Let the girl sing, y’all…

After digging their music for quite a while, I finally saw Camera Obscura perform at Logan Square Auditorium last Saturday night. I was pumped—well, as pumped as you can be to see relatively mellow ’60s-influenced pop—all the more so because last year’s Let’s Get Out of This Country kicked up the foot-stompin’ fun a bit with tracks like “Lloyd, I’m Ready to Be Heartbroken” and “If Looks Could Kill.” The band didn’t disappoint; the music was tight, and they even managed to crack a few smiles. Good times…

But during two slow songs near the end of their main set, something was off: The audience was talking—so much so that the chatter started drowning out the music. A couple of people shushed those making the racket, and singer Tracyanne Campbell said, “Please be quiet during Kenny’s [the guitarist] solo; it’s beautiful.” A lot of people started clapping in agreement. Still, more talking. Maybe they thought she said something about the Bears.

I take going to concerts with a grain of salt. I know some people come mainly to socialize; some come to get drunk; some to yell at the band. One time a girl ask me to “please stop bobbing my head” during a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah show. (I didn’t, of course.) When I was in college, the guy next to me at a New Pornographers show yelled “Fucking Canucks!” between every song. One forty-something talked on her cell phone as Dylan sang “Lay, Lady, Lay.” None of this bothered me too much.

During those ten minutes, though, it felt more like watching an open mic set at the Cubby Bear on free beer night than a concert. Maybe I’m getting older and more irritable, but I couldn’t get the chatter out of my mind. At a friend’s apartment later that evening, I wasn’t my usual awesome-guy-who’s-oh-so-neat self. And that’s really a shame. So let’s zip it, people—if only for my friends’ benefit.