During the Röyksopp show at the palatial Regency Ballroom in San Francisco, Murphy was my unexpected plus-one. After parking on a shady side street and hiking eons to the venue, everything that could have gone wrong, did. Thank god I was at a Röyksopp show and not a Morbid Angel death-metal show: Instead of knifing someone in the mosh pit out of frustration, I just danced.
Task #1: Shuffle through long line and grab tickets. Found out name was left off the guest list. Fail.
As I stood awkwardly in everybody’s way at the will-call table, I watched the two attendants deflecting “What do you mean nonrefundable?” missiles and “You gotta be kidding, you can’t be sold out!” bombs with relative ease.
“I don’t envy you guys,” I said to the one girl with a compassionate shrug.
“Eh, it has its perks,” she replied, as she dodged an “I forgot my ticket” bullet.
When I stood there long enough to realize they weren’t going to let me in on the sheer fact that I sounded important because I wrote for MAGNET and knew the tour manager’s name, I brought out my phone and called the guy. “How did you get this number?” said an exasperated British voice on the other end. “I don’t know who you are!”
Great.
Task #2: Take serviceable photos of the band. After squaring away the guest-list confusion, I took out my camera and discovered my two-year-old Canon was dead on arrival. Fail.
Task #3: See the show. Well, I didn’t completely fail on this one. I was able to see about one-fifth of the stage under the armpits of Shawn Bradley and his Amazonian girlfriend standing in front of me. What I did see, however, was enough to please anyone hoping to extend their weekend. The drums and bass pulsed through the cavernous room with a flashing phantasmagoria so intense you could close your eyes and experience your own personal light show through your lids.
Thankfully, Murphy didn’t try to crowd-surf onto the stage. The duo from Norway, performing as a five-piece for their international tour, played a perfect blend of up-tempo, African-style drum beats, analog-synth electro-pop, ambient-Air interludes tinged with nifty guitar riffs and robot-feminine Ladytron vocals, while dressed up in bizarre-yet-intriguing outfits and masks.
The crowd that came to see Röyksopp wasn’t just looking for an excuse to drink on a Monday. Mouthing the words and reacting viscerally to a remixed version of the Geico song and “Happy Up Here,” these people had obviously been following the band for years. It was also the most diverse audience I’ve ever seen: a throng of couples both gay and straight, 19-year-olds and Real Housewives, guys with tucked-in, button-down shirts and girls in leopard-print tights with little backpacks, all grooving alongside each other, basking in the strobe lights.
In the brief intermission between the “Goodnight, you are amazing [insert current tour stop city]!” and their encore, I slipped through the sweaty bodies to the side of the pack and discovered ample dancing room and a much better view. Winning!
My euphoria was short-lived, however. An exceptionally grabby dude with a metallic tie who looked like Lloyd from Entourage started grinding on my leg and literally shoved his iPhone in my hand and told me to give him my number. I bolted to the ladies room.
In spite of my personal travails at the Röyksopp show, there was no way I could be disgruntled while listening to songs like the blippy “Epie” and watching the guitarist rock out with a glow-in-the-dark helmet on his head. Like grope-y Lloyd, I left Murphy behind.
—Maureen Coulter; photo by Mishavladimirskiy.com and butchershopcreative.com
Aside from having the coolest name of any punk-leaning Chicago-area band since Big Black, 