After years of going to concerts, I’ve noticed quite a few instances of the I’m Pretty Much Ready to Go Home phenomenon.

I’m at a show - either highly anticipated or run-of-the-mill, it doesn’t appear to matter - and after 45 minutes or so, I’m ready to go. I could be listening to (read: enjoying) the CD at home, actually understanding the lyrics, not going deaf by virtue of the sadistic sound guy putting his levels too high and free of drunken, flailing people, rather than remaining at the overpacked, hot concert venue. I’m guessing we’ve all felt this same impulse, at one time or another.

I thus preface my discussion of last night’s show with the above disclaimer, because nothing about Sìgur Rós at the Chicago Theater last night matched those situations.

I had listened to the band on the recommendation of nearly every music critic in the world, who characterize the Icelandic quartet’s sounds as ’sprawling’, ‘atmospheric’ and ‘a cathartic blast of tautly constructed group noise.’ (All of these are meant in the most positive way, of course.) Sure, it’s good, but it’s not the type of record you put on a party. I found it great for headphone listening while writing, late at night, tho. Then I went to the show. I did so much spacing out - just thinking about life and scheming to take of the world, that sort of thing - to this background of noise that was somehow appropriate to every thought I had. Then the lead singer - who spoke only Icelandic, marking the first time I’ve been to a show at which the band never directly addressed the audience - started freaking wailing on his guitar with his cello bow. My reverie broken, I felt the music reach a crescendo, as the singer’s bow strings frayed and broke. Amid the chaotic changing images projected on the stage’s screen, he fell to his knees just as the band hit the final chord of the evening.

That was pretty OK, in a spine-tingly, holy-crap-that-was-amazing way.

The above picture sucks, I know. Granted, as I took it, I was greeted with a chorus of ‘Lame!’ by my partner in crime for the evening, Michelle, who’s a black-and-white film-only photographer. Snob. I’m proud of the fact that the image was snapped with a digital phone camera.

And I did get to see Dressy Bessy last Tuesday too. Too bad the picture’s not as good as last time. Like I planned, I did not do anything reprehensibly stupid, and even said hello to the band. I would highly recommend the two-person collective Talkdemonic, the opener. I’m pretty sure everyone that stayed until the end of the show were the same ones who attended the band’s last show two months ago - the same ten people. That’s the definition of a hardcore fan base.