When they finally come to destroy the earth

I saw the Decemberists last night, and they were amazing. Even considering the fact that the lead singer had the flu and had to run off the stage in the middle of the thing to throw up for five minutes backstage, they still put on such a good show that I can't help but wish I could see them when he's not sick.

They're one of those bands that never fails to astonish me in some way, whether with the lyrics or the music or the way they meld together so seamlessly that one can hardly be imagined without the other. In "The Infanta," the words paint a vivid picture and the music makes it move; even as I see the ostentatiously bedecked palanquin in my mind's eye, I feel the heavy step and sway of the elephants, and I almost find myself feeling the rising thrill and awe of the bystander come to cheer out praise for the Infanta. I'm there. And even having never heard the original fable of "The Crane Wife", by mere artistry of the notes I knew it could be nothing but. They're all like that, each with a sound so unique as to never be confused for another, all the while remaining distinctly Decemberist.

The lyrics are as lurid as Bosch, the songs as comforting as Rockwell; all the grandiose darkness of Baudelaire ever tempered with the innocent hope of Dickens. They're more minstral than musician, a troup of bards guided by Colin Meloy's strangely versatile voice. Sometimes it's a civil war vignette, sometimes a lover's tragedy, sometimes it's just an apology for losing a friend's bike, but it's always lush and cunning and rife with the beautiful tragedy of humanity.

And they're one of those bands where every darn member plays, like, five different instruments, and when I say different, I am not kidding. We're talking everything from a dozen different kinds of guitars to accordions to glockenspiels to some kind of box with piano keys and a crank. Colin played a different guitar every song. I can't imagine what it's like being their roadie. Good lord.