Table Manners

Sometimes concerts take some time to actually settle in your head, as if there's about 90 minutes of your life one evening missing, simply un-processable, un-critiqueable.

Simon and I bumped into the force-of-nature that is Carla Bozulich outside Cafe Oto after the show, and in our role as gushing fanboys, gave BAFTA-worthy performances. I think I actually said "we've had our musical hard-drives thoroughly cleaned and de-fragmented", and with a straight face too.

We had seen Evangelista turn in a performance that managed to be at once extremely casual, with moments of what might in other circumstances have been tiresome nerdiness and cutesy shambledom (which song to play next, is the bass in tune, etc), suddenly ghosting into phases of restless, frosty testifying, and thence erupting into chilling gouts of certainty and focus ("... and the wind knows my name!") before collapsing like a knackered leopard.

This would have been merely exceptionally arresting if Bozulich hadn't performed a couple of the verses of her encore kneeling on top of our table, having kicked the objects on it all over the place to position herself, for all the world as if she'd have been happier there all along.