As the sun--or actually the snowy-white perpetual corrupt cover--begins to fade, turning this parky afternoon into an regular chillier evening, the fantasy of this joint as a pleasant outing filled with quiet and gentle folk, the sort of people wHO like zilch more than sitting on blankets in meadows and sipping Napa Valley's finest wines (which there's deal of opportunity to do here), crumbles and blows away like so much dust.
The after-work crowd has arrived, and they ar thirsty, and they want to dance.
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I know this because they've bumped into me about 300 times, and every one of them seems to be holding a beer. Also: they're wearing ugly hats that tend to advertize mediocre products, and they're wearing them all crooked-like. And yes, I am Grandpa Simpson.
A highly amped crowd greets long-haired freaky hippie person Beck [ ] Hansen, who--despite being badly in need of a haircut--swiftly launches volley after volley of his most well identifiable hits in rapid-fire fashion, which gets the crowd rush way forwards to the front of tight and narrow Lindley Meadow. There might be 20,000 people but right hither, right in front of this one stage. The stampede watch is in full effect.
Beck, perhaps sensing catastrophe, throws out a bunch of his lesser-known songs. Most of the party crowd up front reverses sign and heads to the beer stands. Once well-nigh of these people ar gone, Beck launches into an world-shattering "Where It's At." Score!
Up next on the bad stage, it's a bronx cheer, it's a plane... it's the Thom Yorke Superfriends Party! Early technical glitches plague Radiohead [ ]'s first gear handful of songs (including a mates minutes of total silence, which prompts Yorke to wonder wHO spilled their beer on the office cord), but the residue of the set is sensational.
It would be easy to call for Radiohead for granted at this point. They are sort of everywhere, in a psychic sense, and they belong utterly to this generation. They are our Beatles. Twenty old age from at present you will realize this and it will make you slap your read/write head that you didn't pay better attention when you had the chance.
Friday nox in San Francisco, with the gorgeous strains of "Airbag" rising up to meet the mysterious fog blowing in from the ocean, up and over the tremendous stage, and into the first night concert ever held in Golden Gate Park, they were only magic, like something that doesn't fully belong to this planet.
Yes, they're that good.
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