If the Saturday-Night-Live-esque opening act's skit wasn't enough of a warning of the awkwardness in store last Saturday evening, Adam Green’s attire banished all hope that this might be any sort of ordinary, comfortable concert. Adorned in a tight blue shirt with arms fringed in white and matching white pants a size too small—revealing a touch too much—Green stepped onto the stage to face a crowd consisting mostly of guest list attendees and rabid fans of the Moldy Peaches (his former group, which recently gained widespread acclaim for providing the soundtrack for Juno).
Adam Green, a constant contradiction, befuddles me with his deep, suave voice that drips of masculinity and inspires the image of a man in a suit drinking a martini shaken, not stirred. His voice makes me melt. But working contrary to his swoon-worthy voice are his lyrics and his stage manner, which scream of an immature man refusing to take life seriously, fighting the societal push to conform. Similar to that of Elvis Costello and Stephin Merritt, lead singer of The Magnetic Fields, Green’s voice is timeless. His antics on stage are not.
My praise for Green would be ceaseless had I not been in attendance on Saturday. His voice captivates me completely, but a part of my appreciation of his music died as I realize it is only my fantasy that he is a cool, sophisticated, charismatic performer. Seeing him flapping around in his ridiculous shirt, awkwardly jumping (perhaps a version of dancing?) around the stage, and sporting a haircut reminiscent of Farrah Fawcett, I can hardly continue believing in this fantasy.
Continually ripping the microphone from its stand, Green left the bereft appendage teetering as he traipsed and awkwardly stumbled across the stage before returning once more to the stand. While Green meanders the stage like an ADD kid who forgot his ridalin, the rest of the band serenely rocks out to their music. With all his songs about drugs, his impromptu soliloquy concerning the audience's apparent love of weed, and his uncontrollable bouts of giggles, I wondered if perhaps he might not just be singing about them these days.
Yet despite my muddled thoughts on his performance, Green won over the rest of the crowd. Stating at the beginning of the evening, “Some people say you can’t play Town Hall,” he proved "some people" wrong. In a seated venue, Green did the improbable: He not only raised the crowd to its feet, but he inspired dozens of audience members to crowd the stage and aisles to dance, one man even jumping on stage only to be handed the microphone by Green for one shining moment before being hauled off stage by security.
If only they'd nabbed Green's antics, too.
