Duncan Sheik

It took me a while to like Duncan Sheik. Mostly because his name is Duncan Sheik. I mean, yeesh. But I got over the good looks and the “I was high and giggling when I changed it” name, and grew to enjoy his moody brand of pop.

Kelly’s b-day present was a set of tickets to a show, and last night we filed into the Aladdin to see Duncan croon. Except he didn’t, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

First: the opening act. I had to search quite a bit to find her name, because my mind had blocked it in self defense. It cries out even now for the blood of Melissa Bathory. A very low-rent Nelly Furtado, the decent jazz band was completely wasted on her. She can sing, but she sounds just like everyone else, so why bother? Her songs are tripe, her personality bland, and she was unable to connect to the audience at all. Gah. If I were captured by enemy troops, one set of her and I’d spill my guts.

Then there was poor Duncan. Not that he was bad. Actually–he was great. Sheik has an easy rapport with the audience that rivals the legendary Neil Finn. He just has a conversation. He laughs a lot. His band is in on it too, and together they’re a tight unit. But Duncan was so very sick. I’m guessing flu. He smiled and joked and really gave it his best–but he still lost bars to his traitor voice, and lyrics to an exhausted mind. I felt so bad for him that I was wishing the audience wouldn’t call for the traditional encore. Stupid audience, couldn’t you see the guy was dying? To his credit, he kicked ass on “Genious” and “Fake Plastic Trees” for a denouement. I’d like to see him again on a better day.

1 Responses to Duncan Sheik

  1. Jerwin says:

    I ADORE Duncan. Especially because of his name. 😉