Post by Norah Byron on Nov 11, 2011 14:50:04 GMT -5
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On Friday night Lorica wasn't performing at New York New York. It wa a tradition in the MGM Group of casinos to switch the temporary acts around on the Friday night of holiday weekends, to give each casino a 'special' show. And it was a mark of how well the band had done in the eyes of the management that for Veterans Day weekend they'd been given the main stage at the Bellagio. Only for one night, but it was still a big deal, and the band had been rehearsing all week for the extended show. They'd encouraged as many of the caravan as were willing to show up for the show, if only because the afterparty was going to be at The Bank and ought to be epic.
Given the venue, Lorica was pacing the night's show differently than they did at New York New York. Generally the energy of the set built steadily from beginning to end, timed to hit a peak at the last number and leave the audience energized and a bit rowdy. Here, they were going for a different mood, and though they did Hold On and their other big high-energy numbers, the overall mood was quieter, more intense. It was a chance to bust out the ballads for a change, to run a smoother and more sophisticated show.
And at the end of the set, the band did something that nobody (at least nobody who hadn't been attending the rehearsals for the past week) had ever seen them do on stage. They put their instruments down, stepped forward toward the edge of the stage while dark-clad stagehands ran out and retrieved the instruments, rolled away the drum kit. Low spots hit all the guys, a somewhat brighter one on Norah, picking up the vivid colors of her dress and the cherrydark glow of her hair. There was movement behind them, difficult to see on the darkened stage through the spots on the five young musicians.
"The fighting ended on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918. In four years of war, 20 million people died. Twenty million people. That's more than the population of New York State, gone. And many of them died far from home, fighting a war that they actually believed in. People back home limited their use of sugar, of butter, of meat and copper and steel. 'Do without, so the boys have what they need.' Some people hated the war, protested it, tried to get the president impeached or even arrested for leading the country into a war half the world away. But even then they supported the troops. Boys and men who traveled to countries they'd never even heard of to free people who didn't speak their language or share their God." Her voice was calm, solemn, her eyes moved through the crowd and picked out certain people in it for a moment as she spoke. "Now they call it Veterans Day, but it used to be called Remembrance Day. I wish they hadn't changed the name. I think we need to remember. Our country has fought nine wars in the past century. We were at war on the day I was born. We're at war today. And 'the boys' don't have what they need. I think we should remember."
She sang under a brightening spotlight, solo and a capella, no tricks of amplification or sound mixing to hide behind. Just old words and new music and a girl who understood war as much as any nineteen year old is capable of understanding.
It was a strange, challenging bit of music. It sounded pentatonic, but wasn't quite. With an uneven melody and a haunting minor key, Norah had accused Luke of writing music for ghosts and he hadn't denied it.
As the second verse began, the four young men arrayed on either side of Norah opened their mouths to join the song, but the sound that came from the stage them was far greater than five voices could make. A moment behind the lights came up to show the small chorus dressed in black robes standing in rows behind the band. They looked like, and were, a church choir from a local congregation.
With the last note still hanging in the air the lights dropped again until it was just Norah in a warm white spotlight. "I won't ask you to donate money, you all know how important that is, you all know where to go to give. I just want to ask you to please remember. Remember. It matters." And the stage went to black. Silence reigned for a long few seconds before the applause began.
[style=font-size: smaller; padding-right: 10px; text-align: right;]
Location: Bellaggio main stage, Las Vegas NV
Outfit: A soft white dress printed with poppies, short as always and with her usual higher-than-high heels.
Text: The poem In Flanders Fields was written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD in 1915.
Notes: We don't remember, we really don't. And we should.
[/style][/style]On Friday night Lorica wasn't performing at New York New York. It wa a tradition in the MGM Group of casinos to switch the temporary acts around on the Friday night of holiday weekends, to give each casino a 'special' show. And it was a mark of how well the band had done in the eyes of the management that for Veterans Day weekend they'd been given the main stage at the Bellagio. Only for one night, but it was still a big deal, and the band had been rehearsing all week for the extended show. They'd encouraged as many of the caravan as were willing to show up for the show, if only because the afterparty was going to be at The Bank and ought to be epic.
Given the venue, Lorica was pacing the night's show differently than they did at New York New York. Generally the energy of the set built steadily from beginning to end, timed to hit a peak at the last number and leave the audience energized and a bit rowdy. Here, they were going for a different mood, and though they did Hold On and their other big high-energy numbers, the overall mood was quieter, more intense. It was a chance to bust out the ballads for a change, to run a smoother and more sophisticated show.
And at the end of the set, the band did something that nobody (at least nobody who hadn't been attending the rehearsals for the past week) had ever seen them do on stage. They put their instruments down, stepped forward toward the edge of the stage while dark-clad stagehands ran out and retrieved the instruments, rolled away the drum kit. Low spots hit all the guys, a somewhat brighter one on Norah, picking up the vivid colors of her dress and the cherrydark glow of her hair. There was movement behind them, difficult to see on the darkened stage through the spots on the five young musicians.
"The fighting ended on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918. In four years of war, 20 million people died. Twenty million people. That's more than the population of New York State, gone. And many of them died far from home, fighting a war that they actually believed in. People back home limited their use of sugar, of butter, of meat and copper and steel. 'Do without, so the boys have what they need.' Some people hated the war, protested it, tried to get the president impeached or even arrested for leading the country into a war half the world away. But even then they supported the troops. Boys and men who traveled to countries they'd never even heard of to free people who didn't speak their language or share their God." Her voice was calm, solemn, her eyes moved through the crowd and picked out certain people in it for a moment as she spoke. "Now they call it Veterans Day, but it used to be called Remembrance Day. I wish they hadn't changed the name. I think we need to remember. Our country has fought nine wars in the past century. We were at war on the day I was born. We're at war today. And 'the boys' don't have what they need. I think we should remember."
She sang under a brightening spotlight, solo and a capella, no tricks of amplification or sound mixing to hide behind. Just old words and new music and a girl who understood war as much as any nineteen year old is capable of understanding.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row, that mark our place; and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly scarce heard amid the guns below.
It was a strange, challenging bit of music. It sounded pentatonic, but wasn't quite. With an uneven melody and a haunting minor key, Norah had accused Luke of writing music for ghosts and he hadn't denied it.
As the second verse began, the four young men arrayed on either side of Norah opened their mouths to join the song, but the sound that came from the stage them was far greater than five voices could make. A moment behind the lights came up to show the small chorus dressed in black robes standing in rows behind the band. They looked like, and were, a church choir from a local congregation.
We are the Dead. Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now we lie in Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: to you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders fields.
With the last note still hanging in the air the lights dropped again until it was just Norah in a warm white spotlight. "I won't ask you to donate money, you all know how important that is, you all know where to go to give. I just want to ask you to please remember. Remember. It matters." And the stage went to black. Silence reigned for a long few seconds before the applause began.
[style=font-size: smaller; padding-right: 10px; text-align: right;]
Location: Bellaggio main stage, Las Vegas NV
Outfit: A soft white dress printed with poppies, short as always and with her usual higher-than-high heels.
Text: The poem In Flanders Fields was written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD in 1915.
Notes: We don't remember, we really don't. And we should.
