In Which Seattlest Only Tells You the Ending:
Built To Spill @ The Showbox

Time, having surrendered to the whims of sound, had fallen away to some dark corner of the hall and in its place was a band on a mission to go out in style. We had no idea how long the final encore had gone on. We knew only that we didn't care. This wasn't some finale we wished would come to an end, so we could finally walk to our car, pausing for a moment to rest our tired legs before driving home, mind swimming, ears buzzing. This wasn't even a song in the traditional sense -- more like a supernatural joyride for the senses. Doug Martsch and and the rest of Built To Spill seemed to each be animated by something hardwired in the pit of their souls. Martsch, in particular, looked to us like a vessel or a channel through which these songs poured. His eyes, in fact, were closed most of the night while his voice, his hands and his fingers took care of business. A friend of Seattlest commented that Martsch's playing was "like butter on a hot dinner roll," and as strange as that comment was, we think we know what he meant.

And then Martsch, after letting a particular note ring out to its conclusion, simply stopped playing. He squatted and listened to his bandmates play and he smiled. Moments later, another guitar was set down. Then the stage hands began taking things away. They took instruments offstage. They unplugged things. They rolled up cables. But the drummer kept going and the bass guitar and another guitar, making strange pops and whines that made mouths drop and ears tingle. Stage hands began unscrewing and removing hi-hat, splash and crash symbols. Another guitar lies down but the beat is persistent and stronger than ever. Instruments and amplifiers are carried from the stage, left and right. The meandrous bass guitar grows still and then it's just the drums. Only a bass drum and the toms now, stubbornly thundering away until we can all feel it coming -- the final beat, a period at the end of a new favorite story. The crowd exhales and a roar of applause competes with the unearthly volume of everything we've just heard.

Photo courtesy of Kyle Johnson.