Like a lot of college radio kids, I was a fairly dedicated concertgoer for a time. I wasn’t one of those who jumped at nearly every opportunity, nor was I especially adventurous, hitting the clubs to hear bands I wasn’t all that familiar with (I will regret to the end of my days that I didn’t see Sleater-Kinney with the White Stripes opening up at a dinky club in Madison way back when). But I had a respectable number of torn tickets shoved into CD cases and record sleeves. That’s waned enough in the past several years that the first couple months of 2014 have felt like of live music. Now, I’m probably saying that because this past week included back-to-back concerts for me for the first time in I-don’t-know-how-long. In addition to that, I’ve felt my enthusiasm for the experience ticking up a bit again, appreciating the singularity of the experience in a culture increasingly defined by buckshot blasts of supposed uniqueness.

It could be even simpler than the above explanation. The rejuvenation in my interest could reasonable be attributed to seeing my favorite performer live for the first time in probably close to fifteen years. I locked in on Hitchcock early in my collegiate career, maintaining my devotion ever since, snapping up new releases that were harder and harder to come by and giggling like a happy fool when he unexpectedly turned up in the best movie of 2008. Seeing him live has largely eluded me, in part because of my grouchy unwillingness to embark on the sort of long drives that were an accepted necessity when I was trying out how to see the best live acts while living in humble Stevens Point, Wisconsin. Finally, I gave in, and a few weeks ago, I was halfway across my current home state, watching Hitchcock take to a small stage in a literal back room.

One of the things I most appreciate about seeing Hitchcock live, especially now, is that he has a vast catalog of songs to draw from and no particular need to include certain “hits.” Anything and everything is fair game, and I don’t find myself standing there ticking of a mental checklist of the required songs he hasn’t yet played, basically gauging where the running time of the show is at. Of course there’s also the stream of consciousness, brilliantly warped monologues between the songs that come across as sincerely spontaneous, glimpses at the inner workings of a wondrously offbeat mind, the sort that can create music that is equally elegant and beautifully disturbing, like, to borrow a line from one of his songs, “a chandelier festooned with leeches.” There’s also the plain and simple fact that he has enough songs that I carry with me so deeply inside my soul that any setlist is bound to be peppered with moments that spin me into borderline elation. When I saw him in the Cat’s Cradle Back Room, he did indeed play the song that means more to me than other. Almost better, he played the song off of Queen Elvis, the album he released during my first year at the college radio station, that never fails to make me swoon a little. I don’t think I’d ever seen that one played live before. That alone confirmed for me that being there is always worth the effort.

Listen or download –> Robyn Hitchcock, “One Long Pair of Eyes (Live at Cat’s Cradle Back Room)”

(Disclaimer: This track has not been released in a format that allows for purchase. I found it at the Internet Archive’s Live Music section, which is strictly limited to trade-friendly artists. Since Mr. Hitchcock is well-represented on the site, I post this with the belief that he sees no harm in it being distributed in this manner. Still, this music belongs to him, so I’ll gladly remove it from this corner of the internet if asked to do so by someone with due authority to make such a request. Seriously, go to the Internet Archive and listen to the whole show. It was fantastic. Especially for anyone who’s also a fan of Eugene Mirman.)