Beach House

Went to see Beach House at Bottletree up in Birmingham a week ago Tuesday. As my roommate put it, "Yeah, I'm wearing flannel, but I'm wearing it sincerely." Yeah. It was that kind of place. Roommate again: "Hipsters. White people who are really into dance music, but won't actually dance." For the tattoo I hope you will one day get I have boiled it down to this: Hipsters. White people not dancing to dance music.
In Russia, they are happy if they are even allowed to dance, much less have music to dance to. You ought to be ashamed.
Three people stepped out on that stage: Two men, and a woman. One man held a guitar. One man held a tiny drum kit. The woman held a keyboard, and her voice. They played songs, and she sang.
You know what? Her voice was pitch perfect. The songs were pitch perfect. And when everything is turned up that loud, those dreamy songs really rock.
Their vocalist's name is Victoria Legrand. You know that Grizzly Bear song we all really like? "Two Weeks?" Yeah, she's on that, too.
If you listen to the record, it's easy to see why Beach House is labeled dream pop. I was expecting something sedate, and stately. I was honestly expecting to be a little bored. I wasn't. And it wasn't. It was anything but. Here's the thing: Dreams have emotion, too. They can be light, or dark, happy, or roar, and scare you. It's dream pop, in the truest sense of the term. It envelops you, completely. Shoegazey like shoegaze can only dream of. Then, when you're in there, they can do whatever they want with you.