I Saw Regina Spektor Tonight & You Didn't

I'm a relative newcomer to the wondrous Regina Spektor. A NYC friend told me about her, then I borrowed Soviet Kitsch from the library & was hooked. I always figure I'm the last person to get into an act these days, & by the time that I do everyone else is already scoffing at them as Old Hat (see Modest Mouse). I figured this would be the same with Regina Spektor, but I still get a lot of blank looks when I mention her name. When they ask what sort of music she plays I usually describe her as the prankster daughter of Tori Amos & Woody Allen - which makes perfect sense to me, but I'm not sure how informative that is for the uninitiated.

Her show at the Axis was sold out, but thanks to my friendly neighborhood craigslist, I managed to secure a stray ticket. Axis, it turns out, is a crappy place for a musician to play. Especially one whose music is as subtle as Ms Spektor's. It's a small venue - more or less a back cloakroom to the much-larger Avalon next door. Every time a staff member opened a side door which separated the two venues, very un-Spektorish house music leaked in, which contributed nothing to the softer numbers. Ms Spektor kept her cool when this would happen, charmingly grooving along to the intrusive music between numbers. "There's a giant pink elephant in the corner," she said at one point, "but I'm just going to treat it like this is our house & the neighbors are throwing a party."

She played all the crowd favorites from Soviet Kitsch - "Carbon Monoxide," "Ode to Divorce," "Us," "The Ghost of Corporate Future," & "Poor Little Rich Boy," during which she whacked a stool with a drumstick in her left hand while playing piano with her right. She did however leave out my favorite tune from the album, "Chemo Limo." Also on the playlist was a jaunty ditty about finding a statue of baby Jesus in the window of a 99 cent store, one about a skeletal Ezra Pound asking if she could spare a pound of flesh, & another featuring Delilah reflecting upon her hirsute relationship with Samson.

For most the show I stood on a side platform (near the bar) overlooking the crowd. At one point there was a sea of illuminated cell phones held aloft, just like the swaying cigarette lighters of yore. I couldn't help ruminating that analog fire has now been replaced by the digital glow of technology.

Her opening act was a singer/guitarist named Jenny Owen Youngs who was funny & flirty, & possessor of a wicked right hand strum technique. Unfortunately she tended to remain stage left, which meant a structural column mostly blocked her from my line of vision unless I leaned far over the balcony railing. Which I did.

A beautiful show, despite the setbacks. But I'd like to advise Ms Spektor's booking agent to snag her a gig at the Paradise next time, where she can ply her trade without fear of aural competition.