Two Minutes with Grimes

When I looked up from my drink a young girl had appeared behind her fort of musical equipment I don’t know the name for.  Computer tech things made for making your own beats – looping, thumping, thoughtful electronic music my brother would have hated when we were in high school.

This was Grimes.  She reminded me of Wednesday Adams sporting an at-home Amelie haircut, bangs cut high above a face with cheeks grandmother’s love to squeeze lovingly.  Her gaping Depeche Mode t-shirt hung loosely over a skirt paired with tights and a pair of tennis shoes.

She took to the stage, a small elevated platform on the side of the room.  Above her hung an explosion of frothy paper clouds fit for a Michel Gondry set piece, from which inside Christmas lights softly glowed, sometimes hidden and other times exposed, like the full moon in a snow storm.  Light undulated through layers of paper.  Softly.  It reminded me of the flowers I used to make when I was young out of stiff paper so intensely colored that it would bleed onto your hands if they were clammy or damp.  We made them for celebrate Dia de los Muertos even though we were only eight years old and didn’t want to think about such things.