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| Photo by Caroline Creasey |
I encountered a strange and disheartening paradox as I sat in the balcony of Richmond’s National last Tuesday, letting palpable gushes of fuzz wash over me from Tame Impala’s medium-sized amp rig in a haze of wet, flanged heat something like the heavenly twin of the hellish humidity that lay in wait outside the venue’s doors. Just by writing this review, I’m squandering your chances of being quite as blown away by the band as I was. See, I had heard some things about their live show a little bit after the militantly chill Lonerism dropped. Apparently, they were bad. I remember quite specifically the words “worst show I’ve ever seen.” It must have been the gambling rush that took me down to the box office back in April (fuck an online fee) to secure my spot in the crowd of curiously diverse concertgoers. I guess that sexy-swampy production works for everyone.
