Bluebird Theater: CocoRosie
I knew as soon as I saw the winged and face-painted fans in line that this would be a good show. A guy in a fur coat with a platinum blond Mohawk stood in front of me. To my left: two young women in stretchy headbands bedecked in Native American gift shop paraphernalia—miniature dream catchers, beads, feathers.
Glitter was everywhere. Women outnumbered the men.
Bianca: uniquely sexy with her bizarre clothes and makeup, sharp features, and child-like voice. Sierra: garbed in a gold leotard from ankle to wrist and waving her arms angelically like mid-summer stalks of wheat. A smile never left her face.
A tall ginger-haired man, mustachioed and gay, zeroed in on Derek. It appeared that this man waxed and twirled the ends of his mustache on a regular basis. His face was rosy, cherubic, and he wore a brown leather hat stuck with a dainty, pale pink hatpin.
“I work at Victoriana,” he explained, and told us stories about his bald, hypoallergenic kitty. It sounded like true love.
Two women joined the conversation. Both with long gray hair, never dyed.
Everyone seemed to be big fans of Florence and the Machine. Why am I always gestured at when another redhead is mentioned?
The floor: sticky; The venue: warm, confined.
A Hermione-haired rave dancer on the level below weaved her arms in abnormal, impulsive patterns for the whole three hours–an unavoidable presence, though she kept to her given dimensions.
Smoke and must floated halfway to the ceiling, hovering as though hesitant to dissolve. Hesitant to miss the next nonsensical costume change, the beat boxer’s solo performance, the second encore.
More than just a show, the concert was a communal celebration of sound and beauty held by citywide strangers. It was an observation of human expression.