Photo by 'Lil Scoop.
Where: The Showbox at the Market
When: Thursday night, October 9, 10:10 p.m.
About eight years ago, I was dating the world's sexiest woman, Grace Jones. One night, at approximately 3 a.m., a friend asked me how I was able to reel in the beguiling Ms. Jones. "Seventy-five percent charisma, fifteen percent brains, and ten percent looks" was my reply.
This is the precise formula that makes an otherwise unattractive person like Stars' Amy Millan so fucking hot. If I saw her on the street, I'd dismiss her as a frumpy chick who needed to drop 20 lbs. But when I see her onstage, as I did last night amidst a packed Showbox, all I do is consider her. While I enjoy Torquil Campbell's live energy, my reaction to Stars' she-said-he-said vocal tandem is tantamount to the Garcia-Weir reaction I've long had to the Grateful Dead. Millan is my Garcia; if Campbell were to suddenly disappear from a given set, it would make me rather happy, because that would mean Millan in the driver's seat, buckled up for safety.
Last night's show was incredibly satisfying. From the onset, Stars were in a very Depeche mode, kicking things off with "The Night Starts Here" and littering the crowd with rose petals. The band drew heavily off "Seat Yourself On Fire" and "In Our Bedroom After the War," and drew lightly from their new EP, "Sad Robot." They also drew rather sparingly from my favorite Stars CD, "Heart," which meant they didn't play my single favorite Stars' song, "Look Up," the song that made me fall in love with Millan's sultry soprano for the very first time. The band did, however, play "Elevator Love Letter," which almost made up for the aforementioned omission.
Adults love to bitch when clubs that are normally 21-and-up host all ages shows, but I beg to differ. If last night's crowd consisted entirely of adults, my ten-second wait for bourbon would have been ten minutes, and I wouldn't have had an unobstructed view of the stage from the rear of the room. The kids are alright in my book.