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Prince Myshkins
Seeing the Prince Myshkins perform at the Urbana Independent Media Center a year after September 11th made me feel as though I were the witness at some natural tragedy on the scale of an earthquake in Guatemala or flood in Prague. With almost cruel amicability, the duo allowed some of the finest songwriting and performing in history to disappear forever from the face of the earth. I sat there shocked and horrified, as they (with almost flippant good cheer) executed apparently flawless performances of difficult and inexplicably excellent music to a small but attentive and audience of Urbana leftists who were well-intentioned but ultimately hapless in the face of such a phenomenon. In all, the performance of their set made Stop Making Sense seem like the Beatles concert at Shea Stadium as reenacted by sock puppets. "Is nobody recording this?!" I wanted to scream, but to do so might have distracted the Myshkins such that they might miss a crucial dotted thirtysecond note or waver a demitone in some exquisitely counterpointed harmony that raised what would otherwise have been an ordinary thirty-chord song into something that transcended the idea of "bridge." Aghast, I noted that the videotape recorder was using its crummy external microphone, that the Myshkins were being reasonably-well miked and fed through the sound board but not a single LED anywhere revealed a recording device, digital or otherwise. "Is this how a tradition of human music might slide into the mud of history?" I winced. As if to torture me, The Myshkins then launched into an impeccably gentle song I had never heard before, about someone named Ahmed, which threw me into a violent panic. My ears flapped as I sat there trying to listen as carefully as they played. Even now, the next day, I am considering undergoing hypnosis to see whether it is possible for me to hear that song again. It was too much for my simple mind to absorb: I no longer remember the chorus, or whether it even had a chorus, all I have is the haunting visual memory of Gricevich's fingers articulating arpeggios so rock solid you could set a full champagne flute down on them without spilling a drop. I suppose it is necessary to admit at this point that I once had a minidisc copy of that traffic jam song as performed a year ago on my radio show and I loaned it to someone in the hope they would master a CD of it. I have never seen it since. Now and then I still wake up howling in sheets drenched in sweat as my mind involuntarily replays the details of this, my fingers almost burning with the memory of what it felt like to touch that disc. When the Myshkins played that very song last night it was as if I were a drowning man being offered one last gulp of air before descending into some cold murky barnacle-encrusted oblivion. I have been forever changed by last night in ways I may never be able to confide to anyone, even my psychologist, and can only make myself get through today, it seems, by gloating that "midst" doesn't rhyme with "snitch," (unless you pronounce it "stitchdst" and not even Rick Burkhardt can pronounce that many consonants in a row) or recalling that Gricevich confessed to being tired that night. Maybe it wasn't really that good. Maybe. Just another show by an accordion band. Yeah. Maybe... These, it seems, are important times; too bad they will be witnessed only by us.
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