Matthew, Oh dear

Unpredictably good.

That would be the observation of even the most reserved and yet, unexperienced of the avant-garde electonic music scene. Matthew Dear, at the Talbott Street venue was anything but underwhelming.

Playing much from his - and his band's - latest album 'Black City' the tone was dark, as were the outfits. No one, in this venue, or even me expected such a glorious representation of the concept album several Indie-electro fans have raved about.

Prior to their engagement in Europe, starting Wednesday in Amsterdam, the tour took one last stop in Indianapolis of all places to a crowd, I found, to be uninformed of Dear and/or his latest release.

Sunday, normally reserved for drag shows at the Indy venue, witheld an assault of originial and seemingly brilliant orchestration by Dear and his bandmates who I believe to be releasing a new sound amongst a midst of regurgitated nonsense.

Playing much from their latest release, based on a concept story of the so-called 'Black City', the band played the title song, along with: 'I can't feel' 'You put a smell on me' and 'Monkey'. The setting and venue played well to the fashionable Dear and the sound was fantastic, if not, better than on the album. The performance even made the concept a bit more believable to those of us who have listened intently and begged for a live performance.

It is always good to land upon a show that overwhelms as few do anymore, and leaving, talking to the casual passersby, many were taken aback at the artistry they had just witnessed.

I encourage a listen, if you haven't heard. But, keep in mind this is a band worth seeing up close and encouraged by the originality of the sound few have been able to conjure in these dark days of music originality.


"Feast your eyes on this!"

On, what. There's nothing in reality when the disillusionment of fact becomes truth and
we're no where
but further
down than where we started.

The sensations of sound

The clapping of hands and stomping of feet
lives to hollow ghosts of individuals
who seek truth but don't recognize
it when they perceive

Oh, the thumping sound of the heart as you near a climax of doubt

a bit of silence, worse

and, the stream of you're mind on paper is all we have as we hug
who we were
and what
we've yet to become.

Are you a dream, dear
where do you go, when i don't but

I see you're eyes and that's all sometimes and it worries me you do the same but
you don't
and i'm lost alone

would it be alright if I stayed in the car for a while and joined
you, when you decide

you play that chord again and again
and the sounds are
trapped but are peerless through the key hole

I can't sleep at all and you're


let me in,
dear I'll stay true

sometimes i wish you knew, the faults of the one you choose but I don't let it fell your truth
and the hush you give
to the beast underneath
and yet,

so much more less than the
love of


Psychology calls it paranoia. I call it life.

Travel as routine is numbing. And so was the frigidity of 5th avenue beneath my feet, making my way away from Central park and toward my well-passed lunch.

I had spent a good portion of the morning/early afternoon at the Museum of Modern art, oddly scared of what I saw; not enjoying a minute, but taking advantage of the $10 student-discounted-entry rate to the museum I usually love.

So there I was, cold and my pants constantly drooping, requiring I pull them up every block - in my mind - worried people behind dressed in NY's best fashion were offended.

Halal - street meat vendors were every two blocks, so I stopped and partook. The young man working the booth struggled to understand when I said I wanted 'lamb and rice', but, was finally able to decipher my thick-Midwestern accent and give me what I wanted. With, a side of pita.

After digging through his pockets, asking the adjacent street-art dealer for a couple dollars, I said it's okay and paid $8 for something I was promised at $6.

Crossing the street looking at my iPhone, disregarding the overly anxious and judgmental cabbies, I made my way to Rockefeller center to hope for a break in the overcast-reality of my minds-eye.

I sat - alone - on one of the circular-iron benches, peeled back the foil rim of the take-away box the Halal vendor had given me, and began devouring my lunch. Surprisingly, it's always very good and filling.

Becoming more aware of the surrounding crowd, camera shots and ice-skaters 50 feet from where I sat, I heard a large sigh from the crowd, clapping, laughing and then systematic 'hooray's'.

"This guy just proposed!"

"And she said yes!"

I couldn't have felt more departed from the whole of the tourists and vacationers. Honestly, who goes to NYC for a weekend in mid-January?

This guy does.

Or, rather, 6 hours.

So, I tried to stomach the enthusiasm of the churning crowd surrounding, but soon my mind began to run and my throat became dry. I watched as a young-Asian couple set down their coffees next to me, from the nearby coffee shop to the East of the ice-skating rink, disregarded them and then headed to watch the the newly-engaged couple in their victory lap of love.

They left their coffees, I thought. I worried. I considered drinking the closest one because at that moment, my throat really began to scream for liquid and the rice-lamb mixture began to creep downward.

I stood, after I had shuffled the rest in, and began to panic as the last bits of rice seemed stuck in my throat.

"What will I do if I begin choking?"
"Will anyone know who to call?"
"Maybe I should leave my phone open to my emergency contacts."
"What of my backpack, my company internet card, my laptop?"
"My camera.."
"If I end up in hospital, the van will be left past 7:30 p.m. and there will be a large fine to get it out!"
"Why do the pigeons get so close, but don't go for help?"
"If someone calls an ambulance, as the rice is stuck, how will I pay for the hospital bills to come?"
"I forgot to turn down the heat at the condo in Indianapolis."
"Is this move, really going to work if I have hospital bills from a choking incident in New York?"

My mind raced and the rice did not. I squinted toward the sky and thought: oh God, please let me get enough saliva to wash this down before I suffocate, either from the sanguine rice or the over-excited tourists, who'd probably regard me as a faking-homeless man and kick me to the gutter of E. 52nd street.

At that moment I got it in me to swallow and I was fine; well, from a physical side.

I thought for a moment about looking at the ice-skaters and did, only to see the Zamboni cleaning the ice for another go-around of over-priced-clichéd excitement.

Oh, to be a tourist in NYC on a cold-January day. My feet were cold and so was my mood.

What the hell was Frank Sinatra even singing about anyway? He probably didn't even write the damn song.

No, after looking, he didn't.


I watched you, watching for me

For more than 10 minutes before you saw


You smiled and ran away from your lost glance to


Where does this feeling come from and how can two be separate from all and want to share so much?

A red wheel barrel, a ship bound for all ports, we’ll read

Blankets and soup

Hence the feeling of truth in your grip

I don’t have to explain to anyone

Hemingway was right.

You asked me if I could love

Your attention begs my understanding

And, yes I do

True fruits of divinity in a person are impossible

They say

But they never met you

Or rather; us.

I’ll wait as long as it takes and I pray you the same

In a matter of time youll let me speak to your soul with my actions

And use little words but

Stay, softly

And we’ll find ourselves where we never thought possible and


With be a gift neither of us foresaw or imagined we’d deserve

We’ll roll amongst the tide and beg for one last kiss with our eyes


And do it all again the next day.

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