Few bands aside from Radiohead could incite chaos in the Seaport on a cloudy Monday night. Throngs of fans -- cleverly deemed "Radioheads" -- swarmed Northern Avenue employing the "I need a miracle" strategy perfected by Deadheads in their search for single tickets. And while most came up empty, they nonetheless remained out on the street to have a listen. Cameo and I got lucky and scored this impossible ticket, taking up residence in the cheap seats on the Concourse. These ended up being the best seats in the house from our perspective. Two words: Table service. And even more important, we could move freely -- something that became a necessity and an act of self preservation when a tall dude in an impossibly tight leather jacket began swiveling in front of us. He desperately needed to take a few classes from the Ben Cyr house of dance. The set list was a breezy balance of old and new songs but I got my money's worth simply hearing "Fake Plastic Trees" live for the first time in years. Read review from first show.
(Thom Yorke was a dancing fool and uncharacteristically giggly during last night's performance. Good times.)