#80 Vampire Weekend

We were listening to “Oxford Comma” and “A-Punk”, imagining ourselves drinking Daïquiris and jumping pogo-style on a huge beach, barefoot in the sand, imagining we were teenagers, shaking our heads and smiling stupidly.

It couldn’t have been worse in Paris that day. A gray November afternoon at La Chapelle. Gray sidewalks, wastelands, railroads, public telephones. Paris wasn’t exotic that day—it was not Montmartre on a spring Sunday. It was the opposite of Daïquiris. The guys wore student sweaters, Ezra had his scarf on, and they were responsible for the sun: their mission was to put some color in the Northern area of Paris. What a burden.

The whole thing hung on a single rhythm, a voice, the incongruity of the equipment. Two keyboards, held single-handedly, because the guys had to carry them while playing (and finally had to put them on the ground.) An amazing drummer, deprived of his drums, who ended up in a deserted backyard, hitting cheerfully on yellow and green trash cans. Above all, a voice: Ezra’s, young and strong. It impressed us first when we were above the railroads at Gare du Nord, then again in a little café, back to the roots.

They started playing “Walcott” as we’ve never heard it: this song, which usually relies on a piano riff, here rested on a delicate guitar arpeggio. They walked, then we entered the Deli. There was wainscot paneling on the walls; very kind owners who agreed to turn down the radio; synthesizers on tables, next to beers; and customers, some indifferent, some who joined the chorus on “Blake’s Got a New Face”. It was very similar to the very first video we shot: that one with Spinto Band, another freewheeling pop band.