Working for the Church while my family dies.
Going into Neon Bible, I was skeptical. I'm always skeptical when a band's previous album is of a high calibre. But Funeral was not just high calibre; let's be honest: it was goddamn fucking amazing. If you didn't fall to your knees and pump your fists to heaven when Rebellion (Lies) came on, then the gods pocketed your pulse before you were born.
Perhaps mentioning the gods is appropriate here, considering the religious references in Neon Bible. I sat at my desk in the government IT department listening to the album, jotting down notes each time a biblical reference caught my ear, be it striking or subtle. From the name of the album itself (contemporary electro-chemical signage, often associate with the historically sinful [gambling, sex, pharmacies] becomes an adjective for the ultimate symbol of tradition and political power [Christ, one could write an essay on the juxtaposition of these two words alone. If I were to have used this in a poem at university, I would have done so using asyntactic elision, and my professor would have shit himself]), to the title of the opening song (Black Mirror: a concise wordplay on Paul's first letter to the Corinthians? "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly . . ." The glass in question being a mirror), to the myriad of lines hidden among the lyrics (from Intervention: "Who's gonna throw the very first stone? / Ah, who's gonna reset the bone?!"). Soon, however, I realised there were too many levels layered throughout Neon Bible; too many for me to do any of them justice in one simple music review. Instead, I will write a letter to Arcade Fire imploring them to play in Wellington, New Zealand.
Dear Arcade Fire,
When you come to play the great clubs of Wellington, the great crowds will follow.
Because the ear cannot resit some melodies.
Because there is music even the wind pauses to take in. And there is wind enough here.
Because of the men and women who don't want to work in the buildings downtown.
Because the boozers and glue sniffers on Cuba street are really the genius musicians of old Japan, and they are drunk, and they are high because they cannot remember how to play.
Because every day begins here.
Because of the boys and their girls who are embarrassed dancing on the train to Paekakariki.
Because mockingbirds perform Chicago every night in the parking garages.
Because we moved out of our parents' houses eight months ago, and we've been working, and there is just enough dosh for a gig at The Bathhouse.
Because we don't live in America. Not anymore.
Because of the winding great tinge behind the eye that just might trigger enough tears to surface the reasons we wake up.
Because we have read all the books, and seen all the movies, and heard all the songs; we have played all the games, and eaten at all the restaurants, and drank all the wine; and we have raced the buses down Lambton Quay until our muscles shook and we fell with a quiver in the turning lane, our heads quiet on the curved, bright arrow.
Because there is enough time.
Because there is always enough time for some things.
Sincerely,
Jamie, et al
Comments