. It don’t wash off.
I thought after the show I should have shaken your hand, gotten your autograph and handed you a Lincoln. It’d be the least I could do for your contribution to my night. I mean, Grizzly Bear was outstanding. But you, you outshined them like a thousand suns exploding into a fiery mess. Whereas the members of Grizzly Bear each have their own parts to sing, you know, so that their voices mesh into beautiful and otherworldly harmonies, you managed to sing each musician’s part while in the process making it sound like chimes, specifically the chiming of vomit striking the inner walls of a prison toilet. Kudos.
But alas, you did not receive your moment in the spotlight. You quickly scurried out, under the cloak of night, like a humble good Samaritan who’d rather let a good deed go left unclaimed. If only I knew where you lived, guy singing at concerts. Then I’d know where to direct my…gratitude. I’ll keep an eye out for you, or rather, an ear.