The Decemberists in March March 22, 2007 – Posted in: Aberrant Normalcy

Last night, instead of my usual trip to KGB, I went to see The Decemberists perform at the palatial Loews Theater in Jersey City. They don’t make buildings like this anymore. Grandeur fills every nook and cranny. Ornate columns stretch up to friezes supporting gilded cornices, all shaming the palaces of Caesar. Intricate arabesques crowd the ceiling, directing the eyes toward gallant chandeliers. Red tapestries drip down the walls, each as soft and thread-heavy as my grandmother’s upholstered chairs. Wide stairwells lead to balustraded balconies which glimpse loftily out on the splendor. A mirrored fountain with cerulean tiles stands as the centerpiece of the second floor. The bathrooms have fireplaces and couches and are truly rooms instead of the cramped porcelain boxes we have become so used to today.

But this grand building has decayed. Built in the early 20th century, the shifting economy of the neighborhood left its future in doubt many times. It was nearly torn down in the mid 80s to make way for an office building. But now, thanks to the diligent volunteer work of Friends of the Loews, the theater is slowly being restored. And also thanks to them, I saw The Decemberists in this fabulous place, the absolute perfect venue to see a band which sings about being stuck in the belly of a whale and pirates at sea and male prostitution and laudanum. They are, like the theater, a semi-anachronism, a medley of the old and the new, making something unique and special. There was a moment, as the band went on stage, when I felt less like a fan at a rock concert and more like a patron of vaudeville. The crowd, I should add, was the strangest I have yet seen at a show. Not a soul lit a cigarette or surreptitiously smoked a joint during the performance. Everyone was polite and dare-I-say seemed slightly more erudite than the typical concert-goer. I wasn’t strip-searched on the way in by men with metal wands. We walked inside the theater unaccosted. They sold wine at the concession stand and fresh popcorn in old-fashioned paper boxes. Most people picked up their trash on the way out. It was — strangely — nostalgic.

Best of all, I discovered that the theater shows old films on weekends. Right now, there’s nothing more I want to do than sit in that gilded palace eating popcorn among a few anonymous movie-goers and watch an old black and white film on a fifty foot screen. That would be patently magnificent. Next time, I hope to remember to bring my camera.