Stars

There is a girl I cannot stop staring at. There is nothing romantic afoot here; she just looks so damned interesting. Her hair is spun in a neat little ponytail, one that must have taken 20 minutes to coil. She looks devilishly anachronistic. Ripped jeans coupled with a skirt to go over them, some ironic slogan adorning a tight, multicoloured t-shirt and limited, but well thought-out, make-up. She is gorgeous, admittedly, but with Stars blaring ‘The Night Starts Here’ in the background, fixating on her instead of them is impossible.

I am sweating, damp and uncomfortable: the usual dress code for a show at the Paradiso. Wet, damp, and sweating in all the worst places; I am frustrated with the rain outside. Yet, she is dry; coordinated but disorganised. Her back shows obvious bleaching on her shirt and her jeans are ripped to death, but boy does it make her fit. I guess that is the point of all this. She must have biked with an umbrella to the show.

The song dwindles down, doubling the album version to a tee. It reeks of sex and death. So does this girl. Sex and death: nothing more, nothing less. While her clothes are one thread away from succumbing to death, she proudly gives them life in front of me, expelling a veneer laden with pheromones in the process. I am wandering. It is really hot in here and the show is packed. Amy Millan, another gorgeous one to dive into, is singing about wanting to kill and fuck someone at the same time. This is going to be a long night.

Every song is comforting and discomforting at the same time. I am singing along unconsciously and probably loudly, because drinking usually raises my voice. The girl turns around and looks at me. I feel perplexed and sense the same in her. I know I am staring, but really, I am not interested. I just stare blindly. This is about someone else, something else, the next song. ‘Set Yourself on Fire’ follows. Sounds like a good plan, as this is great. The sextet is alive a few metres in front of me, performing whimsical dance-and-romance pop virulently about humiliation, death and sickness. Life is one big shit storm right? You court, you fuck, you regret, you fake moving on and then dream about past ills, say these songs. I love this. This is emphatic, emotive and demanding music. Stars are brilliant, but I want to leave. That someone else, that next song is haunting me.

One by one the songs come from the new album, plus the older one and an occasional track from the vault. ‘Elevator Love Letter’ is a surprise; ‘Midnight Coward’, ‘Ghost of Genova Heights’ and ‘One More Night’ are not. A break comes while the band switches instruments. Flutes, trumpets, all manner of synthesizers, guitars, mandolins and percussion flow through this arresting mess of sex and death as Torquil Campbell and Millan share vocal duties, winks, glares and innuendo. ‘Personal’ comes. I hate this song. It is so powerful. I feel helpless. The girl takes another glance backward, probably aware by now that I am staring at her. Forty minutes has passed and I am the only one in the room singing. Her back looks smooth but her shirt makes it jagged. Why wear a yellow shirt that is now virtually white because of over washing? Is this fashion for a dying scene, or one obsessed with turning death’s claws into an ironic muse?

The Stars keep singing, with death slyly peering out of the melodies. ‘Your Ex-Lover Is Dead’ is an obvious one. ‘Take Me To The Riot’ and the affirming ‘Soft Revolution’ are too; more sweet melodies rife with pain. She smiles at me, or at least in my direction. I finally have her attention, so I turn away. I am not ready for this exchange. Stars’ music is too much. ‘My Favourite Book’, ‘Calendar Girl’ and The Smiths’ ‘This Charming Man’ wind down tonight. I am significantly drier. Two beautiful love songs, one more than the other and a surprising but welcome cover calm the air a bit. All right then. I guess there is a message in all this sour-patched kids rock. I look up. She stares, probably contemplating if it is worth it to introduce herself at the end of the show. But it is not meant to be. Too much sex and death for one evening.