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Merriweather Post Pavilion, Animal Collective

Domino, January 6, 2009

Track Listing: 1. In the Flowers, 2. My Girls, 3. Also Frightened, 4. Summertime Clothes, 5. Daily Routine, 6. Bluish, 7. Guys Eyes, 8. Taste, 9. Lion in a Coma, 10. No More Runnin, 11. Brother Sport


“Am I really all the things that are outside of me?
Am I really all the things that are outside of me?
Am I really all the things that are outside of me?
Am I really all the things that are outside of me?”

-fromTaste

Locked and loaded on Collins Avenue, a souped-up sedan cruises by the neon nightscape at a curious pace with a semi-automatic in tow. In the surrounding dim lit bars, pill pushers slip in and out of johns and hazy residues resembling traces of former selves while, scattered in the underbelly of the city, purple-clad pimps count thick wads of green—cash from businessmen, lonely-hearts, lobbyists, and other travelers of discontent.

“There’s a secret place I hide that’s deep inside of me”

-fromLion in a Coma

Over the Gulf, horizon hues—sienna sunrises and salmon sunsets—bleed into a purple haze. Seagulls fly over a prismatic blend of tangerine, coral, and mandarin, rising and dipping and soaring in a perfectly choreographed sky ballet performed for the beach dwellers below. Honeymooners and like-minded wonder-gazers are lost in sparkled self-reflection.

“No one should call you a dreamer”

-fromAlso Frightened

Many miles away, a pimply sophomore passes the hour in dreamy rumination, locked inside a hot classroom cell somewhere near the vague vicinity of an approaching summer day. It is May, monotonous May, and Madame Gill reads Camus en français to deaf ears that have wasted space in her classroom since the beginning of time. Having spent the year failing to inspire yet another sorry lot of hopeless daydreamers, she does what she always does—passes the buck off on video games and absent parenting. Her inability to mold minds, while suspiciously consistent, is certainly not on her.

“This wilderness up in my head”

-fromLion in a Coma

The boy’s silver spaceship lands in a field so saturated in green it seems as if it must have been born from a painter’s brush. Tree trunks are camouflaged in velvety moss. Lush trails give way to wild ferns. The boys hears, “Cravate,” offered up meekly off in the distance by a classmate as others giggle (signifying an incorrect response), but he cannot be bothered with any of that as his imagination continues to traverse the woodsy wonderland where the abundant trees seal sun rays within the leafy emerald shield that hovers above the olive path jetting out in all directions below.

“Will it be just like I’m dreaming?”

-fromAlso Frightened

Weekend trippers ride highs to the ends of the world. Babies cry out in the night for mothers and fathers, missing and present. Teenagers sneak liters of liquor from basement supply cabinets as unsuspecting guardians watch sitcoms and hour long dramas played back on DVRs via HDTVs. Some say Lost isn’t as good as it used to be. Others watch Seinfeld reruns and pine for the good old days: unlocked doors, block parties, cheap gasoline, sex without consequence, and Fourth of July barbecues with neighbors who were friendly.

“To hold you in time
To hold you in time
To hold you in time
To hold you in time”

-fromIn the Flowers

Midnight plays cool while a jukebox plays decade-old tunes. “Stairway to Heaven” never fails to find a coin. Windows fog over as a girl and boy pet and pant and sweat in the back seat of an SUV parked near the edge of the woods, not too far from a man with a mask. Hospital beds are soaked in piss and sweat, death and life. Newborns scream out to an unknown world as nervous family members gather in waiting rooms for news good and bad.

“If I could just leave my body for a night?”

-fromIn the Flowers

A Golden Retriever digs gleefully in the yard, having zeroed in on the perfect place to hide his bone. In a nearby garden apartment behind windows that have security bars, a man deftly puts on mascara. Across town, another man closes his eyes to block out the reality of a cube’s limited dimensions as the week beginning promises nothing more than the repetition of futility disguised in a day labeled new.

“Will it be just like I’m dreaming?”

-fromAlso Frightened

The week begins/ends, the sun rises/sets, all in sync with the euphoria, sadness, and all that lies in between. The start of a new day is congruently a day departed elsewhere along the spin of an office globe. The blend of parts and movement is a mass collective, catching the sun and the moon and the stars on its path of unwavering continuance.

A new album turned CD turned MP3 begins to play through headphones, traveling through waxy ear canals as it tickles the mind and imagination alike.

-G